Word: trashed
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Like a Tornado. The wartime U.S.A. that Dos Passes saw on his trip was unaware of its own achievements. In Port land, Me., the business district looked as if a tornado had struck it. "Everywhere litter and trash, small gimcrack stores, small unswept lunchrooms. . . . There were signs and cigaret ads instead of goods in the shop windows. The shipyard workers lived in half-slums, in trailer camps, in rows of prefabricated dwellings. When the shifts changed, the dense black crowd poured out through the gates, their faces gray and yellowish, their visored caps pulled over their foreheads, their thick clothes...
...Montgomery Ward is no easy man to get along with. He blustered and stormed, made long speeches, evaded questions, interrupted committee members. D-day was field-day for Sewell Lee Avery. He said the War Labor Board "must be destroyed"; it was a mistake to think "that kind of trash can succeed in making a successful country." He was disgusted with WLB's industry members because they followed democratic procedure-when outvoted, they accepted the majority decision. He insisted that his $600-million-a-year business, employing upwards of 60,000 workers, had nothing to do with...
South Pacific (by Howard Rigsby & Dorothy Heyward; produced by David Lowe) is not a good play, but it has the fairly rare Broadway desire to by-pass trash for truth. It tells of a torpedoed Negro seaman (Canada Lee) who lands on a Jap-held South Pacific island. Having been pushed around for years in the U.S., Sam is cynical and rancorous, indifferent to who wins the war, delighted that, because of his dark skin, he can pose as a native. He finds a pretty Negro missionary girl and becomes a contented lotus-eater...
...since the Easter Sunday (1937) murder of Model Veronica Gedeon had Manhattan newsmen had a really good chance to indulge in boob-catching antics like diagrams with X's marking spots. This one looked as if it would back the Gedeon killing on to the trash pile...
When I say "all of us," that is no unpremeditated lapse into an editorial We. . . . A copy of TIME, either size, goes a route here in the Aleutians. . . . Limp and dog-eared, they probably end in some hut's trash, but that happens only after months and after all the maps and stray glamour pix have been scissored for pinups...