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‘on Ali, Foreman 
* and “The Fight of 
- the Century" 


Mordecai Richler 
Corners the 
Conspiracy Market 


The Latest Look 
In and Out of 
T-Shirts 


The Southpaw 


(Smimoff, cala and a squeeze of lemon.) 


If America has a beverage to 
call its own, it must be cola. In 
fact, we took good old cola so for 
granted that in our search for inter- 
esting things to mix with Smirnoff, 
we overlooked it until now. 

So it was with a sense of 
correcting this oversight that we 
mixed Smirnoffand cola, added a 
squeeze of lemon and dubbed it 
the Southpaw. 

We hope you'll find the result 
as tasty as we do. But we might 
remind you, since theres a 
time and place for everything, 
that cola by itself tastes pretty. 
good too. 


То make a Southpaw, pour 
1002. of Smirnoff into а tall 
glass of ice, fill with cola and 
add a squeeze of lemon. 


e mirnoff 


leaves you breathless® 


PLAYBOY 


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PLAYBILL 9 ^v nz нклир of Norman Mailer: novelist, Pulitzer, Polk and Na 
Book Award winner, master of personal reportage (he's been described 

“hip Boswell, a Dickens . . . of the New Journalism”), erstwhile candidate for mayor of New York (he 

lost out to John Lindsay—remember John Lindsay?) If you know very much about Mailer, you 


know he's a devoted fan of—nay, obsessed with—the manly art of pugilism. Writing 


fighting, Mailer once told movie critic Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun-Times, are alike. A bos 
said, “has to convince himself that his cause is just enough to give him the right to do physical in- 
i nother man. .. . With writing, it's the same: You have to reach the point of confidence that 
t you're writing is, finally, worth reading. It requires a form of autointoxication." On another 
jon, Mailer staged a play, based on his sex-in-Hallywood novel. The Deer Park. in 88 scenes— 
cach set off from the other by the clanging of a ringside gong. The guy just digs boxing. So you can 
imagine that when Mailer called and asked us if we'd like him to cover the Ali-Foreman fight 


Zaire for PLAYBOY, we said sure, why not? We'd been planning to skip the whole affair, figuring it 
would be belabored to death in the daily press, but how often do we get a chance to sce how vio- 


lence in darkest Africa looks through the psyche of Norman Mailer? Oh, yeah—one other thing you 
gotta understand about Norman: When he sits down at the typewriter, he's a hard man to count 
out. Armies of the Night began as a piece for Harper's on the Washington antiwar protests and 
wound up swallowing virtually its entire March 1968 issue. And the preface for a picture book on 
Marilyn Monroc ended up running 95,000 words (and selling millions of copics). Well, he sent us 
so much copy on that happ Kinshasa that we've divided it into two installments. Start The 
Fight here and return for the knockout in June. 

Another literary heavyweight graces our May pages: John Updike, himself a National Book 
Award winner. In his short story Australia and Ganada—tor which Peter Palombi did the illustra- 
tion—U pdike tells us about the travels of a famous author, Henry Bech. Says Updike, “1 have been 
to Australia and Canada, briefly, and less venturesomely than my older and revered fellow writer, 
Henry Bech. I write the books and Bech has all the fun.” Updike's a frequent contributor to 
PLAYBOY, but our other fictional offerings this month come from a pair of first-timers: Oakley Hall 
and Julius Horwitz, Hall, who directs the Programs in Writing at the University of Califor 
Irvine, gives us The Spoils of Buenavista, which will form part of his novel about the Mexi 
Revolution, The Adelita, coming from Doubleday in August. Horwitz story, Going Home, is also 
due in book form—next month, when Holt, Rinehart and Winston will publish it in his sixth novel, 
Natural Enemies. 

We bought two pieces from Jay Cronley, but since one of them is about football, we're saving 
it for next fall. Houston, herein, marks his гълүвоү debut. Cronley, a sports columnist for The 
Tulsa Tribune and former All Big Eight Conference second baseman, tells us he found it necessary 
to execute some pretty fast footwork around Houston—'so they couldn't build a shopping center 
around me." Strange things do happen in Texas. Wasn't that the state the Washington Senators 
skipped to after they refused to hire Fidel Castro, the state where John Kennedy was assassinated at 
a time when nobody knew what Howard Hunt was up to? Confused? That's the kind of tangled 
skein of apparent non sequiturs conspiracy bulls thrive on, as Mordecai Richler discovered while 
ching Ils a Plot! Mordecai, you'll be relieved to learn, made it safely back home to Canada, 
where he's working on another book and enjoying the praise the film version of his novel The 
Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz has carned. (Duddy got the Golden Bear Award at the Berlin 
Film Festival, lor starters.) 

As everybody knows, a paranoid is a person who takes everything seriously. In case there are 
any paranoid readers out there, let us clearly label Clark Ghent’s School Days: 10% not to be taken. 
seriously. Neither, we suspect, is the statement by Robert S. Wieder, author of this apocryphal his- 
tory of Superman's boyhood, that his current activities include “working п to integrate 
pornography into big-time sports, starting with the Oakland A's; thinking of building a plywood 
helicopter and posing as a dentist at a nitrous-oxide pl 

Frankly, we're not sure what our Playboy Interview subject, William E. Simon, will be doing 
by the time this issue hits the newsstands. Some powerful White House insiders have been after, 
if not his scalp, at least the hat he's worn as Secretary of the Treasury these past 12 months. 
Whatever happens, we found Simon's insights into the parlous state of the nation’s economy 
intriguing enough to assign New Republic contribut or Peter J. Ognibene (whose crit 
biography of Presidential aspirant Senator Henry kson will be published this fall) 
to interrogate him. 

Simon doesn’t hold out much hope that the Government will—or should—put bread in the 
people's pockets. However, our own Thomas Mario (with an assist from artist Bobbye Cochran) does 
fill pockets in people's bread. You'll work up an appetite over the tasty stuffings he cooks up for 
the traditional Middle Eastern version of the stall of life in Pita! Pita! Pita! For fashion fans, we 
offer The Jock Look, photographed by Jeff Cohen: for real jocks, offroad bike branch, we present 
The Light Brigade, shot by Don Azuma. His and/or Hers demonstrates, pictorially, the fun you 
сап have with all-purpose garments (support your local transvestite). The Splendor of Gwen 
gives us a second look (the first one was back in November 1972, when she was running around 
with Roger Vadim) at lovely actress Gwen Welles, who's appearing in Robert Altman's much- 
heralded new flick, Nashville. Finally, for red-blooded American voyeurs, there is “T” Formations, 
a collection of erotic T-shirts dreamed up by our West Coast Picture Editor, Marilyn Grabowski, 
and executed (not with the Instamatic you see here, he'd like you to know) by photographer Phil 

ixon. Don't expect to see these models in stores; they were custom-made for us, via a heat- 


Dixoi 
process, by a Californi: 


nsfer 
outfit called Simon Says. Honest, Mr. Secretary, it was sheer coincidence. 


UPDIKE 


MAILER, 


DIXON, CRABOWSKI 


e 


à 


CRONLEY 


ALUMA 


WIEDER 


vol. 22, no. 5—may, 1975 


PLAYBOY. 


CONTENTS FOR THE MEN'S ENTERTAINMENT MAGAZINE 


PLAYBILL __.. 3 
DEAR PLAYBOY... . : n 
PLAYBOY AFTER HOURS... " EIS, 


PLACES... 
MOVIES. 
RECORDINGS. 
THEATER... a2 
BOOKS. 42 
THE PLAYBOY ADVISOR. 47 


THE PLAYBOY FORUM... 


PLAYBOY INTERVIEW: WILLIAM €. SIMON —candid conversati 


Ж 61 


THE FIGHT—article. —— —NORMAN MAILER 78 


THE SPOILS OF BUENAVISTA —fiction .... --OAKIEY НАЦ 84 


HIS AND/OR HERS —pictorial..... 


PITA! PITA! PITA!—food and drink... THOMAS MARIO 94 


THE SPLENDOR OF GWEN-—piclorial........ 


THE JOCK LOOK —atliro...... ROBERT 1. GREEN 102 


HOUSTON-—ertidle. JAY СРОМІЕҮ 105 


7 THE UNABRIDGED BRIDGETT—playboy's playmate of the month... 106 
Clark Ghent 
PLAYBOY'S PARTY JOKES—humor . 116 
AUSTRALIA AND CANADA—fiction. JOHN ОРОКЕ 118 
THE LIGHT BRIGADE—modern living... = eazy 


GOING HOME—fiction JUUUS HORWITZ 128 


COURT APPEARANCES— modern living.. - 131 


IT'S A PLOT!—article __ „MORDECAI RICHIER 132 


"T" FORMATIONS —pictorial. 


THE VARGAS GIRL—pictorial. — -ALBERTO VARGAS 144 


AT THE DIVORCE INN—ribald classic... 


CLARK GHENT'S SCHOOL DAYS—humor.. -ROBERT S. WIEDER 147 


REFLECTED GLORY —modern living. . M9 


ON THE SCENE—personoliti hoc 


PLAYBOY POTPOURRI 


HARVEY KURTZMAN ond WILL ELDER 223 


Big Plot LITTLE ANNIE FANNY—satire 


GENERAL OFFICES: PLAYBOY BUILDING, 919 NORTH MICHIGAN AVE., CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 60411. RETURN POSTAGE MUST ACCOMPANY ALL MANUSCRIPTS, DRAWINGS AND FHOTOGRAFHS 
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Gnconoitionater ASSIGNED FOR PUBLICATION AMD COPYRIGHT PURPOSES AND AS SUBJECT TO PLAYBOY'S UNRESTRICTED RICHY 10 EDIT AND TO COMMENT XOITOMIALLY. CONTENTS 
TOPIRICWT © 1975 BY PLAYBOY, ALL RIONTS RESERVED. PLAYBOY AND ЛАВИТ NEAD SYMBOL ARE MARKS OF PLAYBOY, REGISTERED U.S. PATENT OFFICE, MANCA REGISTRADA, 
МАОШЕ DEPOSTE. NOTHING MAY BE REPRINTED IN WHOLE OR IN PART WITHOUT WRITTEN FERMISSICN FROM THE PUBLISHER. ANY SIMILARITY BETWEEN THE FEOFLE AND гїлсїз um THE 
FICTION AND SEMIFICTION їн THIS MAGAZINE AND ANY REAL PEOPLE AND PLACES IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL, CREDITS: COVER: MODEL CAROL CHRISTIE, 

RAUNOWSKI, ONEN PHOTOERAPHY DY, PETER R. BILYARD. P. 14; CHANLES М. BUSH, P- 2: JEFF COHEN, Р. 3; JOYCE COPAEEN, P. 3; GRANT EOWANDS, P. 3; MIC 
8 (6), 199 (1), 15%, BILL FRANTZ, P. 3; CARL MM, P. 3; DICK HUI, P. 0403; TONY KENT, F. 96-98; DANIEL MANN, P. 3; BEN NEWLY, P. 3; 2. BARRY O'ROURKE, P. з; MIKE PHILLIPS 
T. 3. SUZANNE SEKD, F. 3: 1. FREDERICK SMITH, P. 145, 150 (1); VERNON L SMITH, f. 3: SUZE, їз, COVER COURTESY BOSTON MAGAZINE, ғ. а-в, CONSTRUCTION oY ктө Fort 


FLAYOOY, WAY, 1975, VOL. 22, NO. з. PUBLISHED MONTHLY BY FLAYSOY, IN MATIONAL AND REGIONAL EDITIONS. FLAYSOY BLDO-, эз M. MICHIGAN AYE., ENO , ILL. SOBE, SECONP-CLASA POST- 
AGE PAIE AT СНОО, ILL., AND AT ADDL MAILING OFFICES, SUBSCRIPTIONS: IN THE U. S», 310 FOR ONE YEAR. POSTMASTER: SEND FORM 3379 TO PLAYBOY, r.O. BOK 2420, BOULDER, COLD. 80102. 


FROM THE LAND OF 
` BRITISH RACING GREEN 


In international automobile races, green is 


Н ea “= 2, 
the official color of the cars of Great Britain. -D т 
Britain. Homeland of the drivers who won eight 
of the last thirteen Grand Prix Championships. ДСУ aay 
Homeland of three of the top five racing drivers ORE. 
of all time. And thelandthatintroduced > 7 { \ 
sports cars to America. $ x 
Y = 
Our Triumph TR2 was one ofthese  Аѕ Motor Trend magazine observed, cornering power is in ће same league as 
immortal automobiles. And today we "It was a lot of car in the beginning, and ће $5,400 Datsun Z series, the $6,900 
make two true open sports cars that it's a lot more car today" Alfa Romeo GTV and the $12,000 
carry on the heritage of the land of THE RACE-BRED Porsche 911° 
British Racing Green. TRIUMPH SPITFIRE 1500. All of which helped Spitfires win the 
THE CLASSICALLY BRITISH The Spitfire is truly a piece of his- F Production National Championship in 
TRIUMPH TR6. tory, named after the fighter-planethat Sports Car Club of America competition 
The successor to the TR2, ТЁЗ, Gnd won the Battle of Britain. forthe past two years. 
ТЕД, the TR6 is one of the last wind-in- It shores many features with the The classically British TR6 and the 
the-hair open sports cars. TR6, such as a fully-synchronized 4-speed race-bred Spitfire 1500. In the British 
It offers a high-torque, high-revving transmission, 4-wheel independent sus- tradition of open sports cars. 
2500cc six-cylinder engine. As well as a ^ pension, rack-and-pinion steering, and LEL) 
fully-synchronized 4-speed transmission, front disc brakes. 
4 wheel independent suspension, front A 1500cc four-cylinder engine gives TRIUMPH 
discbrokes, and rack-and-pinion steering. the car sparkling acceleration. And its | 


“To be precise, .87g5s, according to the 1973 Car & Driver road test. 
For the name of your nearest Triumph dealer coll: 800-447-4700. In Illinois call 800-322-4400. British Leyland Motors Inc., Leonia, New Jersey 07605. 


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PLAYBOY 


HUGH M. HEFNER 
editor and publisher 
ARTHUR KRETCHMER cditorial director 
ARTHUR PAUL art director 
SHELDON WAX managing editor 


MARK KAUFFMAN photography editor 


EDITORIAL 
ARTICLES: GEOFFREY NORMAN editor, DAVID 
SUANDISH assistant editor * FICTION. ROME 
MACAULEY editor, STANLEY PALEY associate 
editor, VICTORIA CHEN HAIDER, WALTER 
LETTE assistant editors e SERVICE FEATURES; 
TOM OWEN modern living editor, ROGER 
WIDENER assistant editor; KONERT 1. GREEN 
fashion director, олию тїАтт fashion 
editor; THOMAS NARI food & drink editor 
CARTOONS: MICHFLLE URRY editor « COPY: 
ARLENE DOURAS editor, STAN ANMER assistant 
editor « STAFF: G. BARRY GOLSON, GRETCHEN 
NCNEESC, ROBERT SHEA, DAVID STEVENS senior 
editors; LAURENCE GONZALES, REG POTTERTON 
staf] writers; DOUGLAS C. BENSON, WILLIAM J. 
HELMER, CARL SNYDER associate editors; JOH 
ILUMENTHAL, J. F. O'CONNOR. JAMES R. PETER- 
SEN assistant edilors; SUSAN HEISLER, MARIA 
NEKAM, BARBARA NELLIS, КАВЕМ PADDERUD, 
LAURIE SADLER research editors: DAVID BUTLER, 
MURRAY FISHER, J. PAUL GETTY (business & 
finance), NAT WENTOFT, ANSON MOUNT, RICHARD. 
JEAN SHEPHERD, BRUCE 
WILLIAMSON (movies), JOHN skOW contribul- 
VE SERVICES: 


ART 

RIG POPE associate directors; 
ROI POST, ROY MOODY, LEN Wi FT SUSKI, 
GORDON MORTENSEN, NORM SCHAEFER, JOSEPH 
PACIEK assistant directors; JULIE ELERS, 
VICTOR HUBBARD, GLENN STEWARD art assistants; 
MICHAFL SISSON executive assistant; EVE 
ANN administrative assistant 


ТОМ STAEDLER, 


PHOTOGRAPHY 
MARILYN GRAHOWSKI west coast editor; GARY 
COLE senior editor; HELGA ARTIPIS, HOLLIS 
WAYNE associate editors: WILL. ARSENAULT, 
DAVID CHAN, RICHARD FEGLEY, DWIGHT HOOKER, 
POMPEO толк staff photographers; DON 
AZUMA, BILL and MEL FIGGE, BRIAN D. HEN 
Nesey, ALEXAS URNA contributing photog- 
raphers; BILL FRANTZ associate photographer; 
JUDY JOHNSON assistant editor; LFO кш. 
photo lab supervisor: JANICE BERKOWITZ 
Moses chief stylist; RONERT CHELIUS admin- 
istrative editor 


PRODUCTION 
JOHN MASTRO director; ALLEN VARGO man: 
ager: ELEANORE WAGNER, RITA JOHNSON. 


MARIA MANDI 


RI 


ARD QUARTAROLI assistants 


READER SERVICE 
CAROLE CRAIG director 


CIRCULATION 
THOMAS e. WILLIAMS customer services; 
BEN GOLDBERG director of newsstand sales; 
ALVIN WIEMOLD subscription manager 


ADVERTISING 
HOWARD W. LEDERER advertising director 


PLAYROY ENTERPRISES, INC. 
ROWRT s. PREUSS business manager and 
associate publisher; RICHARD 5. ROSENZWEIG 
executive assistant, lo the publisher; 
RICHARD М. ROFF assistant publisher 


Grand Prix Followers Know, 
Only VO is VO. 


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Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined 
That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health. 


PLAYBOY 


THE BUCKINGHAN CORPORATION, IMPORTERS -NEWYORK.N.¥.-DISTILLED AND BOTTLEO INSCOTLANO - BLENDED BEPROOF — 


...and nowit’ time for a Cutty. 


DEAR PLAYBOY 


E] хоне navay masazine - armor Bu 


BABBLING BROOKS 

Your interview with Mel Brooks 
(rrAvnov, February) is a classic comedy 
piece in itself. My only complaint is that 
since reading it, 1 hav 
need for a Raisinet. 


Douglas F. Glant 


Seate, Wash 


1 was alone in my room at La Costa. I 
read the Brooks interview. I howled. I 
laughed and Jaughed. Brooks is the sec- 
ond-funniest man in the world. 

Buddy Hackett 
Las Vegas, Nevada 


Mel was one of the coterie that always 
made me laugh, But I was not enter- 
tained when, on several occasions, I came 
upon him in my chair, smoking my 
cigar, with his feet on my desk, wearing 
my shoes, The only way 1 could intimi 
dare him was with my seniority. Then 
he became the 9000-ycar-old man and I 
was defenseless. T'I] toast Mel Brooks any 
time I raise a glas. However, there is 
something 1 wish he had told me; but he 
never did, so I threw lighted cigars at 
him. I would haye tolerated his fast 
mouth and crazy frick frick if only he 
had let me know—there were plenty of 
opportunities, He could have whispered 
it surreptitiously during a rehearsal. Dur- 
ing lunch, he could have mumbled it be- 
tween nibbles ata ham on rye. But, in all 
those years, Melvin Brooks never told me 
he was Jewish. 


Max Liebman 
New York, New York 


The Mel Brooks interview brought on 
a flood of memories. For example, the 
time he and I did the 2000-year-old-man 
routine at a party for Moss Hart. The 
year was 1959 and the party was filled 
with people such as Marlene Dietrich, 
John Gielgud, Alec Guinness, Ed Sulli- 
van, plus some famous people. Here's 
how it went: Mc: Tell me, sir, who 
analyzed you?" Mel: "Number one him- 
self." Me: "Dr. Freud?” Mel: "Used to 
sit there quietly behind me in his ol-the- 
shoulder dress, taking notes." Me: "How 
much did he charge for the session: 
Mel: "A nickel. At that time, he didn't 
know he had a good thing goin 
Later on, Mel casually suggested that 


IILDING, 919 н. MICHIGAN AVE., CHICAGO, ILLINDIS 60611 


Shakespeare was Jewish. To answer my 
objection, he Brooklynized Hamlet's so 
liloquy and added; "Some guy, Shake 
speare. Writes thirty-seven plays and God 
knows how many sonnets. And all that 
time—not one letter to his mother. 
Mel Tolkin 
Beverly Hills, California 


I was greatly disappointed by your in- 
terview with Mel Brooks. It seems that 
he has the same terrible hang-up about 
his Jewishness as several other so-called 
comedians, Why is it that people like 
Totie Fields and Don Rickles have to 
point out to the American public, with 
every third word out of their mouths, 
that they are Jewish? Now Brooks puts 
himself in this cat 
have to use religion 


ту of losers who 
à 


utch 
T. Ross 
Miami, Florida 


Your interview with Mel Brooks con- 
firms w 


at I have previously suspected. 
He is neither very funny nor very bril- 
liant. Rather, he is a cheap comic with a 
license to fart. 


Celt Zimmer 
New Haven, Connecticut 


We've been fans of Mel Brooks since 
The Producers. He's a grade-A, solid-gold. 
genius and а very lovable fruitcake. He 
should be declared a nati asure, 
Paul and Jessi (Earth 
Baton Rouge, Louisiana 


VIEWING VALDEEZ 
Harry Crewss Going Down in Val 
deez (PLAYBOY, February) is a truly ma; 
nificent piece of work. Crews has a 
of painting a clear picture, while main- 
taining a wry sense of humor 
Jet Kennedy 
Erie, Pennsylvania 


If beauty is, indeed, in the eyes of the 
beholder, then Crews must have observed 
Valdez through a film of yellow caused, 
no doubt, by his fear of flying in a small 
plane. His yellow so grossly distorted his 
vision that my light-brown hair appeared 
Dlack to him. You would have great 
difficulty finding someone who would de- 
scribe my hair black, having been tow- 
headed most of my life. The only other 


975. TABASCO is the registered trademark of 
icllhenny Company, Avery Islend, Loui 


PLAYBOY 


12 


possible explanation for his obviously dis- 
torted view of our city is that he observed 
it through a bottle of vodka. 
Herbert W. Lehfeldt 
City Manager 
Valdez, Alaska 


Thanks for keeping me up to date on 
a very fine writer, Harry Crews, I met 
Crews in a creative-writing course at the 
University of Florida in 1972. My reac- 
tion to rhe man was one of surprise. By 
God, hes the instructor! With shaved 
head, gold wirerims and earring, faded 
jeans and a droopy basset hound as a 
companion, this guy was going to show 
us how to write? I hadn't heard much 
about Crews at the time. Ten weeks later, 
we all admired the man. He is a genius. 
Wayne T. Mattox 
Jacksonville, Florida 


Crewss vivid article on the Alaska 
Pipeline left me quite depressed. It con- 
firms my suspicions (despite the claims 
of the oil companies) that, once aga 
people are ruining the earth. 

Rick Kline 
Columbus, Ohio 


STRESS POINTS 
1 enjoyed Stephen Н. Yafa's informa- 
e and well-written le Stress 
(ттАүвоү, February)—especially his dis- 
cussion of Drs. Friedman and Rosen- 
man’s Type-A-personality hypothesis. I 
believe the biggest flaw in their study is 
that they fail to discuss sexuality. Ac- 
cording to many observers, the masculin- 
ity crisis is a greater coronary risk factor 
than smoking or eating foods that are 
high in cholesterol. Dr. Henk Pelser, 
a noted cardiologist from Amsterdam, 
recently stated, “All aggressive, high- 
powered men who had their first heart 
attack before reaching the age of 50 were 
devoted to obtaining power as a sub- 
stitute for love." Studies have proved 
that an infant cannot live without love. 
By the same token, an individual who is 
under occupational stress cannot live 
long without affection, especially if he 
eats, drinks or smokes to excess. Yafa's 
mention of the three main causes of 
stress—death of spouse, divorce and mari- 
tal separation—emphasizes the impor- 
tance of love and sex in г n tO Stress. 
Eugene Scheimann, M.D. 

Chicago, Illinois 


"Thanks for publishing Stephen Yafa's 
arücle on stress. As a. professional foot- 
ball player, I certainly agree with John 
Brodie that stress inhibits the ability to 
make big decisions on or off the field. 

Bob Adams 
New England Patriots 
Boston, Massachusetts 


Yafa’s article on stress is a refreshing 
approach to this often misunderstood 
topic. Articles of this nature are usually 


unreadable and irrelevant. Yafa not only 
states the problem as well as its dimen- 
sions but provides the reader with a 
bibliography of die latest material on the 
subject. Unfortunately, if everyone took 
the advice given, it might mean an end 
to all those interesting letters you get 
on sexual hang-ups. 

Robert T. Atwater 

Hartford, Connecticut 


COVER STORY 
I thought you might be interested to 
know that your terrific December cover 


was used to grace the cover of the Decem- 
ber issue of Boston Magazine. 

Lloyd Kingston 
Boston, Massachusetts 


BANK SHOTS 
John B. Tipton’s article Banks on the 
Brink (pLavnoy. February) is absurd. If 
Tipton had chosen the feminist move- 
ment for a topic, his conclusion would 
be the abolishment of sex. The text is a 
potpourri of hearsay and facts structured 
to inform the reader that the banking 
system is out of control. Nothing could 
be further from the truth. Certainly, 
there are problems, and good manage- 
ment is at a premium whatever the 
industry involved. However, with the se- 
curity and debt markets in disarray, the 
banking industry has performed admi- 
rably over the past few years. 
Frank G. Gi 
Tinley Park, Illinois 


In Banks on the Brink, Tipton docs 
more to alarm than to inform, It’s 
surely true that if all the depositors 
in the country tried to take their money 
out of banks and put it in mattresses 
on the same day, the FDIC wouldn't 
be able to protect them all. It's also 
true that if all of a life-insurance com- 
pany's policyholders dicd on the same day, 
that insurance company wouldn't be able 
to pay off all the policies. There's а fair- 
ly well-developed science of calculating 


actuarial risks nowadays that tells how 
high a premium you pay for various 
insurance risks. Raising capital require- 
ments and inceasing insurance will 
cost the customer money, just as police 
protection costs the taxpayer. The role of 
the FDIC is to cover reasonable risks at 
reasonable cost. Unfortunately, there are 
incompetents, high rollers and assorted 
nincompoops in banking as in all busi- 
ness. Consider, however. that there are 
14.000 commercial banks in this country 
and only a mere handful have failed be- 
cause of inept management. Certainly, 
the failure of a bank docs not mean that 
the entire financial system is crumbling. 
Such exaggerated apprehension, like Tip- 
ton’s thesis, is a product of the Thirties 
William I. Spencer, President 
First National City Bank 
New York, New York 
Tipton replic 
In reference to Mr. Spencer's reassur- 
ance of the health of the FDIC, I believe 
Twas careful to lay the blame not at the 
door of the FDIC bui at that of bank 
managers. The six billion dollars in 
FDIC reserves must be seen in compari- 
son with the failure in the past two years 
of three banks that alone had total assets 
in excess of seven billion dollars. 


TENNIS RACKET 

Thanks for your February article Jim- 
my Connors Against the World, by Peter 
Ross Range. Anyone who follows profes- 
sional tennis knows what a spoiled, arro- 
nt kid Connors is. His success is duc in 
large part to his anti and his childish 
on-court behavior. Those of us who en- 
joy tennis are waiting for the day when 
Vilas or Orantes or Newcombe or anyone 
gets a crawful and goes over the net dur- 
ing one of Connors’ performances and 
stuffs all five of his 12000: down his 
throat. I think а picture of him on the 
cover of Sports Mlustrated with a mouth- 
ful of bloody Juicy Fruit would do more 
for the sport than Nastase with two brok- 
en arms. 


William S. Harte 
College Station, Texas 


Т feel sad only because, besides being 
the best or second-best player in the 
world, Connors could also be “one of 
the boys.” Laver is, Newcombe is, Vilas 
is, Smith was—Connors could be. 

Arthur Ashe 
Washington, D.C. 


SPIT SPAT 

Your January Playboy After Hours says 
that our Spittin’, Belchin’ and Cusin’ 
Triathlon wasn't up to its usual standards. 
Wrong. It wasn't down to its usual stand- 
ards. You also say that our Watermelon 
Seed Spittin’ contest was a disappoint- 
ment. Wrong. Our spittin’ competition 
is restricted to chaws and natural juices. 
Watermelon seeds, like BBs and pebbles, 
are strictly prohibited. You note that 


“Its my money. 
AndI C forgot it^ 


Jerry Sherman. Longshoreman 


"Im careful with money... 
Ialways have been. And Ive 
been caught in some bad spots 
without cash. SoI have 
BankAmericard? I use it just as 


carefully as I use money. 
I figure, it is money" 


When do youuse 
BankAmericard? 

"Not all the time, but, you 
never know...anything can 
happen. Once, when I was in 
the army...coming back across 
the country...my old car was so 
loaded down that the shocks 
went out. I mean...it was flat! 
I wasin this little town...and 
Thad to come up with extra 
money to cover it. So I used 
BankAmericard. It saved те? 


Do you ever useyour 
card when there's not an 
emergency? 

"Sure. Let's say I find a pair 
of shoeson saleand I'm 
between pay checks. I get the 
shoes with BankAmericard, 
and then, when the bill comes, I 
can take care of it? 


What about the cost 
of the card? 

"It didn't cost me anything 
to get it* It works the same as 
a store card. Only I can use it 
where I want to? 


if that! 


What happens if you 
lose it? 

“Nothing, if I contact the 
bank before somebody uses it. 
Even if somebody's already run 
up a bill of...say $600 on it, the 
most I'm liable for is $50 


How do you feel about 
having BankAmericard? 

"Tm careful with it. I don't. 
useit all the time. But thereve 
been times when if I hadn't had 
thecard, I'd have really been 
out of luck. It's a good thing 
to have” 


"In most states. there is o fee for obtaining а Bank Americard® bank card. 


Service Marka Owned and Licensed by Bank America Service 


orp. National HenkAmericard Incorporsied 1976 


13 


PLAYBOY 


и 


defending champ Harold "I Live for 
Filth” Fielden failed to show up. Wrong. 
‘The charming Fielden was on hand but 
was no match for Chris Gossett, a student 
at the University of Colorado. Finally, 
you say some of the spectators mooned 
the contestants. That, we'll admit, is 
correct. And vice versa, we might add, 
Max Robb and Lew Cady, Organizers 
International Spittin', Belchin’ and 
Cussin' Triathlon 
Central City, Colorado 
Sony about the errors, fellas, but our 
overzealous triathlon reporter inadvert- 
ently stepped into the line of fire and 
was temporarily blinded. 


HISTORY BUFF 

Happy 199th, America! (PLAYBOY, Jan- 
uary) is a charming portrayal of the 
lighter side of our history. I found your 
discussion of Harding, the man and the 
President, brief yet delightful. I would 
like to clear up several inaccuracies, how- 
ever: One, the fact that Harding was poi- 
soned by his wife cannot be substantiated. 
Two, that striking young lady with whom 
Harding is pictured resembles no known 
ntimate of his. Three, Harding distin- 
guished his term not only by his phi- 
landering but also by his conspicuous 
excellence as à statesman. 

Jonathan L. Lerner 
Middletown, Connecticut. 

One, we never actually said Harding 
was poisoned by his wife; we said many 
people believed this to be true; two, who- 
ever the real mistress was, she was not 
available for posing; three, that’s a new 
one on us. 


FOREIGN SERVICE 
Your February pictorial The French 
Maid is, for me at least, a fantasy come 
true. I certainly couldn't have imagined 
it any better than your photographer, 
Richard Fegley, photographed it 
Art Stevens 
New York, New York 


BONS MOTS 

I am a spanking, brand-new rLaysoy 
subscriber. Never read ртАүвоү before; 
never saw more of it than an occasional 
glimpse of its onyxian cover from the 
bookshelf of a supermarket, Perhaps Ye 
Omnipotent Editors would like to know 
the reaction of this novice to the Elysian 
mysteries of the January issue. First for 
the good news. The cover, the paper, the 
typography are excellent. The literary in- 
nards are most gratifying. Now for the 
bad news. The girls. Pulchritudinous they 
are. Callipygian they are. But those be- 
hemothian mammae! Siliconed and/or 
hormoned. This novice was also hurt to 
the quick by the realization that PLAYBOY 
still wields that ancient bowdlerizer, the 
airbrush, or its diabolical cquivalent, to 
obfuscate the womanly hairy escutcheon, 
below the mount of Venus, It is there, in 
the feminine Bermuda Triangle, that 


idest cut of all, 
lenly delta a 


PLAYBOY makes the unki 
by foisting upon the m: 
peruke of artificial bosca 


J. E. Schmidt, M.D. 
Charlestown, Indiana 
Who, us, foist a peruke of artificial 
boscage? Not on your life. As you can 
sce by this photograph, we never, never 
tamper with the natural shape and 


beauty of the pubic triangle. We do, 
however, take exception when you refer 
to the pubic triangle as the Bermuda 
Triangle. To the best of our knowledge, 
no ships have cucr been lost there. 


GROUP ENCOUNTERED 

We wish to extend our praise to 
PLAYBOY and to John Medelman for an 
unusually honest and sensitive appraisal 
of the SAR program in “Docs Your Hus- 
band Know You're Bisexual?” (PLAYBOY, 
January). Although this approach is only 
а small part of the expanding field of 
sex therapy, it is an important one. The 
National Sex Forum and the Minnesota 
program have pioneered in this effort 
to use mu aids in sex counseling. 
п Graber, M.D. 
Georgia Kline-Graber, R.N. 
Sexual Therapy Medical CI 
Marina Del Rey, California 


BAD ADVICE 
The Playboy Advisor used to be really 
good, but now it’s just smartalecky. That 
business in the February issue about 
John Dillinger’s being a woman is just 
plain dumb. 
Samuel Freeman 
Far Hills, New Jersey 
Actually, we made а mistake on that 
one. Pretty Boy Floyd was really a 
woman, Dillinger was a duck. 


EXPRESSION 
Thank you for your pictorial Frank 
Gallo—Sexpressionist (pLaynoy, Febru- 
ary). It is quite apparent from the 
photos of his work that Gallo is an 
expert craftsman with a sensitive eye 
for the truly erotic. I hope to see more 
of his work in the future. 
Larry Jennings 
Chicago, Illinois 


FREAK SHOW 

1 thoroughly enjoyed Winter of '59, the 
January cartoon feature by Gilbert Shel- 
ton and Dave Sheridan. The Freak Broth- 
ers has always been one of my favorite 


underground comics (after Wonder 
Warthog), and it captures the mood of the 
times flawlessly. Freewheeling Franklin is 
right on when he says that the Fiftics 
were а drag. I was in high school in the 
late Fifties and can remember a couple of 
parties that were just like Phineas’ (well, 
maybe not quite so wild . . . ). 

Percy С. Wood 

Salem, Oregon 


EYES RIGHT 
In your February issue, you say that 
the girl on the cover is also the girl in 
the centerfold—Laura Misch. Then how 
come her eyes are blue gray on the cover 
and brown on the centerfold? 
D. A. Bothen 
Grand Forks, North Dakota 
Our Photography Department informs 
us that the disparity is duc to reflected 
light. The cover was shot with daylight 
as the main source and the centerfold 
with arlificial light. Miss Misch’s eyes are 
actually hazel, which tends to go either 
way, depending on the light source. 


VOTES FOR LINDA 
s to photographers Ken Marcus 
and Charles W. Bush for a job well 
done on Linda Lovelace for President! 
(rLavoy, February. For the first time, 
my wife agrecd with me that Linda isn't 
that shabby after all. 

Mathew L. Clifford 

Mesa, Arizona 


I think Linda Lovelace is just what the 
country needs—someone with grace, in- 
tclligence, honesty and nice legs. Just 
think of the concessions she would he 
able to extract from the Russians, And 
whom would you rather watch deliver the 
State of the Union address—Linda Love- 
lace or Gerald Ford? 

K. White 
Columbus, Ohio 


FICTION FRICTION 
Jordan Crittenden's short story The 
Man Under the Front Porch (PLAYBOY, 
February) left mc in a state of total bc- 
wilderment. I read it over and over to 
see if there was some cryptic code in the 
wording, but I still couldn't figure it out. 
Charles Н. Lexa 
Racine, Wisconsin. 


WORK LOAD 
I enjoyed Working? (rLAvmov, Febru- 
ary), by Laurence Gonzales, very much— 
particularly De’ Medici, Sounds a lot like 
my character Hobart Foote, І suppose 
the parody could have been more vicious, 
and I think Gonzales’ gentleness got in 
his way. But I like the idea of his hitting 
some of the things I do. It's what keeps 
my blood in circulation. 
Studs Terkel 
Chicago, Illinois 


> Rare taste. 
Either you have it. 
Or you don't. 


RARE 
SCOTCH 


Yes, the whiskies in J & B are rare indeed, But the essence of J & B Rare Scotch is in our 
uncompromising quest for perfection. For more than 100 years, no one has ever matched 
the rare taste of J & B. And never will. That's why J & B has it. And always will. 


Бо Proof Blended Scotch Whisky © 1975 Poddington Corp... NY 


PLAYROY 


S 


after work? 


If you're spending more time at home 
these days, why not use some of it 
constructively? Send for details about this 
fascinating learn-at-home program from 
Bell & Howell Schools. Find out how 
interesting it can be to build new 
occupatienal skills in electronics— 
at home, after work. 


Look into it. Mail the card now, 


Let Bell & Howell Schools 
help you discover 
electronics at home. 
‘These days, it seems like almost every- 
thing is^going electronic’ If you've got 
time after work, spend some of it learning 
electronics. 
Mail the card for details about this 
fascinating learn-at-home program 


You actually build your own 
Electro Lab® electronics 


training system. 
One evening, when you get home from. 
work, you'll find a large package waiting 
for you. When you open it, you'll find a 
set of electronic components. 
Probably that same evening, you'll want 


the 100 percent solid-state chassis. 

Once you've built this TV, you've 
rounded out your electronic training and 
gained new occupational skills. 


Bell & Howell Schools” 
step-by-step methods smooth 
your progress, 
Since youre learning at home, 


from Bell & Howell Schools. 


is designed to 

make learning electronics 

especially interesting. 
Electronics is a fascinating sub- 
ject! But, let's face it, learning at 
home means you're on your own 
a good part of the time. Theres 
no teacherto prod and coax you. 

That's why we planned this 
learn-athome program to hold 
your attention and make each 
principle you learn more vivid... 
easier to remember! 

We'd like to think you'll rush 


on your own, we do everything. 
possible to keep your progress 
trouble-free. 

For example, since it’s easier 
to grasp new ideas one at a time, 
we send you texts that break the 
subject of electronics into small 
segments. You can take your 
time to master each one before 
moving on to the next. 


Special 
Pasch ities 
give you extra help 
and attention. 


Tn case you do run into a prob- 
lem or two, we're ready to give 


home from work each evening— 
anxious to haul out your course materials 
and get down to business! 

Let's talk about what we do to keep 
you interested. 


For one thing, 
we don't just send you books. 
Oh, books are important. In fact, this pro- 
gram includes a complete set of carefully 
prepared texts. And there's no way you 
can get along without them. 

But if you decide to spend some of your 
time learning electronics at home, you're 
going to get a lot more than books, You're 
going to take your jacket off, roll up your 
sleeves and actually get your hards on 
modern electronic equipment. You're 
going to explore it... experiment with it... 
put it together yourself! 

If that doesn't already sound like some- 
thing pretty interesting to do after a day 
at work, take a closer look. 


With the very first lesson, 
you geta Lab Starter Kit to 
help you grasp the basics. 

If you're a complete beginner at elec- 
tronics, this Kit will help you make a 
good start. 

Tts not complicated. Just a simple volt- 
meter and “breadboard” you use for basic 
experiments that help you understand the 
fundamentals. Now, youre ready to move 
оп to something more advanced. 

(By the way, if you're rot a beginner, 
we'll arrange advanced standing in the. 
program so you start at the point that's 
right for you.) 


to start working with these components. 
Following the instruction manuals and 
course materials— and using the principles 
you've learned —you'll actually begin to 
build three modern test instruments. Once 
assembled, they make up a complete 
home electronics laboratory you'll use for 
testing, troubleshooting and circuit 
analyzing. 

Use the design console . ..to set up and. 
examine circuits. сор 
modular...no soldering! 

Use the digital multimeter... to measure 
voltage, current and resistance. Read data 
in big, clear numbers— just like on a 
digital clock! 

‘Use the solid-state “triggered sweep’ 
oscilloscope... to analyze са See 'state- 
of-the-art” integrated circuits. Triggered 
sweep feature locks in signals for easier 
observation! 

By now, you've spent many fascinating 
evenings at home learning electronics. 
And you're really making progress, In 
fact, you're ready to get into"state-of-the- 
art" integrated circuitry —even some 
applications of digital circuitry! 


Atthis point, you start 

building a remarkable color TV. 
Аз you build this 25" diagonal color ТУ, 
you investigate the digital circuitry that. 
allows the automatic channel selector to 
go directly to preselected channels—as 
well as discovering the circuitry behind 
channel numbers and a digital clock that 
appear on the screen. You find out why 
the Black Matrix picture tube makes for 
such exceptional color clarity. You explore 
"state-of-the-art" integrated circuitry and 


I card has been removed, write: 
An Electronics Home Study Scnoo! 
DEVRY INSTITUTE DF TECHNOLOGY 


Ё Б. e Howeu ScHoots 


4141 Belmont. Chicago. Illinois 60641 


you more help and personal. 
attention than you'd expect from most 
learr-at-home programs. 

For example, many home study schools 
ask you to mail in your questions. 

Bell & Howell Schools gives you a toll-free 
number to call for answers you 
need right away. 

Few home study schools offer personal 
contact with instructors. Bell & Howell 
Schools organizes “help sessions” in 50 
major cities at various times during 
the year—where you can discuss problems 
with fellow students and instructors 
in person. 

The skills you develop 
could lead you in exciting 
new directions. 

No school can promise you a job or in- 
come opportunity. But the skills you learn 
from this Bell & Howell Schools program 
could help you look for a job in the elec- 
tronics industry... or upgrade your present 


job...or use these skills as a base for 
continuing your education in electronics 
programs. 


Taken for vocational purposes, this 
program is approved by the state approval 
agency for Veterans Benefits. 


Send for details today. 
Why not find out how constructive and 
interesting it can be to spend time learning 
electronics. Mail the card now. 


For more details, mail the 
postage-paid card today! 


"Elecirc-Lab?" is a registered trademark of the 
Bell & Howell Company. 
Simulated TV test pattern. 


756/5 


17 


SUPER LONGS 


Mitas 4 


0.9mg.nicctine Б 
Now, lowered tar KGDL Milds 


© EBRWTCo, : |4 ma. "tar," 0.9 то. nicotine; Kings & Longs, 17 mg. 
3 mg. nicotine, av. per cigarette, FIC Report Oct. 74 


PLAYBOY AFTER HOURS 


M onkey business: Psychologists con- 
[ры experiment їп which 
chimps were trained 10 perform various 
tasks in return for "money"—inedible 
coins that could he redeemed for 
а chimp-o-mat" at 
the end of the могі 


The female chimps. it was 
noted, didn't work as hard as 
the males to earn chimp 
money, and sevcral 
theories were put forth 
to account for the 


females’ Inzi- 
ness on the 
job. Some 
definite con 
dlusions were 
reached when 
a lab assist- 
ant returned 
to work late 
one night 


to find the male chimps handing over 
their hard-earned coins to the females for 
sexual favors.” After monkeying around 
bit, the girls headed for the chimp-o- 
t and cashed in their loot for the 
ns. 


