Not too long ago, during a one-week period, there were more Americans killed by gunfire in New York City than in South Vietnam. What's most surprising about that statistic is the fact that nobody seemed surprised by it--perhaps because New York and South Vietnam have been growing more and more alike for so long now. New York had junkies first, but Saigon led the way in terrorist bombings. Manhattan may have fallen behind in racial incidents, but not by much. While fraggings run ahead of police murders, that may only be an indication of how easy it is to accomplish the former. Since any war zone is interesting in a macabre sort of way--and New York is particularly so because, if for no other reason, the casualties are so articulate--we asked for reports from the front. Bruce Jay Friedman, one of New York's foremost paranoids, a gifted and prolific writer of novels (Stern, A Mother's Kisses), plays (Scuba Duba), screenplays and articles, sent us New York--A Town Without Foreplay, which details the peculiar and somewhat attractive insanity of that city. Murray Kempton, one of Manhattan's best columnists and most civilized of men, recently had a personal run-in with crime in the streets that shook him, spiritually more than physically. My Last Mugging was, for Kempton, a holdup with an urban message.
Playboy, December, 1971 Volume 18, Number 12. 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: Victor Lownes, Director of Creative Development; 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.
When Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot premiered at the Théâtre de Babylone in Paris in 1953, modern drama was transformed virtually overnight into a sounding board for a new and revolutionary kind of playwright--the spokesman for existentialist or absurdist modes of thought. The theater of the absurd was born, and as the names of its prophets quickly proliferated (Ionesco, Pinter, Albee, et al.), the mood of spiritual and psychic malaise that permeated their work became a powerful influence in modern literature. In the interest of nothing more profound than idle speculation, we found ourself wondering just how Clement C. Moore's classic A Visit from St. Nicholas might have turned out if it had been written by a contemporary playwright--someone with the unlikely name of, say, Clement C. Beckett. It would look something like this:
Few books this year will be as closely read and as hotly disputed as Beyond Freedom and Dignity (Knopf), by Harvard's famed behavioral psychologist, B. F. Skinner. This iconoclastic attack on the idea of man as an autonomous being is a challenge to the thinking of all men who pride themselves on their ability to use intelligence and reason in the pursuit of knowledge. In Skinner's view, intelligence and reason are nothing more than the selective response of a unique organism to the stimulation of its environment. Says he: "A person does not act upon the world; the world acts upon him." Man makes choices from a limited range of possibilities, and behavior, according to Skinner, "is shaped and maintained by its consequences." Thus, by altering the environment, man in effect engineers his own behavior. His actions are determined not by what he thinks or feels but by the rewards or penalties he receives for what he does. If the human race is to survive, Skinner believes, man must give up the idea that his acts are attributable to free will, to his ability to distinguish right from wrong, and cooperate instead in the development of conditioning techniques that will use positive reinforcement to alter individual behavior. "The control of the population as a whole must be delegated to specialists--to police, priests, teachers, therapists and so on, with their specialized reinforcers and their codified contingencies." Beyond Freedom and Dignity is a cogent argument by a scientist to a jury of his intellectual peers. The argument, however distasteful it may seem, is the crystallization of a lifetime spent in exploring the nature of man through the principles of behavioral psychology, and it cannot be easily dismissed. It is not simply a matter of intellectual game playing, of behaviorism vs. humanism. At stake is how man can best hope to acquire the knowledge he needs to keep the human race from coming to an end.
