Word: vilenesses
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...decision declared that the waitresses had every right to continue peaceful picketing, including asking potential customers not to eat in Cronin's. However, it directed a special admonition that the waitresses must not engage in unlawful picket activities, particularly by blocking the door to the restaurant or using "vile and abusive language" against customers crossing the picket line...
...sometimes stoned, full of the gossip of relentlessly recycled relationships as Patti's seen first with Dan then with Bob before returning with mathematical certitude to take up with Dan once again, as the earth lurches away from the sun and, consciously or not, we pretend to be the vile young bodies of Evelyn Waugh or Fitzgerald's golden flappers. So I can hardly be expected to complain...
Later comes a hair-curling (and historically inaccurate) episode in which, with spitting snarls, Maria denounces Elizabeth to her face ("obscene, unworthy prostitute . . . vile bastard"), and thereby seals her doom. At the end, Sills is the epitome of resolute self-control, pulling her disparate and volatile selves together, laying her head bravely on the block and rapping it three times to cue the executioner, as, by some accounts, Maria did. Going to one's death onstage is nothing new for any opera singer. But Sills somehow always manages to put new life into it. -William Bender
...scandalous." Even Dick Stewart, in Muskie's press room, said that no one in the Muskie office had any knowledge of the letters; at the same time no one on Muskie's staff would either confirm nor deny that they had leaked the story. The leak exemplified the most vile kind of political ploy: a rumor for which no one will take credit channeled to the press. The word gets out, it gets into print, and yet no one-in this case in the Muskie Headquarters-is held accountable if it turns...
They came as they always come, carrying their sacraments with them; wineskins over the shoulder and carefully rolled joints in their pockets. The rank and vile of sub and inner urbia filed neatly into the beige somnolence of Symphony Hall. There it was, a ritual procession with all the passion of Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade; the worshippers were as enthralled as a gaggle of catatonic turkety buzzards watching a tennis match; the penitents approached their shrine with all the fervor of the champagne cooled Boston Pops crowd. It's not that rock concerts aren't interesting anymore, there...