Several times in this corner, and most recently in August, 1973, I have ventured the opinion that wine in the diet is helpful rather than hurtful for those who must count their calories and watch their scales. Since I’m neither dietician nor physician, I’ve never tried to push this pet notion as being anything more, or other, than it was: the result of a one-man survey.
It is finally here, the whole ball game, the one we’ve been telling you about these many months: an issue devoted entirely to sports, the United States of Sports. October’s Esquire will be much fatter than usual.
I must dissent from Tad Szulc’s characterization of Elliot Richardson’s appearance before the Harvard Law School Forum (The Smile on the Face of Elliot Richardson, July). Although it was “smashing,” it was not a “success.” A majority of the audience had their expectations smashed as Mr. Richardson was neither candid, stylish, nor electrifying.
At about the time these words appear, the Los Angeles Philharmonic will depart its accustomed summer perch at the Hollywood Bowl and take flight on a six-week European tour; I rather like to think of that whole preposterous stage levitating à la Disney, with Dumbo-like wings, to go see the world.
I learned the practical value of selective swiping as a police reporter on the Columbus Citizen. My competition on the Columbus Dispatch (this was years ago, before the papers married and all the fun was drained away) was the nephew of the chief of police, so naturally the cops gave him all the best photos of the victims of crimes and fatal car accidents.
Somewhere Ring Lardner is supposed to have offered among wry sours, “There isn’t anything on earth as depressing as an old sportswriter.” Nothing in my first encounter with the breed refuted the great man, our finest sportswriter, who himself did not live to be old.
Nobody loves anything like everybody loves dogs. That this is true appears in magazine journalism from the instant fame of the National Lampoon cover a year or two ago featuring a pooch, a gun and the legend: “If you don’t buy this magazine, we’ll kill this dog.”
Some films are merely bad, others actually loathsome, still others loathsome without being literally bad. In this last category belongs Going Places, the second feature film of Bertrand Blier, son of the noted character actor. Based on Blier’s own best-selling novel, Les Valseuses (slang for testicles), the film is already a big hit in France.
Okay, the word is out, proof in the form of ten-dollar copies of Something Happened, soon to be in your local bookstores: novelist Joseph Heller will not be America’s most celebrated one-book author since Michael Arlen and The Man in the Green Hat.
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago (Harper & Row, $12.50) is, quite simply, one of the most important books of this century. If the Russian Revolution is seen as being—as I’m quite sure it must—the decisive event of our time, then no one henceforth will be able to take stock of the Revolution without reference to The Gulag Archipelago.
I read a “Guest Word” column by William Cole in The New York Times Book Review awhile back, in which he said he had been to all twenty-five annual National Book Awards and that this year’s was the best of them all. I can’t get over him thinking this.
Not long before the death of J. Edgar Hoover, as demands for his resignation grew louder, there were many in Washington who agreed with Tom Wicker that the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation had "wielded more power, longer, than any man in American history.”
Do you know for certain which way to set your watch when daylight saving time starts (provided it ever stops, of course)? Are you absolutely sure of the difference between a stalactite and a stalagmite? Can you infallibly remember the order of the planets from the sun outward in the solar system? Ah, but you shall in a minute.
<p>It is a Holbein painting, with everyone in Tudor styles—women bared or tightly bound above, yet with legs sunk in vague mushrooms of skirt; men in sleek stockings below, but puffy above under sixteenth-century shoulder pads. The parts, so strategically cushioned, will have trouble combining.</p>
What do you do when you’ve got a national bicentennial block party coming up at a downright embarrassing time? What Esquire did was quick ask six top New York ad agencies to design a poster that would turn our current dog of a product into a consumer-appealing country.
This year, college kids are more like folks than ever
If there were a key word on campus these days, maybe it would be “sensible.” No more groping toward the infinite—right, kids?—no more spotlight chasing. Grades are real, school is earnest, and after that The Job. Meanwhile, you wear clothes to keep warm, not to make some kind of statement; you wear hair because it grows on top of your head, and that’s about it.
Nothing is stronger than the Protestant Ethic whose time has passed
In the union bookstore at Berkeley, the student government is sponsoring a show by makeup artist Tory Jeffrey, “creator of the Mary Quant face.” Jeffrey is a short man in a green shirt and he chats pleasantly as he applies Greasepot to the lips, Blushbaby over the cheeks and Jeepers Peepers around the eyes of one student after another.
Suppose you are a college student. Suppose, against all odds, that you graduate at the top of your class, go to the professional school of your choice, strike out into the world and pull down a swell job with plenty of money and lots of opportunity for advancement.
