I WAS ECSTATIC when I saw your December 1995 cover of a double-bearded Jim Carrey, looking a little scary and in pain. I thought your article (“Renaissance Man,” by Martha Sherrill) focused very well on what he thinks of his own stardom and how the rise to that point took many long and painful years.
WHEN EDITORS AREN'T patting themselves on the back for how terrifically a magazine reads, they occasionally give credit to the way it looks. And when you've had as legendary a roster of art directors as Esquire has—Henry Wolf, George Lois, Milton Glaser, and, most recently, Roger Black— you have to do that fairly often.
SOME patients at New York's Beth Israel Hospital got a bit of a thriller late last year when Michael Jackson checked in after his collapse. Staff members put their famous patient through a barrage of diagnostic tests, and at least one doctor has gleefully been showing pictures of what he says is the singer’s penis.
Diane Sawyer may have apologized on the air for ABC News’s controversial tobacco report, but not everyone at the network is sorry. Peter Jennings is among those staffers fuming that ABC capitulated when R. J. Reynolds sued over 20/20’s allegation that the company “spiked” its cigarettes with nicotine, says a source.
WHEN IT comes to his own finances, Pat Buchanan is very fiscally conservative. The presidential hopeful, who has taken a courageous stand for the civil liberties of accused Nazi war criminals, was in Newark recently, and he and his wife took a tour of some depressed areas of town.
READERS of The New York Times were treated to an epic front-page obituary of legendary Times editor and columnist James “Scotty” Reston by Washington bureau chief R. W. “Johnny” Apple Jr. A fitting tribute, to be sure, except that the nearly four-thousand-word piece was written almost entirely by media reporter Dierdre Carmody, who had been working on it on and off during the last fifteen years, according to sources at the paper.
YOU'D THINK Mia Farrow would have had her fill of neurotic Jewish intellectuals. Woody Allen’s ex has quietly been dating perhaps the only man on the planet who’s as self-absorbed as Allen: Philip Roth. And, in one of those delicious twists of fate, Farrow once worked with Roth’s ex, actress Claire Bloom, on Allen’s film Crimes and Misdemeanors, so she could have picked up some pointers then.
EVER wonder why Courtney Love is so weird? Her dad may have the answer. In fact, her dad may be the answer. Hank Harrison, who is largely estranged from Love, is working on an unauthorized psychobiography about his grungy daughter. The book is tentatively titled Inside Courtney Love (as if you’d really ever want to be there), and the publishers are looking for a psychologist to help pen it.
WILL THE REAL Nelson Rockefeller story finally come out? Someone claiming to represent Megan Marshack has been shopping around the rights to a miniseries, says a source. Marshack, who was Rockefeller’s administrative assistant, said that she had been working with him the night the former vice-president was found dead in 1977.
YOU NEVER could trust the FBI. A former agent who was with the bureau for twenty-four years is writing a tell-all book on the White House. Unlimited Access will be a behind-the-scenes account of the Clintons, says a source, including the alleged Hillary lamp-throwing incident and the truth behind the president’s sexual antics.
ONE OF William Morris's top agents may soon defect. A source says Robert Gottlieb, who represents Dean Koontz and Jackie Collins, is planning to devote himself to his top client, Tom Clancy, though Gottlieb’s office insists otherwise. The move would come soon after David Gernert left Doubleday to work full-time with his star author, John Grisham.
NEW YORKERS are known for getting into cantankerous arguments, but lately the fightin’ words have gotten a little too serious between former allies Mayor Rudolph Giuliani and ex-mayor Ed Koch. A well-placed political source says there’s a subtext to the feud:
Mickey Mouse is very particular about where he’ll appear these days. So when it came time for him to be honored with a postage stamp—à la Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe— Disney got protective about its famed icon’s image and passed on the idea.
In religious terminology, an avatar is the temporary manifestation of a deity. In sci-fi speak (specifically in the 1992 Neal Stephenson novel Snow Crash), it’s only slightly less celestial: In the book, an avatar is an audiovisual stand-in that people deploy in their communications with other people.
WHEN Tahnee Welch went in to read for the part of Viva in I Shot Andy Warhol, she knew very little about the Factory superstar. “I just whined and complained and acted bored—and they called me back,” says tiny Tahnee. This new role is worlds away from her screen debut as an alien in 1985’s Cocoon.
BIG MYSTERY: Primary Colors, a barely fictional look inside the primary campaign of an overeating, skirt-chasing Democratic governor (hmmmm...), has the book world—including the novel’s own publisher, Random House— trying to guess the anonymous author’s identity.
THERSITES, you loudmouth, shut up." People have been saying stupid things since the beginning of time, and language, ever obliging, has given us back-talk options right from day one. So Odysseus disses the boneheaded Thersites in Homer’s Iliad, the first great work of Western civilization.
