Word: flesh
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...talked mostly about ulcers. The doctors could speak from bitter experience, for as a professional group they have a high percentage of ulcers. Last week the American Journal of Digestive Diseases printed the full debate. Since physicians have no sure cure, and surgeons can only cut out pieces of flesh, the doctors had plenty to argue about. The patient as usual was left holding his stomach. Drift of the argument...
...hundreds of years medicine men believed that arthritis was caused by watery "humors" which settled in the joints. The ancient Romans burned the flesh over the afflicted joints, kept the ulcers open to drain off the humors. Other doctors worked on the principle of "no movement, no pain." They carved stone foot casts, not unlike modern plaster casts, into which patients thrust their aching feet. Paul placed great faith in "dragon's blood," but of course, he remarked, it "is difficult to procure...
...Fairbanks' sword-and-horseplay, Tyrone Power undertakes the leading role in a remake of Fairbanks' 1920 classic about a California Robin Hood who made things too hot for a dastard Spanish colonial governor. To pacify the Hays office, the Z-mark is carved only once on real flesh- on a man's chest instead of his forehead. (The Fairbanks version precipitated a nationwide rage for Z-cutting among small fry.) Basil Rathbone furnishes the dueling opposition for Power, Linda Darnell the fond glances...
...That all flesh is as grass-and mostly crab grass at that-is a juicy writer's thesis that seems incapable of being squeezed dry. One of the latest literati to draw blood from this cosmic lemon is Elder Olson, a young, Byronic-looking assistant professor of English at Illinois Institute of Technology. His The Cock of Heaven is a long poem about the irremediable genesis, incorrigible exodus and appalling exeunt of the Goddamned, salvation-proof children of Adam. For purely literary excitement, it should rank as the poetic book-of-the-year...
While audiences squeal and cheer at the sight of flesh-&-blood performers, singing, dancing, míming, Lolly sits nervously at a desk backstage, interrupts to read newsy telegrams. When possible she answers audience questions on her age ("neither as old as May Robson nor as young as Shirley Temple"), whether Dorothy Lamour's sarong has a zipper. Before she is through she will visit Philadelphia, Detroit, Cleveland, Chicago, bear out the observation of her archenemy, Columnist Hedda Hopper, who once cracked: "They ought to change the old adage to 'Be a columnist and see the world...