RON ROSENBAUM MISSED AN IMportant point in his hunt for the reasons behind men’s attraction to dangerous women (“The Beautiful and the Damned,” March). Perilous women are not in danger of becoming mothers to the men who love them. Their lack of selfless nurturing and a frightful reluctance to defer to the needs of their men make these unsafe, self-possessed women the ultimate un-moms.
IN THE 1947 FILM Song of the Thin Man, William Powell’s Nick Charles arrives at the breakfast table, where he is greeted by his wife and child. Myrna Loy’s Nora Charles beams as she tells her nattily attired husband that he looks “just like a page out of Esquire.
LAST YEAR, Hillary Clinton caused a minor furor when she had a two-and-a-half-hour off-the-record “girls’ lunch” with gossip, lifestyle, and advice columnists. This time, Hillary had the boys over. In late February, the First Lady had a two-hour off-the-record lunch with Washington Post columnist E. J. Dionne Jr.
Do Greta Van Susteren’s CLOSE ties to the Church of Scientology affect her reporting? The CNN commentator, who covered the O. J. Simpson trial and is now cohost of the legal-affairs show Burden of Proof is a devotee of and a huge contributor to the controversial church—whose other members include John Travolta, Tom Cruise, and Lisa Marie Presley.
HELL HATH NO FURY like a producer scorned. Since he was ousted as David Letterman’s executive producer, Robert Morton has regularly been “in touch” with the enemy, Jay Leno, according to a late-night insider. There’s even talk that Morty—who left the ratings-impaired Late Show in March— recently held a secret meeting with Leno at a Las Vegas resort.
At Least He Wasn’t Wearing a George Washington Outfit
THAT WASN’T SOME startled tourist who recently caught George editor John F. Kennedy Jr. on video in a less-than-touchy-feely public moment with his girlfriend, Carolyn Bessette. Like his mother before him, who was dogged by photographer Ron Galella (Jackie 0. even had a restraining order issued against Galella), Kennedy has his very own paparazzo.
THERE GO (SHRED! SHRED!) sections of Tom Wolfe’s long-awaited (rrrrrrRRRIP!) second novel. Wolfe, whose Bonfire of the Vanities captured the mood and excesses of the 1980s, has been working on the new book, tentatively titled The Mayflies, for Farrar, Straus & Giroux for the past eight years, but he appears to have been concentrating on the wrong stuff.
Joan Collins’s SUCCESSFUL lawsuit against Random House was a victory for authors everywhere, declared writer Erica Jong. It might, however, be a bit of a mixed blessing for Jong herself. The author of Fear of Flying, who is married to Collins’s lawyer, Kenneth David Burrows, came to the big literary trial to cheer on her husband and accused Random House’s lawyer of misogyny.
IT IS A PRACTICE THAT GOES BACK AT LEAST TO THE days when Oscar Wilde traveled under the name Sebastian Melmuth: celebrities using pseudonyms to avoid publicity. Kevin Costner (see page too), for instance, lets the animal in him come out and sometimes uses the name Tom Feral.
NOT ONLY ARE THERE NO new good ideas in Hollywood, but even the bad ones get recycled. While Disney’s Toy Story was undeniably successful at the box office (bringing in nearly $200 million), critics couldn’t help but notice how the company blew it when it came to marketing and promoting the toys from the movie.
SENATOR AI D’Amato, who has been stumping so hard for Bob Dole’s presidency that it ruined his romantic life— D’Amato the frog got dumped by his princess, Claudia Cohen—recently denied that he’s campaigning in exchange for a position in Dole’s potential Cabinet.
Washington, D. C., architect and artist Doug Michels thinks it’s high time the couch potato-being the cash crop of the information age-got some respect Witness his latest brainchild, the National Sofa. Michels, who is known for Cadillac Ranch, a sculpture of ten upended Caddys planted in the Texas prairie, wants to build a curved marble “couch,” three hundred feet long, in Lafayette Park, across from the White House.
Let’s be honest: Bowling is sex. Hard, gleaming figures banging into each other; the convulsive fury of the ball-return rendering with an indolent ker-thunk the turquoise sparkle of your instrument; the dusky treble scent of varnish, floor wax, and spilled Budweiser.
EVERY WEEKDAY AFternoon at about one o’clock, Claude Hookham gets up from his desk, squares up his stylish flat-brimmed Stetson, and moseys a block and a half down Main Street in Livingston, Montana, to the poker game in the back room of the Mint Bar.
IF MOST MAGAZINES ARE, BY THE tedious imperatives of the newsstand, tethered to celebrities like sleds pulled by deranged huskies, then Interview magazine in the mid-eighties was a sled hauled by the most rabid, psychotic dogs of all, a sled banging through a wilderness of banality from one insipid party to the next, Andy Warhol cracking his velvet whip, chanting, “Greeaat! greeaat!” as the dogs mushed madly along.
