In John Edgar Wideman’s essay “Michael Jordan Leaps the Great Divide” (November 1990), we learn that the author was an All—Ivy League basketball player; was a Rhodes scholar; has lost most of the body trajectory in his jump shot; and shares M.J.’s elbow problem.
<p>Over the years you’ve come to expect certain things in our columns. Hard-edged reporting from Pete Hamill. Compelling sports commentary from Mike Lupica. Humorous insight into men from Stanley Bing. And lively medical counsel from John Poppy.</p>
<p>Michael Ovitz was chewing gum. There he was, over near the wall of the Ziegfeld Theater, with the great Sydney Pollack, watching the dressy crowd find seats at the benefit premiere of Pollack’s <em>Havana,</em> and he was chewing gum. What an unexpected habit.</p>
There is something in the red-gold evening light on the ancient stones of Jerusalem that makes the idea of <em>holy land</em> seem more a matter of fact than faith. Jews and Arabs have been killing each other over the city on a hill for two thousand years.
Not long ago, Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters hit the road once again, nearly twenty-seven years after their maiden voyage. The mission: to drive their bus cross-country and donate it to the Smithsonian, so that generations yet unborn might see in it a model for liberating themselves from the constraints of some still-unforeseen twenty-first-century Eisenhower era.
<p>I have just read three long articles about Martin Luther King Jr.’s plagiarism, each gloomier than the last. Such analysis and soul-searching! It’s almost as if a world-famous Nobel Peace Prize laureate had stolen someone else’s ideas.</p>
<p>“The great black migration” is the phrase Nicholas Lemann uses again and again to describe the phenomenon at the center of his stunning new book, <em>The Promised Land</em> (Knopf), and early on he makes clear just how great a migration it was: “The black migration [from rural South to urban North] was one of the largest and most rapid mass internal movements of people in history—perhaps <em>the</em> greatest not caused by the immediate threat of execution or starvation.”</p>
<p>The friendship of Mike Katz, the boxing writer, and Vic Ziegel, the sports columnist and former editor, goes back to City College in the 1950s. They had been through everything together: triumph, disappointment, dumb good times, great meals, splendid nights in Paris (where Katz worked for the<em> Herald-Tribune</em>), rowdy nights at the Lion’s Head in New York, afternoons at a dozen different racetracks.</p>
<p>He had come all the way from the apartment above Hittleman’s Bakery on Park Avenue in Long Beach, New York, to the Puncheon Room at ‘21’ for his fiftieth-birthday party. It was not the routine trip from Park to the famous restaurant off Fifth, but then no trip has been routine for Larry Brown, traveling man, coach (on this night) of the San Antonio Spurs.</p>
It’s a Bird! It’s a Plane! It’s a Whiskey Submarine!
It’s a Bird! It’s a Plane! It’s a Whiskey Submarine !
<p>The young woman taking me around Washington, D.C., on my book tour this fall was the one who mentioned the submarine. She was telling me that the Russian navy had offered to sell one to Tom Clancy, the best-selling author of <em>The Hunt for Red October,</em> a thriller about a Russian commander who defects with his submarine to the West.</p>
<p>Where have all the thighs gone? Where are the thighs of yesteryear? This is not exactly a litany raised by many, but the heartfelt concern of a few. In recent memory I do not believe that I have entered a restaurant where thighs are allowed to stand alone proudly by themselves. I mean chicken thighs, though duck and turkey thighs are also lonely and neglected.</p>
<p>A corporation I know decided one day that it simply <em>had</em> to have this one, very large asset, fat and full of potential, that was on the trading block due to lack of sufficient funding for the debt service related to its previous change of hands. My pal Walt is president of the corporation that was considering the acquisition, and he wanted to deal very bad.</p>
<p>There’s a moment that sums up the lost elegance of the railroad dining car: Cary Grant in <em>North by Northwest,</em> cool even on the run, dining in grandeur as the landscape slips by outside. The dining cars of the great trains were always Hollywood, piling up the spectacle in a way no stationary restaurant ever had to.</p>
<p>I’ve always thought of radar detectors as being on a par with burglary tools—devices that only a person intent on committing a crime would own. Last spring, however, when a Georgia state trooper stopped me and refused to believe I had been driving at a cruise-controlled 55, I changed my mind.</p>
