Suddenly it occurs to us that this magazine, with this issue, is halfway through its thirty-fifth year, and that it is not too soon to say something about the anniversary occasion that will be represented by its October issue. Normally, you don’t think of a thirty-fifth anniversary as a point at which to spend too much time taking stock.
Amazingly, Esquire is much like the rest of the world, at least in that some of our features are born, some are made, and some are thrust upon us. An introduction to Soul, beginning on page 79, involved some element of each of these. The feature was born last summer, when actor Godfrey Cambridge invited us all to a dinner at a West Side restaurant in celebration of his book, Put-Ons und Put-Downs.
1) Roy Cohn’s memoirs of the Army-McCarthy hearings is an interesting, and in many ways, informative article. It portrays the McCarthy-Cohn position of this national disgrace from Mr. Cohn’s biased point of view. The tenor of the article is more revealing by what Cohn didn’t say than what he did say, e.g., he does not mention the unconscionable treatment of witnesses by McCarthy and Cohn when they appeared before their committee, as highlighted by the shameful interrogation of General Ralph Zwicker, a much decorated hero of World War II, whom McCarthy accused of not being fit to wear his uniform.
Singing, as this department has had occasion to mention before, is a fundamentally athletic activity; and intelligent opera singers by and large live like intelligent athletes. Except for occasional blowouts right after the game, they watch their diets, get enough sleep, do the right exercises.
If you had your choice of any place in the world to visit or vacation or live for a time, where would it be? That question is asked of sophisticated travelers more often than any other—and it’s the one most frequently dodged. Nevertheless we thought it worth one more try, and here are the results.
Ferreting about in contemporary letters, as even so unsystematic and unscholarly a book critic as myself will from time to time, the figure of D.H. Lawrence looms up inescapably. I very much wish it were not so. How often I have closed one of the many outpourings about him with the thought that never, but never, will I so much as open another, come what may! Then another appears on the scene, perhaps by one of those unspeakable women who gathered round him, and I’m at it again; hooked in the same sort of way that one is hooked to appearing on television, reading newspapers, gazing leeherously at young girls in miniskirts, quoting Marshall McLuhan, and otherwise becoming enmeshed in the contemporary scene.
Recent bulletins on today’s youth out of Sweden, California and Lower Zambesiland reveal him to be, among other things, brutal, callow, cynical, trusting, lovable and desperately honest. It is good to know these things about today’s youth in case you ever actually meet him.
The Efficacy of My Late Mother’s Chinese Prescription for Corns
No use to cry over spilt Made-in-U.S.A. corn medicine. Apply green alum
Many modern shoe wearers have once or chronically been victims of corns and patrons of one kind or another of the corngetting-rid medicine, perhaps without avail. I had once been one of the human beings that could be helplessly harassed by that stubborn, tiny thing.
Is there one spot on earth more blessed than any other? Is there balm in Gilead? Mankind worries these questions endlessly, not realizing that the answers must, by their very nature, be relative. One man’s meat, and so forth. Although no answer may be definitive, several may be excellent and here we have assembled them in all their variety.
The one place in the world that we have selected to visit, or spend a vacation, or live in for an extended period is seventeen miles from Anápolis (that’s right—there is only one n) in the state of Goiás in the center of Brazil, 650 miles from Rio de Janeiro and/or Saõ Paulo, seventy miles from the new capital of Brasília.
There is no doubt as to where one should go. It is the Newfane Inn in Newfane, Vermont. My own great misfortune is that I live only six or eight miles away and therefore cannot go there myself. A hundred and twenty-five years or more ago the village of Newfane stood on the top of a high ridge, perhaps two miles from and twelve-hundred feet above the site of the present town.
The first place I’d think of if I were going on a holiday is Barbados, which, in a way, is home to us. My husband and I built a Palladian house there in 1947, and we have spent a great deal of our lives there ever since. Crane Beach is said to be one of the greatest beaches for surfing in the world—the waves come in very evenly, and rather high, but without too much force—and the capital city of Brid get own has a great deal of charm, some historic old churches, and lovely seaside promenades (below).
