We've gone all out to get you some first-hand information on kissing. Our research has led us to the surprising conclusion that not everybody is in favor of the pastime. Long ago, of course, George Meredith cried: "Kissing don't last; cookery do!" But we've preferred to go along with the definition Edmond Rostand got off in Cyrano: "A kiss when all is said, what is it? A rosy dot placed on the 'i' of loving; 'tis a secret told to the mouth instead of the ear." Consulting a dictionary can be depressing: ". . . the anatomical juxtaposition of two orbicularis oris muscles in a state of contraction." And the scientists throw cold water on the pleasurable pursuit with the information that a single kiss can transfer as many as 47,000,000,000,000,000,000 germs. Presumably it was this last fact that led the authorities of Riverside, California, to issue a by-law prohibiting all kissing until the four lips involved had been sterilized by a mixture of carbolic acid and rosewater. At London airport, a kiss on the airfield is against the rules because small, dutiable goods – such as diamonds – have been passed from mouth to mouth during a kiss. Kissing is also illegal in Britain between the driver of a car and a passenger when the car is in motion. This law is enforced in America too, and in Boston a traffic cop testified that a woman driving at 40 miles per hour kissed a male passenger for three and a half miles. Kissing is illegal in Britain if the girl is unwilling, but the law makes no provision for unwilling males. Our favorite pro-kissing historical anecdote concerns a wonderful lady named Lillie Dickson. In 1905, she went into a grocery to buy some spinach. A young clerk, who found her charms overpowering, drew her to him and kissed her passionately, whereupon she fled, ruffled. But 10 years later, when she died, that young clerk received $65,000 in her will, because, she said, he was the only man who ever kissed her. The moral of the story, perhaps, is to keep puckered at the spinach counter. Anyhow, for the time being at least, that's all we know about kissing.
The Devil's Disciple is as outdoorsy and action-laden as you might wish – with a Revolutionary battle in New Hampshire streets, a hanging or two, and horsemen continually galumphing around – but it's wit that makes it well worth the watching. Sir Laurence Olivier as General Burgoyne, who was historically the leader of the leader of the English troops, and Harry Andrews as his military straight man carry the British argument so well you almost wish the redcoats had won; Burt Lancaster is a man of the cloth, at first piously pacifistic, later militant, and Kirk Douglas does most of the jibing for the American side. The brilliant original was written, of course, by George Bernard Shaw, and additional dialog by John Dighton and Roland Kibbee matches his masterful technique. Janette Scott is stimulating as Burt's pretty but prurient wife, who gets big eyes for Kirk; and Eva LeGallienne is properly sourfaced as Kirk's mother, though she's not the dried-up bitch Shaw made her out to be. Director Guy Hamilton works in a nice feel for the period in his staging, and Richard Rodney Bennett's music is properly solemn or jivey as the action demands. If you have an ear for the electric in conversation, listen to Shaw.
Detroit's new on-the-river drinkery, The Roostertail (foot of Marquette, four miles from downtown), has no cover or minimum, and is a big, boaty "saloon," as owner-manager Lee Schoenith calls it. (When dining-drinking on the terrace in warm weather, you may spot the owner zipping his hydroplane over the waves and kicking up a roostertail as high as 75 feet behind him.) Whether you arrive by boat or car, you enter on ankle-deep bar-to-bar carpeting. Little lights wink seductively in a cozy extra-low ceiling over the bar. On stage you'll find maybe Pee Wee Hunt, The Harmonicats, Kirby Stone Four, Johnny Long or Claude Thornhill. They come and go on a two-week tide to the pleasure of the industrialists and car-makers who watch from bar and table. Upstairs, in the red-chaired Admiral's Club, Don Johnson wisecracks and plays the organ. There's a staff of 200, and the food and wine are tops. Coats required downstairs only. Hours 5:30 P.M. to 2 A.M.
Anyone who remains unconvinced that we have living among us bizarre types from other solar systems should test his belief by listening to Wet Toe in a Hot Socket! (Mirrosonic sp6002), a collection of comic grotesqueries by a female, of sorts, named Phyllis Diller. Her countenance, photographically reproduced in several places on the album cover, suggests the figment of a Martian's imagination ("My hair," she says, "is by General Electric. It's nylon"). Her vocal equipment reproduces exactly the tones of a lovesick duck, and her awesome way with a gag is punctuated by bursts of her insane laughter. A few quotations suggest her outré effects: "A highbrow is a person who can listen to the William Tell Overture and not think of the Lone Ranger. I do it all the time. I think of Tonto." "We sent [our child] to progressive school. She flunked Sand Box." "I am the world's worst [cook]. In my hands, food is a weapon. I can even louse up corn flakes. I always serve it on the rocks." Miss Diller also occasionally flings herself into song, accompanied by the Three Flames. Most notable of these ditties, perhaps, is one called Just Like a Man, in which she laments the fact that her lover has left her: ". . . the day he went away he left the seat up. I'm too lonely to put it down."