тай 


Cars and buses, ma A sign on the 
side of a telephone-repair truck in New 
York reads, ASK ME ABOUT BETTER TELE- 
PHONE SERVICE, Written below in a hasty 
scrawl is the reply: "I don't talk to no 
trucks!” 


What's your union done for you latc- 
ly? On the island of Fiji, a gold-miners" 
union is demanding that a 30-minute 
noon sex break be written into its new 
соптаа. The head of the union, one 
Мауна Raqona, argues that a man is too 
tired to fulfill his sexual obligations to 
his wife after a long day in the mines 


and that lunchtime is the proper moment 
for that sort of thing, The union has 
mentioned only married men so far but 
hopes to propose “alternate arrange- 
ments" for bachelors. 

We can only assume they must be 
overcharging at the concession stands 
at Omaha's Civic Auditorium. When a 
gunman held up one of the stands, a 
crowd of about 50 people gathered to 
watch the robbery—and then cheered the 
thief as he made his getaway. 


The salary ain't much, but... А si 
Philadelphia m 
TOUNCES, NO! TIPPING REQUIRED. 


ina 


asage parlor an 


Eliminating yet another sexi рге 
rogative, two Toronto-based firms have 
invented the fillStrap, a protective р 
ment used to female athletes 
against injury to their more vulnerable 
paris. A Denver company now offers a 
protective bra—two round polyethylene 
disks connected with elastic, and, for 
the compleat lady jock, a mintflavored 
ble. 


insure 


mouthpiece is also ava 
Hot stuff: Before setting fire to а ton 
of pornography they had confiscated, 
police in Ocala, Florida, examined it 
carefully. 
matter of fact, that the assistant state’ 
attorney admitted, “It took us five days 
to do a three-hour inventory." A police- 
man watching the fire confirmed, "Every 
page [of the 1844 magazines and 116 
newspapers] every [several 
hundred marital aids worth $10,000] was 
obscene." 


They were so careful, as а 


and item 


"The Great Impostorvich: The jig is up 
for David Chrakhvashvili, а janitor in the 
Soviet Union who for three years had 
passed himself off as a science expert. He 
earned extra pocket money delivering lec- 
tures on such subjects as “The Atom,” 
"The Technological Revolution” and 
“Modern Medicine.” It's not known 


how David was discovered nor what's to 


become of him, but the Communist Party 
newspaper did say, “He will get what he 
deserves." A promotion, perhaps? 


A popular gay bar in Georgetown, The 
Sundown, has been converted to a pri- 
vate club. "We wanted 10 get rid of the 
riffraff so that our clientele wouldn't be 
afraid to leave their purses on the table 
when they went out onto the dance floo 
а dub spokesman explained. 


И streaking was last spring on 
campus. this season the craze is reproduc- 
on. Popping a dime into a photocopy- 
g machine, students are preserving 
Tor posterity 
copies of var- 
ious parts 
of their 
bodies— 
posteriors, 
of course, 
being the 
favored 
part. At 
Princeton's 
Firestone 
Library, 


one 
couple ma 
aged to come 
up with a 
reproduction 
of themselves in the 
act of reproduction and sold copies of it 
for $15 apiece. 


\ 
= 


Giving ‘em the bird: When two masked 
men entered a Victoria, British Colum 
bia, supermarket and began beating an 


19 


PLAYBOY 


employee, other workers grabbed the 
handiest weapons to fight them off. One 
grocery clerk hurled a ten-pound frozen 
turkey, striking one of the intruders. As 
the pair tried to escape, another employee 
fired off a frozen chicken, smashing the 
plate-glass door. 


mehow, Pittsburgh just wouldn't 
do: An annual medical seminar on Se 
ual, Marital and Family Problems 
held last year at a resort in French Lick, 
Indi 


Drawing the line: The Gale Research 
Company in Detroit compiled an En- 
cyclopedia of Associations that lists some 
14,000 organizations engaged in various 
causes. If you're incensed over the mis- 
treatment of mushrooms, you can join 
The National Society for the Preventi 
of Cruelty to Mushrooms. If you believe 
that airplanes are a myth, there's the Ма 
Will Never Fly Memorial Society Intei 
nationale. Say you like to fly and you hap- 
pen to be a funeral director. You qualify 
for membership in the Flying Funeral Di- 
rectors of America. Not all organizations 
appear in the encyclopedia, however, 
The research folks refused to include the 
American Orgy Association, for example. 
They felt it was in questionable taste. 


Truth in Forecasting Department: 
We reprint in full a weather forecast 
for Canberra, Australia: “Canberra can 
expect the rain to continue increas: 
ing or decreasing a litle, or rem: 


unchanged.” 


Foul or fore play? When men took 
first, second and third places in an 
unhook-the-bra contest in Copenhagen, 
the women contestants complained, The 
judge ruled that the winners, indeed. had 
an unfair advantage because, having 
learned to undo the snaps with one hand, 
the men “could undo two models at the 


same timc." 


Details, details. A land developer in 
Arizona was ordered to stop selling lots 
when it was discovered that the property 
reports he had filed were incomplete. For 
one thing, he neglected to mention that 
the tracts were located in the immediate 
arca of a bombing range. 

Hey, it’s pointed, too! It was more 
than just another exciting adventure on 
Star Trek, according to the TV listing in 
the Oakland, California, Tribune: “Leo! 
ard Nimoy is out of action as the Enter- 
prise crew searches for the brain of Mr. 
Spock after a beautiful wom: 
his organ and vanishes. 

Facing reality: A former Bı 
tank driver was fired from his job as a 
garbage-truck driver in Shepway, Eng- 
land, but he bears no hard feelings. On a 


n removes 


Monday, he drove his truck into a ditch. 
Then on Wednesday, he ran into a brick 
wall. On Thursday, the dutch on his 
truck burned out. On. Friday, he tipped 
the truck over іп a county lane. "I don't 
think I’m а good driver anymore," he 
admitted, 


‘The police department 
in Haverford Township, 
Pennsylvania, has done 
away with a require- 
ment that applicants 
for the force have 
chest measure- 
ments of at 
least 3714 
ches. Of- 
ficials ac- 
knowledged 
the fact th: 
the provision 
may di: 
inate against 
some females 
who might 
otherwise be 
able to fill 
the job. 


im- 


Sad but true: A Minneapolis radio 
announcer gave this report of a woman 
speaking at the United Nations: "She told 
the delegates that women compromise 
over half the population." 


Guilty conscience? Me? When a grand 
jury in Salt Lake City announced in- 
dictments of 17 people for securities law 
violations, it withheld the names be- 
cause they hadn't been arrested yet. 
Rather than wait for the police to show 
up, nine citizens went down to the U. S. 
Attorneys office and surrendered. It 
turned out that only one of them w: 
the list for indictment. 


has concluded that “the majority of air 
crashes involving commercial jetliners are 
the result of functioning айта: flying 
into the ground. 


Iconoclast magarine carried this cryptic 
ad: "We have D.D. If you don't deliver 
$15 by 10 рм... t him." 


Overkill: "The city manager of Arvada, 
Colorado, said he plans to reword the 
law against stray pets in that Denver 
suburb. As it now reads, the law says that 
if a stray pet is not claimed within 24 
hours, the owner will be destroyed. 


А San Francisco judge instructed the 
jury that a unanimous decision was nced- 
ed for a ver nd dispatched the 12 
members to the jury room to deliberate. 


Alter two hours, а note came out from 
the foreman: "Judge, we're deadlocked 
7-4-9. What shall we do?" “Subtract 
one,” was the advice from the bench, 


Some wise guy made this announce- 
ment over the airport Р.А. system in 
Johannesburg, South Africa: “All female 
passengers will kindly proceed to the left- 
hand gate and all males to the right-hand 
ate. Those who are uncertain please pro- 
ceed to the information counter for 
Classification.” 


e 


А special noi the classifieds of a 
small newspaper in Fairfield, Connecti- 
cut: “Boy with sheep would like to meet 
other teenagers with same interest in 
Washington area 


The Los Angeles Times had a hard 
time coming up with the “Dumbest Song 
of 1974" to top the winner of the year 
before, If Fingerprints Showed Up on 
Your Skin, I Wonder Whose I'd Find 
on You. Seems it was a tossup between 
Making Love to You Is Just Like Eating 
Peanuts and You're the Fingernail 
Scratching on the Blackboard of My 
Heart. 


PLACES 


Not many people know this—and still 
fewer believe it—but the first powered 
flight by a manned heavicr-than-air craft 
may have taken. place not at Kitty Hawk 
in 1903 but four decades earlier some- 
where around Luckenbach, Texas. Ac- 
cording to local legend, in the middle 
1860s, an imaginative German immigrant 
named Jacob Brodbeck built a winged 
contraption powered by a giant coil 
spring and managed to fly it to treetop 
level before he crashed, breaking a leg 


and embarrassing the townfolk, who 
ip the incident. Back then, the 


hushed 
community wanted no 
harboring eccentrics. 

Nowadays, however, Luckenbach is 
entirely in the hands of eccentrics who 
would like nothing better than to be 
able to document that historic fight. 
What have here,” says Hondo 
Crouch, Luckenbach's mayor and major- 
ity owner, “is a real fine location for 
the National Air Museum, long as it 
don't take up too much room or pollute 
the crick.” 

Guich Koock, who was Hondo's part- 
ner in the purchase of Luckenbach— 
lock, stock and beer barrel—five years 
ago. allows as how the museum would 
be a humdinger of a tourist attraction 
and probably bring business to the gen- 
eral store. "Hell, enough of them Yankee 
tourist dollars, you don't necd rain." The 
store, incidentally, is run by Marge 


ion for 


repui 


B 


we 


Get set for living 


Champale" Malt Liquor is the sparkling alcoholic 


„ But it costs just pennies more than beer 
wherever beer is sold. So anytime you feel 
like enjoying life, get the Champale 


beverage that looks and tastes like champagne. 


_ ready, get yourself set..and go. 


2 


PLAYBOY 


For 19" by2l'color reproduction of the Wid Turkey painting by Ken Davies sen 51 to Box 975-PB-5 Wall St. Sta.. N Y 10005. 


Wild Turkey Lore: 


The keenness of sight of the 
Wild Turkey is legendary 
among woodsmen. Because 
of the position of its eyes,the 
bird can detect the slightest 
motion in a circumference 
of 300 degrees. 

It seems fitting that 
the name of America's 
greatest native bird isalso 
the name of America's 
greatest native whiskey— 
Wild Turkey Bourbon. 


WILD TURKEY/ 101 PROOF/8 YEARS OLD. 


Austin Nichols Distilling Co., Lawrenceburg, Kentucky. 


Oumers, who happens to be Lucken- 
bach's lady sheriff. "We made her sher- 
iff,” explains Guich, “ 'cause she had the 
best posse—har, hi 

The manufacture and distribution of 
such bullshit has been Luckenbach's ma- 
jor local industry since Hondo, Guich and 
another partner, Kathy Morgan, started 
livening things up. The town, nestled on 
an oak-tree-shaded bend of a little country 
road, consisted of a rickety blacksmith’s 
shop, a huge barnlike structure with 
dancehall possibilities and a functioning 
general store cum post office, held хоре 
er mostly by rusty metal signs advertising 
old brands of motor oil and soda pop. 
Luckenbach was only an hour's drive west 
of Austin, making it, by Texas travel 
standards, a virtual suburb of the state 
capital. And it had the blend of serenity, 
history and Texas hill-country beauty that 
recommended it to Hondo as “the sort of 
place where a man can get together with 
his friends and relax a little without wak- 
ing up too many neighbors.” Luckenbach- 
ians, when they're relaxing a little, tend 
to become Luckenbacchar 

These get-togethers often turn into 
memorable bashes. In 1972, Luckenbach 
acquired regional notoriety by hosting an 
Amelia Jenks Bloomer Memorial Chili 
Cook Off for lady chili cooks. It turned 
into a beer drunk of major propor- 
tions and the prototype for subsequent 
allwomen's chili contests memorializing 
Lydia Pinkham, Carry Nation and Susan 
B. Anthony, with Amelia Earhart coming 
up. The town attracted statewide atten- 
tion when a Dallas newspaper columnist 
reported that the solitary municipal park- 
ing meter—whimsically installed as Great- 
er Luckenbach's only source of civic 
revenue—lacked a key. When word of 
this reached the parking-meter manufac- 
turer, the company offered to fly a repair- 
man down from Chicago to remedy the 
situation, but some souvenir hunter 
solved the problem by absconding with 
the meter. (The present meter has a key 
and at one opening provided the civic 
treasury with a bonanza of nearly three 
dollars.) 

But what really put the town on the 
map the Luckenbach World's Fair 
of 1973. This modest put-on turned into 
a rousing central Texas festival that, to 
the pleasure and dismay 
pared hosts, attracted some 


lians. 


of its unpre- 


for two days worth of a 
exhibits, watermelon and [ried-rattle- 
snake feeds, rock and country music 
performances and a black: powder cannon- 
shooting contest that earned two pages 
in Sports Ilustrated—and the disap- 
proval of the Gillespie County Sheriff's 
Department. (It seems that some of the 
cannoneers, firing at a specially con- 
structed outhouse, were pretty far off 
target, and local ranchers protested the 
low-flying cemencfilled beer cons that 
served as cannon balls.) The Lucken- 
s have scheduled their 1975 


bachia 


THE THIRD ANNUAL BAND WAGON FILM FESTIVAL 


The Third Annual Band Wagon Film. 

be held again this year in 
Echo Valley, California, and the num- 
ber of entries has been overwhelming. 
Disasters, of course, continue to hold an 
edge, although other topics have made 
strong showings—so we ofler here a 
critical sampling of the best: 


SUPPER OF '42 
Director Robert Mulligan turns his 
stylishly nostalgic eye to the Donner 
Pass during the worst blizzard of World 
War Two. The bitter storm 
rages around an isolated caf 
where wet-lipped waitress Jen 
nifer O'Neill has been trapped 
for a week with a busload of 
boy When the 
master perishes while trying to 
build a signal fire out of Better 
Little Books, the grippingly 
trendy question becomes: How 
Jong, without food or adult su- 
pervision, can they hold out 
inst the rampaging elements 
and Jennifer's terrific looks? To 


scouts. scout 


what unspeakable acts will their 
hunger drive them? The an- 


swer, at the climax of this 
middle-American allegory, lies 
in the smile on Jennifer's face—and 
the 42 uniforms piled neatly on the 


floor. 


SLIT 

Part TIL of the Shaft trilogy gives 
Julie Andrews a real career boost as 
the star of Hollywood's first fem lib 
disaster flick. In this dialectical cliff- 
hanger, Slit foils a crazed car pool of 
suburban housewives called Satan's Sis- 
ters, who terrorize Scarsdale and at- 
tempt то hijack Burt Reynolds. As 
usual in a Burt Reynolds movie, the 
action is risky stuff, with Reynolds 
performing his own stunts. To her 
credit, Ms. Andrews relaxes her lip 
and also does her own dirty wor 
cven in the dangerous Chinatown 
scene, where Slit is lowered 600 fect 
in a basket onto the bound Reynolds 
and frees him with her thighs. 


KUNG FLU 

Lurching out of retirement to make 
one last lushly Euclidean extravaganza, 
celebrated and symmetrical director 
Busby Berkley gives us the season's 
cheeriest musical as he tips a dancing 


silk hat to the Orient, exotic meeting. 
ground of the ancient martial arts and 
modern germ warfare. As always, the 
plot is merely an excuse for the sump- 
tuous production numbers—in this 
case, it's a negligible bit of froth 
about a starry-eyed young group of 
fanatic Maoist revolutionaries who ar- 
rive in Los Angeles intending, to wipe 
out the entire city with a canister 
of deadly virus. But who needs a 
plot with musical sequences like I've 
Got You Under My Skin, where 2000 


chorus girls dressed as deco virus mole- 
cules swirl around and finally invade 
a cell made of men in evening clothes? 
Some of the death scenes aren't bad, 
either. 


RELATIONSHIP OF FOOLS 

Always a master of the cinema's New 
Wave, Claude Lelouch inundates us 

th a veritable deluge of aquatic ano- 
mie. On its maiden voyage, the 
sinkable luxury submarine Malaise 
explodes and sinks inexorably to the sea 
floor, dragging hundreds of passengers 
to their doom, Amid the chaos, Le- 
louch has wisely contained all of the 
action within the bathroom of a frst- 
class cabin. Here the true drama re- 
sides—the passion between a m: 
Etienne de Siecle, and a woman, Si 
mone d'Aurevoir. As the scented bub- 
bles spill from the inverted tub and the 
room fills with brine, the lovers share 
their last Gauloise and stare silently 
into cach other's eyes. Their flared nos- 
trils and the lack of dialog say it all. At 
the end, all that remain of thei 
sion are an ominously surfacing oil 


slick and some random escargots. Not 
since The Paraplegics of Cherbourg 
have we seen such sensitive work from 
our Gallic cousins, 


THE ABSENT-MINDED EXORCIST 

In this wild, wacky, way-out Disney 

comedy, Fred MacMurray is the beloved 

but bumbling Exorcist who gets more 

than he bargains for when he buys 

Adolf the Talking Volkswagen. You'll 

learn to love the cute black mustache 

over Adolf's license plate and his wild, 

wacky, way-out sense of humor 

(he quips. after running over 

Fred's daughter in the driveway, 

n Poland, if not so 

"). The canned laughs 

come a mile a minute when ev- 

eryone but Fred realizes that 

Adolf, hideously dented and 

dripping green slime, is pos- 

sessed! A wild, wacky, way-out 

time is had by all as the pos 

sessed Adolf is exorcised by 

Fred and then repossessed by 

the finance company because 

Fred has forgotten to make the 
payments! Take Grandma! 


BANGS AND BLISTERS 
In the brooding gloom of the Scan- 
dinavian winter, Ingmar Bergman re- 
turns again to his timeless characters: 
‚ the touching nymphomani: 
german, the doubting cleric; and Vo- 
gler, the moody janitor tormented by a 
secret desire to understand Kierkegaard. 
"Ehe tragic trio are guiltbound in a 
rural church during the Festival of Saint 
Sven, a t nal time of feasting, 
dancing, tysting and suicide. Over 
whelmed by anguished memories of sit- 
ting on Egerman’s face moments before 
the film began, Anna stares blankly oi 
into the bleak winter light, sh 
the similarity of angst and sex; Eger- 
man, horribly torn between a need for 
God and the awful knowledge that the 
phenomenologists were right, pounds 
his head on the pulpit until he loses 
consciousness; and Vogler, struggling 
for two hours to make a leap to faith, 
finally lands on Anna, moments after 
the film ends. Theaters showing Bangs 
and Blisters will be cquipped with Meta 
physaround, which makes you feel like 
you're right there inside the trauma. 
—Davip STANDISH and. 
EUGENIE Ross-LEMING 


па, 


PLAYBOY 


24 


Tom Shrw, PGA Touring Professional 


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PLAYBOY 


26 


World's Fair for June 7 and 8, but they 
are going to hold it at the nearby larger 
town of Fredericksburg, “which hasn't 
had a good riot since the Civil War.” The 
goings on at Luckenbach proper recently 
attracted the attention of NBC's Today 
Show, which gave its audience a quick 
tour of the town and a chance to meet 
Hondo—all-American swimming champ 
of 1939, rancher, sometime journalist and 
full-time character. (Guich's chief daim 
to fame is the second place he won in a 
ational singing-cowboy contest in 1974.) 
nly. the goings on at Luckenbach 
consist of scheduled dances and im- 
promptu parties. The dances occur about 
once a month on warm Saturday nights 
(which means most of the year). Off- 
Пу, they celebrate anything from the 
Anniversary of the Invention of Dyna- 
mite to National Mohair Week, and 
they attract the bands, musicians and 
uptown shitkickers who hang out around 
"Nashville West," also known as Austin. 
Willie Nelson, Kinky Friedman, Michael 
Murphey, Leon Russell and Alan Dam- 
ron have been to town. Jerry Jeff Walker 


me and brought a mobile recording 
studio to cut an album called, for some 
reason, Viva Terlingua (a town that's 
also famous for its chili contests but 
happens to be a few hundred miles 
farther west). 

The impromptu partics happen when- 
ever enough people congregate at the 
general store and drink enough beer, and 
that's just about every day. The store 
opens around noon (except on Wednes- 
day, which is an official Luckenbach 


holiday) and soon people start drifting 
in just to see who clse is there. Usually, 
anywhere from 10 to 40 people, 


xclud- 
ing regulars and strangers, end up sitting 
in and around the store on benches and 
stumps, socializing over their Pearl, Lone 
Star and Shiner out of old-fashioned, 


ice-cold bottles, while chickens cluck 
around underfoot. Things close down 
around ten on weck nights, or whenever 
Sheriff Ottmers decides she's tired of 
serving beer. On busy weekends, Luck- 
enbach doesn't really close down at all; 
at some point, it just quietly passes out. 
Says Hondo, who teachcs swimming at 
a boys’ camp in summer, “I spend about 
three months of every year buildin’ up 
character—and about nine months tearin* 
it down.” 


MOVIES 


Claude Lclouch's And Now My Love 
(Toute une Vie in the original unsub- 
titled French) was hissed and jeered by 
wise-ass insiders at the 1974 Cannes Film. 
Festival. They were rejecting the film's 
banality and pretentiousness while put- 
ting down Lelouch a shallow, self 
indulgent romantic who's been just too 
goddamned successful since A Man and 
a Woman made a bundle. Well, his critics 
were right to find some fault with And 
Now My Love (considerably shorter and 
recut since its Cannes showing) but 
wrong to come down so hard on a pen- 
sive, tender, beautifully played love 
story—with Jean Collomb's limpid pho- 
tography and Francis Laí's music-for- 
handholding score to dress it up. More 
mbitious and personal than any pre- 
vious Lelouch movie, this is a glossy, 

20th Century i 
Vamour—in which the hero and heroine 
(André Dussollier and lovely Marthe 
Keller, who is Lelouch's lady offscreen) 
don't meer until the last three minutes 
of the film, when their two suitcases 
nudge each other along the luggage 


track onto a New VYork-bound Air 
France 747. Rest assured there are 
musical cues to tell vou that the take-off 


will be the start of something big, and 
Lelouch prepares for that climactic final 
moment by going back two generations 
to explain how Fate arranges for one 
particular Woman to experience love at 
first sight. The Woman is a rich, spoiled. 
Jewish girl who has dabbled with suicide, 
пу men, at least one woman (Carla 
Gravina), a couple of marriages, big 
business and an hed autobiogy 
phy. The Man is a onetime juvenile 
delinquent who goes to jail twice before 
finding himself as a maker of prize- 
niug IV commercials, porno movies 
and—at last—movies very much like 
Lelouch's own, including 4nd Now My 
Love. There are films within the film, 
newsreels, flashbacks, pop tunes and 
carloads of nostalgia in an effort to link 
romantic destiny with the whole history 
of modern es—everything from 
Hitler's rise and fall to the death of 
Marilyn Monroe. Becoming cosmic puts 
quite a strain, though, on a director 
whose real talent is for effortless ball- 
room glides across the surface of things. 


unfini 


He may yearn to be a Dostoievsky, but 
Lelouch cannot resist studying Beautiful 
People in their natural habitat, and fi- 
nally succceds almost in spite of himself. 


Moviegoers who loved The Three Mus- 
keteers, as directed by Richard Lester, 
should find The Four Musketeers extremely 
likable. Part two of Lester's roustabout 
adventure based on the Alexandre Dumas 
classic—deftly adapted by George Mac- 
Donald Fraser of Flashman fame—is more 


of the same but somewhat less than а 
sequel. In fact, it’s the second half of a 
film that merely became unmanageably 
long and was divided in two. So away we 
go again with Michael York as the bum- 
bling D'Ar up to his cars in vari- 
ous intrigucs plotted by Charlton Heston 
(as Cardinal Richelieu) and Faye Duna 
way (as Milady). The principal mischief 
wrought by this dastardly pair is the 
kidnaping of Raquel Welch (as Con- 
stance, dressmaker to Geraldine Chaplin's 
lovelorn Anne of Austria), Oliver Reed, 
Richard Chamberlain and Frank Finlay 
play the original Three—with Jean-Pierre 
Cassel, Simon Ward and Christopher Lee 
repeating their previous shticks in the 
same tonguein-check fashion. In this 
segment, Dunaway takes center stage to 
strut her stuff as a spectacularly witchy 
villainess, who brings an end to Raquel's 


brightest comic performance by garrotting 
poor Constance with a rosary. 


Though 
familiarity may not breed contempt, it 
does make The Four M's stylish, red. 
blooded fun seem slightly thinner. So, en 
garde. But swashbuckling heroes and 
damsels in distress are so rare on the 
screen today, their encore rates a hearty 
welcome. 


The timely question asked by Neil 
uon's The Prisoner of Second Avenue on 
Broadway a couple of seasons apo has 
picked up a note of desperate urgency 
on film: “Zs the whole world going 
out of business?” Thats what Simon's 
hapless hero wants to know, and he has 


© Lonard 1975 


Come for You'll stay 
the filter. for the taste. 


А lot of good taste 
that comes easy 
through the Micronite filter. - 


| Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined 
Î That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health. | 
18 mg."tar;" L2 mg. nicotina av. per cigarette, FIC Report Oct. '74. 


PLAYBOY 


И Colifornia brandy ond 
DUE. soda. A simple dank. But 
what a subtle flavor. 
Brandy from California 
has a light. clean taste 
that comes from Coli- 
fornia grapes You can 
serve it any woy you like, 
any time you like 


F Colifornia brandy stinger 
y It may look complicated, 
but if's nct. Mix 2 parts 
California brandy with 4 
part green or white creme 
de menthe and serve 
over crushed ice The 
Clean, crisp taste mokes o 
refreshing way to end 

the evening. 


reason to wonder. He is an alsoran ad 
executive in the Manhattan rat-race, who 
loses his job, faces the humiliation of un- 
employment lines, fights with neighbors 
and his working wife and is burglarized 
to boot. Junk food, polluted water and 
unsafe streets are his lot in life. The 
slickly Simonized lines are frequently 
funny, to be sure, though this down-in- 
the depths ofadusury high-rise humor can 
hardly be called escapism as the 1975 
economic recession moves right along. 
Jack Lemmon plays the jobless exec, of 
course—producer-director Melvin Frank 
was not likely to risk any other Holly- 
wood actor in а part so obviously a piece 


of Lemmon cake—with Anne Bancroft 
outshouting and occ Шу outclown 
him as the supportive, quick-witted wife 
They do very well, indeed. Yet they seem 
the sort of middle-class and middlebrow 
New York people who might be heard at 
a party telling Polish jokes, or recounting 
funny things that happened to them on 
their way to the analyst. If you'd like to 
meet them, the address is Second Avenue. 
Sce ya later. Time to tune in Rhoda. 


Italian director Vittorio De Sica died 
last November. leaving A Brief Vacation 
as his final, gallant old-fashioned gesture 
toward womankind. To the list of beauti- 
ful actresses (Sophia Loren in Two 
Women, Dominique Sanda in The Gar- 
den of the Finzi-Continis) who must 
cherish De Sica’s memory, now add the 
name of Florinda Bolkan, once known 
primarily as a glamor girl mentioned in 


| 


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JOHNNY CARSON “COLT: SUIT AND “RANCH” DUO WITH MATCHING BELT. DACRON“ POLYESTER TEXTURIZED FABRIC BY KLOPMAN. 


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28 


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PLAYBOY 


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PLAYBOY 


32 


European gossip columns with Richard 
Burton. Brief Vacation is far from De 
Sica’s best, yet its typical peasant warmth 
and compassion may well establish 
Bolkan as а full-fledged маг. Playing an 
impoverished Milanese factory worker— 
spiritually stifled by her role as meal 
ticket for three kids, a malingering 
husband and some greedy in-laws—she 
becomes partially liberated when forced 
by lung disease to spend several months 
of leisure at а workers’ sanitarium in 
the mountains. There she meets Lu 
(Daniel Quenaud) and starts reading 
Anna Karenina, What follows is the kind 
of soap-opera stulf seen countless times 
before. in films like Brief Encounter or 
a dozen dewy, bittersweet shipboard 
romances of yesteryear—though seldom, 
if сусг. done with such finely tuned. 
womanly perception. To balance the 
painful honesty of Bolkan’s performance, 
Brief Vacation offers some brilli 
actresses (notably, Adriana Asti). bri 
ing out other secrets of the female soul 
in bright bits and pieces 

A town full of pleasant, attractive sub- 
urban matrons who keep their husbands 
supplied with sex, nice children and home 
cooking—and have no personal needs es 
cept to discover the benefits of Easy On 
spray starch—are actually the monsters 
stalking on spike heels 
through The Stepford 
Wives. Though they 
appear to be the 
harmless Haus- 
fraus of 1091 TV 
comm 
are far sc: 
their way 
Frankenstein's 
monster, Ira 
(Rosemary's 
Baby) Levin 
wrote the 
book; scenarist 
William Gold- 
man smoothly 
аркса it; and 
director Bryan 
Forbes has got it 
together in a 


ror story about robotization, Stepford 
Wive ps a trifle slow for thri 
seekers in quest of raw gucreaction stuff. 
As а bout the American 
woman as an ngered species, how- 
ever, the movie has some biting implica 
tions, both for women’s lib types—who 
у or may not greet it as a minor 
manifesto—and for any American males 
who secretly yearn to settle down with 
a moisturized, huggable Barbie doll. 
Forbes's basic material is too superficial 
to persuade us that he intended this slick 
shocker to be a serious sociological tract; 
after all, he made the unnerving Seance 


is p 


on a Wet Afternoon a decade ago, and 
he's still closer to Alfred Hitchcock than 
to Betty Friedan. What he has here is 
one of those entertaining contemporary 
movies that inevitably stimulate discus- 
sion and debate by touching a 

topic, however lightly. Not qu 
cidentally, Forbes also gives Katharine 
Ross a fine chance to prove that her 
tremulous beauty may be matched by 
real acting ability. Ross is both credible 
and sympathetic as a bright, ambitious 
young wife who leaves Manhattan for die 
suburbs, only to learn that her husband 
(Peter Masterson) intends to join а mys- 
terious men's association in Stepford. 
She commiserates with another newcomer 
to town (Paula Prentiss, in great form as 
a wisecracking chum) and ultimately 
learns, to her dismay, that the member- 
ship is limited to rabid malechauvinist 
pigs—all dominated by an ominous club 
chairman (Patrick O'Neal) who "used 10 
work at Disneyland.” Which somehow, 
in this movie, sounds acepier than 
Transylvania." 


Though it begins as a brittle, de- 
liciously bitchy comedy charting 24 hours 
in the life of a horny Hollywood hair- 
dresser named George, Shempee soon 

ackles something far more ambitious— 
in effect, the decline of Western. civili- 

zation as witnessed in the vicinity 
of Beverly Hills. Director Hal 
(Harold and Maude and The 

\ Last Detail) Ash- 
by takes a cross 
section of basically 
unsympathetic idlers 
ıd opportunists 
indigenous to the 


area and studi 
their manipul: 
tions as if he 
were the chief 
handler in a 
welluphol- 
stered 

snake pit. 


ts off on Novem- 
on Day—a 
day when George's world ap- 
pears to be coming apart just a 
hair faster than anyone else's. You 
may not accept some of the sweepin 
political ramifications the movie labors 
to disclose, but you won't easily forget 
them. Dashing from chick to chick by 
motorbike, a portable blow-drier tucked 
under his belt, George is played with 
plenty of pelvic drive and hustling 
nervous energy by Warren Beatty at his 
superstar best. Beatty's best turns out to 
be damned good. since he also produced 
the film a 


ber 


nd co-authored it with scenarist 


Robert Towne (whose previous credits 
include Chinatown and Ashbys Last 
Detail). His female costam are no 


Slouches, either. Julie Christie, Goldie 


Hawn and Lee Grant portray, respec- 
ely (as well as splendidly), Jackie. 


Jill and Felicia —Gcorge's past, present 
and presentperfect bed partners. Jill, 
а model, is the best friend of Jackie, a 


gliuer girl with no visible means of sup- 
port except Felicia's husband. 
(Jack Warden, in a tour de force of 
Doordom as а lusty L.A. tycoon). But 
specific relationships count for very 
little, since Shampoo dissects a deluxe 
social endave where love, marriage or 
are shortterm and essentially 
empty arrangements, not much different 
from the kind of deal one makes with 
U-Haul. 


Lester 


owne/ Beatty scenario echoes the 
throughout, stewing sly 
asides 4 letter words. Comes the 
dawn, theres hardly any color left in 
Tinseltown and George is left alone 
under a peroxide sky. His emotional 
crisis may scem less poignant than in- 
tended, since he is revealed to us mainly 
as an efficient fuck machine and the 
focal point of a dazzling late-Sixtics light 
show. Beatty, Ashby and company nev 


па fou 


theless manage to make their cool, 
aunchy Shampoo one of the most 
ori and outrageous examples of 
fashionable backbiting since Julie 


Christie went into orbit as Darling 


Raquel Welch teams with Br 
James Coco in The Wild Party, a bizarre 
bue stylish blend of vintage decadence 
and ricky-tick tunes, freely adapted. (by 
Walter Marks) from 
Joseph Moncure March's long narrative 
poem. Written in bluntly rhymed cou- 
plets (‘Queenie was а blonde, and her 
age stood still, and she danced twice a 
day in vaudeville”), the original sag 


writer-composer 


a 
seems a bit quaint today, but it became a 
racy semiunderground classic during the 
Twenties. For the film, Marks adds some 
rhymed narration of his own that is not 


m 


always an improvement, though it serves 
to switch the scene from early-bohemian 
Greenwich Village to scandalous old 
Hollywood—back in the Golden Silent 
era when Fatty Arbuckle threw an in 
famous party that brought death to a 
starlet—and, virtually, to Fatty's career 
Coco delivers a bravura performance as 
Jolly Grimm. 
edy маг à la Arbuckle. As his mistress 
Queenie, Welch looks great, singing 
and dancing with verve (Singapore 
Sally is her specialty and displaying 
a kind of fallen-angel vulnerability not 
often. expressed 
roles. Perry King, David Dukes, Tiffany 


slipping. impotent com- 


her standard sexpot 


Rolling, Don de 
Natale and 
100 or 
more Wild 
Party 
guests go 
to hell with 
themselves 
quite 


ПЕТИ 
under 
James 
Ivory, who 
directs here 
as if he were mounting a lurid melo- 
dramatic ballet in jazztime. The entire 
film looks choreographed—as long 
stretches of it wei 
Hollywood pipe dream peopled by fag- 
gots, lesbians, flappers and flaming 
youth of every sexual persuasion. Cine- 
matographer Walter Lassally, who did 
so much for Tom Jones and Zorba the 
transforms Wild Party's fanciful 


Greek 
sets and costumes into a kind of art- 
deco delirium. Intentionally corny, this 
minispectacle in homage to a piece of 
dated pop literature is a modest “trip” 
movie that takes quite a few refreshing 
turns off the beaten path. 


Saipt trouble besets W. W. & the Dixie 
Dancekings, which has box-office insurance 
in Burt Reynolds, cast as a roguish con 
man piloting a countryamusic band from 
obscurity to Grand Ole Opry in Nashville 
1957. The idea isn't bad, and di 
rector John С. (Joe and Save the T 
Avildsen obviously knows how to trcat 
a bunch of lower-crust losers. He seems 
much less secure about what to do with a 


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star the size of Reynolds, whose flip ma- 
chismo image shows signs of becoming 
a rigid stereotype. If this job freeze con 
tinues, Burt's future roles may become 
indistinguish 


le from his last few cus 
tomttailored specials. Art Carney and 
singer Conny Van Dyke—a newcomer to 
movies but already known on the Nash 
ville music scene—lend adequate sup 
port. Which simply amounts to tidying 


up а few loose stitches in a movie woeful. 
ly weak at the seams. 


Short Takes:  Dare-bottomed dinner 
guests sit on toilets around a table, 
1 they feel 


excusing themselves only whe 
nature's call to go to the dining room. 
where one can cat in privacy. So goes 
The Phantom of Liberté, by writer-director 
Luis Buñuel, who at the age of 74 has 
decided that most of the rules we live by 
would make equal sense turned 


side 


out. A sophisticated. episodic and irrev. 
erently topsyturvy satire of rare esprit 
Incomparable. 

Sex and violence are inseparable in 
Vampyres, COSL Marianne Morris 
ind Anulka a ty аса 
lesbians, luring their male victims to a 
stately English home for bisexual blood 
sports. This primitive horror show has a 
certain gory Gothic style, plus more sex 
appeal per puncture than any Dracula 
outing on record. 

Lulu the Tool is à new Americanized 
title for director Elio Petri's The Work- 
ing Class Goes to Paradise, grand prize 
winner at the 1973 Cannes film fest. It's 
the classic man-vs.machine, exploited- 
ely played by Gi 
Maria Volonte as the wage slave and 
Mariangela Melato as his oppressed wife. 
Though frstrate, Lulu will appeal 
mainly to company that loves misery 

Shedding his Matt Helm image, Dean 
Martin as Mr. Rico plays a coldsober, 
50ish San Francisco criminal lawyer who 
keeps company with a mature lady 
(Geraldine Brooks) and endures wry 
jokes about his age from his young 
secretary (Cindy Williams). Happily 


а of undead 


workers theme- 


Dino's Ricco looks good and is trimly 
directed from a tough-minded script 
about the case of a black militant (Thal 
mus Rasulala) charged with murder 

Director John Waters a 
drag-queen superstar, Divine (they were 
h 
Divines big scene was climaxed by 
eating dog do oncamera), set out to 
recapture an audience of bad-movie 
freaks and fetishists with Female Trouble. 
This so-called "woman's picture" offers 
another outrageous oral fst when 
Divine bites off a newborn baby’s bloody 
umbilical cord. АН in all, more yeccchs 
than уос», 

Arthur Rubinstein—tove ef Life, aptly de 
scribed by its title, is an enthralling 
1968 Oscar-winning documentary made 


id his obese 


cores 


tors of Pink Flamingos. in wh 


n T ў zs 


ae EAS ee AREE x: AIA А "n 


I5. BEEN DRIVING for her family six years now so I know if things don't go the 
way she plans, Miss Katherine gets furious. This evening, when we pulled into the 
Pullium's driveway her plans were very definite. "No need to wait,’ she said, "David 
will take me, uh, home? 

"Pardon, Miss Katherine, but I don't see his саг” I said. 

"He'ssimplylater than usual? she said. “Good night, William? And into the party 
she went. I waited, just in case. And ten minutes later, David arrived. Гуе never seen 
anybody show up at a classy party riding a motorcycle. 

Jimmy — hedrives forthe MceCormicks—he said it was hardly proper. But Roland 
scoffed, "Nonsense, man, that’s a 7-17 I asked him, “What's a Z-1?” 

"Maybe the finest touring bike ever made, that’s what,’ he said. And he launched 
into an emotional monologue, I'd call it, about the bike's 4-stroke, 4 cylinder, 903cc 
engine, its prestige, world records and how money talks. Even Jimmy was impressed. 

So all 1 can do now is wait for the storm after the party, when Miss Katherine 
finds out she won't be going anywhere in the back of David's limo. 

And I'm wondering if David would consider putting aside-caron Kawasaki 


his 7-1 and hiring a second driver. lets the good times roll. 


PLAYBOY 


36 


by François Reichenbach and S. G. Patris 
(and belatedly going into theatrical re- 
When I play, I make love .. - 
i's the same thing," says the piano virtu- 
oso, whose life and music are sheer 
genius, As an example to youth, Rubin- 
stein—now R&—could put a lot of gurus 
out of work. 


RECORDINGS 


Bob Dylan was a kind of oracle for the 
Sixties. He seemed to be singing about 
us. Those flashing chains of surrealistic 
ages were all about our lives, our own 
confusions and our own muddled no- 
tions, exploding at us with clarity and 
poetic force, He gave us the images 
with which we perceived ourselves. In 
the beginning, he was a folk singer, 
and his fans were the sincere, 
often politically committed— 
or at least concerned—folkies 
of the Kennedy years. The first 
time he sang backed by a band 
playing electric instruments, fights 
broke out in the audience. 

Alter that, Dylan was con- 

stantly accused of selling out, as 

we projected on him our own anxictics 
about making compromises with the sys- 
tem. But beginning with Bringing It All 
Back Home, he made three albums that 
redefined pop music. We remember the 
first time we heard Subterranean Home- 
sick Blues. Yt was on a car radio. We 
cranked up the volume, trying to make 
out the words, Here was Dylan holler 
out this slam-bang, raggedy-assed rock- 
roll song, but what was he saying? 
‘Johnny's in the basement mixin’ up the 
medicine; /I'm on the pavement thinkin’ 
about the government" What the hell 
that? 

After Bringing It All Back Home, 
Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on 
Blonde, pop music could be about any- 
thing. Singers could expect people to 
listen to intensely personal statements, 
often full of obscure images. Dylan made 
us take the time to figure out what the 
words meant. 

Dylan was supposed to be in the fore- 
front of the revolution, To a significant 
chunk of his aud he had to be 
more than an artist, He had to be a man 
with a plan. He had to know the way to 
get through all this. 

But Dylan wasn't cooperating. Instead, 
he retired to the counuy and became 
a family man. He was seldom seen in 
public, although no rock festival was 
complete without rumors of his immi- 
nent arrival, He also lost his vogue. 
People said he was fat and satisfied, 
spending his time thinking about mutual 
funds and tax shelters. 

Certainly, the quality of his work fell 
off. The satiric edge was gone and his 
wit and irony seemed to have failed him. 
In early 1974, he broke his long silence 
and went on tour with The Band. The 


псе, 


trip was a great success, but it introduced 
almost no new material. His audiences 
loved it, bur the question remained un- 
answered: Could he still do и? 

Now, a year after the tour, the answer 
is in: Yes, he can. His new album, Blood 
on the Tracks (Columbia), has a [cw songs 
that are among the best he has done, 
and the overall level of quality on the 
record is extraordinarily high. Stylistical- 


ly, the album scems a logical continua- 


tion of Dylan's best work of the Sixties, 
Instrumentation is kept simple and the 


s harmonica is back. The power is 
there in his images, but it is much more 
controlled now. He scems more sure of 
what he is doing, more mature. 

If You See Her, Say Hello is a song 
about a woman who has gone away, a 
song at least as good as Visions of Jo- 
hanna, Dylan sings it very well, with 
pain and sadness and a bit of self-mockery 
in his voice. You're Gonna Make Me 
Lonesome When You Go is a happily 
hilarious piece with some beautifully 
Dylanesque lines such as: “Situations are 
ry sad/Relationships have all been 


bad,/Mine have been like Ver 
and Rimbaud's. But there's no way I can 
compare /All them scenes to this affai 
Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts is 
a long, narrative ballad told in an in- 
direct, allusive style that lets vou fill in 
the details of the story while it creates 
a beautifully vivid world, 

Dylan’s playfulness is appartnt on 
Shelter from the Storm, with its half- 
serious comparisons of the singer to 
Christ. Dylan enjoys puncturing bubbles, 
setting up certain expectations and then 
turning things around with lines such as: 
“I bargained for salvation, and she give 
me a lethal dose." 

