Word: salooners
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...When he finally convinces her that he is on the run, she hides him during an impromptu visit from her 'fiance' Harvey Handcock (Jack Marshall), the town sheriff. When Harvey is replaced by a randy reporter, Arithmetic Johnson (Michael Wilkes), what ensues is a bawdy comedy in the best saloon style. The acting is slick, the delivery as rapid and well-placed as a six-shot showdown. Both Linda Cameron and Bart McCarthy salvage the evening completely, as the innocent tottering on the verge of tarnish and the demure, surprisingly naive, robber. Surrounded by an appropriate cast, they...
...aging C-47 in the icy outback. Charlie Blue, a Tlingit Indian shaman, appears and assists them through a surpassingly beautiful valley to rescue. The pilots promise to return, but before they can, Healey leaves Slade holding a smoking pistol and a murder rap in the wake of a saloon brawl. End of partnership. Slade settles down to homestead the secret valley. Thirty years later Healey ruthlessly claims a lake of high-grade petroleum that lies beneath the glacial moraine...
Some people are happy in their delusions, and Bobby Short is one of them: he insists upon calling himself a saloon singer. Oh, yes, he will admit, there is no sawdust on the floor of Manhattan's Café Carlyle, where he has been singing and playing the piano for the past 13 years. And, yes, he always works in a dinner jacket tailored on Savile Row-one of ten that hang in his closet. Still, he is quite certain that he is, was and always has been a saloon singer. But then, for all anyone knows, the Queen...
Besides, he says, it is harder to keep up a saloon singer's schedule at 56 than it was at 30. "When I was younger and able to cope with it all, this kind of success seemed elusive," he says. "It was something I dreamed about in those days. Singing is harder to do now." His friends are not convinced. "Bobby has the image of himself as being worn out," scoffs Radio Producer Jean Bach. "It isn't true." And Short himself seems uncertain. "A friend of mine told me that I'm a constant fountain...
Conservative intellectuals are aficionados of the wink, full of rollicking good fun, by nature a sly sort. Hence, the masthead of The American Spectator contains the following witticisms: it lists a "chief saloon correspondent," and makes the contention that "Solitary, Poor, Nasty, Brutish and Short" has been reatained as the periodical's legal counsel. And that...