For most Americans, the war in Vietnam began in earnest with the incident in the Gulf of Tonkin at nine-thirty p.m. on August 4, 1964. Two U.S. destroyers, the Defense Department claims, were attacked by North Vietnamese P.T. boats in the dark of night.
For me, the best time of all in the saloons was the time of Tim Costello, of him and Toots Shor and Jimmy Glennon and Sherman Billingsley and maybe a handful of others—the time of the Forties and the Fifties. It was a time of fun and good talk and heroic drinking, a lovely, lovely time when Toots Shor, annoyed at people who objected to the Second World War midnight curfew on the sale of liquor, announced, “Any crum bum who can’t get stiff by twelve ain’t tryin’,” a time when antic Nicky Quattrociocchi made every visitor to the men’s room in his El Borracho a hero by virtue of the magnifying glass over the urinals.
<p>Soul is sass, man. Soul is arrogance. Soul is walkin’ down the street in a way that says, “This is me, muh-fuh!” Soul is that nigger whore coinin’ along...ja...ja...ja, and walkin’ like she’s sayin’, “Here it is, baby. Come an’ git it.” Soul is bein’ true to yourself, to what is you.</p>
It is stomping and clapping with the gospel music of the First Tabernacle of Deliverance (Spiritual), American Orthodox Catholic Church on Harlem ’s One Hundred Twenty-fifth Street, and boogalooing the Funky Broadway to the Memphis gospel soul blues of Otis Redding while walking down the street.
At Forty-third Street and Langley Avenue, on Chicago’s South Side, amid the many storefront churches and dilapidated tenements, stands a soulful monument to African-American folk heroes past and present. Last summer, Billy Abernathy, his wife, and at least a score of other artists and draftsmen within the black community formed the Organization of Black American Culture (O.B.A.C.) and got the building's owner, who happens to be black, to consent to the creation of the revolutionary and historical hand-painted mural.
There’s a little piece of real estate in Harlem called Harlem Square, and on and about its four corners the curious, the intellectual and the political meet and exchange ideas. The center of activity there is one of Harlem’s landmarks, Michaux’s National Memorial African Bookstore.
THE STYLE OF SOUL is about nurturing creativity, being aesthetic in thought and action as much as possible. It permeates one’s entire existence. In Harlem, as in all of America’s urban black communities, the style is seen in the way a soul brother selects and wears his vines (suit, coat, tie, shirt, etc.).
Perhaps the most soulful word in the world is “nigger." Despite its very definite fundamental meaning (the Negro man), and disregarding the deprecatory connotation of the term, “nigger” has a multiplicity of nuances when used by soul people.
As a life-style, soul has no color. The only rule is that a soulful person must be at harmony with himself and that everything he does must be an honest form of self-expression. Sound simple? Try it. In the meantime, read below and see which of our better-known brothers and sisters have soul.
Yes, now you know what they are—pipe tampers. But six or seven years ago some antique dealers along Third Avenue weren't so sure; they were easily confused with seals and were relatively inexpensive. But the word got out that some nut was collecting them like mad and the price suddenly went up.
Actually, it’s neither dirty nor a secret. It is little, however
A number of years ago (in July, 1963, but it seems many light-years away) this magazine published a two-page chart purporting to show nothing less than “The Structure of the American Literary Establishment.” There followed a number of other “establishment charts” designed to show how the power operated and where it was held in such other areas as baseball and the civil-rights movement.
He answered the bedside phone without a stitch on, still dripping azurely from the tub, leaving splayed, vaguely blue footprints as far as he could from each other. It was the hotel valet. “I’ve got your suits ready, Mr. Forester.” He didn’t recognize the name.
<p>To hear Dean Rusk explain it, we’d be in the same fix in Vietnam today no matter who was Secretary of State—or, for that matter, who was President. Foreign policy, he argues, comes out of the “big enduring things” about the country and doesn’t respond to the whimsy of one individual or another, even if he happens to be nominally in charge.</p>
<p>“Pro golf isn’t a sport. It’s show business.” These words were spoken by a former band singer named James Newton Demaret in 1938, the year he had the audacity to appear on the tournament circuit wearing candy-striped polo shirts when everybody else was wearing French cuffs and neckties.</p>
How to Break Your Five-iron in An Entertainin Fashion
A star must control his temper, a star must control his temper, a star must control his temper, a star must control his temper,
It has been said that no one can play championship golf without a temper. There is the imperative auxiliary provision that it be kept under control, however, and the whole saga of championship golf is spotted with tales of so-so players who reached championship caliber only after they had learned to make their considerable tempers work for them.