A JOHN SAYLES FILM IS more like a novel than a movie, more likely to earn praise at a film festival than pull in money at the multiplex. And while Sayles writes great dialogue, some complain that his films are too slow-moving. But with Lone Star, due out this month, Sayles has developed a plot that has plenty of twists and turns without sacrificing any of the character study found in Matewan, Eight Men Out, and Passion Fish.
FROM THE FIRST time we see him in Terminator 2—naked, crouching, itching to get into a policeman’s clothes—Robert Patrick has psycho written all over his face. He’s cold. He’s vicious. He’s as ruthless as a Hitler Youth with a baby at the end of his bayonet.
The federal government knows how to grow, but does it know how to grow good pot? “It’s horrible,” says Corinne Millet, sixty-three, who suffers from glaucoma and is one of eight people legally prescribed marijuana in the United States. “I have to unroll the joints and clean it myself-seeds, twigs....""
HE SUZUKI x-90 (Gen X for the nineties—get it, dude?) resembles an oversize baseball cap turned backward, slacker style. One of the new generation of cute utes—small sports utilities with rounded saloon bodies on four-wheel-drive platforms—it’s designed to encourage surfing fantasies the moment you’re in the driver’s seat.
What a few of our favorite cultural figures are up to. Cassandra Wilson: Will be touring to promote her latest album, New Moon Daughter; will also tour with the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra, performing Wynton Marsalis’s oratorio “Blood on the Fields.""
NASHVILLE MAY BE better known for its country music, but it’s also home to “meat-and-threes”—eateries that serve a big portion of meat with at least three vegetables or side orders at a very low price. One of the best new ones is Monell’s (1235 Sixth Avenue North; 615-248-4747).
THINK HIGH-TECH hippies” and other contradictions. It’s a sweet-water port on the Pacific Rim, an apple orchard in the Ring of Fire. One live volcano— Mount Tabor—sleeps disguised as a green city park. The brooding stump of St. Helens is visible on a clear day.
GEORGE JONES, THE greatest country singer since Hank Williams, says he feels “a deep regret” for those drunken, coked-up days when they called him No-show Jones. “Old ladies, young folks, saving their money, walking four or five miles to the show. Some crippled, lame.
James Carey, a professor of journalism at Columbia University, is among the nation’s leading cultural historians. He is the author of Communication As Culture and the forthcoming James Carey: A Conversation. ESKY: Jim, talk. CAREY: There is now an implicit belief that there’s no such thing as a society.
DO YOU EVER withhold sex from your mate? I put this question to three well-married friends with whom I jam weekly in a downtown rehearsal studio. “Yeah, like after a fight,” volunteered our light-fingered sax player. “When she locks the bedroom door, I yell through the keyhole, ‘That’s it! You’re cut off for a week!’ ”
YOU WOULDN’T PAY TO WATCH US. WE WOULDN’T PAY to watch ourselves. In fact, we’d probably pay not to watch ourselves. Six or so guys tightly guarded by middle age, ricocheting around the slimy courts on West Fifty-fifth Street like bankers trapped in a mosh pit, launching spasmodic rockets toward the basket, driving hard into the chain-link fence, wheeling and creaking our way through a largely symbolic man-to-man defense.
ANEW WONDER drug is barreling down the express lane of medical progress, spreading controversy and hype in its path. It’s already legal, and it’s perfectly timed to tempt graying baby boomers with Faustian promises. It’s called human growth hormone (HGH).
space station have to be redesigned for weightlessness, all the armor and armament of hockey has been retooled now that it has moved from ice to pavement. Roller hockey’s boom is a godsend for the sporting-goods giants-Nike and others have jumped into making road-ready shirts and pads-but it was left to the clever engineers at Sun Hockey of Edina, Minnesota, distinguished as the home of the first modern indoor shopping mall, to re-create the game’s vital element.
expression of human lust-to imagine an endless, glorious crescendo of ecstasy pulsing around the globe, something like the surging human waves that circumnavigate a sold-out stadium? Ever wonder just what time that wave might be surging through your neck of the woods? According to a study to be published later this year by the Andrology Institute, a fertility-research center in Lexington, Kentucky, America is most likely to be having sex at the stroke of 1034 P.M.
I’VE WALKED OUT on dates,” admits a pretty blond thirty-year-old. “I’m not proud of it, but I’ve left in the middle of a movie and just gone home. I mean, you know right away. Why waste time?” “I saw him eat; I didn’t need to see him naked,” says an Audrey Hepburn knockoff.
IF YOUR MATERNAL grandfather became a chrome dome at a youthful age, you probably grew up dogged by warnings that a similar fate awaited you. For obscure reasons, people insist on believing that the genetic trait for baldness is passed down from the mother’s side of the family.
