Since ecology became chic, environmentalism has begun to run patriotism a race as a refuge for scoundrels, but the Environmental Defense Fund is one environmentalist group that is demonstrably on the up and up. A nationwide coalition of lawyers and scientists (mostly young and largely volunteer and intensely dedicated), working through the courts to combat environmental spoliation, E.D.F. was founded in 1967 on Long Island, where its main office still is, but now has three other offices in Washington, D.C., Berkeley, California, and New York City; a potent Board of Trustees (from Amyas Ames to Stewart Udall, just to give you an idea of their stature); a staff of legal and scientific experts, with over 700 on the Scientists Advisory Committee; and volunteer workers and public supporters making a total membership of over 35,000.
Oh, Babe, What Would You Say? is a record by a man named Hurricane Smith; I heard it first on WABC on my car radio, a coincidence of some odds in that WABC, which is a rock station, is not the favorite spot on my radio dial. Hurricane’s style is tricky and hard to place.
Prior to a few days’ escape from the rat race, the attorney I work for gave me a copy of your March issue. While en route home from Denver to Dallas I read the issue from “cover to cover.” I could not put it down: it was, to say the least, excellent.
In preparation for the shattering experience that Bernardo Bertolucci’s latest film was promised to be, which I doubted I could survive on, so to speak, an empty stomach or with, if you like, tense reins, I took the word of Time magazine (or at least, because one must be careful about these things, the quotation imputed to it in a newspaper ad) to the effect that “the audacity of Last Tango in Paris bears a kinship to, and might not have been possible without the example of flicks such as Bad Barbara,” and went to the latter.
The lavender-haired lady in the rear of the plane must have been made nervous by the pre-departure anti-skyjacking procedures because during the flight she pulled her call button and reported me to the stewardess. “That man,” she said, “is doing something funny to the roof of the airplane.”
Myths are fashioned so quickly nowadays that we may have the dubious satisfaction of watching them being manufactured; the memorials, adulatory or denigratory, come off the conveyor belt while the persons and events to which they relate are still warm.
Among this year’s more remarkable centennials is that of the composition of Die Fledermaus, perhaps the greatest work of art ever written for no purpose other than entertainment. All its characters are types, and the music written for them by Johann Strauss the younger denotes their type rather than connoting their humanity.
First read Malraux's monumental Fallen Oaks; now read something really monumental
Châteauneuf, September, 1971: the trumpets of glory are muted now; with a small smile and a nod of his great head, du Jour bids me enter: his figure, slightly bent, precedes me into the humble living room: he goes to the hearth, over which hangs a large earthenware pot, fully sixty liters, and for an instant I am transported to another time, another place: du Jour at the range . . . the greatest chefs in the world flocked about him like cardinals about the Pope . . . Rastopovich, Grossman, Krishnamurthy, Gentile, Motsay . . . not since Escoffier had there been another.
Flying around the world flogging your movies has become, for some directors, an almost mandatory part of the job. A kind of extended journey for the ego, it’s also supposed to help increase the box-office receipts on your pictures; truth to tell, after a week or so, the ego-building aspects of the trip dissolve in tedium or exhaustion and it becomes solely a publicity tour to sell seats.
Every time I spend time with Fred Coe, unhappily much too infrequent an occasion these days, I come away a better man. During the Fifties there was a five-year period when I spent virtually every day with Coe. He was TV’s most eminent and successful producer; I worked for him as a writer, script editor, finally as an associate producer.
Dick Motta is a hardworking and proud man who loves to win. He is also coach of the Chicago Bulls, who, not coincidentally, reflect those same attributes as a basketball team. Motta is a Mormon, not a devout Mormon, but a good, practical one. “I don’t believe in falling to my knees and praying for something that I can do myself by getting off my butt and working hard,” he says.
I've been reading along a couple dozen spring-semester books, looking for something you might like, making a note or two on each one so that I wouldn’t pick it up again saying to myself, “What’s in this one, wonder if it’s any good?” when I’d just read the damn thing a week or so before.