Dylan is а survivor. He came through 
all the weirdness of the past decade and 
kept himself together—a tough thing to 
do, given the pressure he faced, Now that 
some of the passion of that time 

has subsided, maybe we will 
finally be able to see him as an 
extraordinary talent rather than 

as а messiah. His voice is a 
lote for down times. 
The record companies make some 
int moves. Classical sales are down, 
so now within the space of a few months 
we have two new, superb, competing re- 
cordings of Mozart's Cosi Fon Tutte from 
Colin Davis (Philips) and Sir Georg Solti 
(London), after getting nothing compara- 
ble since Leinsdorfs fine RCA set of 
1968. Now the reviewers will be arguing 
over the merits of two sets that are, in 
their respective ways, incomparable. For 
those who don't know Cosi, we should 
that it is Mozart's most purposefully, 
carefully made opera, probably the most 
often performed, certainly the most sub: 


aine's 


great am 


Че. During its long eclipse, when it was 
condemned as libertine nonsense, it was 


hacked ир, bowdlerized, rewritten to con- 
form to 19th Century moral standards. 
Understandable, since it deals with in- 
amorala swapping and the attractions of 
the flesh, but Mozart's musical. transfor- 
mation of Da Ponte's libretto makes the 
work into a serious commentary on the 
compassionate nature of love. Both man's 
passion and woman's constancy are shown 
up as transitory, even silly, as the opera 
moves beyond cynicism to wit, irony and 


paradox. The libretto is a classic piece 
of cliché mancuvering—two sisters and 
their lovers, the donning of cornball 
disguises, the machinations of an old 
bachelor and a ladys maid. But the 
instrumental writing is tight al 
and uses a greater variety of combina- 
tions than in any other Mozart score: 
This perfection in musical style creates 
the characters in depth and takes us be 
yond the superficialities of the libretto. 
To our taste, Solti and the London Phil- 
harmonic have the orchestral edge: yet 
Davis and the Covent Garden Orchestra 
have taken a great conceptual leap into 


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the comic, stressing the lightness and 
brightness of the score, clowning and 
xaggerating the passions of the princi- 
als. The singing is without peer in both 
sets. Richard Van Allin as Don Alfonso 
(in the Davis set) creates the character 
better, while Pilar Lorengar (Solti) gives 
more depth to Fiordiligi than Montserrat 
s. But such comparisons, 
are odious when the over-all 
quality of both is so good. The true 
Cosi aficionado will have to buy both, 
and maybe that's the strategy of the rec 
ord companies, after all. 


Overwhelmed is а handy word ıo have 
around when you're dealing with The 
Tatum Solo Masterpieces (Pablo). A 15-LP 
(no, that's not a typographical crror) 
package, it was recorded for the most 
0 two consecutive days at the end 
and another day in the spring of 


without peer. Though almost totally 
blind, he possessed a virtuosity that drew 
gasps from his audience 
just "ten flying fingers"—his cr 
never la 
behind his technical 
skills. The titles of 
the 121 tunes read 
like a standards 
Hall of 
Almost сте 
great song 
ten between 
World War 
One and the 
recording 
sessions 


ativity 
d very б 


been subjected to the Tatum wizardry, 
making them all that much. greater. To 
call this album a tour de force is like 
calling Michelangelo's Sistine frescocs a 
terrific job of interior decorating. The 
Tatum Solo Masterpieces is unique. 


Another Pablo LP provides а m: 
lous counterpoint to the Tatum project. 
Recorded last spring, for the Fist Time 


ve- 


features the Count Basie Trio, made up 
of the estimable Count on piano and 
organ, drummer Louis Bellson and bassist 
Ray Brown. The Count never uses two 
notes where one will do, or one, for that 
matter, when he can get away with none. 
The hallmark of Basie's pianowork 
(sometimes deprecated as simplistic) is 
the pregnant pause, that empathic si- 
lence that сап mean more than а fistful 
of notes, Bellson and Brown are, of 


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course, two of the premier practitioners 
of their respective crafts and they pro- 
vide the rhythmic path along which the 
Gount’s sparingly used fingers do their 
walking. 


Country Joe McDonald is an inventive 
ind daring performer, an explorer who 
isn’t afraid to move to new ground. But 


for some reason, he's never made it bi 
15, 


He comments on this, wryly and bitt 
on a few of the cuts on Country Joe (Va 
guard). Satisfactory is the complaint of a 
man who i 


stuck somewhere between 
never lose, 
such a drag 
' And Memories 


is a ишу p 
about a man. now looking back 
pier times, wishing he could live his lile 
over again. If all this seems rather down, 
it is, but it’s offset by the clever punning 
s of Old Joe Corey, about an old 
g to a South 

Sea isle. And Making Money in Chile 
is an ironic, ragtime political song, a 
Took at the rentiers who clip their 

while the Chileans sweat in the 
copper mines: “They dig the 
we get the roll.” The song 


Rag, Joe's famed kazoo and calliope blast 
at the Vietnam War. 
The Beker Gurvite Army (Janus) features 
ger “Boom-Boom” Baker in collabo- 
ion with those perennial favorites—the 
Gurvitz brothers? We get plenty of thun- 
dering war drums from Geueral Ginger, 
who seems determined to pound his way 
back onto the charts via the aggressive 
but dated approach he was using a dec- 
ade ago. Aud those Gurviuzes are less 
than inspiring second 1 s, with 


uten 
arrying the 
d guitar- 
ist and lead songwriter. While compe- 
tent enough, Adrian lacks personality 
and fails to deliver any real substance. 
‘There are some tasty guitar riffs here 
and there, and Baker bas undeniable 
energy. and five or ago, maybe 
this album could have caused some сх- 
citement. Now it only seems passé—even. 
with the synthesizer. 


Eyer since leaving the James Gang, 
Joe Walsh has been a guitarist on the 
move—building a quality repertoire and 
becoming a favorite of other notables 
nmy Page 


s a unique 
flavor to his tunes—from tireless rocker 
to the most ethercal ballad—and, like 
Hendrix" before him, Walsh's penchant 
for different guitar voicings makes his 
music something not only to be heard 
but to be felt in a very literal sense. 
So What (ABC/Dunhill) is the long- 
awaited follow-up to Walsh’s last solo 


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PLAYBOY 


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outing and it more than justifies the an- 
ticipation. Kicked off by Welcome to 
the Club, side one flows easily from 
mood to mood, while the flip side stands 
$ one of rock's best. in terms of both 
continuity and material. Walsh rarely 
speaks onstage, preferring to retreat into 
the role of pure dedication to his art, 
but the elements of superstar status are 
clearly there. He's a musician to watch 
4 а must for anyone who knows good 
music. 


THEATER 


Leaping lizards! What has Edward AL 
bee done now? His new play, Seascape, 
has roused the slumbering critics into a 
chittering horde of ravers and carpers. 
Actually, the play is neither a masterpiece 


nor a fraud but a comic minorpiece, a 
mellow Virginia Woolf in a sandbox. 
This is Albee’s first play in which the 
cast is only half human. There are two 
people—a middle-aged, sedentary mar- 
tied couple (Deborah Kerr and Barry Nel 
son)—and two lizard creatures emerging 
into evolution (Frank Langella and 
Maurecn Anderman). The four meet ac 
cidentally on a beach and exchange notes 
on civilization. Speaking perfect English 
(after all, who wants subtitles in a play?), 
the creatures tell the people a bit about 
life at sea, discovering in the process that 
they share some of the same marital con- 
cerns and social hang-ups. For example, 
Langella is prejudiced 
dirty and stupid. The people, in turn, 
warn the lizards about life on earth. 
Albee has approached this tricky r 
terial with tongue in check. Veering clear 
pomposity, the play is a nice, slight 
cartoon—dryly understated and salted 
with laughs. The author is to be credited 


fish, to him, are 


for his restraint, for not metaphysicalizing __ 


Seascape into a sandy Tiny Alice, but the 
play is also something of a missed oppor- 
tunity, The Nelson character, for all his 
knowledge and curiosity about the origin 
of the species, never prods the strangers 
toward revelation. The play ends where 
it might have started. Begin, says one of 


the lizards. And the curtain falls. Still, 
the dialog is wafer crisp, the situation 
startling and the actors convincing, par- 
ticularly Langella, who in lizard suit and 
tail, easily gives the best reptile imper- 

ation of the year. At the Shubert, 22: 
West 44th Street. 


А fat, middle-aged, bald garbage man 
from Cleveland (Jack Weston), trying to 
avoid the Mob wrath of his gangster 
brotherindaw, takes refuge in the one 
place no one would expect to find him— 
New York bathhouse called The Ritz. 
What follows is a frenzied, furiously com- 
ic farce by Terrence (Bad Habits) Мс 
Nally. Che garba i ely 
pursued by a "chubby chaser” (fatties 
turn him on; he festoons the hero with 
candy bars). A manly private eye happens 
to speak in a natural falsetto, which could 
make him the most popular pinup in the 
steam room, The queen of this randy Ritz 
Googie Gomez (Rita Moreno). a Beue 
Midler with a Hispanic accent as deep 
das cuchifritos. The invading straights 
ne she's a transvestite. Googie is look- 
g for a big break, and she will take it 
anywhere she finds it; searching for a pro- 
ducer, she mistakes the garbage man for 
Joseph Papp. The show itself suffers from 
ken The Ritz is a 
broad, door-slumming romp, a funhouse 
of a bathhouse. Straights, gays, everyone, 
even age man from Cleveland, 
should enjoy it. At the Longacre, 220 
West 48th Street. 


BOOKS 


At the outset of Tennessee Williams? 
new novel, Moise ond the World of Reason 
(Simon & Schuster), the narrator, a 30ish 
Southern homosexual living in New York 
City’s West Village, informs us that he is 
a “distinguished failed writer.” with a 
taste for incomplete sentences, dangling 
participles and general incoherence. Not 
exaaly a grabber of an opening, but 
we force ourselves to continue. Several 
incomplete, dangling and generally 
incoherent pages later, the narrator 


no m identity: 


а garl 


introduces us to the title character, 
Мове, a female painter who announces 
to her friends that she is departing from 
the world of reason and quickly proves 
this by making no sense. By now, we're 
scratching our head. Undaunted, the 
narrator, who is beginning to sound 


like a freshman creative-writing major, 
rambles on. We are introduced to his 
lover Lance, a black professional ice 
skater who is very cool, very homoscxual 
and very incoherently drawn. Now we 
are yawning. Nothing is happening, no- 
body is saying anything that makes much 
sense aud we are reading sentences such 
as this onc: “Inflamed libido, liking the 
contours of . Hawaii 50 is located 
in the Sandwich Islands somewhere in 
the suspiciously quivering space between, 
sorry. but never catch names.” What is 
this bullshit? At last we get to a part 
where the narrator tells us about his 
rejection notices. Seems nobody appreci- 
ates his writing. One cynical editor 
responds by saying his work “recks of 
self-pity and should be transferred only 
by g: 
sense than anything we've rea 
We dlose the book. 

Tom Wicker was finishing а genteel 
Washington gourmet luncheon when he 
received the phone call inviting him to 
Attica prison. Filled with good wine and 
an indigestible helping of middle-aged 
ngst, the prominent New York Times 
columnist and editor went to the p 
tentiary, so naive about the problem and 
the place awaiting him that he neglected 
to tike along a toothbrush or a clean 
shirt, assuming that whatever needed to 
be done might be accomplished in an 
eflicient afternoon. But Auica is still 
with Wicker nearly four years later, in 
his wholly personal account, A Time to Die 
(Quadrangle). "Through frequent flash- 
ks to his North Carolina childhood, 
Wicker tries to give us a measure of his 
Southern roots and racial weaning before 
his arrival in 1971 ar a prison mostly 
filled with urban blacks and Puerto Ri 
cans. Wicker vowed that if there were 
anything he could do to prevent it, there 
would be no violence, and he attempted 
to negotiate with the prisoners. But when 
39 men were killed in the police attack. 
launched by then-governor Nelson Rock- 
efeller, Wicker blamed himself bitterly 
for not speaking a final, brutal truth to 
the inmates—that their demands for 
amnesty were not going to be met and 
that they must release the hos 
tages or face an officially au- 
thorized massacre. Though the 
efforts of Wicker and his ob- 
server group could not forestall 

in 


rbage disposal.” es more 


id so far. 


the slaughter, he has surely 
this deeply passionate book, 
brought back to life the 
issues of administrative 
ignorance, racism and mistreatment and 
of Rockcfeller’s allegiance to a rigid order 
Wicker has also raised some disturbing, 
and apparently well-documented, facts— 
among them that the inmates, even dur- 
ing the orchestrated attack on them. 
Killed no hostages in return. “The Attica 


BARMATE 


Alter the glow of hours spent in the sun, nothing makes your day like a really 
great drink at Happy Hour time. This new barguide shows you how to mix the 
best drinks ever— for all your sun-loving friends. Easy-to-follow recipes for 
luscious tall coolers and cocktails make mixing a breeze. Included are drinks 
made with all the basic liquors: Bourbon, Scotch. vodka, rum, Southern 
Comfort. It even shows how to improve most drinks. the way the experts do it. 


How to improve most drinks: secret of the "pros" 


Knowledgeable barmen improve many drinks simply by “switching” the basic 
liquor called for in a recipe — to one with a more satisfying taste. A perfect 
example is the use of Southern Confort instead of ordinary liquor to create 
a smoother, tastier base for their Manhattans, Old-Fashioneds, Sours. even 
tall drinks like the Collins and Tonic. The big difference. of course, is in the 
unique taste of Southern Comfort itself. It adds a deliciousness no other basic 
liquor can. Mix one of these drinks the usual way: then mix the same drink 
with Southern Comfort. Compare them. The improvement is remarkable. But 
to understand just why this is true, make the simple taste test in this guide. 


What is Southern Comfort? 


Although it's used like an ordinary 
whiskey, Southern Comfort tastes 
much different than any other basic 
liquor. It actually tastes good, right 
ош of the bottle! And there's а 
rcason. In the days of old New 
Orleans, onc talented gentleman was 
disturbed by the taste of even the 
finest whiskeys of his day. So he 
combined rare and delicious ingredi- 
ents, to create this superb, unusually 
smooth, special kind of basic liquor. 
Thus Southern Comfort was born! 
Its formula is still a family secret 
its delicious taste still unmatched by 
any other liquor. Try it on-the-rocks 
‚+ then you'll understand why it 
improves most mixed drinks, too. 


Tips for better drinks 


Don't guess: Measure! The best 
drinks are the result of exact 
measurements of finest ingredients. 
Basic measures: jigger = 1% oz.: 
pony = 1 ог.; dash = 4-6 drops. 


Shake or stir? In general, stir drinks 
made with clear liquors. Shake those 
with hard-to-blend ingredients like 


tablespoon egg white before shaking. 


Ice is important! Use freshly made 
icc. Change for cach round, and 
don't skimp. Nothing's worse than 
a lukewarm cold drink. For best. 
results, buy packaged ice. To 
pre-chill glasses, fill with cracked 
ice. Let stand: dump ice. Add 
drink, and serve at once. 


make this simple 
taste test 

and you'll learn 
how to improve 
most drinks : 


The flavor of any mixed drink is controlled by the taste of the liquor 
you use as a base. To realize the importance of this, fill three short 
glasses with cracked ice. Pour a jigger of Scotch or Bourbon into one, 
a jigger of gin into another, and a jigger of Southern Comfort into the 
third. First—sip the whiskey, then the gin. Now do the same with 
Southern Comfort. Sip it, and you've found a completely different 
basic liquor—one that sastes good with nothing added! That's why 
switching to Southern Comfort as a base makes most mixed drinks 
taste much better. Try it in your favorite drink. Like a Collins? Make 
both recipes below; compare them. One sip will convince you! 


ordinary COLLINS р 
% jigger fresh lemon juice 
1 tspn. sugar • 1 jigger (1% oz.) gin 
Sparkling water 
Use tall glass; dissolve sugar 
in juice; add ice cubes and gin. 
Fill with sparkling water. Stir. 
Now use recipe at right. See 
how a simple switch in liquor. 
greatly improves this drink. 


the smoother COLLINS 

1 jigger (1% oz.) Southern Comfort 

Juice of % lime • 70Р 

Mix Southern Comfort and lime juice 

in tall glass. Add ice cubes: fill with 

ЛИР. This is the best tasting—and 

easiest to mix—of all Collinses. 

Comfort* Collins 

Shines with swim fans at Hotel. 

Fontainebleeu, Miemi Beech 
"Southern Comfort® 


HONOLULU COOLER 

First love of the surf set 

аг famous Hawaiian sun spots 
Juice of % time 

1 jigger (1% ог.) Southern Comfort 
Hawaiian pineapple juice 

Pack tall glass with crushed 

ice. Add lime juice, Southern 
Comfort. Fill with pineapple 

Juice; stir. Most refreshing! 


Sun-sational coolers : 
you've got it made, 
with a Happy Hour 

that puts thirst 
in the shade! 


COMFORT* WALLBANGER 
Brightens sun set fun at the 

Alta Mira Hotel, Sausalito, Calif. 

1 oz. Southern Comfort 

% oz. Liquore Galliano = orange juice 
Fill tall glass with ice cubes. Add 
liquors: fill with orange juice: stir. 

It's delicious. fabulously smooth. 
HARVEY WALLBANGER. Use vodka instead of Southern 
Comfort Add Galiano last, Hoang ir on top. 


RUM “М COLA 

Juice and rind % lime 

1 jigger (1% oz.) light rum + cola 
Squeeze lime over ice cubes in tell 
glass. Add rind and pour in rum. 
Fill with cola and stir. 


Instead of rum, see whet a comfort S.C. is to cola. 


DESERT COOLER 

As served at The Desert Inn 

and Country Club, Les Vegas 

1 jigger (1% ог.) Southern Comfort 
Pineapple-grapefruit juice 

Pack cracked ice in tall glass; add 
Southern Comfort. Fill with juice: 
add en orange slice and a cherry. 


‘ry both recipes . .. prove il 1o yoursell 
ordinary GIN N TONIC 

Juice and rind % lime 

1 jigger (1% oz.) gin 

Schweppes Quinine Water (tonic) 
Squeeze lıme over ice cubes in tall 
glass: add rind. Add gin; fill 

with tonic: stir. Now use recipe 

at right See how a simple switch 

ın liquor improves your drink. 


Sunny choice of skippers & mates 

at Anthony's Pier 4, Boston 

Juice and rind % lime (optional) 

1 jigger (1 oz.) Southern Comfort 

Schweppes Quinine Water (tonic) 

Mix like ordinary recipe. But you'll enjoy. 

it far more. Southern Comfort 's delicious 

flavor makes a much better-tasting drink! 
* Southern Comton® 


Great drinks to hoist: 
some old, some new— 
when the Happy Hour flag 
signals day is through! 


PLANTER'S PUNCH 

Juice of X: lemon 

Juice of ¥; orange 

4 dashes Curacao 

1 ygger (1% oz.) Jamaica rum 
Shake thoroughly and pour into 
a tall glass filled with cracked ice. 
Stir lightly to chill. Decorate 

with orange slice and a cherry, 
and serve with straws. 


GIN RICKEY 

Juice and nnd » lime 

1 ngger gin « sparkling water 
Squeeze lime over ice cubes in 
8-02. glass: add rind. Pour in gin. 
Fill with sparkling water. stir. 

To "rtv up” а тогу. use S.C. stead of gn. 


COMFORT* 
ON-THE-ROCKS 

1 wager (1% oz.) Southern Comfort 
Pour over cracked ice in short glass: 

add twist of lemon peel. This liquor 
1550 delicious it's one of the most 
popular on-the-rocks drinks. 


COMFORT" COLADA 
Smooth one from sunny San Juan! 
1 oger (11202.) Southern Comfort 
1 oz. Cream of Coconut 
2 oz. unsweetened 

pineapple juice. 
Shake with % cup crushed ice 
ог use blender. Pour into tall glass 
filled with ice cubes. Add cherry, 
A delicious coconut accent! 


LEMON COOLER 

Tall favorite of the sun ser, 

from Palm Springs to Palm Beach 
1 jigger (1% oz.) Southern Comfort 
Schweppes Bitter Lemon 

Pour S.C. over ice cubes in tall. 
glass. Fill with Bitter Lemon, str. 


SCREWDRIVER 

1 jigger (1% ог) vodka 

Orange juice 

Put ice cubes into 6-02. glass: add. 
vodka. Fill with orange juice: stir. 
Gre your screwdriver a new twist: Use 
Southern Confort instead of vodka, 


Е 
, 
— A 
i 


COMFORT* SUMMER SOUR 
Outshines a cleer day at La Jolla 
Beach and Tennis Club, La Jolla, Calif. 
% jigger (% ог.) lemon juice 
% oz. orange juice + У tspn. sugar 
2 oz. Southern Comfort • 7UP. 
Shake fruit juice, sugar end Southern 
Comfort: pour over ice cubes in tall 
glass. Fill with 7UP- stir. It's superbl 
Quickie Summer Sour. Shake 1 packet Instant Sour Mix, 
Tiger water, 2 о. Southern Conor. Pour over ice 
cubes in tl les, fill with PUP. Stir. 

"Southern Comfort 


Serve each guest 
your “sun” day best 
...it's a breeze 

to mix sure-to-please 
drinks like these! 


MARGARITA 

1 jigger (1% oz.) tequila 

% oz. Triple Sec 

1 oz fresh lime or lemon juice 
Moisten cocktail glass rim with 
fruit rind: spin rim in salt. Shake 
ingredients with cracked ice: strain 
into gless. Sip over salted rim. 


DAIQUIRI 

Juice % lime or % lemon 

1 tspn. sugar - 1 jigger light rum 

|| Shake with cracked ice ull shaker 
frosts, Strain into cocktail glass. 

Give your Daiquiri а new etcent; use SC 
instead ef num. only 34 tspn, suger, 


Try both recipes . . . one sip will convince you: 
ordinary SOUR 

1 jigger (1% oz.) Bourbon or rye 

% jigger fresh lemon juice 

1 teaspoon sugar 

Shake with cracked ice and strain into 
glass. Add an orange slice on пт of 
glass and a cherry. Now use the recipe 
at right. See how a switch in basic liquor 
makes a much better-tasting drink 


DRY MARTINI 

4 parts gin or vodka 

1 pan dry vermouth 

Stir with cracked ice; strain into 
chillad cocktail glass. Serva with a 
green olive or twist of lemon peel. 


For a Gibson, use 5 pars gin to 1 pan 
vermouth. Serve wih à peed onion. 


BLOODY MARY 

2 jiggers tomato juice 

% jigger fresh lemon juice 

Dash of Worcestershire sauce 

1 jigger (1% oz) vodka 

Salt. pepper to taste. Shake with 
cracked ice: strain into 6-02. glass. 


the smoother SOUR 

1 jigger (1% oz.) Southern Comfort 

34 jigger fresh lemon juice 

% teaspoon sugar 

Mix like ordinary recipe. Then sip it. 

S.C. makes the smoothest Sour ever! 
Comfort" Sour 

As served at the Top of the Mark, 
Hotel Mark Hopkins, San Francisco 


Your Happy Hour 
wins a place 
inthesun... 

when these classics 
are a part of the fun! 


ROB ROY 

1 jigger (1% oz) Scotch 

#4 jigger sweet vermouth + dash Angostura bitters 
Stir with cracked ice: strain into glass. Add a twist 
of lemon peel. (Often called a "Scotch Manhattan ") 


COMFORT* OLD-FASHIONED 

Choice of Chicago's sun set at Hotels Ambassador 
Dash of Angostura bitters « % oz sparkling water 

У tspn. sugar (optional) • 1 jigger Southern Comfort 
Stir bitters, sugar, water in glass: add ice cubes, S.C. 
Top with twist of lemon peel, orange slice and cherry. 
Regular Old-Fashioned: tspn. sugar, Bourbon or rye instead of S.C. 


GIMLET 
4 parts gin or vodka + 1 part Rose's sweetened lime juice 
Shake with cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass. 


——— Try both recipes . . . lear the experts’ secret 
ordinary MANHATTAN 
1 jigger (1% oz.) Bourbon or rye 
% oz. sweet vermouth 
Dash of Angostura bitters (optional) Dash of Angostura bitters (optional) 
Stir with cracked ice; strain into glass. Add Mix like ordinary recipe. A sip tells you 

a cherry. Now use recipe at right. Learn how Southern Comfort makes a far better drink! 
experts improve many drinks, See how a switch Comfort* Manhattan, as mixed at Paul 

in basic liquor makes a remarkable difference Young's Restaurant, Weshington, D.C. 


"Southern Comfort® 


improved MANHATTAN 


1 jigger (1% ог.) Southern Comfort 
¥ oz. dry vermouth 


jue 


SCARLETT O'HARA 


Shines in any crowd. 

i а drink es enticing 
ж» as its namesake! 
— 1 jigger (1% oz) 


Southern Comfort 

Juice of % fresh lime 

1 jigger Ocean Spray 

cranberry juice cocktail 

Shake well with cracked ice and 
strain into glass. A famous drink, 
with an intriguing. delicious flavor. 


COMFORT* JULEP 

Favorite at Churchill Downs, 

home of the Kentucky Derby® 

4 sprigs fresh mint 

Dash of water 

2 ounces Southern Comfort 

Use a tall glass. Crush mint sprigs 

їп water. Pack glass with cracked 

ке. Add Southern Comfort. and sur 

until frosted. This great ушер 

wins laurels where juleps are king 
at the annual "run for the roses"! 

Bourbon Julep: Add 1 rspn. sugar to mint; 

replace Southern Comfort with Baurbon.. 


ALEXANDER 

1 part fresh cream 

1 part creme de cacao 

1 part Southern Comfort 
or gin or brandy 

Shake thoroughly with 

cracked ice and strain 

into a cockteil glass. 


GRASSHOPPER t 

% oz. fresh cream. 

1 ог white creme de cacao 

1 oz. green creme de menthe 

Shake with cracked ice 

or mix in an electric blender; Í 
strain into a cocktail glass. 


ST. LOUIS COCKTAIL 

As served at Stan Musial 

and Biggie's in St. Louis = 
% peach or apricot { 

Chilled Southern Comfort 

Put fruit in champagne 

or sherbet glass and add " 
cracked ice. Fill with Southern 
Comfort. Serve with 

small spoon and short straw. ОЖ ТУ 


Entertain a crowd with 


OPEN HOUSE PUNCH 

Super punch . . . tastes like a super cocktail! Great for 
weddings, anniversaries, summer brunches . . . serves 32. 
One fifth Southern Comfort + 3 quarts 7UP 

6 ог. fresh lemon juice - One 6-02 can frozen lemonade 

One 6-ог. can frozen orange juice 

Chill ingredients. Mix in punch bowl, adding 7UP last Add crops 
of red food coloring as desired (optional): sur. Floar block 

of ice: add orange and lemon slices. Looks and tastes wonderful! 


HAPPY HOUR PUNCH Serves 25. 

One fifth Southern Comfort • 1 cup (8 az) pineapple juice 

1 cup grapefruit juice + 4 oz lemon juice • 2 qts champagne or 7UF 
Chill ingredients. Mix in punch bowl, adding champagne last. Add 
ке cubes: garnish with orange slices. Puts punch in any patty! 


HOSPITALITY PUNCH Serves 8 to 10. 

1 cup (8 oz.) Southern Comfort • 3 oz fresh lemon juice 

1 cup Ocean Spray cranberry juice cocktail • 24 oz Squirt or Wink 
Chill ingredients. Mix in punch bowl. adding Squirt or Wink last 
Add cake of ice: add citrus fruit slices. Unusually refreshing! 


SOUTHERN COMFORT. 100 PROOF LIQUFUR. ST LOUS, MD. 63132 
C'R7S SOUTHERN COMFORT CORPORATION ТТ 


MEW drink from Mexico! 


the 
cool 


Now the favorite of Miami's "in" crowd 
Owect from the famed Las Piramides bar! Th 
these liquors blend so well with orange juice 


try it yourself! 
secret’s in the way 
it's delicious! 


1 oz Southern Comfort Fill a hıghball glass with ice cubes. Add 
2 oz tequila Iiquors. Fill vath orange juice: sr. Add 
Orange juice a cherry. A most unusual drink. Ceramba! 


- 


NOI1VHO3H3d 9NO1V SNIBV31 АЯ S39Vd ONISILH3AQV 383H1 3AOW3H 


brothers had had more faith in the 

ys. "than the state had had 
In an afterword, Wicker states 
tcr all the investigations and testi- 
mony that followed the riot and the 
killing, “inmates alone were indicted.” 
No longer. 


Corporate capitalism, Karl Hess in 
forms us in Deor America (William Mor- 
row), is an act of theft, and state 
socialism a 1. The debasing 
ics between conservative and lib- 
e any differences trivial: Both 


political ideologies seck to create a social 
order in which people follow the ruling 
dass. Coming from a who toiled as 
Barry Goldwater's chief speechwriter in 
the 1964 Presidential campaign, these 
New Left sentiments may seem strangely 
out of phase, but Hess has traveled. far 
across our political landscape since his 
love-it-or: and he now em- 
braces Marxist doctrine with all the 
passion he once reserved for jingoism. 
Since he started refusing to p 
to support a “corrupt Government,” 
Hess says he cannot own property or 
earn wages without hav 

tached by the IRS, so for his suster 
he barters his services as a professional 
welder. By any reckoning, his sudden 
and complete change in values should 
provide the basis for a powerful auto- 
biography; unfortunately, Hes buries 
his personal story in mounds of flaky 
rhetoric, indulges in long, discursive 
tirades and plays his themes like a tone- 
deaf musician flailing away on а squeaky 
violin. Worse, he frequently adopts the 
attitude of a pompous teacher, speaki 
down to us as if we lack the smarts to 
absorb his lessons. We begin to under 
stand things better when Hess tells us 
about his joyous new lifestyle, the 
pleasures of work, good friends and 
mutual trust. His book might have been 
easier то applaud if he had reserved 
some of that trust for his reader, but 
even with its flaws, Dear America makes 
a proud sta 
to sacrifice a 


ment on a man's willi 


gness 

for a commitment 
“Just so you know, h said, "Im 

а respectable young woman. 1 went to 


AMERICAN TOURISTER WARREN, RI. 


"Dear 
American Tourister: 


Ican look like a V.P. 
on a junior exec's 


salary. Martin Sherry, Atlanta, Ga. 


EJ 


Attaches 


It's one thing to make the most. 
And another to make the best. 


We do both. 


We make 2 out of every 3 automatic turntables in the world. That's more 
than all the other makes put together. So BSR is big, all right. But we 
also make what we sincerely believe is the best automatic turntable in 
the world. The BSR 8100Х for sophisticated systems. 
Don't take our word for it. Take it right from High Fidelity maga- 
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The 810QX at fine audio retailers. Ask for a demonstration or write 
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McDONALD 


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Blaue NY. 10913 


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44 


Smith and my mother tells me I was well 
brought up, and the likes of us do not 
engage in adulterous liaisons at the Com- 
modore.” That, friends, is George V. Hig- 
gins doing what he docs best and does 
better, perhaps, than anybody else alive 
dialog. The 
е from his new book, A City on a 
іар "The book is а departure for 
is, who gave us all those wonderful 
smalltime hoods in The Friends of Eddie 
Coyle and other novels. This one is about 
ans in the time of Watergate. You 
will never have read such a political 
nove. It is most certainly not Allen 
Drury or any of those other Washington 
writer though 
it were the setting for some grand Ro- 
man pageant. Higgins is at home with 
the deal and Washington is built on 
deals. It's not his best work, but so what? 
ERG knows what we have all learned so 
that the difference. between. 
ns is mostly one of 
dress. And oh that dialog. 


who describe that city 


Enough is enough. The critics have 
paid constant court to all the modern 
Russian novelists. But to continue to 
rave over every book by every auth 
been expelled from the Sovict 
Union is absurd. And with the publi- 
ion of Vladimir Maximov's Seven Doys 
of Creation (Knopf), the time has come for 
harsh assessment. It’s a huge, depres 
boring novel spanning three gener 
and the breadth of Russia. To the usua 
confusion of too many Russian n: 

mov adds frequent bewildering 
cks, repetitious clichés and soa 
melodramas. The frater: 
artists forced from their 
noble one, but, like any all 
and strong members 


who 


homeland is a 
ance, it has 
Maximov 


belongs with the former. 


For the past several months, biogr: 
phies and autobiographies have bee 
sliding across our desk like hockey pucks. 
We intercepted a lot of them, took them 
home, made friends with several. Now 
well whack a few in your directi 
Jean Renoir / My life and My Films (Athe- 
neum), translated by Norman Denny, is 
one of our favorites, because the French 
film maker doesn’t even pretend to under- 
nd what his life was about. That 
comes from having been the son of the 
famous painter Renoir, who, in fact, was 
an old coot who would pad around the 
house, muttering such things as "In 
Protestant schools, you become a peder- 
ast, but with holics it's more 
likely to be n . I prefer the 
latter.” Or "[S Bernhardt] acted. 
like a goat.” Warped into zany irration- 
ality at an early age, Renoir the sou had 
only one ambition: to project the images 


inside his head onto a silver screen. 
He then leads you through his career, 
and its one of the most unpretentious 
journeys you'll ever take. He drops 
Ginating tidbits about the film industry 
that more reasonable creatures would 
brush aside: "A custom which I believe 
10 be peculiar to American studios was 
the suspending of operations while the 
star was having her period.” You need 
not be a film bull, and you don't have to 
ve seen Renoirs classic La Grande 
Illusion to cherish this book. Just be 
prepared to have your head turned 

round. .. . Another autobiography we 
highly recommend is All God's Dangers / 
The life of Nate Shaw (Knopf), transcribed 
from tape and edited by Theodore Rosen- 
garten. In 1932, Alabama tenant farmer 
Nate Shaw resisted the sheriff's mei 
had come to dispossess one of his nei 
bors of his farm and, as a result, Shaw 
was sent to prison for 12 years. Shaw (a 
pseudonym) is black and uneducated and, 
when he died in 1973 at the age of 
88, may have been the best storyteller 
in America. He worked as a farmer, 
log cutter, maker of ax handles, hog 
raiser, hunter, lumber hauler, swamp 
drainer, housebuilder, basket weaver, 


blacksmith, mechanic and mule handler. 
the 


When he reminisces about his life, 
powerful narrative flow sweeps ev 
before it. He speaks about what he 
the soil, the weather, people he cared for, 
those who gave him trouble, the skills 
he acquired—and mules. He loved mules 
nd remembered details of those he had 
owned 60 years before. Here is Shaw on 
himself: “If you don't like what I have 
done, then you are against the man I am 
today. I ain't goin’ to take no backwater 
about it. If you don't like me for the 
1 have lived, get on off in the woods and 
bushes and shut your mouth and let me 
go for what I'm worth, . . . Td fight this 
morning for my rights, I'd do it—and for 
other folks’ rights if theyll push. 
Tt strikes us that Nate Shaw has su 
jounted the problem. 
graphies, we heartily recommend 
Sybille Bedford's Aldous Huxley (Knopf). 
It's really two biographies in one, for 
Bedford gives us not only the author of 


Brave New World but also 1 
ing wile, Maria, As a biographer, Bed- 
ford is most comfortable with Aldous 


whenever he exhibits the spontaneous 
brilliance one associates with the in- 
tellectually distinguished Huxleys of 


England. However, when he shows his 
ble side, as when 
lie abandons wife and book contract 
for disinherited Lorelei Nancy Cunard, 
of the boat people, Bedford tries to 
understand; but between the lines one 
hears a. cultivated, querulous "My God, 
Aldous, how could you do it?” The biog- 
raphy is a magnificent anecdotal his- 
tory of four decides of avantgarde 
scienti: because Aldous and M 


into everything from Professor Rhine's 
ESP experiments at Duke to flying 
saucers and LSD. Even James Joyce puts 
in a brief appearance, and thats a UFO 
worth observing. . . . Another biography 


you 
may enjoy 
is Nathanael 
West /The Art 

of His Life 
, Straus 
& Giroux), by Jay 

Martin. West is 
the only novelist 
to our knowl- 
edge who got 
nself accepted 
at two colleges 
by sen 
fake transcripts. Paradoxically, he’ 
the only novelist we know of who fash- 
ioned his life out of the pages of the Boy 
Scout Manual. Martin's treatment is a bit 
too psychological for our taste, but we'll 
ke the author of the incomparable Miss 
Lonelyhearts any way we can get him. . 
Another good literary biography is New 
Yorker editor Burton Bernstcin's Biog- 
raphy of Thurber (Dodd, Mead). James 
‘Thurber, we discover. grew up in fin-de- 
siécle Columbus, Ohio, a city whose 
conservatives at the time were outnum- 
bered only by its eccentrics. This ex- 
cellent. book traces the career of one of 
America’s major humorists and cartoon- 
ists, a man who overcame poor eyesight 
and a myopic background to become 
the tutelary spirit of all henpecked 
suburban husbands. . . . And anyone 
who has ever wondered why Toscanini 
loved the little black notes in the score 
as much as if not more than the musicians 
who played them (although the maestro 
often took to bed the women who sang 
those notes) will enjoy Toscanini (Athe- 
neum), by George K. Marek. M 
appredative but by жогу 
ful. His fondness for espe- 
cially the Toscanini of opera, is subtle 
and convincing. Also Amirable is 
Marek’s feeling for the business aspects 
of commercial high art. .. . And finally, 
a biography that aims at the heart but 
hits the tenderloin is The Tragic Secret Life 
of Jayne Mansfield (Regnery), by Raymond 
If Jayne Mansfield really had 
affair with President John F. Ken 
nedy. as S implies, its main effect is 
to make one ponder the difference be- 
tween a Presidential Inauguration 
Washington and opening night at 
man's Chinese. No difference at all. 


© 1975-4, сеж тоөлссо со: 


Where theres smoke 
there’ controversy. 


The papers are filled with stories against smoking. 

But many people are continuing to smoke. They like it. 

Yet it's obvious that there are smokers who have become concerned 
about what they've been hearing about'tar and nicotine. And so- many of 
them are trying lower Таг апа nicotine cigarettes. 

If you're а smoker whos become concerned, you (and millions like 
you) have been facing a dilemma. 

Until Vantage, cigarettes that had lots of flavor had lots of tar and 
nicotine. And cigarettes that were way down in tar and nicotine were way 
down in taste. 

Most smokers found that most low tar cigarettes just didn’t make it. 
But then we started making Vantage. 

Vantage is not the lowest'tar and nicotine 
cigarette you'll find, but it could well be the 
lowest you'll enjoy. Exactly the right blend of 


VANTAGE 


tobacco working in harmony with the 
ingenious Vantage filter is what made it mem 
possible. VANTAGE 


And thats why Vantage us 
has become the fastest growing 
major cigarette brand in A merica. 

There's no controversy 
about that. 


FILTER. 


liz 


That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health. Filter: 11 mg. "tar", 0.7 mg. nicotine, Menthol: 11 mg, "tar; 


EE The Surgeon General Has Determined 
08 то. nicotine, av. per cigarette, ЕТС Report OCT. 74.. 


45 


© 1974Sony Corp. ol Аттепсе. SONY is a trademark of Sony Corp 


That's right Natural wide angle stereo. 

In one modest body, Sony has created the From a not so natural unit 
impossible—a one piece FM/AM Stereo that Weighing a mere 5% pounds, our nifty one 
sounds like a three piece piece also boasts a stereo indicator light 

The secret? А stereo headphone jack. 

Three powerful speakers each driven by And a built-in AC cord; so you can plug it 
different audio signals produce wide, well- inathome. 
separated sound waves. Or take it to the beach. 

By mixing these waves ahead of the And there, aided by our impressive 


speakers, our engineers achieved a startling one piece, who knows? 
effect You may just attract a two piece 


THE PLAYBOY ADVISOR 


nd and I are 
псе. We want 


AA longtime female fr 


ous reasons. Unless I miss my guess, those 
reasons should be obvious to hotel clerks, 


too, since from what I've heard, it is 
their policy to collect passports when 
guests register for the night. Can we ex- 
pect to be hassled or embarrassed because 
мете unmarri M. L. G., Washing- 
ton, D.C. 

No. Hotels in France sometimes col- 
lect passports as insurance that your bill 
will be paid or as an aid in filling out 
a fiche policière, an official card that 
lists the name, place of birth and pass- 
port number of each guest. The tactic of 
paying for your room in advance works 
just as well abroad as it does when you're 
not at home. And you don't have to 
worry about the fiche policiére this sum 
mer. The French government has aban- 
doned that little bit of bureaucratic fluff 
as part of its campaign of Liberty, Car- 
nality and Tourist Economy. So chances 
are hotel clerks won't be asking for your 
passports in France. Not that you would 
have any problems if they did. After all, 
it is the Continent, and you're right: 
The obvious is reason enough. 


WA nc cleaning albums the other day, 
I noticed an interesting phenomenon, 
The grooves on the surface of a record 
reflect light in different ways; some ap- 
pear to be darker than others. On most 
songs, the shading seems to be random, 
but on one or two cuts there is a distinct 
tern—not unlike the rings of Saturn. 
or instance, both Maria Mulda 
Work Song and Carly Simon's That's the 
Way I've Always Heard It Should Be 
are composed of six alternating bands. 
The divisions coincide with the verses and 
choruses, but I can't figure out why. Is 
it something to help disc jockeys find a 
favorite passage2—T. P, Sacramento, 
Californ; 

Old eagle ears strikes again: The dif- 
fraction patterns you describe could be 
used as a visual braille for the tone-deaf, 
but that is not their purpose. The sound 
that comes out of your speakers originates 
in the shake, rattle and roll of the needle 
as it moves across the record. The walls 
of a groove are lexiured when the record 
is pressed; the exact pattern is deter- 
mined by the loudness and pitch of a 
particular passage. The shadings are not 
random, It happens that the two songs 
you mentioned have similar arrange- 
ments—vocal harmonics and extra back- 
up instruments are added on the choruses, 
drastically changing the pattern of the 
grooves and the way they reflect light. 


Once you get the hang of it, you should 
be able to see where the cannons come 
in on a record of the “1812 Overture.” 
(Look for clouds of smoke and flying 
debris.) 


Over the past few months, I 
grown very close to a woman who lives 
in my building. She and I see each other 
frequently and usually wind up an eve 
ning making love. Although our foreplay 
is great, she says she loses all desire as 
soon as I enter her. She is ng birth- 
control pills and believes that they may 
be the cause of the problem. Needless to 
say, I am quite concerned. Could the pills 
be to blamc?—L. C., Memphis, Tennessee 
It may be a bitter pill to swallow, but 
some women lose their desire for inter- 
course after they've been taking con- 
traceptives for a while. (This peculiar 
side brings to mind the old joke 
about the best form of birth control 
being а firm, polite “I don’t feel any 
thing.") We suggest that she ask her 
gynecologist to change her prescription 
to a pill with a different hormone level 
or that she switch to an 1.U.D. or a dia- 
phragm. Or you might start using con 
doms. If the situation doesn’t improve, 
increase the amount of time you spend 
on noncoital sex play. She may simply 
be one of those women who respond to 
oral and manual stimulation but not to 
intercourse. Two out of three isn’t bad. 


WI, social life is a disaster; I can't seem 
to meet an attractive woman who shares 
my interests or who is compatible with 
my personality. I've wied special-activity 
dubs, but I don't know what to say to 
other members: “Excuse me, miss, are you 
here because you like to collect snakes, 
or are you here because you want to meet 
someone locking for someone who cok 
lects snake I've tricd singles’ clubs, on 
the assumption that everyone there shares 
an interest in meeting other people, 
but they are governed by а law of un- 
natural selection: the arrival and imme- 
diate departure of the fastest. By the time 
I find the girl I'm looking for, she's 
already gone, if she was there to begin 
And then, on top of all of this, 1 
recently saw Play Misty for Me on ТҮ 
the movie wherein Clint Eastwood picks 
up Jessica Walter, who turns out to be 
a homicidal maniac. Now I'm afraid to 
approach any of the girls I see in bars. Are 
there more efficient alternatives?—R. S., 
Chicago. Illinois, 

Actually, the anxiety and/or paranoia 
of singles’ clubs are perfectly suited to 
romance. In а Psychology Today article 


with. 


