Word: jackets
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Lights are burning late at No. 15963 Valleywood Road in Sherman Oaks, Calif. From the study, overlooking a kidney-shaped swimming pool, comes the whir of a movie projector. Hunched over the L-shaped desk, his size-50 jacket slung carelessly on the floor, a bespectacled bear of a man scribbles furiously on a note pad. It is some time between midnight and 4 a.m., the hours that James Thompson Prothro Jr. calls his "thinking hours." It could be chess that Tommy Prothro is thinking about: he is a tournament champion. Or bridge: he collects master points. Or business...
...voices that might be coming from the far side of the grave. "You are about to begin a great adventure, a trip out of your mind," Leary promises. What the listener is really about to begin is a dull record, with little to recommend it beyond a beautifully executed jacket drawing...
...minutes between the assassination at 12:30 and the first report of Officer Tippit's slaying, Oswald is supposed to have dashed down six flights, slipped out of the building, walked seven blocks, boarded a bus, got off, found a taxicab, returned to his rooming house, donned a jacket, then turned up nearly a mile away and killed Tippit...
...rate, an uncharacteristic portrayal, for it is Vermeer's pensive, passive women that viewers have always found most memorable. None has caused more speculation than the portrait of a girl in a lemon yellow jacket and porcelain blue turban-Vermeer's favorite colors-with the inimitable pearl at her ear (opposite). Shy, sad, ingenuous yet intelligent, imbued with an air of mystery that has brought comparisons with the Mona Lisa and of devotion that matches a Bellini Madonna, she elicited Vermeer's greatest powers of portrayal-and through all the years kept the secret of her identity...
...Wild Angels. Across the flats of southern California hustles a big mean hog. Ape bars, twin exhausts, chrome on everything except the rubber, this Harley is doing a ton and still hot to trot. At the stomper sits Heavenly Blues (Peter Fonda), a cool fool dragging a black leather jacket, bronk boots, hair as long as a girl's, and a German Iron Cross. With his free hand, H.B. picks his nose and then thoughtfully scratches his crotch. On the stingy seat, wearing a grab-me sweater, sits his sheep (Nancy Sinatra). Behind them 20 other double-straddled sickles...