As a member of Britain's blue-blooded upper crust (married to the former Lady Rothermere), suave world-traveler Ian Fleming functions by day as foreign manager of London's very proper Sunday Times – but as darkness falls, he turns, Hydelike, to the creation of bizarre adventures for James Bond, fictional secret service agent extraordinaire. Bond, or 007 to give him his official code number, is a high-living, diamond-hard gentleman whose customary diet is sex, violence and torture, liberally spiced with the always-looming possibility of sudden death. In Goldfinger (Mac-millan, $3), Bond's seventh full-length excursion into the lion's den, the plot is perhaps a shade more wildly improbable than earlier efforts (Casino Royale, Live and Let Die, Doctor No, etc.). Yet it contains a full measure of headlong action – which has, of recent years, placed the implacable Fleming on world best-seller lists. With a firm nucleus of some 1,250,000 loyal British readers, his American devotees increase with each new title. Goldfinger, named after its deadly antagonist Auric Goldfinger, is typical Fleming if not vintage Bond. Before evil is vanquished, operative 007 suffers the horrors of "the presure room," tackles a nightmarish Korean judo expert (who knows seven ways to barehandedly kill a man), beds down with a pair of willing and able young ladies, plays a tense game of golf for international stakes, and unwillingly assists the nefarious Goldfinger in the attempted sack of Fort Knox. Fleming's penchant for exotic locales, superbcuisines, fast sports cars, super-villainous villains and amoral, amply-endowed women steamrolls the reader to a flatly incredible climax, yet allows him scant time to wrestle with logic along the way. Wisely and loftily disdaining the Spil-lane school of soggy pulp characterization and sophomore rhetoric, Fleming's pages glitter with a witty intelligence and a descriptive thoroughness seldom encountered in such blatant adventure tales. We recommend Goldfinger for just what it is: sophisticated, tongue-in-cheek entertainment par excellence.
Those were the days of no Fraternization. The Army had made a law against it. You were not allowed so much as to speak to a girl on the street. It was the spring of 1945, in Bavaria, and the Germans had just surrendered. We were a medical unit running a hospital – actually a sort of rest-cure establishment for exhausted soldiers – on a lake about 40 miles southeast of Munich. I was the duty sergeant and also the unofficial go-between with the natives, being the only man in the outfit who knew enough German to be useful; so all the problems and gripes came to me before they got any further.
On the Afternoon of February 27, 1958, in an ambulance headed for a hospital in Phoenix, Arizona, Harry Cohn – the last tycoon, the last of Hollywood's one-man studio bosses – died of a coronary thrombosis. In a town and an industry where fear, hatred, envy and vulgarity are sometimes raised to the level of an art form, Harry Cohn was the king of them all. He was, it was said, the most feared, the most envied and the most vulgar man of his time. When the word of his death was circulated around the Columbia lot on Gower Street ("Cohn's Kingdom"), one producer who had made several successful pictures with him smiled and said, "So the sonofabitch is dead? It almost makes you believe in God, doesn't it?"
People Who Don't Remember Prohibition tend to think of it in terms of the speakeasy. This is convenient, romantic, and has the advantage that the movies have provided all of us with suitable mental images. What most people don't know is that speakeasy drinking was a comparatively minor part of the drinking picture.
This fall, the Continental-versus-Ivy controversy continues to rage – but only in the minds of the uninformed. For the fact is that there is no conflict, nor has there ever been one. The well-dressed men of this country will continue to favor Ivy for all casual and most day-to-day wear; Continental will be a more formal and dressier adjunct to the complete urban wardrobe. Where uncertainty does exist – and this is just as true among tailors as it is among the laity – is in the area of definition: just what is Continental?
In the Early Autumn, Madame Alexis Gheria awoke one morning to a sense of utmost torpor. For more than a minute, she lay inertly on her back, her dark eyes staring upward. How wasted she felt. It seemed as if her limbs were sheathed in lead. Perhaps she was ill. Petre must examine her and see.
