CHIP BROWN’S “The Accidental Martyr” (December 1993) is brilliant. In a former life in the U. S. military, I reviewed investigations and processed female and male military suspected and accused of homosexual tendencies, words, and deeds; and I prosecuted and defended military persons accused of “homosexual acts violating the uniform code of military justice.
I' VE SPENT MY LIFE in magazines, so for me Esquire is both an adventure and a homecoming. ¶ During Harold Hayes's great run at Esquire in the late '60s and early'70s, I was at Newsweek, where each week, it seemed, the story list read: Civil Rights, Assassination, Vietnam, Watergate.
AS KEITH RICHARDS was rumored to have done through much of the Seventies, magazines also need to change their blood occasionally. They do that by bringing in new writers, and this month we introduce two fresh voices to our pages—John Taylor and Jeannette Walls—and welcome back a third— Julie Baumgold.
H. R. Haldeman may be dead, but he's still got Dick Nixon to kick around. Due to arrive this summer from G. P. Putnam are the former White House chief of staffs detailed diaries of his years with Nixon, and, says an industry source, "Nixon gets slammed.
DOMINIQUE de Anfrasio, who runs the barbershop at the Pierre hotel in New York, recently got an urgent call from someone working for "an anonymous individual." The caller explained that his "VIP" client needed a haircut and that he wanted to rent a private room at the Pierre barbershop.
WHILE SOME heads on Wall Street are still spinning from the $1 billion in bonuses that was divided among the partners at Goldman, Sachs, it's pocket change compared with Julian Robertson's modest little Christmas present. Robertson, who runs New York’s Tiger Management, received close to $350 million, industry sources say.
FORMER WHITE HOUSE staffer Steve "the Rabbi" Rabinowitz recently broke a littleknown commandment: Don't piss off the pope. Rabinowitz, who was one of President Clinton's top aides, was in charge of photo ops during the pope's visit to Denver last summer.
CALLING THE publisher of The New York Times a space cadet may not be such an insult. Arthur "Pinch" Sulzberger Jr., the forty-two-year-old head of the paper of record, happily admits he is a Trekkie. When Sulzberger assumed the helm of the Times last year, his cousin, Dan Cohen, and a friend, banker Steven Rattner, held a roast in his honor and revealed that, tragically, Sulzberger had failed to realize his first ambition:
YOU WON'T CATCH Jerry Garcia dead in one of his neckties. Last year, the Grateful Dead head introduced a line of necktiesthey retail for about $35—that feature his drawings. But apparently Garcia draws the line when it comes to pitching his creations on TV; he turned down the Home Shop ping Network and QVC.
THE POLITICAL consulting partnership of David Doak and Robert Shrum may be headed toward a professional Chappaquiddick, and once again Ted Kennedy is in the driver's seat. The two partners of Doak, Shrum, Harris, Carrier, Devine are perhaps irrevocably divided over their recent acquisition of the senator as a client.
IT'S GOOD TO HAVE friends in high-Income tax brackets. Last summer, Ron Perelman, who owns Revlon and is worth an estimated $3.6 billion, was admiring a custom-made Barnstable catboat docked near his Georgica Pond home in East Hampton, New York.
THE ONLY ONE lower than Socks Clinton on the White House scratching pole may be writer Sally Quinn. It seems Quinn began clawing at Hillary during the presidential campaign, when she wrote condescendingly about the Clintons. Lately, though, Quinn has been taking swipes at the thin-skinned First Lady.
OBVIOUSSLY Yasir Arafat's image problem has been just a matter of bad public relations. Or so thinks Pierre Salinger, the former press secretary to John F. Kennedy, who is eager to handle the PLO leader's PR. Salinger, who works in the Washington office of Burson-Marsteller, presented the idea last fall.
IS BEING host of a tabloid TV show preparation for national office? Bill O'Reilly believes it is. The anchor of Inside Edition is contemplating running for the House of Representatives. O'Reilly says he was called several years ago by George Bush's then-political director, Ronald Kaufman, who asked him to run against Massachusetts representative Barney Frank.
