We won’t wait for you to tell us that there are three Kennedyangled features in this one issue, nor that this is the third straight month that there has been something about the Kennedys on the front cover. We’d rather record our awareness of that fact here and now than have you feel obliged to call it to our attention.
More things belong to marriage than four bare legs in a bed,” said John Heywood, which is not the way Walter Winchell would put it. The observation, nonetheless, describes as unexpected but successful a union as Esquire has up till now arranged.
It appears from your Kennedy cover (April), that you have not only gone into the business of revising history, but that you have twice single-handedly amended the U.S. Constitution, with the 26th Amendment to go into effect not later than 1972, and the 27th not later than 1988.
<p>I ought to warn that I am one of the barbarians—I love rock and roll. Secular music, hell. I have been proselytized by Chuck Berry and Alan Freed, tempted by The Weavers and Thelonious Monk, regenerated by Phil Spector and the Shirelles, and transfigured by the Beatles and Dionne Warwick.</p>
By now you have read the disinterested version. Here, from documents, memoranda and first-person accounts, is what happened to the disinterested observer who sought the truth of one of the lesser, but most compelling, follies of our time
<p> Corry. John Corry. A name easily remembered, easily forgotten. It seemed suited to the man. Outwardly bland but pleasant, Corry was of average height and build, with hazel eyes and light-brown hair, neat but not fastidious. At thirty-four he was happily married and securely employed, the father of two little girls. If he did not inspire confidence, he did not discourage it. He was entirely reliable, his rebellion seeming no more than a quiet wish for something better. </p>
<p>Scatter your concentration for a minute and stop trying to follow the plot. In no time you find yourself in an underwater kingdom of custom and fetish. The Swedes—to start with an easy one—live on beaches all year round, where they romp glumly to-and-fro, in heavy sweaters and birthday suits, wondering what it’s all about.</p>
<p>A city is known by the columnists it keeps, and San Francisco keeps one of the most fervently read in Herb Caen, who has been carrying on his municipal love affairs in the public prints of the Chronicle, Examiner and back to the Chronicle again for the past thirty years.</p>
ROME: Every so often a critic gets an opportunity to take notice of an artist nobody has heard of at all, and it is the most satisfying activity in the trade. Everything is right about it: you glow with a feeling of generosity while writing, and you build a reputation for sagacity because people remember only the times you were right.
MALCOLM MUGGERIDGE Bertrand Russell’s Autobiography (Little, Brown, $7.95) was written some seventeen years ago with the idea of posthumous publication. Finding himself, however, in his nineties, with most of those he writes about already dead, and public mores regarding sexual promiscuity a good deal laxer, or (to use the cant word) more “permissive,” he decided to have it published in his lifetime.
How Does a Little Bug Survive in the Automotive Jungle?
Inconspicuously. It's rarely observed around gas stations. Because it doesn't often need gas (it gets around 27 miles to a gallon). It doesn't often need tires (it gets around 40,000 miles to a set). And it never goes near the water (its engine is cooled by air instead of water, which means it doesn't need anti-freeze either).
<p>I confess that from August, 1956, to June, 1957, I was on the payroll of the C.I.A., unwittingly and, as they used to say in the National Students Association, unwittily. Nevertheless, it is a fact that the C.I.A. paid some and perhaps all of my salary as a special advisory editor of Encounter, an Anglo-American co-production published in London and then financed by another international co-production, the Congress for Cultural Freedom, whose headquarters were in Paris and which used grants from what seemed to be private American foundations to support a number of intellectual journals like Encounter in France, Italy, India, Mexico and other foreign countries and also to underwrite international conferences, congresses and festivals of scholars, artists, musicians, writers and other producers of Culture.</p>
By now you have heard the official version; and even William Manchester, in Look, has had his say. Here, from documents, memoranda and calculated news leaks, a disinterested observer seeks the truth of one of the lesser, but most compelling follies of our time
It had all begun for William Manchester at precisely nine-twenty on the morning of February 5, 1964, when the phone rang in his office on the second floor of the Wesleyan University library in Middletown, Connecticut. He was out and his secretary noted only that a Mr. Salinger had called and that he would call again.
“The business of America is business,” said Calvin Coolidge, and he was right. Any Republican congressman will tell you that an enterprise not run on sound business practices cannot long endure, be it the government of the United States or the kid with the lemonade stand on the corner.
<p>Great men die twice,” Paul Valéry said, “once as men and once as great.” Their second death, in the public mind, may be no more than a forgetting, but in other cases it becomes a noisy spectacle that makes one think of a very old tree assaulted by a band of savages.</p>
When the Portland, of Charles Street, Berkeley Square, London, was founded in 1816, the first entry in its records was to the effect that the furniture had been moved in that day. The next entry was the purchase of six dozen packs of playing cards.
