THE COVER OF YOUR April issue gave me a great idea: How about running a story on Ellen Barkin? Philip Weiss’s exposé (“Ellen Barkin Goes Mano a Mano”) of his own interviewing technique was fascinating, but Barkin is, after all, a celebrity, and I’ll bet a lot of your readers would love to hear what she has to say.
OUR COVER STORY this month is about sex. Good, bad, kinky, boring, gay, straight...you get the idea. Perhaps you’ve even had some. One of the interesting things about the article—and there are many—is its by-line: Anonymous. The most notorious anonymous article we’ve ever published (and arguably the most notorious article we’ve ever published) is “Latins Are Lousy Lovers,” which knocked Don Juans everywhere down to size.
IF IT IS TRUE THAT YOU LEARN MORE ABOUT people by listening to them talk about money than you do by sleeping with them, we should all know a lot more about each other than we did a short time ago. Money talks, sure, but now more than ever, people talk about money.
THE MERE FACT OF THE GRID IS surprising. Row upon row of ugly industrial structures photographed before a woolly gray sky. Bernd and Hilla Becher let no sentiment creep into these images of blast furnaces, no empathic smile, no captured moment of tender shared cognition; the pictures are a nightmare for every mush-head who ever felt compelled to hang a rabbit poster that reads, YOU’RE NO BUNNY TILL SOME BUNNY LOVES YOU.
By Charles Bowden (W. W. Norton) Not a single conventional save-the-earth piety sweetens this intense meditation on rapacity in the desert, where the predators include not only mountain lions but homicidal drug dealers, hungry Indians, and S&L scamster Charles Keating.
50 Simple Things You Can Do to Make a Buck Off the Earth
SOME ARE MADE FROM GARBAGE, SOME JUST ARE garbage. All are real, culled from “green” mail-order catalogues and press releases, of which there are an alarming number these days. Laid out page by page, they would cover the country to a depth of several inches.
James Brown (Polydor): An astonishing document: seventy-one tracks, spread over four CDs and nearly thirty years, in which the great good-foot god earns every appellation ever strewn his way. Brown’s deconstruction of the dance-floor beat has by now become so pervasively influential, it seems almost a feat of genetic engineering— flailing limbs have never twitched in quite the same way since.
<p>ONE RAINY MORNING this past spring, Colin Powell went home at last to Morris High School in the South Bronx. He had been gone for thirty-seven years. But now Powell was one of the most famous generals in recent American history, thanks to the crisp poise and tough intelligence he displayed on television during the seven months of Operation Desert Shield/Storm, and he was proving that, for at least a morning, you can go home again.</p>
FROM NOW ON, we will call them the Andre Awards—Andres—for the most annoying people in the world of sports. They are named, of course, after that tennis player, the single most annoying athlete in the world. ¶ Once you make the list—and Andre Agassi sure made the list in 1990—you cannot be honored the next year.
IN MARCH I GOT A GALL from the Late Night with David Letterman show from a Mr. Frank Gannon, a producer and what is known in the talk-show trade as a segment coordinator. I was out of town at the time, but the message was that he had an interest in the column I had written in these pages about April Fools’ Day, and he left a number to call.
WAKE UP, MAGGOT. SMELL THE COFFEE. You can even have a cup. Then prepare for the most painful fifteen minutes of your career. You’re not going to like it. It’s gonna hurt, but we’re going to go through our briefcases. And when we’re done, you won’t have a shred of your collected self left.
MY INTRODUCtion to hangovers came vicariously through a math teacher. His name was Mr. Tatum, but we called him the Prince of Darkness because at least once a week we’d file in for class and find him sitting with the lights out, the shades drawn, and a grim look on his face.
IF BEFORE LONG YOUR car contains a computer to guide you to your destination, you’ll have Rupert Murdoch to thank. A few years ago, a Silicon Valley start-up called ETAK came out with the Navigator electronic road map. But nobody bought it—except the media magnate.
I'LL PREFACE THIS story with another story. Last spring, at a large Cineplex in Los Angeles, the guy behind the popcorn counter asked me (and I swear this is verbatim): “Would I be taking anything away from your unique qualities if I said you looked like someone else?”
Get a bat. A wood bat. There are three makes to choose from7#x2014;Hillerich & Bradsby, Adirondack, and Worth— but true Americans will, of course, do the right thing: Pick up an H&B Louisville Slugger. Recommended weight: 32 ounces; recommended length: 35 inches (proportions based on current majorleague norms).
EVERY CHILD WHO grows up in Kansas learns implicitly to fear tornadoes, the dark, dirty funnels that come boring across the plains and drive toothpicks through telephone poles. Perhaps that is why when Mike Coup was three or four, he found a special comfort bouncing a beach ball off the invisible column of air streaming from a neighbor's old Vornado fan, made right there in Wichita, a chubby metal-cowled machine, friendly as an old Nash or a Boeing Stratocruiser.
For nearly thirty years, the killer of civil-rights leader Medgar Evers escaped justice. Now the rearrest of Byron De La Beckwith raises up the ghosts of racism past.
MY FIRST COMMUNICATION FROM Byron De La Beckwith was a postcard from the Hamilton County jail. I had sent him a letter asking for an interview. “You most certainly will hear from me,” he wrote in his cramped, furious script, “as soon as my reply works through the bowells of SATAN....”
