The pressure of more topical subjects has preempted this page ever since our cruise article appeared in the November, 1967, issue, and would have done so again this month, but for the fact that this issue’s deadline is too early for inclusion of a report on our seminar, Salvaging the Twentieth Century.
Our whole family loved the picture on page 106 (We Read The News Today Oh Boy) of the June issue, but wonder why you omitted two of the most interesting visitors to show their faces in Vietnam—Robert Mitchum, who needs no introduction, and Mrs. Adèle (William Henry) Sullivan Jr. who was, until April ’68, President General of the Daughters of the American Revolution.
We must confess that while we were planning the millionaire’s trip through the Pacific-Orient which you’ll find on page 70, we had no particular millionaire in mind. It would have helped immeasurably if we had. But somebody who would want to invade an active volcano in a fire suit, prowl the depths of the sea in a diver’s outfit, rent a maharaja’s Bentley, charter a Fijian yacht and a Tahitian airplane, race his own car in Japan, and then wind up the whole junket with a Japanese face-lift could well be crowned the Shah of Serendipity.
Evelyn Lear is a lady from Brooklyn about to be forty (“I can’t lie about my age,” she said wistfully a year ago; “I’ve got a son who’s twenty”), who probably has the best figure of anyone that age not in the physical-fitness racket. This would be a matter of special interest only to Thomas Stewart, her baritone husband, except that Miss Lear’s great part in the world’s opera houses is the title role in Alban Berg’s Lulu, who must be irresistible to at least two sexes despite a temperament which would congeal helium.
For a veritable sirocco of hot air, a Hindenburg of deadly gases, ask a critic his theory of Comedy. Every critic has one, if you tickle him long enough, and it usually sounds like something that might go double for Everett Dirksen. We all believe in Comedy, true Comedy that is, the comedy of Keaton and Fields (which was distinguished by...insert pet theory); we lament the passing of true Comedy, swear allegiance to the true Comic spirit and shake our woolly pates over its decline.
Just as truth these days is beginning to look more and more like fiction, so the means that writers and artists and scientists (and politicians) use to give us the truth are changing shape. Simply, there are a lot more new things to say than there are old ways to say them.
People today find it as difficult to write objectively about politics as they do about sex. In both fields they are either too involved or too full of furious indignation (Swift’s saeva indignatio) to take a detached view. Thus, in all the vast contemporary outpouring of words about sex, one looks in vain for anything as urbane as Les Liaisons Dangereuses.
Military Personnel Will Not Participate in Any Activity Having To Do With Creating a Union for Enlisted Men
<p>Right now—not as I write, but as you read—sixty percent of the basic trainees in the United States Army are college graduates, as opposed to five percent just a few months ago. Of course, I am writing in mid-May, so what I assert so unequivocally is actually a guess, based on projections first made public in March.</p>
MANTLE: Outside of Joe DiMaggio, Willie Mays is the greatest all-around baseball player of my time. Certainly he’s been the most daring. Mays would steal home, a tough play and one in which you’ve got a great chance to look bad. Willie didn’t even think of that, he’d just go.
<p>Nobody is born with a perfect body, nobody has a perfect body thrust upon them, some have achieved perfect bodies. Well, perhaps not some—maybe just one, the girl you see here. An actress named Raquel Welch, of whom you may have heard. The point is that she worked to become what she is and worked hard.</p>
Flash!... WWinchell Is a Reluctant Anachronism... (Ohmigahd!)
Izzatso? Waitaminit!..Maybe it izzint zzo zzimple...Whyzzat?
<p>Good evening, mister and missus America and all the ships at sea . . . let’s go to press. Flash! What charter member of the gossipstocracy, famous for many a scandilly, is still alive and on Broadway? . . . Walter Winched??!! . . . Ukidinme? . . . Flash. . . .</p>
Perhaps it's about you, sitting there, reading this magazine....
