Word: howlings
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...flashiest tour in Los Angeles mix camp nostalgia with giddy grave robbing? And why shouldn't a necromantic like Greg Smith, Grave Line's ! "director of undertakings" and occasional tour guide, make some clean money washing his Forest Lawndry in public? Grave Line is a haunt and a howl for children of all ages and no taste. "It's like being in the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland," gushes Beth Arrowsmith, a passenger on today's field trip. It's educational as well. "When you're considering real estate," opines stockbroker Kimberly Ross, "it's nice to know this stuff...
...that schoolchildren can no longer don blackface and appear in minstrel shows. Finally he lamented the practice of changing racially offensive lyrics in songs like Ol' Man River, likening it to Soviet rewriting of history books. Said Michel: "That doesn't wash well with me." After a howl of protest from black leaders, Michel apologized. "My regret is even more profound," said he, "because I believe my public record of over 32 years as a Congressman is without the slightest blot of bigotry or racial insensitivity." True enough, until last week...
...Nathan Zuckerman, were simply transparent disguises for their self-obsessed creator. Finding that denials did nothing to stem such charges, Roth responded by heaping coals on controversy. Did some readers accuse him of anti-Semitism? Very well. Roth gave them and the world Portnoy's Complaint, a long hilarious howl of ethnic self-laceration. Were not three novels about Nathan Zuckerman, a Jewish writer suspiciously resembling Roth, finally enough? Roth's answer was to provide still more Zuckerman in The Counterlife, a brilliant demonstration of the magic of imagination and the drabness of mere reality...
...during the geologic age called Early Subdivision, a distracted housewife and sometime journalist named Erma Bombeck discovered what to do with two-week-old tuna casserole: turn the stuff into a howl of a newspaper column. Prepare three times a week; serves 31 million in 900 papers, at latest count. In this eighth book, an amiable reworking of her familiar material, Bombeck is still distracted like a fox and still being funny about her layabout kids and the alien life forms that glow in the back of refrigerators...
Sternfeld's America looks inhabited but never quite settled, full of lovelorn suburban tracts and derelict factories where the banshees howl through the rusting work sheds. When recession comes -- a number of these pictures were taken during the slump of 1981-82 -- the oldest company towns in New England fall like the flimsiest trailer camp in Arizona. When times are good, the wilderness is shown being minced into salable acreage. Above it all, the sky rings its changes, slate blue in one picture, cornflower in the next, baby's-bottom pink in another. It is the last unspoiled stretch...