Word: fruitness
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...always onto something -- usually on top. In the '70s he successfully ran Paramount's empire of movies. In the '80s, at Fox, he achieved the impossible: launching a fourth network and making it flower. In 1992 he became a partner in the home-shopping channel QVC, a roadside fruit stand on the new information superhighway. Instead of instantly upgrading the network's programming, Diller used QVC as a piggy bank for the hostile raid on Paramount. For once, he was vanquished, by Viacom Inc., and when the battle was over Diller issued this statement, as prophetic as it was sardonic...
...interview published today, Prince Mikasa, the 78-year-old brother of the late Japanese Emperor Hirohito, called Japan's actions in World War II "aggression" and said his family behaved brutally.The prince also revealed that a team from the United Nations' forerunner, the League of Nations, was served fruit laced with cholera germs when it came to investigate Japan's invasion of China in the late '30s. The Yomiuri, Japan's largest newspaper, conducted the interview after the recent discovery of a 1944 speech Mikasa delivered to soldiers "out of a desperate desire to bring the war to a close...
...PITCHING STINKS. "It's just bad pitches," says White Sox coach Jackie Brown. "A bad pitch is one in the middle of the strike zone," where the ball looks like a watermelon and the bat feels like a magic wand. In '94, entire pitching staffs are lobbing large fruit: the Minnesota Twins and Oakland A's + have earned-run averages near 6.00 -- an excellent mark for figure skaters, a pathetic one for hurlers. Yet the good pitchers are as dominating as ever. And the best, Atlanta's Gregg Maddux, is allowing a miserly 1.34 earned runs per game...
...served a brief stint as the representative of Native Americans on the Harvard Foundation for Intercultural and Race Relations, but the main fruit of his service there was an article by Wasinger that appeared in Peninsula...
...defiant. Reflecting the emotions of a jilted lover, he blows swirling, gathering clouds of sound. Then, suddenly piercing them with a barrage of sharp notes, he dashes off a few steeply ascending riffs, bending his notes until they cry and yowl. Throughout the album, on solo after solo (Strange Fruit, In My Solitude), Blanchard's compact, mournful-sounding melodies evoke the desperation and broken dreams that tortured Holiday, who died at 44 in 1959 of drugs and drink...