There was a time, not too many years ago, when "student apathy" was an evil that college editors regularly denounced in their campus papers. Then, almost as if students decided to take those stern lectures seriously--even to excess--"campus unrest" became part of the nation's jargon, with student militancy reaching a peak after the Cambodian invasion and the Kent State killings. Now there is evidence that things have changed again--or at least significantly cooled--on campus, and that students in the Seventies may be more like the Silent Generation of the Fifties than the crusaders of the Sixties: Playboy's second annual Student Survey points to a turning away from social concerns toward more personal pursuits. The poll is the work of many people and organizations enlisted by Playboy. Nearly 3000 students at 60 colleges and universities were questioned and their answers were fed into our computer. The programmers then delivered a few miles of print-outs to Staff Writer Craig Vetter, who has been involved in the project as an advisor and coordinator since its beginning. Vetter studied the breakdown and--with a little help from his friend Richard Kolf, our Editorial Administrator and the only member of our staff who can use a slide rule--wrote the text that accompanies the survey.
Playboy, September, 1971, Volume 18, Number 9. 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.
The gymnasium lobby is filled with long-haired college students waiting to see the show, and hundreds more are on the way. Led Zeppelin is here to play? Wrong. Paul McCloskey's about to sock it to Nixon (equally sweet music to young ears)? Wrong again. Ho, ho, golly gee, it's none other than Buffalo Bob Smith, Howdy Doody's pal (Older brother? Guardian? Their relationship was never made clear and, frankly, we have always wondered about it). He's here tonight, ten years after Howdy Doody left the air, and hundreds of peanut-gallery graduates are girding themselves for a nostalgia trip. It all began again for Buffalo Bob after University of Pennsylvania students wrote to him, asking to borrow a Howdy Doody kinescope. When other schools made the same request, 53-year-old Smith, who was semiretired in Fort Lauderdale, began delivering the show in person. Now, campuses from Berkeley to West Point are clamoring for him.
It was Armed Forces Day in San Diego. Much of the population in that geriatric Southern California city observed the event by cheering thousands of precision-marching soldiers and sailors parading down Broadway. That same night, an alternative but barely ballyhooed observance was celebrated in San Diego High School's Russ Auditorium by 2400 Servicemen, peace-buttoned civilians and hirsute college students wearing clenched-fist T-shirts. For them, it was Armed Farces Day, as the printed program proclaimed. They were there to watch the Free the Army Show, an itinerant New Left vaudeville troupe--led by the Martha Raye of the antiwar movement, Jane Fonda--which had already appeared near Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and Fort Ord, California. Earlier in the week, the show's sponsors had requested permission to perform aboard the U.S.S. Constellation, an aircraft carrier anchored in San Diego Bay that had previously played host to a U.S.O. show emceed by Bob Hope. Their request had been denied, just as it had been at Bragg and Ord. They were told that their antiwar point of view might demoralize the troops.
In an absorbing combination of journalism and cultural analysis, Bruce Cook has provided the most illuminating guide so far to The Beat Generation (Scribner's). They're all here--Kerouac, Ginsberg, Gary Snyder, Gregory Corso, Neil Cassady, William Burroughs and other precursors of the hippies (themselves already part of the past). With affection but without sentimentality, Cook assesses the Beat Generation's life styles and work: Gary Snyder's links to Thoreau, to American Indian values and to Far Eastern religious philosophy, and the force of Walt Whitman on Allen Ginsberg as well as the mutually instructive relationship between Ginsberg and William Carlos Williams. Cook interweaves interviews with most of the key figures of the movement as he traces the effect of much of what they did on the counterculture that followed in the Sixties--the easy-riding roaming, the use of drugs to expand consciousness. The personal histories within this larger design are sometimes poignant, as in the cyclical odyssey of Jack Kerouac, the long-distance loneliness of Gregory Corso and the driven, high-energy legend that was Neil Cassady, a link between Kerouac and Ken Kesey. The most impressive figure in this gallery--the one who grew most and who also found a measure of peace in the process--is Allen Ginsberg. But it is William Burroughs who tells the best literary joke in the book. He and Jean Genet had been commissioned by Esquire to write about the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago: "I had agreed to do 1500 words for them, and I got wound up and gave them 3000, and they refused to give me a penny more. So I decided to take it out on them in room service when Kerouac came up with all those Greeks. By the way, Jean Genet was in on the same deal and did the same thing, but he had a real flair for it, and after he had taken Esquire for a few bills, Harold Hayes, the editor, called him a thief. Imagine calling Genet a thief!"
