FATHERHOOD. IF you are in your late twenties to mid-thirties, it is in the air. In recent years there has been increased interest in it as many couples in the postponing generation rush to have children before it is too late. I have watched men who have had sufficient time and experience to know themselves and to have rid themselves of those half-boy, half-man problems of the early twenties find a happiness in fatherhood that is often denied their younger counterparts.
IN A magazine promoting fine wine and immaculate dress, it was a pleasure to see something that showed some unhappiness and despair. Bob Greene’s “Fifteen” (American Beat, August) spoke for the thousands of fifteen-year-old males chasing uninterested women down the aisles of shopping malls.
If financial disaster doesn’t get you, nuclear holocaust might. What’s to be done?
MY CORRESPONDENTS seem to have cataclysm on their minds. My first correspondent has the easier problem: he is worried only about a world financial collapse—banks closing their doors, depression, riots in the streets. I pay attention to his worry because he is a sophisticated fellow, what the British call a merchant banker.
Sports injuries are never fun, but some are less fun than others
AT ODD times during the course of athletic activities, I have been hit solidly in the testicles. I cannot, despite much effort, describe the pain that followed. Maybe this is unnecessary. I have a suspicion that every man— certainly every athlete—is acquainted with this misery.
HARRY TRUMAN used to say, “If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen.” On a recent evening, though, trying to avoid the flames of controversy, I found myself taking refuge in the kitchen, being unusually deliberate with the dinner preparations.
They traveled a road of champagne and women, and their bandwagon was always crowded
ONCE UPON a time, twelve years ago, there was a world that had never been seen before, and may never be seen again. At the beginning of the 1970s, the executives who ran the popular-music business were discovering something intriguing. Rock ’n’ roll, which had been a steady money-maker for them ever since its inception in the 1950s, suddenly had become a growth industry that knew virtually no bounds.
The first piece of mail I opened on returning from abroad was Pop's Hot List, a densely packed list of wines issued by a good little wine store in Island Park, New York. I liked what I saw. For the first time in almost five years, it is possible for a person who thinks too much about wine, haunts too many wine stores, and reads too many wine lists to buy wine— especially fine French wine—at reasonable prices.
For quick reference on subjects both basic and complex, The Information Age Sourcebook is the place to look. In this 1,088-page paperback, editors Jeffrey Weiss and Susan Osborn have collected an amazing amount of information from pamphlets previously published by more than five hundred government agencies, foundations, and universities.
Say the word cardigan, and one thinks immediately of a pipe and slippers, of Rex Harrison as Professor Henry Higgins, of English nannies and Mary Pop-pins. Comfort, security, and benevolence are the primary associations of the cardigan, and this is the irony.
Each year at this season, some nineteen million Americans blow the moths out of their gun barrels and sally forth to harvest a bounty of wild game for the table. This will open a floodgate of recipes for quadruped and fowl, which, while often succulent in concept, invariably lack the most important instruction: the ultimate temperature of the meat.
Why is it that every building with a few unpainted beams and a stone fireplace This is heresy. For me, a lodge is a lodge only if it (1) is made from native materials, (2) is high up and hard to get to, and (3) is perfectly at home in any weather. Winter brings out the best in lodges, and so, too, for some reason, does the U.S.A. —from the Adirondacks to Hawaii.
There could have been little doubt that when Henry Kloss set up a company to produce a new projection television, people would sit up and take notice. The man has quite a track record, after all. First he founded Acoustic Research, where he perfected the shelf-size speakers that would become the cornerstone of a whole new hi-fi industry.
True cool is eternal. Preppies and punk are only passing fads. The Horror at Party Beach is cool to stay. Robert Mitchum is a cool Saint. Brooke Shields is a Z-bird. Toreador pants and crossover ties are always cool, but Jor-dache is not. Super cool are 3-D View-Masters and Hostess chocolate cupcakes, Jack Kerouac and James Brown, Corvette Sting Rays and Fred Blassie’s 1976 hit “Pencil Necked Geek” (especially near the end of the song when Fred stomps the recording engineer).
The Canadian version of grain whiskey is arguably like Canada itself. It is unassertive in spite of its distinct characteristics, and its place in the world of liquor, like Canada’s in the world, seems to be largely undefined. Though the distillation process Canadian whisky undergoes is not mysterious (it is similar to that by which American bourbon and rye are distilled) and its primary ingredients (corn, rye, and barley malt) are found also in most whiskeys from Scotland, Ireland, and the United States, Canadian remains, for the drinker, a strange entity in the spirit spectrum.
We'll really be surprised if everyone isn't picking up the new Brother portable electronic typewriter— literally picking it up, since it weighs in at just five pounds. Small enough to fit in a brief-case, it’s battery-driven so you can use it anywhere.
Dr. Harry Shafer was an archaeologist with dirt to dig and nobody to dig it with. His plight was all too common in these years of receding funds and ever-scarce graduate students. But through Earthwatch, a nonprofit organization that brings together scientists short on money for field research and able-bodied amateurs who dole out money for the opportunity to work with them, Dr. Shafer hit pay dirt.
It's an odd word, perquisite, the kind that trips up know-it-alls in spelling bees. But as you get tantalizingly closer to the executive suite, the word takes on a whole new meaning. Perks— largely nontaxable, increasingly negotiable, and blissfully inflation-proof—are what the smart guys really haggle over at the money end of job interviews.
