Timothy Leary's escape from a California prison late last summer and his subsequent rambling endorsement of the Weathermen, which appeared in the underground press, caught us--as well as the authorities--by surprise. We had interviewed Leary (September 1966) and published an article of his (Episode and Postscript, December 1969) when he was still a guru to the "Love Generation" (that phrase has an incredibly ancient sound less than five years after we first heard it) and we remembered him as a gentle, loquacious eccentric. To find Leary and confirm his apparent philosophical switch, we couldn't just call the underground and inquire if Tim were around and felt up to talking. So we asked a man who has had his own troubles with the law, former safe-cracker Donn Pearce--author of Cool Hand Luke and alumnus of various French jails and the Florida State Penitentiary (class of 1950)--if he would try to run Leary down. Pearce, who's going straight these days as a free-lancer out of Miami, located Leary in Algiers with his wife, Rosemary, and Eldridge Cleaver, the Black Panther leader in exile. Finding himself regarded, for the first time in his life, as a representative of the establishment, Pearce spent five frustrating days with the Learys, trying to penetrate their cloudy rhetoric and instinctive suspicion. ("What we have here, Donn, is a failure to communicate.") Then he came back to the States, confused and a little angry, and wrote Leary in Limbo, a highly subjective but revealing account that is sad, funny--and prophetic. As for Leary's future, Pearce says, "I think he'll either come back in a year or so, or commit suicide. He won't be able to take that environment and its obscurity."
Playboy, July, 1971, Volume 18, Number 7. Published monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States, Its Possessions and Canada, $24 for three years, $18 for two years, $10 for one year. Elsewhere add $2 per year for foreign postage. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Marketing: Nelson Futch, Promotion Director; Lee Gottlieb, Director of Public Relations. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Joseph Guenther, Associate Advertising Managers, 405 Park Avenue, New York, New York 10022; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611; Detroit, William F. Moore, Manager, 818 Fisher Building; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter Street; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Road, N.E., Atlanta, Georgia 30305.
Ordinarily, a pizza convention might not have piqued our journalistic curiosity, but this one--a "regional symposium"--happened to be just four blocks from our office and afforded the opportunity to stretch our legs and maybe even score for a slice or two. At first glance, it seemed like a typical hotel-ballroom gathering: a few hundred conservatively dressed types milling around the tables and displays, wearing name badges and talking loudly. But we left, some hours later, staggered by the discovery that America's pizza people are no longer the colorful ethnic snack vendors of the Fifties' pizza-parlor fad. They have organized themselves into a militant minority of culinary crusaders who are at this very moment plotting the overthrow of the burger barons and the fried-chicken franchisees.
It's been nearly a decade since James Baldwin startled white liberals with The Fire Next Time, in which he announced that white was joyless, black was beautiful and old dreams of racial integration were irrelevant. "Black has become a beautiful color," Baldwin explained in a typically unsentimental insight, "not because it is loved but because it is feared." Moreover, "White people cannot ... be taken as models of how to live. Rather, the white man is himself in sore need of new standards, which will release him from his confusion and place him once again in fruitful communion with the depths of his own being." A few years later, Stokely Carmichael, kicking up dust on a Mississippi highway, shouted, "Black power!"--a battle cry that may have crossed Baldwin's mind but that had never quite passed his lips. The ideas he had been promoting with such elegance and restraint were now assuming an unbridled life of their own--in the streets. The process reached an ironic climax when Eldridge Cleaver, sprung full-grown from Folsom Prison, denounced Baldwin for his "most grueling, agonizing, total hatred of the blacks," not to mention his "most shameful, fanatical, fawning, sycophantic love of the whites." Baldwin doubtless forgave Cleaver for that river of vitriol. "In a society that is entirely hostile," Baldwin had written years before, "every American Negro ... risks having the gates of paranoia close on him." It was true that the early Baldwin had seemed to brood more about whites than blacks, but by 1955, in his introduction to Notes of a Native Son, he could describe himself as "a kind of bastard of the West," whose origins were not in