Word: browed
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...Curran is the ultimate hardhat: outraged, terrified, violent and more than a little envious, lashing out blindly at threatening forces that he only dimly comprehends. His furrowed brow puckers when he hears his son has bought a motorcycle; his jowls tremble with rage when his wife breaks the news that a "colored" family has moved into his lily-white Queens neighborhood. His basement is formidably stocked with World War II weaponry. His hatred is so raw, his ideas so primitive and naive, that he often radiates a genuinely amusing innocence. For all its funny moments, however, Joe is anything...
...good teacher. "I don't think you can be a good teacher unless you feel on a friendly basis with your students. You've got to be sympathetic. You can't be sarcastic, defensive, or offensive. You can't learn, if a teacher is constantly discouraging or intellectually brow-beating...
Then an appeal to the younger persons there. "Get a college education. Don't get a college indoctrination by being brow-beaten by professors." I was unashamedly nauseated by that statement. Maybe when older people said similar things earlier I had listened with a detached understanding.But when I heard this kid spewing forth with advice, I was disgusted. I looked around for the guy selling 25c popsicles to get my mind off it, but I didn't see him right away, so I gave up the search...
...summer and he sees them coming." Replies Tony, grinning: "I play him like Howe, Beliveau, all those tricky players." But neither brother can really explain Tony's moves. The young goalie occasionally tries, but after several long minutes of explaining what he does not do, he wrinkles his brow and concludes: "Sometimes I'm pretty awkward. I guess I just do whatever I have to to stop the puck...
Tingling like a tuning fork, you are then led into a shadowy room, wrapped in a sheet and stretched out on a padded table. Momentarily, you fear an autopsy. Instead a willowy brunette massages your brow with peachmeal skin cleanser. As your cuticles soften inside pink infraray booties and mittens, she applies a "mint masque" that hardens on your face like plaster. In the soft turquoise light, you barely feel your scalp simmering in hot oil. The strains of piped-in violins grow distant. "Reeelax," purrs the brunette, daubing turtle oil on your eyelids. "Let yourself gooo . . ." BODY BASTING...