idea

45

/^>(0. I roll the dice—a six and a 1 -y two. Through the air I move ^ ^ my token, the flatiron, to Ver- mont Avenue, where dog packs range.

I The dogs are moving (some are limping) through ruins, rubble, fire damage, open garbage. Doorways are gone. Lath is visible in the crumbling walls of the buildings. The street sparkles with shattered glass. I have

Ihever seen, anywhere, so many broken windows. A sign—"Slow, Children

|at Play"—has been bent backward by an automobile. At the lighthouse, the dogs turn up Pacific and disappear. George Meade, Army engineer, built

•the lighthouse—brick upon brick, six hundred thousand bricks, to reach up higli enough to throw a beam twen- ty miles over the sea. Meade, seven

: years later, saved the Union at Gettys- burg.

I buy Vermont Avenue for $100. My opponent is a tall, shadowy figure, across from me, but I know him well, and I know his game like a favorite tune. If he can, he will always go for the quick kill. And when it is foolish to go for the quick kill he will be foolish. On the whole, though, he is a master assessor of percentages. It is a mistake to underestimate him. His eleven car- ries his top hat to St. Charles Place, which he buys for $140.

• The sidewalks of St. Charles Place have been cracked to shards by through-growing weeds. There are no buildings. Mansions, hotels once stood here. A few street lamps now drop cones of light on broken glass and vacant space behind a chain-link fence that some great machine has in places bent to the ground. Five plane trees—in full summer leaf, flecking the light—are all that live on St. Charles Place.

Block upon block, gradually, we jre cancelling each other out—in the blues, the lavenders, the oranges, the greens. My opponent follows a plan of his own devising. I use the Horn- blower & Weeks opening and the Zuricher defense. The first game draws tight, will soon finish. In 1971, a group

people in Racine, Wisconsin, played

A r i E P o r i T E n A T L A I I G E

THE J E A K C H FOK M A K V I N G A R D E N 5

E U6"L> • pe

for seven hundred and sixty-eight hours. A game begun a month later in Danville, California, lasted eight hundred and twenty hours. These are official records, and they stun us. We have been playing for eight minutes. It amazes us that Monopoly is thought of as a long game. It is possible to play to a complete, absolute, and final con- clusion in less than fifteen minutes, all within the rules as written. My op- ponent and I have done so thousands of times. No wonder we are sitting across from each other now in this best-of-seven series for the international singles championship of the world.

On Illinois Avenue, three men lean out from second-story windows. A girl is coming down the street. She wears dungarees and a bright-red shirt, has ample breasts and a Hadendoan Afro, a black halo, two feet in diameter. Ice rattles in the glasses in the hands of the men.

"Hey, sister!" Come on up!

She looks up, looks from one to an- other to the other, looks them flat in the eye.

"What for?" she says, and she walks on.

I buy Illinois for $240. It solidifies my chances, for I already own Ken- tucky and Indiana. My opponent pales. If he had landed first on Illinois, the game would have been over then and there, for he has houses built on Board- walk and Park Place, we share the railroads equally, and we have can- celled each other everywhere else. We never trade.

In 1852, R. B. Osborne, an immi- grant Englishman, civil engineer, sur- veyed the route of a railroad line that would run from Camden to Absecon Island, in New Jersey, traversing the state from the Delaware River to the barrier beaches of the sea. He then sketched in the plan of a "bathing village" that would surround the eastern terminus of the line. His pen flew glibly, framing and naming spa- cious avenues parallel to the shore— Mediterranean, Baltic, Oriental, Vent- nor—and narrower transsecting ave- nues: North Carolina, Pennsylvania, Vermont, Connecticut, States, Virginia,

Tennessee, New York, Kentucky, In- diana, Illinois. The place as a whole had no name, so when he had completed the plan Osborne wrote in large let- ters over the ocean, "Atlantic City." No one ever challenged the name, or the names of Osborne's streets. Monopoly was invented in the early nineteen-thirties by Charles B. Dar- row, but Darrow was only transliterat- ing what Osborne had created. The railroads, crucial to any player, were the making of Atlantic City. After the rails were down, houses and hotels bur- geoned from Mediterranean and Baltic to New York and Kentucky. Prop- erties—building lots—sold for as little as six dollars apiece and as much as a thousand dollars.. The original investors in the railroads and the real estate called themselves the Camden & Atlantic Land Company. Reverent- ly, I repeat their names: Dwight Bell, William Coffin, John DaCosta, Daniel Deal, William Fleming, Andrew Hay, Joseph Porter, Jonathan Pitney, Samu- el Richards—founders, fathers, fore- runners, archetypical masters of the quick kill.

