This is the first time this space has been used as an annex, or caboose, to a feature that has started up elsewhere in the issue. But it happened this time, when we tried to give in those two above-mentioned pages the usual report of the judges, announcing the results of our seventh annual awards competition for noteworthy corporate programs in support of the arts during 1972.
In publishing David Wise’s Are You Worried about Your Image, Mr. President? (May), Esquire has shown daistinctive and compassionate integrity. Since periodicals reluctantly bite the hand that feeds them, public-relations experts and purveyors of sham openly exploit Americans.
“We’re issuing the Bernstein Carmen next week,” said the man from Deutsche Grammophon. Uh-huh. “I have never,” said the man from Deutsche Grammophon, “asked you for anything. But...." And the pregnant but was right, too; DGG is entitled to special attention for this Carmen, the first big-league opera recording made in the United States in almost a decade.
<p>I’ve got a half dozen novels by women that I want to ramble on tediously about this month. This old gentleman wouldn’t normally be separating out “novels by women” (as against “novels by regular writers”), but in the context of this special issue it seems acceptable to do so, even maybe appropriate.</p>
The Fellow-Travellers by David Caute (Macmillan, $8.95) is a book I have been longing to read for years, providing, as it does, a highly intelligent, lavishly documented account of the adulatory reactions of Western European and American intellectuals to the U.S.S.R. and kindred regimes.
Roxanne Frisbie brought her own pan to the twenty-fourth annual Pillsbury Bake-Off. “I feel like a nut,” she said. “It’s just a plain old dumb pan, but everything I do is in that crazy pan.” As it happens, Mrs. Frisbie had no cause whatsoever to feel like a nut: it seemed that at least half the 100 finalists in the Bake-It-Easy Bake-Off had brought something with them—their own sausages, their own pie pans, their own apples.
Since this issue is about women, this column will also be about women, mostly. But first, a digression and apology. We know it is hard to read about women without looking at pictures. Think of Playboy, Cosmo, Vogue, Ob. Gyn. News. We believe it will help you read this column if we give references to such pictures of the women under discussion as are already available in your collection of back issues of Esquire.
“Among the top fifteen jockeys, there is no appreciable difference,” says S.R. (Skippy) Shapoff, trainer of thoroughbreds. “Jockeys are a product of the media: they are small, colorful, different. A jockey is necessary, sure, but why should he get all the credit for winning a race when he’s been involved a minute and a half and the trainer has been with the horse seven days a week for months?” Skippy Shapoff is a well-inspected fixture of the racing circuit in New York.
HONG KONG: Word comes from the office that the July Esquire is to be some sort of women’s issue. It reaches me in the heart of the Orient, of all places, where men are still top dog and women are rated according to their ability to please. As an avowed male sexist chauvinist pig—when my wife permits—I find myself most comfortable here.
It is chance not choice that in this woman’s issue we hear the story of Patricia Nardo and New York’s <span style="line-height:1.6">___</span> Hotel, the latter a landmark, a citadel of luxury, and, I’ve read somewhere, home of one of the world’s great barmen. Pat Nardo, neither landmark nor citadel, is in her early thirties, her auburn hair rimming a face that could model for a hip pietà with a touch of commedia dell’arte.
Half a score years ago, Kate and Ti-Grace and Marilyn and Susan brought forth an ungrateful nation
<p>In the Spring of 1970, several hundred feminists met for three days in New York at the second Congress to Unite Women. All members of the press were barred from the conference, and as a result, no account was made public. As time passed, however, reports leaked out of violence and tumult, and the event became known in movement circles as the “Congress to Divide Women.”</p>
Every revolution has some: those glorious, shimmering moments, those days of riots and chaos that ultimately become national holidays. Bastille Day. The storming of the Winter Palace. Paul Revere’s ride. And so, we give you five such days in the history of the women’s movement.
And so we have gone and done it. We have taken the women’s liberation movement, which is probably the most significant movement in the country today, and we have taken its various accomplishments, one of which, the Supreme Court decision on abortion, will probably do more to reshape life in America than anything that has happened in the past year, and we have boiled it all down to a chart.
Sugar and spice and everything nice and that’s what Mom’s apple pie is made off
The woman up there with Pat Nixon is Maxine Chilton, President of the American Legion Auxiliary. She has just presented Pat the Auxiliary’s Molly Pitcher Distinguished Service Award. It seems fitting, for, as Mrs. Chilton sees it, the theme of the Auxiliary and her own year in office is community service—“If we build a better community, we build a better America.”