Europe but in Africa. Ultimately, what distinguished him from the Cleavers and the Carmichaels was his fundamental optimism. Baldwin believed that the suffering black man could lead the innocent white man--innocent because he did not grasp the enormity of his crime--straight to salvation. "You must accept them and accept them with love," he advised in a "Letter to My Nephew" (1962). "For these innocent people have no other hope. They are ... still trapped in a history which they do not understand; and until they understand it, they cannot be released from it." A noble notion--too noble, perhaps, for the feral Sixties. Now, in A Rap on Race (Lippincott) between Baldwin and anthropologist Margaret Mead, we see how much of his dream has been shattered. It is a remarkable dialog, with Baldwin continually bouncing his rhetorical despair off Mead's common-sense humanism. When Martin Luther King was alive, Baldwin tells her, "we hoped to bring about some kind of revolution in the American conscience.... Of course, that's gone now. It's gone because the Republic never had the courage or the ability ... that was needed to apprehend the nature of Martin's dream." And later: "I no longer care ... whether white people can hear me or not. It doesn't make any difference at all." Mead's good manners are usually equal to Baldwin's grief. She forgives him his parochialism but not his defeatism. Baldwin: "What is happening in my country now is unacceptable to me. And if it has to go under in flames, that is too bad. I will go with it, but I won't accept it. I will not accept it." Mead: "Yes, but what is the difference between when you say you won't accept it and I say I will work to change it?" The debate remains unresolved, yet we are left with the impression that the Baldwin-King dream has not been altogether extinguished. For when Mead argues that white souls may still be salvageable, Baldwin reveals some of his old-time humanity. "Oh, I know that," he says. "I have watched it. I have lived too long and too hard a life and been saved by too many improbable people not to realize that."
Over the river and through the woods, then take a left, and still there are miles to go before you dine--or so it seems if you're traveling from downtown Chicago to the Dragon Inn (18431 South Halsted Street) in south suburban Glenwood. But it's well worth the trip (by car, not by cab). The Dragon specializes in the ancient and exotic art of mandarin cooking, which was the world's only great cuisine for centuries before Marco Polo brought its elements back to Europe, where it inspired the Italian and, later, the French cuisines as we know them today. Run by its attentive hostess and part owner, Mrs. Julius Sih, the inn offers more than 50 mandarin dishes, some of which are so elaborate that they must be ordered 24 hours ahead of time. (There's also a fully stocked bar and a well-rounded wine list, including hot or cold sake.) A highly recommended opener is Hot and Sour Soup, a pungent, succulent concoction filled with vegetables, shredded pork and stealthy spices known for their slow-fuse action. The Cold Appetizer Plate--an artfully arranged platter of Wine Chicken, Woo Shang Beef (cured with subtle herbs and crushed cinnamon), pea pods, sliced abalone, jellyfish, black mushrooms, a red-hot sauce and carrot slices carved in the shape of butterflies--exemplifies a mandarin chef's historically prescribed goal: to create appetizing contrasts in the appearance, texture, colors, aroma and taste of his food. Moving on to the main course, our particular favorite is Peking Duck (order a day in advance), the classic mandarin masterpiece. It's served on a large platter ringed with crisp, golden pieces of duck skin surrounding moist and tender meat, along with a thick, sweet tien-mien sauce (made from plums and seasoned with gentle herbs), pineapple rings, brushes of scallion and tissue-thin pancakes. Combine the aforementioned, crepe style, in a pancake, after daubing on sauce with the handy scallion, and prepare to turn on taste buds you didn't know you had. For a fitting finale to this imperial feast, we suggest a unique dessert--which also must be ordered in advance--that's not listed on the menu: loi sa twan. You'll receive a tray of bite-size dumplings made from red-bean paste rolled in a sticky boiled rice dough, which you cover with a blanket of powdered sugar, sesame seeds and crushed peanuts. This bizarre dish is mandarin fare at its most insinuating, for many baffled diners can't decide whether or not they like it, as they eat one, then another and another, until they're finished, dazed and satiated but determined to return as soon as they've recovered. The Dragon roars from 11:30 A.M. to 10 P.M. Tuesday through Thursday, Friday from 11:30 A.M. to midnight, Saturday from 5 P.M. to midnight and on Sunday from noon to 10 P.M. It's closed Monday and accountably busy otherwise, so reservations are recommended (312-756-3344).