Following its debut at Manhattan's Museum of Modern Art, a multipleart show titled Technics and Creativity: Selections from Gemini G. E. L. will be touring the nation until late 1972, with stops scheduled in Indianapolis, Minneapolis, Des Moines, Richmond, Houston and Portland, Oregon. New York critics were stingy with their praise and several rued the blatant commercialism of the show, which was put together by Gemini G. E. L. (Graphics Editions Limited), a Los Angeles firm that produces multiples, which it calls "works of art not meant to be unique." If one ignores certain pretensions about art adapting to our technological era, Technics and Creativity is a colorful display of lithography and pop sculpture put together by a company of superstars. The 12 artists who have joined with printers and technicians to produce multiples include Jasper Johns, Roy Lichtenstein, Robert Rauschenberg, Josef Albers, Claes Oldenburg and Frank Stella. Johns's Color Numeral Series, ten electrically vivid, varicolored lithographs numbered zero to nine (with the face of Mona Lisa peeking enigmatically through number seven) command attention. So do Lichtenstein's resonant Peace Through Chemistry, a theme executed both in lithographs and in gleaming bronze, and Rauschenberg's Stoned Moon Series, a mélange of birds and blueprints and rocket gantries and human skeletons sharing space in a group of 33 lithographs inspired by the artist's firsthand observation of a NASA moon shot. The show's chief conversation piece is Claes Oldenburg's Ice Bag--Scale C. a kinetic sculpture that writhes, rises, inflates and deflates as if in response to some huge 20th Century headache. The prototype of this Ice Bag, which measures 12 feet in diameter, was an 18-foot model made for Expo '70 in Osaka, Japan; and Oldenburg himself says all there is to say about the project in an accompanying short film, Sort of a Commercial for an Ice Bag, by Michel Hugo. Sketching and chatting away like a medicine-show spieler, Oldenburg describes the ice bag as a basic form related to stomachs, cupolas and beanbag ashtrays and asserts that he would like to litter the globe with his living objets d'art. "In winter, when you get snow on the top, it would probably look like that mountain in Japan--Fujiyama. Or you could put wheels under it." In any case, the movie and the Ice Bag are the showstoppers of a venturesome exhibit well calculated to send at least half the public home happy.
Five years ago, Warren Le Ruth opened his French restaurant on New Orleans' West Bank in a restored Victorian house. Since then, Le Ruth's, at 636 Franklin Street, Gretna (just a $2.50 cab ride across the Mississippi River bridge from the French Quarter), has become that rarity in America--a thoroughly professional family restaurant. Le Ruth, who is both owner and chef, concentrates on a limited table-d'hôte menu with daily specialties, and even bakes his own bread. The restaurant's popularity has not affected its prices, which are still reasonable for the sumptuous fare that's offered. Dinner costs from $7.95 to $9.50 and, save for such froufrou as Beluga caviar and showbiz flaming desserts, there are no extras. Escargot is the best of a fine array of appetizers, with Crab Meat St. Francis running a meritorious second. For the soup course, you should opt for the Potage Le Ruth, a succulent blend of oysters and artichoke hearts, rather than the Baked Onion, which is quite ordinary. Availability of ingredients, as well as the whim of the chef, determines the daily specialties; L'Ecuelle pour Gourmet is frequently the best entree. One visit, you may be offered Frogs Legs Meuniére (without garlic), the next time soft-shell crab lightly sautéed and topped with sautéed lump crab meat (a dish that brings the delicacy of French cooking to New Orleans' incomparable seafood). But if the daily special isn't to your liking, try the Noisette of Lamb for two with French fried parsley (order a day in advance), the Truite du Lac Oliva (trout in a seafood sauce) or the steak in a spicy Béarnaise sauce. Sautéed bananas and Le Ruth's French bread accompany all entrees. For dessert, skip the flammable fare and sample instead the superb rum savarin or the simple and delicious homemade mandarin or pear ice. Forget the highly touted chocolate sundae; it's a mediocrity. Le Ruth's taste in wines rivals his expertise with food. For casual occasions, have the Pinot Chardonnay Latour ($6.50) or the Puligny Montrachet ($7.50). (Both also come in half bottles.) If expense is no object, there's also a white Corton-Charlemagne 1966 at $15 and the great red Chã¢teau Latour 1959 for $38. At peak hours, the noise level in the remodeled old house tends to rise, but tables are never as crowded as in New York or Paris restaurants of comparable stature. Call as early as possible for reservations--362-4914. Le Ruth's is open from 5:45 p.m. to midnight, Tuesday through Saturday. Besides cash, only Bank Americard is accepted.
