There is just one thing: the word “official.” Used to describe Frazier's title, it's a pejorative. The fly in the ointment, of course, is Muhammad Ali, for merly Cassius Clay and formerly the official world heavyweight champion, who after a three‐and‐a‐ half‐year involuntary retirement began a triumphal comeback three weeks ago in Atlanta by deftly cutting up the No. 1 heavyweight contender, Jerry Quarry. Ali's title and boxing license had been snatched back in June, 1967, when the New York State Athletic Commission and the World Boxing Association ruled that a fighter who would not fight with a gun in Vietnam could not fight with his fists in the ring and did not deserve the prestigious title he had won there. Since then, Ali has been free on bail pending an appeal—now before the U.S. Supreme Court—but unable, until the Atlanta bout, to persuade any state or municipality to sanction even a nontitle bout.

Excommunicated by boxing's inner circle, the outspoken, controversial and unbeaten Ali has never lost his champion status in the hearts of his many fans. Nor, for that matter, did he lose it right away in the minds of his even more numerous foes, who grudgingly admitted that, like the man said, he was the greatest. Now, however, the Quarry fight not withstanding, there is doubt. Three and a half years have passed since Ali dominated the heavyweight division so completely that, had retirement not been thrust upon him, he would probably have had to seize it—to give the other fellow a chance. During those three and a half years, Joe Frazier has fought convincingly 15 times, finally winning the vacated title over half a dozen contenders, including the hapless Quarry, while Ali has gone only three rounds in the prize ring.

Who really is the champ? It is a question that keeps boxing fans awake at night. And now that a Federal court has found the New York Athletic Commission's treatment of Ali “arbitrary and unreasonable” and ordered it to reissue the ex‐ champion his boxing license, they may expect to get some sleep beginning sometime next February or March. Until then, the heavyweight champion of the world, Joe Frazier, remains best‐known as the one fighter around who might—just might— whip Ali.

“I'LL whup him good,” says Frazier into the crisp autumn darkness. “Clay's easier to hit in the body than anywhere—sticks his head back and his body out. And I'm a body puncher.” Frazier is breathing hard, but his voice is matter‐of‐fact. It is 5:30 A.M., with no hint yet of dawn. Frazier is running on a back road in Pennsylvania's Pocono Mountains where he has holed up for five weeks to train for his fight with Foster. Above us, a waning moon breaks fitfully through the cloud cover. At our backs the headlights of a slow‐moving station wagon show the way. Our rhythmic shadows stretch out on the dirt road ahead. Leading the car over a rise, we plunge forward into black pools. Frazier is swathed in clothes from his hooded head to the heavy logger's boots on his feet. Some 20 minutes earlier, in his motel room, strewn with athletic gear and record albums, I'd watched him pull on one layer of sweat clothes after another, five in all, pick up the small steel weight he carries in his left hand when he runs, and head off into the night.

Suddenly, there is a crashing in the underbrush and from an embankment a deer leaps onto the road directly in front of us, is transfixed for an instant in the headlights, and is gone. “Man, how about that!” The image blends in both our minds with the red and white carcass of a buck that Frazier had skinned at the motel just the night be for. The animal had been struck by a car and brought dead to the kitchen door. To break the monotony of camp life, Frazier, wearing an apron over his black one‐piece, short sleeved jump suit, the sleeves of his red shirt turned back, had skinned it, using the skills he learned working in a kosher slaughterhouse when, at the age of 17, he had first arrived in Philadelphia from his home in Beau fort, S. C.

In the grand old American tradi tion, Frazier, who quit school in the ninth grade, had left the farm he grew up on as the youngest son in a family of 13 children and had followed some of his brothers and sisters north to the urban ghetto that is North Philadelphia. At the time, he had not yet reached his full height, but he already weighed more than 230 pounds. To lose weight, he started working out at the Philadel phia Police Athletic League gym, pounding the big bag just as he used to slug a gunny sack filled with sand and old rags as a kid in the mule shed down on the farm. “I'm going to be the next Joe Louis,” a sister of his remembers him bragging. “Yeah, he always wanted to be a fighter, long as I've known him,” says his wife, Florence, who grew up on a nearby Beaufort farm. “The singing, that came later.”

“I first came into the gym to take off weight,” Frazier says, recalling the moment when his fighting career actually began. “My legs was too big. I couldn't buy inexpensive clothes ’cause I couldn't get fit. So I began working out and pretty soon I found out I had a pretty good punch. I had my share of street fights as a kid and nobody ever beat me and I just figured nobody could whip me. It's like I still feel.”

That is when road work began for Frazier. Three mornings out of four, for nearly a decade, Joe has risen be fore dawn and gone out to run for a half‐hour or more—before the traffic gets so heavy that a man can't breathe. Exhaust fumes and nosy motorists were no problem in the training camp at Vacation Valley near East Strouds burg—or on the Jersey shore or at the Concord in the Catskills, where Frazier has trained for past fights— but they are on the roads around his Philadelphia home, and habit is habit. Moreover, getting up to punish one's body when the rest of the world is sleeping is the sort of lonely, Spartan act of will that men who make their living in the ring must endure. Joe's legs might get the same workout if he ran at 9 in the morning, but his determination would get flabby, and with Frazier, even more than with most boxers, will and determination are where it's at. “I've had plenty of other boxers with more raw talent,” claims his manager‐trainer, Yancey Durham, in his deep sonorous voice that inspired Red Smith to dub him the black Ev Dirksen, “but none with more dedication and strength.”

DEDICATION and strength were certainly the operative words the first time I met Joe Frazier. He was ap pearing last May with his nightclub act at the Latin Casino in Cherry Hill, N. J., booked in that Colosseum‐sized roadhouse for a week's stand between Sammy Davis Jr. and Dionne War wick. It was his first time on stage since he had broken his ankle doing a knee‐together split in a similar act out in Las Vegas.

Here is how the finals at the Latin Casino went: Joe, center stage, is clutching the mike like something he's been chewing on. Now he rips off his olive jacket with white piping. His matching pants, in some slippery‐ looking material, have bell‐bottoms slit to above the calf, with pearl but tons on the cuffs to hold the flaps together. He tosses the wadded‐up jacket back to Lester Peleman, his band leader—the same route his black bow tie went a song or two be fore. And there he is, ladies and gentlemen, 230 pounds, his face beaded with sweat, solid as a rock, all of a piece, regal and primitive, his close‐cropped head glistening in the white spotlights, a new black beard pouring in a smooth curve down his cheeks and across his broad chin, the muscles of his neck descend ing from his small ears in two strong columns set on massive shoulders. It's a flat face, a good face for a fighter, without ridges or protrusions to split the skin when it's slammed into with an 8‐ounce leather glove.

His yellow ruffled shirt is open at the collar, soaked through front and back—dark where it touches his chocolate body, lighter on the still dry ruffles. Now, without the double‐ breasted jacket buttoned across his hips, the full, unbelievable size of his thighs shows. How could he ever be knocked down? His center of gravity must be several feet below the stage, and when he crouches down and throws a few gut punches, like a hori zontal pile driver, he seems ready to meet the charge of a bull rhinoceros.

The music swells still louder and the whole troupe comes on stage. “Knock on Wood” is the crescendo number—and all together they knock hard. White spots flicker on and off, giving movement a jerky, silent‐movie quality, only there is no silence. Joe is bobbing, weaving, shadowboxing in the middle of the bedlam, almost swallowing the mike as he fills it with words, the diamond ring on his pinkie throwing off fire. Beside him two miniclad go‐go dancers prance and jiggle, trading mock, velvet punches with Frazier—hired, shouts a p.r. man into my ear, to relieve Joe of his dancing duties until the ankle wholly heals. A black trio called the Blue Belles wails; Peleman whangs a tambourine and turns up the volume. Frazier's not smoking, man, he on fire, and ain't nobody sitting down front in the three‐quar ters empty Latin Casino dining room who isn't himself dangerously near the point of ignition. It's an artless, powerful, mind‐blowing show.

In his dressing room afterward, Frazier sighs, wearily, contentedly: “Whooee, that really takes it out of you. I'd just as soon go 15 rounds with Bonavena.” He is puffing through his nose like a fighter still biting on his rubber mouthpiece and sweating just as he would be the next time I saw him working out— this time at his gym in North Phila delphia.

ACTUALLY, the gym does not belong to Frazier, it belongs to the 800‐plus stockholders of Cloverlay,

Frazier needed an angel; he got a full choir Inc., just as Frazier, himself, does— at least until February, 1974, when his contract expires. Possibly the most unusual feature of Joe Frazier is not his two‐fisted wading‐in style of boxing, which is reminiscent of the late Rocky Marciano, but the organi zation that has backed him for the past six years.

It is hard enough for a boxer to survive if he is single, but in 1965, when the 21‐year‐old Frazier turned professional, he already had three mouths to feed besides his own. There was Florence, short, pretty, with the same gentle Beaufort lilt to her voice as her husband's, and, she says, the same weight problem. (“I tell Joe in camp — he calls several times a day — it's not how much you eat, it's what you eat.”) The two had met at her grandfather's funeral and were married two years later, when he was 17, she only 15. The two other mouths came along in quick succession, a boy and a girl, eventually to be followed by three more girls. There was one thing, though: as a father at 18, he was draft ‐ exempt. (How do you like them apples, Muhammad?) During the most desperate time of their lives, after Frazier had returned to Philadelphia, albeit as an Olym pic champion, but unable either to work or box because of his broken thumb, they survived on the $60 a week Florence brought home from a factory job, plus the gifts of well wishers.

When Frazier was able to use his hand again, his pastor, the Rev. Wil liam Gray, hired him as an odd‐job man around the Bright Hope Baptist Church. Although Mr. Gray was a most sympathetic employer, the rou tine of getting up at 5 in the morn ing to run, working around the church and somehow fitting in enough time to train for the five fights he had that first year was too much. What he needed while he learned the trade was an angel. What he got was a full choir.

Through the good offices of Mr. Gray, Frazier and Durham made con tact with a wealthy Philadelphia businessman, F. Bruce Baldwin, for mer chairman of Horn & Hardart and, more important, a fight buff. Baldwin was interested in backing the Olym pic champion, but not alone. When he sounded out some of his friends about forming a syndicate on the order of the 12‐man group that had started Clay on his way in Louisville, he got such an enthusiastic response that it was decided to create a cor poration instead. Eighty‐eight shares of stock were issued to 40 partici pants, at $250 apiece, and the name Cloverlay was chosen — a Joycean contraction of clover, for luck, and overlay, meaning a good bet.