A recent work "discovered" at the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York has won its wings for theatrical release. The young producing-directing team of Joel L. Freedman and Philip F. Messina lucked into Skezag through a chance meeting with a drug hustler on an East Village street corner. Skezag (the title is a form of skag, the word for heroin) is about a handsome 21-year-old black hustler named Wayne Shirley who got into drugs during his service in Vietnam. "I know I got the fuckin' gift, man ... the gift of gab," snaps Shirley, shifting into high for a rap session full of humor and hurt and human tragedy. Shirley's story of how he felt the first time he killed a man in battle would be too corny for fiction, but it's tremendously moving and persuasive here. Further intimations of tragedy are sensed with the arrival of two junkie pals, Angel Sanchez and Louis "Sonny" Berrios, who have a lot of trouble finding their veins. The confrontations that follow are among Shirley and the film makers, Shirley and his buddies, Shirley and himself. Drugs are great, he insists, if you're smart and don't get hooked. Skezag's powerful climax is a second encounter with Shirley, four months later, when his habit has finally got the upper hand, and he looks like a man caught in the act of suicide. Although Skezag adds nothing new to the realm of spontaneous encounter cinema, it is a remarkable statement on drug abuse--its social and psychological causes as well as its disastrous effects. Since completion of Skezag, Angel has joined the film makers on the reel-and-rap lecture circuit, Sonny has been sent to a rehabilitation center and Shirley is in a New York jail, charged with three counts of armed robbery.
The game has been popular for years--no doubt because it requires only one pop star with a few relatives. It begins when someone like James Taylor hits with a 1,000,000-selling record and plenty of press; then, before you can say "I've seen fire and I've seen rain," the game is on--and suddenly it's raining records by three other Taylors. Brother Livingston was first to do a follow-up with Livingston Taylor (Atco). It has a pleasant folkish flavor, laced with a down-home version of Six Days on the Road, but he sounds--and writes songs--so much like his brother that the record could practically be a James Taylor bootleg. If there's a difference, it's that Liv's voice--on cuts such as Sit On Back--is slightly stronger; otherwise, it will do fine for anyone who can't wait for a new James Taylor album. Not so with brother Alex, who was next in line. His With Friends and Neighbors (Capricorn) shows him to be the family's resident rock-'n'-roller--with a whiskey-drinkin' voice that sounds more like Ronnie Hawkins than gentle brother James. The album has its flat spots, but Take Out Some Insurance is a good funky roadhouse jam and All in Line rocks all the way home. The latest participant in the Taylor derby is Sister Kate (Cotillion). Her LP glitters with such supersidemen as brother James, Carole King, Merry Clayton, John Hartford and--most interesting, since Kate sounds like her understudy--Linda Ronstadt. If that seems like a safe way to cover for a voice that hasn't quite arrived yet, well, it is. The material ranges from overproduced Memphis soul on Look at Granny Run, Run to solid Nashville slick on Country Comfort--with an unfortunate go at Joe Cocker's Do I Still Figure in Your Life in between. If this is, indeed, The Year of the Taylors, then it's a year that's uneven and slightly derivative--but things could be worse.
