THE ESQUIRE EDITORS must think men to be remarkably schizophrenic if they include both Gloria Steinem and Barbara Dare in “Women We Love” (August). They’re right. —MICHAEL B. COWAN Burlington, Vt. I LOVE CANDICE BERGEN and Murphy Brown too.
FEW WRITERS RISK opprobrium like the young novelist WILLIAM VOLLMANN. A former Silicon Valley computer programmer turned libidinal Joseph Conrad, Vollmann has been attacked from the Left, the Right, and, yes, the dead center for having the temerity to broach subjects—prostitution, for instance—that many readers would prefer to shy away from, if not avoid altogether.
EVEN IN THIS recession-bound decade, people can dream, can't they?—if only about hunks of charred tuna that will sauté their names in history. Should your taste run both quixotic and entrepreneurial, you are directed to run, not walk, to David Blum’s piquant, spirited, and ultimately cautionary Flash in the Pan (Simon & Schuster).
WHEN HIGH TECH becomes ho-hum tech, call in the retro stylists. It happened to telephones, it happened to toasters, it happened to Waring blenders. It was bound to happen to electronics: “The challenge, ” the folks at Cicena unabashedly admit, “is to sell what you already have.”
THE RELEASE of a Sumptuous new compilation, the ten-CD Complete Billie Holiday on Verve 1945-1959, should give new life to an aesthetic debate that refuses to die. To wit, who is the real Billie, or at any rate, the best Billie? Is it the sexy delinquent who, in some kind of barely comprehensible genius trance that lasted from 1933 to 1942, tossed off 153 Tin Pan Alley numbers, thrown-together studio improvisations with saxophonist Lester Young and pianist Teddy Wilson that are among the founding documents of the Swing Era and of jazz at large?
The Buck Owens Collection (1959-1990), Buck Owens (Rhino): In the extensive notes to this long-overdue, three-CD box set, Owens, now sixty-three, says, “I’m from the Bob Wills and the Little Richard school of music”—and that pretty much sums it up.
Hometown, The Cages (Capitol): Here’s a rosy music-biz yam: Two Georgia farm boys pack up their guitars, fiddles, soprano sax, and dog pile into a van, and motor north to New York in search of stardom. Being Georgia farm boys, they have no agent and no demo tape of their homespun tunes, which they cluelessly insist on strumming up in person for the city’s legendarily distracted record executives.
“Heroin is habit-forming . . . rabbit-forming, Babbitt-forming.”
THEN Alexander Trocchi died at fifty-nine in 1984, hardly any one recalled that in the Next Great Novelist Sweepstakes of the 1950S (the era of the novelist as God), the young Trocchi had been anointed the leading contender to become his generation's "Joyce or Hemingway or— more likely—Orwell," according to his former colleague, editor Richard Seaver.
THIS IS ALL GOING TO END BADLY,” Walker Percy once said. “I'm going to end up old, broke, and a flasher.” Pshaw. The late Louisiana novelist (The Moviegoer being but one of his essential contributions) became the first “southern writer” to escape that genre prison.
BEFORE LIFE MAGAZINE editors would allow Peter Stackpole to be their premiere Hollywood photographer, they insisted he spend a year in New York taking “girl pictures.” He soon proved himself worthy and became Hollywood’s unofficial candid cameraman.
THE HOUSE is the real star of the film,” says Debra Wassman of Trumbull Architects, which created the house Goldie Hawn sits in Housesitter—Steve Martin merely plays the architect. Wassman and her partner, Jonathan Lanman, won a House Beautiful competition for the original.
IN THE 1980s, the rapacity of the man on the make was matched only by the preciousness of his footware. You remember those dress shoes, the high-vamped`, narrow-lasted leather slippers that were designed, one guesses, for dancing on the heads of business competitors.
TO ME, THE STAFF of life is a jalapeño pepper. Long before salsa outclassed ketchup in middle America, I was burning up the kitchen putting chilies into everything from coleslaw to cranberry sauce. So it’s a little embarrassing to admit that it took a guy from New Jersey by way of Minnesota to inspire me to mash my potatoes in a hot new way.
Too Many Gluten-Sensitive Vegan Self-Healers Spoil the Broth
THE FOLLOWING are cookbook titles from the 1992 Wellness catalog, published by New Leaf Distributing Company in Atlanta. Pass the Crisco. Allergy Recipes: Pre-Rotated Eats with Oats: The New Soluble Fibre Cookbook Sugar-Free... Microwavery Spirulina Cookbook Quick and Easy Recipes to Boost Your Immune System Recipes to Lower Your Fat Thermostat Tofu Quick and Easy*
THE PLACE: South of Market Street, a born-again wedge on the Bay in northeast San Francisco. Known, inevitably, as SoMa, this is the TriBeCa of the Left Coast—but it is less evolved, fewer burrs taken off of it. And in a city that craves housing, SoMa’s time has come: Its lofts are a ten-minute walk from the Financial District, $3 or $4 by cab from downtown; approval has been given for a metro extension; and, thanks to the ’89 quake, a waterfront boulevard will replace the Embarcadero Freeway.