At the foot of his mountain he stops the carriage For the first glimpse of the white palladian dome That tops his house; then up the bluish hills Of Albemarle, past garden and vine, When suddenly there burst from every side The blacks, who pull the horses from the shafts And haul him like a chariot up the drive,
<p>I once read something in a reporting piece that made a profound impression on me. The weird thing is that now that I am stuck with this profound impression, I have no idea where I got it. I think I read it in a collection of reporting pieces by Lillian Ross.</p>
David Wise, author of Are you worried about your image, Mr. President? (page 119), is the former chief of the Washington bureau of the late great New York Herald Tribune; he is also the man who almost coined the expression “credibility gap,” a term for which he might as well have full credit since the real hero cannot be found.
Q. Are You Worried About Your Image, Mr. President?
<p>Unlike a candidate, whose campaign funds restrict his television, advertising, and public-relations budget, an incumbent President has almost unlimited federal funds at his disposal for public relations during his four or eight years in the White House.</p>
<p>In September of that wartime season, with the Keepers and the Reapers battling for sixth, Kakoola owner Frank Mazuma signed on a midget to help his club as a pinch hitter in the stretch. The midget, named Yamm, was the real thing; he stood forty inches high, weighed sixty-five pounds, and when he came to the plate and assumed the crouch that Mazuma had taught him, he presented the pitcher with a strike zone not much larger than a matchbox.</p>
"My Heaven is a dingy hotel full of vice and perversion. The people are asexual and have lots of free time. Nobody does very much. The priest in the center window on the second floor is giving the Word to a straight guy, who isn’t listening. Prostitutes are soliciting out front but nobody pays attention.
An Esquire Self-instructional Program for the Man Who Wants to Help Himself
Simple Directions: The following material has been programmed to provide for a self-teaching experience. Using your left hand, cover the answer column shown below. Read the frame and then fill in the blank with the appropriate response.
Q. Prince Antelope, you are one of the first modern men said to be able to soul-merge with beasts and speak their language. A. That be so. Q. You have indeed conversed with these beasts in all nations, and are about to publish your experiences in a book titled Out of My Mouth and Theirs.
Technically speaking, a report on modern times: wondrous things, fresh ideas, unaccustomed pleasures, and lots of other good news
David M. Rorvik
Once upon a time in this country, beginning about a hundred years ago, new was synonymous with surprise, excitement, fun and even magic. It was a time when one “crazy” new gadget followed another: the light bulb, telephone, horseless carriage, movies, phonograph, radio.
There were many small steps for mankind in the last twenty years: hair brush to electric hair brush; pencil sharpener to electric pencil sharpener; dental floss to water pic. These days the steps seem bigger: gas-burning car to electric car, top speed, 152 m.p.h.; big-screen color TV to wall-size color TV; office boy to office robot.
Thanks in part to old technology, life in the big city—indoors and out—has gotten worse. Outside, of course, the air is dirty and noisy; inside, the air is overcooked or undercooled. Millions of workers must spend eight hours a day in office buildings such as these in Chicago, each building an adverse environment in its own right.
New technology can solve the problems created by old technology, i.e., unsafe products, noise and pollution, dehumanizing work and products that don’t work very well. What follows is practical proof, and good news for everyone. 1 Problem: Last year, the automobile killed 56,300 people in America.
The vacuum toilet Airvac is the first real innovation in water closets since Thomas Crapper invented the mechanical toilet in 1870. It uses a vacuum pump to evacuate the bowl with a minimum of water. When an Airvac toilet is flushed, a valve opens in the drainpipe, air rushes into the partial vacuum that is constantly maintained in the pipe and wastes are carried away with an impressive swoosh.
Planned obsolescence is the cynical science of designing things so that they fall apart—right on schedule. In an era of dwindling resources, however, planned obsolescence may itself be obsolete. Below, six products designed to survive.
“Shooting the blue sky" is the time-honored practice of making the impossible look feasible, if not always practical. What was blue sky a couple of decades ago (moon shots, laser, the pill) is reality today. What follow are coming attractions: research not quite fully developed, the New Technology of the near future.
