On page 73 of this issue you will find a piece entitled Business and Youth which may well be the most surprising item appearing in these pages since—well, at least since Malcolm Muggeridge’s rediscovery of Jesus. This piece represents Esquire’s first attempt to play the matchmaker between what could at first flush appear to be this country’s most reluctant swains, the now estranged and seemingly unalterably opposed elements characterized in the article in question as “the best of today’s business and the best of today’s youth.”
The New York Times quote by Shelley Winters, forty-six, on the subject of public nudity is worth repeating: “I think it is disgusting, shameful and damaging to all things American. But if I were twenty-two with a great body, it would be artistic, tasteful, patriotic and a progressive, religious experience.”
My best-laid plan for last column was to write about Easy Rider together with Midnight Cowboy. Both movies deal with a kind of marriage between two young but not so young men. With naïve expectations of life in America, and their consequences.
Nobody can have everything, even us. And though we frequently comment around here that every day in every way Esquire gets better and better, we still give in to an occasional wish that once, just once, we could put together a group not only of great new writers but also of the great writers we once had who seem to have drifted away.
For some reason, the literary world is forever picking up ephemera about music while neglecting thoughtful material. Let Ned Rorem wiggle a graceful toe in the direction of the printed page, and all the book reviewers who are not actually on the barricades will go a-giggle with anticipation.
The British spectator has had occasion, in the last week or two, to quote Shirley, who was contemplating another “time of troubles.” Here, in a world apparently becoming rapidly more unstable, it is the “glories of our blood and state” that alone are stable and some of the enthusiasm with which the installation of Prince Charles as Prince of Wales at Caernarvon Castle has received has been produced less by the admirable organization of the pageant (at which we excel) or by the behavior of the young Prince than by the feeling that in this little, politically less-and-less-important island, at any rate, the traditions of civility have not died out.
You do the readers of your magazine a great disservice by providing space (On Experiencing Gore Vidal, August) for William F. Buckley Jr. and Gore Vidal to have a running bitch session. I have read Mr. Buckley’s piece and note that you proudly proclaim in “Coming Up In September Esquire,” that this is just a “mere prologue.”
Edmund Wilson’s expanded version of his The Scrolls from the Dead Sea, published in 1955 (The Dead Sea Scrolls, 1947-1969, Oxford University Press, $6.50), is, as usual, a pleasure to read. Other writers on this fascinating subject may, for all I know, be more expert and learned than he, but none whose works I have looked at come anywhere near equaling him in clarity and ease of narrative and exposition.
<p>The first and probably the worst wine ever made in California was born exactly two hundred years ago. In the Summer of 1769, the Franciscan friar, Padre Junípero Serra, rode north from Baja California on a large white horse, in company with the Spanish explorer de Portolá, into the newly colonized Spanish province of Alta California.</p>
You want just a twist of lemon.... As I said, almost all of us at Wayward House feel you’ve got here a valuable literary property, something that may in time become a minor classic. But we want to clear up a few points and air some objections to some of the material.
A report on the corporate involvement with the total environment— which of course includes you
<p>As of the last decade, business has been on a youth kick, with every imaginable sort of enterprise trying to emphasize the appeal of its product to youth. As of about the same length of time, however, youth seems to have been taking on an anti-business stance, with the better part of the young people of today apparently more interested in practically anything else than in business.</p>
Paul Steindler, who has created cuisine for fine restaurants here nd abroad where cost was of small ncern to management or patron, id an about-face two years go and opened a reasonably riced place he thought of lling Feasts on Skewers but strained himself for the ore evocative Brochetteria.
<p>J. Paul Getty, who is either the second-richest American or the richest, or maybe even the richest man in the world—depending on the market price of oil and which paper you read —lives on a seven-hundred-fifty-acre-estate in Surrey, thirty miles south of London.</p>
Can a house divided prevail over militarism, imperialism, liberalism, racism, male chauvinism and bad vibrations?
A few days after the Students for a Democratic Society babbled into civil war last spring, I called the Chicago office where Mark Rudd, the new maximum leader of a muscular minority, was hard at work. Pretty much everybody was on vacation, Rudd told me, in a manner he has perfected: the soft voice pregnant with insolence.
Hesitate, reader, one moment before you plunge into the following ten-page unprecedented Joe Namath section of this magazine. Before you start, we feel you deserve an explanation of just why the editors have seen fit to devote so much of their time and effort, and your time and effort, to a single person, and that person Joe Namath.
Toward an Imperfect Understanding of the Namath Affair
If everybody in America gave Joe one penny, he would have two million dollars. Well, he has two million dollars. What have you got for it?
William F. Buckley Jr.
<p>My attention hadn’t coupled on Joe Namath when I was asked to ruminate on the ethical questions, a week or so after Mr. Namath’s lachrymose but, it was generally assumed, irresolute resignation from professional football. Have you ever stood by the television set biting your nails while your team suffered prolonged humiliations from the enemy, only to see something suddenly coalesce which in fits and starts, with lightning rallies of first downs and long forward passes, with field goals and end runs and down-the-center juggernauts, suddenly take you from behind, to stunning victory?</p>
and let me have a window seat near the emergency exit
<p>What makes these twelve people different from you? Well, the two in uniform are highly skilled and immensely responsible flight crew of Pan American, but the rest are mere citizens who, while their companions slept, were signing up first on Pan Am’s wait-list for the first commercial flight to the moon.</p>
Cerebral orgies are the best kind, especially if they happen under the bed
Professor Kleiner lay in bed with Dr. Karman, dark-blue sheets pulled up about their necks. The bed light was on, their books (closed, pages bent where they’d left them) resting on their stomachs. For a long time they had been silent, but now, turning his head towards hers on the pillow, Kleiner suggested they read aloud.
