Word: sheridan
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...American (Universal-International) is a nice little football picture, timed to get to the theaters as the real thing goes on display in the stadiums. Nick Bonelli (Tony Curtis), the slum-bred hero, is definitely depressing to the crew-cut rich boys at Sheridan U., because of his longish, jive-type hairdo. But most of the undergraduates are willing to suspend class warfare in Nick's case because he is such a good football player. Class harmony is assured when Nick goes off to the barber and comes back to win the big game for the home team...
Power of the Press. In Rushville, Neb., the Sheridan County Star reported: "Mayor Hank Jansen has instructed Police Chief Lester Jensen to give no tickets for any traffic violation," three weeks later reported that its editor, Phil Gottschalk, had been fined $1 and costs for improper parking...
Today visitors can hunt down such varied exhibits as the stuffed carcass of "Winchester" (once called Rienzi), General Phil Sheridan's horse; the bones of "Swanky Dan," a prize bull; Lindbergh's Spirit of St. Louis, a collection of dresses worn by former First Ladies; a collection of fleas from G.I.s in Korea. Last year, if there had been room, the Smithsonian staff could have displayed 607,354 new acquisitions, including a couple of Japanese eels, an adjustable, double-ended wrench (circa 1856), 18 boxes of bricks from the White House renovation, one astral lamp (complete with glass...
Three Lives. Steve Hannagan spent money as fast as he made it. He liked good living, was a fixture at Manhattan and Florida nightspots, where twice-divorced Hannagan was oftenest in the company of Cinemactress Ann Sheridan. In work & play, he traveled at such a pace that one friend said: "He lived three lives. When Hannagan flew to Africa it was, as usual, on business (for Coca-Cola). There, last week, his speedway pace caught up with him. At 53, in his hotel room at Nairobi Kenya, Hannagan died of a heart attack. In tribute, spoke Roy Howard: "No training...
There had never been an age without fine Irish writers, but almost to a man-Sheridan, Goldsmith, Wilde, Shaw-they had crossed the sea to pass their lives laughing prosperously at England rather than weeping insolvency for Ireland. In the 1880s, when William Butler Yeats first twanged his lyre, the world was understandably startled; it was almost like finding a Goethe in a peat croft. But for the next 50 years Ireland kept passing out literary surprises, for first-rate writers came along as fast as poteen at a christening: Russell, Synge, Gogarty, O'Casey, Joyce, O'Flaherty...