Word: yellowness
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...gives us Sybill, prim, quivering with repression, afraid that the hypnotist is a fake, terrified that he is not. She shows us another daughter, a hairdresser named Candy, happily and efficiently shampooing her dead mother's hair, and working in a little White Mink to dull out the yellow. She hears clearly the grouchy yap of Teenager Sean, driven loony by parent effectiveness: "I mean you come home from school really pissed about something . . . and they say something like, 'Gee, son, you're very angry!' and then if you say 'Well yes, I am pretty goddamn angry' they...
...host Tuesday night for a dinner at the Soviet mission, and for Wednesday's working sessions at another building on the grounds. When U.S. advancemen first saw that building, it was so dilapidated they irreverently christened it "the urinal." But the Soviets have completely renovated it, painted it bright yellow and furnished it in 19th century French décor. Wednesday night Reagan will give a dinner. At present no parting ceremonies are scheduled, but American advancemen have staked out a theater the leaders can use Thursday morning if they reach any understanding they want to formalize with a flourish...
Apparently well prepared in advance, Gorbachev speaks at length without looking at notes, but takes advantage of translation time to glance down at a tidy stack of briefing papers, underlined with red, blue, yellow and green felt-tip markers. As Gorbachev was answering a question on Israel during his Paris press conference, one adviser half rose, cupped a hand to his ear to hear what was said, then sat down with a satisfied look when the boss had finished. The Soviet leader will presumably use his staff in a similar way at the summit, referring to their briefing papers...
Living in Yellow Medicine County (somewhat south-southwest of Mist County) has been good training for understanding the pathos of Keillor's humor, the essence of which is "It only hurts when I don't laugh." John W. Graber Burnsville, Minn...
...been known to tell them at the Black Cat bar, one of the two wateringholes in tiny Seligman, Ariz., with a longneck Budweiser in front of him. One recent night, after gently tapping some Bull Durham tobacco into his rolling paper, Knox pulled tight the yellow drawstrings on the pouch. He moistened the paper, rolled the cigarette, lit it. Then he leaned over the bar and, in a soft voice, recited an old Bruce Kiskaddon verse about the dangers of an enraged cow: "Think a cow boy cain't run? Well you aint seen one sail/ When a cow blows...