Word: lancer
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...searing sensation rips into my face. As the laser traces tiny spider veins across my cheek, zapping them into oblivion, I hear a faint pop, pop, pop. It begins to sting. Yeow, I swear silently. Is that burning flesh I smell? Hey, Doc? Owww. Yeowww! DOC! Dr. Harold Lancer, my Beverly Hills dermatologist, is laughing. He had warned me to take some Valium before the procedure (or risk scaring off his celebrity clients, no doubt). I can't stand any more. "Ye-ooowww!!" I yell out loud. Then it's over. I leave with a red Etch A Sketch drawing...
...weeks later, the pain forgiven, my cheek peachy and clear, I'm back for more. This time Lancer zaps an ugly brown spot on my left cheek--the result of driving with the California sun constantly bombarding my face. (Seems my chic metal sunglasses had been channeling the sun onto one spot.) This time he uses a different, less powerful laser. Surprise--there's barely any pain! Within days there is also no sign of the stupid blotch that had been bothering me for years. I'm getting to like these lasers...
...face blistered for three days afterward, her eyes were swollen shut, and pits formed in her skin. "When the laser started hurting, I asked what was happening, and they said they had 'turned it up.'" She says with a sigh, "All this because I couldn't stand wearing makeup." Lancer, the Beverly Hills dermatologist, is now removing the damage with microdermabrasion treatments; he says the Florida doctor failed to discover that Pighini, despite her blond hair, had Cherokee ancestry and was hence at risk...
Christopher Lucas is an American journalist living in Jerusalem and looking for a story. He has quit his "comfortable and rather prestigious newspaper job" and now scrambles as a free-lancer. This job change has left him unsettled: "It was so hard to get it right, working without the assignment, the rubric, the refuge of a word count. No one behind...
...1920s Weegee was working for a photo agency that supplied the morning papers with shots of arrests, car accidents, fires and such from the night before. In the mid-'30s he became a free-lancer. Equipped with a police-radio scanner in his car and the most wonderfully named of all old cameras, the Speed Graphic, he chased down the city at its most scabrous, a place where the chief pastimes were groping and bloodletting and where the main thing to remember was that only the strong survive. Eventually he was also a contributor to the liberal daily PM, which...