I've never read Gentlemen's Quarterly, and I've never really liked anyone who did--they always struck me as people who thought Stamford, Connecticut was a hell of a lot closer to Milan than it needs to be. So, in the end, the whole business seemed silly. With its reports on New Wave, and the latest ways to dispose of one's disposable income, reading GQ seemed downright unneccessary.
Still, the damn thing has nearly half a million readers who pay two dollars for the magazine-and even though it calls itself a quarterly, it still comes out 12 months a year. Right there, that should tell you something.
"Africa, Just the name; Africa; Kilamanjaro mountains. Just the name..." --Ernest Hemingway
An inopportune thunderstorm. Too burnt to boogey. Driven into Nini's Corner, and if you don't feel like talking about the puppies out at wonderland with the man behind the counter, you end up scanning the racks. And there, past. The Boston Review and before Esquire, sits the "Fashion for Men," magazine thick and glossy and magnificently overproduced. On the cover is a wind-blown, rough-and-ready type nuzzling what appears to be an independently wealthy woman, Beneath the logo is the word "Adventure!"; further down, "Summer Stvies on Safari."
Adventure. It's a good word, adventure. There's not much of it in the Square anymore, except for Father's--and even that's closer to falling out of a moving car than it is real adventure. Hell, Father's isn't even around anymore. Now it's some archery place. The guy behind the counter smirks openly at you. Buy the magazine. And you're not even anywhere near the biker and pornography rack.
It was now lunch time and they were all sitting under the double green fly of the dining tent, pretending that nothing had I appened.
"Will you have a lime juice or a lemon squash?" Macomber asked.
"I'll have gimlet," Robert Wilson told him.
"I'll have a gimlet, too. I need something." Macomber's wife told him.
I suppose it's the thing to do," Macomber agreed. "Tell him to make three gimlets."
The mess boy had started them already, lifting the bottles out of the canvas cooling bags that sweated wet in the wind that blew through the trees that shaded the tent.
"What had I ought to give them?" Macomber asked.
"A quid would be plenty," Wilson told him. "You don't want to spoil them."
Will the headman distribute it?"
"Absolutely." --Hemingway, "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber."