Word: curlingly
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Marty was the saxophone player for the rival rock band, the dreaded Dialectrics. I started one of the first rock bands at Harvard in 1962, the Deltas, and we all lusted after Marty. My band could play get-down-and-dirty that would curl the plates in the Union, but Wishnatsky played with the Dialectrics, and he was good. I mean baddd...
Every night, we sleep comfortably in our warm and safe dormitories while the homeless curl up together on subway grates. What happened last night at the Lampoon was by no means an isolated incident. It was simply one of the more graphic examples of the apathy surrounding the widening gap between the wealthy and the impoverished in the richest country on earth. Of course, the Lampoon meant this event to be humorous, an entertaining joke; but as long as the problems of homelessness and poverty run rampant around us, this kind of spectacle is an extremely tasteless joke...
Killer actress, please. We speak of Ellen Barkin, 35, who does more than curl men's toes. In her first film, Diner (1982), she played the young married whose husband rags her because she can't catalog his precious 45s. In Tender Mercies she was Robert Duvall's teen daughter. She righteously battled Dr. Lizardo in The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai and taught her sweet niece how to dance in Desert Bloom. Just now she is bookending her role in Sea with a turn as the triple-crossing ultrabitch in Walter Hill's Johnny Handsome. Tough? This babe can blast...
...been a rough day for Valerie the Valley Girl (Geena Davis), manicurist at the Curl Up and Dye hair salon. Her icky beau Dr. Ted (Charles Rocket) hasn't made love -- to her, anyway -- in two weeks! "At the rate we're having sex," she pouts becomingly, "we may as well be married already." She has discovered Ted in a compromising costume with another woman and responded by trashing their condo: microwaving his football, toasting his funny cigarettes in the VCR, dropping his gold watch in the Disposall. And now, she notes, "there's a giant blow-dryer...
...Christopher Isherwood and Stephen Spender. A compulsive reader whose idea of a grand evening was to curl up, sober, by a fireplace with a stack of paperbacks. A man who told his famously beautiful wife that the only thing to venerate in life is not love but language. This, surely, is not the Richard Burton of the boozy brawls, the ruined talents, the tossed-away millions on baubles for Elizabeth Taylor, the woman he obsessed over but could not stay married to. Yet both personalities come alive in Melvyn Bragg's meticulous biography. Not many surprises can remain about...