The rules were roughly this: a con tract with Frazier was drawn that would run for three years, with an option on the part of the corporation to renew for two subsequent three year periods—an option that Clover lay has been quick to exercise. Frazier was guaranteed a starting salary of $100 per week, plus 50 per cent of his winnings, if any, half to be added pro rata to his weekly salary, half to be invested for him in a trust fund. Durham would draw 15 per cent, split the same way, while with the help of the remaining 35 per cent, Cloverlay would pay all ex penses.

For the original 40 stockholders, most of whom report that they kicked in simply for the fun of owning a piece of a fighter, but held little hope of ever recovering their $250, the in vestment was a gold mine. At pres ent, Cloverlay boasts some 800 stock holders. An original $250 share, figur ing splits and re‐evaluations, is worth nearly $15,000. Cloverlay, with a monthly payroll of some $9,000, has two other unbeaten fighters under contract, middleweight Willie (the Worm) Monroe and light heavy weight Len Hutchins, and has diver sified into real estate worth some $1.5‐million, including the gym on North Broad Street, which opened last April.

Before Cloverlay acquired its own facility, Frazier trained at the P.A.L. gym where he first started boxing. It was there, a year ago, that he and Ali nearly teed off for a pre view of their promised fight — and for free, at that. It seems that on a local talk show Ali had called Frazier flat‐footed, slow and without class. “He came here to run me out of my hometown. If I don't take him on, he'll try to run me out of my own house next,” retorted Frazier and suggested that Ali come on down to the gym and repeat his criticism. Ali came, but so did more than 1,000 would‐be spectators, which is about 950 more than the gym can hold. Po lice told the boxers, already stripped for action, to move their fight to the park. Ali dressed and headed for Fair mount Park, this time with a mob that had grown to 2,000. “He wants to show he can whip me,” shouted the ex‐champion on his way out. “He says he's the champ. Let him prove it in the ghetto, where the colored folks can see it.” But Frazier did not fol

“Here I am,” taunted Ali, when he reached the park. “Haven't had a fight in three years, 25 pounds over weight, and Joe Frazier won't show up. What kind of a champ can he be?”

“A smart one,” says Durham. “Joe wasn't going to have a street fight in Fairmount Park and Clay wasn't about to either.”

Of course, that was just the sort of newsmaking blather that Ali dotes on. A more accurate expression of the relationship between the two Philadelphia‐based boxers was prob ably expressed by an earlier en counter, reported by Frazier: “I met Clay in a restaurant, a couple of years ago, and he yelled, ‘There's the champ,’ pointing to me. ‘You just keep whuppin’ those guys, champ, and I'll fight Uncle, meaning Uncle Sam.”

THE new gym is a converted ball room in the shadow of the Penn Cen tral station in North Philadelphia. A large plate‐glass window covers the front, protected by a wire mesh through which pink fingers are twined flanking youthful wide‐eyed black faces. Crammed inside, like a big bed in a small room, is an 18‐foot boxing ring fenced around with blue, red and white ropes. Next to the walls hang a pair of rat‐a‐tat‐tat speed bags and a couple of the long ponderous leather bags that Frazier whomps with such evident zest. The locker rooms and the office are up a short flight of steps in the rear.

On a Thursday morning a couple of months ago, Frazier in green pants and a black‐and‐white flowered shirt arrived at the gym around 11, and checked in at the office to find out what calls needed answer ing. The most urgent was one from the White House asking Frazier to be on the President's Commission on Athletics. He would. A half hour later, he was searching under back issues of Billboard and Ring Magazine, open ing and slamming the drawers of his wooden desk. He couldn't find the keys to his Cadillac parked on the sidewalk in front of the gym.

Through an interior window of the office Frazier could look down on the practice ring, beside which, amidst a swirl of wires, amplifiers and loudspeakers, the Knockouts were practicing. Grabbing up a microphone, he called out, “Hey, any you guys seen my car keys?” The words coming through the loud speaker blended at first with the deafening electric beat down below, which then suddenly died, and the question, repeated, came over loud and clear. The keys, attached to a Martin Luther King medallion, were eventually found on top of the bongo drum, and Frazier, with me in tow, headed off downtown to fill a sub scription for vitamin pills. “Most days I eat only one meal. The vitamins keep me sharp,” he explained.

Lumbering off the sidewalk, he spun the gold, air‐conditioned custom Coupe DeVille in a U‐turn across the surging traffic of North Broad as if it were a carnival bumper car. Miss ing one startled woman in a Chevvy by a bare inch, he swore amiably and added with a sly wink, “I don't know what's wrong with the drivers today.” After which, we suddenly pulled two G's into the bucket seats as the big car shot ahead.

He pushed a button and the sun roof slid back. He tried the tele phone. It didn't work. He jiggled it, shook it, gave it a piece of his mind. I mentioned that the one time I rode with Muhammad Ali, his car phone did not work either.

“You mean you actually rode in that piece of junk?” said Frazier, re ferring to Ali's pink Eldorado, con tempt dripping from his voice. “You wouldn't catch me dead in that thing, man.”

Frazier loves cars, loves driving them and puttering with them. His new house has a garage that holds six. He claims he can take any car apart and put it together again. But most of all he loves his bike, a shim mering blue Harley‐Davidson Electra Glide. “You know how fast I once had my bike up to? A hundred and ten miles an hour. I felt powerful, man.” He has had a number of minor scrapes on his bike, and in 1968 he and his brother‐in‐law, who was riding with him, had a serious accident on its predecessor that left a scar on Frazier's left cheek — the only time he has been cut on the face. Cloverlay stockholders and Yancey Durham pull long faces when they are asked about Frazier's penchant for bike riding.

BACK at the gym that afternoon, Frazier is working out, as he does most afternoons when he's home in Philadelphia. Music to fight by—the same mixture of soul and rock that he sings—is coming out of a portable loudspeaker set on the floor. He goes six rounds, shadowboxing in the ring and then a couple of rounds each on the small and big bags. Dressed in green coveralls, Yancey Durham is standing at a corner of the ring, one arm hooked over the top rope, an unlit cigar thrust aggressively out of the side of his mouth. “Ya got one, Joe, ya got one,” he intones quietly, in dicating one minute to go in the simulated round.

Durham, up until a few years ago, worked as a structural welder for the railroad. But as a former professional boxer himself and an occasional trainer of moderate success, he kept his foot in the door of the not overly fastidious world of Philadelphia box ing. Although he claims it is not so, Durham's fate line made a right‐ angled turn on the day, nine years ago, that he first spotted Frazier working out in the P.A.L. gym.

From the vantage of hindsight, it is obvious that the two were made for each other. Durham was, as he still is, a mature, highly articulate, strong ly opinionated, entirely self‐confident product of Camden's black middle class, who knows and relishes the fight game. Frazier, at the time they met, was young, naive, enormously strong, untroubled by the least pre tention that he knew anything about boxing and willing to put himself en tirely in Durham's hands.

It was the classic manager‐fighter relationship. And it has endured—be cause Durham, who still has an enormous effect on Frazier and who still uses the managerial first person (“I'm going to knock out Foster just as quick as I can”—“I'll fight Clay anyplace, any time”), knows when to pull back and shut up, while Frazier appears to be entirely free of any overblown sense of self, or the sort of vindictive loss of memory so often experienced by those who have made it big toward those who helped them up.

During his amateur days, with Durham encouraging him, Frazier trained hard, running in the morn ing before reporting to work at the meat plant, boxing at night at the P.A.L. gym. He won the Middle At lantic A.A.U. championship in 1963 and 1964. All told, he had 37 amateur bouts and lost only twice—both times to Buster Mathis, a huge fat boy who was touted as the next Cassius Clay, if he could just lose a substantial portion of his 300 pounds.

Frazier's second loss to Mathis, by a decision, was in the finals of the Olympic tryouts, and it almost ended his career. He went out to California, however, to train with the team as an alternate in case something happened to Mathis. It did. While sparring with Frazier, Buster dislocated a thumb, and Frazier went to Japan in his place.

In the semifinal round in Tokyo, Frazier knocked out the Russian entry. Doing so, he, in turn, broke his thumb. Mindful of what had hap pened to Mathis, he kept quiet about the injury. “I'd gone all that way, I couldn't let one hand pull me back.”

The “one hand” happened to be his left—with which he throws his best punch, a crunching left hook. Films of the final, in which Frazier was matched against Hans Huber, a huge, broad‐shouldered German, show the much bigger man constantly backing up and leaning away from Frazier's left. Had he known the excruciating pain Frazier experienced every time he landed that left hook, Huber might not have been so careful to stay away from it, and the decision of the judges — three to two for Frazier—might well have gone the other way.

“It was a measure of the strength and determination of the man,” Dur ham says over his shoulder, as Frazier continues to punch and grunt around the ring, “and I'll take that over raw talent any day. Joe wasn't a boxer then; he was a fighter—still is.”

Now Willie the Worm has joined Frazier in the ring, shadowboxing by himself. Monroe, dancing on his toes, jabbing, ducking, backing off, flashing in and out on his imaginary opponent, is obviously a boxer. In contrast, Fra zier, the fighter, moves forward in his semicrouch, leading only slightly with his left shoulder, the tips of his el bows pointed out, forming a pyramid at his waist with his fists at the top, in front of his chin. They move in flurry, with all his beef behind them —rights, lefts, hooks, jabs, all to gether—“perpetual motion,” Durham calls it. “No heavyweight ever has thrown punches as fast as Joe: 56 a minute. He can rack up 30 points a round; that's welterweight speed. He may not move around the ring so fast, but those hands—look out.”

CLOVERLAY is Frazier's manager of record and the Cloverlay board of 10 directors (it was once 11, but one superpatriot quit after a de cision was taken to fight Ali, the draft dodger) ultimately rules on all major decisions regarding whom Frazier will fight, where, when and for how much. In practice, however, the decisions are made solely by Dur ham, and so far neither the Cloverlay board nor Frazier has had any ground for complaint.