Two all-American boys meet from time to time to swap stories about their love lives, or at least their sex lives. The traded confidences begin at Amherst, where both are making out with the same Smith girl, though only one of them knows it. The other one marries her and the boys keep getting together as young professional men in New York. By the time they hit their 30s, the happily married man has taken his first mistress. By the time they are 40ish, his friend the swinger has become semi-impotent and can't get it up at all unless he pays a $100 whore to accompany him in fetishistic rituals supporting his fantasies of male supremacy. This unpleasant saga, appropriately titled Carnal Knowledge, is the substance of an amazing, brutally honest film produced and directed by Mike Nichols. Working from a screenplay by Jules Feiffer (see Playboy Interview page 81), with Italian cameraman Giuseppe Rotunno as an important collaborator, Nichols somehow finds a perfect cinematic treatment for the harsh truths that underlie Feiffer's deceptively simple thesis. He uses frequent close-ups surrounded by eloquent blank space and distills the action of virtually every scene into a frame as pure and clean as the satirical cartoons that made Feiffer famous. Nichols also lets us in on the fact--which sharp observes have been aware of all along--that the world of Feiffer is far more sad than funny. Behind the syllogistic tone of Feiffer's dialog, Carnal Knowledge discovers a real sickness in the American way of sex--the sniggering talk of tits and ass that many a schoolboy learns by rote to mask his shame, his fears of inadequacy or his inbred hatred for women. Nichols, whose handling of actors is unsurpassed among American directors, works a few more quiet miracles here. No one will be surprised by Jack Nicholson's performance as the cold, noncommittal cocksman who seems to spend half his life washing his sins away in the shower, because Nicholson has established his own high standard of excellence. But it's a flash that Art Garfunkel (of Simon and) follows up his good work in Catch-22 with a laudable encore as the nice married guy who finds other women (svelte Cynthia O'Neal, for one) a kind of bandage for his psychic wounds. And cool Candice Bergen is unexpectedly warm as the Smith girl from way back when. Nichols can also take a deep bow behind sex kitten Ann-Margret, ideally cast as the busty model-mistress who satisfies Nicholson's emptiest dreams and who is finally very poignant as the unhappy, aging, desperately marriage-minded girl behind the come-and-get-it facade. Without music except for popular recordings of Moonlight Serenade and other Forties and Fifties favorites, Carnal Knowledge rings lots of bells for any practicing heterosexual who has played musical beds prior to 1971.
It's good to know that in the bleak wilds of southern Ontario, six madmen calling themselves Crowbar are living, presumably, in a house named Bad Manors and performing some of the nuttiest and best rock music ever heard in that region or any other. They have title their Paramount album Bad Manors (Crowbar's Golden Hits, Volume 1), and it's an incredible amalgam of country, r&b, hard rock, boogie, you name it. There are songs about funky cheating ladies, a romping tale of feminine entrapment (Murder in the First Degree), a vivid rendering of the effects of mountain booze, a brief Cherokee Indian boogie version of Hey! Ba-Ba-Re-Bop, a hip remake of Freddie Slack's The House of Blue Lights and much more. Horns, voices and various fillers are added from time to time; everything drives and the playing is more than competent. The capper is Prince of Peace, a kind of Gospel dead march with loud bass drum, cymbal, tenor sax and clapping. If they hear this, the revivalists and the Jesus freaks will never be the same.
