Word: masseurs
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Lennart Bergelin, his mentor and masseur since Bjorn was a ninth-grader, never put a clock on the golden career but always knew precisely when it would end. "The day that Bjorn says he is going to take a shortcut and practice only two hours instead of four," said Bergelin some years ago, "then I will know it is finished." Borg's athletic skill has not run down; his ability to concentrate...
...with angry street demonstrations and signs spelling my name in Arabic?as if I were an Arab representative. Most of Israel yearned for both peace and the physical security of territory, and it could not decide between its longing and its fears. This schizophrenia was well exemplified by the masseur in the King David Hotel who gave me a rubdown with a violence that belied his good will. All of Israel was counting on me, he allowed, pounding me. How many kilometers on the Golan was it safe to give up? I inquired, if only to gain a temporary surcease...
...even more crucial matter. For the disturbed cat, there are a variety of animal practitioners. Dr. Michael Fox, 44, a psychologist based in Washington, D.C., advocates massage-both Oriental and Swedish. "I know it sounds like snake oil at first," says the mustachioed Ph.D., who has a California masseur's license, "but it will give energy to old and sick animals and stimulate healthy cats." In his home near by, Fox, who is director of the Humane Society of the U.S., demonstrates on his Burmese, Mocha. A chiropractic tail pull straightens the spine, Swedish kneading relaxes the muscles...
...instead. I loved Halloween. That was a hell of a good movie, all the aggression at the heart of every horror film distilled into this pale, clean little engine, its camera gliding from baby-sitter to baby-sister while director John Carpenter applied the organ music like an expert masseur...
...final tribute from a theater balcony be comes, in movie closeup, an autopsy. And Lemmon, by re-creating his stage performance, has created another, more pitiable Scottie. Lemmon still articulates a lexicon of frayed hopes through his sad-clown face, still works the crowd like an aging but adept masseur. But this Scottie is no longer a man one would care to spend an evening drinking with, or even observing. He chokes on his own gag lines; he straitjackets his son (Robby Benson) in a slapstick embrace. The audience is trapped too. The knowledge, from Reel 1, that Scottie...