Roseanne Arnold has been known to make a fellow or two see red, but not onscreen. The producers of a movie that's being called a woman's Fugitive couldn't land the TV heavyweight. Roseanne was initially interested in Dream Girl, because she's been looking for a role that's nontraditional and nonsexist.
DON'T SEND that fondue pot to Jeffrey Masson and Catharine MacKinnon just yet. Janet Malcolm's favorite psychiatrist and Carlin Romano's favorite antipornography feminist shocked colleagues last year when they announced that they were engaged, but lately MacKinnon has told people the marriage “may never happen.”
EVEN FOR PEOPLE WHO don't normally go in for this sort of thing, the glamorous almost-nudes of Allerto Vargas have a certain charm. There's nothing smutty about his work, even when it is shrunk to trading-card size, a format associated with baseball players and vintage French photos.
THE MINIDISC wants to do to the cassette tape what the CD did to the LP: kill it dead. The MD itself is about half the size of a CD and permanently housed in its own cunning plastic case. Last year, you could buy a MiniDisc machine larger than a portable CD player.
EARTHQUAKES, fires, riots, Michael Jackson, and Heidi Fleiss notwithstanding, L. A. is still the fulcrum and factory of the American dream. Images of calamity still fresh in our minds, we might remind ourselves of the reasons we've always loved the city.
IT SEEMS A GOOD chunk of America has been following Amy Brenneman into her bedroom Tuesday nights as she becomes Officer Janice Licalsi in ABC's hit cop show, NYPD Blue. Every other episode or so, Brenneman, who, in what seems like another life, was a comparative-religion major at Harvard, clutches the pale, vulnerable, Catholic butt of Detective John Kelly (David Caruso) and takes prime-time television to a realm of sexuality it has never before visited.
THIS IS THE way you're going to eat in the second half of the 199os: For lunch you'll drop into a little trattoria with a name like I Matti ("the crazies") for grilled bruschetta topped with white beans, pancetta, garlic, onions, and olive oil, or a plate of polenta with braised sausage in tomato sauce.
WHO'S TO say what is crazy? Can we safely dismiss Dr. John Mack, esteemed professor of psychiatry at Harvard Medical School and Pulitzer Prize winner, who came to the realization on January 10, 1990 ("one of those dates . . . when everything in your life changes”)
ALTHOUGH HE was England's finest painter since Turner, Francis Bacon was known there as much for his notorious personal life (lived "between the gutter and the Ritz"), his preference for rough trade, and his habit of wearing fishnet stockings and garters beneath his trousers as for the horrible beauty of his art.
HIDDEN SO WELL for so long, the seusitive, introspective side of John McEnroe has now emerged. The tennis star, who, it turns out, has very quietly been collecting art since he was twenty, has just opened the John McEnroe Gallery in New York’s SoHo.
NOBODY HAS HAD ANYTHING good to say about Senator Bob Packwood's diary—not even Packwood, who warned that it contained enough sexual filth about the Senate's most august members that they'd be ruined if it were ever made public. Squalid as Packwood makes himself and his diary sound, I do admire him.
But, when necessary, Hillary can sure take him to the cleaners
IT WAS LONG after midnight, and the light from a single gooseneck table lamp cast eerie shadows in the Lincoln sitting room. The President, dressed in his white terry-cloth Arkansas Razorbacks robe, sat motionless in an armchair, a hardback mystery novel lying closed on his lap.
A song of novelist Paul Watkins, or the new obsession with memoirizing the lightly lived life
PAUL WATKINS SEEMS just to have emerged from a vole hole. We're nibbling away at our respective afternoon snacks at Princeton's P. J.'s Pancake House, a local landmark bent on retaining a minimal aura of collegiate idyll. Watkins, who teaches at two nearby prep schools, taps at a suggestive agglutination of sausage—"just like in England," he says with disgust and fondness—and haltingly tries to explain why he wrote Stand Before Your God, a memoir of life as an American at England's Dragon and Eton prep schools.
