Word: pinks
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...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 longer than the six-hour shift. It lasts all a life. I have many flavors and I want...
...when we are spared the leads' awkward vocalization of Antonioni's forced material (cowritten with two Americans and two other Italians), some superb cinema squeezes thurough. The marriage of Alfio Conti's dazzling photography with nicely chosen cuts of John Fahey, the Grateful Dead, the Stones, the Youngbloods, Pink Floyd, and Kaleidoscope is consistently right. Two nonverbal scenes in particular are so overwhelming as to warrant sitting through the whole movie. Both are fantasy projections of the heroes. While Daria and Mark make love in a Mojave riverbed (and it is fairly anti-social to do it in that much...
...WORLD is all different flavors. Tastes in my mouth and in my body-Brigham's ice cream and cigarette smoke, dry throat. I wear a candy-pink uniform that bangs below my knees, white apron with a bow (legs out the bottom, arms out at the sides, and my head nodding yes, mocha almond, not fudge, marshmallow, pecans). Yes sir, I'll be right with you. My elbows scramble, between dishes of half-eaten food, lifting and wiping. Yes sir. I'll be right with you. Pay at the door. You get what you pay for. Special today on different...
Tingling like a tuning 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...
...discotheque class the next day, you try to do the temptation walk to the belting rhythms of Jr. Walker and the All Stars playing Pucker Up Buttercup. "Let everything bounce!" cries our instructress, a blonde Viking in pink tights who bounces without even trying. You bounce some more when, bypassing the triple-dip chrome barbells, you are harnessed to a rig called the wood roller massaging machine. Your reaction is immediate: "T-t-u-r-n-n i-t-t o-f-f-f!" BACK WALKING. All is calm in yoga class. "Sink deeply into the floor," whispers our guru...