My opponent and I are now in a deep situation of classical Monopoly. The torsion is almost perfect—Board- walk and Park Place versus the brilliant reds. His cash position is weak, though, and if I escape him now he may fade. I land on Luxury Tax, contiguous to but in sanctuary from his power. I have four houses on Indiana. He lands there. He concedes.

Indiana Avenue was the address of the Brighton Hotel, gone now. The Brighton was exclusive—a word that no longer has retail value in the city. If you arrived by automobile and tried to register at the Brighton, you were sent away. Brighton-class people came in private railroad cars. Brighton-class people had other private railroad cars for their horses—dawn rides on the firm sand at water's edge, skirts flying. Colonel Anthony J. Drexel Biddle— the sort of name that would constrict throats in Philadelphia—lived, much of the year, in the Brighton.

Colonel Sanders' fried chicken is on Kentucky Avenue. So is Clifton's Club Harlem, with the Sepia Revue and the

46

"All right, but promise you'll come in and go to bed the instant you do discover the meaning of it all."

Sepia Follies, featuring the Honey Bees, the Fashions, and the Lords.

My opponent and I, many years ago, played 2,428 games of Monopoly in a single season. He was then a recent graduate of the Harvard Law School, and he was working for Milbank, Tweed, looking up law. Two people we knew—one from Chase Manhat- tan, the other from Morgan, Stanley— tried to get into the game, but after a few rounds we found that they were not in the conversation and we sent them home. Monopoly should always be mano a mano anyway. My oppo- nent won 1,199 games, and so did I.

Thirty were ties. He was called into the Army, and we stopped just there. Now, in Game 2 of the series, I go immediately to jail, and again to jail, while my opponent seines property. He is dumbfounding])' lucky. He wins in twelve minutes.

Visiting hours are daily, eleven to two; Sunday, eleven to one; evenings, six to nine. "NO MINORS, NO FOOD, Immediate Family Only Allowed in Jail." All this above a blue steel door in a blue cement wall in the window- less interior of the basement of the city hall. The desk sergeant sits opposite the door to the jail. In a cigar box in front

of him are pills in every color, a banquet of fruit salad an inch and a half deep— leapers, co-pilots, footballs, truck drivers, peanuts, blue angels, yellow jackets, red- birds, rainbows. Near the desk are two soldiers, wait- ing to go through the blue door. They are about eight- een years old. One of them is trying hard to light a ciga- rette. His wrists are in steel cuffs. A military policeman waits, too. He is a year or so older than the soldiers, taller, studious in appearance, gen- tle, fat. On a bench against a wall sits a good-looking girl in slacks. The blue door rat- tles, swings heavily open. A turnkey stands in the door- way. "Don't you guys kill yourselves back there now," says the sergeant to the sol- diers.

"One kid, he overdosed himself about ten and a half hours ago," says the M.P.

The M.P.', the soldiers, the turnkey, and the girl on the bench are white. The sergeant is black. "If you take off the handcuffs, take off the belts," says the ser- geant to the M.P. "I don't want them hanging them- selves back there." The door shuts and its tumblers move. When it opens again, five minutes later, a young white man in sandals and dunga- rees and a blue polo shirt emerges. His hair is in a ponytail. He has no beard.! He grins at the good-looking girl. She rises, joins him. The sergeant hands him a manila envelope. From it he re- moves his belt and a smallj

notebook. He borrows a pencil, makes an entry in the notebook. He is out of jail, free. What did he dof He offended Atlantic City in some way. He spent a night in the jail. In the nineteen-thirties, men visiting Atlantic City went to jail, directly to jail, did not pass Go, for appearing in topless1

bathing suits on the beach. A city statH ute requiring all men to wear full- length bathing suits was not seriously challenged until 1937, and the first year in which a man could legally go bare-chested on the beach was 1940.

