<p>The fairest summation of the ground rules of the unusual collaboration that resulted in “the first Xerox special in print,” Harrison E. Salisbury’s Travels Through America in our February issue, was the Free Press wire service story that went out right after the press conference in which the details of this innovative venture were announced.</p>
There is a music to Angel Cordero, the great race rider, and a vitality and an anger, all spawned long ago in a Puerto Rican barrio. He remembers poverty and how difficult it was once for a Spanish-speaking jockey to get mounts, and these memories mix with his recent wealth and his entrenched Latin pride.
To Harrison Salisbury: I have just finished reading your article again (Travels Through America, February), regarding Canandaigua, Cheshire, Number 9 Woolhouse Road and the Benjamins. Each time I read it I become more angry. You say that you are disturbed! How do you think we feel?
<p>Amado Vazquez is a Mexican national who has lived in Los Angeles County as a resident alien since 1947. Like many Mexicans who have lived for a long time around Los Angeles he speaks of Mexico as “over there,” remains more comfortable in Spanish than in English, and transmits, in his every movement, a kind of “different” propriety, a correctness, a cultural reserve.</p>
Okay, but what about us? What about our summer? Do you think we’ll be cruising around in fiber glass sailboats, wearing perfectly cut-off jeans and worrying about how to feed and water fifty people? Probably not. In the first place, we spent a good part of last winter worrying about these things for you, and we’re committed to spending a good part of this summer worrying about making your Christmas the best ever.
Mother of Mercy, Is This the End of Henry Kissinger?
I am often told by supposed friends of Kissinger that the only reason Henry is staying in office is so as not to be subjected to the legal fees of having to defend himself against my wiretap suit,” said Morton Halperin. “I’ve told them that I’m a very patriotic man, and if my lawsuit is the only thing standing in the way of the Secretary’s resignation, I’ll be happy to discuss the subject.”
If Dame Margot Fonteyn is typical of her breed, ballet dancers must be the hardest working and most single-minded people on earth. And because their discipline leaves little time for play or contemplation, the work must be its own reward, glorious to the recipient, only barely decipherable to the adoring but uninitiated audience.
The international airlines make it impossible for you to buy a great many bargain vacation packages in the United States that are on sale to travelers in Europe. These packages represent especially good value for you if you’re spending a month or so abroad anyway and want to ad-lib your arrangements after you’re there.
At the CBS Washington bureau, they are trying to keep straight faces over what has happened to Daniel Schorr, but it’s not easy. Schorr is not a popular man, and there are a lot of people who are thrilled that he has been caught committing the journalistic sins of coyness, egomania and self service.
What a season it promises to be: two political conventions to make the air even hotter; a special-edition Fourth of July to clog the roads (Philadelphia beware); serious droughts and frequent dust storms, according to The Old Farmer's Almanac; plus the usual rash of poison ivy, mosquitoes, sunburn, lousy tomatoes, tropical storms, crowded campsites, and fishless afternoons to leave you itchy, tired, longing for fall.
It seems like the easiest thing to do. Then you do it and somehow one leg comes out shorter than the other. This time you’re going to do it right. The trick is this: Cut one leg first, then match the second one to it. Never cut off both legs at the same time and never cut jeans while wearing them.
Most amateur sailors these days take the whole business more seriously than Horatio Hornblower ever did. They believe—or seem to believe, anyway—that if you aren’t screaming your lungs out or working your tail off, then you just aren’t doing it right.
Maybe you’ll be going all the way for the first time this summer. Maybe you did it before everybody else was doing it. Whichever's the case, there’s no problem. Legal difficulties aside, sunbathing nude is an eminently simple matter. Naturally, we assume your intentions are honorable.
The easiest way to get Friday afternoons off in the summer is to be self-employed. Just hang a sign in the window and let your customers and creditors be damned. But if you work in an office, for somebody else, you’re going to have to be a bit more clever.
Fear is having to feed and water fifty people, not knowing what kind of wine and liquor to buy or how much, not knowing what to serve, worrying that it will rain or that the bugs will invade, worrying about how awful your lawn looks, and worrying whether some of your invited guests will invite their own one or two houseguests...
Aided by three cookbook authors and perfect hosts, Bert Greene and Denis Vaughan (“The Store Cookbook”) and Miriam Ungerer (“Good Cheap Food”), Esquire here throws some ideas for a party. Guests: around fifty. Time: late afternoon. Place: a lawn in the country or near the beach.
In the summertime the little things mean a lot: something to keep away the bugs, something to keep your stuff in at the beach, something to read, something to play with, something to sink your body into. On these pages: a little something for everybody, from bug jackets to beach chairs, books to bathing suits.
