Word: featherers
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...BIRTHDAY PARTY, by Harold Pinter, is a comedy of terrors, tickling the funny bone with the feather of the absurd while scratching away at the skin with the razor edge of truth...
...untrammeled through woods and dunes, killing king snakes, munching Powerhouse candy bars. He regards mysteries of life with the eerie moral neutrality of boyhood. "Suddenly two of the birds rush at each other in the air. Quick as a wink, one of them is gone. Swallowed. A single yellow feather drifts down to settle on the moss. I laugh, delighted by the purity of it." In a familiar childhood rite, he discovers the intricate magic of a yo-yo that he has bought from two Oriental itinerant salesmen, and learns the various movements-"walking the dog," "loop the loops...
...royalty. He sent a dump truck to cart off the Omugabe of Ankole's throne, his velvet ceremonial robes, his gilt crowns and his fat royal drums of buckskin. Last week the aging, potbellied Omukama of Bunyoro watched sadly as his regalia of silken robes and black ostrich-feather headdresses were taken away to be mothballed in the basement of a government building. With baggage packed, he now waits to move out of his palace to quarters that will be provided by the government. As for King Freddie, Obote does not seem to have thrown a farthing...
...that Scott, Graebner and King used at Forest Hills looks for all the world like an oversized tea strainer. Made of tubular, chromium-plated steel, it is far more flexible than a wooden racket; its open-throat construction permits a faster swing with less effort. "It feels like a feather," says Billie Jean. Scott says the T2000 gives him a faster serve and better control on volleys. To Graebner, the T2000 has therapeutic value. Plagued for months by a painful case of "tennis elbow," he switched from wood to steel in July and the pain disappeared. The steel racket seems...
...both his life and art. He painted as he dressed, mostly in banker's black and grey, composing his scenes with photographic accuracy. But what impish fantasies: cigar boxes puffing smoke, a leaden sky raining tiny, bowler-hatted figures, the leaning tower of Pisa buttressed by a feather, Botticelli's Primavera superimposed on the back of a businessman's overcoat. "People are always looking for symbolism in my work," he once said. "There is none. Mystery is the supreme thing...