Word: toplessness
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...Parisian Designer André Courrèges in the middle '60s. The mini's bon voyage across the Atlantic was largely the work of Enfant Terrible Rudi Gernreich, who was not only the first U.S. designer to bare the thigh, but also earned dubious fame with his topless swimsuit, the No-Bra bra and the see-through nylon blouse. By contrast with such outré expressions, the mini, if not the micromini, seemed positively respectable. Its social acceptance was assured when Jacqueline Kennedy surrendered to the new fashion...
...sort. Over nine days, 79,000 rock fans chanted lyrics, swayed from side to side, and occasionally danced in the grandstands to the thumping sounds and prancing antics of their daringly costumed, idolized performers. But most male haircuts in the audience were trim and short, and there was no topless boogying, unabashed sex or potluck...
...From the topless beaches of the Côte d'Azur to back packing trails in the Alps, French vacationers last week were enjoying the final moments of their summer holidays. An uncommon number of them, including President François Mitterrand, seemed to have their noses buried in a book. The tome was France's latest rage, a 565-page edition of the apocalyptic predictions of Nostradamus, the Renaissance physician and astrologer. Noted the newsweekly Le Point in a cover story on the sudden French passion for bleak prophecies: "The man of this summer is not Mitterrand, but Nostradamus...
...Ohio), Johns Hopkins Hospital and University, the Preakness, H.L. Mencken and Edgar Allan Poe (not to mention Spiro Agnew). It is also one of the last American possessors of a genuine honky-tonk district, known fondly as The Block, though even that lusty landmark has been sadly vulgarized by topless dancing and a renewal project that has largely plasticized its façade. Mencken once complained that the Baltimore harbor of his youth had smelled in summer like "a billion polecats." Today the Inner Harbor is not a cesspool but a scene of jams and jollity. The white middle class...
Consider Darby Crash, lead singer of the Germs. When the band was formed, their manager recalls, "they didn't know how to play their instruments." Darby still hasn't learned to sing into the mike during performances. Instead, he lurches across and off the stage topless, his baby fat segueing to paunch, his voice clogged with booze and speed, his bruised, burned and scarred body looking like a souvenir from a guerrilla war in which he was the only participant. He passes time offstage with his pet tarantula and his friend Michelle, who giggles about...