Word: throat
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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Nowhere do secrets have a higher mortality rate than in Washington, D.C. The capital swarms with leaking bureaucrats and a prying press corps. Incurable gossips are wall to wall. Yet one mystery has proved as snoop-resistant as it is tantalizing: the identity of "Deep Throat," the shadowy underground-garage habitué who is currently providing the same suspense in the film version of All the President's Men that he brought to the bestselling Watergate book by the Washington Post's reporting...
...Woodward and Carl Bernstein book, The Final Days (TIME, March 29), have combined to revive the search for the tattler-patriot who served the Nixon Administration while helping to bring it down. In surreptitious pre-dawn meetings during the unraveling of Watergate, as Woodward tells it, Deep Throat often confirmed and occasionally volunteered devastating information learned in his "sensitive" Government post...
...just couldn't walk into a coffee house in the Village or even Roseland Dance City any more, listen to Sly (Dance to the Music) or like the Byrds (Hey Mr. Tangerine Man) and not walk out without some sort of ideology or a big fat lump in your throat. Bo Diddley was passe; Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper were, respectively, dead; Cream was strictly for Anglophiles; you were growing up--bye, bye Ms. American pie--you needed consciousness, man, Albert Shanker had taken over the nation's schools; now his half-brother Ravi was sitaring...
...cannot stay on a starvation diet; anorexics can. All the patients who come in want to weigh 100 pounds. We're dealing with patients with a stubborn streak and strong will-power. In behavior modification we say, "If you're not good we'll stick the tube down your throat or not give you certain privileges.' Patients have an apt phrase for this--they say they'll eat their way out of the hospital--but that doesn't mean they're straightened out in the head. For the dangerous ones [20 per cent of anorexics], maybe we should develop...
...THERE I AM, it's 8:15 p.m., boiling in my tuxedo and drenching my underclothes and my throat is so dry you could fry an egg on it. Right next to me, Howard O'Brien is fingering this little brown Vicks lozenge and I whisper in his ear and he gives it to me. I just let it melt slowly in my mouth and try to time it so there's still a little juice from it left when it's actually my turn. You can tell everyone's in top form--there are no goofs in the readings...