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47 


PLAYBOY 


48 


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titled “Adrenaline Makes the Heart 
Grow Fonder,” by Elaine Walster and 
len Berscheid, Н. T. Finck is quoted 
аз saying: "Love can only be excited by 
strong and vivid emotion, and it is almost 
immaterial whether these emotions are 
agreeable or disagreeable. The Cid 
wooed the proud heart of Diana Ximene, 
whose father he had slain, by shooting 
one after another, her pet pigeons.” 
Here's looking at you, Cid. It seems that 
two conditions are necessary to inspire 
passionate love: (1) physiological arousal 
and (2) a reasonable interpretation of 
same (“This must be love, because it's not 
indigestion”), Anything that stirs up emo: 
tions will do; the more intense the 
stimulus, the more powerful the attrac- 
lion. In one of our favorite experiments, 
researchers told subjects that they were 
going 10 give them electric shocks, let 
them worry about it for a few minutes, 
then introduced them to an attractive 
lab assistant, Most of the subjects ex- 
pressed a significant interest in the girl. 
(We hear Vincent Price is negotiating for 
the film vighis.) Perhaps you can use your 
fear as a springboard for an affair: The 
process, by the way, is reversible. It will 
help if you are more aggressive. Gestures 
that intrigue, nauseate, anger or terrify 
are apparently more effective than man- 
ners, Your victim will ask herself, “Why 
is this happening to me?” and, in the 
absence of conflicting evidence, may 
assume that it is loue. If you're lucky, 
you'll win the heart of а woman who 
hasn't showered since she saw the murder 
scene in "Psycho." 


During ine sex act, which part of the 
female anatomy is the most respon- 
sive to the caress, touch or kiss of the 
partner?—D. B, Flagstaff, Arizona 

The mind. 


This summer, 1 plan to go backpacking 
in the Rockies. I'm shopping for a light- 
weight tent to carry along. Most of the 
ones I've seen are made of ripstop nylon 
or taffeta nylon, A friend just warned me 
that these materials are very flammable. 
Apparently, the Government has been 
trying to get them pulled off the market. 
Is nylon the culprit?—]. M. R., Portland 
Oregon. 

Yes. A nylon tent isn't exactly in the 
category of a towering inferno, but it will 
melt in seconds if it catches fire. Con- 
sequently, most companies use a special 
1.9.0unce ripstop nylon that has been 
coated with a flame retardant. The newer 
product adds a few seconds of safety 
(and several pounds of weight). If you 
don't want the burden of a much heavier 
canvas tent, buy one of the nylon jobs 
and camp accordingly. For example, we 
know a guy who attaches а cherry bomb 
lo the side of his canteen and hangs it 


Checkbook 
with a brain 


Never make another checkbook error 
with America’s first computerized 
banking center in a case. 


The new Corvus CheckMaster is a checkbook holder 
with a built-in computer—a time-saving device that 
will keep you in perfect balance for every check you write, every day of the year. 


YOUR BANK WILL LOVE YOU 

If you're like most Americans, your 
checkbook is a disaster area. And your 
electronic calculator isn’t helping much. 

Finally, there's a great new space-age 
product called the Corvus CheckMaster 
designed specifically to keep you in 
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write, every day of the year. And it's 
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5. Safety switch If you forget to turn off your 
computer, don't worry. Whenever you close 
your case, your unit shuts off automatically. 
6. Private viewing angle Don't worry about 
anyone seeing your balance. The red display 
can only be viewed by the user and registers 
up to $9,999.99 or any six digits. 

7. Perfect size The CheckMaster's handsome 
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5/8" x 6 3/4" and weighs only 8 ounces. 


HERE'S HOW IT WORKS 
Open your checkbook holder and 
turn on the builtin computer. Press 
the “Balance” key, and your bank 
balance is recalled on the display. The 
CheckMaster memory is so powerful 
that it never forgets your balance— 
even months after you last recall it. 

Enter the amount of your check, 
and press the "Check" key. The check 
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опе key stroke. 

Or enter the amount of z deposit, 
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is displayed 
MANY EXTRA FEATURES 

The Corvus CheckMaster does so 
much, so easily, and it’s great fun to 
use. 

1. Easily corrects mistakes If you 
enter the wrong digits, press the 
"Clear" key. Only your mistake will 


To find out your exact balance, even months after 
you've last recalled it, simply open your case and 
press the balance key. CheckMaster’s memory never 
forgets. Designed for both men and wornen, Check- 
Master holds any stardard-sized personal checks, 
check register, credit cards and important papers, 


be cleared—never the balance. 
2, Worry-free decimal Just enter the digits. 
The unit's dollarposition decimal always 
keeps the decimal point where it belongs. 


3. Low battery signal The unit's penlight 
batteries will last one year with average use. A 
low battery signal on the display will indicate 
when it’s time to replace them. 

4, Overdraft alert CheckMaster will signal an 
‘overdrawn account plus show the overdraft 
amount and help you avoid the embarrass- 


ment of having a check accidentally bounce. 


RUGGED AND SHOCKPROOF 
Drop it, sit on it, drop it again—Check Mast- 
er's shock-proof case will withstand plenty of 
abuse. The integrated circuit is hermetically 
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CONTROL YOUR PURCHASES 
Take CheckMaster with you to the super- 
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THE PERFECT GIFT 
CheckMaster makes the ideal gift for your 
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53995 tron 

The CheckMaster is perfect insurance 
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MORE THAN GUARANTEED 

The Corvus CheckMaster will make such an 
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checkbook that we make the following un 
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and actually pay for itself in either conven- 
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and courteous refund. You can't lose. 

A NATIONAL INTRODUCTORY PRICE 

The American-made CheckMaster is man- 
ufactured by Corvus, a wholly-owned subsid- 
iary of Mostek Corporation and a leading 
consumer electronics manufacturer. Mostek 
was the first company to manufacture the 
integrated circuit—the heart of today's pocket 
calculator. JS&A is the world's largest single 
source of electronic calculators, digital watch. 
es and other spaceage products. We have 
purchased the entire initial Check Master prod 
uction to sell exclusively through the mail for 
only $39.95 during its national introduction. 

HOW TO ORDER 

Credit card buyers may order by calling our 
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check or money order for $42.45 per unit 
(539.95 plus $2.50 postage, insurance and 
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gation today. ONE YEAR WARRANTY 

CALL TOLL-FREE... ..(800) 323-6400 
In the State of Illinois call. 1312) 498-6900 
ın the San Francisco area call..... (415) 391-1700 
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GROUP 


DEPT. РВҮЗ 4200 DUNDEE ROAD 
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(312)564-9000 © JS&A Group, Inc., 1975 


In Montreal Canada call. 
In Toronto Canada сай. 
In Australia call . 


49 


PLAYBOY 


50 


WHAT TO DO IF YOUR 


STOMACH STARTS GROWLING 


JUST AS YOU PASS THE EXIT. 


dust because you get hungry on the road $ 


doesn't mean you can get off the road. 
Besides. the sign that says "Food" can 


mean anything from steak to agas-station 


vending machine. 

Well. if there's one thing that can 
satisfy that between-exits hunger, it's 
Slim Jinî The all meat snack that 
fits in your glove compartment. Or in. 
your glove, for that matter. 

And it comes in mild, spicy, pizza, 
bacon, or salami, At your grocers, j 

So, whether you travel because 
it's vour job. or just because you 
want to, take Slim dim. 

And stop agrowling stomach 
without having to stop the car. 


E 


No C.O.D. orders, please. 

Playboy Club credit keyholders may 
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Key number with order.) 

“illinois residents, please include 
5% tax. 


in LeRoy Neiman: Art & 
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ductions, 300 in full color. 
Plus informative insights 
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a valuable addition to 
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and handling. 

LeRoy Neiman: Art & Life 
Style is yours to read and 
enjoy for two weeks with- 
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completely delighted, sim- 
ply return the book for full 
credit or refund. Send 
check or money order to: 


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Playboy Building, Dept. PM92 
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Chicago, Illinois 60611 


from the top of his tent. In the event of 
fire, it blows up and douses the flames. 
Eat your heart out, Hollywood. 


Having recently returned from a tour 
of duty in Japan, I find that I have a 
slight problem. While overseas, I had a 
special bedmate who brought out a mild 
form of masochism in me. Just as I would 
reach ejaculation, she would give my 
balls a painful squeeze with both hands. 
At first, the gesture was excruciatingly 
uncomfortable and I would stop in my 
tacks. But further relations began to 
revolve around such brutal attacks; the 
excruciating pain would intensify my 
pleasure. Now that I am Stateside, I 
catch myself requesting partners to prac 
tice this baseball grip during lovemaking. 
I fear that this dependence could branch 
out into a desire for other masochistic 
assaults. What can I do to keep things 
from getting out of соттор М. F. M.. 
Las Vegas, Nevada. 

At certain levels, pain is indistinguish- 
able from pleasure, and your practice 
differs only in degree from the biting 
and scratching that many people enjoy 
as a part of loveplay. Your desire to be 
grabbed by the balls hasn't gotien out of 
hand as long as it isn't a compulsion. It's 
true that you may become conditioned to 
expect the baseball grip—if it happens 
every lime you have an orgasm, you will 
associate the two—but conditioning is not 
addiction. When you're in the box you 
can swing whenever and however you 
feel. An extra hint: Keep a resin bag 
by the bedside—it will improve your 
pariner's grip. 


(Can you tell me why there is a large 
indentation in the bottom of some wine 
bottles? After emptying several of them 
at dinner a few nights ago, my friends 
and I sat contemplating the inverted 
nipples. We could not come up with an 
explanation, perhaps because of the ef- 
fects of the wine. One of my companions 
suggested that we were getting a little 
less vino than we had paid for. Truc?— 
D. G., Miami, Florida. 

No. The hollow in the botiom of a 
wine bottle is called a punt. It serves to 
strengthen the bottle, especially for car- 
bonated wines and champagnes, and it 
helps collect the sediment in aged wines. 
Also, the punt will accommodate a 
wooden peg to hold bottles in place 
during shipping. However, none of these 
facts accounts for the origin of the punt. 
Back when bottles 
glass blowers would support the bottom 
of a bottle with an iron rod (called a 
punty—from the Italian word puntello, 
or point) while they formed the neck. 
Naturally, this rod left a ragged mark in 
the still-soft glass. In order to finish the 
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Get the punt? 


М, sent «a xue nn, a| Make it from coast to coast 
Р MUR CQ is by anoe. 


two problems that aggravate me no end. 
He demands sex constantly. I mean con- 
stantly, like two or three times a day. (He 
usually tries 10 come home during his 
lund: hour.) When we were first marr 
T thought that this was natural, but we 
have been married five years now and 
my desire has slipped since the honey- 
moon. Гуе asked him to see a doctor, 
but he says, "What do you want me 
to be, a queer?” The second problem: 
He has a very odd leather fetish. He ii 
sists оп having sex dressed in nothing 
but a heavy leather jacket and heavy 
motorcycle boots. He has about three 
jackets and five pairs of boots, which he 
mixes and matches for every session. He 
ny other leather items, but 
are enough to drive me crazy. He 
is normally quite gentle; in bed he be- 
comes fairly violent and acüve. Maybe 
he is unsure of his masculinity, but that 
doesn't figure. He's huge (6/57, 270 
pounds), very handsome and in his prime 
(29 years old). He was a football player, 
wrestler, boxer and weight lifter in col- 
lege and won many honors. I need some 
advice to straighten things out.—Mrs. 
Н. S, Dallas, Texas. 

If your left breast is bruised from being 
twisted like a throttle and your thigh 
scuffed from where he tries to kick-start 
you in the morning, we recognize the 
symptoms. Somebody slipped a Harley- 
Davidson. owner's manual into his copy 
of "The Joy of Sex.” All seriousness 
aside—it appears that after five years of 
marriage, your husband has learned what 
turns him on, while you have learned. 
what turns you off. You shouldn't try to 
even the match by handicapping your 


partner or by disqualifying him from For $200 yo can 


further play. Instead, try improving your 


game. Take the issue of frequency: His not only own 
appetite is still completely natural—it’s a Rolls Royce, 


your attitude that's changed. Your stated 7332 
EROS dues you can build it. 
аз а nonnegotiable demand. Create a 
compromise that will make meeting in 
the middle a joy fov both of you. 


АШ reasonable questions—from fash- 
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THE PLAYBOY FORUM 


an interchange of ideas between reader and editor 
on subjects raised by “the playboy philosophy" 


MISSIONARY ZEAL 
Screwing in the missionary position is 
ойе: 


the subject of ridicule. Neverthe- 
it is the most intimate of all posi- 
; the couple are face to face and can 
put their arms around each other and 
kiss while making love. If people want to 
be acrobats, let them screw standing up 
in a hammock. 


Edward S. Kern 
Denver, Colorado 
You're certainly right about ham- 
mocks. A fellow we know tried the mis- 
sionary position in one and he sprained 
his back. Standing up is the only way. 


WILDLY DIFFERENT 

I am an 18-year-old man who has had 
anal intercourse with my girl a number 
of times and I thoroughly disagree with 
Kenny R. Richter, who claims this prac- 
tice is unnatural (The Playboy Forum, 
January), As Dr. Alex Comfort states i 
The Joy of Sex, any sexual beha 
normal as long as you both enjoy it, you 
hurt nobody and you aren’t acting out of 
anxiety. He adds, “People differ wildly in 
what they need and in their capacity to 
be satisfied. 

Richter writes, “It seems that lots of 
people get the idea that they can do 
anything they want; that it's their privi- 
lege." So they do and so it is. 

(Name and address 
withheld by request) 


DIIDO DALLIANCE 
In the February Playboy Forum, a 
n criti- 


letter from an anonymous lesbi; 

izes the writer of a Playboy 
letter who described two women making 
love with a dildo (October 1974). She 
says lesbians never use dildos, but she 
Is to note that at least one of the wom- 
en is not exclusively homosexual—the 
one who had previously made love to 
the author of the Advisor letter, It is pet- 
fectly conceivable that a bisexual woman 
could get off on acting out the fantasy of 
being a man. 


Bob Lappan 
Princeton, New Jersey 


ORDER OF THE GARTER 

During 15 vears of marriage, I never 
masturbated. But one night on vacation 
in Rome when my wile said she was too 
tired for sex, I started stoking my erect 
penis while lying beside her in bed. I 
thought she was asleep, but suddenly she 
reached out, took over and got me oft. 


She refused to discuss what had happened, 
but she made overtures the following 
night and the same thing happened. 
Soon I was bringing her to climax in 
the same w 
She told me that instead of being em- 
barrassed or annoyed by what I was 
doing that first night, she was excited: 
and she realized it was because I was still 
wearing my socks and garters. She thinks 
it has something to do with a stag film 
she saw in her college days. 
(Name withheld by request) 
London, England 


SELF.INSTRUCTION 
I recently began dating а 24-year-old 
woman who had previously experienced 
only two orgasms. 1 suggested masturba- 
tion to her as a means of learning her 
1 turn-ons and of teaching herself 
h orgasm more easily. After a 
couple of months of masturbating daily 
(and sometimes more frequently; she 
has grown fond of it), she always reaches 
orgasm during our lovemaking. 
(Name withheld by request) 
Las Vegas, Nevada 


PROTECTION FROM NURSES 

The people who make the rules for 
nurses іп the hospital where I work 
evidendy think were predatory sex- 
ро. We are not permitted to bathe a 
man’s genitals but must leave the room 
while he does it himself or, if he can't 
bathe himself, we must send а male a 
tendant to do it. We are forbidden to 
catheterize—pass à tube to the bladder 
through the ureth male patient, 
which requires handling the penis. Only 
males on the staff may do this. And we 
are not allowed to prepare a man for 
abdominal surgery, because this includes 
shaving the pubic area. In short, only 
male staff may touch a male staff 

L used to think these rules were made 
to protect male modesty; however, I have 
now worked with enough men to think 
most would actually prefer to have a 
female nurse perform such intimate serv- 
ices for them. But no one has ever asked 
their opinion. 

(Name withheld by request) 
Burlington, Vermont 


METERED PETERS 

I'm a 29-year-old woman from Switzer- 
land now attending college in the U.S. 
After reading all the letters in The 
Playboy Forum on penis size, I took it 


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PLAYBOY 


upon myself to measure the organs of my 
two men friends, using a metric ruler 
since we Swiss are more familiar with 
that system. One man's penis is 29.21 
centimeters long; he’s had complaints 
from women who claim their vaginas are 
too small to accommodate him. My other 
guy measures 10.61 centimeters; he tends 
to be rather shy about undressing in front 
of women. In lovemaking, I've found 
each has his advantages: The smaller man 
never hurts me on entering as the larger 
one sometimes does, but the bigger man 
really fills me up. He has a predilection 
for anal intercourse, though, and as the 
length goes, so goes the width. It wasn't 
much fun for me until 1 learned how to 
relax my sphincter. Now I enjoy anal 
intercourse, but 1 still sometimes find 
myself wishing it were the smaller man 
who had that particular interest. 


istered nurse in a Chicago hospital. On 
one occasion, | was assigned to help a 
doctor whose patient had a bladder in- 
fection. It art of my job to hold the 
patient’s penis so the doctor could insert 
a catheter and flush the bladde 


with a 
pat 
penis was about 18 centimeters long and 
3.3 centimeters in diameter. After he was 
released, the patient called me at the hos- 
pital and asked me to dinner. I was 
happy to accept; we dated and eventually 
were married. 

It amuses us to read the letters in The 
Playboy Forum about large penises. My 
husband's is 26 centimeters long and 5 
meter when erect. After 
a bit of foreplay, my vagina becomes fully 
lubricated and accommodates him casily. 
We've decided a large penis is neither a 
handicap nor an asset. A cock is a cock, 
and the importance of measurements, in 
centimeters or in inches, exists only in 
the mind. 


(Name withheld by request) 
Geneva, Illinois 

For the benefit of curious readers un- 
versed in metrics, one inch equals 2.54 
centimeters and one centimeter equals 
3937 inches. Do your own arithmetic. 
Men will love the metric system; it makes 
everything sound bigger. 


HITCHING HORRORS 
|. by your leave, on behalf of 
kers. I own a car, but can't 
ight now and so am reduced 10 
thumbing rides. I have run into some of 
the worst crecps the world. "There's 
one kind of li; who drives 
around tool in hand; he pulls up to a 
chick and jacks off while he asks her if 
she wants a ride. He comes all over his 
hand and Jap while talking to her and 


then zooms oll. As if this weren't scuzey |_ ___ ___________ 


FORUM NEWSFRONT 


a survey of events related to issues raised by 


he playboy philosophy” 


DISPLACED ENERGY 

RoME—Five thousand тоте babies 
were born in Maly in September 1974 
than in September 1973, according to the 
Italian. Association for Demographic Ed- 
ucation. The increase came nine months 
after the government, in a move to con- 
serve energy, banned driving on Sun- 
days and ordered reduced heating, fewer 
television shows and earlier closing times 
for bars. 


SEX ON THE TUBE 

Loxpox—Dr. Richard Fox, а promi- 
nent British psychiatrist, has told а 
government-appointed committee оп 
broadcasting that sex education should 
be a part of regular television program- 
ing. He suggested that explicit sex, with 


instructions and practical demonstra- 
tions, could be useful in combating fri- 
gidity and impotence, He also asked 
would-be reformers and censors to stop 
worrying about sexual scenes in regular 
TV shows and to concentrate instead on 
depictions of “violence and greed.” 


FRANCE LEGALIZES ABORTION 
PARIS—The French parliament, after 
long and bitter debate in both houses, 
d abortion during the first 
of pregnancy. The new law 
ends decades of strict prohibition during 
which the number of illegal abortions 
has reached an estimated 300,000 to 
500,000 per year. Proponents fear, how. 
ever, that without a national campaign 
to promote contraception, abortion may 
become France’s major form of birth con- 
trol. At present, only 12 percent of French 
women use any form of contraception 
and fewer than two percent use the pill. 


TRIALS OF THE UNWED TEACHER 
AUSTIN, TEXAS—A U.S. district-court 
judge has vuled that school officials have 
the right to transfer an unmarried preg- 
nant teacher from the classroom to a 
nonteaching job. The 29-year-old woman, 
who planned to have the baby but not to 
marry, filed suit charging sex discrimina- 
tion on the ground that male teachers 
who father children out of wedlock are 


not similarly transferred. The judge 
ruled, however, that while fatherhood. is 
not necessarily cvident or obvious, preg 
nancy is and, therefore, no illegal dis 
crimination occurred. 


ONCEA-WEEK PILL 

EAST BERLIN—Researchers in East Ger- 
many reportedly have developed an ef- 
fective oncea-week oral contraceptive. 
The pill, developed by the state-owned 
firm Jenapharm and called Deposiston, is 
supposed to eliminate some of the nega- 
live side effects associated with other 
types of pills. 


MORE TROUBLE FOR LEARY 

OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA—Timothy Leary, 
one-time LSD advocate, has been ordered 
to pay $100,000 to the parents of a youth 
who jumped to his death from a Berkeley 
apartment in 1966 after taking the drug. 
The suit claimed that the 20-year-old 
man was influenced to try LSD after at- 
tending a lecture at which Leary alleged- 
ly suid the drug was “beneficial to human 
health” The default judgment was is 
sued after Leary, currently in prison, did 
nol answer the suit in defense. 


LEGAL POT PROPOSAL 

catoary—The Canadian Criminology 
and Corrections Association has called 
on the government to drive criminals 
out of the marijuana business by selting 
pot, like liquor, in government-operated. 
stores. The association, whose member- 
ship includes judges, police, parole offi- 
cers and other legal workers, said that 
legal pot profits could be used to finance 
research, education and treatment in the 
area of alcohol abuse. At present, how- 
ever, the government is considering only 
reduced. penalties for “soft drugs,” such 
as marijuana. 


LAST MAN UP 

CHARLESTON, WEST VIkGINIA—The last 
person arrested for draft refusal has been 
sentenced to two years in prison. Karl 
E. Lore, 25, of St. Albans, West Virginia, 
was picked up three days before President 
Ford announced the Administration's 
amnesty plan. He was a member of the 
National Guard, but stopped attending 
meetings after the Kent State campus 
shooting in the spring of 1971 and did not 
report for duty when drafted the follow- 
ing summer. 


FONDLING THE SUSPECTS 

Los ANGELES—Chief of Police Ed Da- 
vis strongly opposes the hiring of any 
homosexual policemen in Los Angeles. 
In a letter to the city-council committee 


studying an ordinance that would ban 
job discrimination on the basis of sex or 
sexual orientation, he explained that gay 
cops, among other things, might tend to 
become sexually aroused while searching 
male suspects. 


SCHOLARSHIP FOR GAYS 

MonTREAL—The Loyola campus of 
Concordia University reports that an 
anonymous donor has established a $200 
scholarship for any third-year homosexual 
of either sex with a superior academic 
record. Students may apply in writing or 
may be nominated for the award. 


THE LONG NOSE OF THE LAW 

SAN FRaNCISCO—The California Su- 
preme Court has unanimously ruled that 
law-enforcement officers may not examine 
bank records of individuals or businesses 
without a warrant or a court order. The 
decision appears to restrict and 10 clarify, 
at least in that state, the Bank Secrecy 
Act of 1970, which compels banks to keep 
records of all customer transactions and 
10 report to the Treasury Department 
any financial deal involving more than 
$10,000. 


PHOTO FINISH 

сислсо—А 42-year-old construction 
worker has been accused of trying to 
swindle his former girlfriend out of 
$2600 by threatening to show pictures of 
their lovemaking to her elderly mother. 


The man was arrested when he allegedly 
accepted the 13th monthly payment of 
$200 in marked bills and was charged 
with intimidation and thejt. The woman, 
40, said the money demands began when 
the couple split up a year carlier. 


LETTER OF THE LAW 
CEDAR RAPIDS, 1oWA—FBI agents al- 
tending a training course at a local Holi- 
day Inn had to make do with blackboard 
drawings instead of photographic slides, 
because of a Cedar Rapids ordinance 


prohibiting projected images at places 
holding liquor licenses. The three-year- 
old law is intended to keep pornographic 
movies out of bars and taverns, but the 
motel manager decided that FBI slides 
qualified as projected images and insisted 
on compliance. 


CLEAN AIRWAVES 

WASHINGTON, D.C—A Federal appeals 
court has upheld the authority of the 
ЕСС to determine that a radio broadcast 
is obscene and to fine the offending radio 
station. The FCC found an Oak Park, 
Illinois, radio station guilty of obscenity 
for two broadcasts of “Femme Forum,” 


a callin talk show, which dealt explicitly 
with the subject of oral sex. The station 
accepted the $2000 fine, but listeners and 
a civil liberties group challenged the ЕСС 
decision on First Amendment grounds. 
The court agreed that the broadcasts were 
obscene and held that the FCG did not 
infringe on the rights of the public. 


VICTORY FOR CENSORSHIP 

PORTLAND—Oregon volers narrowly ap- 
proved a new law increasing state re- 
striclions on pornography. Ој 700,000 
votes cast, 53 percent supported the 
measure, which prohibits the sale of por- 
nography according to U.S. Supreme 
Court guidelines. The old law placed vir- 
tually no restrictions on sexual materials 
purchased by adults. 


OUTDOOR NUDIES 

OKLAHOMA crry—Movies depicting 
nudity have been banned from outdoor 
theaters under a new ordinance passed 
unanimously by the Oklahoma City 
Council. The new law, which carries a 
$50 fine, is applicable only where the 
viewing portion of the screen is situated 
within the view oj public streets, high- 
ways, homes “or where children under 
18 years of age have an understanding 
view of the picture.” 


SEX LAW REVISED 

nosToN—The Massachusetts Supreme 
Court has reinterpreted the state's. sex 
law banning “unnatural and lascivious” 
acts, holding that the law cannot prohibit 
such acts between consenting adults in 
private. The court said its decision was 
based on an "awareness that community 
values on the subject of permissible sex- 
mal conduct . . . may change with the 
passage of time.” 


enough, there's another sort of toad 
sucker who is presentable enough to get 
you into his car before he starts to make 
trouble. He looks like somebody's father, 
or maybe the man from whom you buy 
sausages or life insurance. About four 
blocks after you get in, he begins to stare 
at your breasts while he talks about his 
work. Nine blocks down the street you 
are no longer in the car, just your breasts, 
chating with Mr. Nice Guy. Eventually 
he asks your left breast if it would like to 
go havea drink and maybe a few monkey- 
shines in his hotel room. Or maybe he'll 
offer to give both breasts a ride to wher- 
ever they want to go if they will let him 
suck on them. You and your breasis get 
out at the first opportunity 

Look, twerps. no chick i her right 
mind is going to give herself away for 
ride five miles down the road. We will 
walk first or not go at all. There are 
ladies on the street who need horny men's 
business and they aren't hard to find. 
Female hitchhikers aren't interested. 
Honest. 


y England 
. Arizona 


PATIENCE PAYS OFF 
"Too many men seem to have forgotten. 
the rewards of patience: they seem to 
feel that they're wasting their time with 
a girl who won't jump into the sack the 
first or second time out. It’s too bad, 
since their compulsion to screw every 
woman they meet probably precludes 
developing many otherw: i 
friendships. Then, too, one never knows 
when a longstanding friendship might 
become something other than P 
Recently, I got a call from a girl who's 
been a friend, but not a lover, for sev- 
eral years. She sounded lonely over the 
phone, so I went to kecp her company. 
We talked for a while and then—to our 
surptise—wound up in bed and enjoyed 
some soul-satisfying sex. This has hap- 
pened to me more than once. I'm not 
ng that I'l end up laying every girl 
I know but I certainly will never refuse 
an offer of friendship from a girl just be- 
ause that’s all she’s offering at the time. 
(Name withheld by request) 

Los Angeles, California 


WOMEN'S LIB AND EXTRAMARITAL SEX 

Many of my married female friends 
have complained about a lack of sexual 
excitement within their otherwise toler- 
able marriages and have admitted being 
interested in other men. And it's never 
been a secret that many men would like 
more sex, and different kinds of sex, than 
their wives provide. A more open, lib- 
crated acknowledgment by women of 
mutual desires, it seems to me, should 
help satisfy both sexes. 

I'm young, attractive, married and I 
spend a lot of evenings in a revealing 
costume working as a cocktail waitress. 
My husband is often away on extended 


55 


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business trips, which means that I don't 
БОКАЛ ccs co АН GERE ge 
but I do have time to find it elsewhere 
Of course, I get a certain number of 
offers no matter what I do, but Гуе found 
that if I take the initiative and offer some 
subtle encouragement, Т can have my 
choice of almost any customer in the 
place. It’s a rare man, indeed, who, when 
presented with a clear opportunity for 
risk-free, discreet sex with a reasonably 
goodJooking woman, won't jump at the 
chance. So, when my husband is gone. 1 
may have several affairs in a weck. I'm 
happy, the men are happy and my hus- 
band, who knows what I'm doing and 
thinks it makes me a more interesting 
and exciting sex partner, is happy. 

Td bet that as women increasingly 
exercise new-found freedoms, researchers 
will finally begin to notice nificant, 
if not explosive, increase in the practice 
of extramarital sex. 

(Name withheld by request) 
New York, New York 


SWINGING ON THE DOWNSWING 

According to an article in the Chicago 
Sun-Times, two researchers on sexual be- 
havior think that "the sexual revolution 
is cooling down.” At a meeting of the 
American Association for the Advance 
ment of Science. Columbia University s- 
ciologist Amitai Etzioni said, “It’s been 
discovered in varying degrees that all this 
sexual spice leads to less satisfaction. 
There is now more emphasis on things 
other than sexual acrobatics.” Robert 
Kolodny. of the Reproductive Biology 
Research Foundation in St. Louis, told 
the meeting. “We have found that a 
strictly mechanical, hedonistic approach 
to sex, while espoused by some, is relative- 
ly rapidly falling by the wayside." He 
added, "Swinging seems to be declining 

id people are looking for commited 
ationships, for some positive emotional 


It seems like only yesterday when many 
social commentators were telling us there 
was no sexual revolution; it was all just a 
lor of talk. Now we're told thar even if 
there was а sexual revolution, it’ 
over. But the mechanical, aerobatic ap- 
proach desaibed by Euioni and Kolodny 
is not the real sexual revolution, nor is а 
desire for emotional satisfaction and com- 
mitment a rejection of that revolution. 
The sexual revolution is a change in 
1 attitudes, a shift fom the belief 
t all sex except marrie 
the view that most sex is good. It bas 
never rejected the idea of love. If any- 
thing, at the heart of the sexual revolu: 
tion is a demand for greater emotional 
fulfillment than straitlaced American 
morality permits 

The notion that a relaxing of sexual 
restrictions must be accompanied by 
frenzy of indiscriminate coupling 
think, a hangover from the days when 
strict Victorian moralists, with their fear 


1 sex is bad, to 


of sex, thought that if people got a little 
more freedom they would run wild. Actu- 
ally, what Kolodny and Etzioni are dis- 
covering is that people are using their 
newly won freedom sensibly. But that 
doesn't mean there 5 mo revolution. 
There is a revolution, one that has simply 
Jed to the restoration of a more natural 
way of lile. 
J 


Chicago, Illinois 


THE DESIRE TO PUNISH 
In all the debates about drugs, I have 
not seen anything quite so clear and 
simple as the remarks of novelist Gore 
i in a San Francisco Sunday Exam- 
iner & Chronicle interview. Emphasizing 
that he tries to give solutions to problems, 
instead of just being a “doommonger,” in 
his lectures around the country, 
said: 


I tell them you must remove the 
workload of the average policeman, 
80 percent of whose time is involved 
with people's morals. I tell them you 
drugs, then you will be 
walk the streets in safety. 
And the blucrinsed heads start to 
mod in agreement. They are torn 
between being happy to walk the 
streets safely and the desire to pun- 
ish. That and hypocrisy are the 
principal American waits. 


Only the abnormal strength of this 
desire to punish nonconformists has pre- 
vented massive recognition that every 
man-hour spent spying on Mr. A, the 
drug abuser, is an hour ta from 
pursuing Mr. B, the rapist or burglar. 
Puritanism is a sadomasochistic neurosis 
that almost literally leads people to cut 
off their noses to spite their faces. Our 
national motto should be "E pluribus 
oud!" 


Francisco Martinez 
Los Angeles, California 


WILD NARCS 

In 1971, armed with almost half a mil- 
lion dollars in Federal and state funds, 
the 34-member force of Idaho's newly 
created Bureau of Narcotics and Drug 
Enforcement embarked on an epic of 
blundering and bludgeoning. According 
to a story in Newsweek, the Idaho drug 
cops "had so much money to make buys 
that they may actually have encouraged 
more drug traffic than there was before.” 

Throwing the money around wildly, 
the agents often were burned when they 
wied to buy drugs. In one incident, the 
agents’ story was that they were Mafia 
hoods in the market for guns. This 
set off a series of burglaries of sporting- 
goods stores in Pocatello by would-be 
suppliers, On another occasion, narcs 
discovered, upon springing an elaborate 
trap, that they were buying from and sell- 
ing to one another. In yet another in- 
stance, when an agent couldn't make a 


I love tobacco. 
Idon't smoke. 


Walt Garrison, 
football and rodeo star. 


Tf I’m a guy who loves tobacco, 
how come I never take a puff? 
Well, because I use “smoke- 
less tobacco.” 
All it takes is a pinch of 
“smokeless” in between my 
cheek and gum. Feels real re- 
laxin’ in there. And I get full, 
rich tobacco pleasure. 
Another thing is, "smoke- 
less tobacco" can't tie up my 
hands, So I can use it no matter 
what I’m doing. 

If you'd like to go “smoke- 
less,” here's what you do. Just 
look for three great brands. 

There’s Skoal, my favorite, 
which has a wintergreen taste. 
Copenhagen, a straight to- 
bacco. Р 

And Happy Days Mint. All 
three dated for freshness. 
They'll each give you the 
ROME pleasure you're looking 


tobacco. 
Apinchis all it takes. 


For a free booklet that explains how to get the full enjoyment of “smokeless tobacco" 
= as well as a few free pinches that you can try for yourself—write to “Smokeless 
Tobacco,” United States Tobacco Company, Dept. P44, Greenwich, Connecticut 06830. 


AY 


PLAYBOY 


58 


case, he firebombed a suspects car in a 
fit of pique. Many cases were thrown out 
of court because of what one judge called 
“totalitarian tactics." Eventually, a third 
of the agents were fired or were forced 
to resign and several faced crimi, 
charges. 

Newsweek summarized the bureau's 
complishment this way: “In the three 
years since its founding, the bureau has 
spent more than $1,000,000 and not 
turned up а single major drug dealer. 
The bulk of its arrests have involved 
users rather than dealers and most of 
them have been caught with marijuana 
rather than hard narcotics.” Looking 
back on the disaster, one official com- 
mented with unconscious irony, "Drugs 
were mot really the problem people 
thought they were. But they had tn 
mendous potential." 


с 


Daniel Leahy 
Chicago, Illinois 


HOLY POISON 


Tennessee courts have ruled that pro- 
hibiting cither snake handling or strych- 


и king by members of pentecostal 
sects would infringe constitutional guar- 
antees of religious freedom. Thus, laws 
and courts in this country will jail people 
for polygamy or for smoking marijuana, 
while permitting them to indulge them- 
selves with poisonous snakes and strych- 
nine. Our system of justice is neither 
logical nor fa 


ic di 


Moses Durham 


Easton, Maryland 


NARC ON POT DECRIMINALIZATION 

I have been an assistant prosecutor 
for Union County, New Jersey, since 
December 1967 and I am in charge of 
the Union County Narcotic Strike Force. 
I am also a member of the New Jersey 
Drug Abuse Advisory Council and coun- 
sel to the New Jersey Narcotic Enforce- 
ment Officers Association. My experience 
nd the experiences of other members 
of the association confirm competent, 
credible medical findings that the use of 
marijuana is destructive to human psy- 
chology and physiology. 

Nevertheless, I am also 
undeniable fact that marij 
popular drug in the United States 
nothing done by the courts, 
ment, medicine, education or the media 
has ally curtailed its use. 
Further, the people most likely to be 
arrested for m Sess) 
those who keep small amounts for their 
own use and who will not go on to a 
more dangerous drug. Even alter con- 
viction, such people almost never go lo 
l in New Jersey, but many of them 
nevertheless arc denied educational or 
employment opportunities—even if they 
stop using the drug. The result is that 
the police alienate a large segment of 
the public they are sworn to serve. 


ware of the 
is а 


are 


na 


In the light of all this, I believe that 
possession of small amounts of marijuana 
should be decriminalized under certain 
ircumstances. As à. prosecutor and a 
rent, I appreciate the possibility that 
my urging this may actually encourage 
some people to use marijuana, but T am 
also concerned about the monumental 
expenditure of law-enforcement resources 
on arrests [or possession of small 
of marijuana. I believe that the effective 
administration of justice is impeded, not 
enhanced, when officers who are needed 
in other areas of enforcement spend their 
time arresting smalltime marijuana users. 
who in all probability will never commit 
y other type of offense. 

"Therefore, 1 have recommended that 
Section 20 of New Jersey's Controlled 
Dangerous Substance Act be amended 
to make possession of ten grams or less 
of marijuana or of one gram or les of 
hashish a nuisance subject to a fine of 
not more than $100; and to make posses- 
sion of from ten to 25 ms of mari- 
juana or of one to five grams of hashish 
a disorderly person offense. Possession of 
more than 25 gr of mariju 
should continuc to be a high misde- 
meanor and the unlawful use of any 
controlled substance should continue to 
be a disorderly person offense. 
nt to emphasize that these recom- 
ions are based on my personal 
convictions and don't necessarily тер 
sent the position of any group with 
which I am associated. And I cannot 
stress strongly enough the importance of 
understanding my position; I oppose 
the use of marijuana; I favor the de- 
criminalization of possession for use of 
small amounts of marijuana—but. only 
as a solution to an enforcement prob- 
lem—and 1 continue to oppose strongly 
ny move to legalize further the posses- 
sion or distribution of marijuana and 
hashish. 

John H. Stamler 

Union County 

Westfield, New Jersey 


Assistant Prosecutor 


ABORTION AND JEWS 

A. Clark's letter in the January 
Playboy Forum contains two gross inac- 
curacies. First of all, Tay-Sachs disc 
only rarely carried by American Jews of 
European ancestry, not by one out of 30 
such people, as Clark claims. Tay-Sachs is 
primarily found in Sephardic Jews (those 
whose forebears emigrated to the U.S. 
from the Middle East). It is a disease that 
can be prevented. in many cases, with 
genetic counseling before conception and 
Sephardic Jews would be well-advised to 
seck such counseling before starting fam- 
ilics. But Ashkenavic Jews, descended 
from middle and northern Europeans, are 
not in this high-risk group and therefore 
should worry only if there is someone in 
the family who had Tay-Sachs. 

The second inaccuracy is Clark 
plication that it 


in this country who are the sole oppo- 
nents of abortion. Orthodox Judaism is 
nd has been opposed to abortion for the 
past few thousand years. Orthodox Jews, 
Protestants and Catholics are working to- 
gether with people of many other reli- 
gions to outlaw abortion. The idea that 
abortion is wrong is older than Christian- 
ity itself. 


Margaret Meyer 
Cambridge, Massachusetts 
Apparently, you've got it backwards. 
According to Dr. John O'Brien of the 
University of California at San Diego, 
whose work made possible the simple 
blood test for discovering carriers of Tay- 
Sachs disease, it is indeed one out of 30 
Ashkenazic Jews, descendants of northern 
and middle Europeans, who carry this dis- 
case. Sephardic Jews, whose forebears, by 
the way, come from Spain and Portugal, 


not the Middle East, are only rarely 
carriers. 
Clark didn't say that оту Roman 


Catholics oppose abortion. He stated 
that proposed anti-abortion constitution- 
al amendments attempt “to force laws 
inspired by Catholic doctrine on this 
country.” Certainly, there are Jews, Prot- 
estants and others who oppose abortion, 
but the main body of the anti-abortion 
movement in the U.S. is inspired by the 
teaching of the Catholic Church. 


THE OLD STERILITY STORY 

Recently, a feminist friend gave me a 
copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves, by the 
Boston Women’s Health Book Collective. 
What a change it represents from the 
kind of sex information that was av: 
able when 1 a pubescent boy. I 
remember vividly when I first began mas- 
turbating; I was particularly concerned 
about what it might do to my body, but 
where could I turn for information? My 
parents didn't want to talk about it and 
my peers believed the same myths I did— 
so I turned to books. 

In our house was a shabby copy of 
an encyclopedia, which contained a med- 
ical section. There I learned that mas- 
umbation, like premature ejaculation. 
could cause sterility. The encyclopedi 
conduded that this was the price a youth 
must pay lor being unable to control his 
sexual urges. 

Needless to say, the information wor 
ried me and I vowed that whenever I got 
an urge I would read that passage and 
thus subdue the drive. Also needless to 
say, it didn't work too well, but, luckily, 
newer information gave me some freedom 
from fear: One of my father’s “dirty” 
books said that the average man can have 
3000 orgasms in his lifetime. After sub- 
tracting the number of orgasms I had 
already had from this norm, I figured I 
had 2500 more orga 1g before 
ability to procreate. 

Years later, at the ripe age of 24 and 


ms comi 


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made a mellow wine just for family & friends. 


Nothing's changed. 


1100 orgasms beyond sterility, I got a 
woman pregnan 
(Name withheld by request) 
"Thunder Bay, Ontario 


TISSUE ISSUE 

The Chicago Daily News reports that 
Dr. Fumio Umezawa of Tokyo restores 
lost, strayed or stolen hymens for Japa- 
nese brides-to-be at the rate of one a day. 
The operation called maku saisei ("hy- 
men rebirth") costs $175 and uses sheep 
gut to replace the absent tissue. Mores 
having grown more liberal, Dr. Umezawa 
now does only a third as many of these 
operations as just after World War Two, 
when he invented the technique to help a 
young woman who had been raped by a 
GL "Among many won titudes to- 
ward premarital sex have changed 180 
degrees," says Dr. Umezawa. But old-fash- 
ioned couples can still enjoy a traditional 
wedding-night defloration. Of course, 
a bit of deception is involved, but the 
doctor thinks irs the benign sort: "I 
believe people have a fundamental right 
to be happy. If people are happy, this 
leads to a better society." Just a bowl of 
cherries, ch, Doc? 


Charles Ford 
Chicago, Ilinois 


HOMOSEXUAL PARENTS 

As reported in the December 1974 
Forum Newsfront, two lesbian mothers in 
Seattle won а court decision permitting 
them to retain custody of their natural 
children and to maintain a common resi- 
The trial, which lasted more than 
dearly addressed the issue of 
homosexuality, Thanks to the generous 
support of the Playboy Foundation, the 
American Civil Liberties Union was able 
to bring several national experts on ho 
mosexuality and child development to 
Seattle to testify at the trial. Without 
their testimony, the outcome might have 
been quite different. 

Since that trial, the A.C.LU 
come involved in several other cases in 
which child-custody questions have been 
decided on the basis that so-called evil or 
unnatural relationships exist between the 
mother and another person. With the 
precedent established in the Seattle case. 
we hope to be able to assert effectively the 
rights of tbe mothers who have lost cus 
tody of their children solely because some 
judges disapprove of their lifestyle. 