After Durham and Frazier signed with Cloverlay, the trainer‐manager brought his boy along slowly, giving him easy matches through most of 1966, all of which he won by knock outs. His first serious test came when he fought Oscar Bonavena, the tough Argentine heavyweight (whom Ali will fight in New York on Dec. 7), in Madison Square Garden in Septem ber, 1966. Bonavena floored Frazier twice before the Philadelphian got up off the canvas to win a split decision after 10 rounds. From then on, it was a string of strong victories —climaxed by one against his for mer nemesis, Mathis, which gave him the New York State championship in 1968.

THEN, last February, came the fight with Ellis, who held Ali's old World Boxing Association title by virtue of an elimination tournament that Fra zier had refused to enter. The fight lasted only four rounds. The judges awarded Ellis the first. He landed more punches than Frazier. But those at ringside heard the smiling Frazier, obviously enjoying himself, taunt his opponent as he bore in: “Sissy, you can't hit. I'm taking everything you got, man, and you ain't hurtin me.”

In the fourth round he floored Ellis twice with left hooks. The bell saved Ellis the second time, but it was all over. His trainer, Angelo Dundee (who is also Ali's trainer), slapped Ellis's thighs, put ice down his trunks, pinched him — “and he didn't do nothin',” as Dundee said later.

“Free, free, free at last,” cried Frazier, dancing around the ring, arms outstretched. At the time, Ali was claiming that he was through with boxing forever, and Frazier was indeed free at the top. But now Ali's back, and Frazier has the job to do all over again—or, as many observ ers believe more likely, have it done to him.

First, however, Frazier must dis patch Bob Foster. Training camp for the Foster fight, up until two weeks ago, when Frazier and company moved to Detroit, was Vacation Val ley in the Poconos, “A Resort Motel for Active Adults.” The setting is autumn at its peak, sunlight glinting off Echo Lake, shoals of leaves shift ing underfoot. The training ring is set up in a large heated shed across from the main lodge—$2 to see the champ train, 1 to 3 every afternoon.

Frazier and Ray Anderson, one of his three sparring partners, are going at it hammer and tongs. Both are wearing the leather girdles that pro tect kidneys and groins. But only Frazier is wearing the padded spar ring helmet. Anderson, I learn later, has told Durham that he thinks he can take Frazier and he's doffed his helmet to prove the point. He's danc ing around the ring, moving away from Frazier, jabbing, circling to his left, keeping away from Frazier's left hook. Frazier comes after him, boring in behind a flurry of fists, grunting with exuberance each time he throws a hard punch, shrugging off the few jabs that Anderson lands.

There is nothing complicated, noth ing cute about Frazier's approach to boxing. He obviously likes his work, likes to throw punches, likes to con nect. He's smoking now, not worry ing so much about blocking Ander son's jabs as keeping him off balance and on the defensive. It is a style that so far in his career has worked. Frazier bores in, pins Anderson against the ropes. Anderson protects his head, but absorbs massive body punches in the process. “Ya got a half, Joe, ya got a half,” intones Durham, leaning on the ropes, watch ing his boy through heavy lids. Then: “O.K., time.”

The two fighters break and circle their separate ways around the ring. Frazier biting on his mouthpiece, sucking in great drafts of air through his nose; Anderson, arms hanging limp, shaking off the terrible punishment he has taken.

I'm reminded of an article Ali wrote after watching the Frazier‐ Ellis bout. Besides announcing that he was really, definitely, through with the ring forever, he said: “Frazier ain't got no rhythm. He just keeps coming, punching from his knees up. Ducks and keeps coming, trying to get you on the ropes and hold you like some old robot. There wasn't no boxing in that fight with Ellis. When I was fighting, I boxed. You remember? Pop, pop, pop, pop— dance around—pip, pip, pip, real fast —dancing and faking—WHAARUP! —back off and circle—pop, pop, rat‐ a‐ta‐rata‐ta‐ta like a typewriter— POW! That's championship fighting. Frazier can't do things like that. He's an old plowhorse. But I got more re spect for him now than I did before the Ellis fight. I only seen him fight once before that and he didn't show me nothing. But against Ellis he was pretty good for his kind of fighter. He wasn't afraid of nothing Ellis threw, he just kept on coming. And he had a tricky, fast left jab that surprised me.”

HE was certainly surprising An derson that afternoon, and it seems very unlikely that Bob Foster will fare any better next Wednesday. Light heavyweights have taken shots at the heavyweight title before. None have made it. But what about Ali? By all accounts, he is as fast as any light heavyweight and he weighs some 30 to 40 pounds more. Durham, of course, knows his boy can take Ali. So does his boy. “Yank's never been wrong yet,” he says. Quarry, who has now been beaten by both men, says Frazier will murder Ali, but that could be just wishful thinking.

Don Warner, a Frazier sparring partner for the last three years, who has also absorbed the best punches of both men, has a somewhat more balanced answer to the most‐asked question in boxing these days. It came as he stood by the ring waiting to replace Anderson, his face smeared with Vaseline, so as not to get cut, a gorgeous shiner on his right eye to attest to his words.

“Joe's left hook is his most lethal weapon,” he said. “The guy comes on like a locomotive. Clay has never fought anyone like him. I was on the same card with Clay once when he fought Henry Cooper. You know, he was floored then—and it was Cooper's left hook that caught him.

“I wouldn't really want to say who will win,” he added, loyal both to his own past record and to his present employment, “but one thing I do know, it will be one hell of a fight.” ■

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A version of this archives appears in print on November 15, 1970, on page SM26 of the New York edition with the headline: In This Corner … The Official Heavyweight Champ. Order Reprints| Today's Paper|Subscribe

Summary: P Wood article on Frazier's career; illus


South Australians have been urged to keep pet rabbits inside for the next two weeks because of an outbreak of myxomatosis.

The Australian Veterinary Association says recent heavy and unseasonal rain has left water lying around which has created a suitable habitat for mosquitos and other insects which can carry the myxoma virus.

"There is no cure for the virus so we urge rabbit owners to take precautions to prevent their rabbits being exposed to places where they may encounter mosquitoes and fleas," AVA state president Anne Fowler said on Wednesday.

Myxomatosis is a poxvirus spread between rabbits by close contact with biting insects.

The virus causes swelling and discharge from the eyes, nose and genital regions of infected rabbits.

Dr Fowler said owners should check their yards and remove any items that might have collected water such as empty pot plants and bases, pet bowls or rubbish.

Rabbit hutches should have a mosquito proof covering with the roof and the exterior and inside roof sprayed with a pet-friendly insect repellent.

Litter trays should be changed daily as flies are attracted to faeces and urine.

Summary: South Australians have been urged to keep pet rabbits indoors because of an outbreak of myxomatosis.


A police investigation has been launched after a human skeleton was discovered sitting against a tree on a property near Stanthorpe, in south-east Queensland.

A member of the public discovered the remains in Glen Aplin, south of Stanthorpe in the Darling Downs region, on Thursday.

Police are treating the death as suspicious until proven otherwise, with forensic examiners expected to search for an "signs of trauma or violence that would indicate death as a result of foul play".

Identifying the remains and establishing a cause of death could take up to six months given the state of decomposition, Detective Inspector David Isherwood said.

"The fact that they've gone to nearly all skeletal remains would indicate they've been there for some time," he told Fairfax Media.

The remains were found about 150 to 200m from the road and nearest house.

Summary: Queensland police are investigating the discovery of human remains on a property in the state's Darling Downs region.


Three men have been arrested after allegedly stealing a Porsche from the home of a Hawthorn Football Club player overnight.

The men broke into the home of Brendan Whitecross about 2am while his children slept inside, taking a set of the family’s car keys.

Whitecross' family dog raised the alarm, causing the thieves to flee in a dark-coloured sedan, before doing a U-turn and returning to the home to steal his white Porsche Macan.

Both vehicles then sped off.

One man was arrested in Glen Waverley. (9NEWS)

“It was pretty scary,” Whitecross told 9NEWS.

“By the time the dogs started barking, the car was off in one or two minutes, so I didn’t get a real good look at them… The adrenaline took over and I picked fight (over flight) and was straight down the stairs. I thought if I could handle Hodgey [captain Luke Hodge] when he's a bit fired up, I can handle anybody.

“They tried to get out of the front door, then basically supermanned through the front window,” he said.

The offenders led police on a chase through Melbourne's south-east, after allegedly stealing a Porsche from the home of Brendan Whitecross. (9NEWS)

One of the men led police on a short chase on foot, before being caught in a backyard. (9NEWS)

The sedan was later found torched and dumped nearby.

The stolen Porsche was spotted driving erratically through Glen Waverley around 8.30am this morning and was pursued by police before the driver drove into The Glen Shopping Centre.

It was then dumped in the underground carpark of The Glen.

The car was spotted speeding along Springvale Road and using emergency lanes to bypass traffic. (9NEWS)

Three men attempted to flee on foot, before police arrested two men on High Street Road and another on Springvale Road.

Investigators believe there is a fourth person still at large.

Anyone with information is urged to contact Crime Stoppers on 1800 333 000.

© Nine Digital Pty Ltd 2016

Summary: A man has been arrested after an allegedly stolen Porsche was pursued through Melbourne’s south-eastern suburbs before being dumped at a shopping centre carpark in Glen Waverley.


“As a general rule,” it was written in the 1920s, “Negroes have not been and are not thought of in America when you talk in general terms of Americans unless they are specifically pointed out.” This “general forgetfulness” therefore made it “necessary for those interested in fair play to all citizens” to propose a “beautiful building” to “depict the negro’s contribution to America in military service, in art, literature, invention, science, industry etc.”

The text was part of a century-long campaign, started by black civil war veterans in 1915, that will reach its fulfilment on Saturday, when Barack Obama formally opens the National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington DC. It describes with some precision what has finally been achieved. It also suggests what the museum’s director, Lonnie Bunch, says over and over: that the museum should give “a fuller understanding of what it means to be American” seen through the “particular lens” of black experiences and contributions, not a place that is just about and for an anthropologically defined category known as African Americans.

Because of restrictions on the above-ground volume of buildings on the National Mall, 60% of the museum is buried

The moment, of course, is charged. A short walk away another building has opened in the heart of the federal administrative district: the chandelier-bedecked Trump International hotel, a possible encampment on the way to the White House for the man keen on the plainly racist fantasy that Obama was not really American-born, and who as a young property tycoon was accused of denying homes to black applicants. Trump’s combinations of obfuscation, cunning, bluster and force follow a pattern seen across the centuries in the museum’s accounts of the ways in which black freedom and advancement were blocked.

