We are aware, whether anybody else remembers or not, that last month we said in this space that this month we would devote it to a report on the seminar, Salvaging the Twentieth Century, held at The Plaza in New York on June 11, but here we are, again or yet, with another deadline for this page staring us in the face, and still tongue-tied on that subject because no transcript of the proceedings is at hand.
Whoever conceived that dumb July cover should be iced, then sliced. To play journalistic games with such a volatile matter connotes an evil, sick and believably—if covert—racist mind. If that weren’t enough, the jivey, polluted questions asked of Mr. Baldwin really en-puked me.
Could it be that you're tired of the tourist traps? Is it possible that you’re bored by Westminster Abbey, the Champs-Elysées, the Colosseum? Then try the following on for size. They’re all fairly easy to get to, every one of them has comfortable places to stay, and none has yet been discovered by the tourist mob.
<p>The Sexual Freedom League was born in 1964 in New York, moved to California, where the Blue Unicorn, a San Francisco coffee house, was a frequent meeting place, and died into a middle-class swingers group in April, 1967, in a coup perpetrated by the middle-aged owner of a bookstore.</p>
Even a generation ago one had barely heard of Søren Kierkegaard as a crazy Dane whose prolific writings (not available in English) contained strange flashes of insight. Now his fame is very great; translators, commentators and biographers have gone to work and nearly everything he wrote, including the massive journals, is accessible in all European languages.
With George Allen, no nasty scenes. If a player won’t work hard, trade him
George Frazier IV
The art of being a successful football coach would seem to owe more to the axiom that nice guys finish last than to the theory that contented cows give better milk. George Allen, however, is apparently unaware of this. Last year, in his second season as head coach of the Los Angeles Rams of the National Football League, Allen, notwithstanding a kindliness uncommon in his calling, somehow produced a team with the best regular-season record in pro football.
Rah-rah-sisss-boom-bam! $462,707,000 From Uncle Sam
War research at the universities is big business. Germ warfare, psy warfare, rifle techniques, rocketry. Fight, team, fight!
Today’s college student isn’t leaving school behind when he gets drafted after graduation. His campus professors and researchers will be with him from the time he learns to shoot at Fort Dix until he is debriefed after his tour of duty in Southeast Asia.
<p>Sometimes, knowing him can be very sad. One afternoon a while ago we were sitting in his room at the Palm Bay Club in Miami Beach, where he was recuperating from a knee operation, when I asked him about his future as a football player. He said nothing for a few moments, and then he sighed and gave a sad little shrug.</p>
How I Came to Hate Bernard Weinraub Love the Warden and Keep My Mouth Shut.
THOMAS WHITNEY RODD
“Now here is the plan, Calvin,” I said. We made as if to hide our conversation from the guard who was standing by the door, but this was a sham, since they don’t worry, they have you where they want you; we are not going anywhere, we just tractable cons trying to make parole.
You are undoubtedly wondering about the identities of The Beautiful People on this month’s cover, and how and where we found them. They are indeed beautiful, at least “soul beautiful,” at least to the new generation. They are Michael Pollard, Tiny Tim, and Arlo Guthrie, some of the heroes described in Last Supper at Alice's Restaurant (pages 84-85).
In this age of cultural explosion and affluence and sophisticated leisure, the young musical artist has only one remaining worry: how to stay alive. Especially for the singer or recitalist whose apprenticeship is over—whose talent has been certified by successful debuts and minor-league professional engagements—the years of discovering one’s future can be nasty, brutish and long.
Remember last year’s college section? It looked like this page, didn’t it? Beautiful! You liked it, because everything on campus was a groove : Love, Pot, Flower Power, Folk Rock, etc. A few friends would drop by to turn on, and then you would all drop out.
Margaret Leahy, twenty-three, of San Francisco State College, will be wearing her up-against-the-wall uniform this fall: army surplus helmet; thigh boots for protection when being dragged limp across the campus; culottes, for the same reason; goggles as protection against Mace; Vaseline to seal goggles to face and keep out tear gas; handkerchief dipped in baking soda and water as an antidote against Mace.
The orgy is finished. Sure, some odd Midwest sophomore may still be pouring Mazola oil on the floor of his crash pad for one more group-grope, but in his heart he knows the moment is over. The new thing is the relationship, the weekly psychodrama at the T-group and, above all, involvement in The Movement.
Over 350 radical professors from 150 campuses met at the University of Chicago last March to organize themselves into a revolutionary group bent upon changing America. They debated, among other things, whether to quit their teaching positions and become “activists in the larger society.”
There is a college editors’ conference going on in Washington at the Sheraton Park Hotel, and all hell is about to break loose. More than five hundred student editors, packed into the ballroom, are handed a Vietnam resolution viciously attacking U.S. war policy.
“We’ve moved about fifty draft dodgers and deserters to Canada by sailboat and never lost one,” boasted Carol Frank from the other side of my kitchen table. A kind of nautical director of Ann Arbor’s fifteen-man draft underground, Carol and her accomplice Pat Kovalick had come over to my apartment late one spring evening.
