Word: kit
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...organ-playing ghoul of The Phantom of the Opera, the sad clown in He Who Gets Slapped, Chaney proved the possibilities of escaping oneself. As an artist might rush to his easel to sketch the characters he had encountered in a day, Chaney would go home to his makeup kit and superimpose upon his own flesh the faces he had studied in police courts, water front dives and cafés. With putty and plaster, collodion-created scars, false teeth, wigs, facial clamps, cotton stuffing and rubber dilaters, Actor Chaney would be somebody else - an art he found most expedient...
...archaeologists. But authorized diggers frequently find that robbers have got there first. And even with the new watch, the thefts continued. One enterprising youth rode up to a grave with his girl on a motor scooter for a "picnic," rode off with 13 objects worth $32,000 in his kit...
...some 2,000 items, ranging from buttons to bureaus. The ladies who put the show together were mostly grandmothers, but they smilingly shifted furniture that would have given a stevedore pause. As each unveiled her best discoveries, the others clustered like birds. A Civil War soldier's shaving kit, with slide-out mirror, was admired for its ingenuity. Six people spread out a patchwork quilt, which some country lady had made from her husband's neckties a century ago, and debated the name of the pattern. Said the oldest hand decisively, "Steps to the White House." Price...
...teeth, put her on a rigid diet, redid and dyed her hair, exercised her in a gym and in acting classes, posed her on a tiger rug with a still camera staring down her bodice. One of the first rites was to change her name. Cohn liked the name Kit Marlowe. She insisted on keeping Novak. But the name Marilyn had to go because it suggested another blonde. For two days the new actress was named Kit Novak until she tearfully went to Publicity Director George Lait to plead for a change to Kim.* Remembers Lait: "Honey, 1 said...
Modern Britons know better than to pack up their troubles in their old kit-bags. Instead, more than 130,000 suffering souls each year write, telephone or wire their woes to the cockney-sharp Daily Mirror (circ. 4,723,131) or its scandal-breathing sister, the Sunday Pictorial (5,709,893). Encouraged by occasional black-boxed invitations in both tabloids (DON'T WORRY ON YOUR OWN), Mirror readers address their problems to one Philip Wright, while the Pictorial asks the woebegone to confide in its John Noble...