Word: buzzed
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...Warning Buzz. The first sign of trouble is a tiny buzz in an aileron, which means that a small standing sound wave is forming. Most pilots ease back when they feel it. But some are tempted. Said one: "You feel a surge of excitement and mischievous satisfaction as a gentle nibbling disturbs the controls. Some unreasonable devilment urges you to start the compressibility processes which in a few seconds can wrench all control away from you and plunge the ship into wild, tremendous vibrations...
...Denverites. "Mrs. Molly Mayfield," whose breezy lovelorn column is the top feature in Scripps-Howard's tabloid Rocky Mountain News, had received a chiding note from the wife of an Eastern oilman. "When Denver women speak," it sniffed, "it sounds to me like the grinding of a buzz saw. Their voices are harsh and grating. They send shivers up my spine. Even those who have gone to such good Eastern schools as Bryn Mawr, Wellesley, Smith, etc., speak in an absolutely rude and unrefined manner...
...since Serge Koussevitzky introduced Negro Soprano Dorothy Maynor in 1939 had there been such a buzz of anticipation in the Berkshires. Six thousand musical pilgrims, who had bought their tickets weeks in advance, sat shivering in Tanglewood's Music Shed. Outside, in the chilly evening, another 2,000 huddled in the dew-covered grass. They were gathered to hear the U.S. premiere of Dmitri Shostakovich's new Ninth Symphony...
...slowly reels off a series of numbers; after each number in the code you repeat, "Hello, hello." If you get the combination right, the Ipsophone plays back the messages; if not, it emits a derisive busy signal. After hearing all the messages, you wait for a sign-off buzz, then pronounce, "Erase, Erase," and the record is wiped clean...
...ended an unconscionably long time later, with the Nazis popping buzz-bombs into London, and Adelaide, at the ripe age of 80, still domiciled in Britannia Mews. British Novelist Margery Sharp (The Nutmeg Tree, Cluny Brown, etc.) must have written this one on the back of a series of old paper bags. Disjointed, rambling and generally vacuous, the story limps from coincidence to coincidence, casually adopting or deserting characters along the way, ending in a burst of good, old-fashioned bathos. Novelist Sharp, who usually manages to be witty, or at least catty, can offer here only a few naughty...