Word: cocktailing
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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From Mexico City gossips came the report that a flashy blonde who had left a trail of orange rinds and broken hearts in the cocktail bars at the Ritz and La Cucaracha had flown suddenly to Rio de Janeiro. She had tried to charter a special plane (so she must have been in a hurry). She had taken along handbags crammed with $200,000 in U.S. currency and at least $50,000 worth of jewels (so she must have connections). She had an Italian name and she had wanted to be in Rio in time for January's conference...
These reports buzzed around for a couple of months, while special investigators, the FBI and consular agents looked up old records, passed along clues, checked two passports, one Swedish, one U.S. Last week the blonde was still in Rio, still as flashy in the nightclubs and cocktail bars as she had been in Mexico. But, pshaw, she was only old Peter Fahrney's granddaughter, Merry ("the Madcap"), from Chicago. Remember, she got married half a dozen times or so? Playboys and counts and barons-calls herself the Countess Cassini now. No more harm in her than in the cough...
...along our streets, look at the people you see, look into our taverns with their vast patronage of both sexes and most ages. Anyone who thinks that a nightclub is a place to prepare for an all-out war has another think coming. We need to shake off these cocktail, nightclub and roadhouse years, with their loose thinking, loose habits and health-destroying tendencies. Health will win this...
...political prime-movers. His line is sports; her's is "the problems of the day." His language is Bill Cunninghamese; her's is every foreign tongue worth gargling. He takes her to see a baseball game from the press box; she asks him to one of her international cocktail parties. On their wedding night her big wigs and his sports cronies clash in a bedroom scene that takes every cake Hollywood ever baked. Up to this point, the picture is fast moving, crisp and new. The last half loses the delights of contrast and lapses into the faked-up tricks...
...spin when bullets started appearing along his port wing. "There is an appalling tendency," he remarks, "to sit and watch this happen without taking any action, as though mesmerized by a snake." That time he got away, to crash-land safely "in the back garden of a Brigade cocktail party." When, a few days later, crewmen of the Margate lifeboat dragged Hillary, comatose, out of the North Sea, they rushed him ashore to have his burnt flesh caked with protective tannic acid, his eyes with a coating of gentian violet...