“The Marines’ mood is good,” said the general, “their spirits are fine, morale is excellent, and there’s a twinkle in their eye!”
<p>Sometimes you’d step from the bunker, all sense of time passing having left you, and find it dark out. The far side of the hills around the bowl of the base was glimmering, but you could never see the source of the light, and it had the look of a city at night approached from a great distance.</p>
. . . Or in Paris or London: eight of the best travel writers in the world tell where they sleep, eat and shop
I lived in London—grey, majestic, wonderful—for a year (paying a fancy price for a mews house with an antique address and plumbing to match). I joined a club. Learned to drive on the left and ask for a “tin of tomahto juice.” I always go back to: Rules in Maiden Lane: A cozy little bar and dining room.
It wasn't clear what Finkel had in mind: to kill with kindness, or to bore to death
<p>As the taxi slowed to a stop in front of the building on West 115th Street, there was suddenly a great commotion on the sidewalk. The boys and girls who had been sitting there, drawing with chalk, darted and scattered —some of them toward Broadway, some toward the river, some into buildings.</p>
But do buy it, friends. Cathy Macauley needs all the support she can get
<p>Marvelous, Herbie. Keep those cards and letters coming in, as they say. But about that answer: you see, your prospective pen pal, Cathleen Macauley, the columnists’ “richest hippie” (can a rich girl, Herbie, be a hippie?), the twenty-two-year-old debutante who inherited the twenty-eight-room apartment where she does not live, is a soul sister and would like to write you, but her life has become terribly complex.</p>
In case you have ever wondered what writers are up to these days, consider Mr. John Cort, a very serious writer on the East Coast of the United States who has left his job in order to create the poems on this page. When he has finished a lot more, he is going to put them in a book, which may or may not be entitled as above.
Can there be any justification in two nice American boys saying "bird-poop” before thirty million people on television?
<p>On April 4, Good Friday of 1969, the Columbia Broadcasting System television network, acting in loco parentis for its affiliates and their viewers, canceled The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour on grounds that the show’s stars, Tom and Dick Smothers, had failed to fulfill their contractual responsibilities to the network.</p>
5/21: The most reasonable man in Black Rock [the CBS headquarters building in New York City] is said to be Mike Dann, the CBS television network’s senior vice-president in charge of programming. Called Dann this morning to ask help in piecing together the chains of events leading to cancellation of Smothers Brothers series.
For some dumb legal reason we aren't allowed to say that the exercise gadgets shown here will help you lose weight. So we point out only that after you've used one for a while, if somebody calls you "Fatso," you'll be in great shape to kick sand in his face.
And now Israel—inevitably and of course high time and what-kept-you. In the proliferating. precincts of men’s apparel—from handsome coffee-table tomes like The Pictorial Encyclopedia of Fashion, a cavalcade of chic, and James Laver’s Dandies, which is simply superb, to The Rag Dolls, a meretricious but irresistibly readable novel about the deviousness and deviations involved in the evolution of a “London look”; from the wide-eyed observations of Eugenia Sheppard, who is mad, just mad, for Bill Blass, to the wild widow’s weeds on all the sad young men assembled in bawling, campy conclave for the departure of Dorothy of Oz —in a clothes-conscious time like this, it was inevitable that a bright young nation would latch onto something good.
As the clothes on these pages make perfectly clear, the Men’s Fashion Guild of Israel is keenly aware of what has been happening far afield. As a result, without ever aping slavishly what has been happening in New York, London and Rome, it produces clothes that, for all their ethnic distinctions, are not too secular or civic-prideful to be a matter of indifference to Macy’s.
OKLAHOMA CITY — The Independent Postal System of America, a local firm, announced that it is now active delivering third-class mail in 28 states at rates 42 percent of those charged by the U.S. Post Office. "We’ve proved that free enterprise, with prudent practices, can do better than any Government office,” said Thomas M. Murray, 41, president of the firm, which also delivers secondand fourth-class mail.
Let us now praise famous men—three of whom just happen to be “40 regulars”
If occasionally we show fashions which might seem a bit far-out, we do so as observers rather than endorsers. Indeed, it has always been our contention that a man can have a contemporary look without going to extremes, a view, we think, that is confirmed on this and the next three pages.
<p>blow for a more enlightened public attitude toward this way of life. For the most part, gamblers do not advocate the overthrow of the government, are indeed conservative and anti-Maoist in their politics, and at least when winning, make good companions and tolerant friends.</p>
<p>N.F.L., whose job it is to protect gullible and immature football players from corroding influences. They discovered, among the regulars at Bachelors III, such stiletto superstars as Tea Balls Mancuso, Harry the Hawk, Carmine “The Snake” Persico, and Johnny Echo.</p>
Now that I’ve canvassed eight of my colleagues on their favorite hotels, restaurants, shops and places of entertainment in London, Paris and Rome (see page 124), it would be unchivalrous of me to cavil at their choices. And anyway, looking over their selections, I find myself most often saying yea.
And: John Steinbeck as he was; Lorraine Hansberry as she was (remembered by James Baldwin), terrific fiction by Jules Siegel, Joan Williams and Calvin Trillin, and, so it'll be nice to remember this kind of November, lots, lots more.