Game 3. After seventeen minutes, Ii am ready to begin construction on

48

• J t

B e f o r e y o u s e e i t

i n w h i t e

The Sugarbush Inn

overpriced and sluggish Pacific, North Carolina, and Pennsylvania. Nothing else being open, opponent concedes.

The physical profile of streets per- pendicular to the shore is something like a playground slide. It begins in the high skyline of Boardwalk hotels, plummets into warrens of "side-ave- nue" motels, crosses Pacific, slopes through church missions, convalescent homes, burlesque houses, rooming houses, and liquor stores, crosses At- lantic, and runs level through the bombed-out ghetto as far—Baltic, Mediterranean—as the eye can see. North Carolina Avenue, for example, is flanked at its beach end by the Chal- fonte and the Haddon Hall (908 rooms, air-conditioned), where, ac- cording to one biographer, John Philip Sousa (1854-1932) first played when he was twenty-two, insisting, even then, that everyone call him by his entire name. Behind these big hotels, motels—Barbizon, Catalina—crouch. Between Pacific and Atlantic is an oc- casional house from 1910—wooden porch, wooden mullions, old yellow paint—and two churches, a package store, a strip show, a dealer in fruits and vegetables. Then, beyond At- lantic Avenue, North Carolina moves on into the vast ghetto, the bulk of the city, and it looks like Metz in 1919, Cologne in 1944. Nothing has actually exploded. It is not bomb damage. It is deep and complex decay. Roofs are off. Bricks are scattered in the street. Peo- ple sit on porches, six deep, at nine on a Monday morning. When they go off to wait in unemployment lines, they wait sometimes two hours. Between Medi- terranean and Baltic runs a chain-link fence, enclosing rubble. A patrol car sits idling by the curb. In the back seat is a German shepherd. A sign on the fence says, "Beware of Bad Dogs."

Mediterranean and Baltic are the principal avenues of the ghetto. Dogs are everywhere. A pack of seven passes me. Block after block, there are three- story brick row houses. Whole seg- ments of them are abandoned, a thou- sand broken windows. Some parts are intact, occupied. A mattress lies in the street, soaking in a pool of water. Wet stuffing is coming out of the mattress. A postman is having a rye and a beer in the Plantation Bar at nine-fifteen in the morning. I ask him idly if he knows where Marvin Gardens is. He does not. "HOOKED AND NEED HELP? CONTACT N.A.R.C.O." "REVIVAL NOW GOING ON, CONDUCTED BY REVER- END H. HENDERSON OF TEXAS." These are signboards on Mediterranean

s e e i t i n c o l o r .

What is Sugarbush without snow? It's Vermont's Green Mountains turned to flaming foliage. (See them from a room at the Inn or a chalet, if you prefer.) Golf on our 18-hole RobertTrentJones course. The flash of tennis whites on our courts. Ride a gondola to peaks that blush with brilliance, or per- haps soar a glider through the sky-washed mountain air. Hiking, horseback riding, country auc- tions, mouth-watering meals, eve- ning entertainment and small talk 'round a blazing fireplace. It's everything you love to do in the Fall at the Inn that's unforgettable all year 'round.

After you've seen it in color, bring the family to our White Christmas.

For more information, call (802) 496-3301 or write:

T H E

S U G A R B U S H

A IN I N Box 99, Warren, Vermor where every season brings its best

49

B L

L . L . B e a n , I n c / s 6 0 t h Y e a r

H o w a C o u n t r y B o y f r o m M a i n e F o u n d

F u n a n d F a m e i n t h e S p o r t i n g G o o d s B u s i n e s s

B e c a u s e o f S o r e F e e t

Leon L. B e a n left school in 1886 a t t he age of t h i r t een . H i s p a r e n t s h a d died a n d " L . L . " worked on a ne ighbor ' s farm to ea rn his keep. H e comple t ed his e d u c a t i o n t r a m p i n g t h e M a i n e woods wheneve r he could. " L . L . " loved to h u n t a n d fish. B u t t he boo t s

"of t he d a y were n o t su i ted to an ac t ive o u t d o o r s m a n . A n d , b y 1912, he finally got t i red of h a v i n g wet , sore feet.

