Word: potatoe
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...memory of this fellowship I carry emblazoned on my fading consciousness. It is the memory of staggering upstairs from the dining hall to my moist and tropical room, my belly swelled with an evening feast of boiled potato, wads of creamy butter, rice pudding, French bread, crispy pie crust and glass upon glass of tepid milk. (It is of such starch that tomorrow's leaders are made.) It is the memory of a genial House superintendent humbly whistling an Irish air as he searched musty closets for machine-guns, hashish, Radcliffe girls and other contraband. It is the memory...
...Ernie took it into his head he wanted to act. His face was as homely as a cold baked potato, but he worked hard around summer theaters, and he got a few bits in television. All of a sudden he was in From Here to Eternity-playing Fatso, the sergeant who made chopped herring out of Frank Sinatra. The picture was a smash, and so was Ernie. He got other parts, but nothing really big till a couple of producers came along, name of Hecht and Lancaster, who wanted to do a picture about a fat Italian butcher...
There are some people who have been waiting since the demise of i.e. The Cambridge Review for hopeful signs on the Harvard magazine scene. Like the Godot sojurn, this wait has been punctuated with a good deal of talk and some potato-chip philosophizing...
...they could. Correspondent Daniel F. Gilmore and Photographer Dieter Hespe of United Press International, and NBC's Tom Streithorst, hired a Beirut taxi to drive them the 620 miles between Beirut and Baghdad. When their driver quit at the Syrian border, they hitched a ride on a Syrian potato truck, got another taxi in Damascus. They bought off suspicious Lebanese rebels with cigarettes and bottles of a local brew named arak, steered by the North Star when the road disappeared in the desert...
...bigger. Madison Avenue, in a Brooks Brothers and button-down salaam to the Little Woman and her big roller pin, committed the ultimate betrayal of privacy every TV evening: the advertising grab-bag of under-arm deodorants, living bras, toilet tissue, toe-nail paint, perfume, mouthwash, and the Potato Sack look. Sex was the province of the Ladies Home Journal. Dr. Spock replaced the Bible. Bohemia in pink panties was more organized nymphomania than Art. Greenwich Village was overrun with mop-headed, turtle-necked, tweed-wrapped, smudge-faced, and beer-reeking femmes fatale, with Wallace Stevens under...