Forget the campaign. All you need to know is that Dole’s all red and Clinton’s got the blues.
<p>MY ADULT LIFE WAS FORGED forty years ago when I dragged a dog-eared copy of the World Almanac with me every morning to Mrs. Ackerman’s fourth-grade class. As a nine-year-old, I was totally baffled by grown-up emotions, but I found within the almanac’s agate-type columns of numbers a clarity that helped me comprehend the outside world.</p>
Roll over, Gutenberg, and get yourself a modem. Lessons in way new journalism.
<p>THE COLLAPSE OF the Delphi online service in February, after months of tinkering but before its ballyhooed relaunch, was accompanied by a rash of theories involving culture clashes, wanton spending, and Rupert Murdoch’s brother-in-law.</p>
Among the stampede of new IPOs are plenty of offerings you can refuse
<p>WHEN WE’RE OLD, WITH grandchildren on our knees, some of us will beguile the little tots with tales about the great blizzard of ’96, when the snow piled as high as an elephant’s eye (or however that goes). Others among us can imagine a time, not far beyond the millennium, when a precocious little tyke will snuggle up to our shins and say, “Grandperson, tell me again what it was like when Netscape went public at $28 a share.</p>
Everybody has one. (Some have more. Some have many. No one has none.) We polled a sampling of writers and others to ask about theirs, the result of which follows. Charles Foster Kane was as rich as a god, but he was haunted to the end by Rosebud, of all things. So take good care of yours.
<p>Giurgio Armani Charles M. Schulz Susie Bright Tom Robbins John Guare Francis Ford Coppola David Lee Roth Rust Hills Wayne Gretzky Harold Robbins Elizabeth Martin Scorsese Denis Johnson Susan somtag Eric Bogosian Ruth Reichl Nick Tosches Gay Talese David Faustino Jay Leno Madonna Pat Boone Barbara Kruger llleana Douglas John Keegan Jake LaMotta Jay Mclnerney John Travolta R.</p>
THOMAS PYNCHON sits down with the boys in the band
<p>although I’ve gone to hear Lotion live and listened to them at length on CD, I’ll refrain from any musical remarks, which would mean bringing up artists far earlier than even R.E.M. and Hüsker Dü—the bands that Lotion gets compared to in print a lot, though the music has also been termed “wuss rock” and “Burt Bacharach with distortion pedals.</p>
The Lords of the Ring have allowed boxing to become more corrupt and barbaric than ever. A lifelong aficionado reluctantly throws in the towel.
<p>OLD LOVES ARE A LONG TIME DYING. THEY CAN SURVIVE deceptions and separations, petty cruelties and fleeting passions. But eventually they give way to the grinding erosions of time, and suddenly, one cold morning, they are dead. For too long a time, I loved the brutal sport of prizefighting.</p>
KEVIN COSTNER BECAME A HERO TO THE SIOUX AFTER DANCES WITH WOLVES. NOW THAT HE'S BUILDING A $140 MILLION RESORT IN THE SACRED BLACK HILLS OF SOUTH DAKOTA, THE INDIANS HAVE DECIDED THAT HE'S JUST ANOTHER WHITE MAN.
<p>IT'S HARD BEING KEVIN COSTNER. NOBODY UNDERSTANDS him. People take wild shots at him because he's famous. "But for the grace of God, you're gonna be glad that you don't have to live like I do sometimes," says Costner. "I try to live normal life.</p>
How can you get the baby to stop crying? An exercise in old-fashioned family values.
<p>AT FOURTEEN, WHEN I FINALLY STOPPED sucking my thumb under pressure from my parents and my dentist, my mother suggested gum as a replacement. My father touted snuff. I laughed at them. The hole I had to fill was just too big. Sometimes I feared the hole was bigger than me.</p>
ASSAILING THE Peacock Révolu' tion instigated by the likes of Pierre Cardin and the Beatles, the columnist George Frazier wrote on these pages in 1968, “What is sartorially wrong ... is not that their clothes are radical but that they place far more emphasis on flamboyance than fit.
Matthew Broderick, star of stage and cinema, shows how to succeed in business without really tryingin superbly tailored suits that don't shriek chic
Lunch break at a TriBeCa photo session: A swaybacked studio dog is on its hind legs, rooting through the catering. Matthew Broderick is hunched over his bow-tie pasta, looking perplexed. The subject is suits. “I always want to wear suits,” he says, and you believe him. “You see old photos of movies being made: The cameraman, even the crew—everyone is wearing suits.
<p>ARE YOU A MARRIED WOMAN?” Jackie Mason asks me backstage at the Booth Theatre, where he is starring in his fourth one-man show on Broadway, Love Thy Neighbor. We leave soon after, walking over to the coffee shop of the Edison Hotel for a little bite.</p>