Word: junks
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...Junk thought. No graduate of the Wharton School of Business ever pur sued his ambitions at IBM with as much single-mindedness. Mark had all the inverted status symbols: a trusty old Volkswagen, a loyal mongrel dog, a commune in a good neighborhood and a larder stuffed with choice grass and macrobiotic snacks. But there is a serpent in every Eden; Mark's was mental illness...
...writes, unaware of the brattiness implied by such conjecture. Yet in the end, Eden Express is a painfully honest document of a life in transition. The shift is even evident in the book's style. The early pages contain the sort of hippie jargon that franchises experience into junk food for thought. But by the end, Vonnegut has found a truer, more subdued voice that reaches out of his agony and concern. It is not quite grace under pressure, but it is that necessary first step, growth under stress...
...Ninety percent of the stuff on the market is junk; it is all hoopla," says Don Donohue, sales representative for Arkansas-based Daisy toys, whose own "flintlock" rifle promotion is not living up to expectations-perhaps because of proliferation of Bicentennial products. Doubtless anticipating such a reaction, Crestline, a well-established maker of colonial furniture, has come out with what might be called an anti-Bicentennial ad. Beneath a photo of the familiar fife-and-drum trio marching off into the mist with backs turned to the camera, the ad asserts: "Soon 1976 will be gone, along with the bicentennial...
...began seven years ago when the Longmuir brothers, Bass Guitarist Alan, then 19, and Drummer Derek, then 16, started a rock group called the Saxons. They rehearsed in their parents' tenement apartment. "They had the most patched-up bunch of electronic junk I'd ever seen," says Tam Paton, their manager. They also had, he recalls, "a freshness and an eagerness to please that were very appealing." A perhaps marketable, boy-next-door look, in other words...
...first few weeks of July you can see boys and girls in Ulster rummaging through old junk in every abandoned house, picking up scraps of wood and throwing them onto piles, some as high as the narrow two-story rowhouses. When my train pulled into Belfast on the afternoon of the eleventh, some of the older kids were joining in and throwing old furniture onto the piles. Shops were closing up early and the people on the streets seemed to be in a hurry to get home: the fortnight holiday had begun. That night the red-yellow flames of bonfires...