JUST RECEIVED your February issue and turned straightaway to “When Camille Met Tim” (by Camille Paglia). I must tell you that five pages was such a tease: Allen with his fabulously basic, tongue-in-cheek masculinity and Paglia, possibly the most sensible woman I've ever read.
Bruce Willis and Jay Mclnerney vaguely remember meeting each other—the first time, that is. They do recall that it was in New York in the early eighties, and it may have been at Cafe Central, where Willis tended bar, or Kamikaze, where Willis tended bar, or Heartbreak, where.... Both men were set to begin their respective ascents— Mclnerney with his debut novel, Bright Lights, Big City, and Willis with his TV series, Moonlighting—and were, shall we say, feeling celebratory.
Rosa Lopez, O. J. Simpson’s airtight alibi, was friendly with Michele Abudrahm, the Simpsons’ maid whom Nicole allegedly slapped. But as we know, Lopez can have a selective memory. “We are both housekeepers,” Lopez told the court, “and we earn our living by the sweat of our brow.”
Now THAT James Carville's role in the Clinton administration has been redefined, part of the slack has been picked up by political consultant Robert Shrum, the longtime Ted Kennedy adviser who recently split with his partner, David Doak.
WHEN Dustin Hoffman didn’t like the ending of his new film, Outbreak, he asked Maya Angelou to rewrite the script. After all, if she’s good enough to compose poetry for a presidential inauguration, she ought to be able to get the bugs out of a killer-virus film.
Barbara Walters will not be denied. Diver Greg Louganis, who revealed that he has AIDS, had promised Walters an exclusive, but he had also committed to a cover story in Out magazine, which would hit the stands shortly after her interview. Sources say that when Walters’s people heard that copies of Out were circulating, they called editor Michael Goff—though he denies this—and insisted that no issues be distributed before the official release date.
ONCE you’re bored perusing the White House home page on the World Wide Web, why not go in search of really big prey: naked celebrities in cyberspace. The Web, an unregulated area of the information superhighway, can suck in even the most reluctant net surfer and is filled with all sorts of naughty bits.
WALL STREET S toP investigative firm, Kroll Associates, recently made the Watergate burglars look like Willie Sutton, thanks to a bungled snoop job. Kroll’s reputation was built in the eighties on its digging up dirt on the likes of T. Boone Pickens and Sir James Goldsmith for firms such as Salomon Brothers and Shearson Lehman.
POSING NUDE for Playboy and doing a little kickboxing may have finally tamed novelist Patti Davis, daughter of Ronald and Nancy Reagan. Davis, who publicly feuded with her father when he was president, is now writing a loving tome about him.
PITY Michael Kinsley. He may be about to trade in his frequent Crossfire adversary Pat Buchanan—who will likely run for president in 1996— and it might be for Arianna Stassinopolous Huffington, new-age author and more interesting half of former congressman Michael Huffington.
IN-LAw problems have apparently prompted a name change at Harvard. The Joan Shorenstein Barone Center on the Press, Politics, and Public Policy at the Kennedy School is literally going back to its maiden name—the Joan Shorenstein Center—and sources say it’s because the San Francisco real estate tycoon who funded the $5 million center and named it after his daughter didn’t much care for the guy she married, political pundit Michael Barone.
A FIELD OF water betrays the spirit that is in the air.’ Henry David Thoreau.” So intones the Ken Burns-style voice on the promotional video for Walden Paddlers. Thoreau has become the spokesphilosopher for Walden, freely cited in support of its line of innovative plastic kayaks.
IF SATAN WORE a powdered wig and rouge, he’d look a lot like Archie Cunningham, the sadistic fop played to a lisping T by Tim Roth in the kilt-and-castle epic Rob Roy. Roth, last seen knocking off a Valley diner with Amanda Plummer in Pulp Fiction, here swaps his .38 for a rapier.
IN 1971, Black Panther leader Huey Newton praised a new film, Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, in the party’s newspaper. The film, about a street hustler turned social revolutionary, launched the career of pioneering black director Melvin Van Peebles and included a performance by his ten-year-old son, Mario.