Picture your old man sitting at home wondering who you do trust. Not him, and certainly not your college president. Cut out this painting and send it to him. These, for his information, are twenty-eight people he might not listen to, but you would—if they were around to tell you anything.
It reads “1-A” and belongs to Harold Krents, a Harvard Law student who is totally blind. “All I know is he has got thirty days to appeal,” said Abel J. Levine, chairman of Krents’s Local Draft Board 10 in Mount Vernon, N.Y. Rather than curse the darkness, Krents wrote the following poem.
Hand-held, of course. They’re making films and being graded at 120 colleges. As one of the hot new undergraduate majors (how many new ones have there been in the last hundred years?) it’s way up there: a thesis can cost $10,000 to make. A brief cahier du campus cinéma follows.
Is it like this all over? Is there a campus left that hasn't been touched by student rebellion—where the dean can walk around without a bodyguard, where most of the “kids” still know all five verses of the Alma Mater, where the only thing Up Against the Wall is the ivy?
<p>If the continuing story of the Family Kennedy ever finds literary format, it will probably be as a series of convulsive epilogues recounting all the foreshortened lifetimes, wiped away abruptly each in lunatic turn by yet another tide of fate.</p>
<p>So, you want to retire at forty! Or you think you do—wait and see. There are at least three absolute prerequisites. (It always turns out somehow that there may be more, which is why I say “at least.”) First, you should be somewhat fed up with your work—otherwise there wouldn’t be much point (in fact, no point whatsoever) in quitting work at forty, not if you were enjoying it.</p>
Make, if you can tell the difference, love, not war
<p>Mrs. Mostyn lay in bed rigid. She had lain like this all night, while her husband had slept beside her. Now she could feel him waking. She knew that when he did, he would flutter for a moment as if he were a child, and then he himself would become rigid.</p>
“He was serving a cause and not himself, and so my old liking for him comes back"
<p>When Kim Philby’s account of his adventures was announced, we were told to expect a lot of propaganda; but it contains none, unless a dignified statement of his beliefs and motives can be called propaganda. The end, of course, in his eyes is held to justify the means, but this is a view taken, perhaps less openly, by most men involved in politics, if we are to judge them by their actions, whether the politician be a Disraeli or a Wilson.</p>
“He is the classic type to find authoritarianism appealing— ambitious, romantic, weak and violent”
<p>Now that Philby’s own story of his career as a Soviet spy in the British Secret Service has been published (My Silent War, Grove Press), the documentation of this weird episode may be considered complete. There are still, it is true, some gaps, but as they can be filled only from official sources it would seem to be unlikely that we shall be told any more in the immediate future at any rate—unless, of course, some cataclysm causes the archives of the Secret Service or the C.I.A. or the K.G.B. to be opened, as the archives of the Tzarist political police were as a result of the Russian Revolution.</p>
Marlin and tuna join tarpon, trout and salmon in angling’s charmed circle
A few years ago I wrote in these pages of angling’s charmed circle...of a group of anglers who recognize and accept within it others of their breed who have demonstrated unquestioned ability. Among the feats which could bring an angler a place in this select group were mentioned the taking of a tarpon of more than a hundred pounds by fly casting, the capture of a four-pound brown trout on a number-twenty fly, or a fifteen-pound salmon on a number sixteen.
If you are in the Los Angeles Coliseum on December 8, when the Chicago Bears play the Los Angeles Rams, you might very well see a situation like the one depicted on these and the following two pages. The game is tied, 17-17, with three minutes left to play.
An Intellectual History of the Turtleneck Takeover
Now, in a time when there are no golden boys anymore, no Hobey Bakers to make wonderlands of all our winters; when the bright college years have become blighted, when being tapped for Bones no longer seems the grail it did when Dink Stover was all sand and whipcord—now, in a mutinous time when unscrubbed undergraduate insurrectionists, and not fleet scatbacks.
My over-forty readers will surely remember the human flies. Younger ones, your parents will tell you that the human fly was a craze, like flagpole sitting, marathon dancing, of that desperate period, The Great Depression. Things were as desperate with us in New Jerusalem, Texas, as with others elsewhere in those times, and maybe a little more so; but we had no marathon dancing, no flagpole sitters.
These are the girls from Hair, the tribal love-rock musical that made its way from modest beginnings in a Greenwich Village theatre, uptown to Cheetah and finally to Broadway where it came of age. Hair’s loss of innocence is acted out eight times a week at the end of the first act when assorted members of the cast, male and female, stand completely nude facing the audience.
“That's not the way the game is played," he said, and he played it unhappily until he died
Adlai Stevenson’s last months were not happy ones nor would they enhance his record as the American political leader who, above all others, believed in talking sense to the people. His enormous vitality was exhausted. At his age of sixty-five the strain would have been bad enough even if he had been getting satisfaction from his job.