The museum, the 19th to be created by the Smithsonian Institution, enacts further principles currently under attack, which are the importance of knowledge and fact, scrupulously gathered, and of shared spaces for their understanding. It is much for a single building and its contents to carry, especially one placed on the National Mall in Washington amid the icons of the nation – the White House, the Capitol, great museums, memorials to wars and presidents. “How does one compete with such a monumental landscape?” asks David Adjaye, the lead designer of an architectural team formed out of four practices for the purpose of this project called Freelon Adjaye Bond/SmithGroup.

This team is led by people of predominantly African American heritage, a rarity in the still very white profession of architecture, such as the lead architect Phil Freelon and the project leader Zena Howard. J Max Bond, a pioneer among black architects, was part of the group but died before the museum was finished. Adjaye is British, born in Tanzania to Ghanaian parents. The theme and content of the museum is therefore personal. “As a young boy of my generation the African American story was also our story,” says Adjaye, who was born as the civil rights movement was gathering force in 1966, “in the sense that it was the techniques, the motivation, it was a way of being and it was a way of understanding that one could succeed in the modern world and not be oppressed by it. I feel it as part of my emerging into adulthood and being who I am.”

It is indeed the content that should come before the architecture of the building that serves it. It includes artefacts of desperation and sheer survival, such as the shards of tools used by Maroons – escaped slaves – in their refuge in the Great Dismal Swamp of North Carolina. Also of violence, such as leg irons, and fragments of glass from the 1963 bombing that killed four young girls in the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. There is exaltation, in the form of one of Chuck Berry’s bright red Cadillacs, of the recollected triumphs of Muhammad Ali, of the orange silk jacket and recorded singing of the contralto Marian Anderson. There is abundant film and photography of the struggles and grotesqueries of racial politics, such as the Ku Klux Klan march through Washington in 1925.

Scraps of intimacy and poverty are interspersed with larger structures, such as wooden cabins inhabited by slaves and a watchtower from Angola prison in Louisiana. Objects of American transport technology contribute: a segregated railway carriage, a bright yellow-and-blue biplane used by the African American Tuskegee airmen, that Cadillac. Eventually you find the P-Funk Mothership, a spoof spacecraft that used to land on stage on the 1970s stadium tours of George Clinton and his band Parliament-Funkadelic.

The collection is remarkable for the fact that, little more than a decade ago, it didn’t exist. Lonnie Bunch, on taking up his post in 2005, was armed with a Bush-signed act of Congress that supported the idea of the museum, but he had nothing to put in it. This could have been catastrophic, as the world is full of unconvincing museums founded on ideas but little content. So Bunch and his team toured the nation, inviting people to offer whatever they might have. The result is personal, eclectic, touching and surprising, rather than encyclopedic.

The displays are sometimes overcrowded but avoid gimmicks and pointless gestures at interaction. They are text-heavy, partly to fill the gaps that arise from the nature of the collection, with a measured and sober tone. The exhibits are arranged in three main sections, starting with a narrative history, rising up from the bottom of a deep basement, that runs from the beginnings of the Atlantic slave trade in 15th-century Africa and Europe to the presidency of Barack Obama. On two upper floors, above the ground level entrance hall, are the community galleries, which talk about such things as religion, place, sport and military service, and the culture galleries, which show art, music, literature and performance.

The museum thus climbs from slave ships to the mothership, an ascendant trajectory that maybe doesn’t do enough to avoid an oversimplified story of oppression ultimately redeemed by blues, funk and hip-hop. The museum nonetheless does an outstanding job of giving due weight to horrors and heroism, to people just living their lives and to the endless repeating stories of creativity prompted by oppression. Many of the histories are familiar even to non-Americans, such as that of Rosa Parks, but they are shown here with new weight. You are assailed by the mental force of something pushing from the back of your mind to the front. Was segregation really so cruel, so laughably hypocritical, so absurdly rigged and transparently unfair? Yes, it was.

The official story of the design is already much told and doubtless will be repeated to the museum’s visitors for as long as it stands. The triple-decker superstructure of inverted truncated pyramids recalls the celebratory headpieces on certain Yoruba sculptures from west Africa and can also evoke, if you like, arms raised in celebration. They are made of bronze-finished aluminium whose filigree patterns derive from the decorative metalwork created by African American craftsmen in cities such as New Orleans and Charleston. A long, deep canopy that shelters the main entrance refers to the porches of southern houses that acted as social and political centres, little village halls, informal schools.

These narratives are necessary, says Adjaye, for a project that was “definitely not done quietly on a mountain somewhere on my own” but had to “negotiate a lot of positions and opinions to get this form. So it was really important that this was neither cloaked nor hidden. It was something that had to be absolutely clear and people had to understand why.”

But such stories only get a building so far. They could describe an exhilarating work or a cringe-making one. What matters more are the relationships the architecture makes through its space and material between exhibits, people and surroundings.

Here there are tensions between the institutional nature of a museum and its popular ambitions, between a search for authenticity and the tendency of modern museums to resemble shopping malls – shiny, escalatored – driven as they are by mall-like considerations of people moving and browsing. The design also has to deal with the contemporary habit of putting exhibitions in sealed boxes, where air and light are perfectly controlled, which makes for abrupt transitions with the rest of the world.

It achieves its main, difficult task, which is to be both American and African American

One technique that Adjaye tries is to create moments of crowd-pleasing charm – a particular tone of purplish pink terrazzo in the entrance hall’s floor, coppery panels on the lifts, outbreaks of decoration as in an art deco cinema, something as simple as the rich blue over the entrance to the Oprah Winfrey theatre. There is an agile open loop of a spiral staircase going down to the basement, which also helps you forget that – because of restrictions on the above-ground volume of buildings on the National Mall – 60% of the museum is buried. You might imagine something non-Caucasian in these hues and motifs, but at any rate they are different from the greys and creams of most Smithsonian museums.

More substantially the building seeks to connect with its august surroundings, through views from decks outside the upper galleries that are sometimes filtered through the filigree screens and sometimes through openings specially oriented to particular monuments. The glass-walled ground floor allows views in all directions of both greenery and stone-pillared official architecture. At this point it feels embracing and inclusive.

The hardest job the design has to do is to find a way to stand on its grand stage. It is placed at a corner where the grand axis emanating from the Capitol intersects at a right angle with that emanating from the White House, a cross pinned at its centre by the 555ft obelisk of the Washington monument. All around are white stone commemorations of white men, albeit often built with black labour. As a freestanding largely symmetrical object, the new museum has something in common with its neighbours, but as a dark-clad structure that eschews classical columns for apparently floating horizontal layers, it does not. Its suggestion of pyramids gives a geometrical echo of the obelisk (which, lest we forget, is Egyptian and therefore also African), but their inversion sets them apart.

Adjaye doesn’t mind if a link is made between the dark skin of the building and that of the people it remembers, but he gives another reason for it. If it is not the main material for buildings on the National Mall, bronze is nonetheless used for the memorial detail of statuary and plaques. The role of the new museum is itself partly memorial, the idea having started off a century ago with the primary intent of honouring black soldiers. The bronze finish, for Adjaye, is “absolutely from the classical family, but to express different ideas seemed like the right thing to do”.

It takes some nerve to do a building like this, on this spot, and the design is confident enough to pull it off. It is not flawless, as it sometimes feels assembled or panellised more than crafted. The bronze-coloured screens are not the delicate, seamless things suggested in computer visualisations. The build-up of the exterior cladding – glass wall plus screen plus substantial fixings for the latter – impedes the sense of connection between inside and out. There are moments of gawkiness that can be engaging or uncomfortable, depending on your taste. But it achieves its main, difficult task, which is to be both American and African American, and to be of its location but also different from it.

As a museum and as a building it enacts the tone that is so striking in the 1928 text – its patience, reason and lack of rancour. It realises qualities of America at its best, ones which, as is now abundantly clear, we can’t take for granted.

The new National Museum of African American History and Culture is the result of more than a century of efforts to commemorate the contributions of African Americans to their country.

1915 A group of civil war veterans, gathered to mark the 50th anniversary of its ending, organise a “committee of colored citizens” to build a monument.

1929 Congress permits a national commission to be set up, but it fails for lack of funding.

1968 Black leaders unsuccessfully press Congress for a museum.

1985 The owner of a bus-tour company, Tom Mack, starts a fundraising group.

1988 Congressman John Lewis, a civil rights veteran, unsuccessfully introduces a bill for a museum. He continues this battle for 15 years.

1994 A proposal to create a museum within a wing of an existing Smithsonian institution, already controversial because of its lack of ambition, is defeated. Republican senator Jesse Helms opposes it: “How can Congress then say no to Hispanics,” he says, “and the next group, and the next group after that?”

2003 After bipartisan pressure George Bush signs legislation creating the National Museum of African American History and Culture.

2005 Lonnie Bunch is appointed director. The museum has a staff of two, no collection, no confirmed site, and needs to raise hundreds of millions of dollars. He launches Saving African American Treasures, a programme to encourage citizens to donate objects.

2006 A site is selected on the National Mall, Washington DC, the last of any size to remain undeveloped.

2009 Following the election of President Barack Obama, a team of architects is selected.

2016 The museum, designed by a team led by David Adjaye, is completed at a total cost of $540m. Its 37,000 exhibits range from the sombre to the joyful. They include the coffin of Emmett Till, the teenager who was mutilated and killed in 1955; the dazzling dresses of Whitney Houston and Dionne Warwick; and works by the self-taught 19th-century portrait painter Joshua Johnson.