IN MY CALLOW youth, I thought it the height of sophistication to take a Sarah Lawrence girl to one of the little French bistros in New York’s Theater District, where, for less than $20, we would linger over onion soup, coq au vin, and crème caramel amid yellowed stucco, faux timbers, and shiny copper pots.
You DON’T do white water. The thought of big rapids gives you waking nightmares. Then your spouse surprises you with a birthday river trip. A week on Idaho’s famous River of No Return, the Salmon. Beach camping, a lot of serious white water.
This year, Bob and Bill must help each other kill Newt and Phil, so that next year, they can get down to business and kill each other
<p>THEY JUST DON’T MAKE one hundred days like they used to. In little more than fourteen weeks, Napoleon escaped from Elba, raised an army, and took on the rest of Europe at Waterloo. (So he lost.) In a breathless three-months-plus flurry of activism, FDR closed the banks, seized control of the economy, and laid the foundation for the New Deal.</p>
His baseball career may have been down-to-earth, but Michael Jordan’s return to basketball is pure heaven
FRANK SINATRA, who is supposed to be retiring for good now at the age of seventy-nine, retired once before. It happened on June 13, 1971, to be exact. Sinatra sang “Angel Eyes,” finished with the line, “’Scuse me while I disappear,” and then the stage went black at the Ah manson Theatre in Los Angeles.
You don’t need to be rich or drunk to love Las Vegas. Yeah, right.
<p>ON THE WAY OUT: They don’t serve meals on airplanes anymore. You have to be on a nine-hour flight to Sri Lanka to get one. But the snack is quite enough for me in my current festive mood— turkey bologna on a roll with jalapeño peppers on it, an apple, some crackers, a chunk of processed-cheese food, and an oatmeal-cookie sandwich with marshmallow filling.</p>
With his career reignited, the kid from Carneys Point, New Jersey, has a boys’ night out in the big city. Old habits die hard.
<p>SINCE THE PLEISTOCENE, royalty have employed tasters to check for arsenic and excess MSG, but if you work for Bruce Willis, he gets to taste your food. “Lemme have a bite of your cheesesteak,” he says to Avi Korein, his bodyguard of eight years, after Avi makes a run into Larry’s Pizza, Steak, and Hoagie on the corner of Second and Chestnut in Philadelphia and returns to the black Suburban, laden with eats.</p>
BABY-BOOM SLACKERS ARE LEADING US INTO A FUTURE OF EXIT STRATEGIES, “VOLUNTARY SIMPLICITY,” AND THE END OF THE WORK ETHIC AS WE KNOW IT
<p>IN NORTHGATE, A SEATTLE neighborhood of sturdy homes and limitless vistas, a support group meets twice a month to help its members through the emotionally wrenching, physically demanding withdrawal from addiction. Among them tonight are an accountant, a college administrator, a computer-company founder, and a state-government employee.</p>
<p>WHO WILL MAKE the decision?" I ask Hank Cattaneo, the man who has guided Frank Sinatra on and off stages from Dallas to Munich since 1982. "Frank," he replies. Cattaneo, a sweet-heart of a guy with melancholy eyes, is not the fellow you’d expect to find in this job.</p>
WE’RE HOME, DEAR,” we called, closing the door behind us. “Back from the jungle. Returned from the rat race. Pausing in our postdoctoral work at the school of hard knocks.” From the bedroom, we heard our companion—on this occasion, supermodel Angie Everhart, soon to be seen with David Caruso in Jade—call to us. “Hard day?”
At four, he was a prodigy, trading forehands with Jimmy Connors. By twenty-one, he was merely a class clown. So Andre Agassi started over—got a haircut, studied hard, and found a sweetheart. Who says school sucks?
