Word: powders
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...been a long-time since New England had anything like a vintage year for snowfall and skiers were able to hit the slopes on any given winter day and expect good powder conditions. And except for one short cold-snap, the weather thus far this fall has only been kind to a few of the northernmost ski areas in New England...
...jokes turns out to be the master-or rather mistress-of birth control; when overcrowded or undernourished, the rabbit "resorbs" its embryos in utero. Adams' industrious Hazel, Fiver and Bigwig are pelt-deep fictions; in the real world, male rabbits are lallygagging drones. The does, contrary to those powder puffs in Watership Down, dig the burrows, run the homes and defend their young with Amazonian ferocity against such formidable enemies as the ferret, stoat and weasel...
...agreed by most of the people I know that Joseph Conrad was a bad writer, just as it is agreed that T. S. Eliot is a good writer. If I knew that by grinding Mr. Eliot into a fine dry powder and sprinkling that powder over Mr. Conrad's grave Mr. Conrad would shortly appear, looking very annoyed at the forced return, and commence writing, I would leave for London early tomorrow with a sausage grinder. Ernest Hemingway The Transatlantic Review...
...continued to muse about the tour, a stubby black caddie with a pot-belly big enough to hold fifty practice balls lumbered over from the putting green. He was wearing one of the insufferably hot powder blue jump suits that are mandatory for caddies at Pleasant Valley, a white Houston Open golf cap, and, beneath his cap, a blue and white polka-dotted scarf that gave him a sort of piratical appearance. He looked at me rather suspiciously for a moment, then introduced himself as "Killer," and told me he remembered caddying for me back in Houston when...
...stage is wet with human sweat. Costume change again. Jobriath has less than a minute to peel out of his leotards. Johnson's Baby Powder eases him into a skin-tight, black leatherette suit for the finale. The lapels point upward, framing his face in devilish horns. Gyrating in simulated pain, Jobriath gasps out the words: "Take me, I'm, I'm yours." He collapses against the piano, and the audience applauds. Jobriath gives a usual entertainer's farewell: "Thank you, thank you. Have a nice night. Have a nice life...