Word: chromed
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...self-flagellating despair of bourgeois life has always been a puzzle. For three decades, we in the rest of the world have watched American movies with mouth-dripping envy, fantasizing about the day when we too will have those shiny Formica kitchens, the big cars with lots of chrome, blinking computers everywhere, Las Vegas, Gary Cooper. It seemed like paradise, but good old Richard Cory just went and shot himself. In spite of its inane aspects, the recent flood of nostalgia is a healthy rehabilitation of national symbols, a growing out of adolescent shame and embarrassment about "home...
What's this? Sultry Cher, with smoking eyebrows, dressed in chrome jeans? With green hair, holding a mercury ball? Indeed. To liven up the opening sequence of Cher's TV show this season, the producers hired Rollin Binzer, Jim Benedict and Leslie Brooks, three film makers who call themselves Kid Millions. Using photographs of their subject, the three painted on Daliesque wardrobes, added laser lights to create an eerie effect, and built a 58-second animated lead-in to the program. "I love it," announced the star after watching the first screening. "The only trouble is, it will...
...Briggs and I said no, come out with us and they said O.K. and we all piled into Briggs's and my '58 Caddy and cruised out of town. The Delac's quite the cruiser, and for only $450 Briggs and I just about cornered the chrome market. Her yellow paint job is a little faded, but at night the Delac does just fine. And night was fast coming, we thought...
Across the fertile heartland of America, the van plummeted. Yellow images welled into its bugsmirched windshield--car chrome rendered gassy, half-tone faces in an air-conditioned pickle, blind voices whimpering in dying voids. Stubbed fingers of headlights scratched across closecropped weeds and into gritty caverns of trucked roar. And through the smoky sheen of translucent film, through the captive atmosphere of this worn, pummeled bag. America swelled in disembodied waves...
...empty night and headlights that beam vaguely, duskily across the spread of road and desert that lap across each other here, where the march of flourescent poles has not yet reached. Catching our headlights in smoothflowing creaminess, the antlers pierce mutely our forward fall: motionless, steady in their chrome cage, at the fore of our seamless void, too strong, too immutable in their decay for our quick-lipped, easy spun gasp of time...