this leads to sham and misses a chance to educate others by his "ordinariness."

He shoulnd't flaunt his difference in dress or behaviour nor look to working colleagues for his closer relationships. But it is accepted that the more obtrusively feminine types among men may be better off in one of the more tolerant professions, such as the arts or entertainment:

What would the averagely sceptical member of the public regard as the shortcomings of a club of this sort? How far, for instance, could it be regarded as a "pick-up joint"?

MINORS EXCLUDED

Mr. Angelo replied: "That possibility, of course, exists and I suppose in about the same degree that you would find in any heterosexual social club. Our whole aim is to encourage members' capacity for more lasting relationships and I think we have a high degree of success there."

I asked a senior officer of the Amsterdam police to what extent he thought the club might act as a recruiting centre and involve sexually indeterminate people who might otherwise have a chance of a normal life. He did not think there was much risk of this. He had found the club punctilious about excluding the under-21s, and since nearly everyone knew their sex orientation past this age, no "recruiting" was likely.

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The officer said that while homosexuals were not exactly "popular" with the police, even in Holland, he thought the club had justified its public value. His impression was, that it had reduced cases of importuning and public indecency. If a club member had broken the law (by having relations with a minor, say) and was being blackmailed, the club invariably encouraged him to tell the police. In such a case the normal procedure was to pursue the blackmailer and dismiss the homosexual concerned with a warning.

FEWER BREAKDOWNS

To sum up, the club's merits largely show themselves in personal terms. Members one meets are visibly more at ease with themselves than similar individuals here. The achievement in terms of the relief of personal unhappiness and isolation has probably been quite high (Angelo reckons it by the reduced number of nervous breakdowns he hears about).

The club's impact on public attitudes has probably been very very slight so far. Even in Amsterdam, a good deal more tolerant of homosexuals than the Catholic south, tolerance is only a matter of "minding one's own business" (though this is impressive here) and falls short of the wholehearted acceptance the club aspires to. Still, the club has helped to carry its troubled minority at least one step forward.

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mattachine REVIEW

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ERIC

CARL RICHTER

I'VE KNOWN ANDY for four years. We used to work together at the state hospital which Andy called the "Chock-Full-O'-Nuts," after the restaurant where he used to be a bus-boy, until he got tired of living in the city. I wouldn't have called it that myself, but then Andy always has a joke for those things that average folks don't understand. You would be amused by his smile when he says it, showing his white teeth and looking at you with one of his eyes', while you are not sure where the other one is looking.

Well, Andy has this little shack down by the river he calls his castle. He built it himself. He even piled rocks out from the shore for a foundation, and even though the land is actually city property, they let him use it 'cause he's a veteran and has a bum leg he got when he was a gunner in the navy. Everybody likes Andy, or, at least, for some reason it seems that everybody likes for Andy to like them. He doesn't live in his "castle," but lives at home with his old mother and just goes there when he wants to get away, of go for a swim, or take a short cruise with his outboard motor. But in the summer he's there most of the time, selling bottles of soda to the people who come down from town to look at the river and get the sun. Eric lives there, right now.

Anyway, I took the train up there a few Sundays ago. It only takes a half hour, plus a short walk to the river, down hill all the way, and then across the railroad tracks over this steel footbridge which lands a few hundred yards above Andy's place.

I saw Andy coming out of the boat house, which is near his place, with a gallon jug of water. There was a kid with him. Every kid in town knows Andy and practically worships him-like he was a father substitute or something.

''Why didn't you write and tell me you were coming, you bastard," he said, punching me in the stomach lightly. "How'd you know I'd be bere?"

"Well, I took the chance," I said, glad to find that he was. We walked down the bank between the tracks and the river. I took the kid's jug of water while he ran ahead to open the door.

"Oh, I got troubles," Andy said without waiting for me to say anything else. "You remember Eric, that fellow I told you about that stole all the automobiles and ended up in jail. Well, I got him on

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