Take a deep breath before entering the world of Follies. Harold Prince and Stephen Sondheim's enterprise challenges musical form and tradition on an even larger scale than their hit Company. This show is immense--technically and artistically, as well as physically. On the surface, it's a lovelorn letter from disappointed middle age to the innocence of youth. Underneath, though, it's a serious yet always entertaining extravaganza about the havoc of time and the illusions of romance. As a recapitulation of the good old days and the good old musical styles, Follies is a more enjoyable and original show than No, No, Nanette. The book, by James Goldman, is adequate, and the music and lyrics, by Sondheim, are superlative, a pastiche of everyone from Gershwin to Porter. There are blues songs to end the blues, nostalgic numbers to burn down the old nostalgia--tunes that are at once familiar and dazzlingly new. The show takes place at a reunion of Follies girls in a theater about to be razed. The place is full of ghosts, with statuesque showgirls as movable scenery. The present intrudes in the persons of two ex--Follies girls (Alexis Smith and Dorothy Collins) and the stage-door Johnnies they married (Gene Nelson and John McMartin). Under the artful direction of Prince and choreographer Michael Bennett, the musical arrests the present and confronts it with the past. Yvonne De Carlo simply sits on a stair and sings a touching song of survival, I'm Still Here. Mary McCarty smashes out a tune and the stage is bathed with a reflection of the glory that was: a long fine of lovely clattering chorines. The cast is line, particularly Miss Smith. Sardonic and sexy, she adds fire to a stage already ignited with theatrical imagination. At the Winter Garden, 1634 Broadway.
My girl and I are due to get married in about three months, having lived together for the past year. The ceremony means nothing to me, but apparently it means a great deal to her, as she has been getting more and more insistent about it. I have no great objection to marriage--at least I think I have no great objection--but lately, she tells me that I grind my teeth a lot while I sleep, something I never used to do. Does this mean, perhaps, that subconsciously I don't want to get married after all?--S. R., St. Louis, Missouri.
In a year when the success of "Love Story" has shown signs of persuading the ailing American film industry to grind out a plethora of mawkish romances, John Cassavetes has singlehandedly scored a major victory for realism. In "Husbands," which he wrote, directed and starred in, Cassavetes limned an evocative portrait of three suburban executives confronted, upon the death of a close friend, by their own mortality. After the funeral, the three husbands, Cassavetes and co-stars Ben Gazzara and Peter Falk, get drunk and run off for a richly seriocomic weekend of gambling and gamboling in London; in the end, each in his own way, they come soberly to grips with the fact of middle age. The innovative, improvisatory style of the film inspired some reviewers to call it a self-indulgent cinematic conceit and others--most prominently Time--to overpraise it as "one of the best movies anyone will ever see ... certainly the best movie anyone will ever live through." For Cassavetes, "Husbands" marked his first fully overground triumph in a stormy acting and directing career that has spanned nearly 20 years.
It takes about an hour of driving southward out of Dublin to arrive at the small seaside village of Greystones. (For two months in the summer, it calls itself a resort.) Every day, four commuter trains from the city stop here and turn back, as if dismayed by the sight of the desolate beach of shingle that stretches beyond it for 12 unbroken miles. A single line, rarely used, continues the railway beside this beach, so close to the sea that in bad winters the waves pound in across the track, sometimes blocking it for days on end with heaps of gravel, uprooted sleepers, warped rails. When this happens, the repair gangs have a dreary time of it. No shelter from the wind and spray. Nothing to be seen inland but reedy fields, an occasional farmhouse or abandoned manor, a few leafless trees decaying in the arid soil or fallen sideways. And, always, endless fleets of clouds sailing away toward the zinc-blue horizon.
Everybody, but everybody, is watching and waiting. Two cameras are zooming in on his naked butt and bare phallus, and a flawless brunette--Debbie, all flaring hips and coal-black hair--is lying there cooing before him. Alex de Renzy, a gifted, no-nonsense director, is peering like a gynecologist from somewhere behind. The setting is a ledge in Nevada at twilight, and not too many minutes of sunlight are left. If the male star fails, the whole scene is wasted--production costs, people's time, the works.