It is your duty to know; but first, take off those silly boxer shorts
<p>Heterosex will probably survive the eventual liberation of women. Some idealists even believe that the liberation of women is the only hope for the future of heterosex. Permissiveness and the pill have worn away the glamour of sin, secrecy and risk that for aeons made second-rate sex worth the trouble: now most free sexual encounters seem even more pallid and predictable than the inventive maliciousness of monogamy.</p>
If there is any truth the manufacturers of America hold to be self-evident, it is this: any attitude can be commercially exploited given the right kazoo. And so, it all follows: when women change, when their self-image changes, there is money to be made.
"This is a collage made of silk, cloth, plastic, and metal. I can’t really say what the details represent. When you try to interpret Heaven you bring it down to earth. There is a woman in my heaven because I am a woman. The little spacemen on the woman’s neck are in contrast to Queen Esther below the body—a time continuum."
An extraordinary memoir of a friendship between two women
<p>I have here changed most of the names. I don’t know that it matters anymore, but I believe the heavy girl on the train still lives in Cologne and I am not sure that even now the Germans like their premature anti-Nazis. More important, Julia’s mother is still living and so, perhaps, is Julia’s daughter.</p>
When Did You Begin to Take the Women's Movement Seriously?
HELEN GURLEY BROWN: I never didn't take the women's movement seriously, but after reading everything written on it and going to consciousness-raising groups and really STUDYING, I finally got it through my thick head that no, everybody can't succeed Just because she is smart and full of energy and need.
“Next to her,” said the assistant director, “Lucrezia Borgia was a pussycat"
<p>Now that Marilyn Monroe is well on the way to becoming symbol and myth, I think of the short time I knew her as actress and star. I never got to know her well, but I did see her in action, working or trying to work, and that is a not insignificant way to know something of someone, even if it does not add to the mythology.</p>
<p>Henry VIII, as every television viewer knows by now, was no respecter of privacy. But even that Personage, who recognized no impediments to the marriage beds, understood that he might not encroach upon the birthing bed. Even he suffered the door of the royal chambers to be slammed in his august face when one of his various wives achieved the fullness of her time and began to give birth.</p>
Attention, Republicans and Democrats: The Best Man may be a woman! Pass it on...
John Lindsay bounded up the City Hall steps as a woman television reporter and her camera crew struggled to keep pace alongside him. “Mr. Mayor,” she asked, “Why aren’t there more women commissioners in your administration?” The Mayor’s eyes twinkled as he bolted for his office and tossed off a throwaway line, while the cameras were grinding away: “Honey, whatever women do, they do best after dark.”
When a man looks at his daughters he wants to see himself
My wife gave me a new address book for Christmas, which means that I must laboriously transfer, from one alphabetical page to another, the names that have filled the last twenty years of my life. Or rather, in the process of transferring, I must judge and discard.
The girl is twenty-five. It has not been very long since her divorce but she cannot remember the man who used to be her husband. He was probably nice. She will tell the child this, at any rate. Once he lost a fifty-dollar pair of sunglasses while surf casting off Gay Head and felt badly about it for days.
Oh reader! This magazine has done some terrible things! A long time ago, under a different set of editors, Esquire published scores, nay hundreds, of cartoons and articles that participated in a perfectly rotten attitude toward women.
The Man Most Women Want Walks Softly and Carries a Big Gourd
Seen any lately?
<p>Some months ago Wyn Sargent walked into the West Irian jungle in Indonesia and, quite by accident, found the New Man. She found him among the Dani, an illiterate Stone Age tribe, one generation removed from cannibalism. The men of this tribe cried without shame.</p>
People would say she won because she dated Bert Parks. She would not have won Miss Congeniality. Her talent would be a modern-dance interpretation of The Bell Jar. She would accept a $5,000 wardrobe consisting of three dozen turtlenecks, a gross of T-shirts, and 250 pairs of jeans.
How good are the new quartz watches? Very good, indeed, but not as good as some have claimed, according to Harry B. Henshel, president of the Bulova Watch Company, which itself manufactures quartz-crystal watches. In an official statement, Bulova has termed “unrealistic” the “minute-a-year accuracy” claimed by most of its competitors in the quartz-watch business.
They aren't my friends. Had I imagined it otherwise? But not as women dividing myself between them, their white mounds gripping the life lines, flickering on & off, Or if I sleep robed priests who bear me, a box of something unclean, standing up to call itself the sacred.
While mortals walked the “Yankee Clipper” danced in game saving catches and record breaking streaks moved by the gift of a “grace under pressure” possessed of a “class” that was its own and only comparison He played in pain without complaining to him it was something more than just a game these red roses in a bronze vase