<p>We Texans don’t call a pork chop a hamburger and we don’t drink our beer in a tearoom. It takes the same good Texas sense to figure you don’t call that pig bake they dish out in the South “barbecue,” and you sure as hell don’t eat whatever it is in a <i>restaurant</i>. </p>
It’s too damn hot. It's so too damn hot you can't think. You can't decide whether you're hungry or thirsty. Or both. Should you eat? Should you drink? Something's got to give. These pictures give! Drinks you can eat. Eats you can drink. Summer dreats! That's a dumb word for a great idea.
Alan Lapidus here is the son of Morris Lapidus, designer of the Fontainebleau and a lot of other Miami Beach-type hotels. What better bloodline, we figured, for the designing of sand castles. So we asked Alan, himself an architect, to draw up some plans and construct a sand castle that our readers would want to build some glorious afternoon this summer.
When I was six, my father enrolled me in an expensive learn-to-swim program at a country club. The first day we learned how to stand in the little water and hold our trunks up. The second day we learned how to order cheeseburgers and French fries from poolside.
Mel Brooks Says This Is the Funniest Man in the World
Ladies and germs, direct from Las Vegas... Harry Ritz!
<p>Harry Ritz will say it himself, but he prefers that others say it for him. “As far as I’m concerned,” says Mel Brooks, “Harry Ritz was the funniest man ever. His craziness and his freedom were unmatched. There was no intellectualizing with him. You just hoped there were no pointy objects in the room when he was working ’cause you were down on the floor, spitting, out of control, laughing your brains out. Harry Ritz always put me away. Always.”</p>
Once upon a time there was a little Georgia farm girl who married a millionaire. The millionaire was murdered; Candace Mossier was acquitted; the American dream lives on
It is a sultry Saturday night in Houston, and the huge Georgian mansion in the stately River Oaks section is aflame in mercury lights. Marge Crumbaker, a savvy Houston Post veteran who writes the closest thing to a society column that the roisterous oil capital has, arrives at the party around ten p.m.
How television became our most powerful political machine
It was the day that changed politics. Before it, politicians had looked like politicians and bosses were still bosses; after it nothing was the same: the bosses were on their way downhill and the candidates looked different, the tailoring was better, cut tighter at the waist, the hair was a little longer because television diminished normal-length hair.
Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Sack. You’ve Just Given Birth to an Eight-Pound, Eight-Ounce Slave
How the baby broke his chains
<p>The moon in June. And silver eels of moonlight on the Hudson River. On the left bank, on the fourth floor my mother and father are in a bed making—love, and they’ve turned off the lamp with the crewelworked cotton shade, and they’ve left the radio with the yellow celluloid dial on.</p>
The fine hand on the left belongs to Lyle Tuttle, tattooist to the stars and proprietor of a tattoo museum in San Francisco. Lest you think tattoos are something only the mothers of impulsive sailors worry about, or that the only excuse for having one is something on the order of, "Bunch of us got drunk one night—I mean really blown away...." consider the photographs on these pages.
Little Billy Twillig stepped aboard a Sony 747 bound for a distant land. He was fourteen years old, smaller than most people that age—examined at close range, he might be said to feature an uncanny sense of concentration, a fixed intensity that countervailed his noncommittal brown eyes and generally listless manner.
Images of disaster thread my mind: I am pinned beneath the ice, a centipede furs out of the faucet into the glass I drink from in the dark. At Mesa Verde a woman said, “Last year we went to the Grand Canyon, we saw a young man, taking a picture, take one step too many.”
She was watching an old movie on television and became curious about the director, Lewis Milestone, she recalls. Was he still alive? What did he look like? The next day she went to the library, there to find very few pictures— certainly no acceptable ones—of Milestone or any other movie director.
What is this thing called CRUNCH? A fascinating report on why Americans are hooked on crunchy foods, why Madison Avenue spends millions to promote crunch, why crunch may actually bring joy to your mouth, contentment to your soul! WHAT HAPPENED AT THE CONVENTIONS by Richard Condon Any magazine can cover the Presidential conventions after they happen.
Without having flown over this particular stretch of water southwest of Key West, I can still envision it topographically: the infinite shadings of blue over the tidal flats— azure, indigo and the predominant light turquoise of the shallows with the paler striations of white sand.
A fancy buffet for the chef who hates wasting time at the beach
Remember how, back on page 62, we told you the way to set up a great summer party buffet without having to lock yourself in the kitchen all day? Well, we know that there are more than a handful of hosts and cooks who won’t follow our advice. To them, a party isn’t a success if they haven’t first nearly killed themselves fixing the food.