Six A.M. comes awfully early. Especially on Monday. Adeline was awakened this particular Monday morning by the sound of the alarm going off in her ear and the feel of Steve's hands between her legs, pulling them apart. She moved closer to him and forgot about the alarm. The alarm and Steve stopped together and for a while, all that could be heard in the room was the loud ticking of the clock and his heavy breathing. "Sorry, honey," he gasped finally, "guess I ain't awake yet." She smiled up at his ear and gently but firmly pushed his 240 pounds off. He lay beside her, his breath whistling between his teeth. Every morning when he was not on the road, including Saturday and Sunday, started the same way. And every morning, Steve made the same excuse, until she heard it even if he didn't say it. She didn't mind the mornings so much, because the nights were always good. And besides, what better way to start the day? So she smiled to herself, thinking about the nights, kissed him on the nose and rolled out on the other side of the bed.
During the First World War, the punishment for homosexuality in the French army was said to be execution. However, if you were an officer, you were allowed a final charge against the enemy, on the understanding that you got yourself shot. In one rather exceptional case, the accused, who was the heir to enormous wealth and a proud title, was granted special leave from the battlefields until he had managed to consummate his marriage and beget an heir. Eight months after he was killed in action, a child was born--a girl. That's the French for you--they take every trick but the last. But, for an Englishman, there is always the fear that the French will win in the end. Occasionally, one of my friends will, to use the cliché, throw caution to the winds and retire to perch on one of those green-brown hills at the back of Cannes. I am always struck by the sense of suspended animation that envelops him when he has acquired the sunglasses and the swimming pool. Once he has collected the sunshine and the gin--and, of course, the English papers--he becomes obsessed with the price of butter. My attitude toward France was, I suppose, inherited from my father, who always felt perfectly at home there because he never attempted to talk or make friends with the natives. He admitted that there were certain things they did better than we did--sex and gambling, for example, neither of which is true today. When I was 16 and had left my last school, he decided that I should go into the diplomatic corps. He used to play bridge at his club with the Greek ambassador, and usually won his money. "They are a very decent class of fellow," he told me. "You'll enjoy being an ambassador. Come on," and, having pried some money from his trustees, he spirited me across the Channel to Tours, where he had been told the best French was spoken.
Four in the afternoon, a cold day, a soft rain falling out of clouds almost low enough to touch the spires of the church: the cathedral in Coventry, England. It had been burned and blown into rubble on the night of November 14, 1940, by 500 Luftwaffe bombers in the longest raid England took during the war. Work to rebuild began the next day, the architect Sir Basil Spence planning the new cathedral on the site of the old, forming some of the standing ruins into it; the cornerstone was laid by the queen 16 years and a bit later. It's a starkly, strangely beautiful building in stone-and-concrete verticals, angular bronze, incredible spreads of stained glass (one window 80 feet high, 50 wide), carvings and sculptures (Jacob Epstein's last religious work) and the biggest tapestry ever woven. (text continued on page 100)Jaguar Story(continued from page 93) That cold rainy day I was there, the hush of the place was oddly broken by an organ tuner striking again and again a booming chord in E-flat and shouting across the nave to his apprentice; outside, the traffic's remote rumble. Coventry is in the Midlands, and in the Midlands they make machines. That was why the Germans went there in 1940, and that's why people have gone there since: to bring dollars, kroner, francs, lire in exchange for machines and, if they think of it, to look at the cathedral as they go away. But they go for machines. Automobiles, many of them, and best known among these, the Jaguar.
In the old days, a sex book didn't need an index. It was scarce, expensive or illegal--usually all three--which meant that the book passed back and forth among many readers, whose sweaty hands smudged and dog-eared all the interesting parts. One could let it fall open to the spicy places or else riffle the pages and feel where to stop and look. However, in these permissive times, the most explicit sex books are (to succumb to a pun) so easy to come by that any given copy rarely travels farther than the initial buyer, who must either sample the goods in a hit-or-miss fashion or read the whole damn book.
