THIS MONTH’S feature on architecture (“The All-New Perfect House for the Eighties,” page 55) is the handiwork of Senior Editor Anita Leclerc. Month to month, Leclerc brings her discernment to bear on numerous Esquire pages, notably our Man At His Best and Smart Money sections.
RON HANSEN’S article “The Male Clock” (April) was both refreshing and well written. I maintain that the biological clock should tick as loudly for men as it does for women. Yet I have dated men in their midto late thirties who have offered such comments as “It must be harder for you than me because you’re getting older and children are an issue.”
A GENTLEMAN'S GUIDE TO QUALITY AND STYLE Imagine Byron at his desk: Venice, 1818. He writes, "I want a hero-tis a curious want," and the first canto of Don Juan, his greatest poem, has begun. But the words “tis a curious” sound a little mincing, so Byron inks them out, places three carets beneath the deletion, writes “an uncommon” above it, and moves on.
There are not many drawbacks to the sport of sailing, but for some people, owning a boat can be one of them. This is because owning a boat almost automatically means that you have to worry about storing it someplace. And this, in turn, means that if you have a fairly large boat, you will be keeping it in a marina— the consequences of which are various, one of the most obvious being that you will start every trip from there.
On a couple of recent trips to Florida I pursued my favorite local delicacy: the wily conch. From Captain Jim’s Conch Hut in St. Augustine to the Half Shell Raw Bar in Key West, from the Banana Boat in Boynton Beach to roadside counters on Captiva Island, I sampled conch in all its forms.
When Marlon Brando stepped into the role of Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire on Broadway in 1947, he did as much for T-shirts as he did for his own estimable career. T-shirts were new then. They’d emerged from the Second World War as Navy “skivvy shirts, ” the one part of the uniform that ex-GIs kept on wearing after the war.
There's a major obstacle to the enjoyment of great art: you can't own it. Well, you can, just as any child in the land can grow up to become President, but the odds are against it. There just aren’t too many people who can gaze appreciatively at a Corot and then say: “Real nice.
<p>According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the first written reference to the daiquiri occurred in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 1920 novel This Side of Paradise, perhaps the first American novel purporting to explain hip and reckless youth to a conventional national consciousness.</p>
MY FATHER was going to be seventy years old, so our whole family decided that we would be there for the birthday. My parents were spending a couple of months in Florida; the birthday would fall during that time. We all made reservations to fly to Sarasota.
In these self-involved times we must struggle against indifference
THIS PIECE was begun in the midst of this new thing called Presidents’ Week— to be precise, on the day following the one celebrated as George Washington’s birthday this year. It is difficult to say who invented Presidents’ Week or even, with exactitude, when it falls.
A PROFESSIONAL'S GUIDE TO FINANCIAL MATTERS Nothing so inflames the acquisitive imagination as the age-old dream of cornering an entire market. The corner is the ultimate alchemy by which money begets money, an act so entrepreneurial that it transcends an investment “play,” because it involves the outright purchase of the whole game.
Despite Congress’s ax-swinging assault on such indulgences, vacation homes are still hard to beat, at least from the standpoint of economics: generally speaking, they are appreciating assets, income producers, and the only tax shelter around equipped with a view.
JUNK BONDS is the rather blunt phrase that describes the high-yield, high-risk, low-rated bonds used to finance corporate take-overs. There’s been a lot of junk in the media of late because often these highly insecure securities are the only way raiders can buy enough leverage to pull off their buy-outs.
The chairman’s annual chat with security analysts was just minutes away, and the executive conference room was poised for his arrival. Bound backgrounders lined the vast rosewood table in meticulous symmetry; a pitcher of water sweated in anticipation at each place setting.
Like the increasing millions of Americans who regularly follow a vigorous exercise program, I know that working out makes me feel good. Moreover, I am convinced it contributes to both my physical and psychological well-being. But there is an added enticement you may not be aware of: keeping healthy may save you insurance dollars as well.
For the midtown pied-à-terre, the house in the Hamptons, or a quiet weekend with the folks, the new generation of compact, portable computers can serve as a quick substitute office and allow you to tuck a few hours of work into a busy social schedule.
Thirty-eight-year-old Dick Hayne, who works in jeans and loafers and likes to let a question cure in the air for a while before answering it, bears all the markings of what his generation used to call a laid-back kind of guy. Fifteen years ago he stumbled into the clothing business with almost no capital, no business plan, and no knowledge of apparel retailing.
What we pay to play: Golfers shell out $100 (cart included) for eighteen holes at the famed Pebble Beach Golf Links on the California coast. · A three-day course, complete with uniforms and formula race cars, costs $995 at the Skip Barber Racing School in Lime Rock Park in Lakeville, Connecticut.
