Word: pokerful
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...Asphalt Jungle} Maddow, traces a year in the life and mind of a young divorcee (Barbara Baxley), "living on bourbon, cottage cheese and alimony" in Los Angeles. "Sick of the touch of human skin," she lives alone at first, lolls in beauty shops, dawdles in poker palaces, waits for "a disk jockey to pick her number out of a phone book" and give her "a life supply of dentifrice." Later she lets her human feelings leak away in pointless sexual episodes, finally tries to run away from her dilemma at reckless speed in a secondhand car. She smashes...
With Whelan and the late Dictator Anastasio Somoza it was "Tommy" and "Tacho" from the start, and the friendship deepened as they partied, played poker, junketed around the country together. Tacho was shot and critically wounded by an assassin in 1956, and it was his friend Tommy Whelan who arranged to fly the dying dictator to a U.S. hospital in the Panama Canal Zone. He was succeeded by his sons, President Luis Somoza and Army Chief Anastasio ("Tachito") Somoza...
...right, George. I once voted for a Republican myself. He was a friend who served in my outfit in the Army." But it wasn't all right. Allen was as witty as ever, and as expert at the bridge table with Ike as he was at the poker table with Truman. He made Ike feel at home at Burning Tree golf course, has been host to the Eisenhowers at his Palm Springs home. It is no coincidence that Ike bought his farm in Gettysburg next door to Allen's own farm. The friendship...
...Death of Satan. As the curtain went up last week on Poet Ronald Duncan's play, three comfortable chaps were reading newspapers in a club in Hell. One by one they revealed their faces: Shaw, Wilde, Byron. Happy shades, they play poker for their professional reputations ("I'll wager Mrs. Warren's Profession"-"I'll raise you Childe Harolde") and tolerate Satan, dressed as a clergyman, as he steals their jokes...
...Kaufman, Ring Lardner, and Harold Ross of The New Yorker practiced their art with a lapidary's care. Clinging together for mutual support, they met weekdays as the Vicious Circle, a social group that lunched at the Algonquin Hotel and traded mots and puns, Saturday nights over the poker table of the Thanatopsis Literary and Inside Straight Club. Of them all, none set journalism's banner higher than the cigar-smoking, pool-playing little gargoyle with the long neck and the big nose and the bushy mustache: F.P.A...