Long Day's Journey into Night is one of the masterworks of the 20th Century, the most deeply personal and moving play of Eugene O'Neill. Torn from his own life, it wrenchingly reveals the author and his family in psychological close-up--the failed father, tightfisted James Tyrone; the drug-ridden mother, Mary; the wastrel older brother, Jamie; and the consumptive younger son, Edmund (O'Neill himself). During the play's long, erosive day and night, the Tyrones gnaw at one another, hating, then retreating to love, irrevocably binding themselves together. Any production of Long Day's Journey, such as the current New York revival, must stand scrutiny beside the original production in 1956--and perhaps must fall short. For one thing, Fredric March in the earlier cast may have been an unmatchable James Tyrone. In any case, Robert Ryan doesn't match him. He is suitably stern but somehow more sympathetic, which takes some of the blood out of the role. Ryan catches the father side of Tyrone, but he is less successful with his titanic ham-actor side. As the mother, Geraldine Fitzgerald appears to be frayed in the mind a bit too early in the play, so that her character doesn't seem to grow. But James Naughton is a fine Edmund and Stacy Keach is a superlative Jamie. The play turns to the younger actors. Keach becomes the mainstay--rascally, charming and, by his own drunken confession, full of malice. And Edmund, even though his part is the shortest, becomes the focus. The play is somewhat cramped by a small stage and there is little feeling of the fog-ridden seaside, but Arvin Brown's direction is confident and the players work together as a family. O'Neill's ghosts are all here and they are still haunting. At the Promenade, 2162 Broadway.
At the age of 20, I have finally realized that it was my own conceit that always prevented my caring for any one girl. I kept the last girl I liked guessing and never called her nor went to see her--I always waited for her to call or come to see me. Then she met another guy and, after a week of waiting by the telephone, it finally occurred to me that she wasn't going to chase me and that I missed her. I'm afraid that now it's too late. I've tried hard to make up for my uncommunicative past; but though she is seeing me again occasionally, it's only when her other guy is away at school. I think she'd be just as glad if I left her alone, but I'm really crazy about her. What do I do now--continue to play ball with her?--K. C., Amarillo, Texas.
<p>The characters are instantly recognizable: The wife explaining that she had lost all feeling for her husband, that she felt she was just a servant; the he went away on a business trip and at first she had a marvelous time, calling up old friends to chat and the like; until she began to miss him, got lonely, hated herself for failing him, even slept on his side of the bed to feel closer to him. "The fifth week, George came home," she concludes. "The minute he walked in and said 'I'm back, darling!' I withdrew. I can hardly wait for his next business trip so I can love him again." One of life's spectators sitting in a bar fantasizing about picking up the beautiful girl at the next table but tying himself up with a convoluted analysis of whether or not she wants to be picked up, while the superjock who can't comprehend such nuances slicks right in and leaves with her. The executive, a knee-jerk liberal, hustling down the street, attach case in hand, being pursued by a black who wants him to confront his own racism. "Civil rights was so much more tolerable before Negroes got into it," the executive sights to himself.</p>
His sleep had been troubled for weeks. Girls came in out of the misty edges of dreams to smile at him, beckon him, leer at him, invite him, almost embrace him. He was on city streets, on the decks of great ships, in satiny bedrooms, on high bridges, accompanied and not quite accompanied by the phantom figures whom he always seemed on the verge of recognizing and never recognized, as they slipped away beyond the confines of dream, to leave him lying awake in his single bed, disturbed, sleepless, knowing only that the figures that haunted him were sisters in a single respect--they were all much taller than he--and that when they vanished, it was upward, toward unreachable heights.
For a ghost to vanish is only natural--well, Ok, supernatural--but, to judge by the contents of the bulk of today's fiction, the ghost seems to have done a permanent job of it. True, we live in an era in which the merely natural horrors are hard to top. A werewolf would be a positive pleasure to encounter after a narrow escape from a street gang's bicycle chains, for instance, and finding one's midnight bedroom shared with a moaning, bloodflecked phantom might be a relief from the nightly phantasmagoria of TV news. When you get right down to it, terror is relative and the average citizen, after undergoing an average 20th Century day, would find the majority of old-fashioned thrillers quite restful by comparison. All that these sagas of yore need is a bit of updating, to meet the modern reader's environment halfway. What we propose, therefore, is judicious editing to make some of the masterworks of the past more credible. With only the slightest bit of finagling with names, dates and situations, there's hardly a one that cannot be deftly uprooted from the past and transplanted smack into modern times with no loss of panic-making impact. And today's readers could thrill again to such neoclassics as:
While there's no denying that "life style" has become one of the most overused phrases of the Seventies, nevertheless, it sums up in a neat two-word package the relationship between today's young urban males and their clothes. On these pages are ten men in their 20s who have already achieved relative success. There's a direct correlation between who they are and what they wear. Manhattan wine merchant Peter Morrell, for example, tailors his wardrobe to the sophisticated demands of his occupation by choosing adventurously debonair suits and sports jackets, while artist Dan Weiss's work clothes include a body-hugging knit pullover and a pair of Peter Max--designed jeans. Obviously, each knows himself and the style in which he feels most comfortable. Add to this a strong sense of independence and you have an inside look at the fashion thinking of our young upward movers, who are into their own thing at work and at leisure and are loving every minute of it.