Summary: The National Museum of African American History and Culture, completed by UK architect David Adjaye, opens this week


WFXT, the Boston-area Fox25 affiliate, is threatening to pull its programming on New Year’s Day for DirecTV customers unless the two parties reach an agreement on fees. Tom Raponi, vice president and general manager of WFXT, which appears on Channel 25, in a statement Thursday said, “I am disappointed that my company and DirecTV appear to be reaching an impasse,” which could disrupt Fox’s service for DirecTV subscribers. The local Fox station is owned by Atlanta-based Cox Media Group. A spokeswoman for DirecTV owner AT&T Inc. said the companies are still in negotiations with Cox and Fox25. “We want to keep WFXT in your local lineup but its owner, Cox Broadcasting, is threatening to block the station from reaching your home unless they receive a significant increase in fees,’’ said Kate MacKinnon, the AT&T spokeswoman. She said Fox could continue to make its shows available while the negotiations continue. “Cox has suspended its stations briefly from TV providers’ customers before, so we appreciate your patience as we work to resolve this matter quickly and reasonably,’’ she said in a statement. WFXT’s Raponi said the station has reached agreements with its other distributors. DirecTV had a fee dispute earlier this year with WHDH-TV Channel 7 and WLVI-TV Channel 56. — BETH HEALY

Fewer Americans applied for unemployment benefits last week, continuing a nearly two-year trend that suggests a solid job market. The Labor Department said Thursday that weekly requests for jobless aid fell 10,000 to a seasonally adjusted 265,000. The less volatile four-week moving average for claims was 263,000. Weekly jobless claims below 300,000 often point to healthy hiring levels. Claims have stayed below 300,000 for 95 straight weeks, the longest streak since 1970. In November, the unemployment rate fell to a nine-year low of 4.6 percent. — ASSOCIATED PRESS

Long-term US mortgage rates ticked up again this week, staying at their highest levels since early 2014. Mortgage buyer Freddie Mac on Thursday reported the rate on 30-year fixed-rate loans rose to an average 4.32 percent from 4.30 percent last week. That average is at its highest since April 2014. It’s a sharp increase from a 30-year rate that averaged 3.65 percent for all of 2016, the lowest level recorded from records going back to 1971. The average for a 15-year mortgage rose to 3.55 percent from 3.52 percent last week. Rates began to climb after the Nov. 8 election of Donald Trump. Investors have bid rates higher out of the belief that the president-elect’s plans for tax cuts and higher infrastructure spending will increase economic growth and inflation. — ASSOCIATED PRESS

The auto-parts maker Takata is nearing a sweeping settlement with federal prosecutors over air bags that can violently explode, according to two people briefed on the discussions. An agreement could come within the next few weeks, and Takata is expected to pay a penalty of up to $1 billion. One point that remains unresolved is whether there will be any guilty plea to criminal misconduct, either by the company or one of its subsidiaries. Takata’s exploding air bags have been linked to at least 11 deaths and more than 180 injuries in the United States. Nineteen automakers are recalling 42 million vehicles to replace the air bags’ metal inflaters. The inflaters can overpressurize and rupture, shooting metal shards into a car’s cabin. The Justice Department has been investigating whether the company made misleading statements and hid information about the defective air bags from its clients. Takata has already acknowledged it manipulated air-bag test results, but has maintained that its conduct was unrelated to the air-bag ruptures. — NEW YORK TIMES

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Kate Spade & Co. plans to kick off a formal auction of the handbag maker in January, with interest from six possible bidders, according to a person familiar with the situation. The retailer is working with financial advisers on sale preparations, said the person, and the potential bidders are mostly other retailers. A representative for Kate Spade declined to comment. A sale would cap a comeback for a brand that struggled to recover from the last recession and had to rely on discounts to attract customers. Formerly named Fifth & Pacific, the company sold the Juicy Couture and Lucky brands in 2013 and 2014, leaving Kate Spade as its sole major nameplate. It has restored sales growth and burnished its image, and now charges full price for more of its handbags. It has also embarked on a plan to become a lifestyle brand, selling everything from apparel to home goods, with a goal of quadrupling revenue to $4 billion annually. — BLOOMBERG NEWS

Rhode Island’s second-largest hospital group, Care New England, reported a net loss of $53 million for the 2016 fiscal year, according to WPRI-TV, which obtained an audited financial statement. That follows of a net loss of $28 million for the previous year. Memorial Hospital accounted for $32 million of the group’s losses. Services have been reduced there to try to improve its finances. A spokeswoman for the group called it a transitional year. The state’s largest hospital group, Lifespan, also lost money, $29 million for the fiscal year. Care New England was looking to merge with another health care system, Southcoast Health of Massachusetts. Officials announced in October that the plans were called off because their visions for a combined system couldn’t be achieved. — ASSOCIATED PRESS

The Connecticut Supreme Court has ruled that state officials did not violate state law when they approved a natural gas expansion plan in 2013 without studying potential environmental impacts. Justices ruled 4-1 Thursday in a case brought by the Connecticut Energy Marketers Association, which represents gasoline and heating fuel marketers. The plan approved by environmental officials and utility regulators calls for expanding natural gas service to 300,000 more homes and building 900 miles of gas mains over the next decade. The association alleged state law requires an environmental impact evaluation before approval of such a plan. The Supreme Court sided with state officials, who argued the plan did not constitute ‘‘actions which may significantly affect the environment’’ that are defined in state law and require an environmental impact study. — ASSOCIATED PRESS

The older brother of JonBenet Ramsey is suing CBS and others for $750 million, saying his reputation was ruined after a television series that concluded he killed his 6-year-old sister two decades ago. In the lawsuit filed Wednesday, Burke Ramsey claims the network, its production company, and the experts interviewed in the series conspired to defame him for publicity and profit. The series, called ‘‘The Case of JonBenet Ramsey,’’ aired in September ahead of the 20th anniversary of JonBenet’s death. The beauty pageant star was found dead in the basement of her family’s home in Boulder, Colo., the day after Christmas in 1996. A prosecutor cleared her parents and brother in 2008 based on DNA evidence. But the district attorney currently overseeing the case has said it was premature to exonerate the Ramseys and ordered additional tests using new DNA testing technology. CBS spokesman Dustin Smith declined to comment on the lawsuit. — ASSOCIATED PRESS

Summary: Fox25 may drop DirecTV; fewer unemployment applications; mortgage rates climb; and Takata nears settlement.


Monday, October 23th 2000, 2:14AM

YOU TRY TO TREAT them like human beings. You really do. But there is always something very strange about Met fans, something repulsive and off-putting. It is as if they are a mutant race of primates, isolated in a penal colony in Queens so they don't reproduce and overrun the rest of the world.

"It's like they're cartoon characters," Milton Ousland was saying. "They get all excited. They scream, 'Let's go Mets.' They're orange. They're not real."

All you had to do was look at them again last night when they came to the Bronx for Game 2, to understand. They should not be allowed out in public, at least not in New York, certainly not in Section 39.

There was, for example, the man sitting alongside his 10-year-old son, whose face was painted with the Met colors.

"Why doesn't the father just paint a birthmark on the kid's face, and maybe put some braces on him?" wondered Mike Donahue, core Creature. "That stuff won't come off without gasoline."

Then there was the woman with bright orange shoes.

"Is she trying to make it that much easier for me to run her over in my car?" Donahue again wondered. "What is she thinking? That's got to be a cry for help."

There were Met muppets, and big-headed Mets with pea brains. It was a real freak show out there. Only the knowledge that the Yankees will clinch this series at Shea, and that we Creatures would be dancing in celebration on the No. 7 subway platform in Flushing, made any of this bearable.

"Every year, every time they come in here for a new series, we get new Met fans here," said Chris Cartelli. "You look at the jerseys they wear, there are no Seaver jerseys, no Dykstras. They're all black and orange. There's just no heritage there."

Game 1 had gone smoothly enough on Saturday, once Benitez blew up in the ninth and the idiots in the stands were silenced. There were only a few minor incidents. One guy kept walking up and down the right-field bleachers in his Met outfit, taunting the Creatures in Section 39 for as long as the Mets held their lead.

Which wasn't long enough, was it?

Tina Lewis was forced to yell at regular intervals at the people standing on the steps, in front of her seat, telling them to get out of the way. She wanted to see something besides their fat, Met-loving rears.

Anyway, the Creatures who were fortunate enough to get our hands on a few extra seats were outside the Stadium early in the evening last night, trying to make a few dollars selling tickets (we don't like the word "scalping," because it carries negative connotations) while hoping to avoid the Anthony Suite set aside for us in the local jail.

WE ARE NOT ripoff artists. Milton the Cowbell Man was hoping to sell $110 tickets for $500, a reasonable markup you might see in Modell's. But it wasn't easy, because the cops were everywhere, and many of them were Met fans.

You could tell, because they looked like cartoon characters. And if they could, they would be wearing goofy orange-and-black numbers on the back of their uniforms.

Summary: YOU TRY TO TREAT them like human beings. You really do. But there is always something very strange about Met fans, something repulsive and off-putting. It is as if they are a mutant race of primates, isolated in a penal colony in Queens so they don't reproduce and overrun the rest of the world. "It's like they're cartoon characters,"Milton Ousland was saying. "They get all excited. They


BY MITCHELL FINK WITH LAUREN RUBIN

Thursday, May 10th 2001, 2:21AM

New York Police Commissioner Bernard Kerik wants to write a memoir and power publisher Judith Regan wants to sell it.

The two - who are self-made, results-oriented types - hit it off well the other night at a party Regan gave for Kerik at Palma, a new Italian restaurant in the West Village.

Other guests at this event, which was touted as a "literary salon," included Howard Stern; Newark City Councilman Cory Booker; screenwriter Richard LaGravenese; Revolution Studios honcho Elaine Goldsmith-Thomas; the host of the TV show "Power of Attorney," Judge Andrew Napolitano, and Los Angeles designer Kelly Wearstler.

Also on hand was a Regan favorite, Jess Walter, who would act as Kerik's co-writer. Walter, in case you've forgotten, worked on "In Contempt" with O.J. Simpson prosecutor Christopher Darden. He also has a first novel out, "Over Tumbled Graves," about police work in Spokane, Wash.

Kerik's deal with ReganBooks is not quite done. Regan declined to comment on its status, but Kerik must get permission from the city to write a book before he can sign a contract. The Commish did not return calls for comment.

But from what I understand, most people who talked to Kerik at the dinner were convinced that his life - as a high-school dropout who came up through the police ranks - is a story filled with heartache, drama, murder and mayhem. Perfect for a book.

DENISE FINDS SOMETHING TO CELEBRATE

Now that she's been granted Pardongate immunity and given several TV interviews, Fifth Ave. songwriter Denise Rich is beefing up her social schedule.

On Tuesday, she showed up at Patsy's on W. 56th St., for a birthday party for Tommy Silverman, president of Tommy Boy Records. The event attracted many figures from the doo-wop era, including Kenny Vance and the Planotones, the Harptones and Philadelphia disc jockey Jerry Blavat. Everyone sang, much to the delight of Rich, who sat with producer Nile Rodgers and talked music.