<p>Dear Henry: Forgive the melodrama involved in mailing this to you to be received when, I presume, you will have already heard. I have never quite trusted the police in their handling of “notes,” certainly not as to any sensitivity to privacy which would prevent their opening letters addressed to another, and surely not as to their discretion in imparting portions to the press, and not even as to their reliability in ultimately delivering the letter to the addressee.</p>
Some things are in the hands of the gods; some things a man can steer himself
<p>The two P.R. men (Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee on the telephone, Dum talking while Dee catches his breath and vice versa, myself supine on the hotel bed, the phone at my ear, digging their act) had set things up. McQueen expected me, the address was blah blah blah, and I was not to ask questions about his childhood.</p>
that the orange-glo raincoat by Emmanuelle Khanh for Cerruti is going to make all the difference between night and day. A sure hit for international fashions, the coat has been waterproofed with a synthetic fluorescent coating and is fully lined in black silk.
Confinement to steam-heated apartments, poodle parlors and fancy blue-ribbon shows has led to the degradation of the democratic dog. Arf
One day last January I was walking on the Appalachian Trail, along the northernmost extremity of the Blue Ridge, from an old iron furnace at Pine Grove, Pennsylvania, to a state highway twelve miles east, where I expected to get a ride at five that afternoon. With me was a big red dog, a collie-shepherd cross, Dain (aptly surnamed Ironfoot after the Tolkien dwarf).
Six places you might miss unless you know better, plus six places you will miss until you’re better known
While the continental population tilt changes the face of the West, San Francisco remains inviolate, a hardcore of immutability within the shell of a tourist town. About three million visitors a year pluck its heart from its sleeve, but it keeps its soul strictly to itself.
Having, on the one hand, achieved the day of commencement, or on the other, come through an additional year of being a father, a man requires recompense and celebration. Here are suitable tokens for that purpose.
Henry ... Robinson ... Luce. ... He bought the farm not in his pad but in a hospital, before he could ever know the surge of his great magazines driving him upward into the Presidency. But put him high on the list of men who really count, a man with the square and almost sissy names of Henry and Robinson and Luce who had the presumption to believe the earth was mostly a marvelous platform for him to stand on and speak to the world.
<p>Like a stork or a flamingo, Bill Alexander has a rather crowded way of walking. He collects himself, with winced shoulders, moving forward but leaning back, picking his way, on guard. But a creased and pitted face belies his body’s diffidence:</p>
We looked high and low for the right birthday present for you, and holy hawg jowl, sir, we think we’ve got exactly the thing
You were only icy about the portrait Peter Hurd painted of you (upper left). We couldn’t agree more. What you really admire is the one by Norman Rockwell (upper right). We couldn’t agree with you more. There’s only one Rockwell, though, so what with your birthday coming up (August 27) we asked a friend of ours, Paul Davis, to search through his world-famous collection of best-loved masterpieces on the chance he’d find another kind of painting, like, that might suit.
Island hopping on the windjammer Yankee Clipper earlier this year, the crew at right carried with them wardrobes suitable for various occasions, shown on these and the next five pages. Here, clothes for on deck. At left: Mighty Mac’s navy poncho with chest pockets, flapped and buttoned with silver-finish anchor buttons.
Definitely for the young man in good physical shape. Knit trunks are as form-defining as they could possibly be, and only a trim swimmer can afford to wear them. On the opposite page, three such suits. Far left,a mid-thigh-length orange-and-yellow-pinstripe suit inspired by John L. Sullivan’s boxing trunks; made of acetate, cotton and rubber by Robert Bruce, $6.
The trend toward sandals grows. The sandal at the left has transparent plastic straps across the front, instep and around the back. It is fastened with a metal buckle. The strap over the instep is attached to an elastic band for easy movement.
Spurred on by the popularity of sweaters, rib knits have moved into swimwear. Two examples at the right are photographed on the beach at Guadeloupe. The tank top is in a rich olive green ($9) and the hip-hugger is a bright orange ($5). Both, by Jantzen, are of stretch nylon.
As predicted in Esquire last January, prints are bigger, bolder, brighter and more abundant than any time since the Truman days. Three prime examples of native-inspired prints for shirts are shown above. At left : Paisley squares, hexagons, and octagons on a button-down cotton shirt; by Manhattan, for $6.
As go the shirts on the opposite page, so go the slacks to the left: bright, bold, colorful and crazy. Far left: the girl wears jean-style slacks in jungle-print cotton hopsack by Contact, $9. The man behind her wears a bright-yellow crepe shirt and yellow-blue-navy-and-green Aztec-print cotton slacks, also by Contact, $11.
Stepping off the Yankee Clipper for a formal evening at the Casino of the Marmora Beach Hotel on Antigua, the two gentlemen wear up-to-date dinner jackets. The double-breasted jacket at far left has “minimum overlap” and is made in a linen-weave blend of Fortrel and rayon.
New York, with a number of great steak houses, has still another fine one in Kippy’s, which opened late in March at 240 West Fifty-second Street. Like many of the others, it takes its name from its owner, Joe Kipness, who also is co-owner of the Hawaii Kai restaurant just a few blocks away and a sometime—and no doubt again— Broadway producer.