FROM ROME IN THE '50S TO NEW YORK IN THE '90S, A SEXUAL MEMOIR WITHOUT REGRETS
<p>THIS WAS AT A PARTY IN DOWNTOWN MANhattan some years ago. I had run into Katy—for reasons that will be blindingly clear, some identities will be hidden in what follows—who is skinny, funny, if a bit of a trapeze artist in the mood-swing department.</p>
A trick question: Properly identify V2. Is it a) a small but formidable peak in the Himalayas? or b) the diet version of a popular vegetable drink? The answer in a moment, but first, a few words about the actors on this page. Christian Slater, Costas Mandylor, Richard Grieco, and Patrick Dempsey can be seen this month in Mobsters, ers have been launching alternative lines with names that are usually derivative of their own—Joseph Abboud’s JA II or Giorgio Armani's Emporio Armani—in addition to their couture collections.
ASSUMING YOU'RE BORED WITH bucks and sick of (or sickened by) sandals, there is a comfortable alternative. Woven-leather shoes can dress up a linen suit, tropical-weight trousers, or your favorite pair of jeans. So this summer, why not stay cool from heel to toe?
A $1,000,000 insult beats a $300,000 insult any damn day
IN THICK, THREE-RING binders with pink and yellow, blue and green pages, each Hollywood studio rates from 1,200 to 1,500 screen-writers. The alphabetical A-lists usually begin with Jim Abrahams and end with his ex-partners David and Jerry Zucker—the three writer-directors of Airplane!—and they always include Woody Allen.
<p>SEVERAL YEARS AGO my five-year-old daughter bounced into my study and found me hunched and miserable over my typewriter, feeling like a housewife who couldn’t get her stove to boil water. Kate wanted to know why I wouldn’t play with her. “Because I’m stuck.”</p>
<p>DID YOU EVER HAPPEN TO CATCH "KILL Me on July 20th"? An episode of Kraft Suspense Theater? In 1965, maybe '66? Jack Kelly starred? You may not have noticed, but I had the story credit. My first screen credit ever. Two point three seconds over Jack Kelly driving on a freeway—I timed it.</p>
IN 1932 DIRECTOR Howard Hawks went hunting with his friends Clark Gable and William Faulkner After a while the conversation turned to books, and the movie star asked the novelist who he thought the best living writers were. "Ernest Hemingway," answered Faulkner, "Willa Cather, Thomas Mann, John Dos Passos, and William Faulkner."
LIFE WAS A WHIRLWIND OF STARLETS, STORY CONFERENCES, AND GLAMOROUS LIMO RIDES. UNFORTUNATELY, BUD WIGGINS LIVED ALONE, MANGLED THE PITCHES, AND DROVE THE LIMO
<p>OUT OF THE BLUE ONE AFTERNOON, Bud Wiggins got a call from a Peter Dietrich, who said he was a writer for the Calendar section of the Los Angeles Times. He said he'd met Bobby Feld at a party and the agent had suggested he call Bud. He was doing an article on Hollywood Writers and was talking to as many of them as he could.</p>
WARREN BEGGED HIM TO DIRECT. ANJELICA LOVED HIS PAINTINGS. JODIE WANTED TO CLEAR A FEW THINGS UP. AND THE LEGENDARY ELENA CANTATA CRAVED HIS BODY. Is HOLLYWOOD A DREAM OR WHAT?
<p>THINGS HAD BEEN UP AND DOWN FOR ETHAN WEISE, and it was hard knowing: Was the West Coast the best place? California certainly wasn't Wisconsin, where Ethan had grown up. And Los Angeles wasn't Detroit; it wasn't even New York, where he'd studied painting and made his first couple stabs.</p>
IN THIS STORY, ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY ESQUIRE IN 1940, THE DOWN-AND-OUT PAT HOBBY DISCOVERS ONE OF HOLLYWOOD'S MOST ENDURING LESSONS: WHY HAVE AN IDEA WHEN YOU CAN STEAL ONE?
F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
<p>PAT HOBBY COULD ALWAYS GET ON THE LOT, he had worked there fifteen years on and off—chiefly off during the past five—and most of the studio police knew him. If tough customers on watch asked to see his studio card, he could get in by phoning Lou, the bookie.</p>
Nearly every famous director, actor, and producer wanted a piece of Peter Matthiessen's celebrated novel—John Huston, Paul Newman, Milos Forman, David Bowie, Richard Gere. Twenty-five years later, it's about to hit the screen. Along the way, a studio collapsed, a rain forest disappeared, and a man was hung upside down by his testicles
<p>LONG BEFORE PROFESSOR DARCU TRIED to slow the blue Morpho butterflies with rum, a Hollywood legend had formed around the by-line of Peter Matthiessen. The author’s fame in the land of hyphenated job descriptions had little to do with the breadth of his résumé, the fact that he had co-founded The Paris Review a year out of college, or that as a self-taught naturalist he had produced a landmark survey of North American wildlife.</p>
On pages 70 and 71: Studio 000.1 by Ferre suit ($725) at Barneys New York, New York; Beau Brummel, New York; Syd Jerome, Chicago; The Forum, Miami; Fred Hayman, Beverly Hills. For information contact: Marzot-to U.S.A. Corporation, 1290 Avenue of the Americas, Suite 1437, New York, New York 10104.
FOR THOSE OF YOU who couldn't snare a reservation for love or money at Metro, 150 Wooster, Huberts, Sofi, or Canal Bar when they opened, yours is the last laugh. Despite being among the hottest tickets in town as recently as a year ago, all have gone belly-up for lack of business.
Hilton Hotels and sister company Hilton International have teamed up to create an international corporate-rate program, guaranteeing exact room rates to travelers (from qualifying companies) at more than four hundred Hiltons in forty-seven nations.