There Is A Growing Feeling That Perhaps

There Is Something Elegantly Sinister About The Rolling Stones. They Sit Before You At A Press Conference Like Five Unfolding Switchblades; Their Faces Set In Rehearsed Snarls; Their Hair Studiously Unkempt And Matted; Their Clothes Part Of Some Private Conceit; And The Way They Walk And Talk And The Songs They Sing All Become Part Of Some Long Mean Reach For The Jugular.

It's Odd Being An American Now. Most Of Us Are Peaceful, But Here We Are Again, In Our Fifth Major War Of This Century.

One Thing Is Certain: For Many Of Those Who Came Back From Wwii, The Music Of Frank Sinatra Was No Consolation For Their Losses. Some Had Lost Friends. Some Had Lost Wives And Lovers. All Had Lost Portions Of Their Youth. More Important To The Sinatra Career The Girls Started Marrying The Men Who Came Home. Bobby Socks Vanished From Many Closets. The Girls Who Wore Them Had No Need Anymore For Imaginary Lovers; They Had Husbands. Nothing Is More Embarrassing To Grownups Than The Passions Of Adolescence, And For Many, Frank Sinatra Was The Passion.

In The End, The Only Thing The True New Yorker Knows About New York Is That It Is Unknowable.

More Than Anything, It's A Game Of Innocence. Politicians May Come And Go, But They Always Get Booed At The Ballpark.