Word: silk
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Barnaby Conrad, author of Encyclopedia of Bullfighting, had flown down from San Francisco for the fight and dropped in to say hello, wearing a sweatshirt adorned with a picture of Manolete. At last, El Cordobés put on his sequined jacket of violet silk, and the blonde emerged from the bathroom, where she had been softly crying. He flipped her on the behind with a towel, and she smiled. Then someone shouted, "Ay, Matador!" and it was off to the Plaza in a roar of police motorcycles...
...jazzman to have "a feeling for specifically modern esthetic values." The complexity jazz has lately acquired has always been present in Monk's music, and there is hardly a jazz musician playing who is not in some way indebted to him. On his tours last year he bought a silk skullcap in Tokyo and a proper chapeau at Christian Dior's in Paris; when he comes home to New York next month with his Finnish lid, he will say with inner glee, "Yeah?I got it in Helsinki." The spectacle of Monk at large in Europe last week was cheerful...
...Warhol, when asked to do a portrait of Ethel, put her in an automatic snapshot studio in Times Square and fed heaps of quarters into it. "Now start smiling and talking," said the artist, while the mechanical camera took scores of candids, "this is costing me money." Then Warhol silk-screened 35 of the most vivid views onto squares of canvas, colored variously to give them the psychologically potent hues, producing a serial portrait of a woman in love with life...
...beaten, broken France. Superbly confident, cool under the worst conditions, Talleyrand once sat calmly through an hour-long tirade by Napoleon Bonaparte and heard himself called everything from a liar and a traitor to a coward and a thief. In a final paroxysm, Napoleon described him as a "silk stocking full of merde." Without turning a hair, Talleyrand left the room, remarking only, "What a pity a great man should be so ill-bred...
...slaughter." Oh oh, slip of the tongue. Sorry. Lucy looks away. Pretty soon, by golly, a person can't carve a roast for dinner without precipitating a household crisis. Someone scissors through the family album, decapitating old snapshots. Then Lucy gets a black wig, a flowered silk dress, and three pounds of bangles for her wrists. She looks the same as she did 20 years ago, and . . . Several ax murders later, the problem appears to be: how you gonna keep Momma down on the farm when she has such a penchant for pruning...