Word: wasteland
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...early evening only the stragglers were left and the Common returned to its gutted, wasteland appearance. By then everyone, who was anyone, had made his appearance: General Waste-More-Land alias General Hershey-bar had convinced everyone that he should be interned at the earliest opportunity; and Evy (better known as Super-Fan) had graced the Fair with her presence to certify it as an event worthy of notice
...Sarnoff chuckles when Hope whips out with: "When I started with the NBC network, he was using the enlisted-men's washroom." And he has certainly had the last say on the progress of television. After Newton Mi-now's 1961 complaint that TV was a "vast wasteland," Hope measured television's subsequent progress and concluded: "Mr. Newton Minow is a man of high ideals, whose needling, prodding and constructive suggestions have led our great industry up the path to The Beverly Hillbillies...
...York was hardly a musical wasteland in 1842, when the city's Philharmonic Society gave its first public concert on Dec. 7. A large middle-class German population had brought cultivated tastes from abroad; the concert rooms and theaters were filled with touring opera companies on long visits, and there was an impressive roster of homegrown organizations. Indeed, two other Philharmonic societies had already come and gone. The first, founded in 1799, took part in George Washington's memorial services; it lasted until 1816; the second, put together in 1824, succumbed three years later, largely because a craze...
...complicated plots of a half dozen of the soapers. ("Those organs!" says Rubinstein, holding his nose and unmistakably imitating their quavering tone.) William Buckley says that he finds no time for TV, but Chicago Lawyer Newton Minow, the former Federal Communications Commission chairman who described TV as a "vast wasteland," still watches fairly regularly. Among his favorites: Get Smart...
What submerges from Dylan's thought poems is a surrealistic Yoknapatawpha Country, a rich wasteland crossed by Highway 61 and the holy slow train. Enter at your peril. There are no lumberjacks to give you facts when Dylan, riding on a radiant electronic bass, attacks your imagination. You pay your money to watch the geek, but the viscous torrent of picture words doubles you on yourself. You think very hard about nothing, narcissim at 33 and 1/3, until you like Mr. Jones "know something's happening but you don't know what...