THEY KNEW THE WEATHER was dicey even before takeoff, but dignitaries were waiting in Dubrovnik. So Ron Brown and his entourage gamely took off in the same air force T-43A passenger jet that had ferried First Lady Hillary Clinton around the Balkans the week before.
You can tell a lot about a culture by the way its inhabitants eat. In the cavernous mess hall of The Citadel in Charleston, S.C., first-year cadets sit stiff-backed in their starched gray uniforms, their shoulders scrunched high in the awkward "brace" position, their shaved heads as bald as cue balls.
Why didn't Texas child-welfare workers do something sooner to protect the children of David Koresh's cult? In retrospect, the whole tangled saga is a classic case of serious allegations falling through the cracks between federal, state and local jurisdictions and between state lines.
The "1 percent thing" wasn't mentioned at President Clinton's historic Oval Office meeting with gay and lesbian leaders last week. But the question hung in the air outside: if gays really represent such a tiny fraction of the population, will that stall the political momentum the gay-rights movement has built in recent years?
They converged on Washington 1,000 strong last week-pediatricians from Chicago, anesthesiologists from Los Angeles, internists from Utah. They came representing every state in the union and every branch of the medical profession, hoping for the chance to make their voices heard.
One of the deadliest days in U.S. law-enforcement history began quietly on the flat plains outside Waco, Texas. About 8:30 Sunday morning, an undercover agent who had infiltrated the bizarre cult known as the Branch Davidians heard the phone ring in the group's sprawling compound.
It was Ladies' Night a few weeks back at Sip's, a popular bar in Port St. Lucie, Fla., and, as usual, several of the New York Mets were on hand. In the ladies' room, one temptress moaned, "My moles are smearing." On the dance floor, a male stripper in a gold thong gyrated in front of another woman, who licked champagne from his navel. "Wiggle it-just a little bit" boomed over the sound system--drowning out the muted television as it broadcast news of the latest Mets sex scandal.
Sam Spade he's not. And unlike G. K. Chesterton's. Father Brown or television's Murphy, James McClosky has never been or but the seminarian detective has earned startling reputation freeing falsely convicted prisoners he has just signed a movie deal for his life story.