Born last January during the despair of Hollywood's most alarming recession, the chances of survival for Le St. Germain (5955 Melrose Avenue, Los Angeles) seemed none too great. But the infant restaurant not only survived, it has swiftly emerged as the "in" establishment in a city that thrives on scripts involving underdogs and overnight successes. The excellence of cuisine, which has earned the 20-table restaurant its deserved reputation, makes one overlook such distractions as the cacophony, discothèque lighting and absence of prices on the à-la-carte menu. (To be on the safe side, figure on spending about $50 for dinner for two, including cocktails, wine and tip.) For hors d'oeuvres, try the Salade de Champignons--crispy sliced mushrooms anointed with a dressing of mustard, oil, vinegar and wine, crowned with a sprinkling of chives. The especially delicate chicken-liver and pheasant pâtés, as well as Escargots de Bourgogne and Scampis Newburg, are of similar merit. Le St. Germain's menu lists a dozen entrees (along with a brace of nightly specials), including Tournedos Périgourdine (beef cooked with truffles and madeira), Filets Mignons au Poivre and rack of lamb. One of the dishes sampled on our visit was Ris de Veau--commonly known as veal sweet-breads--which is a must. Augmenting the entrees were two perfectly prepared fresh vegetables: cauliflower au gratin and French-cut string beans sautéed in butter. Le St. Germain's extensive wine list ranges from nonvintage house Cabernet Sauvignon or Pinot Noir (at five dollars a bottle) to the $100 price tag accompanying a 1959 Château Lafite-Rothschild. Besides the inevitable crème caramel and crispy tarts plump with peaches or pears, the dessert selection is memorable for a thick mousse au chocolat laced with rum and the exotic Délices St. Germain--a creamy conglomerate of soft vanilla ice cream, fresh strawberries and raspberries lavished with a heady mixture of Grand Marnier and cognac. One word of caution: The five minuscule tables nestled in Le St. Germain's charming L-shaped bar area are regarded as the restaurant's Siberia--stay clear of them, as the din and the constant flow of traffic will undermine an otherwise enjoyable occasion. To avoid the disappointment recently experienced by such pop gourmets as Henry Kissinger and Zsa Zsa Gabor, who on separate evenings were unable to secure tables, dinner reservations should be made several days in advance (213-467-1108). Le St. Germain is open for dinner, Monday through Saturday, from six P.M. until 10:30 P.M. Lunch is served Monday through Friday from noon to two P.M. (The luncheon menu lists prices.) The only credit cards accepted are BankAmericard and Master Charge.
The custom of turning rock concerts into feature-length movies à la Wood-stock and Monterey Pop reaches a climax of sorts in two new musical spectaculars. The more professional of the pair is Medicine Ball Caravan, coproduced and directed by François Reichenbach, a pioneer of cinéma vérité techniques in his native France. Under the patronage of Warner Bros., Reichenbach piled his crew of photographers into buses with 150 American music makers, hangers-on and hippies for a three-week cross-country sing-in. Since the entourage included B. B. King, Alice Cooper, Delaney and Bonnie and other name acts (quite a few of them contracted to Warner Bros. Records), Medicine Ball achieves plenty of bounce from time to time. "We have come for your daughters," proclaims the sign on the front of a bus, a fair sample of the humor expressed by Reichenbach himself, who keeps popping into the film for wry interviews and comment. All the jolly decadence (casual nudity, or communal bathing in a huge vat of Jell-O, for example) is seriously questioned, though, when the caravan stops at Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio, where campus progressives wonder whether a pilgrimage sponsored by a major movie studio has any larger aims than to turn a profit. A pertinent question, which this fast-moving show manages to evade with aural and optical virtuosity. Twice as exciting is Soul to Soul, a filmed account of the trip to Africa early in 1971 by black performers invited to a festival celebrating the 14th anniversary of Ghana's independence. Wilson Pickett, Roberta Flack, Ike and Tina Turner and their exuberant colleagues arrive on the Dark Continent looking and behaving like any eager American tourists--off to the bazaars with cameras and traveler's checks--but turn on when they and their Ghanaian hosts begin digging each other's drumbeats. Whether Tina is shimmying through the local equivalent of a luau or electrifying a stadium full of spectators with her wildly stylized interpretation of sex set to music, that dynamic lady communicates on a human level that official envoys shall never achieve. Pickett has his moments, too, in this "cultural come-together" that drew over 100,000 people to Accra's Black Star Square. One sharp contrast to American pop-music festivals, which have tended to turn sour lately, is the sight of Ghana's uniformed militia amiably weaving and bobbing in rhythm with the crowds they came to control.
