Word: gutters
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...gutter language is seldom heard in the world of high finance, but a lot of strong oaths were echoing last week through the paneled offices of private bankers. Fearful that they might be trapped in the crossfire of the U.S.Iranian economic war, many European moneymen were distressed at the haste with which U.S. banks have declared Iranian loans in default and have seized Tehran's overseas assets. Complained an angry Luxembourg banker: "Third parties are being unnecessarily drawn into the conflict. The Americans are displaying Wild West manners and throwing clubs that will boomerang." Countercharged a U.S. banker...
...appears in the shiny black of one of the cars. He ambles slowly, his image distorts as it sweeps over the doors, door handles, smoked windows and tail lights of one limo and forms again on the next, moving down the line until it drops off, lost in the gutter. Across from the Royale Theater, where a golden marquee has promoted Grease for seven years, the drunk stops to shuffle through a mesh trash can. He finds nothing but a wadded Times, straightens to resume his stroll and turns up Eighth Avenue...
...notion of art as roof gutter is nicely suited to Wain's thoughtful treatment of two middle-aged men joyfully making fools of themselves over younger women. In less knowing hands, The Pardoner's Tale might have been only a clever sex reversal on the stock English romance about a maiden schoolteacher's brief tryst in Italy. But instead of sentimentality, Wain offers genuine sentiments. Instead of passion enveloping quivering loins in petals of fire, there is a steady sensuous glow that warms the brain...
...varied audience-little old ladies, homosexuals, weirdos." What he got, along with the college crowd, were little old ladies in amber slacks and matching sweaters, younger mothers cradling sleeping infants, sipping coffee and munching Danish, missing not so much as a munch over occasional lines ("Murder me in the gutter with orgasms!") of Ginsbergian raunch...
Orton liked to claim that he grew up in the gutter, but the Saffron Lane Estates, a 1920s-style low-income development in the industrial town of Leicester, were in fact too dreary and anonymous for such a colorful description. His father was a city gardener who had long since given up his manhood; his mother was a tyrant who raged through a house that smelled of grease and damp. Young Joe, the eldest of four, tried acting and found his haven in the fantasy of the theater. At 18, he was admitted to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts...