Word: runway
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...silver platforms and 4,000 jets of water colored red, white and blue. The Billy May orchestra pounds out the production number, which has such lyrics as "The soupy road to romance" and "Let's face the chicken gumbo and dance." Miller, singing and tatta-tatting down the runway, does a quick turn on top of a large soup can that rises out of the floor, then dances back into the kitchen as the walls close behind her. "Emily," asks the husband, "why do you always have to make such a big production out of everything...
...year pilot with 30 years of flying experience, Guthrie says that the dumped fuel either falls on the runway, where it can become a "greasy and slippery" hazard for other aircraft, or else it contributes to airport smog that is "often so thick you can't see the earth horizon." One of Guthrie's friends crashed in such murk...
Problem number one, however: At the Somerset Cabaret everyone sits around tables that seat six to eight; you order drinks and chat until the performance begins. The stage, almost like an old burlesque runway, projects into the midst of the room. Consequently, separation between cast and audience is lacking-alas, the evening's theatricality demands such a distance. Up close, the players' presence is somewhat embarrassing. It's as if the guest of honor has gotten rowdily drunk at just the exact moment when everyone else in the room has suddenly sobered up. Uncomfortable. If the Somerset could offer...
...runway of Grand Junction's Walker Field, a turbo jet bound for Chicago was taxing for take-off. The control tower ordered the plane back to the hanger for minor repairs, and as the passengers disembarked, a deputy sheriff disarmed Stanley R. Bond, 26, one of the suspects in the $26,000 robbery of the State Street Bank, and arrested him for armed robbery, murder, and unlawful flight in the Sept. 23 robbery of the State Street Bank in Brighton...
...beneath them, is a civilian biplane, looking like a goldfish among sharks. It is the film's last laugh. Trapped in that jug-necked harbor, the men of the Arizona, the regulars on easy duty in Schofield Barracks, are pathetically vulnerable targets. An airplane desperately taxis down its runway, straining for liftoff. A bomb scores a direct hit. The pilot becomes a gout of smoke, the propeller detaches crazily, scudding across the earth. Men are flooded in holds, set afire, strafed as they run along unprotected fields. American bombers and P-40s are bunched together, ideal targets for bombardiers...