In 1966 the New York Mattachine held a "sip-in" at a Greenwich Village bar named Julius, which was frequented by gay men, to illustrate the discrimination homosexuals faced.
That rich, deep, deeply annoyed baritone seems at odds with the impish, bearded actor sipping soup in a downtown restaurant on a recent rainy afternoon.
To avoid bloating from the hundreds of sips in a day, he would use chrome-plated cuspidors.
Their names evoke two-button Botany 500 suits and martinis sipped in a 707's front cabin: Eau Sauvage, Habit Rouge, Pour Monsieur.
WHEN it's mitten-clapping cold, there is nothing better than hot cocoa, fragrant tea or a triple-shot latte, especially taken in slow, restorative sips in a snug tearoom or patisserie.
Bereft of these sips, in a situation where you would normally take to them like a duck to water, coping appears impossible.
The two match wits and milk sips in a compelling conversation that ranges from historical socks -- current day vs. 5th century apparel -- to the limits of flight in imaginary worlds.