Moment to moment with Van Gordon Sauter, president of CBS News
<p>DAN RATHER IS TELLING THIS elaborate Texas hill-country joke about fishing with dynamite to his boss, Van Gordon Sauter, the president of CBS News. There’s this notorious East Texas poacher named Zeke, says Rather, slipping into the non-nightly-news drawl of his roots.</p>
This Generation Isn’t Lost; It’s Living in Hoboken
In an unlikely row house, John Sayles and his friends spin out films and fiction that are everything but slick
RANDY SUE COBURN
<p>I FIRST SAW The Return of the Secaucus Seven two years ago in a Washington, D. C., theater that was, like the movie itself, packed with people my age. Judging by the laughter, almost everyone there identified the characters with themselves or their friends.</p>
<p>I WAS SITTING WITH A FRIEND THE OTHER DAY COUNTING UP THE FATHERS WE KNEW WHOSE RELATIONSHIPS WITH THEIR CHILDREN WERE CHARACTERIZED TO ONE DEGREE OR ANOTHER BY ESTRANGEMENT: A MAN WHO BECAME A FATHER AND DIVORCED AT MORE OR LESS THE SAME TIME AND WHO IS NOW FIGHTING, WITHOUT MUCH HOPE OF SUCCESS, FOR JOINT CUSTODY; TWO FATHERS WHOSE TEENAGE CHILDREN BY THEIR FIRST MARRIAGES WILL NOT SPEAK TO THEM; ANOTHER WHOSE CHILDREN LIVE WITH THEIR MOTHER EVEN THOUGH HE WAS GRANTED CUSTODY; AND MYSELF.</p>
HE WAS THE SPINE OF THE MOVIES, the guy who made things happen to the guy things happened to. He looked odd, he walked funny, and he never got the girl. In the ten or so minutes the character actor was on the screen, he made a vivid, almost unforgettable impression— and yet you never remembered his name.
He uses his pen to blow away the familiar and reveal the forces underlying our lives. Here the author of The White Hotel talks about that process, and about myth, sex, fame, and his next novel
<p>There is something extraordinarily elfin about Don Thomas, despite his forty-six years. Perhaps it is the combination of the broken front tooth, the gray hair flying away from his head in unruly curls, and the wild, erotic imagination. Perhaps too it is what one knows of his marital situation—that he lives with his first ex-wife and their two children, and his lover is his second ex-wife, who lives not far away and by whom he has a young son—a situation that Thomas describes as precarious, refusing further comment.</p>
About Cher, death, disease, and other unmentionables
Robert Sam Anson
<p>DAVID GEFFEN IS ON THE PHONE and he is not happy. This in itself is not extraordinary. A bicoastal music-slash-film-slash-Broadway mogul such as himself, with hits in all three categories running simultaneously and more deals in the works than Crazy Eddie, is usually on the phone (a hundred times a day, according to the count of his secretary); and the business being what it is, and Geffen being who he is (“the Billy Martin of the record business,” one of the sheets once called him), the conversations are not always pleasant.</p>
Designers around the world are seeing eye to eye on outerwear. Overcoats are roomy and comfortable, while hip-length jackets abound. Materials are warmly colored and luxuriously constructed
A clean-lined unbelted overcoat in rich and bulky wool tweed of soft earth shades features the new longer and looser proportions, perfect for layering over a sport jacket and sweater. Pure-wool overcoat (about $585) by Perry Ellis. At Charivari, New York; Joseph’s, Portland, Maine; The Designers, White Flint, Maryland.
An assortment of gear for the outdoorsman who has everything but can't say no to anything new
A serviceable pant for formal wear in swamps, bogs and streams. Lightweight, seamless waders are molded in one piece of pure, tough gum rubber. Satin side stripes are permanently vulcanized to wader legs and are guaranteed not to separate from pant.
What divides a doctor from a patient? What divides a patient from herself?
<p>UNTIL YOU SAW HER ARMS, she looked like somebody you'd date, or want to. Black hair falling straight to her waist and clear pale skin made her look Irish, which she wasn't, and her eyes were intelligent and green. Her body had the air of relaxation, of comfort in itself, that is inherited with wealth.</p>
“If you could go anywhere in the world for dinner tonight, where would it be?”—A critic’s response
<p>As a restaurant critic, I am asked the following questions more than any others: Do you know a wonderful little secret bistro that you keep for yourself and never write about? What is the best meal you have ever eaten? What is the best restaurant in the United States (or the world)?</p>
You wake from the sweetest night imaginable. You think your troubles are over. Then she tells you about the HERPES
<p>Lisa cried a little, telling me. It was the morning after our first night together. She would have told me before, she said, but you cannot say to every man you meet, on the first meeting, that you have herpes. And she’d assumed the disease was inactive in her then.</p>
<p>I started when I was six. Momma sawed off a broom handle, and Uncle Carbo slapped some sort of silver paint, well, gray, really, on it and I went down in the basement and twirled. Later on Momma hit the daily double on horses named Spin Dry and Silver Revolver and she said that was a sign so she gave me lessons at the Dainty Deb Dance Studio, where the lady, Miss Aurelia, taught some twirling on the side.</p>
IN THE good old days (or so it seems through the mists of nostalgia and faded golden oldies from Hollywood), a foreign correspondent’s life was a series of unending amorous adventures. In order to get the facts, the intrepid hack had to run a gauntlet of boudoirs filled with sexy sloe-eyed women whose intentions were anything but honorable.
What does a state do with a gift of eleven thousand acres?
IT WAS always “The Railroad Ranch,” and to anyone who lived within a hundred miles it was a seam in the bedrock of life in and around St. Anthony and Island Park, Idaho. When it was finally, formally given over to the state for use as a park, that was an event of some magnitude in a lot of lives.