" L . L . " dec ided to m a k e his own boots . H e c o m b i n e d l ea the r tops wi th a l l - rubber b o t t o m s . F o r b a r e - g r o u n d wa lk ing t h e y were l ight in weight , snug-f i t t ing, a n d cush ioned t h e foot. F o r w e t going a n d wa lk ing in snow, t h e wa te rp roof b o t t o m s were ideal . W o r d

spread qu ick ly a n d " L . L . ' s " M a i n e H u n t i n g Shoe w a s a success. T o d a y i t ' s t he most widely used spor t ing boot in the world.

Cont inu ing to mix p leasure w i th business, " L . L . ' s " o u t d o o r a d v e n t u r e s led to other p r o d u c t ideas. In 191 7 he p u t t h e m toge the r in a mai l o rder c a t a log : "We a re n o t t ry ing to see h o w m u c h we can sell, b u t i n s t ead to c u t d o w n to

the bare necessit ies in o rder to p ro t ec t our c u s t o m e r s aga in s t w a s t i n g one dollar on unnecessa ry e q u i p m e n t . "

The C h a m o i s C lo th Sh i r t was i n t r o d u c e d in 1927. " T h i s is t he shirt I persona l ly use on all m y h u n t i n g a n d fishing t r i p s , " said " L . L . " ^H and several mill ion s p o r t s m e n h a v e since been convinced to wear t h e same. F i sh ing tack le was added . " I t is no longer necessary for you to e x p e r i m e n t w i th

dozens of flies to d e t e r m i n e t he few t h a t will c a t c h fish. W e h a v e done t h a t expe r imen t ing for y o u . " M o r e a n d m o r e s p o r t s m e n c a m e to rely on " L . L . ' s " p roduc t s .

B y 1934 he could b o a s t : " O u r ca ta log n o t on ly goes to eve ry s t a t e in t he Union , b u t t o eve ry civilized c o u n t r y in t h e

yg wor ld . " A n d b y 1937 " L . L . " was selling well over a rJ.^ million dol lars w o r t h of h u n t i n g , fishing a n d c a m p -

'-"- ing special t ies, all pe r sona l ly t e s t ed a n d fully *. -:•• g u a r a n t e e d .

So m a n y people s o u g h t " L . L . ' s " adv ice o n o u t d o o r l iving t h a t , in 1942, he w r o t e his

own book. T h r o u g h the fifties a n d sixties his fame cont inued to sp read . H e w a s t h e sub jec t of m a n y national magaz ine ar t ic les a n d even a television special. W h e n " L . L . " died in 1967 a t t he age of ninety-four, his pass ing was acknowledged b y hundreds of t h o u s a n d s t h r o u g h o u t t he wor ld . N o t bad for a c o u n t r y boy from M a i n e .

"L.L.'s" unique approach to selling sporting goods continues in our current catalogs. To celebrate our 60th year, we are using "L.L.'s" favorite painting, "The Old Country Store" by P.B. Parsons, on our Fall Catalog cover. Our current president and grandson of "L.L.," Leon L. Gorman, will be pleased to send you a free copy of our Fall 1972 catalog. Write to:

L. L. Bean, Inc., 355 Main Street, Freeport, Maine 04032

L. L. Bean, Inc. 355 Main St., Freeport, Maine 04032

• Send Free Catalog Name

Address

Zip_

L. L. Bean, Inc. Outdoor Sporting Specialties

50

n

w T h e b l a z e r

w a s n e v e r l i k e t h i s .

The knitted blazer in hunter green. Try it on at John Wanamaker or other very good stores.

Pmcus Brothers-Maxwell, 1290 Ave of the Americas, New York Independence Mall East, Philadelphia, Pa.

and Baltic. The second one is upside down and leans against a boarded-up window of the Faith Temple Church of God in Christ. There is an old peel- ing poster on a warehouse wall showing a figure in an electric chair. "The Black Panther Manifesto" is the title of the poster, and its message is, or was, that "the fascists have already decided in advance to murder Chairman Bobby Seale in the electric chair." I pass an old woman who carries a bucket. She wears blue sneakers, worn through. Her feet spill out. She wears red socks, rolled at the knees. A white handker- chief, spread over her head, is knotted at the corners. Does she know where Marvin Gardens is? "I sure don't know," she says, setting down the bucket. "I sure don't know. I've heard of it somewhere, but I just can't say where." I walk on, through a block of shattered glass. The glass crunches un- derfoot like coarse sand. I remember when I first came here—a long train ride from Trenton, long ago, games of poker in the train—to play basketball against Atlantic City. We were half black, they were all black. We scored forty points, they scored eighty, or something like it. What I remember most is that they had glass back- boards—glittering, pendent, expensive glass backboards, a rarity then in high schools, even in colleges, the only ones we played on all year.

