responsible press is a worthy undertaking.nPeaceable assemblies are no propernconcern of anyone. Unfortunately, liberalsnwant freedom without responsibilitynto prevail in the arena of intellectualnactivity. The ACLU has been theirnhandmaiden in establishing the legalnconditions for this. Those who defendnfreedom without responsibility arenfinally responsible for the loss of freedom.nOnly little minds should be capablenof such a foolish inconsistency. DnThanks for the MammariesnThomas Weyr: Reaching for Paradise:nThe Playboy Vision of America;nTimes Books; New York.nby Kenneth KolsonnX hose of us who must live with thenfear of flying—I mean in airplanes—nhave developed certain rituals to exorcisenthe demons of the runway. My ritualnused to be: one Sinarest (ingested in thenterminal with a double manhattan); ancopy of Sporting News (spread out onnmy lap); and another double manhattann(as soon as possible after take-off). Butnrecently I have found a new way ofnspelling relief. There, right under myntray, tucked away in the pouch with thencard showing the emergency exits andnthe many safety features of my DC-10n—there, if my seat-back is in the fullnupright position, I may reach for thisnintellectual chloroform that will numbnmy reasoning faculties for the durationnof the flight. What is this miracle drug?nIt is called the “inflight magazine.”nSo it was that when I boarded a flightnfrom Pittsburgh to Baltimore recently,nit was with a swaggering self-assurancenderived from the knowledge thatnFlightime, the Allegheny Airlines speciesnof this particular genus of spaceagenjournalism, would be nestled securelynin front of the unwavering kneesnthat would deliver me to Aisle 14, SeatnC. My faith in Flightime was amplynrewarded. There was, in this issue, annarticle on “Surefire Barbecues,” a specialnDr. Kolson, of Hiram College, Ohio,nis a frequent contributor to these pages.n18inChronicles or Culturensection “for women going places,” thenrequisite profile of a liberal DemocraticnSenator, and—gad, how dame fortunenhad smiled on me this day!—the oneningredient fully guaranteed to inducensomnambulism: an article by scientificnchic writer Carl Sagan (entitled “InnDefense of Robots,” no less). One whiffnof the ptose of this eminento, I feltnsure, would turn me into a robot, anzombie; it would be like shooting upnsound presentation at home (“Don’t gonto China without one”); booze; swimsuits;nAmerican Express Cards; homentelephone answering systems. It isnenough to send one careening to thenvomitorium.nJaded as I am, I had sincerely thoughtnthat Flightime could provide me withnno fresh thrills. So it was with genuinenstupefaction that I spied, on page 44 ofnthis particular issue, the full-page adnfor Playboy magazine that shall be describednanon.nIn the grand old Madison Avenue traditionnof “Dewar’s Profiles,” the adntakes an up-close-and-personal look atnone Mr. Bill Sargent, who is describedn(take a deep breath) as follows:n”Marine biologist; Oceanographer;nUnderwater Photographer; Expert innOceanic Law; Consultant to WorldnGovernments, Private Business andn”1 would have liked to leiirn more about the iwhiticai siili’ ol preparing thosennude fantasies.”n—Christopher Lehmann-Haupt.nSew York Timesnthe old cranium with novocaine.nOf course the publishers of thesenmagazines are willing to print the worknof the sages of modern civilization—nSagan, Erica Jong, Joyce Brothers,nAlex Haley et al.—for the same reasonnthat television shows are produced: bencause filler is needed for the spaces innbetween the advertisements. For thenacrophobic who happen also to be immunento the mesmeric power of CarlnSagan (wretched blighters), the ads innFlightime will not fail to produce thensenseless state that can only be broughtnon by unrelenting hedonism to a pointnwell beyond satiety. Every conceivablentype of expensive consumer gadget isnmarketed here: state-of-the-art stereonsystems; the Kawasaki “Jet Ski”;nsuntan lotion for every shade of skin;nthe latest creations by Porsche Audi;nmotorhomes; cameras; a cologne packagednin a phallus; a contraption thatnallows one to produce one’s own slide/nnnEnvironmental Groups; Archaeologist;nNovelist.”nWhew. In addition, Mr. Sargent, whonis pictured at the helm of what certainlynmust be his yacht, is a prototypicalnPreppie: not an ounce of flab; hairnmeticulously coiffed in the wind-blownnlook; nautical sweater; Sperry Top-nSiders there by implication. In the narrativenit is revealed that he is married;nis a movie buff; travels a lot; and spendsnhis leisure time “putting together annew stereo system” when he isn’t gettingnused to his “zippy new energy-efficientncar.” Bill does as much skiing asnhe can fit in, and he knows how tonchange diapers (!). He looks exactly likenwhat Elliot Richardson must have lookednlike at his age, which is 32. Is it possiblenthat this wholesome, incredibly talentednscion of a very proper New Englandnfamily (“son of a governor of Massachusetts,ngreat-great-grandson of an