Lauren Selden, Executive Director 
A.C.L.U. of Washington Foundation 
Seattle, Washington 


has be- 


OTHER SIDE OF THE COIN 
The information in the letter from 
the Committee to End Pay Toilets in 
America (CEPTIA) and in thc cditorial 
comment (The Playboy Forum, February) 
is biased and inaccurate. As am ardent 
reader of your magazine, I ask only that 
you publish the truth and not the 
(continued on page 172) 


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PLAYBOY INTERVIEW: WILLIAM F. SIMON 


a candid conversation about money, energy and hard times in the 
seventies with the outgoing, opinionated u.s. secretary of the treasury 


The number-one topic of conversation 
in Washington and elsewhere these days 
is the sad state of the American economy, 
and an increasingly angry citizenry is 
blaming its political leaders for both high 
prices and lost jobs—and turning to them 
for help. Except for President Ford, the 
man who's been under the heaviest pres- 
sure is Secretary of the Treasury William 
E. Simon. In prosperous times, Treasury 
had been a sinecure for rich bankers and 
industrialists desirous of some high Gov- 
emmenlal title to chisel on their tomb- 
stones. Not in 1975. Treasury—not State 
or Defense—is where the action is in Gov- 
ernment today, and no one knows that 
better than the man who is now in its 
hot seat, 

Simon was born November 27, 1927, 
in Paterson, New Jersey. His grandfather 
was in the silledycing business, his father 
in insurance. Young Bill grew up in 
comfortable circumstances in Spring 
Lake, a resort town on the Jersey shore, 
and attended private schools. After a stint 
in the Army, Simon went to Lafayette 
College in Easton, Pennsylvania, where 
he prepared to study law but also found 
time to play poker and drink beer—and 
wound up tipping the scales at 240 
pounds. Nowadays, however, he is, at six 
feet, a trim 165 pounds. 


By the time Simon got his BA. in 
1951, he had married the former Carol 
Girard and was already the father of two 
children (eventually, there'd be seven). 
Setting aside his plans for law school, he 
began a career in finance—which cul- 
minated in a senior parinership in the 
New York investment-banking firm of 
Salomon Brothers. So hard-driving and 
aggressive was Simon as head of the firm's 
Government- and municipal-bond depart- 
ments that one associate dubbed him 
“the Vince Lombardi of Wall Street—to 
him, winning was everything.” When 
President Nixon appointed him Deputy 
Secretary of the Treasury in December 
1972, Simon's share of Salomon Brothers’ 
profits was reportedly between $2,000,000 
and $3,000,000 а year. 

The Simons left behind a 61-асте 
estate in New Vernon, New Jersey, and 
went to Washington with four of their 
children. (Two others are im college; 
another is working.) They now live in a 
large stucco house with a swimming pool 
and stables on seven wooded acres in 
McLean, Virginia. Back in his Wall Street 
years, Simon swam every day and played 
an occasional round of golf or set of ten- 
nis. Formerly a surfing enthusiast, he once 
took his wife on a South Pacific odyssey 
10 Oceania in search oj “the perfect 


wave.” But his present 13- and 14-hour 
workdays at Treasury leave him no lime 
for such activities. He's up before dawn 
and at work until at least eight vw; at 
the office, he is constantly in motion. 
While others are being seen lunching at 
the Sans Souci and other Washington 
bistros, this workaholic is gulping down 
a sandwich, Coke and fruit at a desk 
piled high with papers. Food is of such 
little importance to Simon that he some- 
limes eats the same kind of sandwich day 
after day for months at a time. (He re- 
cently switched from liverwurst and Swiss 
to ham salad.) 

With his thick glasses, sliched-back hair 
and tailored suits, Simon seems hardly 
the sort of person who might become a 
pop figure. Yet last year, when Simon 
was serving as Federal Energy Adminis- 
trator, cartoonist Garry Trudeau in his 
comic strip “Doonesbury” made a staple 
feature of the pipesmoking “energy 
car” who distributed gallons of gasoline 
to pleading Toronado owners the way 
medieval Popes passed out indulgences. 
No crowds lined Pennsylvania Avenue 
cheering “Long live the czar!” when 
Simon trekked over to Capitol Hill; but 
he managed to give Congress and the 
Americam public the impression that 
something was being done during his 


“Government is a menace. We have 
more government than we need, more 
government than most people want and 
certainly more government than any- 
body's willing to pay for.” 


“I was misquoted in the press as calling 
the shah of Iran a nut. What I said 
was that he’s a nut about oil prices. 
I'm sure the shah understands American 
slang better now.” 


ED STREEKY / CAMERA 5 
“What the hell happened to the free-en- 
terprise spirit: Did the Pilgrims need sub- 
sidies? Did the pioneers in covered wagons 
need all those things Government prom- 
ises to do—then does so inefficiently?” 


61 


PLAYBOY 


62 


five-month tenure in that office. Simon 
was appointed Secretary of the Treasury 
in Арий of last year and now looks back 
on his time as head of the Federal Ener 
Administration almost wistfully, “I must 
admit that during those very trying days 
with the gasoline lines and all the hectic 
ity, 1 thought Trudeau's cartoons 
were awfully funny." Unfortunately, 
Simon has little time to reflect on the 
“good old days.” The action has switched 
from energy to the economy and, as 
Simon puts it, “T seem 10 be in the center 
of the storm again. 

Because his conservative economic 
theories do not sit well with many on 
Capitol Hill, Simon assiduously courts 
Congress, behaves deferentially to ils 
barons and promptly returns the phone 
calls of even junior members. This ap- 
proach may not result in any ideological 
conversions, but it does make friends. 
After all, if a Congressman can get the 
Secretary of the Treasury to take—or at 
least seem to take—an interest in the 
economic problems of a factory back 
home, he probably couldn't care less 
whether the Secretary is a disciple of 
Adam Smith or of John Maynard Keynes, 
The most slashing attacks on Simon have 
come, in fact, not from his potential ad- 
versaries in Congress but from his sup- 
posed allies in the Ford Administration. 
In January, syndicated columns were 
overflowing with news leaks from anony- 
mous “White House sources”: Simon was 
on his way out. Who leaked those stovies 
is a matter of conjecture, but the finger 
seemed to point to Roy Ash, the former 
head of the Office of Management and 
Budget, or to Presidential counselor Rob- 
ert Hartmann. The rumors got so bad 
thal President Ford finally gave Simon a 
public vote of confidence—ending the 
whispering campaign, at least for the 
lime being. 

Because what Simon thinks and does in 
the next few months will affect the health 
of the American economy, YLAYROY asked 
Peter J. Ognibene, a New Republic con- 
wibuting editor, to interview the Secre- 
lary of the Treasury. He reports: 

“My first meeting with Simon was late 
in the afternoon of the day after Christ- 
mas. When I walked into his office, I saw 
him standing behind his desk, staring 
intently at a paper in his hand. He stood 
scemingly frozen in that position for al- 
most а minute before he noticed те. 
Later, when we were talking, he seemed 
similarly intent when he answered my 
questions. Discipline and concentration 
are what make this man tick, and 1 sus- 
pect these qualities have been the keys to 
this noneconomist's ability (o learn and 
function in this most complex assignment. 

“Simon is a belicuer, and his faith in 
the American system of private enterprise 
seems almost unlimited. ‘Government is 
a menace, he says, asserting that the 
country would be much better off if bust- 
ness were permitted to operate unfettered 


in the market place. He believes this so 
deeply that at one point in the interview 
he twice said ‘counties’ when he meant 
"companies—a telling slip that may be 
indicative of the sovereignty of corpora- 
tions in Simon's scheme of things. 

“In our first interview session, he came 
on strong about the need for fighting 
inflation by cutting Government spend- 
ing. keeping a light rein on the money 
supply and, in general, opposing sug- 
gestions that the Federal Government 
needed ta stimulate the economy to fight 
the growing recession. with its skyrocket- 
ing unemployment. Before 1 left that 
evening, he mentioned that he was 
leaving at five a.m. the next day for Vail 
to meet with President Ford and his other 
economic advisors. Out of those meetings 
came the State of the Union message and 
the Administration's program for dealing 
with inflation and recession, 

“1 saw Simon again early this year and 
noticed a subtle shift in his emphasis from 
the fight against inflation to the need to 
stimulate—but not overstimulate—the 
economy. It soon became apparent to me 
that he had lost his battle to get the Presi- 
dent to take a hard-line, anti-inflation 
stand. In our final session at the end of 
the month, he strongly defended the Presi- 
dent's proposals to cut taxes, increase the 
budget deficit and raise the ceiling on 
the national debt another 100 billion 
dollars—proposals that clearly 
anathema to him. 

"Yet, in spite of it all, Simon seems to 
relish being ‘in the center of the storm? 
and there is no doubt that he is. T thin 
he feels a strong sense of loyally to Fore 
and neither man would stand to gain if 
the Treasury Secretary and the President 
were lo come to a parting of the ways 
before Congress had acted on the Ad- 
ministration's economic proposals. How 
long Simon will stay—or survive—in of- 
fice is anybody's guess. I suspect that the 
key to his tenure will be how well—or, 
indeed, whether—he can continue to 
defend, in public, Presidential proposals 
that run so contrary 10 his own personal 
philosophy and preferences.” 


were 


PLAYBOY: Most people have come to be- 
lieve there's something fundamentally, 
dreadfully wrong with the 
economy. Opinion polls indic: 
one person in ten believes our economy 
is well managed. Is this lack of confidence 
justified? 

SIMON: Basically, I agree with those who 
say our economy has not been well run— 
despite its good intentions, Government 
seldom seems to run anything well, I'm 
afraid. Yet there's a perception in Amer- 
ica that there exists a simple, quick solu- 
tion to our economic malaise and that an 
action, or a set of a I cure this 
problem instantly. That isn't the case. 
But before we can understand how to 
cure the problem, we have to explode a 
myth that has become quite popular in 


recent months: that nobody knows how it 
all happened. We do know. 

Our present inflation problem stems 
from a series of special shocks that hit our 
economy. One was the poor weather in 
1972 and 1974 that caused a shortage of 
food. which. in turn, created an explo- 
in prices. Two, a liule-noted, simul- 
tancous boom in every industr 


effect on price levels. Three, two devalua- 
tions of the dollar. while necessary to 
make us more competitive abroad, had a 
shortrun inflationary effect. Four, the 
quadrupling of oil prices during and after 
the Arab oil embarg a profound cf- 
fect: Food and oil prices accounted. for 
most of our price increases during 1973 
and early 1974. And, lastly, our 1971-to- 
1973 flirtation with wage and price 
controls resulted in further distortions, 
shortages and scarcities. 

Special shocks like these have occurred 
before—but never so many at the 
time. Under normal circumstances, 
economy absorbs such shod 
levely recede to what you and 1 would 
consider an acceptable rate of 
This time, due to the irresponsible ex- 
cesses in fiscal and monetary policies over 
the past decade, we have been left with a 
most unacceptable rate of inflation. 
PLAYBOY: Would you define what you 
mean by irresponsible excesses? 

SIMON: We've had budget deficits in 14 of 
the past 15 years, and the prospect is for 


budget deficits over the next two fiscal 
y 


rs. There is no doubt that budget defi- 
its during periods of high economic 
activity create great financial and eco- 
nomic instability, The demands that 
Government places on our economy dur- 
ng these periods put tremendous upward 
pressure on prices. Then the financing of 
these budget deficits puts great pressure 
on interest rates and creates instability in 
our credit markets. 

PLAYBOY: Yet President Ford's economic 
program calls for the biggest Federal 
budget deficit since 1943; and you recently 
had to go up to Capitol Hill 10 ask that 
the ceiling on the Federal debt be raised 
from 495 billion dollars to 604 billion 
dollars. How did you personally feel 
about having to take that step 

SIMON: I thought it was ho 

PLAYBOY: Why? 

SIMON: Because our Federal spending is 


ows my abhorrence of this. It took us 
171 years to get to a budget of 100 bil- 
lion dollars—it scems like just yeste 
ident Johnson was debating 
whether or not to go over that mark. It 
took us nine more years to get to 200 bi 
lion. It took us only four more years to 
get to 300 billion 
hese are the fundamentals that we 
have to deal with, and what must be 


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PLAYBOY 


recognized is that this is not a problem. 
that came about overnight. This problem 
has been a long time coming. I like to say 
we have a love-hate relationship with 
inflation. 

PLAYBOY: Would you elaborate оп this 
love-hate relationship? 

SIMON: Nobody likes the results of infia- 
tion, bur we love what causes it. We love 
the spending, the creation of money and 
purchasing power. We love Government. 
spending programs, but these lead to 
е deficits—so we create more mon- 
еу to finance even larger deficits. What 
we have to do is shift these policies to 
promote savings. investment and the in- 
creased producti at will mean more 
goods and services at cheaper prices and, 
of course, more jobs. 

PLAYBOY: But thc morc pcople save, the 
less they spend. Isn't the purpose of Presi- 
dent Ford's tax-rebate plan, and those 
variations on it supported by Congress, 
to increase consumer spending? 

SIMON: It’s tue we're trying to generate 
consumer spending through the broad 
area of our economy. But saving is also 
important, because money put into our 
thrift institutions is good for the housing 
industry, which has also got its problems 
today. 

Did you ever stop to think that the 
people in the upper brackets are the ones 
who provide the vast amount of money 
for savings and investment in this co 
try? What do we want to do, take all in- 
centive out of our system? Continue this 
transfer that’s been going on in this coun- 
try, from the people who produce to the 
people who don't produce? 

PLAYBOY: You sound as if you were cam- 
paigning on a platform once attributed to 
Senator Barry Goldwater, the repeal of 
welfare and Social Security legislation. 
Are you? 

SIMON: Of course not. I'm not suggesting 
that we shouldn't be compassionate 
this country. But when we do it at the 
expense of destroying our productive 
plant, or injuring it so greatly that there's 
no money available for increased produc 
tive capacity, we penalize the people at 
the low end of the income scale, because 
that means that new jobs aren't created, 
that additional goods and services aren't 
provided at cheaper prices. 

Of course we're concerned about people 
in low-income brackets. Take a look at 
our permanent tax-reduction proposals. 
They're heavily weighted toward the low- 
income people. In them, the minimum 
standard deduction would be raised, the 
poverty level increased from the present 
$4300 annual income to $5600. In other 
words, people with incomes of $5600 or 
less would pay no taxes at all. The lowest 
four or five tax brackets would be slashed, 
the fist down from 14 percent to 7 per- 
cent, and so on. It's a highly progressive 
tax, heavily weighted toward helping the 
low. and middleincome people. The 


middle- and upper-income people are go- 
ing to be spending more in increased 
costs for energy than they receive in re- 
turn; the people in the lower brackets 
will be getting more back in rebates than 
they're spending in higher gasoline costs. 
If you're suggesting that we put through 
a massive increase in welfare, that’s not 
what this program was designed to do. It 
was designed to be more than fair, which 
it is. 
PLAYBOY: Don't the burdens of inflation 
fall disproportionately on those with the 
fewest resources? Cadillac sales, for in- 
stance, have been doing well; so have 
those of other expensive merchandise. 
The rich seem to have plenty of money 
to spend. 
simon: There is no doubt that inflation 
is highly regressive and, in that sense, is 
the cruelest tax of all. And Government 
just as surcly levies this tax on the Amer- 
ican people as it does the income tax. We 
have what we consider to be a progressive 
tax system, in which those with the ability 
to do so pay more, proportionately, than 
do those at the lower end of the income 
spectrum. Yet Government policies are 
exactly the opposite, because Government 
policics promote inflation. The best thing 
we can do for this class of people is to 
wage a battle against inflation itself. 
PLAYBOY: One of the traditional ways 
Government tries to fight inflation is by 
making interest rates higher. Docsn't this 
just raise the price of anything that has 
to be financed, such n automobile or 
a house? Doesn't this just fuel inflation? 
SIMON: There again, you're talking about 
the results of the problem, not the cause. 
Your Government has always been won- 
derful at attacking the results or the 
symptoms of the problem rather than go- 
ing at the fundamental problem itself. 
This Band-Aid approach is one of the 
reasons we're in the mess we're in today. 
High interest rates obviously accompany 
high inflation rates, but they don't cause 
inflation, When the Federal Reserve 
tightens money, that acts as a restrictive 
mechanism, but it is a very crude and 
blunt one. It's been used in the absence 
of fiscal restraint because we haven't had 
the discipline in our Government to use 
the budget in a restrictive fashion. 
Above all, our policies must be con- 
sistent. We cannot afford to have them 
take on the appearance of knee-jerk, stop- 
апа go efforts that one minute are fight- 


ing inflation and the next minute are 
fighting recession, with all the auend- 
ant disruptions that occur. Government 
should try to follow, as nearly as possible, 
ady-as-you-go course 


n fiscal and 
monetary policies. That'll go a long way 
toward bringing stability to this country 
on a long-term basis. 

PLAYBOY: You alluded to wage and price 
controls and some of the artificial effects 
their imposition had on the economy. 
Why not reinstitute voluntary wage-price 
leposts, such as we had in 1965? 


а st 


SIMON: Unfortunately, just as there is no 
such thing as being a little bit pregnant, 
there is no such thing as a little wage- 
price control. The effect of voluntary 
wage price guidelines in the private sector 
is to raise prices and wages—in anticipa- 
tion of the mandatory controls that will 
surely follow. I think we are seeing that 
to some degree in our economy tod: 
People are raising prices with the ex. 
pectation, due to all the public comments 
by some of our leaders down here in 
Washington, that controls are not far off 
d, therefore, they better protect them- 
selves. As competition returns to the m: 
ket place, the rate of inflation will come 
down. It is coming down now and it will 
continue to come down. 

PLAYBOY: Because of your devout belief 
in the market place, some people imagine 
you to be the rci nation of 
Smith, with his faith in "the invisible 
hand" that supposedly guides the market 
place. When you talk, as you so often do, 
about free enterprise, what do you mean? 
How do you visualize the American eco- 
nomic system in operation? 

SIMON: I sce the traditional American 


- free enterprise system, which has provided 


the American people with the greatest 
prosperity and the highest standard of 
living of any nation in the history of our 
world, operating well only under condi- 
tions of maximum freedom. That doesn't 
mean the Government has no role to play 
in our economy; its role, as I sce it, is to 
make sure that competition is, indeed, 
Kept alive through enforcement of the 


antitrust Jaws and those regulations 
that protect the public but don't impede 
enterprise. 

And, in the long run, we do that by 
making sure the economy is functioning 
properly at all levels in a truly competi- 
tive way, opposing anticompetitive prac 


tices that can, indeed, hurt the American 
people. But it is not the role of govern- 
ment—it most certainly is not the role of 
government—to do for the people what 
they should be free to do for themselves 
PLAYBOY: What are some of the arcas in 
which you think government ought not 
to be? 

SIMON: Government at all levels today 
has taken over about 38 percent of the 
gross national product, and that percent- 
age is growing each year. As government 
continues to increase its spending and 
regulatory programs, it removes decision 
making from the private sector and puts 
it in government's sector. And when 
government at all levels finally takes 45. 
50 to 55 percent of the gross national 
product, you've effectively strangled the 
private-enterprise system. I wish the 
American people could get a basic under- 
standing of what it means when govern 
ment removes your economic freedoms, 
because shortly thereafter, as happened in 
ancient Greece, your social and political 
freedoms follow. 

PLAYBOY: Why are heavy Government 


Today you feel the poetry in everything. In the budding 
flowers. In a fence washed clean by the spring rain. In each other. 

White rum won't jar that mood. White rum gets along 
smoothly with everybody. And everybody's favorite drinks—tl 
screwdriver, the bloody mary, tonic, even the martini. 

ging makes the di nce. By law, all white rum from 

Puerto Rico must be aged in oak casks for one year 
at the very least. 

White rum. A special person. The memory of a 
spring afternoon. Things you can stay with a long, 
long time. 


For ree "uen т Dept P-14, 129 


PLAYBOY 


68 


so 


spending and the borrowing it enta 
dangerous? 

SIMON: Well, there is a finite pool of 
savings in the United States. This pool 
exists not only in the pockets of individ- 
uals but in our savingsand-loan associa- 
tions, savings banks, commercial banks 
lifcinsurance companies, casualty com- 
panies and pension funds, and Irom it 


Dusiness—large and small—gets the re- 


sources it needs to grow, increase produc- 
tive capacity, build houses and provide 
the American people with goods and ser 
ices at the lowest prices of any country 
in the world. As the Federal Government 
continues to grow, creating agencies and 
preempting many of the functions of the 
private system, its demands on this pool 
of savings grow. Those demands grew in 
fiscal 1973 to 59 percent of the total m 
ket; and in fiscal 1976, the U. S. Gover 
ments tot: estimated at 68 
percent of this market. Now, when the 
United States Government, which has the 
highest credit rating in the world, moves 
into the capital market, it moves in at the 
head of the line and pre-empts invest- 
ment money from all the other borrower 
Who becomes disadvantaged? At first, the 
housing industry and small business. As 
the effect of Government borrowing 
works its way down the ladder, it begi 
to preempt some of the betterrated cor- 
porations from raising money. We have 
to reverse this process, because it creates 
great cconomic and financial instability 
and exerts tremendous upward pressure 
on interest rates as we force private busi- 
ness to go to alternate lenders—or drive 
it put altogether. 
PLAYBOY: Why has this problem become 
so serious? 
SIMON: We have to go back to what I 
said at the outset, that our greatest dif 
ficulty is understanding the problem so 
that people will have the patience and 
wisdom to pursue the proper policies to 
meet the problem. This is the third time 
п ten years that we have been presented 
with bills for past Government failures 
due to irresponsible economic policies. 
Each time we refused to accept them, and 
the next time the bills were higher. Just 
to go back and use this simple compari- 
son: In 1966, we had а ion rate of 
four percent, interest rates peaked at six 
percent; in 1969 to 1970, inflation was 
over five percent, interest rates 
and a quarter; last year, inte 
and inflation rates peaked at about 12 
percent. I suggest that if we refuse to pay 
the bill this time, it will become unac- 
ceptably high in the future, I must ad 
that on occasion, I really question the 
ability of democracy to beat inflation. 
PLAYBOY: Why? 
SIMON: Because it requires the wisdom 
and patience to do the right thing, to 
make sacrifices in order to attack the fun- 
damental cause of the problem. 
PLAYBOY: What is the right thing? Do 
you favor cutting the defense budge? 


" 


SIMON: No, we've trimmed our defense 


budget rather dramatically. We're 40 per- 
cent less than we were in 1968 in real 
dollars; and the cosis, economically, 


politically and otherwise, of becoming a 
second-class power in the world are far too 
great. We cannot allow this to happen. 
PLAYBOY: What's so terrible about becom- 
ing a second-class роже 
SIMON: We have responsi 
world. First of all. the protection of our 
country and its people and of our bor- 
ders. We also have a responsibility, as the 
greatest country in this world, to assure 
that frecdom remains in many other 
countries, Our military strength gives us 
strength in our economic and political 
bargaining positions throughout the 
world, and we cannot allow these to de- 
teriorate, We also can't allow the military 
to grow unnecessarily or imprudently, 
but by any measurement, our defense ex- 
penditures have declined. 

PLAYBOY: If the United States is so power- 
ful, why were the oil-produ ious 
able to quadruple their prices with im- 
punity? 

SIMON: Well, you're just showing me the 
tural impatience of all of us in Ameri- 
ca. You have to recognize thar the quadru- 
pling of oil prices is just a year and a half 
old now. Everyone looks for instant suc- 
cess and policies to accomplish а reduc- 
tion in the price of oil, a reduction of the 
inflation rate or a resurgence in our 
economy. These th 
PLAYBOY: Where can cuts in the F 
budget be made, if not in defense? Mili- 
tary expenditures still take almost 100 
billion dollars out of about a 300-billion- 
dollar budget. 

SIMON: It’s a little bit Jess than that. But 
I didn't say I wouldn't cut defense. I 
would say that we should take a look at 
everything else, aned in terms of our 
priorities, domestically and internat 
ly. Every area that you look at as a place 
to reduce Federal expenditures evokes 
objections from special-interest groups. 1 
think myself that it’s fairer to cut on 
across-the-board ba: 
PLAYBOY: Just say. ОК. we cut five р 
cent of everything? 

SIMON: I recognize that an awful lot of 
the expenditure side of the budget is on 
а contractual basis, and it's going to take 
time for the contracts to run out. But we 
have to contain and eventually cut this 
massive deficit and the expenditures thar 
are growing at such an alarming rate. It 
will require à cooperation between the 
Administration and Congress that so far 
has not been very evident, though 
PLAYBOY: As far as partnership with Con- 
gress goes, there's been speculation that 
some in the White House consider you a 
liability in dealing with Capitol Hill— 
presumably because of your very outspo- 
ken views. There were stories in the press 
year, supposedly leaked by a 
White House source, that you were going 


to be asked to resign. Do you have any 
idea who was trying to do you in, and 


nd I never read where 
one suggested I would be a liability in 
dealing with Congress. I think it’s fairly 
well recognized that I've always enjoyed 
very cordial relations with Congress and 
Y expect that will continue. But I really 
have no idea who the famous White 
House source is supposed to be. 
PLAYBOY: Don't you have any suspicions? 
SIMON: No! And I'm simply 100 busy to 
ruminate about things like that. 
PLAYBOY: It's been said that you and the 
former head of the Office of Management 
and Budget, Roy Ash, didn't see eye to 
cye. Do you suspect him? 
SIMON: 1 don't suspect anybody, because 
T've scen the rumor mill operate in this 
bureaucracy. These rumors are among the 
favorite pastimes in the Government; 1 
have no idea where they start, 
PLAYBOY: Cordial or not, your relations 
with members of Congress show st 
when it comes to some of the exper 
Government programs they propose. 
SIMON: My message to those legislators 
who advocate increased Federal spending 
is simple: We have to stop this! It’s timc 
to tell the American people that we're 
going to have to begin to think about 
paying for all our expenditures or make 
them grow a little more slowly. Nobody 
can continue year after year after year 
after year to live beyond his means, and 
we, as a people, have been 1 
our means for many years. Now we 
paying the price for it. 
PLAYBOY: You've spoken about Govern- 
ment spending and how it affects the 
economy. Wh: bout the other, more 
hidden Government influences. such as 
subsidies in the tax code that tend to fa 
certain businesses over othe 
SIMON: You didn't use the term loophole, 
but that's the word people usually use 
when they're criticizing subsidies. Every 
body's loophole ncbody else's sub- 
sidy. Congress has enacted a great many 
of these subsidies to provide incentives 
to get given results—everything from the 
ivestmenttax credit to the deduction of 
interest оп your home mortgage—and 
they work. The oildepletion allowance 
is a subsidy: it's a carrot that enables the 
dependent producer to get money from 
doctors, lawyers and businessmen to go 
drill the wells. All of these subsidies writ 
ten into the tax law are constantly bci 
wed and changed as the incenti 
deemed no longer necessary. 
PLAYBOY: Lets talk about some of the 
specific ways Government intervenes 
the economy to help producers at the ex 
pense of consumers. Take м to 
merchant shipping, regulation of airline 
fares so there's no price competition, the 
Interstate Commerce Commission’s con- 
trol of freight rates—all of which seem to 


пу 


ive 


ing beyond 


vo 


so 


sii 


PLAYBOY 


70 


increase the cost to consumers. Would 
you address some of these points? 
SIMON: Well, I think Government regula- 
tion initially was established to protect, 
if you will, the citizen and promote com- 
petition. But I think just the reverse has 
been the result, because special interests 
have built up constituencics—whether it 
the truckers or the shippers or the air- 
lines—that constantly promote price fix- 
ing or operating inefficiencies, which are 
to the detriment of the consumer, of 
course. 

PLAYBOY: Certainly, there must have been 
reasons for the Government to have es- 
tablished such regulations. How did they 
come about? 

SIMON: I would guess that, as is the case 
in all special-interest actions, they become 
embedded in Government regulatory 
mechanisms. If through Government 
regulation you end up protecting a partic 
ular constituency—whatever that constit- 
uency is in the broad category of business 
or industry—you increase the cost to con- 
sumers. But is this the way the system 
should work? To promote inefficiency? 
Well, the argument is that without this 
protection, the industry would shrink 
and people would be out of work. Maybe 
they would and maybe they wouldn't. But 
should we have subsidized the buggy-whip 
manufacturers or the makers of stage 
coaches when the automobile came in? 
Because, God, what would we do when 
stagecoaches weren't being made any- 
more—wouldn’t we just have to go on 
paying their workers unemployment 
insurance? 

What the hell happened to the Ameri- 

can free-enterprise spirit: Did the Pil- 
grims nced subsidies? Or the pioneers in 
their covered wagons who went out and 
developed the West—did they need all 
of these things that Government prom- 
ises to do, then does so inefficiently? 
Again, Government has a role to play to 
make sure that everybody n equal 
opportunity, an equal education, but, 
my God, do we overdo the rest of it! 
PLAYBOY: Well, of course, one of the in- 
centives the pioneers had was free or 
cheap land if they were willing to home 
stead it. 
SIMON: Oh, 1 think that the same incen- 
tives exist today for Americans to open 
the freedom this country al- 
lows its citizens is incentive in itself. But 
let's not kid ourselves. Politically, that's 
not the direction in which we're heading. 
As a matter of fact, we're heading in ex 
actly the opposite direction, and the re- 
sults are predictable. We've seen it 
happen in other countries, such as the 
igdom and Italy. The United 
ament, with its gross i 
cfüciency and mismanagement, ends up 
taking over in certain areas and subsidi 
ing them to greater and greater degrees, 
and that costs the taxpayers a lot of 
money, too. 

Just take a look at the agricultural 


nesses; 


subsidics. For years and years and years 
we withheld Tand from production. Well, 
now we've freed it and we're going to 
produce food all out. We've removed the 
farmer from under the thumb of Govern- 
ment. If we could do that in many of our 
other controlled and restricted areas, we'd 
have a much healthier and happier 
America. 
PLAYBOY: But you obviously support some 
Government regulation of the economy. 
Where would you draw the line? Are you 
opposed, for example, to the Govern- 
menr's requiring that automotive manu- 
facturers make automobiles safer? 
SIMON: Why, of course we ought to have 
safe automobiles. Seat belts, for instance, 
are a good idea. But we shouldn't go over- 
board with some of the things we put on. 
PLAYBOY: Such as? 
SIMON: I mean the seat belts where the 
buzzeıs go off and drive you right out of 
your mind. Talk about the removal of 
personal freedoms! Y think it's absolutely 
ridiculous—the headrests in the cars and 
all the rest of it. All that adds tremen- 
dously to the cost of the car. 
PLAYBOY: Yet the automotive industry 
resisted mandatory seat belts for many 
years. Do you think it was the proper role 
of Government to compel Detroit to in- 
stall seat belts in new cars? 
SIMON: That’s the role of Government. 
Sure. Government should make sure that 
the American people are protected from 
a health or safety point of view, and from 
a price point of vi 's why we 
propose things like labeling, making sure 
that the consumer knows exactly what 
hes buying whether its labeling the 
gredients when you buy a bottle of X 
or whether you're borrowing money from 
your bank and need to know the interest 
and the effective actual cost you're 
paying. 
PLAYBOY: Where, then, do you draw the 
linc? Do we need a Securities and Ex- 
change Commission to keep people from 
speculating with other people's money? 
Do you oppose Government protection of 
common resources, such as air and water? 
SIMON: No, I think it is Gover 
responsibility, because, as we saw for so 
many years, the end product of our un- 
controlled Industrial Revolution in this 
country was going to be considerable 
damage to our environment. I think that 
sometimes, though, we should sit back and 
say, "АН right, what is the economic im- 
pact of this law we're passing now? Ате 
we attempting to do something too 
quickly?” These problems come about 
because of a long period of abuse, Our 
environment, inflation, energy: All three 
problems came about through many years 
of neglect in one form or another. Well, 
it's going to take time to cure those 
problems, but let's not try to cure them 
overnight. 

We passed a very stringent Clean Air 


ment’s 


Act and an Environmental Protection 
Authority Act that legislate within a very 
short period of time a complete change 
in the modus operandi of business, the 
way people live, the way they build their 
Idings, and so on. We required en- 
vironmental-impact statements, but no 
nflationary-impact statement—a now 
required—to assess prospective economic 
damage. 

PLAYBOY: You believe some Government 
intervention is necessary, but you have 
yet to say where you would draw the 
ne. In a free-enterprise system, along 
with the freedom to use your resources 
to produce goods for a profit goes the 
freedom to fail if you are an inefficient. 
producer. We have seen in recent years 
the Government move in to prop up in- 
efficient producers, such as Lockheed 
Aircraft Corporation. Can you justify 
such things as the Lockheed loan? 
SIMON: I'd take it on a case-by-case basis. 
Ifa compelling case could be made that 
the Government had helped create the 
problem of the particular company or 
industry, then we would have to decide 
whether we had a responsibility to assist 
it back onto its feet. And 1 think in the 
Lockheed case it was argued quite strong 
ly that, A, Government had had a good 
deal to do with it, and, B, its impact on 
our economy was not worth allowing us 
not to assist them. So we decided that it 
would be money well lent, and it was 
only a loan, to help them through this 
transition period. But, by and large, any 
case for Government aid should meet 
some pretty strict criteria, because I do 
not believe that Government should sub- 
sidize failure due to mismanagement ог 
inefficiency. 

PLAYEOY: Let's talk about unemployme 
At your Senate confirmation hearing last 
year, you predicted that unemployment 
would not reach six percent. It is now 
more than eight percent and is expected 
by many to remain at that level for some 
time. Did you misassess the unemploy- 
ment problem? 

SIMON: This is what causes people to get 
confused; they read about things like this 
in newspapers and magazines. Forecast- 
ing the future, which is the role of 
economists—not only in Government but 
outside—is very precarious. At the be- 
ginning of 1974, the economic seers were 
pretty unanimous in the forecasts that 
were being put forth. What people don't 
seem to perceive is that making economic 
policy is an ever-evolving event; that 
as events change, every action has its 
reaction. Also, the mood of people, the 
state of consumer confidence, can radical- 
ly alter developments. Last fall, double- 
digit inflation frightened and confused. 
the American people so much that they 
went on the biggest buying strike in the 
history of this country. That hurt the 
entire economy, and it was completely 
unpredictable. I wish we could get out 


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Imported in bottle from Canada. 


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w № 


и Im mgoing to smoke, 
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П 8; 


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= FIC Report OCT. 74. 
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з i Cold 


of the business of forecasting, but, un- 
fortunately, in setting policy one must 
take circumstances as they exist today 
and make assumptions about what will 
occur in the future. 

PLAYBOY: But don't you see a danger of 
a serious credibility gap? 

SIMON: Not as long as we in Government 
attempt to explain away the forecast. 
We should explain to the people that 
forecasts are tenuous at best, that our 
ability to foretell the future is as im- 
precise as anybody's. But we can assure 
them that as events unfold, we will 
change our policies, adjust the mix to 
meet changing conditions. 

PLAYBOY: Most people believe the econo- 
my is going to get worse before it gets 
better. What do you say to those who 
feel we are headed for a depression on 
the order of what we suffered in the 
Thirties? 

SIMON: Well, my goodness, I think people 
who suggest that are not making a truc 
comparison. In the depression of the 
Thirties, unemployment was at 25 per- 
cent. Today it’s a third of that. We 
didn't have the basic structural strengths 
then that we have in our economy today 
that protect us from really deep cydical 
declines in our economy. We have a 
Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation 
that insures cach individual's bank de- 
posits up to $40,000. We have a Ѕесші 
ties and Exchange Commission, and a 
Federal Reserve System that is truly a 
lender of last resort in our economy. 
During the Thirties, the Federal Reserve 
contracted the money supply by 33 per- 
cent, whereas today it is expanding the 
money supply. So I’m sorry to contradict 
the doomsayers, but our economy is much 
more dynamic today. Every factor is so 
much stronger that a depression, in my 
opinion, is next to impossible. 

PLAYBOY: But, again, the various things 
you just mentioned—Federal Reserve, 
FDIC, unemployment compensati 
the like—are all ways in which the Gov- 
ernment has intervened, apparently to 
the benefit of the economy. 

SIMON: Government does have a legiti- 
mate role in certain areas to protect and 
to assist. When the system is temporarily 
out of whack, then it must step in and 
fill a void and take care of people during 
this transitional period, and that’s ex- 
actly what we are doing today. 
PLAYBOY: How do you intend to fight the 
seyere unemployment we now are facing? 
SIMON: We have to attack the t 
monster of inflation and recession, mak- 
ing darn sure we don't exacerbate the 
recession by attacking inflation too hard, 
or attack recession with so much gusto 
that we experience renewed inflation 
down the road, because then we will 
come back with an even higher rate of 
unemployment. 

PLAYBOY: You're talking about fighting 
unemployment on a long-term basis. 
What needs to be done right now? 


SIMON: Well, we're seeing an expansion- 
ary budget policy at this point. The 
Federal Reserve is also quite actively 
easing monetary policy. This is helping 
bring interest rates down and causing 
a reflow of funds into the thrift institu- 
tions, thus spurring recovery of the hard- 
hit housing industry. As the inflation rate 
comes down, consumer confidence—and 
spending—should begin to pick up. 
PlayBoy: We were asking about un- 
employment, not prices. 

SIMON: High inflation brings high un- 
employment. 

PLAYBOY: What's your feeling about cre- 
ating publicservice jobs to fight un- 
employment? 

SIMON: I think that's extremely important, 
along with unemployment insurance. 
Economic policies, other than being prac- 
tical and effective, have то be compas- 
sionate and humane. We have to make 
sure that those who bear a disproportion- 
аге burden during our economic malaise, 
such as the unemployed, are taken care 
of. Even so, we should keep in mind that 
85 percent of the jobs in this country are 
provided by the private sector. This is 
why it is so important to get the over-all 
economy moving again if we are really 
going to reduce heavy unemployment. 
PLAYBOY; Some people feel that the unem- 
ployment statistics, high as they are, do 
not reflect reality; that there’s a lot of 
so-called hidden unemployment—pcople 
who have given up any hope of finding 
work and are no longer eligible for un- 
employment benefits. 

SIMON: Well, there are also those who 
would argue, and perhaps correctly, that 
a fair portion of the unemployment rolls 
is made up of people who are never look- 
ing seriously for jobs. 

PLAYBOY. What do you consider a toler- 
able rate of unemployment? 

SIMON: That's hard to pin down to a 
specific figure, but it should certainly be 
far lower than the present level. 
PLAYBOY: How many people does each 
percentage point in the unemployment 
figures represent? 

SIMON: About 900,000. You have to rec- 
ognize it’s going to take time to get back 
to four percent, which is the full-employ- 
ment goal. And if we have another 
severe bout with inflation, we'll have 
even higher unemployment. What we're 
suggesting is not a tradeoff between in- 
flation and unemployment. We're deal- 
ng with inflation and recession, so. we 
have to deal not with one in the absence 
of the other but with both simultaneou: 
ly. Certainly, there is a need for stimul: 
tion in this economy today, but we have 
to be very cautious that this stimulation 
wt overdone, 

PLAYBOY: "Ihe higher cost of energy has 
been an important factor in both infla- 
tion and unemployment. A basic ques- 
tion: Do we still have an energy crisis? 


SIMON: We certainly do. In my judgment, 
the difference between what we produce 
and what we consume represents the 
magnitude of the problem. And the dif 
ference is about 6,500,000 barrels of oil 
a day and growing. We have to close 
that gap. 

PLAYBOY: The Ford Administration obvi- 
ously believes it can close the gap by 
imposing oil tariffs, which would raise 
gasoline prices ten or twenty cents a gal- 
lon. Obviously, Congress doesn't agres 
Why wouldn't rationing work just as well? 
SIMON: We examined that option. But as 
a way of life, rati i 

with our system and with the spirit of the 
Amcrican public. Even in times of emer- 
gency, rationing has never worked f: 
ly or efficiently. Who's to decide which 
persons need more and which need 
less of gasoline or petroleum products? 
Every family, every car and motorbike, 
every store, school and manufactur- 
er—everything and everybody—would 
have to obtain a permit. Allocations 
would have to be changed every time 
someone was born or died or moved or 
got married, every time a business was 
started, merged or sold. And some Gov- 
ernment official would have to approve 
it. What would the bureaucracy do about 
a poor family that heats a small, poorly 
insulated house with oil, while a wealthy 
neighbor heats a large, wellinsulated 
home with gas? Or the Montana rancher 
who drives 600 miles a month versus the 
Manhattan apartment dweller who 
drives under 100 miles? Or the family 
that moves from New York to Californi: 
nd uses several months’ coupons in mak- 
g the trip? Remember, one out of every 
five families moves every year. And how 
do we cope with the collusion, counter- 
feiting and black-market activities that 
would inevitably develop? In short, 1 
refuse to believe the American people 
are willing to trade their basic free- 
doms—in perpetuity—for ten or twenty 
cents a gallon. 

PLAYBOY: But what about the poor? By 
pricing oil and gasoline beyond their 
reach, aren't you imposing a form of ra- 
tioning by cost, rather than by coupon? 
SIMON: First of all, the President's. pro- 
gram would rebate more money to lowci 
income groups than their average increase 
in energy expenditure. Second, and more 
important, given the choice between 
more Government involvement in ration- 
ing and allocation programs and relying 
оп cost to reduce consumption, we chose 
the latter. 

PLAYBOY: Other ways have been suggested 
to reduce oil prices. For 
tor Philip Hart has proposed a system 
whereby an agency of the Government 
accepts sealed bids from exporting 
countries 
SIMON: The best way to get the price of oil 
down is nof to create another mechanism 
but to apply stiff conservative measures 


73 


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PLAYBOY 


76 


through the market system so that the 
demand falls. Thats what's happened 
elsewhere in the world. In most coun- 
tries, people pay stiff taxes that raise 
gasoline prices to between $1.50 and 
$2.25 a gallon. So they consume less, and 
that shows up in the smaller cars they 
buy and in the relatively smaller propor- 
ion of refinery capacity devoted to mak- 
ng gasoline—I8 percent in Europe 
versus 42 to 47 percent in the United 
States. If the world as a whole, with the 
United States leading the way, consumes 
less fuel, then prices will come down. 
"here's а world surplus of oil now, and 
it will grow larger as we conserve more. 
PLAYBOY: What will energy conservation 
do to economic growth? 

SIMON: It depends on how much is con- 
sumed. Eliminating waste would have 
no impact on economic growth; it’s when 
you begin to slice away at the muscle 
rather than the fat that you weaken 
economic growth. I believe we can con- 
serve а great deal of energy, but it will 
take time. There's a short-run period 
during which we can reduce demand, as 
we have in the past couple of years, just 
through changes in our normal living 
habits. But the longer run involves man- 
g and buying more efficient 
automobiles: developing more efficient 
building standards for air conditioning, 
g and light in all our buildings. 
ivorite example is the World Trade 


My 
Center in New York City; it uses as much. 


energy as the city of Schenectady. All 
these things are going to have to change. 
PLAYBOY: You mentioned more efficient 
automobiles. Aside from higher taxes 
on fuel, do you advocate some form of 
tax that would discourage the use of big 
gasguzzling machines? 