I turn on Pennsylvania, and start back toward the sea. The windows of the Hotel Astoria, on Pennsylvania near Baltic, are boarded up. A sheet of unpainted plywood is the door, and in it is a triangular peephole that now frames an eye. The plywood door opens. A man answers my question. Rooms there are six, seven, and ten dollars a week. I thank him for the information and move on, emerging from the ghetto at the Catholic Daughters of America Women's Guest House, between Atlantic and Pacific. Between Pacific and the Boardwalk are the blinking vacancy signs of the Aris- tocrat and Colton Manor motels. Pennsylvania terminates at the Shera- ton-Seaside—thirty-two dollars a day, ocean corner. I take a walk on the Boardwalk and into the Holiday Inn (twenty-three stories). A guest is regis- tering. "You reserved for Wednesday, and this is Monday," the clerk tells him. "But that's all right. We have plenty of rooms." The clerk is very young, female, and has soft brown hair that hangs below her waist. Her su- perior kicks her.

He is a middle-aged man with red spiderwebs in his face. He is jacketed and tied. He takes her aside. "Don't

T h e p l a i d s u i t

w a s n e v e r l i k e t h i s .

The plaid suit now in oversize plaid. Very big at Marshall Field and other stores you like.

PncuS Brothers-Maxwell. !290Ave of the Americas, New York Independence Moll East, Philadelphia. Pa

JUSTERINI Founded 1749 Oa

CO o o X

If a g o o d s c o t c h o f f e r s u n l i m i t e d

o p p o r t u n i t i e s f o r e n j o y m e n t ,

i m a g i n e t h e p o s s i b i l i t i e s w i t h

a g r e a t s c o t c h .

J < B

R A R E

S C O T C H

The Pleasure Principle.

**""""̂ 86 Proof Blended Scotch Whisky © 1972 Paddington Corp., N.Y.

54

Thoroughbreds—our marvelous bag, belt and shoe in

the print of the year — a mix of earth tones dashed

with rich brown leather (or in navy). Shoulder-envelope

bag, 50.00 and belt, in sizes 24 to 32, 20.00 on the

Street Floor; shoe with gilt-banded heel, 30.00 on the

Sixth Floor. Lord & Taylor, 424 Fifth Ave., New York

Reminiscent of the medieval mystique...a boldly dramatic pen- dant, brilliantly burnished and hand-hammered in the golden manner of Monet. From the "Paladin" collection... in gold, sil- ver, or pewter finish... twenty dollars. At the finest stores.

M o n e t s Master Jeweler

16 East 34th Street, New York, N.Y. 10016

say 'plenty,' " he says. "Say 'You are fortunate, sir. We have rooms avail- able.' "

The face of the young woman turns sour. "We have all the rooms you need," she says to the customer, and, to her superior, "How's that?"

Game 4. My opponent's luck has become abrasive. He has Boardwalk and Park Place, and has sealed the board.

Darrow was a plumber. He was, specifically, a radiator repairman who lived in Germantown, Pennsylvania. His first Monopoly board was a sheet of linoleum. On it he placed houses and hotels that he had carved from blocks of wood. The game he thus invented was brilliantly conceived, for it was an uncannily exact reflection of the busi- ness milieu at large. In its depth, range, and subtlety, in its luck-skill ratio, in its sense of infrastructure and socio-eco- nomic parameters, in its philosophical characteristics, it reached to the pro- fundity of the financial community. It was as scientific as the stock market. It suggested the manner and means through which an underdeveloped world had been developed. It was chess at Wall Street level. "Advance token to the nearest Railroad and pay owner twice the rental to which he is other- wise entitled. If Railroad is unowned, you may buy it from the Bank. Get out of Jail, free. Advance token to nearest Utility. If unowned, you may buy it from Bank. If owned, throw dice and pay owner a total ten times the amount thrown. You are assessed for street re- pairs: $40 per house, $115 per hotel. Pay poor tax of $15. Go to Jail. Go directly to Jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200."

