Word: velvets
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...thick beige carpet. Mario of Florence, who sells women's shoes at from $82 to $420 a pair, operates out of a grand salon that could have been lifted from a jet-age Florentine palazzo. Roberta di Camerino's place, which specializes in sportswear and $200 velvet handbags, has the piny élan of a ski shop at Cortina d'Ampezzo. Bookseller Angelo Rizzoli (who sells magazines, newspapers and records in many languages, as well as lithographs that range in price from $85 to $9,000) spent $2 million fitting out his shop with Vicenza marble floors...
...postponed mentioning Guy Clark's No. 1 (RCA) till now to try to get a grip on myself. Never mind: it's probably the finest country album I've ever heard. The best numbers are "Rita Ballou" ("She's a rawhide rope and velvet mixture/ Walkin' talkin' Texas texture/ High timin' barroom fixture/ Kind or a girl") and "Texas--1947". This is the first album for Clark, a first-rate songwriter who wrote a lot of Jerry Jeff Walker's material. His voice is a raunchy beer-soaked, high whine, gritty and vital. Playboy calls his songs "Larry McMurtry...
...snuggle under his cape as they awaited the moment to make a trophy presentation, and demurely decline the chance to pose in a sulky when he suggested it might be dangerous for her. (The thought must have amused horse fancier Taylor, who rode to fame aboard National Velvet in 1944.) By week's end, friends of Zahedi were suggesting the ambassador was genuinely smitten and that Liz was the bluebird of happiness...
...recreates the look of the infamous Tower on one side of the stage, and of a 16-century English village on the other. Linda Beyer's costumes demarcate character with style and color; especially stunning is the apparel she designed for bride and bridegroom--matching outfits of forest green velvet and light green silk, evoking images of verdant woods and fertility...
...brief, collective indrawing of breath as lungs dilated for the big squeal; generally it was followed by a disappointed exhalation, as the couple issuing from the Cadillac turned out to be unrecognizable. Lip gloss, hair spray, three-tone streaks, cocoa-butter tans, insecure Zapata mustaches and wine red crushed velvet tuxedos: the women looked like tennis club matrons and their escorts like croupiers. The teenies had come for Al Pacino, but he was in New York. Prodded by the eupeptic booming of the outside master of ceremonies, they stayed to squeal at Walter Matthau and (in some puzzlement...