Word: jam
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...them, "why do you drive such big cars? You don't need a monster to go to the drugstore for a package of hairpins. Think of the gas bills!" No audience is too small for him. Caught in a taxi in the middle of a St. Louis traffic jam, he lectured the captive driver: "Now if we all drove small cars, we'd have a lot less trouble like this." His parting tip as he abandoned the cab and sprinted off on foot: "Next time try a Rambler...
...collar and carries a peasant's staff-signs of protection for the flock. And the old man's leer may be hateful or tearful, but his gentle hand reaches for Christ's in a gesture of sympathy. The ironclad warrior, who is about to jam the huge prongs upon Christ's head, seems caught up and driven by some outward imperative of duty even as his lips tighten in remorse. The bulldog-faced assailant who tears at Christ's robe might also be gesturing in supplication. The German scholar Wilhelm Franger contends that Bosch...
...irony for the fishermen who manned the fragile junks. Last month 1,000 of these junks had sailed into Macao harbor from Red China, their crews and passengers ostensibly bent on celebrating Chinese New Year in the 6-sq.-mi. Portuguese province. As usual, the men swarmed ashore to jam the smoky teahouses and to try their luck at fantan. But when the long holiday was over, less than half the junks sailed for home...
...columns a week on jazz and records for the San Francisco Chronicle (circ. 225,429), edits a magazine he helped found last year named Jazz-A Quarterly of American Music (circ. 5,000), and tosses off such extra projects as organizing jazz TV programs and festivals. His 1958 book, Jam Session, has sold 5,000 copies, is now in a British edition. Last year Gleason became the nation's first syndicated jazz columnist, now sounds off weekly in 15 papers from the Los Angeles Mirror-News to the Boston Globe...
...rectory in Wantage, birthplace of Alfred the Great. There his busy wife Penelope (daughter of Field Marshal Lord Chetwode) hunts and fishes with Pam-like energy, keeps an eye on their son and daughter and runs a thriving tea shop called King Alfred's Kitchen. She puts up jam; he musingly produces about one poem every six weeks. "Almost any age seems civilized except that in which I live," he once wrote. "But it's wrong to think my verse ironical. I write of things I care about." In The Old Liberals he hauntingly evoked not only...