<p>I could never be a big-league manager. One reason is that I wouldn’t want the job. Another reason is that no one would let me have it. It seems to me that managers are lonely and their lives aren’t exciting enough. Also I’m not exactly enchanted with the idea of seeing places like Cincinnati and Cleveland for the twenty-fifth time.</p>
An evening spent with the revolutionist turned writer, the Panther turned pussycat
<p>The apartment building rises twenty-six floors above the south shore of Oakland’s Lake Merritt, a graceless grey edifice housing those wealthy white citizens who continue to buck the demographic trend and stay within the increasingly black city of Oakland, as middle-class whites flee into or over the low hills to the east.</p>
Man does not live by the calendar alone. We are all three years into this decade; but where is our sense of the times we live in, our awareness of new things happening all about us, our response to where we are going and who our leaders are? Who, or what, supplies in our sensibilities the awareness of direction we used to get by reading headlines about Jackie Kennedy and The Beatles?
Passions and fantasies of the screen's most savage director
All my life I have been a sucker for the movies, and in all too few instances have I understood why. What I especially cannot understand is how I contrive to be diddled so often by so many films in the category of inexplicably tantalizing junk.
I’d rather eat Chinese cuisine THAN eat at Elaine’s
I’d rather eat at Elaine’s THAN be thrown out of Elaine’s. I’d rather be thrown out of Elaine’s THAN read The New York Review of Books. I’d rather read The New York Review of Books THAN read Robert Crumb’s comix. I’d rather read Robert Crumb’s comix THAN follow Pogo.
<p>Olga, of whom we are about to speak, was born in the year 1900, in a wealthy, carefree family of nobles. A pale little girl in a white sailor suit, with a side parting in her chestnut hair and such merry eyes that everyone kissed her there, she was deemed a beauty since childhood.</p>
Travelers owe a special debt to the science of archaeology, because many of the world’s most pleasing tourist attractions—from the Roman Forum to Mesa Verde—have been dug up by scholars and scientists. By plane or car a tourist can, for instance, visit the Great Pyramid of Kukulcán at Chichén Itzá in Yucatan (shown at right), climb the steep steps to the top and ponder the ruins of the Mayan civilization that flourished before Columbus’ time.
Owo, Nigeria, 200 miles from Lagos. Excavation of a religious shrine c. 1435 A.D. under the direction of Ekpo Eyo, Director of Antiquities, Nigeria. Finds include a terra-cotta bust of an Ife female royal figure, and metal tools and polished stone axes.
Summer will soon be upon us, and this notion involves a certain degree of planning and preparation. Very simply, it is no longer sufficient to doff your trousers, don your cutaways, and head for the beach—especially not when the beach in question is Haiti’s Kyona Beach, the background for the following pages.
We view the familiar news colorless with ennui, dreaming Christmas red freshly on Christmas green, dreaming it close-up on the colored screen, and dreaming—oh, dreaming seasons and distances: spring yellow, summer silver, gold of fall.
Are you a contrary son of a bitch? Are you a cynic? Do you sulk in the bar car with all your cash in ninety-day bills while your buddies are gloating over huge profits in a company with mineral rights in the Gobi Desert or a medical company that is developing disposable obstetrical forceps?
And I am always running, the insistence of my age demanding completions, tying the final knot in a braid of years, the final woman who has eluded my eye like a mirage of water on highways. O Falstaff, this to be sure, on wine I wake still drunk, and busy myself with trivia the way housewives tidy each corner, 1 prepare myself, set the courses of these years carefully on linen, set each goblet aflame with my mouth, and now I would have her teaching the sun to rise perfectly in her hair, a dark waterfall is born in first light.
After the wilderness a girl in a mountain was telling me to lie down I lost nothing: the ground humped as a whale swam under the hill, people walked from the beach to the waves, and a man drew a crowd by pulling nails from his hands. Nothing happened;
Dear Pat, Bill, Lance, Delilah, Grant, Kevin and Michele
I loved you
Altogether it was the most euphoric winter I can remember and not just because of the mild weather. That wasn’t even the most important part of it. The real cause was the Loud family, those quaint Californians whose real-life adventures and misadventures (An American Family) made up a twelve-part series on public television.
<p>Unlike most Americans, who suspect it, Sarah Bartlett at least knows she was overheard by an F.B.I. wiretap in the computer room of the Internal Revenue Service Building in Washington, across the street from the Justice Department. On April 25, as she sat at her card-punch machine, the postman handed her a registered letter containing a document known in police circles as a “wiretap notice.”</p>