IN New Orleans where, with the possible exception of San Francisco, people are more knowledgeable in the arts of living than anywhere else in America, they say of coffee that it should be all three of these several things: black as midnight, hot as hell, and sweet as a woman.
As we go to press, Sugar Ray has done the incredible and annihilated Bobo. Not too long ago we saw Sugar fight Randy Turpin, and while he did a fair job on that rugged gent, it looked as though Sugar had thrown his last big knockout punch. We certainly are happy to note that we were wrong.
Musicology game I was surprised and delighted by Aldous Huxley’s stimulating treatment of the mates and madrigals of Gesualdo, Prince of Venosa —but then the scope of Mr. Huxley’s knowledge has always amazed me. Variations on a Musical Theme (January, 1956) was both lucid and scholarly, which is nigh onto impossible in the musicology game.
BET you don't know who redesigned the Brooks' pink shirt for women. None other than our favorite critic of café society and the intellijazzia, George Frazier, the man whose virtuosity with the familiar essay moved Variety to review his record-jacket prose rather than Miss Lee Wiley’s songs inside, and that’s going some.
France via personal tour: a guide to the places, potables, and the good life
WINDING up Bordeaux: Pastoral Pleasures, which you'll find on page 94, we routed you back on the road to Paris in case your vacation time should run out and you have to head for home. But if you’re fortunate enough to have more time available for your trip through France, you’re right on the edge of some more fascinating countryside.
IF you’ve ever watched a man attempt to get into a Porsche while wearing an opera hat, it will be obvious to you why these low-crowned evening models are being worn on the Continent with great dash, and a good deal of gratitude besides. Small, low-slung cars are responsible for any number of modifications in a man’s sports wardrobe— breeks, short topcoats, kangaroo pockets—and, for racing about the country-side in a convertible, there is a new concealed-visor type of beret that won’t blow off.
Good advice only seems harmless because no one would dream of taking it
Two years away from New York had made a difference. To me and to New York. I don’t know whether New York recognized me when I came back. I certainly did not recognize New York—if that matters. For one thing: New York had grown and I hadn’t. To be specific, the house in which I had lived had shot up like a weed.
I'VE been with Wharfedale since 1932. Oh, no, there wasn't any Wharfedale before that; I founded it, you see. No, I’d never done any engineering until then, I’d been a textile merchant —a rag merchant, as we used to call ourselves—but sound was my hobby.
CAN a man be honest, upright and true and still have nine Valentines? We hope so, because that’s our predicament. But before branding us fickle or potentially polygamous, please hear us out. RCA Victor—the rapid-firing cupid of this whole affair—has just released the first albums in their Meet The Girls series.
THE island of Martha's Vineyard—still the haunt of storied whalers and Indians—is a haven of some 6000 people in the winter, when it rests quietly from the summer invasion of 40,000 off-islanders. It is famous for its newspaper —the Vineyard Gazette, which considers the chirp of a spring birdling quite as important as the yawp of a Khrushchev—for its utterly charming six towns, and for its hospitality.
WHILE Italian Dolomite crews were testing jumping grounds and bobsled runs, checking out the half-dozen chair lifts, smoothing down the five big skating rinks and tuning up three new cable cars, London haberdashers were equally busy, in their own way, getting ready for the Winter Olympics in Cortina d’Ampezzo.
Peering out at our Golden Age from inside a scientific crystal ball
BETWEEN 1800 and 1900 the doctrine of Pie in the Sky gave place, in a majority of Western minds, to the doctrine of Pie on the Earth. The motivating and compensatory Future came to be regarded, not as a state of disembodied happiness, to be enjoyed by me and my friends after death, but as a condition of terrestrial well-being for my children or (if that seemed a bit too optimistic) my grandchildren, or maybe my great-grandchildren.
Saint Joan as an undernourished little girl: the mystery is unassailed by inquiry
GEORGE JEAN NATHAN
IT is a rare playwright who at one or another time in his career isn't tempted to write a play about Christ, Napoleon or Joan of Arc, or possibly Judas or Don Juan. The latest to succumb to the Joan temptation is Jean Anouilh. His succumbing is called The Lark, which has been translated beautifully from the French for English audiences by Christopher Fry and less beautifully but acceptably enough by Lillian Heilman for American.
Bucketing off for Jupiter, ball parks, magic circles, honeymoon horrors
MAY we chat a little about space affairs? You know where I stand about going there, of course ... to the moon and places, I mean. I'm not. Not even if I’m asked. I’ve written about that. But now this satellite the size of a football or a basketball—I didn’t quite get the hang of which ball—is to be launched into space filled with machinery to send back tattletales on how things are in the cosmos.
