Word: stomaching
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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CEBUS. This refreshing infusion of talent came just in time: the old sock-it-to-'em pitch was making a lot of people punchy. The only way to sell certain analgesics was to make the viewer queasy just watching: faucets dripped acids into the stomach, hammers clanged on anvils in the head. It was getting increasingly difficult to tell whether the little old winemaker was getting tanked on Drano, or pushing Ken-L Ration for hungry Living Bras. Gradually, after 20 years of hard-sell harangue, viewers developed a kind of filter blend up front. They did not turn...
...general idea is to take a boat out into the deep, open her up to 50-60 knots, and pray. It helps to have a basic knowledge of navigation, a strong stomach, and a desire to get the ordeal over with as quickly as possible. Lewis, 34, who last week won the Bahamas 500 for the second year in a row, was once asked what made him go so fast. Said he simply: "Fear...
That Old Black Magic. So begins what must be the most unpleasant pregnancy on record. Mia Farrow seems to grow more sickly and emaciated the more her stomach swells, but she is built for the part of Rosemary and her skillful progression from pain to puzzlement to panic goes far beyond mere looks. The film's most memorable performance, though, is turned in by Veteran Ruth Gordon as the coarse and cozily evil Minnie Castevet-sniffing for information like a questing rodent, forcing Rosemary to drink her satanic tonics of herbs, dispensing that old Black Magic that she knows...
...wobbly video tape from the murder scene. CBS's Roger Mudd, in the ballroom during the shooting, was alerted by a man who tore wildly out of the kitchen corridor, put his finger up to his head like a pistol and yelled, "Bang, bang, bang!" "That turned my stomach," recalls Mudd. He and his crew then tore their camera off the tripod and plunged into the corridor. It was a standard film camera, and so was NBC's. By the time CBS and NBC got their film processed and the murder scene pictures on the air, nearly...
Enderby, 45, a flabby, balding and toothless bachelor, is the poet as anti-stereotype. The wind that blows on his Aeolian harp comes out mostly as stomach gas. Belching and backfiring, he sits on his toilet seat day after monotonous day composing a narrative poem about the Minotaur. Yet, as manuscript slowly fills the bathtub, Enderby is a happy and fulfilled man. Living off dividends and tiny royalties, he really needs "nothing except more talent...