Predictably, my reading of Esquire was truncated by the Voice of Doom: “The doctor will see you now.” “The doctor,” I said, “will have to wait. I’m in the middle of the Stallone interview” (“Sly’s Progress,” by Elizabeth Kaye, February). Thanks to Kaye’s intelligence and style, I came to see that Stallone is a man of chronic unrest, always in conflict—the actor with the man, the man with himself.
STOP ME IF you’ve heard this before, but some years ago I got to be chummy with a well-known television bombshell. You’d recognize her instantly by her big blue eyes and frosty hair. In public she was hard to miss. To her fans she was a vixen. In real life she chose never to hide behind dark glasses, walked into rooms with her shoulders straight, and was given to wearing hot-pink sweaters so fluffy they ruffled in a breeze.
AT LEAST five centuries before the birth of Christ, all Mediterranean cultures had erected tinnoscopi, elevated observation platforms from which to spot the arrival of migrating tuna. But except for netting the fish, little was understood about the porco marino, or “sea pig.”
IF THE WAITER-DINER relationship boils down to a subtle game of one-upman-ship, it is the waiter who commands the strong opening move. He simply asks, “Would you like something from the bar?” Easy enough to answer, “Why yes, I would like something from the bar.”
IT WAS 1957, it was a chance meeting aboard a ferryboat, and it was Hong Kong. He was an aspiring painter named Robert Lomax. Her name was Suzie Wong, and although she was fibbing a little—“maybe two thousand,” she later admits to William Holden in the movie version—in Hollywood’s nice, 1950s, black-and-white sort of way, he fell for her anyhow.
INDIA MADRAS PLAIDS came to America in the late 1930s. They appeared first in the form of shirts and later as practically everything else in the male wardrobe, including watchbands. Their wide popularity was due to their bright palette of color, the coolness of the handwoven cotton, and—not least of all—brilliant advertising.
IF, ON SHORT NOTICE, America drafted a horse troop, it would be peopled mostly by little girls, hoydens in breeches and boots. In horse barns you see them all about, like swallows, hair pulled tight from their brows. Smile and they snub you with stone grimaces, for a man in a stable is a daddy, farrier, groom, or vet, and you are none of these to them.
AT THE NEW Royalton hotel in New York, designer Philippe Starck took an innovative approach to the pictures on the walls: he omitted them and called for the installation in each room of frames to hold art postcards, which are changed three times a day.
A CONCEPT THAT SEEMS to have all but disappeared from the American social landscape is that of the “dream date.” Young American males used to fantasize about going on a date with the girl of their dreams. Sometimes it was a movie star; sometimes it was merely the beautiful girl who lived at the end of the block.
THE MAN’S NAME is Wayne Embry. By the end of this day his basketball team’s record will be thirty games over .500. Once, they were known as the Cadavers, and it seemed fitting that they played between Cleveland and Akron, which of course meant the middle of nowhere.
<p>A GUY WHO HAD SPENT most of the Sixties alone with his backpack in places where an American was a novelty had turned into a family man. He had wanted to, anyway. And wanted, and wanted. Harry had come back and married Eleanor in the mid-Seventies.</p>
UNTIL THE DAY I was first “enveloped” by one of the new, scientifically attuned Household Bank “financial environments” currently being rolled out across the nation, I firmly believed that my local Citibank branch had achieved the ultimate in customer service and marketing innovation.
HUD is about to add another acronym to the lexicon of creative home buying, and lenders will be beginning to lend it: the PLAM (price-level-adjusted mortgage). With a fixed-rate mortgage, you might pay 10percent interest, which covers the real interest—the bank’s expected profit—as well as the estimated inflation over the life of the mortgage.
WHEN LAST we checked in with our intrepid state attorneys general one year ago, they had just served notice on the airlines that deceptive advertising practices would no longer be tolerated. The National Association of Attorneys General (NAAG) had formulated and adopted a series of “Guidelines for Air Travel Advertising” demanding honesty in the presentation of such things as discount-fare availability, hidden price surcharges, and rule changes in frequent-flier programs.
American Airlines will spend a cool $1 billion to construct a new terminal that will enable Dallas/Fort Worth to handle more passengers than O’Hare. The Federal Aviation Administration is kicking in $100 million (subject to congressional approval) to build new runways.
MEDICAL COSTS are devouring 11 percent of the nation’s GNP. Spiraling costs threaten to undermine the integrity of the entire health-care delivery system. What’s it to you? You say you work for a large corporation and you’ve got a good company health plan.
Pros figure, why have two good ideas, international diversification and small-company stocks, when you can have one big idea. Two new funds invested in foreign small-company stocks, T. Rowe Price’s International Discovery Fund and Review Management Corporation’s European Emerging Companies Fund, have minimum investments low enough to attract even modestly endowed big thinkers ($2,000 and $500, respectively).
AND I SAW THEM, rising over the hill like thunder, excessively young and strong, newly minted from the schools of the decadent East and the fruited Plains and the Great Northwest and even the beach-blanket nether regions of this great nation, and each did hanker to be in pinstripes, with collars that would torment their necks, and ties that bespoke nothing, and paisleyed braces that held up pants that were full unto bursting with salary plus bonus.
