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...life, mixed now with my memories of school and home and church: my classmate Peggy, on the morning after one of Frank Hague's victorious elections, offering me a glance at a large white mint wafer on which was written in green sugar script, "From Uncle Frank." "Uncle" Frank! What glory! Of course she was no more Hague's niece than I was, but her father belonged to the inner political circle and mine...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: The Nation: Recollections of a Jersey City Childhood | 1/11/1971 | See Source »

...encounter can only be heard as a distant echo within the Bernstein duplex. There is something funny in the Bernsteins' noblesse oblige. But to treat the Panthers' predicament as equally amusing- "Lenny reaches up from out of the depths of the easy chair and hands him [Don Cox] a mint . . . a puffed mint, an after-dinner mint, of the sort that suddenly appears on the table in little silver Marthinsen bowls, as if deposited by the mint fairy"- is to regard what is at best tragically macabre as a comic trifle...

Author: By Gregg J. Kilday, | Title: Hour of Tom Wolfe Chic-er Than Thou | 12/10/1970 | See Source »

Tightly clutching his mint julep in his left hand the middle-aged businessman quietly slid his right arm around the young graduate's back...

Author: By Bruce E. Johnson, | Title: Ecology Is A Dodge | 4/22/1970 | See Source »

...WHILE I fizzle a black and white soda (nothing is really black and white . . . ). There's a new product on the market: flavored douches-just great, except they haven't worked up such a variety as Brigham's offers: coffee, chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, raspberry, pineapple, mint hot fudge, Jesus can you imagine hot fudge? Yes, I am playing a game. I will graduate from candy-pink to black and then, some picture-frame day, to white. Like Hester, I will take off my hair net, let my hair hang down. Even a waitress, even everyone of us plays a game...

Author: By Karen Miller, | Title: This Waitress Is Not for Sale | 3/5/1970 | See Source »

...fork, you are then led into a shadowy room, wrapped in a sheet and stretched out on a padded table. Momentarily, you fear an autopsy. Instead a willowy brunette massages your brow with peachmeal skin cleanser. As your cuticles soften inside pink infraray booties and mittens, she applies a "mint masque" that hardens on your face like plaster. In the soft turquoise light, you barely feel your scalp simmering in hot oil. The strains of piped-in violins grow distant. "Reeelax," purrs the brunette, daubing turtle oil on your eyelids. "Let yourself gooo . . ." BODY BASTING. You are awakened in time...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: Modern Living: In Search of the New You | 3/2/1970 | See Source »

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