Paul Auster: Writing a philosophical and personal essay about money, or, “more precisely, not having money.” He’s also trying to write a “short and compact” novel, but “I’ll jinx it if I talk about it.” David Koepp: The Jurassic Park screenwriter is editing Trigger Effect, a thriller he wrote and directed.
JOAN DIDION and John Gregory Dunne are rare authors, able to move deftly between writing scripts for Disney and essays for The New York Review of Books. In Hollywood, they are trusted for the dignity their writing brings to California anguish, and respected for their standing in the lofty world of belles lettres.
Q: Which power tools are essential to the workshop? A: “The first power tool I would recommend,” says Norm Abram, master carpenter on PBS’s This Old House since 1979, “is a seven-and-a-quarter-inch circular saw. People would be surprised how much you can get done with this tool.
WHAT'S NEW? I just got a couple lion in," she says. "But lion I always have. Rhea. I’ve never tasted rhea myself. It’s supposed to be like ostrich. Mild, mild meat. A wine sauce can overpower ostrich. Wild boar from Texas. No yak. Unless you want ground yak.
It first leaked out in a roundup of food trends in The New York Times—the question of whether tomato water was passé. Which led us to wonder. What is tomato water? It’s the juice from a tomato, plus the gel around the seeds, strained overnight through a cloth, and is used as a base for soups, sauces, and aspic.
A BLACK, buglike vehicle is running through the Black Forest these days, like a Kafka cock-roach on wheels. But when it begins to roll off the assembly line next year, this car will be red and blue and yellow, dotted and spotted, striped and zigzagged.
It’s a compact library of six great works of cultural history, analysis, and criticism, and it’s perhaps the handsomest set of paperback books you’re ever going to find. Phaidon Press’s new reissues (some are pictured here) include John Addington Symonds’s translation of The Life of Benvenuto Cellini, collected writings by John Ruskin, Jacob Burckhardt on the Renaissance, and Baudelaire’s essays on art.
MY TEN-YEAR-OLD black cashmere turtleneck is old again. In each succeeding generation, it seems to age more quickly. My wife has worn mine over the years, and I remember the sweater coming off, drawn off over her head in that pose, like Picasso’s sketch of the nursing mother, that is the quintessence of the feminine.
Give a boy a fish and you feed him for one day. Teach him to fish and you feed him for life. Teach him to pee at a sponge fish and he’ll grow up to be the neatest guy in the world. Ladies’ll love him, too. (Piddlers toilet targets from Silly Goose, Inc.)
PJ HARVEY'S great, but Tara Key is my fave guitar heroine. Air guitar is supposed to be this masturbatory, neohomoerotic bond between the boy rock star and the boy rock fan, but nobody gets me up and thrashing like Tara, who’s been making records both with her band, Antietam, and under her own name for fifteen years.
JEREMY RIFKIN runs the Foundation on Economic Trends in Washington and has written more than a dozen books attacking biotechnology, the meat industry, genome mapping, and Western philosophy. His latest book is The End of Work (Putnam, 1994).
ONLY IN Key West, to my knowledge, is Anagrams played regularly, arid yet it is probably one of the best games ever devised. Years ago, four poets began meeting on Tuesdays, from four to six in the afternoon, to play: John Ciardi, James Merrill, John Malcolm Brinnin, and Richard Wilbur.
It’s called Nothing But the Girl: The Blatant Lesbian Image. It features 150 photos by lesbian photographers, including the Jessica Tanzer picture shown here. There’s even an introduction by noted author and philosopher of sex Susie Bright, one of the book’s coeditors.
UNLESS you've got the muscle tone for the nightly parade down Ocean Drive, there's no reason to traipse through that tourist-clogged drag—especially if you want something decent to eat. Indeed, all of this season’s hot new restaurants in Miami Beach are away from Ocean Drive.
Imagine Bach with the poise of Mozart, the fury of Beethoven, the romance of Chopin, the impressionism of Debussy, and the objectivity of Webern. This is the Bach captured by fifty-four-year-old Brazilian pianist João Carlos Martins, who on the side has managed boxers, played soccer, and owned a construction company.
NOT A COUNTY in Montana would be caught dead with covered bridges, and real cowboys don't whisper to horses. Nonetheless, out of the state is coming the Next Western Publishing Phenomenon, a kind of mutant message from down under the last frontier.
An old friend, a new guy, and a first novel. Contributing editor Pete Hamill is the stout-hearted veteran of this month’s lot, a true columnist in the traditionally valorous sense of the word. (He started at the New York Post, for chrissakes, back in 1960.)