SIMON: Ou utomobile industry is Cx- 
periencing. severe difficulty today. Work- 
ers in the automobile business make big 
cars as well as little cars, and anything 
that the Government does to this industry 
would have an economic impact that 
would be deleterious, to put mildly. 
Americans still love their big cars 1 
think the 1973 oil embargo showed how 
much they love them—but they are going 
to have to pay higher gas prices to oper- 
е them. That should be sufficient to 
force the auto industry to give the Amer- 
ican people more efficient automobiles. 
There's no doubt that the incentive is 
there to make the Cadillac smaller and 
more efficient. And that, as I suggest, is 
going on right now. But I don't want to 
see the Government intrude into the 
ket place, and this is the 
to me—the direction in which the U 
States is going, with people demanding 
more Government and more Goyern- 
ment, and not realizing they're giv 
up their freedoms, Every time Gov 
ment creates another agency or another 
regulatory body, it is removing a freedom 


from the American people, and 
danger that is very real. 

PLAYBOY: So the Admin tion doesn't 
believe that one solution to the energy 
crisis is to impose taxes on big, incflicicnt 
automobiles. 

SIMON: Not at this point in time, no. 
PLAYBOY: But the Government is financ- 
ing the development of alternate sources 
of energy: 
SIMON: Of course. Private capital is not 
always sufficient to exploit new resource: 
Oil shale, for instance, should be ex- 
ploited, and we can provide seed money 
for companies to build pilot plants. And, 
of course, solar energy nceds a lot of 
rescarch and development. We have a 
ten-billion-dollar program devoted not 
only to solar energy but to fission and 
fusion and all the other renewable en- 
ergy resources. But that, too, requires 
tremendous Government participation— 
the investment of huge amounts of 
money that will pay off only in the far 
future. Geothermal energy is limited by 
geography. The city of San Fr: 
now gets three quarters of its clectricity 
from geothermal sow 
to wells and geological formations that 
don’t exist on the East Coast or even in 
the Midwest to a great degree. 


PLAYBOY: What about other programs to 
encourage more efficient energy use? 
Would the Adm tration advocate 


breaking up the highway trust fund, so 
that that money could be spent on more 
efficient transportation methods, such as 
ds and buses? 

SIMON: Well, of course, the Government 
is already very active in the area of mass 
transit, and I believe we're becoming 
more so. The highway trust fund is an- 
other one of those special-interest con- 
stituencies that have been built up over 
the years: that is a good reason why 
people ought, fundamentally, to oppose 
the trust-fund approach. It remains long 
fter it's needed in Government and just 
promotes the welfare of a special group 
of people. 

PLAYBOY: Would you like to see it end? 
SIMON: I would like to see the end of all 
the impediments that cost the consume: 
ly billions and billions of dollars 


and that contribute to distortions, short- 


ages and inflation. But, at the same time, 
I'm a pragmatist in recognizing the polit- 
ical difficulties. When a proposal is made 
by the Administration to attack a special 
nlerest, there's usually great apathy on 
the part of the American people. It's the 
special interests that make their weight 
felt in Washington. So we very, very 
rarely succeed. 

PLAYBOY: Let's turn to another kind of 
political difficulty. Many Americans be- 
lieve the price hikes by the oil-exporting 
dy political. What's 


nations were enti 


simon: The quadrupling of the price of 


has absolutely no relationship to eco- 
nomic reality, no relationship to the cost 
of production or alternate sources of cn- 
ergy. It represents the desires of a cartel 
to take advantage of a temporary—and 1 
stress temporary—shortage of energy sup- 
plies in the world while additional sup- 
plies axe being developed. Its effect on the 
lesser developed countries has been dev- 
astating. Every country that is forced to 
spend more money for oil is going to 
have much less money for economic 
growth, food and other necessities. So it's 


going to impede growth in every economy 
in the world. 
PLAYBOY. But government officials in 


Tran and Saudi Ar mong others, in- 
sist that oil was underpriced and that 
only now are prices on a par with other 
energy sources. 

SIMON: Our Government believes that al- 
ternative sources of energy can be pro- 
duced and supplied to the consumer at 
prices considerably below the current 
price of OPEC oil. Unfortunately, it will 
take several years to develop enough al- 
ternatives to replace significant quantities 
of OPEC c 


stripped the price increases in other com- 
odities. Prices in industrial counuies 
may have doubled in the past 20 ye: 
but the price of OPEC oil is now five 
times what it was 20 years ago. And 
equally important to the price level is the 
t that the incicases have occurred й 
very short time frame. This has aggr: 
ated inflation around the world, distort- 
cd economies and created international 
payment problems. Such problems actu- 
ally make high oil prices unreasonable 
for both consumers and producers, be- 
cause there will be no real benefits to the 
producing nations if their short-term high 
prices damage the world’s economy. 
PLAYBOY: In a recent interview, Secretary 
of State Kissinger hinted at the possi- 
bility of military action if the oil-pré 
ducing nations were to try to strangle 
the industrialized nations of the West. 
Would you go that far? 
SIMON: Well, I read that interview 
you know, it all depends on the way 
question is asked. The notion of military 
tervention never entered my mind as а 
means of working out the problems t 
we have with the oil producers. I. belicy 
ny other solutions exist that fall short. 
of mil ntervention. 
PLAYBOY: Last year you caused а Middle 
East furor of your own with your com- 
ments about the shah of Iran, didn't you? 
SIMON: I was misquoted іп the press as 
calling the shah “reckless and irrespon- 
sible.” What I said was that the shah's 
comments—and I underline comments— 
were reckless and irresponsible. 
PLAYBOY: At point, you were 
quoted as referring to him as “а nut.” 
SIMON: Well, the reporters asked me a 
(concluded on page 171) 


noth 


WHAT SORT OF MAN READS PLAYBOY? 


А man who exercises the same skill and knowledge in shopping for exotic foods as he does in pre- 
paring the intimate dinner that will follow. And asa guide to home entertaining as well as an authority 
on all aspects of his lifestyle he looks to PLAYBOY. Fact: He and millions of young men like him 
pay more attention to the features and advertising in PLAYBOY than in any other major maga- 
zine. That's why advertising gets maximum results in PLAYBOY. (Source: Media Insight, 1974.) 


New York ‘ Chicago - Detroit ۰ Los Angeles - San Francisco + Atlanta + London + Tokyo 


78 


“THE FIGHT 


y 
NORMAN MAILER 


Part I 
DEAD 
ARE DYING OF 


THIRST 


two black heavyweights meet in africa for 
all the chips and nomin million is there 


THERE IS ALWAYS a shock in seeing him again. Not live, 
as in television, but standing before you, looking his 
best. Then the World's Greatest Athlete is in danger of 
being the most beautiful man. The vocabulary of camp 
is doomed to appear. Women draw an audible breath. 
Men look down. They are reminded again of their lack 
of worth. If Muhammad Ali never opened his mouth 
to quiver the jellies of public opinion, he would still 
inspire love and hate. For he is the Prince of Heaven— 
so says the silence around his body when he is luminous 
with confidence. 

When he is depressed, however, his pale skin turns 
the color of coffee with gouts of milky water, no cream. 
There is the sickly green of a depressed morning in 
the muddy washes of the flesh. He looks to be not 
quite well. And that may be a fair description of how 
he appeared at his training camp in Deer Lake, 
Pennsylvania, on a September afternoon seven weeks 
before his fight in Kinshasa with George Foreman. 

His sparring this day was spiritless. Worse. He kept 
getting hit with stupid punches, shots he would nor- 
mally avoid, and that was not like Ali! There was an 
art to watching him train and you acquired it over the 
years, Other champions picked sparring partners who 
could imitate the style of their next opponent and, 
when they could afford it, added a fighter who was 
congenial: someone they could hit at will or who was 
fun to box. Ali did this, too, but reversed the order. 
For the second fight with Sonny Liston, his favorite 
had been Jimmy Ellis, an intricate artist who had 
nothing in common with Sonny. As boxers, Ellis and 


wake Kama OK OOK x JK x ok ok Kk 


Six hundred blows 

at the heavy bog; 

not one false punch. 
Foreman's hands would 
be ready to beat 

on avery angle 

of Al's cowering, 
self-protective meat... . 


Liston had such different moves one could not pass а 
bowl of soup to the other without spilling it. Of 
course, Ali had other sparring partners for that fight. 
Shotgun Sheldon comes to mind. Ali would lie on the 
ropes while Sheldon hit him a hundred punches to 
the belly—that was Ali conditioning his stomach and 
ribs to take Liston's barrage. In that direction lay his 
duty, but his pleasure was by way of sparring with. 
Ellis as if Ali had no need to study Sonny's style when 
he could speed up the dazzle of his own. 

Fighters generally use a training period to build 
such confidence in their reflexes, even as an average 
skier, after а week of work on his parallel, can begin 
to think he will yet look like an expert. In later years, 
Ali would concentrate less on building his own speed 
and more on how to take punches. Now part of his 
art was to reduce the force of each blow he received to 
the head and then fraction it further. Every fighter 
does that: indeed, a young boxer will not last long if 
his neck fails to swivel at the instant he is hit; but it 
was as if Ali were teaching his nervous system to 
transmit shock faster than other men could. 

Maybe all illness results from a failure of communi- 
cation berween mind and body. It is certainly true of 
such quick disease as a knockout. The mind can no 
longer send a word to the limbs. The extreme of this 
theory, laid down by Cus D'Amato when managing 
Floyd Patterson and José Torres, is that a pugilist with 
an authentic desire to win cannot be knocked out, pro- 
vided he sces the punch coming, for then there is no 
dramatic lack of communication. The punch will 
hurt but cannot wipe you out. In contrast, a five- 
punch combination in which every punch lands is 
bound to stampede any opponent into unconscious- 
ness, no matter how light the blows, since a jackpot 
has been struck. The sudden overloading ol the vic- 
tim's message center produces that inrush of confusion 
known as coma. 

Now it was as if Ali carried the idea to some ad- 
vanced place where he could assimilate punches faster 
than other fighters, could literally transmit the shock 
through more parts of his body or direct it to the best 
path, as if ideally he were working toward the ability 
to receive that five-punch combination (or six or 
seven!) yet be so ready to ship the impact out to each 
arm, each organ and each leg that the punishment 
might be digested and the mind remain clear. It was 
a study to watch Ali take punches. He would lie on 
the ropes and paw at his sparring partner like a moth- 
er cat goading her kitten to belt away. Then Ali 
would flip up his glove and let the other's punch 
bounce from that glove off his head, repeating the 
move from other angles, as if the second half of the 
art of getting hit were to learn the trajectories with 
which punches glanced off your gloves and still hit 
you. Ali was always studying how to deaden such shots 
or punish the glove that threw the punch, forever 
elaborating his inner comprehension of how to wap, 
damp, modily, mock, curve, cock, warp, distort, de- 
flect, tip and turn the bombs that came toward him, 
and do this with a minimum of movement, back 


against the ropes, languid arms up. He invariably 
trained by a scenario that cast him as a fighter in deep 
fatigue, too tired to raise his arms in the 12th round 
of a I5xound fight. Such training may have saved 
him from being knocked out by Joe Frazier in their first 
fight; such training had been explored by him in 
every fight since. His corner would scream “Stop play- 
ing!,” the judges would score against him for lying on 
the ropes, the fight writers would report that he did 
not look like the old Ali, and all the while he was re- 
fining methods. 

This afternoon, however, in Deer Lake, it looked 
as if he were learning very little. He was not languid 
but sluggish. He looked bored. He showed, as he 
worked, all the sullen ardor of a husband obliging 
himself to make love to his wife in the thick of carnal 
indifference. 

The first sparring partner, Larry Holmes, a young, 
light-colored Black with a pro record of nine wins and 
no losses, boxed aggressively for three rounds, hitting 
Ali more often than he got hit in return, which in 
itself might not have been unusual—sometimes Ali 
would not throw a punch through all of a round— 
but on this afternoon it seemed as if he did not know 
how to use Holmes. He had the disgusted expression 
Sugar Ray Robinson used to get toward the end of 
his career when struck on the nose, a grimace of dis- 
dain for the occupation, as if you could lose your looks 
if you weren't careful. The afternoon was hot, the gym 
was even hotter, It was filled with tourists, more than 
100, who had paid a dollar to get in. There was a late 
summer apathy to the proceedings. Once in a while, 
Ali would set out to chastise Holmes for his impu- 
dence, but Holmes was not there to be instructed for 
nothing. He fought back with all the eagerness of a 
young pro who sees a maximum of future for him- 
self. Ali could, of course, have given a lesson, but he 
was boxing in the depths of a bad mood. Part of A 
strength in the ring was fidelity to his mood. If, when 
speaking to the press, a harsh and hysterical tone en- 
tered his voice as easily as other men light a cigarette, 
he was never frantic in the ring, at least not since the 
fight with Liston in Miami in 1964, when he won 
the Heavyweight Championship. No, just as Marlon 
Brando seemed to inhabit a role as though it were a 
natural extension of his mood, so Ali treated boxing 
as a continuation of his psyche. If he were in a bad 
mood, he would stay in his lethargy, box out of his 
very distaste for the staleness of this occupation. Often 
he trained all of an afternoon in such a bad spirit. 
The difference this day was that he was running into 
unexpected punches—the end of the world for Ali, In 
disgust, he would punish Holmes by wrapping an arm 
around his head. Over the years, Ali had become one 
of the best wrestlers in the ring. But then, if karate 
kicks had been introduced to boxing, Ali would also 
have been the first at that. His credo had to be that 
nothing in boxing was foreign to him. Now, however, 
his superiority was reduced to wrestling with Holmes. 
When they separated, Holmes would go back to the 
attack. Toward the end of three rounds, Ali started 


PLAYBOY 


82 


stinging him with punches. Holmes stung 
him hack. 

Ali's next sparring partner, Eddie 
“Bossman” Jones, was a light heavy- 
weight, a dark, wed-off version of 
George Foreman. He couldn't have been 
5' 10” in height, and Ali used him as a 
playmate. Absolutely comfortable with 
Jones (a fighter reminiscent of other 
fighters who stood flat-footed and belted 
away) Ali lay on the ropes and took 
Bossman's punches when he chose to and 
blocked them when he wished, For all it 
demanded, Ali could have been an in- 
spector on an assembly line, accepting 
and rejecting product. “This piece we 
pass, this one won't.” To the degree that 
boxing is carnality, meat against meat, 
Ali was master when it was time to re- 
ceive; he got the juice out of it, the aes- 
thetic juice of punches he blocked or 
slipped. plus all the libidinal juice of 
Bossman Jones banging away on his gut. 
For all of a round Bossman belabored 
Ali, and Ali communed with himself. In 
the second of their two rounds, Ali 
stepped off the ropes for the last two 
minutes and proceeded for the first time 
in the afternoon to throw punches. His 
master’s assortment leaped forth, jabs 
with a closed glove, jabs with an open 
fist, jabs with a twist of the glove to the 
right, jabs with a turn to the left, then a 
series of righthand leads offered like 
jabs, then uppercuts and easy hooks from 
a stand-up position, full of speed off both 
hands. With each punch, his glove did 
something different, as if the fist and 
wrist within the glove were also speaking. 

Now Ali's trainer, Bundini, came alive 
with cries from the corner. “All 
long!” he shouted happily. But Ali did 
not throw anything hard; rather, he hit 
Bossman Jones with a pepper pot—ting. 
ting, bing, bap, bing, ting, bap!—and 
Bossman's head bapped back and forth 
like a speed bag. “АН night Jong!” There 


nto a speed bı 
ng shaped. Although he 
with any force, Jones (one score for. 
the theorem of D'Amato) was wobbly 
when the round ended. And happy. He 
had been good for the boss. He had 
the kind of face to propose that thou- 
sands of punches had hounced off his 
persona, that celestial glow of a hard 
worker whose intelligence has been 
pounded out long ago. 

The last three rounds were with Roy 
Williams, introduced to the crowd as 
Heavyweight Champion of Pennsylvar 
nd he was Ali's size, a dark, gende, 
sleepy-looking man who boxed with such 
respec for his employer that the major 
passion app terror of mess- 
ng Ali's cl ms pawed the 
r and Ali wrestled him around. He 
scemed to be working now more on 
wrestling than boxing, as if curious to 
test his arms against Roy Williams’ 


strength. Three slow rounds went by 
with the head of the Heavyweight Cham- 
pion of Pennsylvania in the crook of Ali's 
bicep. It looked like the terminal stage 
of a strect fight when not much more 
than heavy breathing will go on 

Ali had now been boxing eight rounds, 
five of them easy, too easy to show this 
much fatigue—the green of his skin did 
not speak of a good liver. The tourists, 
a crowd the main of white millwork- 
ers in flowered sport shirts, sprinkled 
with an occasional beard or biker, looked 
apathetic. You had to be familiar with 
Ali's methods to have even a remote 
of what this workout could signify. 
Toward the middle of the last round, 
Bundini began to be heard again. Hard- 
ly unknown to readers of sports columns 
(for he was the inventor of "Float like a 
butterfly, sting like a bee") he had on 
average days à personality more intense 
per cubic inch th 
screaming їп a voice every onlooker 
would remember, for it was not only 
hoarse and imprecatory but suggestive of 
the power to slash through every insula- 
ion in the atmosphere. Bundini was sum- 
moning jinns. "Snakewhip him! Stick 
him! Stick mean!" he howled with his 
head back, his bald rocketing eyes эр 
ing ectoplasmie ogres. Ali did not re- 
spond. He and Williams kept clinching, 
wrestling and occasionally thumping one 
another. No art. Just the heavy ions 
of overtired fighters so much like the 


lurching of overtired furniture movers. 
“Get off,” cried Bundini, “get off on 


him!” Seconds were ticking down. Bun- 
dini wanted a flurry, wanted it for mo- 
rale, for Ali's good conscience tonight, 
for the confirming of good habit, for the 
end if nothing else of this wretched bad 
mood. et off on him! Stick him! Come 
baby. Let's close the show on him, 
let's close this show! Get off. Close him! 
Close him! Close him!" went Bundini 
into the final hollering seconds of the 
eighth and final round, and Ali and Wil- 
ms, working slowly, came to the end 
of their day. No dervish. No flurry. The 
bell. It was not a happy workout. Ali 
looked sour and congested. 
CHAPTER 2 

Ali did not look a great deal happier 
one hour later when available for in- 
terview. He sprawled on a couch in his 
dressing room, the exertion of the work- 


even handsome. His face was a hint 
swollen. It offered the suggestion his head 
would thicken and he would look more 
like a pug in years to come. Most star- 
ding was his lack of energy. Usually, Ali 
liked to talk after a workout, as though 
the physical effort only teased his encr- 
gies enough to confirm his passion, which 
to speak. Today, however, he Tay 
k on the couch, let others talk to 1 
There were a number of black men in 
the room and they approached as cour- 


wi 


tiers, each taking his turn to whisper in 
Muhammad's ear, then falling back to sit 
in audience. An interviewer from a black 
network held a microphone ready, in 
case Al hed to respond, but this was 
one occasion when he did not. 

The workout seemed to have taken too 
much. An absence of stimulation heavy 
as gloom was in the air. ОЁ course, it is 
not uncommon for fighters’ camps to be 
gloomy. The furniture is invariably 
every shade of dull gray and dull brown, 
the sparring partners beaten half into 
insensibility are quiet when not morose 
and the silence scems designed to pre- 
pare the fighter for his torture on the 
night of the fight. Ali's camps. however. 
usually offered vivacity, his own if no 
one else's. It was as if Ali insisted on 
having fun while he trained, Not today. 
It was like any fighter’s camp. Unspoken 
sentiments of defeat passed through the 
drably furnished room. 

“What do you think of the odds?” 
someone asked, and the question, thrown 
up without preparation, left Ali looking 
out of phase. 

"I don't know about betting," he said. 
It was explained that man to man, the 
odds were 21/-1 against him. “That’s a 
Tot?” he asked, and said almost in sur- 
prise, “They really think Foreman'll 
win!" He looked less depressed for the 
first time this day. "You fellows are in 
position to make a lot of money w 
odds like that" "Thought of the fight, 
however, seemed to cheer him a faint de- 
gree, as if he were a convict thinking of 
the hour when his time is up. (Of course, 
a killer might be waiting on the street.) 
“Would you like,” he asked on the spur 
of this small cheer, “to hear my new 
poem?" 

No one in the room had the heart to 
say no. Ali motioned to a flunky, who 
brought up a purse from which the fight- 
er extracted a sheaf of worked-over pages, 
this literature with the same 
concentration of his finger tips a poor 
man brings to counting off a roll of cash. 
Then he began to read. The Blacks lis- 
tened with piety, their eyes off on calcu- 
lations to the side. 

“I have,” said Ali, “a great one-two 
punch. / The onc hits a lot, but the two. 
hits a bunch.” 

Everybody snickered. The lyric went 
on to suggest that Ali was sharp as a 
razor and Foreman might get cut. 


“When you look at him, he will 
make you sick, 

Because on his face, you will see nick 
after nick.” 


Ali finally put the pages away. He 
waved a hand at the obedient mirth, The 
poem had been three pages. “How long 
did it take to write?” he was asked. 

“Five hours!" he replied—Ali, who 
could talk at the rate of 300 new words 
a minute. Since the respect was for the 

(continued on page 101) 


Soro 


“But, dear—you know how fond I am of multiple orgasms.” 


THE SPOIIS OF 


he whipped her again with the riding crop and she began to 
undress." please," she whispered, “do not hit me anymore” 


 ВОЕМАМІЅТА 


TER 
fiction By OAKLEY HALL Trine ts л рнотоскАрн of а boy named Robert MacBean, an officer in the rebel 
army in the Mexican Revolution. For years, I was halt-ashamed of that photo's flamboyance, Биг half-proud also. 
"The photograph could be anvillustration from a Richard Harding Davis novel of Latin-American adventure, the 
hero a half-gringo captain of a troop of irregular cavalry. The likeness was taken in Tepic in the summer of 1914, 
by a hunchbacked photographer whose name, J. Medina, appears in flowing script in the lower-right-hand corner. 

"T he subject stands ina pose of graceful menace, hard young face under a Texas hat, khaki military shirt, white 
trousers and high soft boots heavily spurred. A scarf is knotted at his throat and gauntlets held in his left hand, while- 
his right rests with some precise gradation between ease and self-consciousness on the cartridge belt, which is of 
heavy leather carved and embossed, as is the holster, with its laced seams, which is cut down to the trigger of the 
revolver. That revolver's sevenanch barrel runs from chamber to muzzle with lines as graceful as those. of a girl's 
leg. Its mechanism works together softly, silently, heavily, satisfyingly, the butt of ebony with arabesques of silver and 


PLAYBOY 


mother-of-pearl and set with a ring. Fora 
caliber as heavy as 44, it has an excep- 
tionally long range. 

The revolver was a part of the spoils 
of the Hacienda Buenavista. I possess it 
still. Recently, my grandson found me 
with it at my desk, where I had removed 
it from its concealment to clean, or per- 
haps merely to fondle it, and I felt as 
flustered and as short of breath as though 
some old shame had been discovered. 

In the summer of 1914, the armies of 
the revolution were everywhere victorious, 
Pancho Villa in the north, Obregén on 
the west coast and Zapata in the south, 
converging on the capital with the dicta- 
tor's forces everywhere in sullen retreat. 
I served with Obregón in that movement 
south and east, through Sinaloa, Tepic 
and Jalisco, part of a swollen mob of 
ined soldiery with their varieties 
of uniforms and weapons, with their 
horses, their “Adelitas,” their children 
and scavenging dogs and thcir endless 
trains filled and covered with humanity 
moving south. 

I remember scouting with the escua- 
drilla on the eastern flank of the Brigada 
Allende, coming upon evidence of a 
running fight between guerrillas and fed- 
erales. Turkey buzzards wheeled over the 
dead horses and three of our compadres 
curled up on their wounds, very small 
in death, with faces terribly punished by 
the buzzards. Later we chased a squad of 
rurales, those most hated of the enemy, 
and killed all of them among the dry 
‘washes. 

From time to time, we sighted hacien- 
das across the fields of their estates, 
braced against us, their terror and loath- 
ing broadcast on the air as we ragged 
bands passed them, precursors of the slow, 
brutal armies of the revolution. We 
would not have presumed to attack one 
of these fortresses had we been allowed to 
pass unchallenged. But in one instance 
we were not, and I choose to tell the tale 
of it more formally than in my own per- 
son, for I, in my dotage now, am no longer 
the cruel, young Robert MacBean of that 
summer and that war. 


Captain MacBean led the escuadrilla 
through a broad valley tinged with green 
in this less arid countryside. Ahead a low 
ridge was crowned with tan walls, the 
corners bulging with rifleslotted towers. 
The place seemed to glare with a ven- 
omous hostility, and his first reaction to 
the Hacienda Buenavista was to ride 
quickly on by. There were corrals below 
it, a glitter of water through foliage 
where a river owed. A higher hill behind 
was topped by a cross. 

A sense of oppression and recognition 
was very heavy as the road drew doser to 
the walls. The escuadrilla rode in silence. 
Nicanor, the sergeant, was close behind 
MacBean, with his brother Fernando and 
Tertullio with the flag, the others cluster- 


ing in groups of four or six, last of all 
Birdwell leading the mules that carried 
the two machine guns and the saddle- 
bags of ammunition magazines. 

‘The pile of masonry and adobe passed 
from sight for a time as the road wound 
down an arroyo, where only the distant 
blue of the sierra was visible against a 
darkblue sky. Someone began to sing 
softly: Fernando. The song broke off as 
the hacienda hulked up again, a dun 
dreadnought aground in green fields, with 
the slots in the towers like slitted eyes. 

“This place is very like Las араз, 
Roberto,” Nicanor said. 

The place was so like the Hacienda de 
las Llagas de Cristo of his youth that he 
could hardly breathe. It was as though his 
mother were watching him from one of 
those rifle ports, cursing him for his trea- 
son to her and to those who had ruled 
Mexico for so long, who were bis own 
class and race. 

Years after she died, when at prep 
school in the United States he had en- 
countered Queen Elizabeth in Anglo- 
Saxon history books, he had known 
exactly what that first Elizabeth had been 
like, for his mother had been very regal, 
with red hair, eyes the color of brown 
pansies and skin so white she must never 
have let the sun upon it. She had always 
considered herself a Castilian in exile 
among half-breeds and Indians. 

Perhaps once a year his father had ap- 
peared at the hacienda, bluff, hearty and 
freckled. He was reputed to be a very 
powerful gringo, a friend of the dictator 
Porfirio Diaz, and the child Robert Mac- 
Bean understood that his mother and 
father had settled into this strange, once- 
a-year marriage because their natures were 
so strong that they could not endure each 
other's company for very long at a time. 

At the Hacienda de las Llagas de 
Cristo, he would never forget Eufemio, 
the sergeant of rurales, in his beautiful 
dovegray uniform and extravagant hat, 
who was a swagperer, a braggart and a 
bully, and on whom the campesinos 
were forced to fawn because of the life- 
and-death power of his whim. Nor Féliz, 
his mother's majordomo, less a swaggerer 
than the rural, but more a sadist. Nor 
Padre Prudencio. the priest, whom the 
Las Llagas vaqueros had hanged when 
the revolution had exploded in Sonora. 
He had always considered that the revolu- 
tion had been made more against these 
actual oppressors of the people than 
against the hacendados whose vassals they 
were. In many ways, his mother had been 
loved by her serfs. She lent them money 
at outrageous rates of interest, but always 
lent it, tended their ills from a medical 
book. gave them advice and concerned 
herself with their lives. They had been 
proud of their patrona for her hysterical 
Tages, her favoritisms and petty jealousies 
and stubbornness, her pride of race and 
her absolute disdain for mixed blood. 

But now, as the walls of this hacienda 


reared higher and nearer, and the escua- 
drilla obliquely approached its huge iron- 
studded gate, he was remembering a 
scene from his childhood. In search of his 
mother, he had run into her office, where 
a desk held her account books and a type- 
writer whose long-shanked keys resembled 
flowers in a bowl, and where there was a 
bulky safe with South Sea scenes painted 
on the doors. The rural was present, and 
Féliz the capataz, thumbs hooked into his 
cartridge belt, and Padre Prudencio in 
his black cassock, his suety face set in its 
severe and righteous frown. Kneeling be- 
fore his mother was one of the peons. 
Her face jerked toward him as he burst 
in, and his shock at the bloody stripes 
on fiesh, and the whip, was no greater 
than at the redness of her mouth in her 
yellow face. 

He saw smoke drift from one of the 
rifle ports before he heard the shot. In- 
stantly, there was smoke at the other slots, 
followed by a volley of sharp cracks. 
Nicanor shouted. 

MacBean jerked around to see an 
empty saddle. There were cries of wam- 
ing. Everyone headed at a gallop for the 
protection of the corrals as bullets 
snapped past. He glanced back again to 
see Nicanor's horse reined rearing above 
Fernando, who lay face down in the 
dust with his hat 15 feet away. Nicanor 
galloped forward, shouting. as bullets 
shrilled overhead, and the two of them. 
raced after the rest of the escuadrilla. 
scattering white chickens behind the cor- 
ral walls. Саше were nosed to a trough 
and a terrified vaquero stood with his hat 
in his hands. All dismounted, MacBean 
starting toward Nicanor but halting as 
the big sergeant confronted the vaquero 
with his revolver drawn and his broad 
brown face contorted in a snarl of agony. 
"The vaquero sank to his knees. Nicanor 
holstered his revolver. The men crowded 
around him, whose brother had been 
killed. 

"Roberto!" Nicanor said in a loud, flat 
voice. "I think we must take this evi 
place that would not let us pass in peace!” 

Already, Birdwell had unloaded one of 
the Benét-Merciés, carrying it cradled in 
his arms to a corner of the adobe wall. 
MacBean watched worriedly; yet what 
had happened here was why this war was 
being fought, against the ruthless arro- 
gance that locked itself inside castles and 
savaged passers-by, that had killed Fer- 
nando, who a moment before had been 
si ; brother of Nicanor, the best man 
in the escuadrilla; the bravest, most com- 
petent and the humblest, who had never 
before this asked anything for himself. 

A bullet kicked adobe dust from the 
wall where Birdwell was setting up the 
machine gun. He ducked away, wiping his 
eyes and cursing. Others were returning 
fire from the cover of the wall. Bird- 
well inserted one of the 40-round 

(continued on page 92) 


On a lark, Morley and friend decide it would be 
interesting if they exchanged clothes. Nothing kinky, mind 
you, simply an innocent experiment to pass the time. 


Those boxer shorts have never 
had it so good. Now watch 
those telltale bulges there, miss. 
Hey, your slip's showing, fella. 


Somebody once said clothes 
make the man, but Morley’s 
friend must have her own ideas 
about that particular subject. 


PLAYBOY 


92 


SPOIIS OF BUENAVISTA 


magazines in his gun and crouched, aim- 
ing й. The gun stuttered at a furious 
rate, the magazine emptied in what 
seemed an instant, flicks of dust climbing 
the wall to one rifle port and crossing to. 
another. The silence was immense when 
the machine gun ceased. 

Nicanor had  remounted. Antonio 
handed up to him a gunny sack of bombs. 
Nicanor gripped a lighted cigarrillo Ъе- 
tween his teeth as he swung the sack over 
his shoulder. He grinned down at Mac- 
Bean with a mouth like a scar. 

“It is crazy, eh, Roberto? But what a 
bad thing they have done here!” 

“Have caution, Nicanor,” he said. 

The BenétMercié began to clatter 
again. Prompily, it jammed, but Juan 
Herrera had set up the other and he 
fired on the smoke of the rifle ports while 
Birdwell fought to clear his gun. 

“I will knock the gate down and then 
all will come, eh, Roberto?" Nicanor 
said. "While the gringo of the machine 
guns keeps these doomed ones occupied?" 

MacBean nodded. 

“I'll keep them plenty busy if 1 can 
just get this fucker unfucked," Birdwell 
said. Nicanor sat slumped with the sack 
on his shoulder until this was accom- 
plished and MacBean and the rest had 
mounted. Then he spurred out of the 
corral, scattering the chickens again. 

MacBean watched the dust kicking 
around the ports as the machine guns 
fired. Crouched low in the saddle, Nica- 
nor galloped his big black toward the 
gate. Now there was the smoke of firing 
from ports on either side of the gate and 
MacBean yelled at Birdwell, who swung 
his gun to stitch bullets there. 

Nicanor dumped his load of bombs, lit 
the fuse of one, dropped it onto the 
others and, machine guns chattering 
spurred back down the road crouched on 
the off side of his horse. 

With a dull crump, dust and smoke 
rose in a sluggish high blossom while the 
guns fell silent. The dust fell away, reveal- 
ing one half of the gate torn from its 
hinges to lean against the other half, 
opening a tall black triangle. Already, 
Nicanor was racing back toward this. One 
of the machine guns began to yammer 
again and MacBean yelled, “Let’s go!" 

With Comanche yells, the escuadrilla 
burst out of the corral and up the short, 
steep road to the gate, through which 
Nicanor had disappeared on foot. Mac- 
Bean had a sense of bullets tearing past 
him in the clamor of the Benét-Merciés. 
Then they were all milling before the 
opening, dismounting to squeeze through, 
MacBean with his revolver drawn and a 
fear he had never felt before in any of the 
escuadrilla's actions. With Antonio, he 
hurled himself into the sudden calm of a 
sunny space of green foliage, white walls, 
red tile, beds of red, orange and yellow 
flowers, a fall of purple bougainvillaea. 


(continued from page 86) 
Across from him, in the shadow of a 
cypress, Nicanor was reloading close by a 
flight of steps slanting to a flat roof where 
there was a clustering of sombreros, the 
gleam of a rifle barrel, a spit of fire. An- 
tonio sprinted forward to hurl a tin-can 
bomb. There was a scream drowned in 
the bomb's explosion and instantly Nica- 
nor was springing up the steps three at 
a time with Antonio behind him, others 
running to follow. There were shots on 
the roof and Nicanor reappeared, waving 
his hat. MacBean shouted to him to take 
his detachment to the left, where were 
the snipers who had first fired upon 
them, the rest to follow him. With a clat- 
ter of boots behind him, he trotted along 
the inside of the wall where huts lined a 
street paved with pebbles. The cross on 
the hill loomed against the sky. 

Peasants were coming out of the huts, 
hats in hand, a woman nursing a baby 
bound to her breast with a rebozo, the 
men making placating sounds as Mac- 
Bean and his detail hurried past them. 
Now with his griping of fear was a sense 
of knowing exactly where he was headed, 
and he rounded a corner to come upon 
the casa gronde. 

Tt might have been Las Llagas ten years 
ago, with its stucco walls, deep shadows, a 
sheen of window glass catching the sun, a 
red-tiled veranda with ferns in hanging 
pots. A man smashed a window with a 
rifle butt and MacBean felt in himself a 
like instinct to destroy. Revolver in hand, 
he strode into cool rooms through which 
he could have found his way blindfolded. 
There was the menacing familiarity of 
gold Cristos on pedestals, tapestried walls 
and heavy, dark, carved furniture, all the 
half-exotic Gothic Castilian 
pride, that hidalgo small-nobility mean- 
ness of spirit, that desperate arrogance 
and contempt he realized had been 
sucked with his mother’s milk and that 
had oppressed him as it had oppressed 
Mexico. It was so heavily present in this 
place that it was like carrying someone 
on his back as he trotted through the 
rooms followed by the sibilant com- 
ment, boot crack and spur jangle of his 
men, their noise echoing emptily. With a 
curse, Antonio flung a vase across a hall- 
way to smash it, and MacBean under- 
stood the need to smash not merely the 
property of the hacendados but the 
library hush as well, though still he was 
shocked by the presumption. And now 
the men scattered through the different 
parts of the house looking for the pa- 
trons, and, without even thinking the 
thought, MacBean understood that they 
were to be killed. 

Just as he knew by heart this floor plan, 
he knew there was a secret room. He 
jerked a tapestry from a wall, for it had 
been behind a tapestry that the tiny 
chapel at the Hacienda de las Llagas de 
Cristo had been concealed. The others 


took it up, tearing down the tapestries, 
slashing at the paintings with their bu- 
colic scenes, indistinct landscapes and por- 
айз: a fat, narrow-nosed boy dressed in 
a blue suit with silver buttons, a cardinal 
in a red cap, men and women in black. 
There was a shout of triumph and Mac- 
Bean ran with the rest to where a door 
had been revealed, squat and low, made 
of heavy timbers with iron bracing and 
hinges. Antonio set his shoulder against 
it, grunting, and others joined him to no 
effect. Tertullio produced a grenade made 
of a two-inch section of pipe, with a fuse 
and wireloop hanger. 

MacBean suspended this at the side of 
the door opposite the hinges, lit the fuse 
and, jostling with the others, hurried 
around a corner. The grenade crunched 
in a billow of plaster dust, which whit- 
ened everything. The heavy door now 
stood ajar on a dark passageway. Mac- 
Bean knew exactly how this passage 
turned after four or five steps, to open 
into a miniature chapel; there would be 
an altar with a gold cloth and candles 
and a white-skinned Christ crucified upon 
the wall. And, when he stepped through 
the doorway, it was just as he'd foreseen. 

‘There were three people in the chapel, 
all in black. A fat priest with a gleaming 
bald head knelt on a cushion before the 
altar. Facing them as they entered were a 
stocky woman, veiled, and a tall, black- 
haired girl in riding habit. She leaned 
against a corner of the altar as the priest 
prayed aloud in Latin, her closeset dark 
eyes staring at MacBean out of her white 
face. 

The older woman held a crucifix out 
before her as though to ward off Satan 
himself. The priest prayed more loudly 
as Antonio shouted in his hectoring voice, 
“jHola! Fat priest, you have eaten too 
well in this world; do you pray for less ap- 
petite in the next?" The laughter rever- 
berated in the little room, drowning the 
prayers. The eyes of the girl in the riding 
habit never left MacBean. The knuckles 
of her hands clutching a ri 
against her waist were chalky white. 

‘Antonio and Arturo Vargas hoisted the 
priest to his feet, swinging him around to 
face them. Fat and sweating, he deter- 
minedly held his hands clasped chin-high 
in prayer, eyes fixed on the Cristo, and 
he looked very much like Padre Pruden- 
cio of Las Llagas. The men of the escua- 
drilla husded him outside, taunting him, 
laughing when he tripped, the voice of 
Antonio the priest hater the loudest. 

The woman pushed her crucifix at 
MacBean, crying, “Please, señor officer, 
please do not let the soldiers hurt Padre 
Cipriano, oh, please, señor, you would 
not hurt a priest of the holy Church, 
зейот, you must call to your soldiers 
and"—on and on in an echoing rush 
until MacBean shouted, “Silence! Get out 
of here, old woman!" 

She fled, leaving Tertullio in his blue 

(concluded on page 168) 


run down to the corner 
ed beef on rye." 


т , 
and bring me back a corn 


e clothes 


"Put on so 


e e 
| کے‎ | — | 
You PROBABLY didn't know it, food and drink 
but the glory that wzs Greece 
nestles inside a pita bun. Baked By THOMAS MARIO 
long before “bread” was 
conceived as a loaf, the flat, 


hollow pita, now found ) 
throughout the Middle Ezst, why should 


has opened up а new world of fhe greeks 


sy, delicious eating. You сап J 

vide your pita mates with 
E have all the fun: 

cold Greek-inspired comestibles 
from which to choose what they 
want—in any combination— 
following the whims of their 
appetites. Then they stuff i 
inside the pita horn of plenty, 
which can be purchased fresh 


| FITA! 


in almost all specialty food shops. 
The joy of the pita is that it's 
not merely a sandwich but a 
feast—a delightful repository of 
Greck cuisine. For openers, 
think of young lamb, marinated 
i mint and 
pepper, gently grilled over 
white-hot coals; or marble-size 
and-cggplant ba 
chilled, thinly sliced cucumbers, 
radishes and scallions in a cold 
yoghurt dressing; or an 
comparable garlic sauce that 
indudes pine nuts and olive oil. 
Almost any Greek specialty 
will work, be it sliced, diced, 
minced, (continued on page 100) 


IN A PICTORIAL ESSAY in our November 1972 
issue, Contributing Editor Bruce William- 
son hailed Gwen Welles as a coming love 
goddess of the screen. "These days, his pre- 

n is looking pretty good. Since break- 
ing up with French star maker Roger 
Vadim—a rupture anticipated in William- 
son's story—she has come back to the States 
and solidified her claim to stardom in a pair 
of Robert Altman films: California Split, 
which cast her as a kindhearted prostitute, 
and the upcoming Nashville. There's no 
one better qualified than Altman to ap- 
praise the talent of the 26-year-old actress, 
and he thinks it’s all there: “Off the 
set, she may seem vulnerable and dependent, 
but when the camera goes on, she’s a com- 
plete professional.” The niece of Gustave 
"Tassell and the daughter of Rebecca Welles, 
both top Hollywood fashion designers, Gwen 
sold dresses at 17, then started tagging along 


In Nashville, Gwen 
plays an ingenuous 
waitress wha longs ta 
be a country-ond-western 
star (unfartunately, the 
Poar girl hos a slight 
handicap; she doesn’t 
sing tao well). Some 
unscrupulous pramoters 
boak her for what she 
ks is a talent 

audition. Welles 
discovers all toa soon 
that it's a smoker 

far same local 
businessmen, and they 
‘expect her ta strip. 
When the Tennessee 
studs start yelling, 
“Take it aff,” 

Gwen is nonplused. 


with some friends who went to acting school at 
night. Her very first attempt at onstage emoting 
caught the eye of an agent, who signed her to 
a contract. But Gwen went through the traumatic 
changes you'd expect of an overprivileged Holly- 
wood brat—plus, of course, her thing with 
Vadim—before getting herself together. Now 
Gwen—whose offstage companion is usually record 


producer Richard Perry—keeps a vegetarian dict 


and practices yoga, meditating twice a day to 
slow down her pulse rate. She's been refining 
her already formidable dramatic skills by study- 
ing with Lee Strasberg, and she’s been delighting 
the Hollywood columnists, one of whom has said 
she provides the best copy since Marilyn Mc 

Evidently, our charismatic heroine is on her 


After a brief offstoge 
conference with her 
sponsors, Gwen—lured 
by false promises— 
goes back to work 
and—locking more like 
a trapped fawn thon о 
siren—tokes it off. 


PLAYBOY 


=| TA! (continued from page 95) 


marinated, herbed, puréed, grilled, 
poured, blended—or simply fashioned— 
so it can slide easily into a tender pita 
pocketbook. 

Many travelers returning from Greece 
remember best the fragrance of succulent 
Greek lamb revolving on a spit, its heady 
aroma often meeting their nostrils before 
they arrived at the busy Greek. pita shop 
where cooks were carving the meat for 
pita freaks. In metropolitan U.S.A., such 
shops are called gyro—meaning circle 
within which a chunk of beef and lamb xe- 
volvcs—and they're popping up faster 
than bay leaves in а Greek garden. But 
their limited offerings only begin to ap- 
proach the pita’s culinary possibilities. 
Lamb, of course, is the Greek mainstay, 
although beef and some pork appear in 
tender meatballs and sausages. It must be 
spring lamb, with no hint of strong 
muttony overtones; tomatoes should be 
firm and ripe and greens should be gar- 
den fresh; oil must be pressed from the 
olive, The best of Greek cuisine depends 
not only on the quality of the raw prod- 
uce but upon traditional details adhered 
to in native Greek kitchens: the bold use 
of herbs such as mint, bay leaf, oregano, 
thyme and parsley; the rich purplish- 
black Kalamata olives; the feta (ewe's- 
milk) cheese that serves as the base of 
most salads or the wonderful Aasseri 
(ewe's- or goat's-milk) cheese with its sub- 
tle almondlike flavor. You'll have to go to 
a specialty cheese shop or a Greek grocer 
to find kasseri. 

