Word: ritually
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Last Saturday the ritual was re-enacted, enlarged considerably from the 39 nations in 1932 to 140 this year. The players were new; no Babe Didrikson to marvel at. (When the Babe, who had mastered a dozen sports, was asked if there was anything she did not play, she said, "Yeah. Dolls.") The audience for the Games promises to be up a bit: 510,000 in 1932, more than 2 billion now. Saturday's show was brighter, brassier. Still the basic ceremony held its ground. All the excitement generated by seeing the stairway ascend to the Coliseum torch...
...Friday-night ritual in Westwood Village, an enclave of movie theaters and trendy shops neighboring the sprawling campus of the University of California, Los Angeles. Teen-agers and college students hang about the bars and ice-cream parlors to gawk and hobnob, while lines of moviegoers curl around the corners...
...typical convention-ending scene: thousands of balloons descending toward the packed floor, the band blaring rousing music, the delegates waving small American flags, colored spotlights panning the rostrum, washing over the smiling, happy candidates. But what happened in San Francisco last week was more than a ritual display of party unity. The cheers were genuine, and so were the tears of joy that flowed unabashedly from the eyes of many delegates. The Democrats knew they were making history: the woman up on the podium was the first ever selected for national office by a major party. As Geraldine Ferraro...
...mood outside grew slightly surreal; the two candidates' press secretaries, Maxine Isaacs and Kathy Bushkin, appeared on a second floor balcony at one point and tossed flowers to the crowd below. When Mondale and Hart finally emerged, they tried hard to convince their audience that the hatchet burying ritual had indeed been genuine. Said Hart, carefully using Mondale's nickname: "Fritz knows that throughout this contest he and I have been friends, are friends and will continue to be friends." Agreed Mondale: "I think we respect each other. I said during the campaign if we could just...
...gathered under such an umbrella, and nearly everything has been, from plaster Apollos to graffiti, from marble to flickering television sets. The prevailing tone is of fatigue and mannerism. Everyone complains that the Biennale, like art itself, is in decline; such complaints are a necessary part of the ritual of visiting it. But this year in particular the visitor feels like a tourist in a glass-bottomed boat, gliding over a dying reef: here a brilliant polyp, there a parrot fish or sea fan, but acres of dead whitishgray coral to tell the real story...