The three famished people seen here are about to assuage their appetites in style. Perhaps they're just out of the theatre, having barely made an 8:30 curtain from a cocktail party where drinks seemed more important than cold canapés. Perhaps they had an early and hence light dinner before the show. In any case, they're hungry and have decided to go to the apartment of the lucky owner of a kitchenless kitchen for a midnight feast, some music and a relaxed good time, rather than fight the after-theatre crowds in a noisy restaurant. Now they're putting together a kingly collation in anticipation of later arrivals – who are probably driving round and round the block, looking for a place to park.
Paul Konway lived on Barrow Street in Greenwich Village. This is not one of the very pretty, viny streets of white washed brick and dusty trees. It is a canyon of low tenements and garages offering moving and storage. Paul, publicity director for a small corporation, spent most of the year writing its annual report. The rest of the time he pretended to be working on the annual report and wrote poetry in his drawer, slamming it shut and lighting a cigarette like a serious thinker when an officer of the company passed his desk.
Once Upon A Recent Impulse, we found ourself visiting a nearby amusement park, reliving some of the fun of our boyhood. We looped a few loops, knocked over some simulated milk bottles with a baseball and had worked ourself about midway down the Midway when our eyes fell upon the beautiful young lady featured on these pages. Her name, she told us, is Elaine Reynolds, and she graciously agreed to accompany us on our tour of funland. Lights flashed, bells rang, barkers barked, rollers coasted, popcorn popped and people cottoned to cotton candy, but the park's amusements paled by comparison with our vivacious companion, and there was nothing to do but bring her to you as Miss October.
He Dropped by his Club for an early lunch and a few hands of friendly blackjack with a crony. After ordering the drinks and the chips, he had a phone brought to the table and spoke a brief order into it. Then he settled down to the serious business of getting an ace in the hole as quickly as possible. Several martinis, one lunch, and a good many hands of blackjack later, he placed a second phone call, gave a second order, and thus, while clipping his pal for $8.50, also earned a tidy $2000.
High and Handsome, the boot takes a big step forward this fall. Long popular abroad, it gained a foothold here in the early Fifties with the advent of leisurely postwar living and the casual clothing kick. Then it went more elegant with the introduction of the Continental suit, whose cuffless trousers tend to snag in standard-height shoe tops. Now, there are casual boot creations for sport, lined ones for spectators at stadiums and ski slopes, plus sturdy, refined versions for city wear on inclement days – all offering tough, weatherproof footing for rainy autumns, snowy winters and slushy springs. So chuck those uncomfortable and generally unattractive overshoes and galoshes that have bugged you in the past; the new footgear provides style, sturdiness and protection – to boot.
A Half Century after Kitty Hawk, one of aviation medicine's major problems – the Transoceanic Syndrome, characterized by paralytic pernicious boredom – remains only partly solved. Neither light reading nor small talk will help on a long flight, for the very adjectives "light" and "small" show that these are petty weapons soon worn out. There is only one escape: sleep. But how to attain it in an upright Z-position which can be changed only to three increasingly excruciating angles? Liquor is cheap aloft and effective for a time, of course, but on a really long jump there comes the inevitable headachy insomnia twice as bad as before. Dramamine was a promising drug, but laboratory-bound chemists worked on it until they produced a "clean" pill without what they thought were undesirable side effects, that is, the tendency to knock the patient out for a few hours of blessed repose.
Whither Jazz? Television, radio, movies, fire houses, concert halls, steamboats, college campuses, aircraft carriers, golf courses, theatres and shopping centers—that's whither. Indeed, jazz has become so omnipresent that one funny fellow we know has come up with yet another catchy locale: why not, he asks, play jazz in dark, smoky nightclubs?
The Fabled Thrills of big-game hunting in Africa are too enticing for the wandering adventurer to resist for long. Accordingly, after sketching the Arabs, Shel Silverstein went on safari. He proved hunter enough to fell a water buffalo, called the most dangerous game.
A December Vacation holds the bonus kick of the holiday spirit whether you choose to loll in the tropical sunshine or schuss through fine powder snow. One of the most alluring of the skiing prospects is Squaw Valley in California, where the Winter Olympics will be held in February. It's close to Lake Tahoe and the Nevada border, offering gambling at the Cal-Neva Lodge and similar places that straddle the line. Not far from Squaw Valley – roughly between Yosemite and King's Canyon – is the new and smartly modern Mammoth Mountain Inn, a year-round resort featuring everything from skiing to hunting to swimming, with superb grub as well. A chalet for four runs $28 a day, but meals are extra.