Word: sun
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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Since the czars of haute couture took over the swimsuit business, the world's girl watchers have zeroed in on the Diaper, the Thong, the String, the Monokini and now the Maillot. Unlike dryland, drawing-room fashion, which seeks to conceal and suggest, wisps for sun and surf can only show and tell. Therefore they are limited to a very few Gorgeous Girls who really have no need to advertise. En tout cas, as they say in Saint-Tropez, the GGs this summer can be seen supporting (barely) bikinis in stripes, or strapless, or black and white...
...Fiorucci's red string bikini, which has attractions of its own. But the new maillots (French for both baby clothes and bathing suits) are something else. Ashore, these clinging one-piece numbers are pinafore-demure. Wetted, they become second skins, as close to the body as sun tan oil. They are also practical. Halston says of his hot-pink strapless model on the next page: "It gives a perfect tan sans strap marks." Coty Award Winner Monika Tilley, a pioneer of the one-piece suit, has focused on thighs, figuring that bosoms have had their day in the sun...
Tires hum along the interstate while an afternoon sun reddens behind exhaust fumes. The natives in the back seat are restless. Bored with counting stalled vehicles and CB radio antennas, they have discussed Star Wars to a tatter. The day's second rendition of 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall has petered out at bottle No. 37. Now sullen silence prevails, punctuated only by stage whispers to the effect that some parents feed their kids, for cryinoutloud. Egg McMuffined for breakfast, Burger Kinged at lunch and Stuckeyed in between, the little ones are hungry again. For that matter...
...Moving Picture: 2nd Annual Summer Animation Party, a collection of animated films, at 7:30 and 10, special $1.50 showings Fri. at midnight Sat. and Sun. at 5, Mon. and Tues...
...Season in the Sun never quite captures the same rosy glow of a middle-aged kid rummaging through the old baseball cards in his musty attic. Kahn's latest work has no purpose, nostalgic or otherwise; rather, it is a random collection of essays, each designed to illuminate a different facet of the game. And while the cheesy smell of old newsprint may be gone, along with the saintly aura that decades-old newsreel film seems to lend the athletes of a bygone era, there is still enough magic left in Kahn's writing to draw the reader into...