When it comes to party protocol, the 
pita is simplicity itself. Although it's 
supposed to be dripless, the sauces in it 
can overflow at times if the pita is over- 
stuffed: so big napkins are the only es- 
sential tableware appointment. Plates 
may be provided, but most people regard 
them as a fifth wheel; knives and forks 
are superfluous, Guests might relax 
around a dinner table, sit against a ter- 
race wall or stretch out on the floor or 
at poolside. 

At party's start, one should offer clear 
Greek ouzo, a lively spirit with anise as 
its dominant flavor blended with about 
ten other spices. Ouzo reminds most 
‘Americans of the French pastis or Pernod. 
In Greece, the sidewalk crowd tends to 
sip it straight; most Americans prefer it 
mixed with ice water or on the rocks. 
Diluted, it turns milky. Although its anise 
flavor is reminiscent of a liqueur, it 
doesn’t commit mayhem on your taste 
buds or appetite and seems to make the 
slightly bitter Greek olives and the herb- 
scented lamb even more tempting—if 
possible. Regarding Greek, resin-flavored 
retsina wine, you can take it or leave ii 
and most Americans. after the first 
choose the latter, although it's amazing 


100 how retsina converts will tolerate no 


other table wine. Tankards of beer, the 
bigger the beuer, seem to be the perfect 
accompaniment for most pite partisans. 
After dinner, it would be difficult to im- 
prove upon a pony of Metaxa brandy, 
poured over shaved ice. 


You should provide at least two pilas 
per person, and they should be about 
seven inches in diameter, so that, when 
they're cut in half for the filling, they'll 
be comfortably sized Mediterranean 
heroes, Pitas. should be wrapped in alu- 
minum foil, warmed in a moderate (350°) 
oven for 10-15 minutes before theyre 
brought to the buffet table. Since hot and 
cold foods will join one another inside 
the pita, it's important that hot foods be 
offered quickly after they're taken off the 
fire or reheated: during the party. they 
should be kept over a trivet flame or buf- 
fet hot plate. The portions that follow 
are for four hefty servings. How much or 
how little of each you'll wish to enjoy is 
a matter of knowing your friends. Sage 
advice was given centuries ago by the 
scholar Athenaeus, a specialist in Greek 
cooking, who wrote: 


Know then the cook, a dinner that’s 
bespoke 

Aspiring to prepare, with prescient 
zeal, 

Should know the tastes and humors 
of the guests. 


ROAST MARINATED LEC OF LAMB 


34b. half leg of lamb, boned and tied 
for roasting 

1 large onion, sliced 

2 large cloves garlic, slightly smashed 

X4 cup olive oil 

2 teaspoons fresh thyme, very finely 
minced. or Y4 teaspoon dried thyme 

% teaspoon oregano 

14 teaspoon cracked bay leaves 

3 tablespoons lemon juice 


Salt, freshly ground pepper 
Place lamb in bowl with onion, garlic, 


oil, thyme, oregano, bay leaves and lemon 
juice. Rub herbs into meat. Sprinkle gen- 
erously with salt and pepper. Cover bow! 
tightly with clear-plastic wrap and mar- 
inate overnight. Preheat charcoal fire in 
stove outfitted with rotisserie or use 
electric rotisserie. Remove lamb from 
marinade and fasten on spit. Roast ap- 
proximately 114 hours. Rotisserie may be 
stopped after 1 hour and meat thermom- 
eter inserted to test doneness of meat; it 
should not be roasted to the overdone 
stage. Slice meat thin for pita. 


PEPPERED LAMB KABORS 


$b. half leg of lamb, boned 

2 large green peppers, 34-in. squares 
34 cup olive oil 

% teaspoon marjoram 

2 teaspoons dried mint leaves, crushed 


1 teaspoon freshly ground pepper 

Yo teaspoon cumin seeds, pounded in 

mortar 

2 teaspoons salt 

2 tablespoons dry white wine 

2 tablespoons lemon juice 

y cup butter, soft enough to spread 

casily 

Cut lamb into cubes по more than 34 
in. thick. They should not be as large as 
regular shish kabob. Place lamb in bowl 
with green peppers, oil, marjoram, mint, 
ground pepper, cumin and salt. Toss well. 
Add wine and lemon juice and toss well. 
Cover bowl tightly with clear-plastic wrap 
and marinate overnight. Fasten lamb and 
green ‘peppers alternately оп skewers. 
Prepare charcoal fire outdoors or in fire- 
place or preheat broiler. Broil until lamb 
is medium brown. Brush with butter just 
belore serving. 


BEEF-AND-ECGPLANT BALLS 


1 Ib. boneless beef round 

1 cup peeled, diced eggplant 

1 medium-size onion, sliced 

1 egg, slightly beaten 

1 teaspoon salt 

M teaspoon pepper 

14 cup bread crumbs 

% teaspoon marjoram 

1 teaspoon parsley, very finely minced 

Olive oil 

Place eggplant in pan and cover with 
cold water. Bring to boil. Cover pan and 
simmer until eggplant is very tender. 
Drain well. Put beef, eggplant and onion 
through meat grinder, using fine blade. 
In mixing bowl, combine ground ingredi- 
ents with cgg, salt, pepper, bread crumbs, 
marjoram and parsley. Chill mixture 
about a half hour. It should be firm 
enough to shape; add more bread crumbs 
if it is too soft to handle. Shape into uni- 
form balls no more than 54 in. in diam- 
eter. Sauté in oil until browned. Do not 
стома pan while sautéing; pan may be 
covered to prevent spattering fat. 


WHITE-BEAN SALAD 


1⁄4 Ib. pea beans 
Salt, white pepper 
1 bay leaf. 
1 large tomato, peeled and seeded 
6 Kalamata olives in oil 
1 hard-boiled egg. finely minced 
] mediumsize onion, minced extreme- 
ly fine 
2 tablespoons parsley, minced extreme- 
ly fine 
1 tablespoon dill, minced extremely 
fine 
3 tablespoons olive oil 
2 tablespoons lemon juice 
Wash beans well in cold water. Re- 
move any defective beans or foreign mat- 
ter. Drain. Place in saucepan and cover 
with 3 cups cold water. Add V4 teaspoon 
salt and bay leaf. Bring to boil; simmer 
2 minutes. Remove from heat and let 
(concluded on page 167) 


"We can't continue meeting like this. My husband doesn't like your wife." 


eL mes 1 wt aad TANE 


attire 


By ROBERT L. GREEN 


ant to come on like a 
sports superstud? no sweat 


Now, Mecn Joe Greene may not 
wish to spend his off hours relaxing 
in an Oleg Cassini warm-up suit, 
but no matter. For the rest of us, the 
jock look is a refreshing alternative 
1o more predictable styles of leisure- 
wear. Sure, you can weor warm-up 
suits, football jerseys, track pants, 
sweat shirts, etc., for macho sports— 
but they're also great when putting 
а few away in your favorite pub or 
shoving off for an afternoon's bike 
ride. And if the right person sees 
you making like Joe Namath (minus 
the panty hose, of course), it might 
even lead to something physical. 


Visored brewmaster at far left sports 
a zip-front nylon/cotton warm-up suit 
featuring raglan shoulders, angled 
side zip pockets and elasticized knit 
cuffs and waist, by McGregor, $35. 


Referee of armed combat boosts cot- 
ton velour warm-up outfit boat- 
neck top and zip cuffs, by Oleg 
Cassini for Munsingwear, about $50, 
and cotton turtleneck, by Gant, $14. 


Headbanded guy digs Dacron poly- 
ester/combed cotton football jersey, 
by Career Club, about $7.50, and 
pants from nylon/cotton warm-up 
suit, by AMF Head Sportswear, $45. 


Wrestling fan at far right opts for a 
nylon/cotton warm-up suit, by Cata- 
lina, $32, and a cotton zip-front 
short-sleeved pullover shirt, by In- 
tercontinental Apparel, about $20. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY JEFF COHEN 


103 


PLAYBOY 


104 


man, for all of the man, including the 
literary talent (just as one might be ready 
to respect the squeaks Balzac could elicit 
from a flute if that would prove revela- 
tory of one nerve in Balzac—one nerve, 
anyway) so came an image of Ali, pencil 
in hand, composing down there in the 
depths of black reverence for rhyme— 
those mysterious links in the universe of 
sound: no rhyme ever without its occult 
reason! Did Ali's rhymes help to shape 
the disposition of the future, or did he 
just sit there after a workout and slowly 
match one dumb-wit line to the next? 
Ali's psychic powers were never long 
removed, however, from any critical sit- 
uation. “That stuff,” he said, waving his 
hands, “is just for fun. I got jous 
poetry I'm applying my mind to.” He 
looked interested for the first time this 
day in what he was doing. Now from 
memory he recited in an earnest voice: 


“The words of truth are touching 
The voice of truth is deep 

The law of truth is simple 

On your soul you reap.” 


It went on for a good number of lines 
and finally ended with, “The soul of 
truth is God,” an incontestable senti- 
ment to Jew, Christian or Muslim, in- 
contestable, indeed, to anyone but a 
Manichaean like our interviewer. But 
then the interviewer was already worry- 
ing up another aesthetic street. The 
poem could not possibly be original. Per- 
haps it was a translation of some piece of 
devotional Sufi that Black Muslim teach- 
ers might have read to him, and Ali only 
changed a few of the words. Still, a cer- 
tain line stayed: “On your soul you 
Had one really heard it? In all of 
Ali's 12 years of prophetic boxing dog- 
gerel—the poem as worthless as the pre- 
diction was often exact: Archie Moore/ 
is sure/to hug the floor/by the end of 
four—some such schemel—this new line 
must be the first example in Ali's volu- 
minous canon of an idea not resolutely 
antipoetic. For Ali to compose a few 
words of real poetry would be equal to 
an intellectual throwing a good punch. 
Inquiries must be made. Ali. however, 
could not remember the line out of con- 
text. He had to recall the entire poem. 
Except his memory was not working. 
Now one felt the weight of punches he 
had taken this afternoon. Line by line, 
his voice searched aloud for the missing 
words. It took five minutes. It became in 
that time another species of endeavor, as 
if in the act of remembering he might 
also lay in again some of the little cir- 
cuits disarranged in the brain this day. 
With all the joy at last of an eight-year- 
old child exhibiting good memory in 
class, Ali got it back. All patience was 
rewarded. "The law of truth is simple/ 
As you sow, you reap." 

As you sow, you reap! But now Ali's 


(continued from page 82) 


record was intact. He had still to write 
his first line of poetry. 

The exercise, nonetheless, had awak- 
ened him. He began to talk of Foreman, 
and with gusto. "They think he's going 
to beat me?" Ali cried aloud. As if his 
sense of the universe had been offended. 
he said with wrath, "Foreman's nothing 
but a hard-push puncher. He can’t hit! 
He's never knocked a man out. He had. 
Frazier down six times, couldn't knock 
him out. He had José Roman, a nobody, 
down four times, couldn't knock him out! 
Norton down four times! "That's not a 
puncher. Foreman just pushes people 
down. He can't give me trouble, he's got 
no left hook! Left hooks give me trouble. 
Sonny Banks knocked me down with a 
left hook, Norton broke my jaw, Frazier 
knock me down with a left hook, but 
Foreman—he just got slow punches, take 
a year to get there.” Now Ali stood up 
and threw round air-pushing punches at 
You think that’s going to both- 
" he asked, throwing straight lefts 
and rights at the interviewer that filled 
the retina two inches short. “This is go- 
ing to be the greatest upset in the history 
of boxing.” Ali was finally animated. 
“I have an inch and a half over him in 
reach. That's а lot. Even a half inch is 
an advantage, but an inch and a half is a 
lot. That's a lot." It was not unknown 
that a training camp was designed to 
manufacture one product—a fighter's ego. 
In Muhammad's camp, however, the work 
was done by Ali. He was the product of 
his own raw material. No chance for Fore- 
man as he stated his case. Still, memories 
stirred of Foreman's dismantlement of 
Ken Norton. That night, commenting at 
ringside just after the fight, Ali's voice 
had been shrill. When he started to talk 
to his TV interviewers, his first remark 
was, "Foreman can hit harder than те” 
His excuses to himself for his two long 
fights with Norton had just been ripped 
out of his ego. Because that night Fore- 
man was a killer. Like few men ever seen 
in the ring. In the second round, as Nor- 
ton started to go down for the second 
time, Foreman caught him five times, as 
quick in the instant as a lion slashing its 
prey. Maybe Foreman couldn't hit, but he 
could execute. That instant must have 
searched Ali's entrails. 

Of course, a great fighter will not live 
with anxiety like other men. He cannot 
begin to think of how much he can be 
hurt by another fighter. Then his imagi- 
nation would make him not more crea- 
tive but less—there is, after all, endless 
anxiety available to him. Here at Deer 
Lake, the order was to bury all dread; in 
its place, Ali breathed forth a baleful 
self-confidence, monotonous in the ex- 
treme. Once again his charm was lost in 
the declamation of his own worth and 
the incompetence of his enemy. Yet his 


alchemy functioned. Somehow, buried 
anxiety was transmuted to ego. Each day 
interviewers came, each day he learned 
about the 215-1 odds for the first time 
and subjected his informants to the same 
speech, read the same poems, stood up, 
flashed punches two inches short of their 
faces. If reporters brought tape recorders 
to capture his words, they could end up 
with the same interview, word for word, 
even if their visits were a week apart. 
One whole horrendous nightmare—Fore- 
man’s extermination of Norton—was be- 
ing converted, reporter by reporter, poem 
by poem, same analysis after same analy- 
sis—"He's got a hard-push punch, but 
he can't hit"—into the reinstallation of 
Ali's ego. The funk of terror was being 
compressed into psychic bricks. What a 
wall of ego Ali's will had erected over 
the years. 


Before leaving, there is an informal 
tour of the training camp. Deer Lake is 
already famous in the media for its rep- 
licas of slave cabins high on Ali's hill and 
for the large boulders, some painted with 
the names of his opponents, Liston’s name 
on the rock you see first from the entrance 
road. Each return to camp has to remind 
Ali of these boulders. Once these names 
were fighters to stir panic in the middle 
of sleep and a chill on awakening. Now 
they are only names and the cabins please 
the eye, Ali’s most of all. Its timbers are 
dark with the hue of the old railroad 
bridge from which they were removed: 
the interior, for fair surprise, is kin to a 
modest slave cabin. The furniture is sim- 
ple but antique. The water comes from a 
hand pump. An old lady with the man- 
ners of a dry and decent life might seem 
the natural inhabitant of Ali’s cabin. 
Even the four-poster bed with the patch- 
work quilt seems more to her size than his 
own. Outside the cabin, however, the phi 
osophical residue of this old lady is oblit- 
erated by a hardtop parking area. It is 
larger than a basketball court, and all 
the buildings, large and small, abut it. 
How much of Ali is here. The subtle 
taste of the Prince of Heaven come to 
lead his people collides with the raucous 
blats of Muhammad's media sky, where 
the only firmament is asphalt and the 
stars give off glints in the static. 

CHAFTER s 

Witness another black man's taste: It 
is the Domain of President Mobutu at 
Nsele on the banks of the Congo, a 
compound of white-stucco builaings with 
roads that extend over 1000 acres. A zoo 
and an Olympic swimming pool can be 
found in some recess of its grounds. There 
is a large pagoda at the entrance, begun 
as a gift from the Nationalist Chinese 
but completed as a gift of the Commu- 
nist Chinese: We are in a curious do- 
main: Nselel It extends from the highway 
to the Congo over fields in cultivation, 

(continued on page 146) 


article By JAY CRONLEY 1 rode 
into Houston on the firm haunch 
of a 727, landing in weather that 
prompted the first in a scrics of 
loyalty pacts with God. The weath- 
er was a combination of fog and 
douds and mist, ideal for ferns. 
“Get me down," I said. 
"The man next to me said he was 
trying. 
God, Who does much of His 
work at airports, said through a 


stewardess, “We have just landed 
at Houston Intercontinental.” 

"I hose arriving on this flight had 
received a complimentary sauna, 
just another service of America’s 
sixth largest city, third most 
ficient port, home of 1,430,000 just 
plain folks who make Houston a 
healthy valve deep in the heart of 
"Texas. 

I found a folk at the airport who 
rented (continued on page 158) 


what's half the size of rhode island, made of saturn rockets and oil, and is world-famous for plastic grass? 


ILLUSTRATION BY ERALDO CARUGATI 


undbrid d 
sisi ge 


Bridgett 


very young , very preity, 
very much taken with life— 
heres bridgett rollins, world 


“1 DON'T REGRET anything I've done, and 
I've learned from everything." That may 
sound like a grandiose statement for an 
18-year-old to make. Many a girl her age 
hasn't done anything much, let alone 
anything to regret—or to learn from. 
But Bridgett Rollins has been growing 
up fast. A Tennessee native who's lived 
in various places—her s a career 
man in the Air Force—s ped out 
of high school, in a Chicago suburb, 
when she was 15: “The kids did nothing 
but fight all the time, and the teachers 
did nothing but try to keep them in their 

She went to modeling school 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY POMPEO POSAR 


) 


On о visit to her mother in Florida, Bridgett adopts a favorite 
position for applying make-up: sitting on the bathraom vanity. 
Leter, while touring Disney World, she buys herself a bolloon. 


instead, with the encouragement of her mother, and worked in 
fashion shows. A year later, after a three-month courtship, Bridgett 
married her 21-year-old beau and they moved to Houston, where 
he kept the books for his folks’ apartment complex while she got 
modeling jobs. It wasn't long before she realized how badly she 
wanted a career and he realized that he needed a stay-at-home wil 

Bridgett broke the stalemate herself by going to Mexico and get. 
ting unmarried. She and her ex-husband are now good friends, and 
Bridgett winces if you call her a divorcee: “1 want to be a light 
happy person, and labels like that just drag you down.” Indeed. 
anyone who knows her can tell you that she’s a most positive in 
dividual—intense, articulate and incurably optimistic, even under 
trying circumstances; when she was а kid, and her mother and 
father would argue all the time. she chose to believe it was all an 


E 


act. She did run away from home several times, because she felt she wasn't 
getting enough attention from her mom—whose own troubles, she now 
realizes, were beyond her comprehension at the time. Bridgett’s father is 
now dead and she considers her mother—who has remarried and is living in 
Ocala, Florida —a very good friend. She's also friends with her three sib- 
lings, especially her sister Yvonne, who drove back to Chicago with Bridgett 
after а recent family get-together in Ocala. The two girls currently share a 
Windy City apartment. Bridgett was working for a finance company; she's 
quit that job, though, and is training to be a Bunny. Her original intention 
was to head for Los Angeles after her Playmate appearance and learn about 
acting; now, despite her basic confidence, she feels that she ought to get 
experience first with some of the smaller theater groups in the Chicago 
area. That makes sense to us—and, of course, we're delighted that the pre 
cocious Miss Rollins has decided to stick around the Midwest awhile. 109 


Bridgett and Yvanne—her 21-year-old sister and roammate—paint the bedroom of their new apartment in Chicaga, then indulge in. — 
а leisurely cleanup (and drink-up) in the tub. "Yvonne really takes care of me,” says Bridget, “and whatever we do, we da together.” 


و — 


What's in Bridgett’s future? Either modeling or acting would go a long way toward satisfying her need—which she's quite candid 
abaut—far a lor af attentian. Whatever she does, she intends to give it her best, And for 18-year-old Bridgett, the best is yet to be. 


PLAYBOY'S PARTY JOKES 


А couple slept rate bedrooms, and the 
man was awakened one night by his wife's 
to her room and snapped 
ht just in time to see a male (us 
disappearing through the window. “That man 
attacked me twice!” wailed the woman. 
"Then why didn't you yell sooner?" ex- 
claimed her husband. 
"Because I thought it was you,” she sobbed, 
“until he began to start in on seconds.” 


Our Unabashed Dictionary defines male pubic 
hair as a dick Vandyke. 


On his very first night in the new town, the old- 
pro ballplayer answered a knock on his hotel 
door to find an obviously embarrased young 
woman outside. "You—you'll have to forgive 
my nervousness,” she said. "You see, well, I'm 
the wife of the rookic you were traded for and 
it's my very first swap.” 


li began with a horny squid’s wink 
At a scuba girl nude in the drink. 
She grew hot as his arms 
Fondled mammary charms, 
Then succumbed when they tickled her pink. 


We have it from a literary insider that the 
Happy Hooker's next book will be called The 
Hollander Tunnel. 


How did your date last night work out?” asked 
the girl's co-worker. 

“Well, we had a wonderful dinner,” replied 
the shapely secretary, "saw a hit musical, then 
went to a discothèque and ended up in his 
penthouse apartment. 

“And did you—er—have a little fun?" per- 
sisted the co-worker. 

“That,” sighed the secretary, "was about the 
size of it.’ 


Body painting was a sea captain's hobby, and 
just before he left on a voyage, he did a de- 
tailed houseandgarden scene on his wife's 
abdominal region. It wasn't long before her 
several fillin boyfriends had smeared the pic- 
ture badly, but one of them happened to be a 
professional artist and did a painstaking job of 
retouching. When the old salt returned home, 
he peered intently at the artwork and then 
hardened his gaze as he shifted it to the 
woman's face. “Wh-what’s wrong, dear?" she 
stammered. “The house is just as you left it.” 

“Not quite!” bellowed the captain. "There's 
been some additional planting!” 


Please, dear,” pleaded the girl toward the end 
of an intensive honeymoon, “if don’t stop 
using it, you're liable to wear it out 

“I know I should treat it like a lifetime tool, 
baby," panted her husband, "but right now 
I'ma firm believer in planned obsolescence.” 


A Bedouin, lost in the desert and feeling that 
the end was near, decided to have intercourse 
one last time with his favorite camel. He was 
so weak, though, that he couldn't manage to 
hold the animal down long enough for the act. 
As they moved aimlessly along, a tiny oasis 
appeared and a woman ran out to shout greet- 
ings. "Wh-what are you doing here?" gasped 
the Arab. 

“My wicked stepfather abandoned me here 
when I would not let him have his way with 
me,” replied the woman, who, unveiling, re- 
vealed herself to be young and beautiful. "But 
you, my eagle of the desert, you have rescued 
me,” she continued, "and so I will do anything 
you want, right here and now!" 

"Here" grunted the Bedouin, “hold down 
this camel.' 


One conceivable defense against rape, says a 
resourceful young lady we know, is to beat off 
the attacker. 


p Thien 


Our Unabashed Dictionary defines sex-change 
surgeon as a gender amender. 


The small boy was getting on his mother's 
ves, so she told him to go down the street 
and watch the carpenters working on the new 
house. When he came home, she asked him if 
he'd learned anything. "Sure, Mom,” he en 
thused as he held up his thumb to sight along. 
“I learned to say, "Move it over just a pussy 
Une A 

"Shame on you!" snapped his mother. "Go 
10 the doset and bring me a switch." 

"Like shit I will!" shouted the youngster. "I 
ain't no fucking electrician!” 


Heard a funny one lately? Send it on a. post- 
card, please, to Party Jokes Editor, PLAYBOY, 
Playboy Bldg., 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, 
Ill. 60611. $50 will be paid to the contributor 
whose card is selected. Jokes cannot be returned. 


“Just out of prurient interest, what's your name?" 


bech at fifty—not exactly the 
toast of two continents but 
still a catch for some women 


CLEAN STRAIGHT STREETS. Ci 
cores are not blighted but innocently 
bustling. Anglo- on faces, British 
once removed, striding long-legged 

d unterrorized out of a dim thin 
past into a future as likely as any. 
Empty territories rich in minerals. 
Stately imperial government. build- 
ings. Parks where one need not fear 
being mugged. Bech in his declin 
went anywhere but had come to pre- 
fer safe p 

The invitation to Canada was 
10 Toronto, to be interviewed, as 
Henry Bech, the exquisitely un- 
prolific author, on the television pro- 
gram Vanessa Views, Vanessa was a 
squat woman with skin like orange 
cheesecloth, who nevertheless looked, 
on а 23-inch screen, if not beau- 
tiful, alive. "It's all in the eyes,” she 
explained. “The people with deep 
sockets do terribly. To project to 
the camera, you must have eyes set 
forward in your head. If your eyes 
turn inward, the viewers turn right 
off.” 

"Suppose your eyes.” Bech asked, 
“turn toward each other 

Vanessa refused to pick it up аза 
joke, though a female voice behind 
the lights and cameras laughed. 
“You are an author,” Vanessa told 
him sternly. "You don’t have to 
project. Indeed, you shouldn't, 
Viewers distrust the ones who do." 

The two of them were caught in 
the curious minute before airtime. 
Bech, practiced roughamoothie that 
he was, chatted languidly, fighting 


PLAYBOY 


down the irreducible nervousness, a float- 
ing and rising sensation as if he were, 
with every second ticked from the huge 
studio clock, being inflated. His hands 
prickled, swelling; he looked at his palms 
and they seemed to have no wrinkles. His 
face felt stiff, having been aromatically 
swabbed with something like that strange 
substance with which one was supposed, 
30 years ago, to color oleomargarine and 
thereby enhance the war effort. The fe- 
male who had laughed behind the lights, 
he saw, was the producer, a leggy girl 
pale as untinted oleo, with nostrils red- 
dened by a cold and lifeless, pale hair she 
kept flicking back with the hand not 
holding her handkerchief. Named Glen- 
da, she had flown from Montreal to do 
this “show” (show? just poor old Henry 
Bech apologizing for his life): she ap- 
red harried by her own efficiency, 
which she refused to acknowledge, brush- 
ing aside her directives to the cameramen 
as soon as she issued them. Like himself, 
Bech felt. she had been cast by life into a 
role it amused her not quite to fill. 
Whereas his toadlike interviewer, 
whose very warts were telegenic, inhaled 
and made her eyes bulge and puffed up 
as if to fill this attenuated nation from 
coast to coast; the seconds waned into 
single digits on the studio clock and a 
mufiled electronic fuss beyond the lights 
clicked into gear and Bech's heart bloat- 
ed as if to choke him. She began to talk 
Then, mirade that never failed, so did he. 
He talked into the air. m without 
the bright simulacrum of his head and 
shoulders gesticulating in the upper-left 
corner of his vision, where the monitor 
hung like an illuminated initial on a 
page of shadowy manuscript, Bech could 
feel the cameras licking his image up 
and flinging it, quick as light, from On- 
tario to British Columbia. He touched 
his nose to adorn a pensive pause, and the 
gesture splashed onto the shores of the 
Maritime Provinces and fell as silver snow 
upon the barren Yukon. As he talked, he 
marveled at his words as much as at the 
electronic marvel that broadcast them; 
for, just as this broadcasting was an airy 
and flattering shell upon the terrestrial, 
odorous, confused man who physically 
occupied a plastic chair and a few cubic 
feet of space in this tatty studio, so his 
words were a shell, an unreal umbrella, 
above his kernel of real humanity, the 
more or less childish fears and loves that. 
he wrote out of, when he wrote. On 
the monitor now, while his throaty in- 
terviewer described his career with a 
"voice over," stills of his books were 
being flashed, jackets 
photographs of Bech—big-eared and com- 
bative, a raw youth, on the flap of Travel 
Light; a few years older on Brother Pig, 
his hair longer, his gaze more guarded 
and, it seemed to Bech in the micro- 
second of its exposure, illicitly conspira- 
torial, secking to strike up a mutually 


and from their 


120 excusatory relationship with the reader; 


a profile, frankly and vapidly Bach- 
rachian, from his collection of essays: and, 
wizened if not wiser, pouchy and classy 
as a golf bag, his face, haloed by wild 
wool that deserved to belong to a Kikuyu 
witch doctor, from the back of his 
novel, that had been, a long decade ago, 
jubilandy panned. Bech realized, view- 
ing the montage, that as his artistic 
powers had diminished he had come to 
look more and more like an artist. Then, 
an even older face, the shocking face of 
a geezer, of a shambler, with a furtive 
ig to twitch the licked and 
criminal lips, flashed onto the screen, and 
he realized it was he, he as of this moment, 
oncamera live. The talking continued, 
miraculously. 

Afterward, the producer of the show 
emerged from behind the cables and the 
cameras, told him he was wonderful and, 
the day being fair, offered to take him for 
cour of the city. He had three hours be- 
fore a scheduled dinner with a Canadian 
poet who had fenced with Cocteau and an 
Anglican priest who had prepared a 
concordance of Bech's fiction. Glenda 
flicked back her hair absent-mindedly; 
Bech scanned her face for a blip, marking 
how far she expected him to go. Her 
eyes were an even gray shallowly backed 
һу а neutral friendliness, He accepted. 

In Australia, the tour of Sydney was 
conducted by two girls, Hannah, the 
dark and somber prop girl for the TV 
talk show on which he had been a seven- 
minute guest (along with an expert on 
anthrax, a leader of the Western Aus- 
tralia secessionist movement, a one-armed. 
survivor of a shark attack and an 
aborigine protest painter), plus Moira, 
who lived with Hannah and was an 
instructor in the economics of under- 
development. The day was mot fair A 
downpour hit just as Hannah drove her 
little Subaru to the opera house, so 
they did not get out but admired the 
world-famous structure from the mid- 
dle distance. A set of sails had heen the 
architect's metaphor; but it looked to 
Bech more like a set of fish mouths about 
to nibble something. Him, perhaps. He 
gave Hannah permission to drive away. 
ace too bad,” Moira said from the back 
so rotten. The whole 
n is covered in a white ceramic that’s 
gorgeous in the su 

“I can picture it," Bech lied politely. 
“Inside, does it give a feeling of gran- 
deur?” 


“No,” said Hannah. 
“Its all rather tedious bits and 
pieces," Moira elaborated. "We fired the 


Dane who did the outside and finished 
the inside ourselves.” 

The two girls life together, Bech 
guessed, comprised a lot of her elabora- 
tion, around the other's dark and somber 
core. Hannah had moved toward him, 
after the show, as though by some sullen 
gravitational attraction, such. as the outer 


planets feel for the sun. He was down 
under, Bech told himself; his volume still 
felt displaced by an eternity in airplanes. 
But Hannah's black eyes had no visible 
backs to them. Down, in, down, they said. 

She drove to a cliffy point from which 
the harbor, the rain lifting, gleamed like 
silver long left unpolished. Sydney, Moira 
explained, loved its harbor and embraced 
it like no other city in the world, not 
even San Francisco. She had been in San 
Francisco, on her way once to Afghani- 
stan, Hannah had not been anywhere 
since leaving Europe at the age of three. 
She was Jewish, her eyes said, and her 
glossy, tapered fingers. She drove them 
down to Bondi Beach, and they removed 
their six shoes to walk on the soaked 
sand. The tops of Bech's 50-year-old feet 
looked white as paper to him, cheap 
paper, as if his feet amounted to no more 
than the innermost lining of his shoes. 
‘The girls ran ahead and challenged him 
to а broad-jump contest. He won, Then, 
in the hop, step and jump, his heart felt 
pleasantly as if it might burst, down here, 
where death was not real. Blonde surfers, 
wetsuited, were tumbling in with the 
dusk; a chill wind began sweeping the 
cloud tatters away: Hannah at his 
aie said, “That's one reason for wearing 
a bra.” 

“What is?” Moira asked, hearing no 
response from Bech. 

"Look at my nipples. I'm cold." 

Bech looked down and saw that. 
indeed, she wore no bra and that her 
erectile tissue had responded to the drop 
in temperature; the rare sensation of a 
blush caked his face, which still wore its 
make-up. He lifted his eyes from Han- 
nah's sweater and saw that the entire 
beach was frilled, with pink and lacy 
buildings. Sydney, the girls explained, 
the tour continuing from Bondi to Wool- 
lahra to Paddington to Surry Hills and 
Redfern, abounds in ornate ironwork 
shipped in as ballast from England. The 
oldest buildings were built by convicts: 
barracks and forts of a pale stone cut 
square and set solid, as if by the very 
hand of rectitude. 

In Toronto, the sight Glenda was 
proudest to show him was the city hall, 
two huge curved skyscrapers designed by 
a Finn. But what moved Bech, with their 
intimations of lost time and present inno- 
cence, were the great Victorian piles, 
within the university and along Bloor 
Street, that the Canadians, building across 
the lake from grimy grubbing America, 
had lovingly erected—brick valentines 
posted to a distant dowager qucen. 
Glenda talked about the city's community 
of American draft evaders and the older 
escapees, the families who were ficeing to 
Canada because life in the United States 
had become, what with race and cor- 
ruption and presure and trash, impos- 
sible. Flicking back her hair as if to 
twitch it into life, Glenda assumed Bech 

(continued on page 126) 


THELIGHMBRIGADE 


your pursuit of happiness doesn’t haue to stop at the end of the road 


^ LOT OF AMERICANS got their 
first taste of off-road motor- 
cycling when they saw The Great 
Escape. Steve McQueen stole a 
massive kraut beast and took 
off across the grassy hills of 
Middle Europe, eventually to 
rendezyous with a barbed-wire 
fence. We will now have a 
moment of silence for those 
who tied to duplicate the 
(concluded on page 176) 


You take the high road and we'll take the 
rest on o Suzuki TM-250 Champion. Light 
(220 15.), powerful (27 hp ot 7500 rpm) 
and agile (о five-speed transmission), the 


Champion is ready to roce for $1175. 121 


There must be a few cactus flowers blooming under all 

jot snow in Sweden—the Husqvarna 400 WR hos won every 
major desert race in Mexico and America, A Swedish 
chrome-moly-steel frome keeps the Husky light (229 Ibs.), 


Look, Ma—no shift lever! Finding your 
way through a gearbox while staring a 
gully in the teeth is sleight-of-hand 
that can drive you up the wall. The 
Rokan ST-340 has on automatic 
transmission to take care of you in the 
clutch. Technology wins aga 


Evel Knievel wouldn't make it across the Snake. 
River Canyon on a Harley-Davidson SX-175, but he 
соу ride his way avt on one. This street-legal 
endura bike knows how to throw its weight around 
оп those bad-ass back-country roads. Only $930. 


r е engine delivers 
iust the kick you need for total 


control and no more ($749). 


Some people won't ride a two-stroke without instolling 


a tope deck and speokers, through which they ploy the 
sound track of an unmvflled four-stroke. Sove yourself 
the trouble. The Honda XL-250 K2 has the throoty roar 
and wide power band yov crave for a mere $1090. 


Dirt bikes are finicky beosts; unless you live on the 

edge of o desert, chances ore you'll have to hau! your 
mount in a pickup or van. The Yomoha DT 4008 hos been 
streetbroken for your convenience—i! can do B4 mph on 
оп open road ond still dig its heels in on cue ($1371). 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY DON AZUMA 


PLAYBOY 


126 


ALSTFALIA AND CANADA (continued from page 120) 


agreed with her and the exiles, and so а 
side of him did; but another side, an ugly 
patriotism, began to bristle as she chat- 
tered on about his country's sins and her 
own blameless land's Balkanization by 
the money that, even in its death throes, 
American capitalism was flinging north. 
Hearing this, Bech felt the pride of power, 
he who lived cowering on drug-ridden 
West 99th Street, avoiding even the ven- 
ture of marriage, though his suburban 
mistress was more than ready, and the 
last editor who had faith in him was retir- 
ing. Bech felt, sitting beside Glenda, like 
something immense and confusedly vig- 
orous about to devour something dainty. 
She talked lucidly on; a temperate sun 
beat down dryly on their windshield. 
Bech feigned assent and praised the archi- 
tecture booming along the rectitudinal 
streets, because he believed that this wom- 
an—her body a handbreadth away on 
the front seat of a Canadian Ford—liked 
him, liked even the whiff of hairy savage- 
ry about him; his own body wore the chill, 
the numb expectancy all over his skin, 
that foretold a sexual conquest. He inter- 
rupted her. “Power corrupts,” he said. 
“The powerless should be grateful.” 

She looked over dartingly. “Do I sound 
smug to you?” 

"No," he lied. "But then, you don't 
scem powerless to me, either. Quite 
masterful, the way you run your TV 
crew." 

“I enjoy it is the frightening thing. 
You were lovely, did I say that? So giving. 
Vanessa can be awfully obvious in her 
questions.” 

“I didn’t mind. You do it and it flies 
over all those wires and vanishes. Not like 
writing, that sits there and gives you that 
Gorgon stare.” 

"What are you writing now?" 

“As I said to Vanessa. A novel with the 
working title Think Big.” 

“I thought you were joking. How big 
is it?” 
It's bigger than I am. 

“I doubt that.” 

1 love you. It would have been easy to 
say, he was so grateful for her doubt, but 
his sensation of numbness, meaning love 
was near, had not yet deepened to total 
anesthesia. “I love," he told her, turning 
his face 10 the window, "your sensible, 


pretty city.” 


“Loved it,” Bech said of his tour of 
Sydney. “Want to drop me at the hotel?” 

“No,” Hannah said. 

“You must come home and let us give 
you a bite," Moira elaborated, "Aren't 
you a hungry lion? Peter said he'd drop 
around and that would make four.” 

“Peter?” 

“He has a degree in forestry,” Moira 
explained. 

“Then what's he doing here?” 


"He's left the forest for a while,” 
Hannah said. 

"Which of you—knows him?" Bech 
asked, jealousy, hesitantly. 

But his hesitation was slight compared 
with theirs; both girls were silent, waiting 
for the other to speak. At last Hannah 
said, “We sort of share him.” 

Moira added, “He was mine, but 
Hannah stole him and I'm in the process 
of stealing him back.” 

“Sounds fraught,” Bech said; the 
dipped Australian lilt was already creep- 
ing into his enunciation, 

“No, it’s not so bad,” Moira said into 
his ear. “The thing that saves the situa- 
tion after he's gone, we have each 
other. Were amazingly compatible.” 

“It’s true,” Hannah somberly pro- 
nounced, and Bech felt jealous again, of 
their friendship, or love if it were love. 
He had nobody. Flaubert without a 
mother. Bouvard without a Pécuchet. 
Even Bea, whose sad suburban life had 
become a continuous prayer for him to 
marry her, had fallen silent, the curvature 
of the earth interceding. 

‘They had driven in the darkness past 
palm-studded parks and golf courses, past 
shopping streets, past balconies of iron 
lace, into a region of dwarf row houses, 
spruced up and painted pastel shades. 
Bohemia salvaging another slum. Chil- 
dren were playing in the streets and 
called to their car, recognizing Hannah. 
Bech felt safe. Or would have but for 
Peter, the thought of him, the man from 
the forest, on whose turf the aged lion 
was daring intrude. 

The section of Toronto where Glenda 
drove him, proceeding raggedly uphill, 
contained large homes, British in their 
fussy neo-Gothic brickwork but New 
World in their untrammeled scale and 
large lawns—lawns dark as overinked 
etchings, shadowed by great trees strayed 
south from the infinite forests northward. 
Within one of these miniature castles, a 
dinner party had been generated, The 
Anglican priest who had prepared the 
concordance asked him if he were aware 
of an unusual recurrence in his work of 
the adjectives lambent, untrammeled, 
porous, jubilant and recurrent. Bech said 
no, he was not aware, and that if he 
could have thought of other adjectives, he 
would have used them instead—that a 
useful critical inction should be made, 
perhaps, between recurrent imagery and 
authorial stupidity, that it must have 
taken him, the priest, an immense 
amount of labor to compile such a con- 
cordance, even of an oeuvre so slim. Ah, 
not really, was the answer: The texts had 
been readied by the seminarians in his 
Systematic Theology seminar, and the 
collation and printout had been achieved 
by a scanning computer in 12 minutes flat. 

The writer who had cried “Touché!” to 
Cocteau was ancient and ebullient. His 


face was as red as a mountain climber's, 
his hair fine as thistledown. He chastened 
Bech with his air of the Twenties, when 
authors were happy in them trade and 
boisterous in plying it. Аз the whiskey 
and wine and cordials accumulated, the 
old saint's arm (in a shimmering grape- 
colored shirt) frequently encircled Glen- 
da's waist and bestowed a paternal hug; 
later, when she and Bech were inspecting 
together (the glaze of alcohol intervening 
so he felt he was bending above a glass 
museum case) a collector's edition of the 
Canadians most famous lyric, Pines, 
Glenda, as if to "rub off” on the American 
the venerable poet's blessing, caressed 
him somehow with her entire body, while 
her two hands held the booklet. Her thigh 
rustled against his, a breast gently tucked 
itself into the crook of his arm, his entire 
skin went blissfully numb, he felt he were 
toppling forward. “Time to go?" he asked 
her. 

“Soon,” she answered. 

Peter was not inside the girls’ house, 
though the door was open and his dirty 
dishes strewed the sink. Bech asked, “Does 
he live here?” 

“He eats here," Hannah said. 

“He lives right around the corner,” 
Moira elaborated. "Shall I go fetch him?" 

“Not to please me,” Bech said; but she 
was gone, and the rain recommenced. 
The sound drew the little house snug 
into itselí—the worn Oriental rugs, the 
rows of books about capital and the 
Third World, the New Guinean and 
Afghanistan artifacts on the wall, all the 
frail brica-brac of women living alone, 
in nests without eggs. 

Hannah poured them two Scotches and 
tried to roll a joint. “Peter usually does 
this,” she said, fumbling, spilling. Bech 
as a child had watched Westerns in which 
cowpokes rolled cigarettes with one hand 
and a debonair lick. But his efforts at im- 
itation were so clumsy Hannah took the 
paper and the marijuana from him and 
made of it a plump tongued packet, a 
little white dribbling piece of pie, which 
they managed to smoke, Bech's throat 
burning between sips of liquor. She put 
on a record. The music went through its 
grooves, over and over. The rain con- 
tinued steady, though his consciousness of 
it was intermittent. At some point in the 
rumpled stretches of time, she cooked an 
omelet. She talked about her career, her 
life, the man she had left to live with 
Moira, Moira, herself. Her parents were 
from Budapest; they had survived the 
war in Portugal, and when it was over, 
only Australia would let them in. An 
Australian Jewess, Bech thought, swal- 
lowing to case his burned throat The 
concept seemed unappraisably near and 
far, like that of Australia itself, He was 
here, but it was there, a world’s fatness 
away from his empty, sour, friendly 
apartment on West 99th. He embraced 
her, Hannah, and they scemed to bump 

(continued on page 176) 


ë 
8 
8 
V 
E 
© 
$ 
t 
S 
E 
Е 
4 
E 
8 
S 
i 
8 
3 
E 


the light at the end of that 
dark tunnel was death 


fiction 
By JULIUS HORWITZ 


1 LEFT MY OFFICE the way one leaves a 
museum. It would all be there intact if 
I chose to return—the rosewood box l^. 
had bought in Marblehead, the plaster” 
statue of General Grant bought on Third: 
Avenue, my desk chair made ір 1775 
that Miriam had found in the attic of 
a cousin living on Block Island, the 
photos of Tony, Alex and Sheila that 
stood in the elegant silver frame Miriam 
had bought at Tiffany's. I would not miss 
a single possession. The chair could go 
back to Block Island. We seem to possess 
everything but ourselves. 

By profemion I аш an editor. Being 
an editor-isn't a profession. One drifts 


PLAYBOY 


into becoming an editor. I am convinced 
the happiest people in America are small 
shopkeepers and the people who believe 
they have a profession. The rest of us 
wander through life looking for the kind 
of comfort one earthworm can give to 
another earthworm. 

I am the editor and publisher of The 
Scientific Man, a magazine that I bought 
in 1967 when I decided to give up one 
of the most exalted jobs on carth, being 
a member of the New York Times edi- 
torial board. There had been a thrill to 
working for the Times, a feeling of being 
part of the awe. The Times was sweet 
and lofty, but I had arrived at the end 
of my life too soon. I needed a new job 
and I chose to buy The Scientific Man. 