Seven years ago, Mario Savio, wearing a sheepskin jacket and hair that was short by today's lengths, led 800 students into Sproul Hall to be arrested. And for six years after that, America was at war with her students. It moved through sit-ins, teach-ins, confrontations and riots. Nearly two generations of middle-class students tasted tear gas and went to jail. Police saw campuses only through the tinted visors of riot helmets. The old men who had edited education sections of the daily papers were replaced by younger journalists, who frequently seemed more like combat reporters as they filed their dispatches from Berkeley, San Francisco, New York, Chicago, Lawrence, Kansas, and Madison, Wisconsin.
Shig Ikeda, Tokyo-born photographer, freezes time. Schooled in Japan and at Los Angeles' Art Center College of Design, Ikeda in the works on these pages probes the camera's highestmission: to permanently record an instant in the life of the mind. "To a great extent," he says, "I previsualize my image before I shoot, but it often takes months of work to produce the proper interplay of mood, model and repose to bring forth the penetrating tone of mystery indispensable to surrealist art." Although these photographs vividly evoke the Freudian symbolism of Salvador Dali and René Magritte and the visual poems of Man Ray and Max Ernst, Ikeda does not consciously attempt to recapitulate the work of the surrealist pioneers. "My primary instrument istechique--working with a 4x5 view camera, shooting a section of each frame at a time and masking the remainder." His photos are not retouched but consist instead of multiple exposures perfectly composed on one sheet of film. The dream-instant juxtaposition of the real and the imaginary is a fleeting moment for most of us. But through the lens of Shig Ikeda, the surreal fantansy endures.
When Andre Citroen Ran the Company he founded in 1919, his cars carried no identifying name plates. A Citron automobile was a Citron because it looked like one and, if that wasn't enough, it mounted the double-chevron/herringbone emblem (^) suggesting, if only to those who knew, the gear-cutting business on which Citroen's fortunes--he was not a one-fortune man--were founded. Andé Citroën had little in common with a 1971 chairman of the board, who is vulnerable, wary, ever in danger of finding himself unfleeced under the steely stare of a Congressional committee chairman forensically armed to the teeth by Nader's Raiders. Citron was an old-style tycoon. Bucking the odds at roulette in the legendary Deauville casino, he blew $500, 000 in ten hours without a blink. He was of the original company of movers and shakers--Ford, Austin, Opel, Agnelli--who loosed the automobile on the planet, grew great and passed on, full of years and honors, their ears innocent of the doom word ecology. Citroen was not a wealthy man when he died, but he had run a merry course, and it may be that the path of ultimate wisdom is to live rich and die poor.
Puzzled as she may appear on our cover, Crystal Smith is way ahead of the game when it comes to putting her life together. A 20-year-old senior at Kansas State University in Manhattan, Crystal has definitely decided where she wants her college radio-TV major to take her--straight into the entertainment media. Since her sophomore year, Crystal, a native Kansan, has geared her college work and extracurricular activities toward that goal. "As a freshman," she admits, "I was really involved in campus social life--the whole pompon-girl, sorority-fraternity party scene. But then I took stock and realized I was here to get a useful degree". To break into films, TV or the theater, she says, "you can't be a unitalent anymore. You have to be able to do everything--dance, sing and play musical instruments. Right now, I'm concentrating on my voice and opera classes. The dancing I've been doing all along. Two summers ago, I was a Rockette in Radio City Music Hall and now, during the school year, I'm operating a dance studio for girls at the U.S. Army Special Services Youth Activities Center outside Manhattan. Not only do the classes make me practice my dancing but teaching those little kids is really fun. Plus, the lessons have helped pay my college tuition." Crystal also taught classes this summer, driving more than 100 miles to Manhattan from Kansas City on her one day off from modeling assignments and her job as a Playboy Club Bunny. (She appeared in our Bunnies of 1971 feature last month.) "It was a hectic schedule," she says, "but I've always been happiest doing several things at once." If all goes well, Crystal's postgraduation days will be as busy as her college ones. "I'm planning to move to Los Angeles, where I hope to land singing and dancing work in films or television," she says. "And, if I'm lucky, maybe someday I'll have my own TV special!" Whether or not she gets her big break, we think Crystal is already special.