Back in The spring of 1967, we previewed a white two-button and predicted a return to favor of that classic cooler--the ice-cream suit. Since then, more and more males have developed a taste for vanilla, and this summer, the white suit--in a variety of styles--has really come into its own as an all-important facet of the urban gentleman's wardrobe. Best of all, today's look is casual, ultracomfortable and easy to care for--so now's the time to join the white brigade.
Heather van Every is understandably high on Denver, where the 19th step of the Colorado Capitol building is exactly one mile above sea level and the sky seems a distant, azure dome. Denver has been her home ever since she moved West from Chicago with her family when she was four, and she feels no desire to move again. "It's so unlike other cities. It's big enough, but it doesn't seem to close in on you. You can feel the countryside around you. The air is clean. I love it." For over a year, 19-year-old Heather has worked as a Bunny in the Denver Playboy Club, where she's welcomed keyholders at the door, worked in the Gift Shop and played bumper pool. She enjoys the job and expects to stay with it. But, unlike many of the other cottontails, she doesn't see Bunnyhood as a steppingstone to something else. "I don't have any modeling plans. I don't want to act. I guess I don't have any driving ambitions or dreams. Like a lot of girls, I plan to get married and raise a family. Careers are fine for some women, but I'm not one of them. I just like to take things one day at a time. And enjoy what's available around here." For Heather, that includes skiing; Aspen and Vail are within easy driving range for ski weekends, and the surrounding countryside is tailor-made for her other pastimes: riding horses and trail-biking across the high plateau around Denver, through foothills and valleys that meander into the Rockies looming blue and formidable on the horizon. In this pristine terrain, with its spruce forests and rocky streams, Heather rides, explores and lingers in the vast quiet and solitude. "I'll never get over a sort of awe for this place. It's so big that you just feel swallowed by it all. You can feel lost even when you're not." On fishing and camping trips, she takes advantage of the opportunity to savor the companionship of friends, to breathe the air, to cook trout--caught fresh from the clear mountain water--over an open fire, to sit around the embers and talk. "I'm not wild about fishing, but my dates usually are. So if they'll bait the hook, I'll do my part. I'm better at the cooking. That I like." At home, Miss July paints--mostly landscapes--does simple wood carvings, reads, listens to rock and watches reruns of The Avengers. Sometimes she just daydreams. "I'm not one of those people who are always in motion, always doing something or planning something. I guess some people would say I'm lazy; but I wouldn't want it any other way." Perhaps the altitude explains her attitude: Miss Van Every is a girl who clearly enjoys living with her lovely head literally in the clouds.
With the careful disregard of their respective governments, two dozen eminent men were gathered last June in one of the great old grande luxe Swiss hotels. They strode familiarly down wide, carpeted halls--an Italian industrialist, a Belgian banker, two university presidents, a professor at MIT, the director of a major Swiss research institute, a Japanese nuclear physicist, a science advisor to an international economics organization, several economists whose pessimism, if quoted in the press, could cause a stock market crash.
"To compare women and the sea is an ancient practice," wrote Carleton Mitchell, winner of many trophies and distinguished chronicler of sailing, when we asked what the sport meant to him. "Those dedicated to both cannot think of wide waters and the craft that ply them as other than feminine. What else could be so fascinating, so capricious, so challenging, so capable of evoking pleasure?
I first met Natividad Abascal, who is a high-fashion model--as any fool can tell from these photos--when she came in to audition for my new movie. Bananas. We were looking for an old, white-haired man to play the part of Gramps in what someone with a macabre sense of humor (I believe it was I) called the script; but as she talked and bent over, I was suddenly inspired to rewrite the part. She was cast as a Latin-American revolutionary. I play Fielding Mellish, a products tester who joins the revolution. Right, throwing myself into the spirit of my role, I do a little testing that Naty finds revolting.