Why Charlie Ward should stiff-arm the glamour of the NBA and rescue the NFL from its kicking game
THE LAST TIME he touched the ball on a college-football Saturday, in an ancient movie set called the Orange Bowl, Charlie Ward did what college-football heroes are supposed to do. He took his team dowm the fie1d and won the national championship the way he had won the Heisman Trophy.
HOW MANY LIES do you tell in a day? I don't tell that many. Actually, that's not completely true. Actually, I lie constantly, like a rug, from the time first thing in the morning when I say, "Good morning, bud, you look great!" (when it isn't, and he doesn't) to the last nanosecond of the ten-hour shift, when I tell Bland, our midwestern vice-president, that his position in the corporation is “eminently viable at this juncture,” when I know for a fact he’ll be gone by the time the cicadas are in bloom.
The casting of Tom Cruise as the lead in the $50million movie Interview with Vampire has set off a classic Hollywood ego brawl. Anne Rice is squalling. David Geffen is fuming. And Neil Jordan is just confused. Meanwhile, the star is left asking: Why does everybody hate me?
<p>IT ACTUALLY WAS a dark and stormy night. Angry thunderheads cloaked Houston's Hobby International Airport, and flash-flood warnings were being broadcast on the radio. forecast was for as much as ten inches of rain before the end of the day.</p>
How one American family got caught up in today’s witches’ brew of sexual abuse, the Sybil syndrome, and the perverse ministrations of the therapy police
JUDEE SMITH was cleanng the breakfast dishes when the doorbell rang late on the morning of June 17, 1992. She wasn't expecting anyone, but in Lexington Park, a small, prosperous town next to the Patuxent River naval base off the Chesapeake Bay in southern Maryland, people occasionally dropped by without advance word.
Easy Emeralds and bleeding rhododendrons—an Indian tribe hits the jackpot as gambling and Sinatra come to the Mashantucket Pequots.
FRANK SINATRA WALKS in the door and the wind follows him. It blows his black satin bomber jacket with the emblems on it flat against his back. For a moment he is lost, despite the entourage moving him along, despite his wife, Barbara. There is a bronze statue of some Indians and a small, surprised crowd held back on both sides by state troopers.
<p>AN ARTIFICIAL CHRISTMAS TREE stands in a corner of the waiting room, with a bunched-up bed sheet at its base feigning snow. Unmatched pieces of cheap furniture, some wicker, some plastic, are arranged awkwardly around the edges of the room.</p>
His friends and family have tried to turn River Phoenix into a martyr for a fallen earth. But as they struggle to craft meaning out of a squalid drug death, they've begun to wonder how well they ever really knew him.
HEART PHOENIX sat on the edge of the stage and beckoned everyone near. The 150 people in Paramount Studios' screening room gathered around like disciples. A short, tan woman with graying hair, Heart has a saintly way of soothing fears. The mourners needed her now; her son River's memorial service had been wrenching.
A LONG TIME AGO, in a stinky, chemical primordial swamp, a single-celled organism, used to reproducing by dividing and sloughing off an exact copy of itself, decided to mix it up with another, distantly related organism. Thus, in the interest of genetic variety, species hardiness, and plain old fun was sex invented, and all descendants of that seminal act have been obsessed with it ever since.
AS SOON AS THE SHAMAN saw Isabel, he closed his eyes and shook his maraca as if to ward off the sight. Though she had grown accustomed to going naked like the Indians, for this occasion she had tucked around her waist a kind of sarong that she had earlier fashioned—to protect her legs from thorns and stinging insects when gathering food in the wild for AntÔnio's household—of the dress of navy-blue silk covered with small red flowers, which she had once worn, in all innocence, to Chiquinho's ranch house, on another occasion when she had wished to present herself favorably.