Rich told me that "I've learned a lot from the experience" of seeing herself splashed across the front pages. "I've learned not to not to take it personally. Now I know how celebrities feel. I don't go out on bad hair days."

She reiterated that, contrary to some reports, she never had an affair with Bill Clinton. "I was never alone with him in a room. Ever," she said, echoing her previous public comments. "I said it on 'Larry King' and I'll say it to you: I don't take any of this seriously anymore. After you lose a daughter [Rich's daughter, Gabrielle, died of leukemia in 1996], none of this is important."

The sight of a paparazzo tripping and falling as he chased after a celebrity would be enough to make many stars smile. Not Meg Ryan, who on Tuesday was nice enough to stop to look after the photographer who fell as he pursued her.

"Are you all right?" she asked the man.

"I'm fine," he said. "But I wouldn't have tripped if you had stopped to pose for a picture. Will you pose for me now?"

"No, I still won't," said the actress, as she turned and got into a car waiting on E. 56th St.

Ryan and her "Kate and Leopold" co-star, Hugh Jackman, had come to the new Hugo Boss store on Fifth Ave. for a performance by the Dan Band, whose lead singer, Dan Finnerty, is married to actress Kathy Najimy. Before the Ryan rumor mill spins out of control, let me also report that Ryan and Jackman were accompanied by his wife, Deborra-Lee Furness.

Ryan, who dressed down for her night out, danced solo to the music and used a security guard to help shield her from reporters and photographers inside the event. Ironically, after her encounter with the fallen paparazzo, Ryan was soon surrounded by other photographers, who managed to get off a few shots.

Others spotted at the party included John Ritter, Donald Trump and girlfriend Melania Knauss, Jamie-Lynn Sigler, actress Martha Plimpton and Hugo Boss CEO Marty Staff.

A BIRTHDAY DO WITHOUT ADO

Making a big to-do over birthdays becomes less of an issue with age.

Just ask Mike Wallace, who turned 83 yesterday. The venerable "60 Minutes" icon began his celebration on Tuesday with an intimate dinner at Guastavino's on E. 59th St. Included were Wallace; his son, NBC News correspondent Chris; his daughter, Pauline, and her husband. The foursome sat on a balcony overlooking the bar and didn't make a big fuss. In fact, they didn't even order a cake.

Of course, with all they ate, the last thing they needed was cake. Try mousseline of spring peas with artichokes and capers, sweet shrimp with curry oil and celery leaves, risotto of Jersey asparagus and upstate ramps (wild leeks), roast duck with kumquats and Thai basil, Champagne granita with citrus supremes, and blueberry financier (a small, buttery sponge cake) with sour-cream ice cream. It's amazing that Wallace made it to 83 eating such rich food.

Summary: New York Police Commissioner Bernard Kerik wants to write a memoir and power publisher Judith Regan wants to sell it. The two - who are self-made, results-oriented types - hit it off well the other night at a party Regan gave for Kerik at Palma, a new Italian restaurant in the West Village. Other guests at this event, which was touted as a "literary salon,"included Howard Stern; Newark City


By Christopher Lehmann-Haupt OUTSIDE OVER THERE. By Maurice Sen- dak. Unpaginated. Harper & Row. $12.95.

MAURICE SENDAK has illustrated more than six dozen children's books since his career began in 1947. Yet despite their consistent excellence and astonishing diversity, two among them, ''Where the Wild Things Are'' (1947) and ''In the Night Kitchen'' (1971), have stood out as career milestones and personal maps of where Mr. Sendak's imagination has been exploring.

Now comes a third book, called ''Outside Over There.'' It has been five years in preparation and is as different from ''In the Night Kitchen'' as that work was different from ''Where the Wild Things Are.'' Yet it is intended to form a unit with the earlier two books, because, as Mr. Sendak observes in Selma G. Lanes's lavish and informative retrospective study, ''The Art of Maurice Sendak'' (published late last year by Harry N. Abrams, 278 pages, $40), ''They are all variations on the same theme: how children master various feelings - danger, boredom, fear, frustration, jealousy - and manage to come to grips with the realities of their lives.''

The text of ''Outside Over There'' -which recounts the kidnapping by five goblins of a baby girl and her rescue by her 9-year-old sister - is simplicity itself, even though, as Mr. Sendak also told Mrs. Lanes, he cares about the words of his books at least as much as he does about the illustrations and even though he revised the text of ''Outside'' more than 100 times: When Papa was away at sea, and Mama in the arbor, Ida played her wonder horn to rock the baby still - but never watched. So the goblins came. They pushed their way in and pulled baby out, leaving another all made of ice.

But Mr. Sendak's illustrations are evocative in so many different ways that for a self-conscious adult mind to enter the world of ''Outside Over There'' is to risk becoming paralyzed by the book's allusiveness. It is easy enough to draw banal conclusions -that the style of the illustrations derives from the German 19th-century romantic tradition in which Mr. Sendak got interested when he did the pictures for an edition of the Grimm brothers' marchen, although the book also contains visual references to everything from high Renaissance art to Dali; or that the book is filled with personal data from the author's life, as well as numerous allusions to his previous work. The Sibling Question

It is also obvious enough that its story is really about an older sister's ambivalent feelings toward a younger sibling, and about getting one's feelings under control and expressing them through functional rather than narcissistic love. (Before the kidnapping, which incidentally alludes in various ways to the Lindbergh baby and to the Dionne quintuplets, Ida's love is all empty gesture; after the rescue, her love is expressed by teaching the infant how to walk.)

But what are we to make of some of the mystifying plot details? Why is it a ''serious mistake'' for Ida to have ''climbed backwards out her window into outside over there'' when she sets out to find her sister? Does her ''mistake'' lie in having climbed ''outside over there,'' a reference, in Mr. Sendak's personal scheme, to the fantasy worlds that lie beyond windows? Or is her error simply to have climbed out ''backwards''?

Why, two illustrations later, does the figure of Ida floating over a Baroque landscape make an obvious visual pun on Bernini's ''St. Theresa in Ecstasy,'' except that instead of being transported by orgasmic bliss, Ida's face is transfixed with wide-eyed apprehension? Does her ''mistake'' have something to do with sex? If so, what? Probably such questions have no rational set of answers, yet each of them seems to open up a dozen more.

Can ''Outside Over There'' really be a children's book, some readers must be wondering by now. If so, is it appropriate for a children's book to be raising such questions? Mr. Sendak would say that the audience for his work is irrelevant, because he strongly believes his books are for readers of all ages. And if you were to respond that it's one thing for adults to understand the sexual overtones of ''Outside Over There'' and quite another thing to expect children to do so, Mr. Sendak would reply, as he does in ''The Art of Maurice Sendak'' to a similar challenge: ''I think children read the internal meanings of everything. It's only adults who read the top layers most of the time.'' Relief and Renewal

Though I'm inclined to agree, I can't account for a real child's reaction to ''Outside Over There.'' The best I can do is attest to the response of the somewhat withered child who survives inside of me - the child that Mr. Sendak is presumably trying to reach by communicating with the robust child that seems to survive inside of him. My child knows that Ida and her sister have endured some profoundly mysterious and threatening ordeal. And the experience of having come through this ordeal gives him a sense of relief and renewal.

But my child is also bewildered by much of ''Outside Over There.'' There is a grandeur and complexity about the pictures that intimidate him. They lack the warmth and direct appeal of ''Where the Wild Things Are'' and ''In the Night Kitchen.'' They have a quality of nightmare. That is not necessarily a bad thing in a book such as this. In fact, it may be a very good thing. But so far, my child isn't absolutely certain.


HILO, Hawaii — A small plane ran out of fuel and was ditched in the ocean several miles off Hawaii's coast, but the pilot was rescued by Coast Guard crews who had flown alongside and coached him on crash landing in the choppy seas.

Dramatic video released by the Coast Guard shows the plane gliding low over the water and then splashing down. Within seconds the pilot climbs out onto a wing as a helicopter lowers a rescue swimmer, who helps him enter a basket so he can be hoisted to the hovering aircraft.

Police identified the pilot as Charles Brian Mellor, of Puerto De Santa Maria, Spain. The 65-year-old, who was not seriously injured, was flying solo from Monterey, Calif., when he radioed authorities Friday afternoon that he was running low on fuel about 500 miles from his destination of Hilo, Hawaii, the Coast Guard said. The cities are about 2,300 miles apart.

Mellor was taken to Hilo Medical Center, the Coast Guard said. A person answering the phone there, who declined to give her name, said Saturday that Mellor had been released. No additional details were available.

The Coast Guard had sent a plane to rendezvous with Mellor's two-engine Cessna and dispatched a ship and helicopter to be ready for a possible rescue, spokesman Lt. Gene Maestas told The Associated Press.

After meeting up with the plane over the Pacific, the Guard's HC-130 Hercules flew alongside for more than an hour, until the aircraft's fuel gave out and it went down 13 miles off Hawaii.

"We were communicating to him the entire time," Maestas said. "The pilots were telling him how to make the airplane ready ... to lighten, tie things down, adjust the seat."

Mellor was urged to go in at a low angle to the water and touch down parallel to the waves – running at strong 6 feet – rather than absorbing their power by plowing into them head-first.

"We basically talked him down," Maestas said.

Mellor ditched his airplane about an hour before sundown.

In the two-minute video apparently shot from another Coast Guard aircraft, the plane skims the water for a few seconds before coming to an abrupt stop and spinning around in the foaming seas.

It floats upright with the pilot clinging to it but appears to begin sinking within a minute, as the Guard swimmer is lowered to waters near the plane.

"He was able to crawl out of cockpit and speak to the rescue swimmer; he didn't appear to have any significant injuries," Maestas said.

The video shows the swimmer hanging onto the basket carrying Mellor as it moves upward, before the swimmer drops several feet back into the water. It ends with the helicopter carrying the pilot flying off. Maestas said the Cessna sank in just a few minutes.

"We feel very fortunate that we were able to save this man's life," he said.


WASHINGTON - The Securities and Exchange Commission is planning to hire an outside investigator to look into complaints about the agency’s internal watchdog unit after its top official stepped down amid complaints about his work.

“An individual has raised allegations of misconduct by former and current employees in the office of inspector general,’’ John Nester, an SEC spokesman, said Tuesday. “The matter was promptly referred to the Council of Inspectors General on Integrity and Efficiency. We are also in the process of hiring an independent investigator to review the claims.’’

