The piece on George Wallace beginning on page 125 will make entertaining reading only for those whom it doesn’t render too furious to read it through. Those who regard George Wallace as our only living saint will consider it hateful, and those to whom Wallace is the demon incarnate will deem it much too friendly.
Fourteen years ago, in Part of Our Time, Murray Kempton wrote: “The bearers of the myth of every decade seem to carry in their hands the ax and the spade to execute and inter the myth of the previous one.” Speaking of the radicals of the Thirties, he continued: “We were, most of us, fleeing the reality that man is alone upon this earth.
I refer to The Drug Establishment, by James L. Goddard (March). It is a shallow and misshapen commentary on the realities of the drug industry’s mission and performance and its relationships with other private and governmental members of the health complex.
There was a time—say up to about two years ago—when the sophisticated traveler was likely to sneer at anything bearing the slightest resemblance to an organized or “packaged” tour. Visions of harassed tour conductors herding busloads of middleaged ladies with tired blood and tireder feet through Westminster Abbey and Notre Dame obscured the whole scene.
<p>A subject that has been knocking about for some years now in London publishers’ offices, as well as in the minds of numerous writers and journalists (I plead guilty myself), is the decline and fall of the British Empire. This happening which has seemed to us so dramatic and momentous, which came about so suddenly and, in the eyes of many, unexpectedly, has cried out for treatment.</p>
Just because uranium isotopes are lying around unguarded is no reason for any of you out there to start helping yourselves
Alan M. Adelson
<p>Nine days after the beginning of the New Year—when the world was dreamily preoccupied with the moon, space and the relative insignificance of man—the public awoke to find that back on earth a small nation was about to become the sixth member of the most powerful club in the universe.</p>
<p>The trouble with writing fiction about children is that children are seldom as interesting as the things that happen to them. You may have a mind to describe the doings of some twelve-year-old, but before long you are tempted to tell the kid himself to get lost.</p>
Among the pleasant surprises of the last few years has been an increase of interest in the music of Erik Satie, who hid an extraordinarily serious effort at musical communication behind a facade of salon tunes, unorthodox simple harmonies and apparent improvisations. (His friend Debussy once told him his music lacked “form,” so he went home and wrote what he called “Three Pieces in the Form of a Pear.”)
Mr. Presidet, Distinguished Colleagues, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Press, honored Guests, and all those Americans within the sound of my voice, from the rock=ribbed coast of California to the sunny shores of maine, I stand before you today a man alone, a man with but a single voice to raise in the hour of our country’s greatest need, a man who will use this voice, forever, if need be....
The Art of Oratory in the Senate of the United States
William H. Honan
Like many reporters, I have always been fascinated by political speeches. I dote on them, in fact, with the same ardor that fans bring to the baseball stadium and opera lovers to the standees’ gallery at the Met. Something told me, however, that the Presidential campaign last year was not going to be distinguished by great or even colorfully grandiloquent oratory, and consequently, while most of my colleagues were out on the hustings with the candidates, I began a series of visits to the Press Gallery of the United States Senate in an effort to discover if real oratory—the kind of oratory one used to hear before radio and television reduced speechmaking to the level of conversational chatter—still survives.
If the methods and art forms of the avantgarde have passed on into popular culture, what, you may ask, is next? The Great Gaming House, created by Drama Professor Kelly Yeaton of Pennsylvania State University and adapted here by artist/architect François Dallegret, is an example of the theatre of the near future.
The Final Decline and Total Collapse of the American Avant-Garde
Any avant-garde has to be out there avant of something. Used to be, reader, if a man took off his pants in public you called the police. Now you applaud. Drug freaks, revolutionaries, unisexies—you love them all, which is okay for you, maybe, but hell for people trying to stay ahead, like Andy Warhol. The facing page tells all, the following sixteen a good bit more. If at the end you still believe in an avant-garde and want it to live, don't clap your hands. Jeer, boo and stomp.
For an avant-garde to exist there must be an audience which by its rigidity challenges the artist to point another way. All conditions are present in this extraordinary time of ours but one: the audience isn’t rigid. If anything, it is too anxious to please.
Disraeli said, “I rather like bad wine. One gets so bored with good wine.” And it was, I think, Cyril Connolly who claimed that only the English really understand the art of eating. Any fool, he argued, could appreciate good food, but only the Englishman can sit before a plate of food that others would consider unfit for human consumption, and devour it with relish.
Our report on the Avant-Garde (pages 142 to 159) is, in some senses, an impossibility. It started out manageably enough as an article on the New Theatre. After exploring that subject, we found that it contained so many elements—improvisational theatre, living theatre, psychodrama, guerrilla theatre, group therapy, picket lines, sit-ins, and Hair—that our article on the New Theatre would in fact have to become a feature on the AvantGarde.