I carried my bag through the airport waiting room, gazing into faces, trying to look dignified, trying to transmit the message that I was the one. I was in disguise. That is, I was wearing a black suit and a black tie and my hair was slick and shiny with Dippity-do, combed back into a sweeping pompadour. A chauffeur spoke to me politely in French, but he had been sent to fetch some Spanish businessman he didn't know. A tall, thin woman wearing a dark-red midiskirt, long sleeves, a belt, boots and beads passed me by. I looked at her boldly, questioning, telegraphing. But she didn't respond. Then I saw a tall, thin man at the gate, speaking French with a very bad accent. He wore a turtleneck sweater and a brown-leather cap, the kind worn by Russian workmen. The woman in the red midi was with him. It was Timothy and Rosemary.
She was one of those girls who have gone out of style. They just don't seem to make them much any longer. Softly rounded and pink. Roses, frosted cake, light wine, waltzes. Men on the street would stare at her with that old-time twinge, thinking that, for Christ's sake, maybe loose hair, no bra and sandals weren't the only answer. Ellen had one deeply hidden flaw.
It took years of indoctrination to teach me that I was basically a no-goodnik and that life was a serious and intense struggle to amount to something. The long-suffering Jew may find it hard to believe my struggle, as, indeed, may the militant black, since my blood is pure Aryan and my skin is delicately white. But gradually I realized that I was sinful, selfish, proud, cowardly, uncommitted, insensitive, guilty and generally ill-equipped to live. I was lacking in height, my teeth were crooked, I talked too much and I needed glasses. (I also heard that I was a child of God--nice, kind and well meaning--but I refused to believe this blatant propaganda.) Life was serious, I was serious, and only by arduous effort would I survive these innate handicaps. When I grew tired of being a bastard, I left the Catholic priesthood and a short time later left the Church.
A young woman caught in sin was taken to the Dalai Lama for judgment. Her sin was so outrageous that his regent, who ordinarily enforced the laws, felt incapable of devising a punishment severe enough to fit the crime. She had been caught by her father having intercourse with a yak.
After 11 o'clock at night, King's Cross Station in London is virtually deserted. The bars, shops, restaurants and bookstalls are all dark and shuttered. Except for an occasional burst of whistling by a porter in some far-off recess or the sudden acceleration of a Royal Mail van, the gloomy interior beneath the grimy vault of the glass roof is still and silent. Passengers waiting for the last trains of the day find themselves reduced to whispering, for fear, perhaps, of seeming sacrilegious. King's Cross, like the other old railway terminals of London, was built in deification of the god Steam, now departed, and it is fitting that proper respect be accorded ancient shrines. King's Cross is a cathedral.
The Tafts of Ohio are probably the most distinguished family of Republicans in G. O. P. history. In the early years of this century, William Howard Taft was Teddy Roosevelt's Secretary of War, then his hand-picked successor as President and later Chief Justice of the United States. In the Forties and early Fifties, his son, Robert A. Taft--"Mr. Republican"--was a formidable power in the Senate, a staunch traditionalist and conservative, who was edged out of his party's Presidential nomination in 1952 by Dwight D. Eisenhower. And in 1971, his son, Robert Taft, Jr., was sworn into the Senate. Taft--who is 54 and father of four children--had tried for the seat first in 1964, when he was still a member of the House of Representatives, but, like many other Republicans, went down with Goldwater. He left Washington and returned to Cincinnati and his law practice, was re-elected to the House in 1966 and finally made it to the Senate, barely defeating political newcomer Howard Metzenbaum. Taft has been consistently loyal to his old friend Richard Nixon, whose Presidential nomination he seconded in 1960: He has favored Vietnamization, the SST, revenue sharing and the family-assistance plan and has backed Nixon's intervention in the Calley case. Though he defended the Cambodian and Laotian operations, he shares his father's conviction that the United States should avoid a land war in Asia and has sponsored legislation to limit Presidential authority in deploying combat troops without prior Congressional approval. In fact, he seems--like his father--less doctrinaire than his partisans would like to believe. The inevitable question: Has he inherited the family's Presidential itch? "No," he laughs, "I'm quite happy where I am. I just want to do this job the best way I can." There is another national office, however, for which his cool, reasoned conservatism might seem an asset. It's now held by the man who swore Taft into the Senate: Spiro T. Agnew.