The turnkey opens the blue door. The turnkey is known to the inmates as Sidney K. Above his desk are ten closed-circuit-TV screen s—assorted viewpoints of the jail. There are three cellblocks—men, women, juvenile boys. Six days is the average stay. Showers twice a week. The steel doors and the equipment that operates them were made in San Antonio. The prison- ers sleep on bunks of butcher block. There are no mattresses. There are three prisoners to a cell. In winter, it is cold in here. Prisoners burn newspa- pers to keep warm. Cell corners are black with smudge. The jail is three years old. The men's block echoes with chatter. The man in the cell nearest

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Great Americans, Wings of Man, and Great Moments in History. Each plate, weighing approximately 17 Troy

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plastic Clorox bottle sits on the driver's seat. The wind has pressed newspaper against the chain-link fence around the lot. Atlantic Avenue, the city's prin- cipal thoroughfare, could be seventeen American Main Streets placed end to end—discount vitamins and Vienna Corset shops, movie theatres, shoe stores, and funeral homes. The Board- walk is made of yellow pine and Doug- las fir, soaked in pentachlorophenol. Downbeach, it reaches far beyond the city. Signs everywhere—on windows, lampposts, trash baskets—proclaim "Bienvenue Canadiens!" The salt air is full of Canadian French. In the Claridge Hotel, on Park Place, I ask a clerk if she knows where Marvin Gardens is. She says, "Is it a floral shop?" I ask a cabdriver, parked out- side. He says, "Never heard of it." Park Place is one block long, Pacific to Boardwalk. On the roof of the Claridge is the Solarium, the highest point in town—panoramic view of the ocean, the bay, the salt-water ghetto. I look down at the rooftops of the side- avenue motels and into swimming pools. There are hundreds of people around the rooftop pools, sunbathing, reading—many more people than are on the beach. Walls, windows, and a block of sky are all that is visible from these pools—no sand, no sea. The pools are craters, and with the people around them they are countersunk into the motels.

The seventh, and final, game is ten minutes old and I have hotels on Oriental, Vermont, and Connecticut. I have Tennessee and St. James. I have North Carolina and Pacific. I have Boardwalk, Atlantic, Ventnor, Illinois, Indiana. My fingers are forming a "V." I have mortgaged most of these properties in order to pay for others, and I have mortgaged the others Jo pay for the hotels. I have seven dollars. I will pay off the mortgages and build my reserves with income from the three hotels. My cash position may be low, but I feel like a rocket in an under- ground silo. Meanwhile, if I could just go to jail for a time I could pause there, wait there, until my opponent, in his inescapable rounds, pays the rates of my hotels. Jail, at times, is the strategic place to be. I roll boxcars from the j Reading and move the flatiron to Community Chest. "Go to Jail. Go directly to Jail."

The prisoners, of course, have no pens and no pencils. They take paper

59

I t ' s a l s o a n i c e p l a c e

t o v i s i t .

Our version of Cowboy. They wear football helmets

instead of 10-gallon hats. Because our Cowboys are \ World Champions. There's alsc major league baseball... pro basketball, hockey and soccer...and world championship tennis. Even rodeos! How about it, sport

This is what people do to you on the street. Smile at a stranger here, and they

smile back. Isn't that nice9

And service everywhere is the good, old-fashioned kind. Gas station attendants clean your windows without being asked...

a surly waiter is unheard of...and when they say

"Y'all come back!", ^ V they mean it

Water, water everywhere Seems like half the neighbors

go fishing or sailing every weekend. Because Texas has more inland fresh water

in any other state, with 55% of it close enough for a 1-day drive.

w

V I The stars

at night really are big and bright. Here's why:

The Urban Institute ranks urarea lowest in air pollution among

the 18 largest U.S. cities. And we intend to keep it that way.

•Ml uess how much? it costs $39,950 on-

Long Island, probably costs $25,000 here. Because our housing costs are

'nd lowest among the 18 largest U.S. cities.

If y o u l i ke w h a t y o u see , do s o m e t h i n g .

Like ma i l t h i s c o u p o n .