Nester did not say whom the agency would hire or specify the allegations and targets they would pursue.

The SEC has not had a permanent inspector general since January when David Kotz resigned after four years in the post. Kotz was lauded by lawmakers for his scrutiny of SEC missteps in overseeing financial firms including Bear Stearns Cos. and Bernard Madoff Investment Securities while facing criticism from current and former employees over his pursuit of investigations that some said lacked evidence of wrongdoing and unfairly hurt workers’ reputations.

His decision last year to refer former SEC general counsel David Becker to federal prosecutors for possible criminal ethics violations stemming from his work on policy related to Bernard Madoff’s Ponzi scheme helped spark the backlash. Becker, who inherited profits from his parents’ account with Madoff, was cleared by the Justice Department in November.

Kotz’s contacts with Phillip Cannella, a financial adviser from the Philadelphia area who markets “crash-proof’’ retirement plans, also have come under review. In late July, Kotz gave Cannella a 75-minute interview at the SEC’s Washington headquarters.

The SEC has pressed unsuccessfully for Canella to remove video clips from the interview from his website, saying their use could imply that Kotz or the agency endorsed his business.

Kotz confirmed to Bloomberg News in December that after the interview Cannella got him three club-level tickets for a sold-out football game between the Philadelphia Eagles and New York Giants. He reimbursed Canella $95 per ticket; the Eagles valued them at $240 each.

The former SEC watchdog, who is now a managing director at Gryphon Strategies in Washington, declined to comment Monday on the outside investigation.

Senator Charles Grassley, Republican of Iowa, who defended Kotz during his time at the SEC, questioned whether the agency should pursue an investigation.

“I know from prior experience that outside investigators can get very expensive for taxpayers,’’ Grassley said in an e-mail Monday. “There are governmental structures in place to investigate allegations against an inspector general. I intend to find out more from the SEC about the allegations and the rationale for hiring an outside investigator.’’

A spokesman for the Federal Bureau of Investigation did not respond to a telephone call after normal business hours.

Summary: The Securities and Exchange Commission is planning to hire an outside investigator to probe complaints about the agency’s internal watchdog unit after its top official stepped down amid complaints about his work.


San Francisco 49ers wide receiver Randy Moss (84) catches a pass over New York Giants cornerback Prince Amukamara (20) and free safety Antrel Rolle (26) during the third quarter of an NFL football game in San Francisco, Sunday, Oct. 14, 2012. (AP Photo/Mark J. Terrill) Photo: Mark J. Terrill, Associated Press / SF

San Francisco 49ers wide receiver Randy Moss (84) catches a pass...

Running back Frank Gore (21) runs through the Giants defense in the second quarter of the San Francisco 49ers game against the New York Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, Calif., on Sunday October 14, 2012. Photo: John Storey, Special To The Chronicle / SF

Running back Frank Gore (21) runs through the Giants defense in the...

SAN FRANCISCO, CA - OCTOBER 14: Wide receiver Domenik Hixon #87 of the New York Giants pulls in a 39-yard catch against cornerback Chris Culliver #29 of the San Francisco 49ers in the second quarter on October 14, 2012 at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, California. (Photo by Brian Bahr/Getty Images) Photo: Brian Bahr, Getty Images / SF

SAN FRANCISCO, CA - OCTOBER 14: Wide receiver Domenik Hixon #87 of...

New York Giants running back Ahmad Bradshaw (44) dives for a 1-yard touchdown run over San Francisco 49ers linebacker NaVorro Bowman (53) during the third quarter of an NFL football game in San Francisco, Sunday, Oct. 14, 2012. (AP Photo/Mark J. Terrill) Photo: Mark J. Terrill, Associated Press / SF

New York Giants running back Ahmad Bradshaw (44) dives for a 1-yard...

New York Giants defensive end Jason Pierre-Paul (90) celebrates after sacking San Francisco 49ers quarterback Alex Smith (11) with outside linebacker Mathias Kiwanuka (94) during the second quarter of an NFL football game in San Francisco, Sunday, Oct. 14, 2012. (AP Photo/Mark J. Terrill) Photo: Mark J. Terrill, Associated Press / SF

New York Giants defensive end Jason Pierre-Paul (90) celebrates...

San Francisco 49ers quarterback Alex Smith (11) is sacked by New York Giants defensive tackle Linval Joseph during the third quarter of an NFL football game in San Francisco, Sunday, Oct. 14, 2012. (AP Photo/Marcio Jose Sanchez) Photo: Marcio Jose Sanchez, Associated Press / SF

San Francisco 49ers quarterback Alex Smith (11) is sacked by New...

San Francisco 49ers head coach Jim Harbaugh stands on the sideline during the first half of an NFL football game against the New York Giants in San Francisco, Sunday, Oct. 14, 2012. (AP Photo/Mark J. Terrill) Photo: Mark J. Terrill, Associated Press / SF

San Francisco 49ers head coach Jim Harbaugh stands on the sideline...

New York Giants free safety Antrel Rolle, left, celebrates with cornerback Prince Amukamara (20) after intercepting San Francisco 49ers quarterback Alex Smith during the third quarter of an NFL football game in San Francisco, Sunday, Oct. 14, 2012. (AP Photo/Marcio Jose Sanchez) Photo: Marcio Jose Sanchez, Associated Press / SF

New York Giants free safety Antrel Rolle, left, celebrates with...

San Francisco 49ers place kicker David Akers (2) reacts after missing a field goal during the second quarter against the New York Giants of an NFL football game in San Francisco, Sunday, Oct. 14, 2012. (AP Photo/Marcio Jose Sanchez) Photo: Marcio Jose Sanchez, Associated Press / SF

San Francisco 49ers place kicker David Akers (2) reacts after...

San Francisco 49ers quarterback Alex Smith (11) is sacked by New York Giants defensive tackle Linval Joseph, hidden, as outside linebacker Mathias Kiwanuka (94) converges during the third quarter of an NFL football game in San Francisco, Sunday, Oct. 14, 2012. (AP Photo/Marcio Jose Sanchez) Photo: Marcio Jose Sanchez, Associated Press / SF

San Francisco 49ers quarterback Alex Smith (11) is sacked by New...

Clarence Villareyes, of Daly City, makes noise with a vuvuzela in the parking lot prior to a game between the San Francisco 49ers and visiting New York Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, Calif., on Sunday October 14, 2012. Photo: Stephen Lam, Special To The Chronicle / SF

Clarence Villareyes, of Daly City, makes noise with a vuvuzela in...

KeKai Walker knows who he wants for President. The San Francisco 49ers play the New York Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, Calif., on Sunday October 14, 2012. Photo: Stephen Lam, Special To The Chronicle / SF

KeKai Walker knows who he wants for President. The San Francisco...

SAN FRANCISCO, CA - OCTOBER 14: Head coach Jim Harbaugh of the San Francisco 49ers stands on the sidelines in the third quarter on October 14, 2012 at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, California. The Giants won 26-3. (Photo by Brian Bahr/Getty Images) Photo: Brian Bahr, Getty Images / SF

SAN FRANCISCO, CA - OCTOBER 14: Head coach Jim Harbaugh of the San...

Quarterback Alex Smith (11) runs while Giants linebacker Michael Boley (59) attempts to stop him in the first half of The San Francisco 49ers game against the New York Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, Calif., on Sunday October 14, 2012. Photo: Stephen Lam, Special To The Chronicle / SF

Quarterback Alex Smith (11) runs while Giants linebacker Michael...

Kicker David Akers (2) and Punter Andy Lee (4) watch as they make a field goal near the end of the first quarter. The San Francisco 49ers play the New York Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, Calif., on Sunday October 14, 2012. Photo: John Storey, Special To The Chronicle / SF

Kicker David Akers (2) and Punter Andy Lee (4) watch as they make a...

Quarterback Alex Smith (11) avoids a sack in the first quarter of the San Francisco 49ers game against the New York Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, Calif., on Sunday October 14, 2012. Photo: John Storey, Special To The Chronicle / SF

Quarterback Alex Smith (11) avoids a sack in the first quarter of...

Quarterback Eli Manning (10) calls a paly in the third quarter of the San Francisco 49ers game against the New York Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, Calif., on Sunday October 14, 2012. Photo: Stephen Lam, Special To The Chronicle / SF

Quarterback Eli Manning (10) calls a paly in the third quarter of...

The offensive line walks off the field during the second half of the San Francisco 49ers game against the New York Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, Calif., on Sunday October 14, 2012. Giants won 26-3. Photo: John Storey, Special To The Chronicle / SF

The offensive line walks off the field during the second half of...

Wide receiver Michael Crabtree (15) catches the ball over Giants safety Antrel Rolle (26)during the San Francisco 49ers game against the New York Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, Calif., on Sunday October 14, 2012. Photo: John Storey, Special To The Chronicle / SF

Wide receiver Michael Crabtree (15) catches the ball over Giants...

Quarterback Alex Smith (11) during the second half. The San Francisco 49ers play the New York Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, Calif., on Sunday October 14, 2012. Photo: Stephen Lam, Special To The Chronicle / SF

Quarterback Alex Smith (11) during the second half. The San...

Giants running back Ahmad Bradshaw (44) jumps past 49ers safety Dashon Goldson (38) in the fourth quarter. The San Francisco 49ers play the New York Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, Calif., on Sunday October 14, 2012. Photo: Stephen Lam, Special To The Chronicle / SF

Giants running back Ahmad Bradshaw (44) jumps past 49ers safety...

Summary: The Giants, who entered as six point underdogs, handed the 49ers their worst loss of the 22-game Jim Harbaugh era and didn't allow San Francisco to enter the red zone, collect a sack, force a turnover or score in the game's final 47 minutes.  Asked if he was humbled, cornerback Carlos Rogers said the 49ers, who had outscored opponents 79-3 the previous two weeks, had been reminded of their standing in the league's pecking order before kickoff.  A week after players hailed offensive coordinator Greg Roman as a "mad scientist" and "evil genius" following a franchise-record 621-yard performance, he had a hand in a team-wide collapse.  Smith, who entered with three interceptions in his past 378 attempts, said the sprained middle finger on his throwing hand wasn't a factor as he posted a 43.1 rating, his worst in 33 starts.  The back-to-back picks allowed the Giants to collect two field goals while gaining just one yard en route to grabbing a 23-3 lead.  After taking a pounding in the NFC Championship Game (6 sacks, 12 hits), Manning wasn't sacked and took just one hit, none in the final three quarters.  At one point in the second quarter, Manning completed nine straight passes for 151 yards, a stretch highlighted by his six-yard scoring dart to wide receiver Victor Cruz to give New York a 7-3 edge.  [...] he ended with a pedestrian stat line (193 yards, 87.4 rating), in part because the quarterback termed a "magician" by Harbaugh earlier in the week didn't need to pull off any rabbit-out-of-hat heroics.


