Word: warmed
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...Modern Art. Down in the theater in the cellar I cried it out with Greta Garbo in Queen Christiana. Upstairs I walked through the most beautiful exhibit of photographs I have ever seen and finally, I found myself by the pool in the museum garden. It was dark and warm and Buddy Guy was playing. Close and sad at first, then wild and glad...
...ARTIST (Angel). This collection of lieder, arias and assorted other snippets gives a fair indication of Fischer-Dieskau's tal ent. He is a meticulous singer who never sloughs off a nuance or fuzzes an accent. Though his baritone is aptly described as dry rather than warm, he has range and power to spare. Lieder are his forte, but this disk demonstrates a thoroughgoing comprehension of opera as well...
...long. Seventeen different television shows a week begin with the shot-from-a-cannon entrance of Johnny Olson, the only professional warm-up man in TV. This is a gruesome but, by the laws of TV at least, a necessary specialty. Ten minutes or so before air time, Olson crouches backstage like a half-miler, waits until he feels the "right psychological moment," and then bolts out before the audience, shouting "Hey! Helloooo everybodeeee!" As the APPLAUSE sign flashes on and off, he bounds about like a cheerleader and cries: "Good morning, everybodeeee! Good morning! Say good morning, everybodeeee! [Audience...
EARLIER that day, about 100 people had been standing in the cold wind at the airport in Trenton, New Jersey. Wallace was nearly two hours late, and the people waiting for him clutched their signs and their flags and tried to keep warm under the heavy grey sky. A few high school kids waited at the front of the crowd. They said that the Negroes got off from school yesterday to go hear Dick Gregory, and so it was alright for them to take today off to see Wallace. Their high school was 55 per cent Negro, they said...
...best a sporadic affair in besieged Biafra. In any case, money is probably not the major reason for their presence. It is not the land, either, for they seem to have no eyes for the green rolling infinity of the African bush, the visionary sunsets, the humming, warm, smoky nights. They are lobos, outcasts from society who fight every day in order to taste the excitement that comes in living close to violent death. If they survive Biafra, they will doubtless drift on in search of another war. Until then, their allegiance, temporary though it may be, is to Biafra...