Which is why, fans, your heart belongs to Arnie instead of to the greatest golfer of our time
<p>When I returned last fall from Mexico City and the World Cup Matches, during which I researched some of this piece, I ran into a friend whose secondhand knowledge of golf includes practically every match played on television. “Where’ve you been?” he asked.</p>
Six bright young extras waiting in the wings for Palmer to break a leg
The most uninteresting scene in tournament golf belongs to women amateurs. Even in national competition they don’t draw enough spectators to fill a movie theatre, and they get little more space in the sports pages than ping-pong players.
Of the styling and restyling of slacks, it would seem there is never any end—from the ideas afforded Mod dress by the American cowboy’s buttocky blue jeans to the campy experiments inspired by the remembrance of the bell-bottom trousers worn by every alleged college boy who ever did the Charleston with Joan Crawford in an old M-G-M movie.
They're nasty, brutish and short. When their “I" offends you, pluck it out
Betrayal is an act of vengeance, obviously. But in an age of betrayal, when men of authority traduce their office and violate the trust placed in their hands, betrayal becomes the official morality. “Official morality” shortly becomes “public immorality”; whereupon the fabric of a society rots before one’s eyes.
The low point of the degrading process has been reached by an article in Esquire, which is announced on the cover by a huge photograph of Svetlana painted with Stalin’s moustache like a befouled poster in the subway and which, under an acrid pretense of exposing everybody and everything, provides interminable columns of the irrelevant elaboration of a Manchester, some-times punctuated by snide exclamations.
The ex-heavyweight champion of the world fools around in Chicago these days, more or less in exile, because he won’t go. He isn’t kidding
<p>It was Chicago, September, 1962, the week of the first Floyd Patterson-Sonny Liston heavyweight championship fight. The nature of the match, evil (Liston) vs. good (Patterson), had attracted an impressive delegation of the nation’s literati, among them Norman Mailer and James Baldwin.</p>
Into the valley of the dolls ride the two hundred million
I am very interested in pills that don’t contain barbiturates or amphetamine. At night I take two Doriden tablets, and a 100-milligram Mellaril—and I have no deleterious effect from them. Pills are dangerous, but sometimes danger must be accepted.
Rainwear has undergone great changes since late in the eighteenth century, when the founder of Peal’s, the nowdefunct bespoke London bootmaker, produced a meanfe of waterproofing rubber. Where once it was so heavy that there were those who claimed it caused death by oxygen starvation of the skin, now it is lightweight, more easily cleaned, and, season by season, far more colorful.
It is all there in that scene in Goldfinger in which James Bond and Goldfinger play a game of golf. In those few swift strokes is the whole story of how conspicuously men’s golf clothes have changed over the years—on the one hand, Goldfinger, so formal, so somber and stuffy, in his plus fours (and so absurd with Oddjob caddying for him in morning clothes and a steel derby), and, on the other hand, Bond, so colorful and casual in trim slacks, as cool as cool can ever be.
Among great golfers in our time, only the South African, Gary Player, is conspicuous for the severity of his attire. Dressed all in black, he is like a Paladin of the links. For in these colorful days, the greens are ablaze with the brilliant plumage of the players— and what is so odd, incidentally, is that by and large the male of the species is more flamboyant than the female, his tastes running to vivid blues, flaming greens, chrome yellows, at times even in his shoes.
More often than not, what golfers wear as they sip their drinks on the countryclub terrace after a game is as carefully considered as their garb on the greens. Usually, it reflects the prevailing trends. The two jackets shown here, for instance, could not be more au courant.
SECOND ANNUAL INVENTORY CLEARANCE Each year we buy too many girl pictures. Each year our accountant says, For God’s sake, use them up. Once again, our loss is your gain. This time, by golly, he'd better get it right—the hairstyle, the makeup, the image.