Word: potching
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...shafts had to be dug with pick, shovel and explosives--backbreaking work. Now there are circular drills mounted on caterpillar treads, which lurch forward chewing at the soft rock, making a hellish racket that changes to a shrill glass-crunching scream when the teeth hit a pocket of "potch" (the gray waste near opal that runs in veins through the matrix). These drills are 4 ft. in diameter, and they create vaults in the tunnel roofs--beautiful, arched Romanesque spaces cut in the creamy pink-veined stone. It is troglodyte architecture: dense, theatrical and intensely moving, infinitely better than anything...
...returned for a visit three decades later, everything had changed. Into the city had come millions of people from Ireland and Italy, Jews from all over Europe, Danes, Swedes, Finns and the rest. James was astonished at the polyglot place his old New York had become, at the "hotch-potch of racial ingredients" on the city's streets...
...Harvard this year, the Yugoslavian filmmaker has achieved international reknown with such films as Man is Not a Bird (1966). A Love Affair: Tragedy of a Switchboard Operator(1967), WR: Mysteries of the Organism(1971), and Sweet Movie(1974). Recognized for the vitality and independence of his hotch potch style--juxtaposing science and eroticism, matching up a switchboard operator with a rat exterminator--Makavejev is an exciting addition to Harvard's film department. He will be present at the Friday night screening to introduce and discuss his film...
...this Scotch-potch, Director Vincente Minnelli (Father of the Bride, An American in Paris) is a little unsteady on his feet, but when he gets them back on the solid floor of a U.S. barroom, he stands firm and delivers a raucously funny parody of life among the cocktail houris and their 5 o'clock shadows...
...hold. . . . There were over 300 of us in that hold, for besides the survivors from the Yorkshire, the crew of the City of Mandalay, another torpedoed ship, had already been picked up. We were as tight as sardines in a tin, all mixed together in an indescribable hotch potch of black and white bodies. But nothing mattered; everything was heaven. We talked most of the night. I think all of us were a little chary of closing our eyes. I know that I was for one. Whenever I tried to sleep I saw the Yorkshire slipping back, saw the staring...