The idea is a gift. It comes or it doesn’t. But many creative people fail because they lack the organizational ability to transform an idea into reality, the way production designer Dean Tavoularis does for a living. And while his name may not be familiar outside the film industry, everyone knows his work—he’s the man responsible for the look of some of the most memorable films of the last quarter-century:
<p>Abbaye Saint-Germain. From the private terraces of the top-floor suites, the slate-gray mansards of Paris’s rooftops seem endless... breakfast en chambre, s’il vous plaît. Minutes from the Luxembourg Gardens, this seventeenth-century former convent is set back from the street in a serene courtyard.</p>
Hey! Sean Penn, Donald Trump, Harold Brodkey—read this twice and call us in the morning ∼
<p>HERE IS WHAT INTERESTS ME about Donald Trump: He wants to be famous. He wants people to talk about him. He wants people to notice him. He wants people to write about him. He wants people to ask him for autographs and recognize him and invade his privacy; not that he seems to have any privacy; he doesn’t even seem to have a single solitary thought he manages to keep to himself, so perhaps there’s no privacy to invade.</p>
<p>IT IS 2:30 IN THE MORNING in Manhattan, and a black stretch limousine is sailing downtown through the empty weekend streets. The air is crisp outside, and the windows of the car are too foggy to see through. Inside, it's warm. Robin Williams wraps his arms around his fiancée and nestles with her in the backseat.</p>
It came with japes and tears, everything but the duck ∼
<p>LIFE TAKES ODD TURNS, and mine veered at high velocity to Hollywood in the 1970s when, after years as a deskbound editor, I became editorial liaison for Reader’s Digest in its brief encounter with United Artists. I served as the magazine’s eyes and ears through two motion picture musicals (Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn), and the experience, even as I lived it, seemed to unfold like a film itself.</p>
It started as an intimate family wedding. Then came the choppers, the checkpoints, and the threat of paparazzi in rented llama suits. It ended as...
Michael J. Fox
<p>I got married last summer and the reviews were terrible. The <em>Globe</em> announced on its front page that the wedding had been “a fiasco.” The <em>National Enquirer</em> quoted an “insider” who reported that “people were nearly fainting as they staggered out after the ceremony. They were fanning themselves and gasping.” </p>
<p>ARTHUR MILLER AND I are first cousins. We grew up together, attended the same grammar school, played together. From 1920 to 1924, our families lived in the same apartment house on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, and in those days Arthur and I were far closer than the word cousin suggests.</p>
It’s not exactly Xanadu, but it’s only eleven minutes from home to home plate
SURE, YOU EXPECTED SOMETHING with a little more flash. We all did. Hey, the man earns more than $35,000 every time he hits a home run. You’ve got to bet that translates into something more than a modest three-bedroom condo within hearing distance of the highway that runs past the airport.
<p>ON DECEMBER 5, the opening day of the legislature in Sacramento, Assemblyman Tom Hayden enters his State House office, looking lawyerly in a well-cut blue suit. A friend has dropped by with his wife and their new daughter. Hayden performs the archetypal political gesture, kissing the cooing baby, and dips deep into his well of dark Sixties irony:</p>
COOKING, IN THE WRITTEN WORLD of Saul Bellow, is never just about food. Sex, yes; lunacy, often; life philosophy, sometimes. But it’s never just about food. Witness Bellow’s latest book, A Theft, in which all kinds of appetites simmer at once (“At work in the narrow New York galley-style kitchen, Clara was naked and wore clogs.
<p>MY GRANDFATHER could never seem to read the newspaper without rattling it (mostly at FDR); and much as one tries to resist the onset of crankiness, sometimes the Sarasota Herald Tribune begins to tremble in my hands. It’s appalling to read the newspaper!</p>
FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS, we D’Angelos have been doing our own laundry, and although fame has been kind to me, I’m still a traditional sort of gal. So every Saturday night, I give the servants time off and settle down with wine, Woolite, and a washtub.
<p> THERE IS THE FEEL of a cold offshore mist to the hospital room, a life-is-a-bitch feel, made sharp by the hostile ganglia of medical technology, plasma bags dripping, vile tubing snaking in and out of the body, blinking monitors leveling illusion, muffling existence down to a sort of digital bingo. The Champ, Muhammad Ali, lies there now, propped up slightly, a skim of sweat on his lips and forehead, eyes closed, an almost imperceptible tremor to his arms and head.
On the cover: Yohji Yamamoto red rayon jacket ($885) and trousers ($420) at Yohji Yamamoto, New York. For information contact: Yohji Yamamoto, 103 Grand Street, New York, New York 10013. New Republic Clothier cotton shirt ($75) at New Republic Clothier, 93 Spring Street, New York, New York 10012.
1. When I choke my wife, put my furniture through my living-room window, and wrap my car around a lawn jockey, as I do most every Tuesday and Thursday evening, not one national publication will call to interview me, even if I want them to. 2. No one is interested in tearing open my garbage and rifling through its contents, except perhaps for Muffin, the cat who lives across the street.