Word: spews
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FORD. The long wait ends with a ride that is comfortable, interesting-and too short. Mustangs, Mercurys, Falcons, Comets, Thunderbirds and Lincoln Continentals carry 38,000 people daily through a dark tunnel into "the world that was," where dinosaurs chomp seaweed and volcanoes spew red-hot lava...
...everybody's meat. Not since Sergei Eisenstein has a moviemaker set loose such a bedlam of elemental energies. He works with three cameras at once, makes telling use of telescopic lenses that drill deep into a scene, suck up all the action in sight and then spew it violently into the viewer's face. But Kurosawa is far more than a master of movement. He is an ironist who knows how to pity. He is a moralist with a sense of humor. He is a realist who curses the darkness-and then lights a blowtorch...
...packaging is the U.S. businessman's new preoccupation. Last week in Chicago the American Management Association's 32nd annual packaging exposition drew 440 exhibitors and 35,000 visitors-triple the attendance of four years ago-to pay homage before piles of glittering containers and gargoylish machines that spew forth everything from plastic bags to cardboard boxes. Packaging has become, in the words of one expert in the field, "industry's indispensable nightmare...
...Southern California's much-touted sunshine is, ironically, an essential accomplice in making smog so irritating to the eyes and so dangerous to health. The assorted hydrocarbons and nitrogen oxides spewed out by chimney stacks and tail pipes are bad enough in the raw. But sunlight sets up photochemical reactions involving such chemicals as ozone (a deadly poison) and nitrogen dioxide (an insidious and lethal gas when it hits the lungs). U.S. Public Health Service Toxicologist Sheldon Murphy neatly proved the perils of sunlight by exposing guinea pigs to city-street concentrations of exhausts. Unirradiated, the gases did little...
...comics are in full caper. One baggypants warns the guard of a nuthouse not to send any mail to Washington. "Why not?" asks the guard. "He's dead," replies the overripe banana, skittering into the wings. Seltzer bottles spew, leers are leered, strippers strip and strip. Ann Corio re-creates her "parade strip," fragrant in the memories of generations of Harvard graduates who used to attend her frequent symposia at Boston's Old Howard. When hefty Dolores Du Vaughan* undulates out of her costume and starts to give the proscenium arch the business, there are howls of "More...