Word: mads
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...what traditions they are undermining. The difference between them may be largely a matter of fastidiousness. Ulysses is finally an affirmation: "I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will yes." Eliot's nervous collage can only evoke the low vitality of his cityscape; he cannot embrace it. There are too many "young men carbuncular" within its limits, deceiving themselves with "systematic lies," failing to acknowledge "the agony and horror of modern life...
...woman, running--she's just jumped out of another car and into ours. Her name is Maela and, like the vast majority of Cuban women, Maela is a devout spandex enthusiast. She's in a black-and-white bodysuit, bisected with belt, and she's laughing like mad at her car-to-car coup, the soldiers tossing her a wide variety of obscene gestures as we drive away. The soldier we've got is named Jordan; he's doing the mandatory military service--two years--and is heading home for the weekend. Maela was in Cienfuegos with friends...
...wonder why his guests don't cover themselves with dentist's smocks to fend off the flying spittle. Kinsley recalls that as co-host of Crossfire, the CNN shoutfest, he once disagreed with a guest in too civil a tone. "No, no!" the producer shouted into his earpiece. "Get mad! Get mad...
...half the size it was at the start of the century. About a quarter of Americans live alone--and many of these are widowed, retired or both. There are also more single parents. The new breed of communes is more likely to have members named Ozzie and Harriet than Mad Dog and Rainbow. They keep a low profile and strive for respectability. They're just folks who simply found life in the atomized suburbs lonely...
Director Karin Coonrod must be given credit for taming this tornado of a play. Performed as part of the A.R.T.'s CrossCurrents initiative, an ongoing attempt to "create and sustain a body of new music theatre works," The Idiots Karamazov intersperses cabaret-style singing with its mad dash through practically all the Western fiction and drama worth reading. But an experiment in Brechtian musical theater this is not. With love ballads about the loss of Christian morality that come across as even more depressing than Tom Stoppard's musings in Jumpers and show-stoppers about the benefits of being...