<p>It is Tuesday night in Los Angeles, and you decide you want to watch the Wonder Women skate. You drive down Venice Boulevard past an old Mexican adobe building (a Japanese mortuary), turn right at Grand Avenue, go past Maury Wills’s laundromat and under the freeway until you come to the Olympic Auditorium, a concrete building of deep tuna hue, garnished with cement lilies and gladiators.</p>
Them bones gonna walk around for a while yet— they done got 13.5 percent of the vote
<p>Daddy, you try to get a lot of votes, now,” admonished the little girl as she pulled up the quilt and snuggled into its thick folds. “Because I do want to live in that White House.” Her father grinned. “All right, darlin’,” he said. Soon she was asleep on the floor of the den.</p>
<p>In return for providing one of the most glorious moments in the history of American sport, Joe Namath was given : 1) a football, which he didn’t need, 2) a car, which was okay, 3) a number of apologies, which are useless, and it all seems inadequate.</p>
An insidious practice has crept into American society, perpetrated by the media and mothers: at the time of the wedding, the bride gets all the loot. Right-thinking people everywhere will not fail to see the injustice of this and will act at once to reverse the trend.
<p>One of my earliest recollections of a racial experience came when I was about six or seven years old. My father was an itinerant barber and had gone from Detroit to work in a shop in Knoxville, Tennessee, with the thought that the milder climate there would be helpful to my mother’s failing health.</p>
Say hello to the Dirty Half Dozen, Sierra Bandit, The American Playground and all the Superstars of the New Theatre
Say good-bye to the Dirty Half Dozen, Sierra Bandit, The American Playground and all the superstars of the New Theatre!
<p>Not the sort of folks you are likely to see on your home color screen, right? That’s because the networks don’t think you’re ready for them. But what do they know? Sierra Bandit and her pals in the New Theatre (or, to be more precise, the old avant-garde) are talking to you, reader, trying to shock you into a keener awareness of the evil of your days.</p>
This is Black Mountain College in the hills of North Carolina, where the late avant-garde formed up and John Cage signed on to the faculty. It was a hipster's heaven. (Today it's a boys' camp.) As well as any other place, it serves as a spiritual home for the experimenters.
(Read it as a play but think of it as a warm, wet kiss)
<p><strong>SCENE I:</strong> <em>The houselights come down. The stage is black. The sound of a rattlesnake rattling, a coyote in the distance. The rattle grows louder. A soft light fills the ceiling of the stage, then flashes off. A bright yellow light flashes from the center of the stage floor, then all is black again.</em></p>
(Read it as a warm, wet kiss but think of it as a play)
<p>An anti-visual theatre piece, 1969 Site A large square room with a high ceiling— an Accounting office. An office of maximum desolation austerely functional and pennypinching. Minimal, grey metal desks, on a hard floor covered with black-and-white-marbled linoleum.</p>
<p>Now that you have lost all your ships you really are orphans of the Pacific. How do you think you will ever get home ? So said Iva Ikuko Toguri d’Aquino, or so they said she said, though she denies it. That was the Act of Treason: that she “did speak into a microphone concerning the loss of ships” one day in 1944 in a Tokyo radio station.</p>
If you’re the sort of person whose diction depends upon words like “groovy,” then groovy is the word you’d use to describe how the bridegroom shown on these two pages looks. Actually, the cute couple— singer John Davidson and his warbling wife, known professionally as Jackie Miller—became bride and benedict a few months ago.
Mr. Bridge Jived in the heart of America: in his heart lived very little
Evan S. Connell
<p>I Love Often he thought: My life did not begin until I knew her. She would like to hear this, he was sure, but he did not know how to tell her. In the extremity of passion he cried out in a frantic voice, “I love you!”, yet even these words were unsatisfactory.</p>
Here and on the following pages are some of the styles that will be seen at the beach this summer. On a fishing boat off Castella, in the Piraeus section of Athens, vocalist Carolyn Blakey (foreground above) wears Metro's La Playa slacks of Fortrel and cotton ($9) and a body-line dotted-Swiss cotton shirt ( Bill Miller’s Village Squire collection for M. & D. Simon, $11) while rehearsing the rock group she formed in Europe.
Were goût not quite so chacun, and de gustibus a little more disputandum, fashion might be rather less fickle than it so egregiously is. But then, of course, we might never set eyes on such antic inventions as the personalized T-shirts (above), photographed on the Greek island of Mykonos, where they are something of a rage, especially among those who remember how Annette F unicello used to look in her T-shirt.
The above picture provides further proof that barefoot boys with cheeks of tan will not display as much skin as they might this summer. Indeed, the unclothed male torso may be a rarity among the avant-garde at fashionable watering places. Jump and tank suits like these photographed on the beach at Lindos in Greece will be le dernier cri among those who, several seasons back, bathed in bikinis.
<p>Still and all, not every man, no matter how concerned with his appearance, is a slave of fashion, a devotee of le dernier cri, and this summer there will be those of a mind that it is better to be at least partially au naturel than entirely au courant.</p>
Why some people are prepared to pay more for Remy Martin VS.O.P
Remy Martin costs almost ten dollars a bottle. Many other Cognacs can be had for less. Then why are some people willing— to spend so much more for our brandy? The answer is, because it’s worth it. And thereby hangs a tale. Now, as every connoisseur knows, the finest brandy comes from France.
To find out—instantly —where you can buy any or all of the products or services listed below, just pick up your phone and dial this number: It’s a free call—no matter where you live. (Even if you call from a phone booth you’ll get your dime back.)