Word: kins
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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Mortuaries & Teeny-Boppers. Though basically kin to such familiar cards as American Express and Diners Club, bank credit cards aim more at the ordinary needs of middle-income families than at travel and expense-account entertainment by executives. In a few cities, doctors, dentists and veterinarians already accept bank cards; in Chicago, several mortuaries and ambulance services have signed up, and at the city's Cheetah Twistadrome Boutique, teeny-boppers allowed access to their parents' cards can even charge their miniskirts and papier-mâché earrings...
When he found that his first wife could not have a baby, he selected a minor actress, had her struck from the payroll, then came to her apartment with an offer that rivals Rumpelstilts-kin's: "I would like you to have a child by me. On the day you are certified to be pregnant, I will put $75,000 in a bank under your name. On the day the child is delivered to me, our relationship is over. . ." The proposal was turned down. Cohn restored the girl to her job-and never spoke to her again...
...Club Bedroom, Auchincloss illustrates the dreadful fate that awaits a poor working girl who marries into a top family, and who expects kith, kin or anyone else to respect her unspeakable class predicament. She loses her room at the woman's club. A Harvard-Yardley soap opera...
Thus, like a peek inside some space-age incubator, began the world première last week of Roland Petit's Paradise Lost - no direct kin, obviously, to John Milton's sturdy epic of the same name. Neon eggs are unusual enough, but more unusual was the fact that the work was hatched by London's Royal Ballet, the venerable guardian of traditional repertory. What is more, the roles of Adam and Eve were danced by the foremost duo in romantic ballet, Rudolf Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn...
...Feeling So Sad, a film version of the Arthur Kopit play produced off Broadway in 1962, is supposed to be a comedy about momogamy in American life. The heroine, an overdecorated middle-aged man-eater (Rosalind Russell), arrives at a Caribbean resort with her nixed of kin: a husband (Jonathan Winters), dead for a decade, who hangs taxidermically immortalized on a coat hook in her clothes closet, and a son (Robert Morse), arguably alive, who at 25 still sucks his thumb and sleeps in a set of Dr. Denton drop-seat pajamas. Forbidden by Mamma to leave the suite...