The cover subject of this month’s Esquire is track star Carl Lewis (“The Longest Jump,” page 60), the most promising U.S. track competitor for the ’84 Olympics in Los Angeles and a contender for gold medals in both the long jump and the 100-meter events.
Knowing his game is as important as knowing your own
Anyone who has ever hit a tennis ball against a backboard for a few hours or shot baskets alone in a playground knows one abiding truth about sports: it’s always better when you’re playing against someone else.
<p>The mere thought of button-down shirts reminds me of the late, dapper George Frazier, freewheeling columnist for <em>The Boston Globe</em> and a contributor to this magazine over a span of many years.</p>
<p>Strange things have happened to the tourist home. Once a refuge of last resort for the unwary traveler caught between Holiday Inns, this anemic institution has been reborn as the modern bed-and-breakfast.</p>
<p>In fishing camps throughout Canada—from Quebec to Alberta and north to Hudson Bay—there is a ritual called the shore lunch, which gives rise to an accumulation of smoke that on a clear day can probably be seen at the North Pole.</p>
<p>It's hard to decide where you want to live. You can't move from city to city just to experiment, so you need help. <em>Finding Your Best Place to Live in America,</em> by Thomas F. Bowman, George A. Giuliani, and M. Ronald Mingé (Warner Books, $3. 95), is help.</p>
<p>We all know the story on sweet wines. Soupy and syrupy, they're sickening alone and unspeakable with food, and no one who aspires to a cultivated palate should touch them with a ten-foot corkscrew—right?</p>
ONCE, ALMOST BY ACCIDENT, an athlete leapt an awesome distance. He left a shadow one young man swears he’ll breakout of this year.
<p>For most of us, the world of track and field comes into full view once every four years at the Olympics and then passes on. But at the 1968 Olympic Games in Mexico City, a long jumper named Bob Beamon, with one incredible leap, left us a fixed and lasting image of excellence.</p>
In the back room of a doctor's office, twenty minutes can buy a man permanent sterility. The vow of silence is optional
<p>I didn’t have to watch. After all, I was paying a not particularly fancy but presumably competent doctor to perform the operation. So for the first couple of minutes I concentrated on the ceiling of the Planned Parenthood clinic, anchoring my thoughts in its bland whiteness.</p>
<p>In order to be a good novelist, what a writer needs most is an almost demonic compulsiveness. No novelist is hurt (at least as an artist) by a natural inclination to go to extremes, driving himself too hard, dissatisfied with himself and the world around him and driven to improve on both if he can.</p>
<p>In horror movies, when there's an ancient sphinx that oversees the kingdom, there's usually a colonialist entrepreneur with a pencil moustache and khaki shorts who decides he has to get the sphinx's jeweled eye out.</p>
As she packed her belongings in the late and lowering afternoon Jean Ritchey could look across the river and see the smoke from her neighbor’s house. After the men had finished bulldozing it, they’d set fire to the rubble.
It began a few years ago. The massive influx of Eurotrash, I mean. (The name was invented by native New Yorkers.) Anthony Haden-Guest was the first to notice, and he wrote an article about it called “The Last Time I Saw Paris, It Was in New York.”
<p>The first thing you notice is the wind, rushing as it always has off the Pacific Ocean into the Mojave Desert. The next thing you notice is the sound, hammering, like horses running, but hushed, like something breathing.</p>
Performing hot, heavy, and hazardous tasks common to heavy industry (such as spray painting, welding, and machine-tool loading), American robots have slowly grown in number to over six thousand. But the technological and economic developments of the past few years have stimulated a robot boom: by 1990 there should be one hundred thousand to two hundred thousand robots on American factory floors.
To many, the term “tonic medicine” suggests the discredited patent remedies of the last century that were supposed to make you feel good, and often did temporarily because of the alcohol they contained. Those elixirs went out with the first food and drug laws, but with them went any respectability the word <em>tonic</em> might have had.
Has the U.S. Army gone introspective? Lieutenant Colonel Frank Burns, a former aikido and meditation instructor, is now heading up a new Army organization designed to analyze the “wide delta” between the Army’s potential and its present performance.