WHAT YOU NEED to be better flexed and sexed and a little less perplexed by modem life.
WE HAVE TO TALK. Does this entreaty— a heartfelt plea from the object of your most extreme affections to scour your brainpan for a little insight, empathy, and sensitivity—produce in you an urgent desire to make sure everything’s okay in the basement?
THE TRADITIONAL thirty-two-spoke bicycle wheel looks innocent enough: light, airy, and surprisingly strong. But in the wind tunnel, it reveals its tragic flaw: the dread aerodynamic drag of the spinning spokes called the eggbeater effect.
CALL IT THE Buñuel syndrome. Anyone who has seen Un Chien Andalou remembers the eyeball and the razor blade. The wince reflex probably accounts for the public’s reluctance to embrace radial keratotomy (RK). This surgical procedure—touted as an alternative to corrective lenses for the nearsighted—entails making radial incisions on the cornea with a “diamond blade.”
IT WAS TO BE my first yoga lesson, on the banks of the Ganges in Benares, India. "A holy place, where the dead are burned and cast to the waters,” said my would-be teacher, Ramesh, the clerk of the four-dollar hotel where I was staying. We were barely into the first Sun Salutation the screaming started.
ARMIES MIRROR the nations that raise them, and weapons reflect national styles. A Harrier jump jet has something decidedly British hunt country about it. A French Mirage fighter is Gallically elegant, while a Swedish Viggen is literally a Saab with wings.
A WOMAN CAN LEARN A LOT about a man by looking at his hands, but can she figure out what she really wants to know? Dr. Irwin Goldstein, a professor of urology at Boston University, is in the midst of a study to clarify once and for all whether there is any connection between the size of a man’s penis and other aspects of his anatomy.
EVERYONE'S DOING IT—stockbrokers, movie stars, even Donald Trump. (They say you can see it in Trump Tower.) Don't put this armchair there! Don't put that mirror here! Your energies won't flow! Such are the dictates of fêng shui, the ancient art of Chinese placement.
JUST SAY NO. Somehow, Nancy Reagan's prim admonition always made us, as Jay Leno once noted, want to mainline heroin under our tongue. Just say no. Sounds so tidy The glibness, the arrogance, the lack of imagination, and the hardness of heart in that “just” is breathtaking—the pittance paid to the guilt, the pain, the rage, the sheer complexity fueling the compulsions of the chemically inclined.
Heat is the natural enemy of sperm. Human and animal studies show that warming the gonads can cause temporary infertility. And consider. An undescended testis, lingering in the balmy abdominal cavity, will usually fire blanks. That’s probably why man developed a scrotum: to act as a kind of beer cooler for the testicles, which manufacture male sex cells most prolifically when chilled to 93.2 degrees Fahrenheit.
But even a confessed Hillary Clinton apologist has to admit that the First Lady has been, shall we say, a little bit tricky
A FEW DAYS BEFORE Hillary Clinton's January interview with Barbara Walters, the First Ladywas presiding over a prep session with her team of advisers, including her poised and polished attorney, David Kendall. “Before I moved to Little Rock, I had spent a lifetime dealing with David Kendall-type people,” she said, gesturing toward her lawyer.
John Calipari is the hottest name in college basketball—and he would be the first to tell you
<p>ON A DAY WHEN New York City is being hit by one of the most ferocious blizzards in years, John Calipari walks into Madison Square Garden wearing a sweater that looks brighter than a tropical sunset. It is a Sunday in the first month of the new year, and Calipari’s University of Massachusetts basketball team is still the best in the country after beating Dayton the day before.</p>
Meet advertising’s Mark Fenske, the Caravaggio of commercials
SO HE STARTS all his stories in the middle. And this one I just don't buy. His name is Mark Fenske. He is not just in advertising; these days, it seems that he is advertising. If you spend time in front of a television screen, you’ve seen his oeuvre, tales of love unfulfilled and boredom profound, written by him and illustrated by waves of moving text and warring images—most narrated in his deep Chicago voice, all of it sponsored by the likes of Nike, Wolfgang Puck pizza, and Aspen tourism.
When Dean Martin went gentle into that good nightclub, the Rat Pack lost its smoothest member. But the Leader is still knocking ’em back, and at last he shares the secrets of their swaggering ways. A primer of cool for everyone who ever
IN BLACK TIE, DEAN SLEEPS forever. He lounges in his marble vault, behind the bank in Westwood, draped in midnight attire, in the uniform, a crimson hankie peeking from his breast pocket. He was the beautiful one. Always did know how to dress.
To win the Ultimate Fighting Championship, Tank Abbott could kick you in the groin, knock your teeth out,; even rip your lips off. Who says there’s no glamour left in sports?
