Word: drunks
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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Throughout the meals, collective farm-girls plied the farmers with vodka, Georgian champagne and sweet wine, Moldavian muscatel, Ukrainian riesling, Armenian cognac and beer. "During the meal at least a dozen toasts are drunk to world peace, Soviet-American friendship, the exchange of ideas, and to women of both countries," reported New York Times Correspondent Welles Hangen. "Thereafter it is open season for anyone to propose a toast to almost anything except war, Fascism and mass destruction." But as for Soviet agriculture, one member of the U.S. delegation remarked: "In general it seems to me that the living standard...
...last week's Lancet, London's Dr. William H. J. Summerskill indulged in a tour de force of long-range diagnosis came to the conclusion that the fool may have been right. Physician Summerskill worked it out this way: Aguecheek was drunk every night. His tippling could easily have caused cirrhosis of the liver Even Sir Toby Belch, no pathologist but a fellow tosspot, suspected this: "For Andrew, if he were opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of the anatomy...
...unwilling wearer of a hair shirt imposed on him by a world he never made and is too weak to remake. Soon enough Steve gets a little outside ordinary life. On an auto trip to Maine with Nancy to pick up their children at camp, he gets drunk and Nancy leaves him to go on by bus. When Steve picks up a hunted criminal, he sees in him only the man who had the guts to lash back at life. In an ending that mixes brutality with insights, Steve gets his trolley back on the tracks, but not before Simenon...
...unanswered questions, e.g., who helped smuggle Betty aboard, and how did she manage to slip past the quarterdeck watch? By week's end silence had settled over the incident, to which Betty herself, back at her favorite haunt, Kilroy's Club Alibi, was contributing nothing. "I was drunk," she said primly. "I don't wish to make no further statement...
Cats, hipsters, vipers, and even a few moldy figs swarmed last weekend among the stately mansions of Newport, R.I. for the second Newport Jazz Festival. Neckties were not worn and tea was not drunk; cries of "Go, go, go!" burned the sea-cooled air, and other un-Newportian manifestations jarred the Old Guard as they had last year (TIME, Aug. 2) and probably would again. But the general consensus on Bailey's Beach and along Bellevue Avenue was that this year's foreigners were considerably more "dignified" than before...