<p>It’s hard to say what it is the cabaret singer Andrea Marcovicci does without getting a little, um, <em>intimate:</em> You might as well be a newly initiated seventeen-year-old trying to tell your parents about the girl you’ve just lost it to.</p>
<p>If you had to find a symbol for Prague right now, a good place to look might be Charles Bridge. Lining the Gothic stone structure is a fantastic assortment of thirty-nine Baroque saints, whose upraised hands form a gauntlet of benediction that everyone in Prague has to pass through, sooner or later.</p>
<p>In 1964, linemen for the University of Florida Gators complained of losing as much as seventeen pounds in the 100-degree heat of home games. Dr. Robert Cade, a professor of physiology at the school, mixed up a simple beverage that would replace not only the water lost during exercise but also the carbohydrates and electrolytes. He called it Gatorade.</p>
<p>The Place: Seattle—about as far north and west as you can get without having to wear plaid. Capitol Hill is where doctors, lawyers, and college professors like to live when they’re not just outside town skiing, hiking, fishing, or chaining themselves to old-growth forests.</p>
FORGET RHETT AND SCARLETT-THIS IS THE ROMANCE FOR OUR AGE: PASSIONATE FUNDRAISING, SIMULTANEOUS AEROBICS, AND A MOST BODACIOUS COMMITMENT TO WORLD PEACE
From the porch of Lorne Michaels’s place in Amagansett you can hear the Atlantic Ocean chomping away at the dunes of Long Island. When the polar ice caps melt, this will be prime bluefish territory, but last summer it was all manicured lawns, magnificent flower gardens, and stately old trees lining the hundred-yard drive up from the road.
GET STINKING DRUNK ON BEER, OCCUPY A FOREIGN CITY, BEAT ITS INHABITANTS SENSELESS. LIFE IS BLOODY GOOD WHEN YOU'RE A FOOTBALL HOOLIGAN
<p>When the four buses carrying the English football supporters arrived, pulling up into the cool evening shadow cast by Turin’s Stadio Comunale, a large crowd was already there. Its size was hard to take in at first. The fact of the crowd—that its members would actually be loitering, waiting for the English to appear—was simply incomprehensible.</p>
<p>Much of the most fashionable art produced in the Eighties already seems stale and pretentious. The past decade was, in hindsight, one of pallid output—justified by obscure and academic critical precepts—yoked to an inflated market that mocked any reasoned assessment of quality. Cindy Sherman, unlike some of her colleagues, has survived the hype with her reputation intact.</p>
Years before Cindy Sherman began transmogrifying herself into any number of old-master images, a Japanese artist named Yasumasa Morimura was playing his own kind of visual tricks. The thirty-nine-year-old Morimura has since 1985 been inserting himself, Zelig-like, into the masterworks of European painting.
HAD IT ALL, LOST IT ALL, GOT IT AlL BACK, BLEW IT ALL AWAY. A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG CASUALTY
<p>In his life, as in his art, Seth Morgan created an appealing fiction—the same appealing fiction. His legacy as an artist is contained in a single novel, <em>Homeboy,</em> the tale of a charming, drug-addicted, dope-dealing, pimping, strip-show barker who finds salvation, gets the girl (the whore with the heart of gold), and rides his motorcycle into the sunset and, presumably, a happy ending.</p>
Tout le monde smirked at le Grand Jerry. Mais meanwhile he was chasing les jeunes filles avec J F K ! A bizarre tête-à-tête with France's genius and America's buffoon
<p>The drive into Las Vegas gives a truer sense of the city than the city does itself. Away from the explosion of lights and marquees, looking at it from the empty quarter, you can see how the great cow of civilization, bucking the laws of probability, must have wandered out here and lifted its tail so that this gritty outpost sprang up, fully fledged, like a psychotropic mushroom. </p>
<p>By now you know that clothes are more comfortable—jackets broader across the chest, trousers pleated and fuller, materials softer, and silhouettes subtler. But what does this have to do with ballet? These clothes, from this spring's European collection, can move.</p>
<p>If you work for somebody else and don’t give a damn whether you save a penny traveling, skip this piece. If, on the other hand, you’ve ever pondered the eternal question, “Are there any ways for a business traveler to save money on airfares?” I’ve got three words for you: Yeah, kind of.</p>
<p>Dear Lynn,</p><p>Sorry for the delay getting back to you—but that goddamn swine flu attacked me again, so I went back to sleep for three days. Maybe five. Who knows? Anyway, I’m awake now, and I think I just figured out what is wrong with me: I miss the constant fix of writing against deadlines.</p>