<p>The girl wore a zebra-striped silk Bikini bathing suit and her hair, lips, fingernails and toenails were an identical shade of brilliant light orange. On any beach she would have stopped traffic, but here, in the crowded hotel casino, no one gave a second glance to the flaming hair, the elegantly chiseled navel, the tender, nacreous thighs. </p>
IT was about noon when I came out of the theatre and heard her say, "Joe." She said it quietly, not the way she would have said it in the past, in a semi-scream. I turned and said, “Well, Erie. Hello, hello.” She looked bad. Very tired and very subdued.
<p>IF you are currently "in the know," your big evenings wind up in the chic little coffeehouses springing up all over America. "How about a nightcap?” has become “How about one for the road at the coffeehouse?” New Yorkers flock to the little Espresso rendezvous in Greenwich Village after an “off-Broadway” evening in the theatre.</p>
Give a rock thrower ammunition and he'll change his target
SWEETBIRD is in the garden wearin' a straw hat. He is hoein' beans with a long-handle gooseneck hoe. I look over the garden palin's and watch him cut the crab grass. Sweetbird is as tall and thin as a hay pole, and has only one good eye. His arms are long and danglin’ and his feet are large as small guitars.
LARRY DERBY spread a leopard-skin cloth over the living-room couch he had bought, cash and carry, for a prop. Under the leopard skin, the couch was a sagging overstuffed affair covered in frayed blue velvet. It was the garbage of another decade.
THERE is international agreement this spring on the cut of the well-dressed man. It's no news that the world is growing smaller every year, but it is news that men’s fashions are moving more rapidly than ever before and that in your next suit you will be wearing—and without any conspicuousness—touches from London, from Paris, from Rome, and many another distant port of recall.
The beautiful and the K.O.'d: which side of Paradise?
<p>ALTHOUGH his cauliflower face and buttonhole slits of eyes give him somewhat the look of a retired prize fighter who did not always remember to duck, John Perona, a former bus boy who owns and operates the New York night club called El Morocco, would doubtless be aghast at the thought that there is any resemblance whatsoever between his plush little play pen and the cavernous, arnica-steeped auditorium known as Madison Square Garden.</p>
<p>When photographer Desmond Russell was faced with the perplexing and pleasant problem of picturing his young model, he found himself unable to stray from her beauty into the matter of props. At such times the photographer often seeks out dunes, castellated ruins, tree trunks, babbling brooks, exotic furniture, animals, and other varied stuff, all calculated to lend something elegant to a creature who is already well blessed by nature.</p>
I could take their watching, their gaping at me like Romans gaping at the soon-to-be-slaughtered Christian, if only she would shut up. That voice of hers grinds my teeth like a soda-bottle cap scraped along the gutter by some juvenile delinquent....
IT had been a tough day and a long one; the few trout taken had been hard earned. The time had come for any sensible angler to quit, and I said as much from the bank. There was silence for a moment and then came an answer from the burly figure in midstream: “Just one more cast.”
What's a bird to do when he can't sing and likes French toast?
I WISH I were a bird," Mr. Flottle said. He had just come home from a hard day at the office where he kept books for a quite nasty boss. When Mr. Flottle had arrived home he had expected to put on his slippers, fill his pipe and relax. But his wife had made him run several errands which she could have just as well done herself, since, while he was out, she had been telephoning friends and gossiping.
IF a thoughtful, imaginative man were to sit and ponder for twenty-two years, which is the amount of time Lew Tendler's restaurant has been in existence, it is highly doubtful that he could come up with a more unsuitable location for Lew Tendler’s restaurant than Philadelphia.
IN Baltimore's multimillion-dollar, neon-lighted jungle of sex, known as "The Block," they still talk of the Midwest housewife whose husband took her to one of the night clubs which offers entertaining women who strip nude. Some two hundred male customers were in the smoke-filled, dimly lighted club.
There may be rougher spots to earn a living, but this will do for now
JOHN N. COLE
DURING the Winter of 1950 a commercial boat fought a lonely fight for life in the rough waters below the Montauk lighthouse. A freezing gale blew from the northwest and the decks of the dragger were awash as she labored in heavy seas. On board, the crew of the Robert E. manned all available pumps in an effort to keep their craft afloat.
Whether singing Mimi or the latest Rock ’n Roll, or dressed more fashionably than almost any of his contemporaries—as he is here—Maurice Chevalier is inextinguishably cosmopolitan, Gallic and himself, all at once. This incredible and charming man.
MY French friend looked sadly into his glass of Cinzano à l'eau, and threw his hands and shoulders into the quick shrug the French use for registering everything from their dismay at the downfall of a premier to their joy at the arrival of a first grandchild.
IN this country where almost half the male population wears glasses, fashion has finally come to roost on the bridge of your nose. To wear one pair for all occasions is not only false economy (when they break you exit from the reading public until your optician or optometrist saves you), but it is also inappropriate today to make one pair stretch among evening, business, sports and casual occasions.
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