Word: glamourizer
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...gone. Life in Southern California revolves around private homes and backyard swimming pools. They've overcasualized; there's almost an absence of tone." Says Helen Boehm, president of the porcelain company that bears her name: "I've been all over the world, and this place has glamour, color and manicure." Boehm (rhymes with dream) saw her very own polo players, the Boehm-Palm Beach Team, win the $100,000 world cup title in April for the second straight year...
...area calls itself the Polo Capital of the Free World (though not much polo gets played in the unfree world). Palm Beach County also boasts almost 200 golf courses, and styles itself, naturally, the Golf Capital of the Free World. But it is, above all, the glamour and drama of polo that give social focus to many Gold Coast lives. The 3 p.m. Sunday match at the P.B.P.C.C., preceded by a champagne brunch, is an Event. "A day without polo," sighs one veteran, paraphrasing Brillat-Savarin, "is like a day without...
...carefully on the complexity of life. Again leaping from one topic to the next, he exults in his sightings of animals while wondering if he will catch a glimpse of the fox and then considers what an ordeal solitude actually is, despite its perverse and mostly pseudo-intellectual glamour. Then he considers the differences of life in the city and the country (it is not exactly that life is slow but that "a cow is finally just a cow, a chore is after all a chore, there is small possibility of what is called in the city 'advancement...
...become vogue for the tennis elite to misbehave, scream, and quit when things don't go their way. But most secondly, in addition to their ravings and histrionics in front of the paying crowd--many of whom actually come to enjoy a good argument--the glamour boys of the international circuit are treading the baseline of player responsibility, impugning the integrity all professional athletes should display...
...glamour kept coming after that, but so did the trouble. There were technical foulups: Ed Asner and Elizabeth Taylor were momentarily trapped in the folds of a falling curtain, like big game in a tree trap. The pace slowed: "I can't read my monitor," James Earl Jones rumbled like an Old Testament prophet rebuking his flock. Most of all, the pretension showed: birthday candles were lit on a cake that looked like the Tower of Babel, as discomfited luminaries dished up decades of encapsulated world history in which the Actors' Fund got featured billing ("A Russian named...