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My friend, Arnold, is having a fight with the stewardess. “I will make you into salami!” he is screaming. I’m making believe I don’t know Arnold. I bury my face in a magazine, “Modern Maturity,” a few seats back from his. We are flying Astral Coach to Venus.
By Karl GrossmanMay 1976I was walking with a friend a few nights ago, sharing tales of lusty, high adventure drawn from a mid-winter’s odyssey to Boston, when Joe offered a remarkable insight: “You know, it’s the settled man who keeps the wanderer on the road.”
By Robert DonnanMay 1976Let’s see, travel. I abhor it as a general rule. No, that’s not true. I like to travel. If I were rich I would probably go to Europe. Nowadays, it’s pretty much the trip into town and whether or not the brake job I did myself is going to . . . well.
By Sy SafranskyMay 1976Studying astronomy, as a child, I was fascinated by the Earth’s movement, its rotation on its axis, its orbit around the sun, its sweep, with the rest of the galaxy, through space. Despite the evidence of my senses, nothing stood still.
By Sy SafranskyMay 1976It was The New Age and there I was on the elevator — 68th floor, 15th floor, 43rd floor — thinking: bongs will never totally replace joints. Bongs have their place, sure, a big place. But a joint is a . . .
By Karl GrossmanFebruary 1976A carpet, anyway you look at it, is the best way to travel. You can take it with you anywhere — into the green forest or the courtyard of a mosque.
By Ebba KraarJune 1975American cheese on white bread. Dry and joyless. Wholly unsatisfying yet, as a bus station refreshment, wholly appropriate. The bread is without flavor or soul, edible foam rubber, hardly the staff of life. The cheese is mostly chemical. But we are far from the farm.
By Sy SafranskyOctober 1974Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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