The Big Five are still the Big Five, no matter how you choose to rank them. Boston, Cleveland, New York, Chicago and Philadelphia boast the finest orchestras in the United States today. But because most of them have experienced recent changes of one sort or another, we can expect musical changes, too. The Boston Symphony is still a magnificent institution, but its music director, William Steinberg, is a most literal-minded conductor, sometimes plodding, sometimes pedantic. His young associate, Michael Tilson Thomas, is none of these things, and his recordings and concerts with the B. S. O. have been startling. Thomas has drive and precision, power and assurance far beyond his 27 years. He seems also to have identified himself with Ives, Debussy and other early modernists in a desire to get the orchestra out of the Beethoven-Brahms-Mozart repertoire that chokes the entire classical-music scene. The Boston hasn't sounded so good since the days of Koussevitzky. Since the death of George Szell last year, the Cleveland Orchestra has been beating the bushes for a new leader. Szell's great accomplishment was to mold his orchestra into an incomparably responsive instrument, so flexible that any conductor could get superb results. This, of course, took years as well as an intense concentration of amiable tyranny and classical technique. In his one-season role as musical advisor for the New York Philharmonic, Szell also gave that orchestra some direction and stability, but the Philharmonic's virtuoso musicians play brilliantly or stridently, depending on who's in charge. The probing formalism and intellectual rigor of Pierre Boulez, who has succeeded conductor laureate Leonard Bernstein as head of the Philharmonic, should give the orchestra the sense of equilibrium and purpose it needs. If New Yorkers can stand the heavy doses of post-Webern contemporary music of which Boulez is fond, his appointment could be a notable happening. In Chicago, where Georg Solti is firmly enthroned and Carlo Maria Giulini is principal guest conductor, audiences have been responding warmly to performances very different from the neat objectivity of Boulez. Solti stresses sweep, passion and texture, and the acoustically restored Orchestra Hall has not reverberated to such joyful noises since the time of Reiner. In Philadelphia, Eugene Ormandy, apparently indestructible, is into his 36th season with an orchestra that must be the most popular, if not the greatest, in the world. The Philadelphia has a uniquely gorgeous sound--big and rich, yet precise. Its leader, who has often been faulted for a lack of musical assertiveness, continues to make listenable music for everyone. On the heels of the Big Five, there are other contenders in the symphonic sweepstakes. Despite its somewhat obscure status and the acoustical problems of its new St. Paul auditorium, the Minnesota Orchestra, led by Stanislaw Skrowaczewski, is an outstanding, long-established ensemble. On the West Coast, two celebrated, if eccentric, young conductors are making their marks. Indian-born Zubin Mehta, leading the Los Angeles Philharmonic, travels constantly, likes to insult the New York Philharmonic and, a couple of years ago, got his orchestra involved in a horrendous rock concert. Manchurian-born Seiji Ozawa, somewhat more serious about his music than Mehta, now leads the San Francisco Symphony. He, too, travels a lot and, because of his electric way with a score, may be one of the two or three best conductors in the world. A question to muse upon: With the exception of Michael Tilson Thomas, where are tomorrow's American conductors?
Ike and Tina Turner have been making it big for several years. But until What You Hear Is What You Get (United Artists), two discs of a Carnegie Hall concert, some of the supercharged vitality of their live performances has always seemed missing. Turner fans may now rejoice as Tina demonstrates how to turn on an audience. Her standards, Ooh Poo Pah Doo, Proud Mary and Otis Redding's Respect, are particularly instructive. Our only reservation is that Tina's frantic pace and pitch may wear a bit thin after a time: What works in concert doesn't always work on vinyl. Anyhow, the high point of the proceedings is reached in I've Been Loving You Too Long, her marvelous recitative duet with Ike, replete with orgiastic groans, slurping noises and some standout sexual comedy.
What can I do about a girl who wants to remain totally passive during lovemaking? I have enjoyed a sexual relationship with her for the past two months, but now she has decided that she wants to experience an orgasm without any active participation whatsoever on her part, which she feels should be possible if I stimulate her sufficiently (orally, manually or otherwise). I have tried to discuss this with her patiently, but she remains insistent; now I'm beginning to wonder if what she wants is possible. Is it?--S. B., Sacramento, California.
There was virtually no action, and the plot was starkly simple: A successful middle-aged Polish journalist, his restless wife and a young hitchhiker they have picked up spend a weekend on a yacht, with subtle, potentially murderous psychosexual tensions developing among them. But "Knife in the Water," Roman Polanski's first feature film (which he co-authored), won an Academy Award nomination for best foreign film of 1963 and made its director internationally famous at the age of 30.