Name Title Company Address City Stale Zip Telephone Please send free information on: • The Southwest Metroplex • Industrial Sites • New Airport • Office Space • Quality of Life Mail to: Mr. Richard D. Jones Executive Director North Texas Commission 600 Avenue H East, Suite 101 Arlington, Texas 76011 Telephone 817/265-7101 NY-9

Culture, too. Everything except those $15

orchestra seats! We have road shows and resident theatre. Symphonies and summer musicals. Horse opera and

Grand Opera. Light shows and lectures. Ballet and

botanical gardens. Art Fairs and the world's grandest State Fair.

©NTC 1972

^ D a l l a s / F o r t W o r t h

T h e S o u t h w e s t M e t r o p l e x

60

1—-« III

i &

'•

J

>

IT'S EASY TO LOOK GREAT

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napkins, roll them tight as crayons, char the ends with matches, and write on the walls. The things they write are not entirely idiomatic; for example, "In God We Trust." All is in carbon. Time is required in the writing. "Only humanity could know of such pain." "God So Loved the World." "There is no greater pain than life itself." In the women's block now, there are six blacks, giggling, and a white asleep in red shoes. She is drunk. The others are pushers, prostitutes, an auto thief, a burglar caught with pistol in purse. A sixteen-year-old accused of murder was in here last week. These words are written on the wall of a now empty cell: "Laying here I see two bunks about six inches thick, not counting the one I'm laying on, which is hard as brick. No cushion for my back. No pillow for my head. Just a couple scratchy blankets which is best to use it's said. I wake up in the morning so shivery and cold, waiting and waiting till I am told the food is coming. It's on its way. It's not worth waiting for, but I eat it any- way. I know one thing when they set me free I'm gonna be good if it kills me."

How many years must a game be played to produce an Anthony J. Drexel Biddle and chestnut geldings on the beach? About half a century was the original answer, from the first railroad to Biddle at his peak. Biddle, at his peak, hit an Atlantic City street- car conductor with his fist, laid him out with one punch. This increased Bid- die's legend. He did not go to jail. While John Philip Sousa led his band along the Boardwalk playing "The Stars and Stripes Forever" and Jack Dempsey ran up and down in training for his fight with Gene Tunney, the city crossed the high curve of its pa- rabola. Al Capone held conventions here—upstairs with his sleeves rolled, apportioning among his lieutenant governors the states of the Eastern seaboard. The natural history of an American resort proceeds from Indians to French Canadians via Biddies and Capones. French Canadians, whatever they may be at home, are Visigoths here. Bienvenue Visigoths!

My opponent plods along incredibly well. He has got his fourth railroad, and patiently, unbelievably, he has picked up my potential winners until he has blocked me everywhere but Marvin Gardens. He has avoided, in the fifty-dollar zoning, my increasingly

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INGLENOOK VINEYARDS, RUTHERFORD, CALIFORNIA

I F Y O U H A V E A H A R D T I M E

T E L L I N G O N E W I N E F R O M A N O T H E R ,

I R E A D T H I S .

First of all, don't feel alone. Probably 99% of the population can't tell a

Pinot Noir from a Zinfandel. Or a great Cabernet ; Sauvignon from a so-so one.

t But where do you go to find out1 You read what the wine experts have to say

[ and they all disagree. You read all the

I wine ad ver- Cyrano could have used a larger glass. tising and Ora smaller nose. everbody's trying to sell his own product.

Nobody has really taken the time to sit down and explain even the most basic things about wine. Until now.

We at Inglenook Vineyards are doing it because fit's in our best interest to have you know a great wine when you taste one. After all, that's what we have

no sell. HEIGHTENING YOUR SENSES.

First get yourself a wine glass that exposes the wine to plenty of air. The more air you can expose wine to, the better you can taste it.

And be sure you can get your nose in the glass. That's important because in wine tasting, the nose does 75%, of the work. A glass with a 3-inch brim is best for most wines. But if you have a larger than average nose, you'll need a larger than average glass.

NEVER TASTE WINE OVER A CHECKERED TABLECLOTH.

Fill the glass about a third full and set it down on a white tablecloth. That's so you can see the wine's true color.

Now really look at the wine. Check its color. That's the first clue to a wine's taste. Usually, the darker the

Take a good sniff. This is hard to explain but your nose should

confirm everything you've seen with your eyes. A rose that looks brilliantly clear and is of delicate body should smell that way too.

WHISTLING AT T H E TABLE. Now take a sip of wine, hold it in your mouth,

and whistle. Whistle in, not out. Try to get a nice gurgle going.