The Rebellion now in full cry against the chemical feast has had the delightful consequence of opening up imposing vistas of great new viands. Men who like their pressed duck flavored with brandy rather than mercury and their onion soup seasoned with salt and pepper rather than calcium silicate are beginning to turn their culinary thinking around. They're not necessarily reverting to Thoreau's woods and a dinner of beavers' paws au beurre. But it has become increasingly clear that while food chemists, using preservatives, stabilizers, emulsifiers and artificial flavors, can (continued on page 201)health foods(continued from page 145) create some excellent gastronomic forgeries and can keep food in the larder from spoiling, they can, simultaneously, lay waste to man himself. If you're the kind of host who treasures your health as well as hedonistic values, you'll find that one of the best defenses against the chemical warfare of the commercial food processors is to explore the shops featuring natural or organic foods.
It's Been a lot of autumns since the president of Cornell refused to let his school's football team travel to Cleveland to "agitate a bag of wind" and Teddy Roosevelt--who had no qualms about shooting down assorted fauna but found college football too brutal for a civilized society--threatened to use his Presidential big stick to curtail the mayhem. Sports have since become America's biggest and most lucrative form of show business. Thus, though the facade of (text continued on page 152) chaste and decorous amateurism is jealously guarded by university administrators, when an amateur sport such as college football becomes both highly marketable and costly to produce, lofty ideals of amateur competition are inevitably--if circumspectly--scrapped. Coaches are hired amid a flurry of high-sounding press releases with admonitions to build character, but they are fired for not winning enough games. The current economic bind and soaring costs have made the athletic administrator's long celebrated proclivity for talking out of both sides of his mouth a job prerequisite, and his almost paranoid fear of the pro football bogeyman is based far more on fiscal concerns than on unsullied idealism. Thus, when Northwestern University last spring requested permission from the Big Ten administrators to rend Dyche Stadium to the Chicago bears for the season--thereby alleviating the sever financial squeeze on the Big Ten's only privately funded school--it was turned down, evidently on the grounds that professionalism is contagious.
John Hansen, a Presidential science advisor, was reviewing some CIA reports on Russian ICBM launch-pad locations when the telephone rang. The President said, "John, I'd like you to come into my office," and hung up.
A single postage stamp was auctioned last year for a record-shattering $280,000. The sale blew minds all over Wall Street. Whenever stocks are falling and inflation raging (and especially when both occur at once), the investment potential of collector's items--stamps, coins, paintings, rare books, autographs, antiques and all the rest--seems especially promising. In this instance, the facts had all the allure of lucre. The stamp, shown here, is the fabled "penny magenta" of British Guiana, the only one known to exist. The seller had purchased the stamp in 1940 for a mere $42,000. And the buyer was not one of your nutty millionaire stamp freaks but a syndicate of eight hardheaded businessmen, most of whom wouldn't know a rare postage stamp if it came to them on a corporate report.
The Original Girl of the Golden West, as immortalized dramatically by playwright David Belasco and musically by Giacomo Puccini, was the archetypal mining-camp saloon proprietress with a 24-kt. heart. Puccini's opera premiered at the Met in 1910, five years after the play's hit debut, but the Italian composer might well recognize his heroine's traits in her geographical and spiritual descendants today. In 1971, you're less likely to encounter a Western lass behind a tavern counter than on a college campus, at the beach, on a ski slope or behind an artist's drawing board in an advertising agency; but you'll find that she's generally (text continued on page 170) friendly, warmhearted and disarmingly direct.
Big Jules, the master smith, had a problem about a bed. His house was already so crowded with his workmen, the serving maids and seven children--some of them two to a bed--that he was hard pressed to think of some niche where he could put his new apprentice. The boy could hardly be expected to sleep on straw in the barn.
As Usual, my golf weekend began Friday night with a phone call from my partner, Mr. Rat Regan, the history teacher at Lincoln Academy in Newcastle, Maine, who said, "Hey, Hawkeye, be strong tomorrow. We gotta clock those mothers."
In the beginning and a long time before the beginning, God played solitaire, seldom winning, and ruining His eyes because there was no light. "Let there be light!" God cried, but no one answered. So God created an angel with special responsibility for light. He was called Lucifer, Prince of Darkness. Lucifer later invented fire; thus he also became Prince of Cold. And the evening and the morning were the first day.