Word: drunkenness
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...keys to success for this lough old-style romance are the two relationships pulling Mayo apart with the strength of plow horses. The son of a drunken sailor, he enlists in the Port Ranter Naval Aviation Office Candidate School to learn to fly jets. There he crashes into Foley, whom I ours Gosset Jr. masterfully molds into a merciless embodiment of martial discipline. There is no heart of gold beneath Foley's taut Black skin: the scorn he displays for his charges on the first day of their 13-week baste training stint changes only to bitter, unstated resentment...
...some trick of time, he has skipped his true generation. His lined, leathery face is as supple as if treated daily with neat's-foot oil. As he goes into his crouch, grinning hideously, his gapped teeth look as if they were hammered into his head by a drunken cobbler. And his remarkable body, you might say, is more rounded all over than he is. "If you slid into bases head first for 20 years," he says to all of that, "you'd be ugly...
...expectation of surviving them." Wilkinson discovers that people who have been arrested do not always behave politely. One of his perpetrators sticks a match through the grille in the police car and tries to set Wilkinson's hair on fire. He learns to distinguish the different varieties of drunken drivers: "Some drove at moderate speeds, carefully and with concentration, except on the wrong side of the road. Some drove at a crawl, although I believe they thought they were actually going fast. Others drove hell for leather, and all over the place. One man I saw was stopped...
...more than one beautiful killer between shoot-outs. In Blade Runner, however, the ladies' stone-cold hearts are usually a symptom of automation, which takes the edge off the romance. The monotone Sam Spade narration also becomes ridiculous and does little to characterize a hero who relies on frequent drunken debauches to reveal his emotional depth. The poor guy is clearly troubled, but the theatrical shorthand of empty, albeit exotic, liquor bottles and frequent comments about how lousy it is to be a killer do not elicit empathy...
...Show Us Your Tits"--it is the rallying cry of the masses. The libido of the great unwashed bursting forth in all its drunken glory. It is the them of the infield. Mass-produced buttons, bumper stickers and shirts proclaim the four magic words, and hundreds carry homemade signs and drive had-painted vans which reiterate the them. From atop the vans and portable scaffolding, flushed faces call out hoarsely to all who pass below. "Show us your tits!" Most ignore the demands, but every so often a woman will clamber up onto a van and perform an awkward striptease...