The NEW-YORK WEEKLY TIMES is published THIS MORNING, and may be had at the counter of the publication office, in wrappers, ready for mailing. Price FIVE CENTS.

In addition to the latest intelligence by telegraph up to the moment of going to press, there will be found in the current number full details of all military movements in the different departments, from the pens of our special correspondents. Also, all official orders, reports and documents, and the latest and fullest Washington news. European news, with graphic letters from our correspondents in London and Paris, giving the tone of public feeling abroad, is made a special and permanent feature. In addition to Editorials on all the current topics of the day, the WEEKLY TIMES has a page of carefully prepared commercial matter, giving the latest financial news and market reports; items of agriculture and domestic interest, compiled from sources many of which are otherwise inaccessible to the American reader; and marriages and deaths of the week.

The "WEEKLY RECORD," or news summary -- being a careful synopsis and digest of the news of the day, both rebellion and general -- is alone worth double the subscription price to the paper, as it preserves in a condensed and conveniently classified form all news of interest, and must prove valuable as a record to all time.

The WEEKLY TIMES will be sent to subscribers in any part of the country on the following terms: One copy one year, $2; three copies one year, $5; ten copies one year, $15; twenty copies one year, $25. To any one who will send us a Club of Twenty, the SEMI-WEEKLY TIMES will be sent gratuitously for one year. To any one sending us a Club of Fifty, the DAILY TIMES will be sent gratis for one year.


Centerplate, the company responsible for feeding the 70,000-plus fans at Super Bowl XLVII at the Mercedes-Benz Superdome, released this year's official menu. Upward of 100 chefs and 1,000-plus in serving staff will be working around the clock to prepare this Super Bowl-sized feast.

Luckily for fans, the menu isn't exclusive to only box and premium seating. "Our philosophy on the Super Bowl menu is that the 'special' menu items shouldn’t be limited to just one group of fans, so we’ve made sure that our Cajun classics are available to everyone," said John Hickman, communications director for Centerplate.

The culinary talent behind the cuisine is James Beard Award-winning chef and NOLA legend Donald Link. The Louisiana native chef began cooking at the age of 15, and has since opened five restaurants in New Orleans' Warehouse District, including Herbsaint, Cochon, Cochon Butcher, Calcasieu, and Cochon Lafayette.

"No one throws a party quite like New Orleans," Link explains, "and I think we perfectly captured the city's flavor and flair in our menu."

Menu items include alligator chili, with alligator sausage from Crescent City Meats, a local NOLA purveyor; a Roast Beef Debris Po'Boy, with rolls from 100-plus-year-old Leidenheimer bakery in New Orleans; BBQ shrimp and grits, with fresh Louisiana Gulf Coast-caught white shrimp; chicken and sausage gumbo, with dark roux, chicken, and sausage in a flavorful broth served with white rice; Natchitoches crawfish pies, Louisiana fried pies with zesty dressing crawfish stuffing; chef Donald Links' chicken sauce piquant (Links' take on the traditional Cajun recipe); and Bayou Bootleg, a drink with the taste of the South and a splash of raspberry, the special "Craft Cocktail" for this year’s Super Bowl.

The Gulf Shrimp Cocktail will ring in as most expensive item for the day, set at a whopping $30 an order. On the other end of the spectrum, a small order of nachos will ring up as the least expensive, at just $8.

Some local food partners for the day's offerings include Leidenheimer Bakery, a New Orleans staple since 1896, famous in the area for their French bread and time-honored process; Haydel's Bakery, a three-generation New Orleans, family-owned and run bakery that prides themselves on their cookies, cakes, and pastries; Crescent City Meats, another three-generation NOLA presence, with all products naturally slow smoked with hickory; and The Louisiana Seafood Promotion and Marketing Board, the number one provider of shrimp, oyster, crab, crawfish, and alligator in the country.

Coaches and chefs alike take weeks to prepare for this big night. The culinary game plan includes churning out 10,000 pounds of Gulf shrimp, 700 gallons of traditional Cajun gumbo, 3,000 pounds of alligator sausage, 450 gallons of New Orleans red beans (to be served with 6,000 pounds of rice), 150 gallons of spinach and artichoke dip, 18,000 pounds of pork (smoked on-site, mind you), and 1,200 gallons of Link's signature chicken piquant.

"From chef-inspired cuisine to creative cocktails, our goal is to make every sporting event an incredible experience for fans, but for the Super Bowl, we know how to take football food to the next level," says Centerplate CEO Des Hague.

Whether your team wins or loses, we bet that everybody will walk away satisfied with Centerplate's culinary experience on Feb. 3.

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By Tyler Sullivan
TheDailyMeal.com
Centerplate, the company responsible for feeding the 70,000-plus fans at Super Bowl XLVII at the Mercedes-Benz Supe...


"I arrived at a point in my mind," David Holthouse says, "where it seemed to me that murder was entirely rational, justifiable and even a morally responsible course of action."

Holthouse's 25-year path to revenge began in Anchorage, Alaska, in 1978, at the home of his parents' best friends. The friends' son was 10 years older than Holthouse, and was the quarterback for the high school football team. Holthouse admired him. But one night, the high school quarterback lured the 7-year-old downstairs to play and trapped him in a corner.

The older boy forced a terrified Holthouse to stimulate him orally. "Then I remember being face down on his waterbed with a pillow over my head," Holthouse says. "I had no concept of sex or rape or anything like that. I just knew that it hurt like hell." Once the teen had finished violating Holthouse, he ordered him never to tell anyone what had happened.

Holthouse grew up to become a journalist; his career took him from Alaska to Arizona to Colorado. Then one night, his parents called with a remarkable coincidence to report. Their best friends' son was also living in the Denver area.

The knowledge tormented Holthouse. Memories of his violation flooded back. "And I just fixated on it," he says, "and fixated on a desire to kill him."

And so, using the skills he employed in reporting one of his stories, Holthouse carefully, incessantly plotted his revenge.

"Once I decided I was going to kill him, I felt a lot calmer about things," Holthouse says. "I was convinced that I was not his only victim and that in all likelihood, he was still raping kids. And therefore it was crucial for me to wipe him off the face of the earth."

"That's what I told myself. That's how I justified it. I think that really, I just wanted to shoot him."

But before Holthouse could take action while his mother was cleaning out his old bedroom in Alaska, something caught her eye. It was a long-forgotten childhood diary -- Holthouse's diary -- in which he'd confided what had happened to him.

Horrified, his mother fired off a brutally frank message to the man's parents. She says she "told them that, um, that their son had raped my son when he was 7."

"And once my parents told me that, I knew that there was no way I could go ahead with my plans to kill him," says Holthouse.

Then Holthouse thought of another way he could get revenge. He decided to write about being raped and about his plan for vengeance. He knew that meant confronting the man at last.

When the two met, Holthouse's hidden tape recorder captured the man's voice. "It happened one time I don't know why It never happened since, it never happened before," he told Holthouse.

"I guess my main concern is that you're okay I'm never going to be able to apologize to you enough."

Those words led to another momentous decision: Holthouse decided not to name the man in his story. The story set off a firestorm of reaction from readers. "Person after person after person saying, this happened to me too, this happened to me too, when I was a kid."

Summary: "I arrived at a point in my mind," David Holthouse says, "where it seemed to me that murder was entirely rational, justifiable and even a morally responsible course of action."Holthouse's 25-year path to revenge began in Anchorage, Alaska, in 1978, at the home of his parents' best friends.  The...


Detail from Mars and Rhea Silvia, by Peter Paul Rubens, which is on show at the Palais Lumière. Photograph: Collections Princières du Liechtenstein, Vaduz-Wien

Collecting can be a transmissible disease. In the Liechtenstein royal family the affection goes back to their ancestor Hartmann von Liechtenstein (1544-85). The principality, known for its welcoming banks, was only established in 1719, though the princes actually went on living in Vienna and buying lots of paintings, as well as many other items, on show at the Liechtenstein museum in Vienna.

The Palais Lumière in Evian, on the shores of Lake Geneva, is exhibiting an impressive selection of works from the collection with 70 paintings, 20 sculptures and 15 pieces of furniture. We lingered for a moment in front of a copy by Brueghel the Younger of one of his father's most famous paintings, Census at Bethlehem, in which the Virgin Mary on her ass and Joseph, bearing his saw, arrive in a snow-covered village in Flanders, then stopped to admire Mars and Rhea Silvia by Peter Paul Rubens. It brims over with energy and colour, Mars's red mantle swelling with erotic fury in response to the folded, yellow robes of the vestal virgin, surprised in her sleep.

Another Rubens followed, featuring a suitably horned satyr holding a basket of fruit, which suggests that the Liechtensteins had the same saucy taste as their Habsburg sovereigns. But a third piece, The Lamentation of Christ, tempered our suspicions.

The Liechtensteins take pride in their forebears, giving rise to a gallery of portraits. We were struck by Joseph Wenzel I von Liechtenstein, who having been inducted into the Order of the Golden Fleece in 1740 decided to commission a work by Hyacinthe Rigaud, then the most fashionable portraitist in Paris. The profusion of drapes tend to conceal the princely figure, but he was apparently so pleased with the result that, in addition to his fee, he gave the painter a diamond-incrusted gold snuffbox.

In another register we were moved by the face of Marie Franziska von Liechtenstein, painted a century later, clasping her doll as she slept. She was only two when Friedrich von Amerling did this portrait.

The Liechtenstein collection also includes humble, anonymous figures, some painted by Frans Hals. His Portrait of a Man is a masterpiece, a symphony of blacks and greys.

At another level the exhibition's curators, the head of the Liechtenstein Museum in Vienna Johann Kräftner and art historian Caroline Messensee, offer a glimpse of the changing tastes of a central European royal family over a period of almost 500 years.

This article originally appeared in Le Monde

Summary: The Splendeur des Collections du Prince de Liechtenstein exhibition at the Palais Lumière, Evian, offers a glimpse of the royal family's impressive wares