<p>IT WAS A WET, OVERCAST morning in Las Vegas when the journey to Brooke Shields began. The private jet was beaded with desert rain. As Andre Agassi looked out the small porthole, he raised his middle finger, then chuckled a little sweetly. A photographer was on the tarmac, taking pictures for<em> Sports Illustrated</em>.</p>
For the jineteras, the once-nice girls who haunt the discos in Castro’s decaying capital, this is the way the revolution ends: with a bang, a whimper, and six bars of soap from a Mexican businessman
<p>IT IS MIDNIGHT AT the Hotel Riviera, and the Palacio de la Salsa is finally in full swing, its entrance besieged by young women begging for admission to the disco’s dark interior. They spill into the lobby, languid girls with golden ringlets, creamy mulattas with spindly arms and long legs, and big-breasted, big-assed black girls, their heads thrown back as if a harsh hand held them at the napes of their necks.</p>
How to grow grizzled, flabby, forgetful, cranky, fragile, and lonely gracefully
BRUCE JAY FRIEDMAN
<p>IT TAKES HIM A LITTLE LONGER than it once did to get out of restaurant booths. But once he’s on his feet, he stretches out a bit and breaks into the easy, casual stride of a professional athlete, which he may never have been. He thinks about bran a lot.</p>
If you haven’t shopped for a car lately, you’re in for some surprises
<p>IT’S AUTOLAND, on Route 22, Springfield, New Jersey—a vast dealer mall comprising Dodgeland, Fordland, Toyotaland. Gum-chewing receptionists greet you cheerfully There’s a special Asian showroom for speakers of Japanese, Chinese, or Korean.</p>
QUALIFIED LESSEES: How’s your credit rating? PARTICIPATING DEALERS: Some dealers may be able to sell plenty of Supermobiles at full list and have no interest in making the “dealer participation” discount. SFC: Supermobile Finance Corporation.
<p>AN ASH-GRAY DOG with a white blaze on its forehead burst onto the rough terrain of the market on the first Sunday in December, knocked down tables of fried food, overturned Indians’ stalls and lottery kiosks, and bit four people who happened to cross its path. </p>
Tyler takes Manhattan. Casual at the top. Rain men. Affordable suits.
AFTER YEARS of floppy suits, men’s fashion is returning to a more structured look. All that pent-up elegance can now come to the surface like a leaping trout. This new chic was apparent at the recent New York men’s-wear shows, beginning with Richard Tyler’s very hip, shapely collection, his first complete men’s-wear line, shown on the parlor floor of his Manhattan townhouse.
THE REVOLUTION in office dressing has moved way beyond the notion of casual Fridays to include everyday dressing. As dress codes have been relaxed around the country—67 percent of U. S. corporations now allow some sort of casual dressing, according to one survey—there is already talk at some companies of instituting dress-up Fridays, just as a change of pace.
Raincoats have evolved way beyond the khaki trench and poplin balmacaan, although those two venerable styles endure, often in high-tech fabrics and updated colors. Whether in silky microfiber or the new midlength shapes, these coats perform well and look great.
NEXT TO GREAT SEX, THE MOST SATISFYING THING IN LIFE MAY BE A REALLY GOOD SUIT FOR LESS THAN $400
FINDING A GOOD SUIT THAT DOESN’T COST A FORTUNE HAS BECOME ALMOST A MYTHIC QUEST. EVEN MEN WHO ALLOW THEMSELVES ONE OR TWO SPLURGES A SEASON ON high-priced designer clothes need to fill in their wardrobes with good, everyday business suits at moderate prices.
WE’RE SITTING ON THE floor, the members of the slumber party—newly teen-aged, preand presently pubescent— and I, and we’re watching the late Kurt Cobain do this Unplugged thing, rasping through “Something in the Way.” Having a reflexive soft spot for the rock dead, I was getting kind of choked up, since that tune (on the posthumous Nirvana:
A QUIET MAN SITS ALONE in a room, writing, dreaming. Ratty T-shirt, khaki pants. No job, nothing to dress for. He is host to secret reveries of dominion and revolution, dreams that his life outside the little room ridicules with its brutal distance from his grand imaginings.
Executive Casual, pg. 126: Banana Republic blazer ($198), pants ($88), and suspenders ($38) at Banana Republic nationwide. Ermenegildo Zegna T-shirt ($200) at Ermenegildo Zegna, New York; Wilkes-Bashford, San Francisco; Alex Sport, Anaheim, CA.
IT IS THE NOON HOUR here in the East and a centripetal force is drawing me. I abandon my Toshiba Satellite and move slowly down the hall toward the strange attractor. Marcia, Johnnie, Lance, F. Lee, the burning candles and the bloody socks. I cannot help myself.