This technique also allows you to taste the wine for a longer period of time. For it extends that single instant when wine, air, tongue, gums and nose come together for the first time. Thus, it enables you to have more time to make an initial judgment. Keep in mind everything you've experienced with your eyes and nose, should be confirmed with your mouth by this technique.

BUILD AWINE CELLAR IN YOUR BRAIN. When you actually start your wine tasting edu-

cation, be sure to follow the chart below. The order is important because you'll be going from light to full bodied in the white wine spectrum. The red wines are listed in a similar fashion. You should work your way through them after you've mastered the whites.

INGLENOOK'S SUGGESTED WINE PROGRESSION CHART White

White Pinot Pinot Chardonnay Grey Riesling Sylvaner Riesling johannisbcrg Rieslit Chcnin Blanc Dry Semillon

Red Camay Rose Camay Bcaujolais Pinot Noir Zinfandel Camay Charbono Cabernet Sauvignon

Heavy wine forms "sheetsr

Light wine forms "legs"

color, the fuller the wine.This applies to whites too, which can go from a pale straw to golden. With rose, look for a crystal clear light pink, with no muddiness.

Now swirl the wine in the glass. A full bodied wine will come down the glass in "sheets". A lighter wine will break into "legs". A good rose should come down in thin "legs", which indicates delicate body.

:• ESTATE BOTTLED

PINOT CHARDONNAY

A W O R D OF WARNING. If you're going to put this much time and effort

into learning something about wine tasting, then go for the most expensive wine you can afford. High priced wine is high priced for a reason. Namely, better grapes, and more care goes into the making of the wine.

That said, Inglenook Estate Bottled Wine is the most expensive wine made in America. It all comes

from the Napa Valley, which wine authori- ties agree is one of the finest wine producing regions in America, if not the whole world.

And it all bears a vintage date, which is a rarity in American wines today.

Estate bottling means we make it from varietal grapes grown in vineyards under our constant supervision.

So if you can swing it financially, get your wine education from Inglenook.

Any good education costs money.

I N G L E N O O K We make the most expensive wine in America.

This ad is one of a series. If you'd like copies of the other ads, send your name and address to The Cellar master, Box G, Inglenook Vineyards, Rutherford, CA 94573-

62

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petty hotels. His cash flow swells. His railroads are costing me two hundred dollars a minute. He is building hotels on States, Virginia, and St. Charles. He has temporarily reversed the cur- rent. With the yellow monopolies and my blue monopolies, I could probably defeat his lavenders and his railroads. I have Atlantic and Ventnor. I need Marvin Gardens. My only hope is Marvin Gardens.

There is a plaque at Boardwalk and Park Place, and on it in relief is the leonine profile of a man who looks like an officer in a metropolitan bank— "Charles B. Darrow, 1889-1967, in- ventor of the game of Monopoly." "Darrow," I address him, aloud. "Where is Marvin Gardens?" There is, of course, no answer. Bronze, im- passive, Darrow looks south down the Boardwalk. "Mr. Darrow, please, where is Marvin Gardens?" Nothing. Not a sign. He just looks south down the Boardwalk.

My opponent accepts the trophy with his natural ease, and I make, from notes, remarks that are even less grace- ful than his.

Marvin Gardens is the one color- block Monopoly property that is not in Atlantic City. It is a suburb within a suburb, secluded. It is a planned com- pound of seventy-two handsome houses set on curvilinear private streets under yews and cedars, poplars and willows. The compound was built around 1920, in Margate, New Jersey, and consists of solid buildings of stucco, brick, and wood, with slate roofs, tile roofs, multi- mullioned porches, Giraldic towers, and Spanish grilles. Marvin Gardens, the ultimate outwash of Monopoly, is a citadel and sanctuary of the middle class. "We're heavily patrolled by police here. We don't take no chances. Me? I'm living here nine years. I paid sev- enteen thousand dollars and I've been offered thirty. Number one, I don't want to move. Number two, I don't need the money. I have four bedrooms, two and a half baths, front den, back den. No basement. The Atlantic is down there. Six feet down and you float. A lot of people have a hard time finding this place. People that lived in Atlantic City all their life don't know how to find it. They don't know where the hell they're going. They just know it's south, down the Boardwalk."

—JOHN MCPHEE

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