Our suitcase is carefully embellished with bright-colored stickers: Nürnberg, Stuttgart, Köln--and even Lido (but that one is fraudulent). We have a swarthy complexion, a network of purple-red veins, a black mustache, trimly clipped, and hairy nostrils. We breathe hard through our nose as we try to solve a crossword puzzle in an émigré paper. We are alone in a third-class compartment--alone and, therefore, bored.
It looks more or less the same. Approaching, say, from the Queensboro Bridge at 59th Street, the buildings still appear majestic, confident, imperious, like players in some magnificent backfield or, for the more extravagant, like sentries at the gates of Olympus. The much-talked-about pollutive screen hangs above the city; but since there is no way actually to see it at work on the lungs, the effect is muted and cinematic, the work of an ambitious new film director, shaky on character, secure when it comes to giving his picture a "look." From a distance, it is all quite safe and manageable; but closer in, when the view becomes hot and stupendous and it's clear you're not dealing with a picture postcard, even the cool customer sucks in his breath a bit. Coming in on steerage, the immigrants felt it, of course, and the local who has been wandering in foreign lands experiences it more sharply than anyone. But even the commuter, struggling bumper to bumper from Hicksville, exhausted before the day has begun, has been known to revive somewhat, as though slapped by a Madison Avenue skin bracer, on catching that first exhilarative shock of the city. There is much of this in the approach to San Juan, the look of Rome from the Hills, the first sight of the Pacific and even dropping down over St. Louis--a sense of new and dangerous possibilities--but in the case of New York City, there seems to be a higher ante, more wild cards to the deck. Making first contact with this town, that elevator-dropping junkie's rush of excitement has to do with the fact that no matter how many times a visitor has been elbowed away from the table or come home tapioca city, there are more chances in New York that the dice will pass his way again; the list is long of those who've rolled their way back to a piece of the casino.
Having more or less outlasted the enemy, the Korean War and the U.S. Army, the men of M*A*S*H put on civilian clothes and went their separate ways. From the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, Dr. "Trapper" John McIntyre went to New York to practice cardiac surgery; Dr. "Duke" Forrest went south; Dr. Oliver Wendell ("Spearchucker") Jones became chief of neurosurgery at University Hospital in Philadelphia; and Dr. Benjamin Franklin ("Hawkeye") Pierce went home to Maine. They all seemed to have found what they'd wanted--except for Hawkeye. He was restless. There was something missing from life at the Spruce Harbor VA Hospital. He went to the big city for a couple of years of training in thoracic surgery; then, when he went back to Spruce Harbor to start his own practice, a devious scheme began to form in his mind. But how do you lure, entice, decoy or seduce three eminent physicians to the rustic shores of the Pine Tree State? Only (continued on page 158)Thief Island(continued from page 131) Hawkeye would have a clue. Only Hawkeye knew what looniness lurked in the hearts of men.
George Bernard Shaw put it rather nicely when he called Christmas "an indecent subject; a cruel, gluttonous subject; a drunken, disorderly subject; a wasteful, disastrous subject; a wicked, cadging, lying, filthy, blasphemous and demoralizing subject," concluding that if he had his way, "anyone who looked back to it would be turned into a pillar of greasy sausages." Ebenezer Scrooge, however, was a bit more succinct. "'If I could work my will,' said Scrooge indignantly, 'every idiot who goes about with "Merry Christmas" on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.'" So now that the holidays are once again upon us, here's a quiz designed to plumb the depths of your own acid content. Simply take a pencil and mark your answers to the following 20 questions (only one answer per question, please). Then check the scoring box at the end of the quiz. And if you don't like what you learn, don't call us; we'll be busy evicting deadbeat paraplegics while the snow's still on the ground.
With Nary a twinge of self-doubt, Webster's succinctly defines erotic as "tending to arouse sexual love or desire." We've always thought that definition left a great deal to be desired concerning what actually is erotic. Since one man's turn-on could be another's turnoff, the term remains open to wide interpretation. As a result, Playboy asked a number of leading photographers to visually define what erotic means to them. While we had certainly expected the creativity and imagination of these premier lensmen to produce a broad spectrum of powerful pictures, the range and variety of their efforts proved a captivating surprise. We think you'll agree that eroticism is in the eye of the beholder.
Toward the latter part of 1924, a lanky 18-year-old walked into a Houston courtroom to make an unusual request. Under an obscure Texas law, a minor who could prove that he was competent to handle his own affairs was entitled to inherit a business and run it.