After his victorious senatorial bout last November, most political observers--critics included--acknowledged that California's John V. Tunney, son of former boxing champ Gene Tunney, had proved himself a heavyweight in his own right. Hauling in a hefty 54 percent of the vote in his match against G. O. P. incumbent George Murphy, Democrat Tunney even topped--by 100,000--the gubernatorial votes racked up by Ronald Reagan in his successful bid for re-election. Three well-publicized terms in the House of Representatives plus a cautiously liberal campaign stance contributed to his win, but charisma was undoubtedly the biggest factor. With equine smile and tousled hair, the youngest (37) member of the Senate projects the same glamorous quality that ingratiated the Kennedys with so many Americans. The Tunney image, in fact, is pure Kennedy: vigorous athletic interests, Roman Catholicism, inherited wealth, New England background, a beautiful blonde wife, three towheaded children and two campaign-managing brothers. There is even a personal tie to the Hyannisport clan: Edward Kennedy was Tunney's University of Virginia Law School roommate, and they remain close friends. Though Tunney has appeared to be making an effort to play down that friendship since he took office, his positions on major issues are more liberal--and closer to Teddy's--than (hose he took in the House. Recently, he has strengthened his anti-Vietnam-war posture, has sponsored an Indian-education act and cast a "vote of conscience" against the SST that drew heated criticism from Reagan, Los Angeles Mayor Sam Yorty and California's aerospace workers. The increasingly vocal freshman, like Kennedy, publicly eschews any White House ambitions; but after his election--when supporters wasted no time in booming him for the Vice-Presidency in 1972--Tunney didn't sound completely averse to the idea. "When people bring it up," he said, "I have to admit I rather enjoy it."
"Women's Liberation? It's old hat to me--I've been living it for nearly 30 years and I wouldn't have it any other way." Life with Bella Abzug, a quintessentially emancipated woman who is currently serving her first term as Representative for New York's 19th Congressional District, is thus described by her husband, Martin, a soft-spoken novelist and stockbroker. Nobody would describe Mrs. Abzug, 50, as soft-spoken; for two decades, as lawyer and lobbyist, she's been fighting at the top of her voice for minority rights, free speech, labor unions and equality for women. Her methods range from hail-fellow-well-met heartiness (Newsweek has called her "a self-propelled pushcart") to pure chutzpah. While attempting to enlist Chicago antiwar activist Tony Podesta for some Nixon-heckling rallies, Bella realized halfway through her telephone tirade that an aide had connected her with Assistant Secretary of Commerce Robert A. Podesta--a loyal Nixonite. "Oh, well," said Bella breezily, "I wanted to talk to you about a project in my district. Can we get together on Monday?" Typically, she got the appointment. On admission to the bar in 1947, after graduation from Columbia Law School, Mrs. Abzug launched into labor law and soon found herself representing blacks, victims of McCarthyite purges and longshoremen rebelling against union leadership. Since the early Sixties, her energies have been focused on the peace movement. To Bella, Nixon's Vietnam policy is "a B-movie rerun of the Johnson script"; her first act in Congress was to introduce a resolution requiring total U. S. withdrawal from Indochina by July 4, 1971. Although a strong backer of women's lib--she has proposed 24-hour child-care facilities and legalized abortion--she's not identified with its more radical fringes, and she finds her own husband "tremendously supportive." Indeed, it was old-fashioned chivalry that originally brought them together. Martin Abzug met Bella Savitzky back in 1942--by offering her a seat on a crowded bus.