It's Odd Being An American

The Best Newspapermen I Know Are Those Most Thrilled By The Daily Pump Of City Room Excitements; They Long Fondly For A Good Murder; They Pray That Assassinations, Wars, Catastrophes Break On Their Editions.

Say What You Will About Him Ed Koch Is Still The Best Show In Town.

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.

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.

Just Like That. Gone Forever. They Will Not Grow Old Together. They Will Never Live On A Beach By The Sea, Their Hair Turned White, Dancing In A Living Room To Billie Holiday Or Nat Cole. They Will Not Enter A New York Club At Midnight And Show The Poor Hip-hop Fools How To Dance. They Will Not Chuckle Together Over The Endless Folly Of The World, Its Vanities And Stupid Ambitions. They Will Not Hug Each Other In Any Chilly New York Dawn. Oh, Mary Lou. My Baby. My Love.