Word: shirt
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...Ginger Rogers. But Kelly discovered that he couldn't dance in white tie and tails. "I needed more room. I had to roll up my sleeves." Thus he developed a stereotype of the cinema dancer that endured for more than a decade: an ordinary chap in sports shirt, ballooning slacks and white socks (to draw attention to his feet). His style was virile, breezy, and charged with a lusty bravura, whether he was splashing through a Technicolor rainstorm, kicking up his heels beneath the Eiffel Tower, or skittering across Manhattan stoops in his Navy whites. Though his singing voice...
When the lid came off, silver soared. At Manhattan's Commodity Exchange, a usually listless arena that deals in metals and hides, shirt-sleeved brokers shouted spot silver up to $1.775 per oz. on the first day. At midweek the price rose to $1.87 during one frenzied session when a record 16.25 million oz. worth nearly $30 million changed hands. At week's end the spot price closed at $1.8315, 42% above the dethroned Treasury price. The silver fever spread to the London Metal Exchange, where brokers planned to operate for the first time a formal futures market...
...while violating every rule, that all the heavies gathered to watch her. One of them walked over to the dealer and asked whether the lady was straight. "Straight?" said the dealer. "She's crazy!" As for Kennedy, he won $65 in two nights and bought a lucky shirt-green with white polka dots. On the last day he had the classic gambler's experience. On the way to the airport, he stopped in the lobby for a last turn at roulette, bet the birthdates of his six children, won, kept on winning. "I couldn't lose...
...Vegas. 4:30 a.m. Muzak oozing. Dice clacking. Slot machines whirring. No clocks. No windows. No chairs -except at the green felt tables. Ray the Shark, middleaged, middle class, Middle West, peeks at cards, puffs cigar, rubs lucky shirt, peeks again and draws another card. Blackjack! Adrenaline pumping, grinning beatificially, he multiplies his bets-and loses. Wife appears, her palms covered with grey metallic sheen from feeding coins to slot machines. "Quick," he whispers, "I'm hot. Give me the money I told you not to give...
Through it all, Eastwood walks around with a woolen blanket covering a fleece-lined vest and shirt-in the midst of what is supposed to be an El Paso summer. He and Van Cleef scarcely look at their victims before knocking them oft, never waste a shot, and never utter a sentence when a grunt will do-which gives the picture, despite moments of serious relief, the feverish aura of madcap comedy. For those who like an elemental western with galvanic gestures, a twanging score full of jew's-harps and choral chanting, and a lofty disdain for sense...