THERE WERE THREE VERSIONS of how my brother Blake met his death. In the first, Blake and Mark both go for their guns and Blake is outdrawn. In the second, the two of them argue, Blake throws a punch, Mark pulls a gun and fires. The third and most plausible version is the ambush in which Mark jumps from a car and shoots Blake six times, three of them in the back.
<p>In an anteroom outside the Politburo Chamber in the Hall of the Soviets in the Kremlin. March 1985. Two Politburo members are talking. A samovar stands nearby, brewing tea. VASSILY VOROVILICH SMUKOV. People are not capable of change. They used to be, maybe, but not anymore.</p>
<p>DOROTHY HALFORD OVERTOOK them in the foyer. With a free hand, she waved a little celery canoe at them. </p><p>—Ben, Elena! Wonderful, wonderful. So wonderful to see you. </p><p>With an adolescent sexual pout, Dot kissed the air near Ben's ear and crushed Elena in a manic hug.</p>
To Bruce Morrissette November 16, 1928 Charlottesville, Virginia
AT FIVE MINUTES after ten I darkened the room. I had read my mail, among which was your card of instructions. I laid myself into a pile of cushions on my bed, covered my head tight with a quilt, and uncorked the bottle of ether. It was a few minutes before my extremities began to freeze.
Klein's double play, simply chic spring looks, bold shirts and ties
AS DIANA VREELAND once said, "Elegance is refusal." That tidy maxim might also describe the design ethos of Calvin Klein, who was honored last month as designer of the year for both men's and women's fashions by the Council of Fashion Designers of America.
THE FASHION PEACOCKS have been strutting around a lot lately, but in the long run less is certainly more. Going with high-quality essentials—a white shirt, a cardigan, a black suit—is timeless and the real way to stand out from the flock.
ALLOWING A STRANGE MAN to fiddle between your legs with a piece of chalk—let alone a few pins—requires a certain amount of trust. But no matter how much faith you have in a tailor, there's no substitute for having firsthand knowledge of what he's doing.
New, young looks come from the night. On these pages, three trendsetting groups that don’t take their fashion lying down.
The free spirits: This nocturnal clique may herald an unlikely avant-garde. Ripped jeans, cut T-shirts, and shapeless, oversize sweaters give them a lost-boy look. Their scene is dance tracks, not needle tracks, despite the dreaminess of their demeanor.
THE ONLY PLACE THE WORD Oldsmobile appears on the 1995 Aurora, due in showrooms this month, is in little tiny letters on the radioor more specifically, on the premium Bose Acoustimass sound system. A couple of years ago, in General Motors' darkest days, there was talk of dropping altogether the name that Ransom Eli Olds first applied to mass-produced runabouts when Henry Ford was still tinkering in a stable.
THEY WAL-MART the bluegrassed valleys, put a satellite dish on every flat space, shrink-wrap the catfish, but the South just gets stranger and stranger, God bless its pinheaded heart. Reminds me of the time I got my ass kicked forty miles outside Montgomery.
FRANCIS FUKUYAMA, that wacky fun-loving utopianist, asserted in 1989 that the end of history was at hand. Its disappearance apparently meant that one day we would all live in liberal democracies and consume to our heart's content. That would be cool, right? For a coal miner in Katowice, Poland, history's departure might indeed be cause to break out the vodka.
The New Simplicity, page 141: Yohji Yamamoto pour Homme vest ($630), trousers ($410), and shirt ($290) at Yohji Yamamoto, New York; Maxfield, Los Angeles; June Blaker, Chicago. For information contact; Yohji Yamamoto, 103 Grand Street, New York, New York 10013.
OH, MY LOVE, my darling, I hunger for your touch." Could there be a whiter wedding? It's a winterland bower, a snow-blinding ice forest dripping with frosty fairy crystals and weeping willows made of white orchids and tuberoses, and Marla Maples is marrying Donald Trump in the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel under the crystal teardrops.