<p>CHARLTON HESTON got a Call from John McLaughlin one June day in 1986. Would Hes" ton appear on his interview show One on One? McLaughlin wanted to know. Heston was an unlikely guest for a program that usually limits itself to politicos, but McLaughlin had a hidden agenda.</p>
<p>I RECENTLY FINISHED a novella, and the process so depleted my imaginative energies that I barely knew what to eat. One evening I came perilously close to eating nothing at all, somewhat like digging a big, densely empty hole in the day and leaving it unfilled.</p>
<p>I’M THINKING ABOUT Joey Buttafuoco. He’s a man on Long Island, not far from New York City, who allegedly had licentious relations with a sixteen-year-old girl. This man, who looks something like a water buffalo without the benign expression, allegedly rutted around in this fashion for quite some time, presumably enjoying shameless, exploitive, illegal, immoral, adulterous sex with a thin, pert minor with few inhibitions and what appears to be some kind of psychological need to become improperly involved with a person she, rightly or wrongly, perceived as a father figure.</p>
<p>I TOOK UP GOLF at the age of eleven or so, but I played it miserably and I hated it, and after a couple of years I gave it up. Then, roughly twenty-five years later, a friend invited me to play, and something clicked in my head. I spent five hundred dollars on equipment at Nevada Bob’s, took some lessons, and joined the little nine-hole golf club in my town.</p>
HOW THE POLITICIANS AND THE PUBLIC STOPPED READING NEWSPAPERS AND LISTENING TO SAM DONALDSON AND LEARNED TO
<p>The swarm of reporters hovered outside Blake’s coffee shop in Manchester, New Hampshire, waiting for the candidate to appear. Suddenly Bill Clinton stepped out into the New England cold—not that you could see him, of course. What you could see were the boom microphones and TV cameras and tape recorders, all diving toward the dense center, reporters frantic to capture the moment—that <em>gotcha!</em> question, that gaffe—that would kill one candidate’s quest for the presidency. </p>
LEADING LADY TO SCORSESE AND COPPOLA, THE TWENTY-ONE-YEAR-OLD FORMER DREAM TEEN IS SET AT LAST TO BECOME HER GENERATION’S FIRST GREAT ACTRESS—AND A TRULY FABULOUS BABE.
MICHAEL W. HIRSCHORN
<p>LIKE ALL COOL CHICKS OF OUR TIME, WINONA RYDER GOT HER FIRST WHIFF OF REBELLION FROM J. D. SALINGER. SHE WAS EIGHT WHEN SHE FIRST read The Catcher in the Rye—Dad’s a writer and bookdealer and an avowed nonconformist, so young Nonie got stuffed up with books early—too young, she thinks, to really bond in a teenage-girl kind of way with Holden Caulfield’s hyperpituitary postwar rebellions.</p>
LLOYD DANIELS IS A NEW YORK PLAYGROUND HERO WITH ICY MOVES AND A BULLET IN HIS BACK. JERRY TARKANIAN IS THE RENEGADE COACH WHO LURED HIM WEST, WHERE TOGETHER THEY FELL FROM GRACE. IN SAN ANTONIO, THE LAST QUARTER IS ABOUT TO BEGIN
<p>BALD, BONE-WHITE, wearing baggy sweats and clunky sneakers, Jerry “Tark the Shark” Tarkanian looks like a cross between Mr. Magoo and Yertle the Turtle as he paces the length of the hardwood floor of the Blossom Athletic Center in San Antonio, where the Spurs are holding their rookie/free-agent camp.</p>
<p>TO HELL WITH BRANDO in The Wild One. Forget the Fonz. And let’s not even talk about the motorcycle guy from the Village People. Those leather-jacket days are over. Sure, that stiff, cropped motorcycle jacket is still out there; but what today’s designers find appealing about leather—as with any other fabric—is redefining it.</p>
GIANNI VERSACE is a quiet man. His voice is gentle, almost timid, and it makes you lean in close to hear what he has to say. But there is nothing quiet about Versace's clothing. It has all the subtlety of a heavy-metal concert. Which is probably why Axl Rose loves it (and chose to be arrested in it last summer).
With a powerful remake of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, a cult hero of American theater takes his career to the next stage
GARY SINISE was a cocky sixteen-year-old, a long-haired rock ’n’ roll delinquent about to flunk out of high school when a teacher took him to see a production of John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. Sinise was mesmerized—who would’ve thought theater could be as explosive as a Jimi Hendrix guitar solo?
<p>IN NAME ONLY, Pricci is an abbreviated form of what was once Capriccio, a deluxe, Buckhead-baroque ristorante that never won a following despite its creditable cuisine. The owners therefore gutted the place, chucked the nudie statues and the gilt, and—$2 million later—debuted a dazzlingly modern, very hip Italian restaurant with roomy booths, copper accents, pin lights, Italian posters from the 1920s, a large open kitchen with a massive baking oven.</p>
AN AMERICAN JOURNALIST GOES TO SOUTHEAST ASIA IN PURSUIT OF SEX AND LOW-MINDED IMPERIALIST PLEASURES. HE FINDS A DELIRIUM OF PROSTITUTES AND BENADRYL, LOVE AND LAND MINES, SICKNESS AND DEATH. THE TWISTED X-RATED CHRONICLE OF A SOUL ON ITS WAY THROUGH HELL
<p>Once upon a time a journalist and a photographer set out to whore their way across Asia. They got a New York magazine to pay for it by claiming they were going to do a story about the Khmer Rouge. They each armed themselves with a box of condoms. The photographer, who knew such essential Thai phrases as very beautiful!, how much?, thank you, and I’m gonna knock you around! (topsa-lopsa-lei), preferred the extrastrength lubricated, while the journalist selected the nonlubricated with special receptacle end.</p>