In the Winter of 1966, I returned to New York from a lonely four-month stay in Europe, carrying my one and only suitcase, wearing my black and only suit, having lost 20 pounds from an already slim frame, and I imagine that my grim, black-garbed, skeletal presence frightened more than a few passers-by on the street.
Karen Christy's life has taken a sudden and very exhilarating change of direction. While she'd almost come to anticipate transitions in her life style, they had been, until last summer, of a necessary and not uncommon nature. First, the 20-year-old native of Abilene, Texas, moved north to Denton in 1969 to major in commercial art at North Texas State. Her plans for a degree were cut short after just one year, however, when she realized that part-time-job income could not adequately meet school and living expenses. So Karen moved to Dallas and adjusted smoothly to the working-girl role. For nearly a year, she was a secretary in Texas' second-largest city. Then, last year, she heard about a Playboy Bunny Hunt being conducted by Club representatives looking for girls in the Dallas--Fort Worth area who might wish to wear a pair of Bunny ears. Somewhat timorously, she decided to attend. "Some office friends convinced me to go." Not at all surprisingly, she far exceeded the requirements and, soon afterward, received an invitation in the mail to become a cottontail at the Chicago Club. At first, Karen demurred, then she decided that it might be very worth while to experience a complete change of place and people; she notified Club officials and flew to Chicago. "In the beginning, I thought I'd made a bad mistake." Her taste runs to the new and modern. "Old things depress me," she says frankly. And that preference extends to the city she lives in. "Dallas is a relatively new city, filled with modern buildings and homes." In contrast, her first impressions of Chicago were of squat, undistinguished office buildings and the long, narrow belt of elegant postwar high-rises on Lake Shore Drive. She was disappointed. Quickly, however, Karen grew to like it, largely due to the two essential aspects of her life: her work and her residence. She's been alternating her Bunny stints with increasingly frequent assignments from Playboy Models and she's living in the Bunny Dormitory in Hugh Hefner's Mansion. "The Mansion is fantastic," she says. "There's always something going on. The parties give me a chance to meet well-known people, entertainers, politicians, athletes: a great mix." And during less revelous hours, Karen appreciates other advantages the Mansion offers. "Most nights, there's a movie showing. Also, I really like the company of the other girls." It's clear that Karen now feels thoroughly satisfied with her move. For Miss December, the Playboy Mansion is a fascinating ménage that she's more than delighted to call home.
Leaving the poker party late, as usual, two friends compared notes. "I can never fool my wife," the first complained. "I turn off the car's engine and coast into the garage, take off my shoes, sneak upstairs and undress in the bathroom, but she always wakes up and yells like crazy about my being late."
For 5000 years, male authors have been conditioning women to accept masculine-oriented interpretations of human events, interpretations saturated with the most appalling sexist lies, misconceptions and factual errors. Little wonder that today's woman is insecure, confused and cranky and that one out of every three has developed a facial tic. If American women are to achieve true freedom and fulfillment--as opposed to the spurious kind consisting of material comforts and laborsaving appliances--they will have to re-examine and re-evaluate history and rewrite it to show what really happened. If my thesis is correct, we will see emerge a very different picture from the one men have painted.
The Late Ian Fleming's indomitable secret agent. James Bond, has addictive qualities. In novel form, he has attracted such prominent fans as President John F. Kennedy; onscreen, he has since 1962 been entertaining theater-filling fans numbering into the hundreds of thousands. Now, it appears, even 007's best-known alter ego is hooked by the role. After a one-picture absence, during which he loudly proclaimed that he was sick and tired of being James Bond, saturnine Scotsman Sean Connery is back in Bondage as the hero of Diamonds Are Forever, due to open over the holidays in theaters throughout the country. Produced, as were six previous Bond epics--five starring Connery and one featuring George Lazenby--by Albert R. ("Cubby") Broccoli and Harry Saltzman for United Artists, Diamonds sets Bond on the trail of a gem-smuggling ring that leads to the casinos of Las Vegas. Most of the action takes place in and around the Nevada gambling capital, making this the first Bond movie shot principally in the U.S. In the best 007 screen tradition, Connery comes in contact with a number of pneumatic maidens, notably Jill St. John as Tiffany Case and Lana Wood as Plenty O'Toole. (It was Playboy's April uncoverage of Miss Wood that brought her to the film makers' attention.) Also present in Diamonds are the other standard 007 film ingredients: infernally clever machines (a diamond encrusted, butterfly-winged moon car and an oyster-shaped one-man sub) and adrenaline-boosting chases (a dozen cars crack up in Downtown Vegas). All in all, we predict a warm yule box-office welcome for the return of the prodigal Sean.