OUR RECREATIONAL VEHICLE lumbers down Denver's snow-slicked streets, but we travel the zeitgeist as if it were a jet stream Riding shotgun is one Tank Abbott, thirty years old six feet, 250 pounds, a bar brawler extraordinaire from Huntington Beach, California, the sudden celebrity around whom we've gathered, each of us in some way an acolyte in his entourage as we careen toward a real-life comic book: a bare-knuckle pay-per-view event known as the Ultimate Fighting Championship.
OR YOU WILL END UP FACEDOWN on the floor of a cheap motel in the desert, with no pulse and no future, your bloodstream a sludge of the pills you stole from her to seek the solace she wouldn’t give you, your next stop a refrigerated slab, but it will have been worth it because you didn’t grow old and die of heart failure; you died young because your heart worked all too well.
“SHE WAS SIMPLY THE SEXIEST woman I’d ever met-a Jewish-French Audrey Hepburn. We began an affair, fell in love, and she moved in with me. But after a while, she began talking about how it wasn’t enough for us to love one another-that we should be helping the unfortunate, the poor, the dispossessed.
Nadja on geopolitics, living dangerously in L. A., and Anna Nicole Smith
The smoldering German blond whose eyes, lips, legs, and belly button grace these pages was in high school when the Wall fell, but because she’s from Berlin, a dangerous town, she spans epochs: Nadja Auermann can look as if she just crawled out of a basement in April 1945, after Marshal Zhukov bombed the city flat, or she can look pan-European, circa 2045, when there’s just one kind of money and everybody has to carry a Belgian pass-port.
NOBODY IS ENJOYING THE NEW REPUBLICAN FREEDOMS THE WAY THEY ARE OUT HERE IN MONTANA, WHERE NOTHING COULD BE MORE PATRIOTIC THAN SCREAMING DOWN I-90 IN YOUR 4X4 AND LEAVING BIG BROTHER IN THE SLOW LANE
THE ROAD UP TO THE LITTLE BIGHORN BATtlefield had not been plowed, but the snow was dry and weightless, almost like dust, and my car, a rented Cutlass Ciera, navigated through it easily When I reached the battlefield, a large CLOSED sign hung over the entrance gate.
What does Smits have that Caruso doesn’t? Well, work, for one thing.
<p>IT IS, AS DICKENS might have said, the best of times for Jimmy Smits and the shittiest of times for David Caruso. This is a state of affairs much of Hollywood sees as poetic justice. But why should that kind-hearted town wish so much good on the one man and so much woe on the other?</p>
Sometimes nothing stands between a woman and eternal damnation but a pair of blue jeans.
<p>ON A THURSDAY NIGHT IN EARLY autumn she nearly committed adultery, was within minutes of consummating it, or within touches, kisses; it was difficult to measure by time or by her mouth and tongue and hands, or by his. </p>
Spring fashion report, from casual to tailored. Plus, belts with sole.
LIVING IN THE latter days of this century, one cannot fail to notice the strange way young men dress. It is not just that they wear oversize clothes, the kinds of things— incredibly baggy trousers, rugby shirts, and parkas—that might have made Fred Astaire and Cary Grant recoil in horror.
All-white dressing has been around forever—at least since the Romans. Crisply elegant even on a warm day, it’s the flip side of dressing all in black. The perils are well-known (think dry cleaner), but the strengths this spring outweigh them: spare, uncomplicated shapes and sensuous fabrics.
Bill Pullman, the perennial nice guy who never got the girl, finally achieves leading-man status onscreen—and on these pages
THE STORY LINE to Bill Pullman's acting career has become fairly standard: He has always played a somewhat edgy second fiddle, the my who either gets cuckolded (Malice), gets jilted (Sommersby), has allergies and gets jilted (Sleepless in Seattle), or gets killed after being ripped off and jilted (The Last Seduction).
White Now, page 134: Emporio Armani suit ($835) and sandals ($170) at Emporio Armani, New York, Beverly Hills, and San Francisco. A/X Armani Exchange T-shirt ($48) at A/X Armani Exchange stores nationwide. Page 135: Donna Karan jacket ($495) at Bergdorf Goodman Men, New York; Barneys New York select stores; Wilkes Bashford, San Francisco.
EVER SINCE I could pronounce the word Mycostatin, I've wanted to be a philandering pharmaceutical sales rep tooling around the countryside in a 28oZ in search of medical-arts buildings and uninhibited receptionists. The idea of pulling physicians out of critical procedures or poignant consultations (“Yes, Mr. Haber, I’d try to do the Oaxaca ballooning trip within the next two months if I were you”) in order to hawk product, the idea of making commodities out of anticoagulants, was just the most romantic and exciting thing in the world to me.