<p>Under a dim moon and dim stars I walked down to a clearing over the sea where I had made love to a girl some night before. She could not have known that her romantic middle-aged lover was actually a stranded pederast who had experienced considerable strain in fulfilling his male role.</p>
You remember, of course, how well Prohibition worked
It was certainly not the right day to be asking George Gaffney what he thought of Leslie Fiedler’s teaching ability. “I don’t give a damn,” Gaffney said, rising from his chair. “It’s what he says and does after class, his social relationships.
Smiles come easily; never trust them. Far more difficult it is to cry well, and much more revealing. The self-indulgent only slobber; the courageous truly weep: and therein lies the test of a man’s character. So never say you can’t stand to see a man in tears.
It is common knowledge that the hippies are dead, and have been replaced by the Yippies who are almost dead. However, only a few know of the movement soon to replace even these. In the dim corners of Manhattan’s Lower East Side, in a small colony in suburban Mount Kisco, and in scattered pockets on the West Coast, a new underground is beginning to take shape.
<p>There is a map of Vietnam on the wall of my apartment in Saigon, and some nights, coming back late to the city, I’ll lie out on my bed and look at it, too tired to do anything more than just get my boots off. The map is a marvel, especially absorbing because it is not real.</p>
Knowing the true opulence of the Orient or enjoying a really outstanding South Pacific adventure calls for money, contacts, patience and imagination. Your travel agent won’t be of much help after he’s gotten you there; from then on you’re pretty much on your own.
Until Joey Bishop, Merv Griffin and Johnny Carson Do Us Part
I live in a single room. The bathroom is down the hall. I'm not alone....
January 22: So far this year, have written three letters to Editor, New York Times, on downright rudeness of subway guards, fecal excesses of dogs in our society, and need for stricter guidelines on young people. None have been published. Intend to write to Editor, New York Times, about this.
Gerald L. K. Smith has labored all his life to keep America pure, and which of us has even tried to thank him?
John Fergus Ryan
<p>Looming up seven stories high from the top of Magnetic Mountain at Eureka Springs, Arkansas, is The Christ of the Ozarks. It is the biggest, whitest, I’m gonna get’cha-est statue of Jesus north of Rio de Janeiro, and it’s all in mortar. The eyes positively do not move! assures a souvenir booklet sold in the town.</p>
The fifth that shows is sleek and glossy; God knows what the rest of him is like
<p>The Caprice is a fashionable, expensive London restaurant whose employees are accustomed to celebrities, but when Laurence Harvey came in the door there was a flutter among the staff and the headwaiter rushed over to escort him to the table where a press agent and I had sat waiting for forty minutes—Harvey is never on time—and we were soon surrounded by other waiters, all uttering respectful little coos of welcome, acknowledged by the star with an exquisitely mandarin graciousness.</p>
Sometimes it is very difficult to know just what God has in mind
<p>The old man is still alive, living in the same apartment on Jaffa Road in Jerusalem. He’s very old by now, in his late eighties, blinded by a cataract in his left eye, but when I saw him last, about a week after the liberation of the Old City, he was on his way, alone, to pray at the Wall.</p>
<p>“Nigger territory, eh?” He was a cab-driver, speculative; eyed the pistol incongruous beside him on the seat, this quiet spring night; studied me, my two small bags, my raincoat. The downtown streets were empty, but spectrally alive. Every light in every store was on (the better to silhouette looters).</p>
Thus, George Bryan Brummell—the Beau himself—when asked by the Prince of Wales for his opinion of the new coat that encased the Regent’s fat form. And thus, too, Esquire of all the abominations that, with misguided men, pass for attractive dress in a time that is generally characterized by a reawakening of the sense of style that pertained when Brummell was arbiter elegantiarum.
No obvious effort to improve one’s appearance, especially a man’s, is ever much good. It isn’t that there should be no such effort, but that it must never be noticeable—it should be an undetectable part of an enhanced whole, not something like Jack Paar’s hairpiece or Sammy Davis’jackets.
Your last chance to get with it. A 16-page underground newspaper plugs you into the war thing, the guerrilla thing, the Tiny Tim-Michael J. Pollard thing, all of which you fail, now, to understand. Fail no more. HOW TO RETIRE AT FORTY Looking forward to it?
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