Word: saloon
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...phrase "working-class families" was eliminated. Laborers no longer doff their hats to squires or mumble that the good things of life "are not for the likes o' me," and more and more of them, in their work clothes, move from the stand-up bar to the saloon bar adjoining, where for a penny a pint more, they can sit at a table. "Before the war," says a pubkeeper, "they wouldn't have dared. Apart from the cold stares they would have received, their mates would have ridiculed them...
Guido & Grower. The gag had an unlikely beginning. It was born in Toots Shor's Manhattan saloon one afternoon in 1956, when Pat and a pal, Lynn Phillips, were relaxing from their jobs as time salesmen for NBCTV. They were already practiced hands at the dialect spoof. Pat had picked up a talent for mimicry from his father, a successful nightclub comic of the '30s, and he and his friend used their skill as a "sales adjunct" when they wanted to warm up prospects with a laugh or two. That afternoon in Shor's, the Andrea Doria...
Destry Rides Again (book by Leonard Gershe; music and lyrics by Harold Rome; direction and choreography by Michael Kidd) ups curtain on the Last Chance Saloon with the lady that's known as Frenchy (Dolores Gray) sashaying forward in a red-sequined gown to treat some of her plug-ugly admirers to a song. Within minutes she shoots the hat off one heckler, wraps a whipstalk around the skull of another. Then her saloonkeeper boy friend (Scott Brady) proceeds to give the sheriff an incurable case of lead poisoning. It is obviously high time for law and order...
...issue included too many errors to be ignored. If Wild Bill Hickok was a member of Buffalo Bill's Wild West troupe in the year 1890, he was there in spirit only. Wild Bill was killed on the afternoon of Aug. 2, 1876 in the Number Ten Saloon in Deadwood, Dakota Territory, by Nonentity Jack McCall. The carets Bill was holding fell to the floor face up-aces and eights, known ever after as the "dead man's hand...
...pushing missilemen. Today these heroes are still the crinkle-eyed young men wearing silver wings, the plane jockeys who earn their day's pay at a high scream-somewhere around the speed of sound. Their quick, death-weighted decisions would scare a six-gun cowpoke back into the saloon, and the wonder is that their work is still a rarity on television. But last week televiewers had their fill of flying-in both fact and fiction. And even when Air Force technical advisers were looking the other way, neither overexcited writers nor overemotional actors could corn up the show...