American cryptic: our reporters found more grass smoked at the University of Iowa than anywhere else they visited, yet all the students were pink cheeked and healthy. Either grass is good for you, or the ingestion of vast quantities of corn and hogs and sweet cream butter undoes the evil effects of all that other stuff.
The dance floor is very crowded on Wednesday nights at Frivolous Sal’s, a stand-up bar a block from Vassar College, but Jackie St. James doesn’t miss a trick. “Can you spot ‘Doctor Diamond?’ ” he asks delightedly. Doctor Diamond is a New York plastic surgeon, famous for his assembly-line nose jobs.
This is the story of a mythical boy we’ll call Joe, whose grades were so good that his high-school guidance counselor got him to apply to Princeton as well as his hometown state school. Both colleges accepted Joe, but he didn’t know what he wanted to do.
Even before American Graffiti sanctified Eisenhower-period nostalgia, undergraduates were huddling in dormitories and apartments to listen to the doo-wop melodies of the Fifties. Antique rock records have become collector’s items in a rising market, so we asked rock critic Nick Tosches to compile a list of the most valuable of these cultural artifacts, along with prices for 45-r.p.m. copies in good condition.
When Smaller Cars Are Built, Detroit Will Build Them
A report from the incredible shrinking Motor City
Until about a year ago, the move toward smaller cars was part trend and part fad, but the part that was fad isn’t any longer and the trend is here to stay. The cause of the trend is obvious, and it won’t go away if ignored. The trend has resulted in a revolution in Detroit, the likes of which has not been seen since the beginning of World War II when Detroit switched over to war production.
At the age of thirty, my brother developed an allergy to animals, and Lucy, who had lived with him for five years, had a housing problem. A ninety-five-pound basic black dinner dog who put in a twenty-one-and-a-half-hour day of canine slumber, and only became demented around food and rubber balls, Lucy was responsible, good-hearted, and something of a spokeswoman for the large-dog population of San Francisco, having once applied to a local TV station for air time to rebut a transportation ruling that only pets who could fit comfortably in a lap or handbag would be permitted to ride municipal trams and buses.
Arduous encounters with the most conspicuous man at the United Nations
William F. Buckley Jr.
MONDAY: I occupied the United States desk for the first time when the Third Committee’s session had already got under way. The chairman had proposed that all seventeen items referred to the Third Committee by the General Assembly should occupy equally the attention of the Committee, and the English representative now suggested that they be taken up exactly in the same order in which they fell in the General Assembly’s agenda.
Look! Up in the sky! It's the world's first literate construction worker!
A hole in the ground in New York City is the most expensive kind of hole there is. A hole in the ground in Manhattan in July—cut off from surface breezes and framed in heat-reflecting concrete—is one of the hottest. The first time I was in one it hadn’t rained in what seemed like weeks and every step raised clouds of dust.
<p>A peculiarity of the ridge above Dubrovnik: it divides the Mediterranean from the Balkan world. On the sea side, sheltered from the wind, it is all a question of tomatoes, vineyards, lemon colored walls, a white steamer, bell towers. But a traveler climbing up that face of the ridge, whether to see the sunset or to exert himself or to soothe his nerves, will find a completely different world when he reaches the top, if he simply turns around and faces the interior.</p>
Futility and failed dreams, with a cast of hundreds
<p>THE WIND MACHINE IS IN THE SHOT AND IT IS NOT A PERIOD WIND MACHINE. The first assistant director rasps that through his bullhorn down the resonant length of Stage 15, Paramount, Hollywood, and the other assistant directors, the special-effects and lighting men and the stunt coordinators converge upon John Schlesinger like flies on a crumb.</p>
This landed-gentry look keynotes Esquire’s twenty-four-page portfolio of 1974 fall and winter fashions. The design focus is on clothes with a country feeling, highlighted by a much more relaxed and sporty styling, gutsier fabrics and warm, woodsy colors.
Today my child goes forth to fix the sun, a hammer in his hand and a pocketful of nails. Nobody else has noticed the crack. Twilight breaks on the kitchen floor. His hands clip and hammer the air. He pulls something out, something small, like a bad tooth, and he puts something back, and the kitchen is full of peace.
When a restaurant’s popularity surpasses its size and there is no room to enlarge, the owner, however reluctantly, starts looking for other quarters. That was the case with Henri Le Troadec. His L’Escargot had a twelve-year run at Third Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street before he decided to move several blocks south and west to 47 West Fifty-fifth Street.
I leave the number and a short message on every green Volvo in town Is anything wrong? I miss you. 213-799-3701 The phone rings constantly. One says, are you bald? Another, how tall are you in your stocking feet?