A recent poll of high-school students in five U.S. cities produced startling answers to the question: who would be your ideal parents? Prominent among dream moms and dads were such current and fallen Angels as Cheryl Ladd, Jaclyn Smith, Kate Jackson and Farrah Fawcett, onetime Six Million Dollar Man Lee Majors and Lou Ferrigno, The Incredible Hulk, now, incredibly, in his third smash season.
It was four years ago, six days before Christmas. Warner Troyer, journalist and television personality, had been filming in Europe. Now he was on his way home via Munich, Zurich and New York. Tired, assignment complete, he chose the very back seat of the aircraft on the short flight from New York to Toronto.
The ugliness erupted one quiet Sunday afternoon on a small street in mid-Toronto when a 35-year-old black Jamaican immigrant, Albert Johnson, was shot in his own house by a policeman. He died 6½ hours later in hospital. What followed was an outpouring of rage from the leaders of the 175,000-member black community about what they believe is racially motivated harassment and ill-treatment of their people at the hands of Toronto’s tough police force.
Though they are both more than 40, Brigitte Bardot, 45, and Sophia Loren, 44, can still cause havoc among the European paparazzi whenever they publicly disrobe to an indiscreetly revealing degree. This summer provided a field day for watching shutterbugs in St. Tropez, where Bardot cavorted seminude with her 19-year-old son, Nicolas Charrier (from her second marriage to actor Jacques Charrier), and Loren lounged at poolside after removing the top of her bikini in the company of a group of friends including a plastic surgeon and a fur designer.
Investors these days seem to believe that Christopher Columbus was spouting gospel when he called gold “the most exquisite of all things,” and seem to refuse to even consider the dire warnings of that other gospel, that gold “hath been the ruin of many.”*
As the Senate judiciary committee assembled on Capitol Hill last week to consider a new charter for the FBI, half a dozen photographers, a television crew and a gaggle of tourists waited expectantly. They were there not for the meeting—whose significance paled in comparison to simultaneous Senate hearings on the SALT II treaty and energy legislation—but for the chairman: Senator Edward Kennedy of Massachusetts.
Rusty Staub, once the most celebrated non-skating athlete in all Lof Montreal, has returned to the scene of what you might call his abbreviated immortality—but if you blink you’ll miss him. Rusty is a guy who helped make lunacy popular and epidemic in tiny Jarry Park, the first home of the Expos.
There are, if you must know, three Joe Clarks. The public has yet to discover it, but there are three thin men thrashing around inside that elongated blue suit, tripping over one another, bumping into the opposing personae, jealously fighting for a bigger piece of the action.
No one who watched newly retired NATO commander General Alexander Haig bounding around Brussels recently, glad-handing American acquaintances, could have much doubt that, though undeclared, he is running hard already in the 1980 presidential race.
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