<p>THINK about the place you live in. Think about the reasons you chose it, about why you’re still there. Think about the quality of the light and whether it suits you. Think about whether it lets you do what you like: play the saxophone into the small hours; tend an herb garden by the kitchen; escape to a hideaway room to enjoy the company of your music or your books.</p>
<p>ON December 22, 1984, Bernhard Hugo Goetz was riding on the subway in New York. Goetz is a slight, blond, bespectacled electrical engineer. He was approached by four black youths, one of whom asked him for five dollars. Asking for five dollars is itself not a crime, but streetwise New Yorkers know how to translate it: it sometimes means “Give me your wallet,” just as a seemingly innocent question like “Do you have the time? ” in some circumstances means “Give me your watch.”</p>
<p>It’s midmorning in Hollywood. Jamie’s been on the set of Perfect since 6:30, when she had her already peachy complexion blushed and her short brown hair tidied up for the big love scene with John Travolta. The pounding bass, the rhythmic grunts, the pumping and jerking of all these bodies, each multiplied a hundred times in the mirrored walls, are the backdrop for the sexual encounter in which the bitchy, outspoken, untrusting, media-hating, Olympic-swimmer-turned-hot testaerobics-ins tructor-in-Los-Angeles Jessie, finally succumbs to the charm of back-east-journalist-out-to-unmask-the-new-fitness-centers-as-thesingles-bars-of-the-Eighties Adam.</p>
<p>It is a semiprivate room set up for bum care. Curved heat shields draped with cotton blankets hang over the beds, monitors blink from the walls, fluids drip from clustered IV bottles through tangles of plastic tubing. The two men here are naked, scraped raw.</p>
From the Files of Our Correspondents on the Potomac In England the royals don’t carry money. In America they don’t have to. The nation’s leaders—the very ones who complain of their low public-sector salaries—are flush with perks, from exclusive use of private dining rooms to chauffeur-driven limousines.
If the Reagan Administration’s foreign-policy fervor sometimes seems a trifle Napoleonic, there may be a good reason. One of the top U.S. negotiators at the Strategic Arms Reduction Talks, former Senate Armed Services chairman John Tower, is five foot five and a half.
“Only FDR has more experience than Pat Caddell campaigning for President,” says one observer, andin a sense he’s correct: in five presidential campaigns, from McGovern to Mondale, Patrick Caddell won wide acclaim as a pollster and strategist.
NAME: KATHY OSBORNE AGE: FORTY-ONE TYPING SPEED: ONE HUNDRED WORDS PER MINUTE JOB DESCRIPTION: ANSWERING THE ONE HUNDRED LETTERS THAT FIND THEIR WAY TO THE PRESIDENT’S DESK EACH DAY OUT of the twenty thousand that come into the White House.
The political evolution of a man (Martin Peretz), his magazine (The New Republic), and his movement (liberalism) from Left to Right
<p>EIGHT BLOCKS FROM THE WHITE HOUSE, in an ugly modem building on Nineteenth Street, is an office that could easily be the consulting room of a well-heeled professional—a lawyer, say, or a prominent psychiatrist. On the floor is an old rug made with the rich red and blue vegetable dyes now abandoned by carpet weavers in the Middle East.</p>
The writer my mother married, and the man I loved, was neither a drunk nor a brawler, but a shy, generous soul
<p>When I think about my
stepfather, John O’Hara—and I find myself thinking about him a lot these days—I
think about the three “John O’Haras” I knew when he was alive and the fourth “John
O’Hara” I was aware of but never adequately appreciated until nearly fifteen
years after his death.
<p>PEOPLE DO A LOT OF CRYING IN ANN BEATTIE’S STORIES. AND FRANKLY, IT’S NO WONDER. JUST LOOK AT THE FIXES THEY GET INTO: THEY KEEP THEIR FRIENDS’ KIDS ALL SUMMER LONG! THEY SLEEP WITH THEIR FRIENDS’ EXLOVERS. THEY ATTEND THEIR EXWIVES’ WEDDINGS.</p>
IN AN INDUSTRY that normally goes gaga over awards, record companies were surprisingly quiet last December when the multiplatinum awards were announced. Up until then the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA), the industry trade group, had limited its album awards to gold (five hundred thousand sales) and platinum (one million sales), so the new designation might have been expected to generate thunderous applause.
They met each other in 1967 at the St. Martin’s School of Art in London and immediately formed their artistic collaboration through an activity called “living sculptures,” in which they would both hold a pose near a tree or by a window for a pure moment of art.