Word: drive-in
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...possession of a young female, but it has nothing to do with literature. It is a pretentious, tasteless, abominably written, redundant pastiche of superficial theology, comic-book psychology, Grade C movie dialogue and Grade Z scatology. In short, The Exorcist will be a bestseller and almost certainly a drive-in movie...
...glottal stops. Caine shuttles between Anglo-Saxon, German and Cockney. Oscarsson, a Swede, is absurdly fanatic, with energy and witches to burn. Sharif, the first Near Eastern Westphalian, has, as ever, the wettest eyes in Christendom. Yet it is Clavell who bears prime responsibility for this drive-in Mother Courage. His battle scenes are stagy and confused; even his anachronistic editorials ("War is all I have") ring false. Clavell misunderstands the nature of historic evil, of political hysteria, and of war itself -Thirty Years' or any time, anywhere...
...girl, tough Southern dark-haired, drink away the blues, hard luck Patty with the Green Buddha whose stomach she rubbed for good luck every time she left the house. Patty with the burgundy cords, Patty who was as bored as I with Ship of Fools at the No. 1 Drive-In, lovely Patty with the moon-on her face, who dreamed of walking into every bar, getting smashed, in town the night she became twenty-one. Patty who chain-smoked, Patty who felt good for the first time in a long sad time because I was the first...
...divided highway that stretches between the busy Fairbanks airport and Fort Wainwright, a sprawling Army base just outside the center of Fairbanks; more conspicuous are the J. C. Penney's department store and the Colonel Sanders Kentucky Fried Chicken Take-Home and the A and W Root Beer drive-in and the two Dairy Queens. In a very short time, largely because of the presence of Fort Wainwright and the nearby Eisling Air Force Base, Fairbanks has expanded to accommodate a new influx of modern Americans and their tastes. "Ten years ago," complained one old Fairbanks resident, "you could walk...
...about the same age as those in the baby contest, are strapped in tightly and stare out at the fluorescent fuzz around them; they tend to look very stolid and serious in their little pods, like their grandparents out for a 15 m.p.h. procession to a movie or a drive-in church. After perhaps a dozen revolutions, one set of parents plucks their beloved bundle from a pod proudly emblazoned with a screaming, claws-out eagle, the stars and stripes, and the words "Cong Killer" on the side-and stuffs a thick wad of pink cotton candy in his mouth...