Professor Zachary Ding's Patented Official Unabridged Condensed New 1972 Autocyclopedia, A through Z
Introduction by Lester Smeed, the Author's best Friend: Professor Zachary Ding has been astounding his friends and loved ones for years with a knowledge of things automotive that often borders on the articulate. "There goes a '49 Nash Airflyte," he will often observe, lapsing into a thoughtful silence that may last for weeks before those piercing eyes light up again and he exclaims, "There goes a Studebaker Lark, '59 maybe." "Ding," I boggled one time, after the keen-eyed professor had nailed a '51 De Soto from half a block away, "you're a walking encyclopedia!" This gave him the idea for which his entire life suddenly seemed to have been mere preparation. Alas, Ding was ahead of his time. The world was not yet ready for an encyclopedia that could ambulate--though, in all fairness, it should be admitted that Ding's invention managed more of a shuffle than a walk when it moved at all. Be that as it may--and it was--the venture exhausted the good professor's meager life savings; to recoup, he next hit upon the notion of an encyclopedia of automobiles, an Autocylopedia, as he termed it, with that academic's gift for boiling complex ideas down into words of seven syllables. The rest is history, of a sort. The Autocylopedia--with lots of words and full-color pictures that are almost in register--has gone through more than 100 printings at 100 printers, and each will be paid, if this new improved edition, with its nearly perfect spelling and often uncannily accurate dates, meets with even half the success Professor Ding has promised his backers.
"There walk among us men and women who are in but not of our world," wrote psychiatrist Robert Lindner. "Often the sign by which they betray themselves is crime, crime of an explosive, impulsive, reckless type. Sometimes the sign is ruthlessness in dealing with others socially, even commercially."
No matter what--or whom--the charts may show, the major stars of 1971 were neither brawny males nor voluptuous females. According to box-office ratings (and what else is there?), they were a pack of rats (Willard), a couple of schools of sharks (Blue Water, White Death), an unsettling collection of insects (The Hellstrom Chronicle) and a particularly virulent and elusive virus from outer space (The Andromeda Strain). The biology lessons that have for so long been the number-one course in the cinema's college of scatological knowledge were seemingly, if perhaps only momentarily, replaced by natural (or unnatural) history. Although the rats of Willard and the bugs of Hellstrom were never as charming as their two-legged counterparts, they exerted an odd fascination that not even their production companies had anticipated.
Girls with Longish, roundish heads mysteriously charmed me. I thought it was the smile, walk, intelligence, grace, but it turns out to be the head. Other strengths later come into play--the soul, the person--but first the head. I married a lady with a round head, but not a long one, and tried to forget the girl with different strengths who made me shriek in a darkened room of the Ben Franklin Hotel in Philadelphia on a weekend of Army leave.
Oh, me name is Dan Homer; I'm blind as the Jews And I travels about with me head full of news; But the gods call me Danny and teach me the rhymes, Though I've never been home since the classical times.
Christmastide is no time for martinis, manhattans or other conventional nostrums. The mood of the season is open and convivial; Gemütlichkeit is loose in the land. The idea--to paraphrase Simon ... or is it Garfunkel?--is to make the feeling last. And it isn't that hard. All you need is a group of simpatico souls and a complement of cheery libations whose color and content evoke thoughts of yuletide.
Mr. Billings realized that he had raised his voice for the first time in his 17 years with the Manhattan Trust Company. Instead of silently reminding himself that self-control in front of subordinates was a prerequisite for executive success, he raised his voice again--louder. "They're doing what?" he shouted.
We are all addicts in various stages of degradation where I live on the Upper West Side, some to heroin, some to small dogs and some to The New York Times. The heroin is cut, the dogs are paranoid and the Times cheats by skimping on the West Coast ball scores. No matter; each of us goes upon the street solely in pursuit of his own particular curse.