Word: yorkerism
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Street of Failure. If the garment district was a reminder of U.S. opportunity, this part of Sixth Avenue (which no self-respecting New Yorker could bring himself to call the Avenue of the Americas) was a monument to American failure. No hour of the day or night found bar-lined Sixth Avenue without a few drunken men & women; no upper Sixth Avenue crowd ever looked happy or even gay. At the Miami Theater coming attractions were Primitive Love and Guilty Parents. Even...
TIME'S [March 11] direct quotation of Mr. Wolcott Gibbs's opinion on the Maxwell Anderson-Truckline Café fracas seems a bit cavalier on the surface, since Mr. Gibbs's published New Yorker version is worded quite differently from TIME'S. Realizing, however that TIME had no chance for a gander at the forthcoming New Yorker review, I hazard the following free translation of the probable situation...
...told the New York Times's Brooks Atkinson, chuckling. "The doctors say that according to all the rules I cannot possibly be alive. . . . Now I can do anything I like. I am going to have a good time." His good time: reading American books and magazines-the New Yorker, the Satevepost, the late William Ellery Sedgwick's Herman Melville, Maxwell Anderson's verse plays (which he said ought to be called "worse" plays...
Last week, Civilian Frank Toscani, now sales manager for a Bronx moving and warehousing firm, decided (after two years) to try to collect from his dominating shadow. He filed suit for $225,000 against Hersey (now a correspondent in China for the New Yorker and LIFE) and the others who had exploited the Adano story, charged defamation of character, and declared that "the defendants . . . were unjustly enriched...
Laura, the first New Yorker, was married to Henry, a successful radio commentator. Laura was middle-aged and unloved, and "that tooth, that tooth which worried the world, went nibble, nibble, nibble." When Laura timidly mentioned religion to Henry, he chuckled: "Really, Laura. To think your little mind has been chugging away!" Then Laura confided in dashing, suntanned Barry, who said: "What you need is some good lively sex with a real man who'll fling you around the room. . . ." Said Laura: "There must be another way out." "Of course," said Barry crossly, "you might try collecting stamps...