The magazine is located on the top 
two floors of a brownstone on East 37th 
Street. The magazine was broke when I 
took over. The articles had deteriorated; 
so had the professors writing for the 
magazine. They had slipped into a jar- 
gon that even they no longer understood. 
They quoted one another as though 
thinking had never existed. The scien 
age scemed to have passed them by. 1 
started out boldly, having been trained 
by the best newspaper in the world for 
making people feel important. I took 
a full page in the Times announcing a 
isher for The Scientific 
y of interpreting to the 
readers of the Times and others the ad- 
vances in scientific knowledge that the 
common man discovered by Thoreau, 
Emerson, William James and Dewey 
ought to know and understand if he was 
not to be crushed by the arctic flow of 
knowledge. It worked. Manuscripts be- 
gan pouring into the 37th Street brown- 
stone written by men desperate to share 
what they had learned before their own 
knowledge became obsolete. I felt it was 
my job to keep alive the last glimmer 
in American life of knowledge other than 
that of how to make a living or kill an 
evening. 

This morning, when I woke up, Cleo, 
part retriever, part Newfoundland, 
looked at me and whimpered. I am al- 
ways amazcd that Cleo lives in our house 
and shares our life in Redding as though 
we had given birth to her. She had every 
right to whimper when she awoke and 
looked at me. 1 stood by the window in 
the bedroom where I sleep alone— 
Miriam has the larger bedroom to her- 
selí—and I stared at the early-morning 
Connecticut sky as though it were going 
to fall to the ground like chunks of wet 
dough. I could understand why people 
in the Middle Ages believed the earth 
was flat and that beyond the flatness 
there was silence. It was a sleep in which 
I never knew whether 1 was awake, asleep, 
lost or dead, 

Now it was ever 
Grand Central Stai 


g and I entered 
n, looking for the 


130 last time at the taxis roaring down Park. 


Avenue, at the people on the sidewalks, 
who seemed unreal, and it didn't seem 
possible to me that everything nearby, 
including the Empire State Building, was 
all there was to the world. The bits and 
pieces of my life were flying apart like the 
rush-hour commuters who ran for their 
trains as though they might be left be- 
hind to spend the night in the enemy 
city, New York. 

"m going to make the five-thirty 
train," I said to Miriam from a phone 


booth in Grand Central. 

“1 tried to reach you at your office, but 
they said you were gone.” 

“1 left early.” 

“ГП pick you up.” 

“All right.” 


g all right?” Miriam asked. 


"Il see you at the station.” 
may be late. It was late 


"All right,” Miriam sai 

"I'm going now to get a seat." 

"Do you want to eat out or at home?” 

“At home.” I said, leaving no choice. 

“Oh, I thought you would like to 
drive to Westport and eat a Chinese 
dinner with the children.” 

“Not tonight.” 

“АП right" Miriam said again, with 
the dread in her voice I had heard when 
she was in the hospital recovering from 
an overdose of Ritalin, when she de- 
scribed the nurses, the attendants, the 
locked doors; or maybe it was my own 
voice, which I tried to keep under con- 
trol but I knew was coming through 
strained. It must have left Miriam 
wondering what kind of scene she would 
face when I got off the train. 

The floor of Grand Central was lit- 
tered with stubs from the off-track 
betting windows. The lines of people 
waiting to bet on the horses always 
looked like a ragged army in retreat. 
They succeeded in destroying the gran- 
deur of the station, the last great open 
space in New York, a city that already 
had more ruins than Rome. It was the 
height of the rush hour. Time to go 
home for dinner. Time to see if we 
remembered the faces of our children. 
Time to watch television. The worse 
the program, the greater its success. I 
would never see Grand Central Station 
again. Before 1 entered the track for the 
Redding train, I turned to look for the 
last time at the ceiling painted to look 
like the sky. I never forgot my first 
thrilling look at this station, when the 
beams of sunlight filtered through the 
great windows and bathed the station in 
light. It seemed so good then to be 
young and to be in New York. I don't 
know the precise time New York City 
died, but it must have been during the 
Sixties, when the iron window gates 
began to go up on the Madison Avenue 
shops. I wrote the first of a series of 
editorials for the Times warning that 


New York faced extinction because, 
more than any other city in the world, 
it survived on mutual trust. Now that 
trust was gone. New York was a city of 
enemy camps, ruled by an enemy popu- 
lation. When I came to New York from 
Nebraska, it was a city where everyone 
trusted everyone else because no one 
could live in New York without that 
trust. Now tenants in a thousand apart 
ment complexes were handed leaflets 
telling them never to enter an elevator 
in their own building with a stranger. 
New York is a city of elevators. I could 
no longer care about New York. I took 
my last look at Grand Central and its 
massive ceiling of stars because it was 
the first great sight ] had seen when I 
left my real home in Nebraska and came 
to the city. 

1 didn't buy 
Post had notl 


paper. The New York 
g left to tell me. I 
settled into a seat by the window. The 
train wasn't air conditioned. I took off 
my jacket. 1 stuck my ticket in the slot 
on top of the seat so that the conductor 
wouldn't awaken me. I prepared to 
sleep for the ride to Redding. 

I could no more sleep than can a sky 
diver in a free fall. My legs tingled. My 
hand brushed against my raincoat and 
I felt the box of .22 bullets. 

The Danbury train began the slow 
pull out of the station into the tunnel 
that ran for a mile under Park Avenue. 
1 began to feel New York pull away 
from me. 

I had no desire to see the morning 
edition of the Times. I would not mi 
my Lexington Avenue delicatessen with 
ham, Swisscheese and Russian-dressing 
sandwiches that seemed to have been 
my main source of food for the past 
five years. І would not miss the salesmen 
at Brooks Brothers who never seemed to 
remember me. The Plaza would not 
miss me. 

The train groaned like a man in pain. 
We were only minutes into the tunnel. 1 
smelled smoke, but it could have been the 
diesel fumes. The train stopped with a 
shudder, as though it didn't want to be 
alone in the tunnel. The lights on the 
train flickered, then went out. Even the 
batteries weren't working. A voice cried, 
“What the hell is going on?” No one an- 
swered the voice. I saw а conductor hurry 
down the aisle. He knew nothing. Then 
the entire car went pitch-black. The lights 
on the side of the tunnel went out, 
something they seldom did. But it wasn't 
unusual for the Penn Central trains to 
break down. The commuters didn't stir. 
We had learned to sit in our seats and 
not complain. We had even learned to 
read our newspapers with the lights out. 
Somehow the train always got moving 
again. It was better to sit in your seat 
and wait than to walk on the tracks 
or dimb out of the train in deserted 

(continued on page 152) 


that counts 
modem living 


‘On the bench, left to right; Tretorn tennis trainer, by Bancroft, $10. Pump tennis-boil canister, by Tennis Ball 
Saver, $8.95. Quick Spurt thirst quencher bottle, by Glacierware, $3.95. Ball press, by Edgeroy, about $10. 
Below the bench, left to right: Vinyl tennis bag, by Adidas, $8.95. Arthur Ashe competition shoes, by Head 
Sports Wear, cbaut $28.95. Tennis Stroke Master practice machine, by Sierra Industries, $49.95. Open-throot racket, by 

Yamaha, $110 unstrung. Ballmaster pop-up cage, by Hill Industries, $13.95. John Newcombe Tie Breaker aluminum rocket, by Rawlings, $50 
unstrung, In and on the lockers: Tennis hat, by Jockey/Alexander Shields, $B. Rugby jersey, by Viking Pacific, $21.95. Denim tennis-matif tie, 
from Serendipity, $20. Fiberglass tennis racket, by Volkl, $100 unstrung. Tennis-clathes carrier, by Pegasus, $25. Our lacker jock wears shirt, 
$12, and shorts, $19, both by Jockey/Alexander Shields; socks, by SAI, $2.35; ond a pair of terry sweotbonds with watch, fram Feron's, $21. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY RICHARO FEGLEY 


131 


IT'S A PLOT! ciclo By MORDECAI RICHLER 


if lee harvey oswald spied for the navy and if charley manson was let out 
on a leash, then why was fidel castro kept out of major-league baseball? 


REMEMBER, you read it here first. 

Charles Manson, ostensibly vile, was actually a vic 
tim—an unwitting agent of military intelligence, pro- 
gramed to kill. On the other hand, an analysis of the 
Commie master music plan reveals a hitherto unknown 
weapon called menticide, concocted by the nefarious 
K.G.B. to bring about suicide of the mind, rendering a 
generation of American youth bananas. Hence, the 
Beatles. Lee Harvey Oswald didn't own a rifle, couldn't. 
shoot worth a damn and was a naval-intelligence officer. 
Like Dick Nixon. The Cult of the All-Seeing Eye, seeking 
to obliterate the Christian Ideal in America, counts among 
its covert backers the past presidents of India and Para- 
mount Pictures, as well as Robert McNamara. The reason 
the so-called leaders of the world’s nation-states can happily 
indulge in tranquilizers, alcohol and sodomy is that they 
are merely puppet-prostitutes controlled by the globe's true 
rulers, "the Jewish syphilis minority." 

Hold it. 

Your enemy may have another name. The Rockefeller 
family. Led by Nelson, it deliberately manipulates the 
world of finance, spreading international chaos and con- 
fusion and discrediting democratic governments, as wit- 
ness the “Impeach Nixon” and Watergate frauds. If Jerry 
Ford gets in his way, Rockefeller will rub him out. The 
SL.A. the black liberation armies and—wait for it— 
even the I.R.A. are all CIA fronts. The air crash near Chi 
cago's Midway Airport on December 8, 1972, which killed 
45 people, among them Mrs. Dorothy Hunt, with $10,000 
cash on hand, as well as a purported $2,000,000 in Ameri- 
can Express traveler’s checks, was an act of sabotage. 
Robert Kennedy was not murdered by Sirhan Sirhan but 
was taken out by a second hit man, still at large. There 
has never been a more colossal and successful deception— 
nor one that has been so enormously profitable to its per- 
petrators—than the myth that Hitler killed 6,000,000 Jews. 
‘The truth about Chappaquiddick has been suppressed by 
some powerful organized force of 
universal scope and character. 

The same folks, incidentally, 


transformed nonviolent Martin Luther King, Jr., into a 
“communistoid” agent. Or, conversely, America is run by 
an invisible government, comprised of Big Business, mili- 
tary intelligence and the Mafia, working together. Or 
maybe, just possibly, though none dare call it conspiracy, 
what we innocently call communism is not managed in 
Moscow or Peking but is the long arm of a bigger plot 
controlled in London, Paris and New York by cynical men 
who use P.I.D. (Poverty, Ignorance and Disease) as а weap- 
on to build a jail for us all. 

Spin your conspiracy wheel, pick your plot and pay 
your dues, 

Dick Gregory, for one, is a heavy plot subscriber and 
proselytizer, often on tour. Pronouncing at Concordia U, 
Montreal, last autumn, he ventured that the kidnaping of 
Patricia Hearst was a set-up job by the CIA, the motive 
being to foment terror, thereby giving security agents more 
heft, an excuse to expand on their hateful activities. 
"Remember," said Gregory, "the whole thing happened 
in the doorway of her apartment. She was wearing only 
her negligee. When her first tape came in, we knew it was 
she because it came with her father's credit card. Her driv- 
er's license came with later tapes. Now, I don't sleep with 
many rich chicks, but I wonder whether they go to bed 
with their driver's license and credit cards. , . .” 

Gregory assured the Montreal students that Rockefeller 
would kill President Ford if he got in his way, but I have 
since surfaced, in Beverly Hills, with something 
more: an affable scriptwriter who actually knows 
who was behind the plot to kill John Kennedy. 

It was Н. L. Hunt's boy Lamar. “He brags 
about it openly" said the scriptwriter. 

“He does?” 

“Yeah.” 

“What does he say?” 

"He says, quote, I am the most 

(continued on page 179) 


ILLUSTRATION BY JOHN O'LEARY 


the proletarian skivoy 
has come a long way, baby 


Ah, what a wandrous 
thing is the T-s 
Beneath the supple, 
gossamer fabric, 
bulges ore allowed to 
bulge, contours are 
allowed ta contour and 
nat one single movement 
is concealed. There are 
many variations. The lady 
above prefers hers 
hyperventilation. 


PRODUCED BY MARILYN GRABOWSKI / PHOTOGRAPHED BY PHILLIP DDN 


T-shirts are good just 
to hang out in or out 
of, depending on who 
you are or where you 
are. The cigarette girl 
(lef is a walking 
advertisement for a cer- 
tain brand, although 
most cf her customers 
find it almost impossible 
to concentrate on the 


soft-sell message. 


As F. Scott Fitzgerald ance soid: 
“The rich are different from us.” 
That’s because they can 

get away with wearing sequined 
T-shirts with nothing else on 


but o smile, like the young heiress 
above. As F. Scott Fitzgerald 

ance not say: “М & M's melt in 
your mouth, not in your hand." If 
the young lady in the snug M & M's 
Tshirt (right) hasn't melted you 

yet, please check your pulse. 


T-shirts have been known to hove 
stronge effects on certain people. 
This girl (left) thinks she is on 

automobile. She's got four-wheel 


drive, two supple shock absorbers, 
a reor light, front suspension ond 
a very effective bumper sticker. 
Above, notice how o little woter 
can bring ov! certoin hidden 
qualities in the T-shirt fobric. Most 


apparent is the fact that reolity 
often does follow ort. 


The only thing that looks more 
fetching thon a well-endowed 
young lady with her T-shirt on 

is a well-endowed young lody 
her T-shirt off. Shedding a T- 
shirt (obove) can be a relatively 
simple process, os long as the 
obstocles ore not too big. Notice 
how the T-shirt tends to lose а 
great deol of its shop: 


Notice how the girl doesn't. 


Colors ond slogans abound. 
His end Hers T-shirts are cute 

but not necessary, because they 
don't really tell us anything we 
don't already know. For example, 
one of the mattress-testing 

young ladies (above) is wearing 

a His T-shirt, but she’s not fool- 
ing anybody. We all know she 
cauldn't be a he, because hes 
don't wear pink T-shirts; they 
wear blue ones, right? 


139 


Back in the bad old ethnic. put-down 
days—thanks to Marlon Brando—the 
only people we pictured flcunting 
their undershirts were the Stanley 
Kowalskis of the world, guzzling 
beer and watching the ball game on 
the tube. But times have changed. 
Now, even though one enjoys drinking 
beer out of a can while watching 
ball games, one can still corry off 

а modicum of style in a T-shirt, 

as witness the lady above. 


Actually, when yau come right 
down to it, what's so bad abaut 
going Hallywoad? The starlet 

ot left is trying to convince 

us fa watch the birdie. We are, we 
are. One of the advantages of T- 
shirts is that they can be removed 
foster than a speeding bullet 
(above). With her T-shirt off, this 
superchick may nat be more power- 
ful than a lacomative, but she is 
certainly mare interesting. 


м2 


In the United Stotes, one of the 
lesser known variations of the 
T-shirt is the tea shirt. But it is 

enormously popular in Great Britain, 
where it is customarily worn with 
boots and о teacup. As this young 
connoisseuress of orange pekoe 

‘and Lapsang souchong (above) 

demonstrates, the tea shirt is best 
worn while taking tea. Since it is 

held together by a thin string, 
deep breaths are to be avoided. 


Ideally, Men should have three 
hands, so that he could keep all 
the bases covered at all times. 
The T-shirt above was created 

to give two-handed Man a hand. 
Notice haw this chap returns, 

the favor by giving the girl 

a hond in the tricky business of 
remaving her T-shirt. What will 
happen to the T-shirt once it is 
off? What will happen to the girl? 
Yav're allowed only three guesses. 


“. . . And a pinch 
to grow on.” 


THE VARGAS GIRL 


at the divorce inn 


from The Confessions 
of Arsène Houssaye, 1885 


ALFRED DE MUSSET, when he served in the 
National Guard, was no worse a soldier. 
than anyone else and thc fact that he was 
a talented author seemed no great handi- 
cap. He smoked the same tobacco and 
told the same sort of lies as the rest. His 
romantic adventures, on the other hand, 
were a bit different from those of the 
ordinary private, 

Women were always charmed by Al 
fred—his proud looks, his courtesy mixed 
with a kind of Byronesque imperti- 
nence—and it so happened that there 
Were two pretty creatures on his hands 
at the moment. One was a milliner and 
one was a real princess. 

Just as it occurs on the stage, he grew 
careless one day by sending two notes en- 
closed in the wrong envelopes. “My dear 
Princes read the 
thrill, “you are more charming than any 
woman. "The note ended by saying 
that Alfred would appear the next d 
once he had finished guard duty. 

My dear Margot,” read the princess 
when her letter arrived (Margot being 
both a proper name and a general slang 
endearment), “this letter is a road map. 
Simple National Guard private that I 
I am assigned to the City Hall of the 
Tenth District. I shall dine at Pinson's 
with Chevenard unless you pass by to col- 
lect me to go to some other restaurant 
where you will be the spice of the ragout. 
1 present arms for you.” 

‘The princess was delighted with the 
idea of having arms presented for her 
but not in a restaurant. Toward 
o'clock in the evening. in a thin Novem- 
ber rain, Alfred was called to the guard- 
house and there he found a veiled lady 
awaiting him. 

“Princess! You surprise me!” 

“And your impertinent letter surprised 
me. I really don't know why I came.” 

Alfred was not foolish enough to lose 
his presence of mind at the mention of 
the letter; he guessed what had hap- 
pened. “Do excuse a wretched joke and 


come at once and dine with 
Pinson's." 

“Oh, come,” she said, “take me some- 
place more wicked than that!” Alfred 
smiled, nodded and gave the address to 
her carriage driver. They were carried off 
to а secluded inn on Montparnasse called 
The Divorce Inn, a place where, as the 
lady discovered, one dined in a little pri- 
vate room. Alfred was full of high spirits, 
for, treating the princess exactly as if she 
were the milliner, he had hopes that 
she'd grant all he wished. 

Suddenly there came а loud voice from 
the next room. “Good God!” exclaimed 
the lady, "that's the prince. My husband. 
Did you set up this little comedy?” 

"Lord, no! It's just bad luck—of 
course, he knows this place well and he 
and I have been here with virtuous ma 
ens now and then.” 

"I'd love to know what virtuous m: 
en is having dinner with him right now. 

Just then came a loud knock at their 
door and the voice of the prince cryi 

“Alfred, my boy! I understand that you 
are entertaining a mysterious veiled lady 
in there and I insist that all four of us 
dine together." De Musset threw all of 
js weight against the door just as the 
prince gave it a powerful kick. 

"Its all very well for him to live like 
the Devil,” whispered the princess, “but 
if he found me here, he'd slash my 
face with the first knile he could lay 
hands on." 

“Old friend,” called out Alfred, “this 
is really serious. I'm involved in a bit of 
adultery. 

There was a pause in the assault as the 
prince digested that news and retreated. 
Opening the window, Alfred jumped 
quickly into the garden, caught the prin- 
cess in his arms as she jumped and then 
took her to the street, where he got her 
safely put into a hackney coach that 
would take her home. Then he ran back 
furiously and burst through the door of 
the prince's room. 


me at 


ILLUSTRATION Вт BRAD HOLLAND 


Ribald Classic 


“Mademoiselle Héloïse!” It 
tle milliner who was being entertained 
by the prince. Somewhat astonished, but 
retaining his aplomb, Alfred dropped 
into a chair and sid, "My own little 
dear is weeping and being very tiresome, 
and so І thought I'd come over here to 
amuse myself with the amusing, if you 
don’t mind.” 

"Welcome, Alfred!" said the prince. 
“But now I must catch а glimpse of that 
beauty of yours," and he went into the 
next room, He came back immediately. 
“She has fled. No great loss, I dare say— 
and now you can dine with us.” 

In the meantime, the princess had re- 
solved to be bold, not to play the fright- 
ened schoolgirl any longer, and so she 
returned to The Divorce Inn. She went 
directly to the prince's room and rapped 
on the door, saying, ^I must speak to the 
Prince of M . Is he there? 

"We never heard of hi 
Musset. 

“It’s on behalf of Count Apponyi 
said the princess. “A matter of state. 
Something extremely important.” 

At this, the prince decided to open the 
door. “1 just happened to be here for a 
moment,” he said. 

‘Good evening, dear lady,” 
Im here with Alfred,” 
milliner. 

“I imagine that you are reading The 
New Héloïse together,” said the princess. 
She took the prince's arm and he could 
do nothing but accompany her. 

‘Thus it was thar Alfred found himself, 
after all, locked in the embrace of the 
pretty little milliner, just as he had 
planned at the beginning of all this. As 
for the princess, later that evening, Alfred 
stopped by her house, where, as usual, 
she was entertaining a great many society 
guests. 

“Dear Alfred,” she exclaimed, holding 
out her hand to the poet, “it has been 
such a long, long time!" 

Retold by Robert Mahieu EB 1 


De 


id Alfred. 
said the 


PLAYBOY 


M6 


THE DEAD ARE DYING OF THIRST 


two miles to the Congo, now called 
the Zaire, the enormous river here a 
appointment, for its waters are muddy 
and congested with floating clumps of 
hyacinth ripped loose from the banks 
and thick as carcasses in the water, 
unremantic as turds, A threedecker 
riverboat, hybrid between yacht and pad- 
dle steamer, is anchored at the dock. The 
boat is called President Mobutu. Next to 
similar in appe: 
ship. It is called Mama Mobutu. No 
surprise. The posters that advertise the 
fight say: UN CADEAU DE PRESIDENT MO- 
шото AU PEUPLE гло (a gilt of Presi- 
dent Mobutu to the Zairois people) ET 
UN HONNEUR POUR L'HOMME NOR (plus 


an honor for the black man a 
snake around a stick, the of 
Mobutu is intertwined in Zaire with 


the revolutionary ideal. A 
TWEEN TWO BLACKS IN A BLACK 
ORGANIZED BY BLACKS AND SEEN BY THE 
WHOLE WORLD; THAT IS A VICTORY OF MO- 
nUTISM. So says опе of the government's 
green-and-yellow signs on the highway 
from Nsele to the capital, Ki 
variety of such signs printed in English 
and French give the motorist a whiz-by- 
theeye comse in Mobutism. WE WANT 
TO BE FREE. WE DON'T WANT OUR ROAD 
TOWARD PROGRESS TO BE IMPEDED; EVEN 
IF WE HAVE TO FORGE OUR WAY THROUGH 
ROCK, WE WILL FORGE IT THROUGH THE 
ROCK. It is better than Burma-Shave, and 
certainly a noble sentiment for the vege- 
tation of the Congo, but the interviewer 
is thinking that after much travel, he 
has come to an unattractive place. Of 
couse, the interviewer is also looking 
green. He has caught some viral disrup- 
tion in Cairo before coming to Zaire 
nd has been in this country for only 
three miserable days. He will even leave 
for New York just this afternoon. The 
fight has been postponed. Foreman has 
been cut in training, Since it is over the 
суе, the postponement, while indefinite, 
can hardly be less than a month, What a 
bummer! The day he landed in Zaire 
was the day he heard the news. His 
hotel reservations had, of course, been 
unhonored. There is nothing like failing 
to find a bed when you land at dawn in 
an African capital. Much of the morning. 
was lost before he was finally assigned. а 
room at the Memling, famous for its 
revolutionary history. A decade аро, cor- 
respondents lived on its upper stories at 
a time when protagonists were being 
executed in the lobby. Blood ran over the 
lobby floor. Bur now the Memling looked 
like itself once more, a mediocre hotel 


n a tropical town. The famous floor of 
the lobby was more or less equal again 


to the 
station 


in cleanliness and good feel 
floor of the Greyhound Bu 
in Faston, Pennsylvania, and the natives 
at the desk spoke French like men with 
artificial laryaxes. They were nonetheless 


(continued from page 104) 
is superior in their attitude toward for- 
eigners as any Parisian. What pride in 
the inability to comprehend your accent! 
What a lobby to be executed in! The 
Zairois officials who passed through these 
precincts wore dark-blue lapelless jackets 
and matching blue pants called abacos 
(from the slogan "à bas le costume"— 
"down with formal dress") and that was 
the approved. bureauaatic revolutionary 
wear. Since some of these officials even. 
spoke English (with accents more tor- 
tured than the Japanese—words cata- 
pulting E dar gut as they popped 
their eyes) i ion teemed every 
dialog. Кае e Ead PRISE sce 
gance massed against arrogance. The 
decision of the press was that the Zairois 
had to be the rudest people im Africa. 
ickly, relations between Zairois and 
visiting whites became mutual detesta- 
tions. To obtain what one desired, wheth- 
er a drink, a room or an airline ticket, a 
surly Belgian tone was the peremptory 
voice to offer. If, for example, you hung 
up the phone alter waiting 20 minutes 
for an answer, be certain the hotel oper- 
ator would call back to revile you for 
discommoding him. Then one had to get 
into the skin of a cultivateur Belgique 
defining reality to plantation hands. “La 
connexion élait im... par... faite!" 
Manners became so bad that ‘Ameri n 
Blacks were snarling at African Blacks. 
What a country of old knots and new. 
Worse than that. To be in the Congo 
for the first time and know its name had 
been changed. More debilitating than 
cannibalism was this contribution to 
anomie. To reach the edge of the Heart 
of Darkness, here at the old capi 
Joseph Conrad's horror, this Kinsh 
once evil Léopoldville, center of slave 
wade and ivory trade, and to see it 
through the bilious eyes of a tortured 
intestine! Was it part of Hemingway’ 
genius that he could travel with healthy 
nsides? Who had ever wanted so much 
to be back in New York? If there were 
charms to Kinshasa, where to find them? 
The center of town had all the panache 
of an 
80,000 people who somehow missed th 
boom—a few big buildings looked at a 
great many little ones, But Kinshasa did 
not have 80,000 people. It had 1,000,000, 
nd it ran for 40 miles around a bend of 
the Congo, now, yes, the Zaire. It was 
no more agreeable than passing through 
40 miles of truck traffic and cu-stained 
suburbs around Camden or Bilo: Hi 
there was ап inner city full of squalor 
and color called La Cité where matives 
lived in an endless tumble-down of creeks, 
lurching ditt roads, wall 
shops and hovels, our trav 
too queasy with the internal mismanage- 
ment of his life to pay a visit and thought 
only of getting home. Of course, living 
in such duress, the bile-producing emo- 


папа Florida city of 70,000 or 


tions proved most satisfactory. What 
pleasure in the observation that this 
k one-party revolutionary state had 
ged to couple the oppressive aspects 
of communism with the most reprehen- 
sible of capitalism. President Mobutu, 
the seventh (by repute) wealthiest man in 
the world, had decreed that the only 
proper term for one Zairois to use in 
addressing another was citoyen. On his 
average per-capita income of $70 a year, 
a Zairois, any Zoirois, could still say 
"Citizen" to the seventh wealthiest man 
in the world. Small wonder, then, if the 
rviewer detested the Presidential Do- 
These little white-stucco villas 


ms 


mai 
(reserved for the press) and the large 


white Congressional Hall (reserved for 
the training of the fighters) were a 
Levittown-on-the-Zaire. Stucco buildings 
painted the color of aspirin were set 
behind lacy, decorative open-air walls 
reminiscent of the ol Edward 
Durell Stone, a icism—since 
even the best of Edward Durell Stone 
is equal to ta 
pretentious Nsele, 
drive and its hordes of emaciated workers 
in the watermelon fields (one could pass 
a thousand Blacks on the road before one 
glimpsed a man with the faintest sug- 
gestion of girth), was a technological 
confection equal to NASA or Vacaville, 
a minimum-security prison for the officers 
of the media and the visiting bureaucrats 
of the world. One high whiteand- 
chromium tower with the initials of the 
party—MPR—stood up as a pillar to 
mass phallic rectitude, It was a long way 
from Joseph Conrad and the old horror. 
At Nsele, Ali was ensconced in a villa 
just across the street from the banks of 
the Zaire. The interior of his house had 
been furnished by the government in 
style one might anticipate. Large rooms 
twice the size of motel rooms but identi- 
cally depressing in mood commanded the 
air. Long sofas and chairs were covered 
in green velveteen, the floor was a 
plastic gray tile, the cushions were 
orange, the table dark brown—one 
looking at that ubiquitous hotel furni- 
ture known to the wholesale trade as 
High Schlock or Boro: 
It was nine in the morning. Ali had 
been sleeping. If he looked better than at 
Deer Lake, the hint of a lack of full health 
still lingered. In fact, there had been news 
stories that his blood sugar was low and 
his energy poor. So he had been placed 
on another diet. Still, there was not a 
dramatic improvement in his appearance. 
This morning he was twice depressed 
over Foreman's cut. The fight had been 
hardly a week away. A TV correspondent, 
Bill Brannigan, who spoke to Ali just 
ter he heard the news, was to remark, 
Us the first time I сусг saw Ai 

genuine reaction.” 
How he was upset. “The worst of all 
times," said Ali, "and the worst thing. 
(continued on page 192) 


са 


PLAYBOY 


M8 


he'd appreciate it. 

1 probably never would of knowed the 
famous “Superboy” of Littleville myself, 
if my old man hadn't of been such a 
Redlegs fan, but he was, and so died of a 
heart ack when Cincinnati won the 
world series in 1940 and J was four 
years old. My ma had observed the oc- 
casion of my birth by kicking off, so I 
was thus an orphan and was sent two 
states away to live with my aunt Martha 
and unde John Ghent. Theyd been 
married cight years then, having got 
hitched the night Roosevelt beat Hoover, 
back when Litleville High was still a 
restored flax silo. 

Unde John was a Freemason and a 
plumbingsupplies jobber, and him and 
Aunt Martha had this little place on the 
outskirts of the town where they raised 
some stock and tried to have a kid of 
their natural own, sometimes working 
at it half through the night, when winter 
would throw its bitter weight around. In 
the summer we'd go on these drives out 
toward the county line in the Studebaker 
every Sunday for a picnic, and alter the 
cold chicken Fd go run the Weimaraner 
and Unde John would have a couple 
sips of corn and they'd take а long but 
canny shot at reproducing on the sly. 

No dice. 

Until one Sun We was going 
nd J was trying to get just onc 
station at a time on the car radio, when 
Martha peered upward through the 
windshield and says: "John, is that bal- 
Joon in troubl 

Me and Uncle John pecred up like- 
wise and saw what looked to be a big 
blue sausage spiraling down out of the 
heavens, trailing this aquamarine smoke 
from its rear. 

“That ain't no balloon," I says. 

“Looks like one of them rocket ships 
like in the Buster Crabbe serials,” John 
аур Ы 

“Oh, John, I don't know," Martha says. 

Serhchchchclrmbdsnwhrirppphhhhhh- 
hhhhhgnt! the rocket ship says, plowing 
nto the earth some 40 yards off to our 
left. We stopped the car and went on 
ever to it and John says if this 
balloon, then Warren G. Harding w: 
wind sock. There was a sort of hatch on 
the upper side of its nose. Uncle John 
went back to the car and got a lug bar 
and whacked on the hatch awhile and 
tried to pry it open but only got an at- 
tack of the farts for his efforts. 

“Look at here,” Martha says, down 
by the tail, and we went down and there 
on one of its fins was this word etched: 
KRYPTON, "What's Krypton mean, John?” 

Uncle John was kind of pissed olf at 
by now. "How the hell should 

ays, "Maybe that’s its 
like a boat. Maybe that's the outfit that 
made it.” 

“Maybe that’s the place it’s from," I 
say 

"Shit," 


a 


ame, 


says John. “It's probably from 


that goddamn Orson Welles.” He went 
to the car and had just got into the corn. 
jug when, with no warning, the hatch 
fell open all by itself. An infant's squawl 
come out of le of red-and-blue cloth 
nside like an air horn. 

“Goddamn,” says John, spitting out a 
big spray of corn, "I never dreamt the 
son-oFa-bitch rocket ship was pregnant!” 

“Oh, shut up, John,” says Martha, who. 
I think already decided that this was 
the Lord's way of sending them their 
own baby, especially when she found out 
it was both humandooking and a boy, 
two big pluses ittleville. "I think 
we should take him home and raise him 
as our own; no offense, Lloyd,” she tells 
me. My name is Lloyd. “Otherwise, why 
would the Lord have sent him here? 

"Sure moves in mysterious ways." John 
was glassy-eyed. 

“That's the Lord for you," she says. 

“Who's talking about the Lord?” John 
is looking back and forth from the kid 
to the rocket and isn't too wild about 
any of it. But the maternal voice in Aunt 
Martha was only a little softer than a 
Navy attack siren, so we packed up and 
went home a foursome. 

They named him Clark after Martha's 
daddy. Clark Ghent. 

He was the fastest and strongest son 
of a bitch in the history of the state. 
Maybe the world. He was also probably 
the dumbest. Clark could spit thumb- 
tacks through a car door, but I don't 
believe he had quite the LQ. of a pound- 
cake. There was a popular saying then 
that lots of folks Littleville didi 
know nothing but that Clark was the 
only one that didn't even suspect noth- 
ing. At least it was popular until Kraut 
Norton used it to Clark's face once when 
they was at freshman football practice 
together. Now, Kraut was the dimen- 
sions of a phone booth, but Clark went 
and picked him up and broke the South- 
state Conference forward pass yardage 
record with him. They had a big raflle 
and sent Kraut to the Mayo Clinic, which 
later called the county hospital to ask 
how high the plane was that Kraut fell 
out of. 

However, the word about Clark had 
got out a long while before that. We in 
the family knowed hie was odd. from the 
start, from such activities as him punch- 
ing a hole in the bathtub to get his duck, 
him pulling the engine out of the tractor, 
him cating two whole shects of corrugat- 
ding. He got the whoop- 
g cough one October and blew out 
ery window in the house. You could 
scarcely feed or wash he didn' 


n't 
care to cooperate, and I don't even like 
to recall what he done to the dog. A 
spanking was fine if you weren't gonna 
need that hand for a couple days. John 
had to use the pick handle on him, and 
later on, the pick. I remember in the 
fifth grade or so, when Clark lost his 
temper at school and tied Miss Fetcher 


up with the monkey bars, John took him 
ош in the yard and backed the Pontiac 
over him two or three times. 

Stupid and strong as he was, though, 
I got to admit he was as easygoing and 
mildtempered generally as anybody 
you'd want to give the ability to destroy 
a town to. 

You take that business about Clark's 
eyes, for example. He never actually set 
out to fry anybody. But it was true— 
whenever he really got worked up about 
something, he could deliver a look would 
set your hair on fire, which a number of 
people found out by annoying him. 
When he was having a bad day, you'd 
see sunburns on everybody in his vicin- 
ity. This was a fairly late development, 
however, and didn’t really announce it- 
self till his voice begun to change. The 
scorched and melted places all over the 
girls’ shower wall at school didn’t show 
up till his sophomore year, and 1 remem- 
her we was both driving cars when we 
snuck into Peyton Place at the Rialto 
and he set fire to the screen. You could 
hardly ignore it, 1 admit, but 1 don’t 
think even he ever understood what 
was all about. It wasn’t so much 
cious as unpredictable. What Im getting 

j, how exactly do you control a thing 
like that even if you want to? 

Then there was people who'd figured. 
out what a gullible oaf Ci 
would con him into all varieties of mis 
chief just for laughs, such as saying, 

"Holy Jesus, Clark, there's а twenty- 
dollar bill just blowed under that pick- 
up, there,” knowing that Clark would of 
turned the truck on its side looking, long 
before his brain got up to speed. 

Bucky Railes was the worst of this lot, 


as he was a close neighbor to us, and of 
couse isn't nobody can screw you like a 
good friend. It was Bucky convinced Clark 


he was being tailed by an Olympic 
scout and got him to shot-put the D: 
outhouse, which, if there had bee 


any 
Danbys in it, would have qualified as a 


suborbital flight, and in fact come down 
through the roof of the Larchmont Rose- 
the 
es. The minister 
as a Divine Sign and wanted to 
ion a stained-glass window show- 
ing the event, but the elders wasn't that 
ed at being signified by the shithouse 
of God and figured it was more a reflec- 
tion on the content of the sermons than 
anything. 

And it was Bucky who egged Clark into 
throwing that bus full of niggers into the 
Peppit Reservoir just so's nobody for five 
miles would touch the water all through 
August. “Just giving folks’ convictions a 
little trial by ordeal,” Bucky would call it, 
but T. R. Mackson, the big beer distrib- 
utor in Emporia, give Bucky a full schol- 
p at junior college that fall, so you 
figure out what was up. 
rk could be rash at times, though, I 

(continued on page 169) 


PLAYBOY 


GOING HOME кх) 


sections of the Bronx where whole neigh- 
borhoods looked as though they had 
been exposed to shell fire. 

We stopped dead. The conducor 
came down the aisle with a flashlight. 
“АП the trains have stopped ahead of 
us. No trains are moving in or out of 
Grand Central. We are tied up here for 
an indefinite delay. We think there's a 
fire farther up on the tracks near 96th 
Street.” He moved to the next car to 
deliver his message. 

I tried to doze, but the pitch-blackness 
kept me awake. Above us оп the street 
level was all of New York, a fact of 
slight consideration to the passengers on 
the wain who were beginning to look 
for other ways of getting home. I wel- 
comed the delay. 

We now seemed to have been in the 
tunnel for 30 minutes, longer than most 
delays on the Penn Central. I settled 
back in my scat. 

All was quiet. No voice was above a 
whisper. No one stirred. No one paced 
the aisles. We seemed to welcome the 
blackout. The sudden end to clamor. 
The wain would lurch and groan its 
way out of the tunnel. We were not all 
Pharaohs being buried in the depths of 
Grand Central Station. 

I realized for the first time that a 
woman was sitting next to me. She may 
have moved from another scat. She may 
have been sitting next to me all of the 
time and [ didn't notice, But now the 
perfume began to be released from her 
body. I smelled the body of a woman, 
a smell that beauty firms working day 
and night try to obliterate. They should 
have descended into the tunnel to cap- 
ture the scent from her body. Her leg 
brushed against mine. It was not a 
heavy leg. She said, “Sorry.” Her accent 

vas Boston or New York. It was Eastern 
with that assurance Midwesterners think 
they have in their speech. 

1 said, "We've been here for an hour 
and ten minutes now. In another fiftcen. 
minutes, I 


record for a del 
“ро you ride the tr 


often?" 

very day from Monday to Friday," 
Do you like it?” 

No. 

"Some men do. My husband docs. He 
has a passion for crossword puzzles. Нс 
takes his business papers om the train, 
but he does the crossword puzzles. I 
could never understand crossword puz 
ales. At night he asks me for the meaning 
of words I never knew existed." 

"What does your husband do?" 

"He's a lawyer. I thought everyone 
who rode these trains was a lawyer." 

“Just about everyone.” 

“Do you mind this blackout?” she 
asked. “I don’t. I think we need a 
period every day when we black out 


152 like this. I think it’s terrible that our 


minds keep going day and night whether 
we sleep or not. I uscd to think it was 
nature's way of telling us that we had 
so much to learn. Do you think the cave 
men appreciated the beauty of the world 
they lived in?” Her voice was now con- 
versational. She was in her early 40s. 1 
knew that voice and I knew those years. 
1 liked her voice. 

"I'm from Nebraska originally,” I 
said. "My father told me that when he 
was а boy, he used to stare in awe at the 
plains. He said they were like a great 
sea of grass. I think Spencer Tracy once 
played in a movie called The Sea of Grass. 
Spencer Tracy would have been a good 
mun to cross those plains.” 

“I remember weeping all through a 
movie I saw where Spencer Tracy was a 
man with one arm,” she said. “I kept 
saying to my husband that the earth 
should be populated with men like 
Spencer Tracy. He kept telling me to 
keep still and watch the movie. 1 don't 
watch movies, I swim in them. I go 
inside the screen. The movie becomes a 
three-dimensional world. I feel like a 
spy in every scene. I don't like the new 
movies, They have become cartoon 
strips. Comic books. The new movies 
don't give you a chance to bi 
character, to follow a story, to believe 
in good over evil, the triumph of good- 
ness. The new movies are like those rides 
in the amusement parks where a giant 
machine does nothing but toss and turn 
your body and shake you up to no pur- 
pose, yet people love it. I think there 
is something ominous and obscene in 
the new movies. There was something 
grand about Bette Davis in those early 
movies; she was like a roving goddess, 
going from part to part, sometimes a 
Southern belle, sometimes a hostess in a 
night dub, sometimes a woman dying of 
an incurable disease. Nobody else could 
touch her intense sense of being right, 
good, true, of understanding her own 
feelings, even able to place herself at 
the mercy of a man without panic. She 
was just plain extraordinary in Now 
Voyager. I see it over and over а the 
way some people go to the Met to see 
Carmen year alter year.” 


"You talk beautifully about the 
movies," I said. 

“It's nice of you to say that. This 
stalled train reminded me of 


movies, I think. Except tha 
have a flickering light and a no-exit sign 
in faded red, T am always struck by the 
way people come together in a movic- 
house. It seems like such a public way to 
enjoy a private pleasure. It's extraordi 
nary the way we can blot out everyone in 
the audience. Which is why I get an- 
noyed in a movie if someone talks or 
puts his feet up on a seat. 1 can’t stand 
to sit behind someone who is taller than 
me. My husband thinks I'm mad for 


always switching seats. He once got up 
and walked out of a movie because | 
id I couldn't see the screen and he 
wouldn't change his seat. I had the 
keys to the car, so that wasn't a problem. 
He came sulking back after eating two 
boxes of popcorn and he almost had a 
сого! 
“That would make a good picce for 
the Reader's Digest.” 1 said, "the pleas- 
ure of going to the movies.” 
“Are you a writer?" she asked. 
I said. “I have a feeling that 
don't write for the Readers 


"I have a son 
ation. To n, 
all marvelous. They 
give him so much information. He can't 
eat cornflakes without the Reader's 
Digest in front of him. 

“Are you a writer?” I asked. 

"I write in lined notebooks that no 
one will ever read.” 
гу: 
"s more than а diary. I write about 
the way I feel about things that I can't 
seem to tell anyone else. І write about 
things that no one seems to want to 
talk about anymore, I write about con- 
versations I never have with my hus- 
band. I write about everything I think 
I should tell my son that I somehow find 
impossible to say to him face to face. 
I wonder why we are so frightened of 
confiding in our children. So I write. 
Every evening, when my husband is 
watching a basketball game. I have 
twenty-five notebooks filled already. I 
think I will leave them in a place that 
will be easy for my son to find. I think 
my husband would go mad if he read 
the notebooks. If he reads the notebooks, 
he will discover that he never lived with 
the woman he thought he was living 
with. I am so absolutely different in the 
notebooks.” 

"What do you put into them?" I 
always wanted to keep a 


“They do,” she said 
who reads it with fasci 
those articles are 


“Three nights ago, we had dinner in 
town at a restaurant the Times gave 
four stars to, My husband thinks he is 
doing me a great honor сусту time he 
es me to a restaurant that has been 
given four stars by the Times. They are 
always a disappointment. And so stupid. 
I ordered a shrimp dish. The sh 
were tough, they smelled of iodinc. I 
started to send the shrimps back. My 
husband obj I left my plate of 
shrimps untouched. They cost $7.95. He 
started to cat the shrimps on my plate. 
He began to gag. He blamed me for the 
te of the shrimps. When he takes me 
to an expensive restaurant, he likes to 
have sex immediately when we get home. 
In his mind, I am a date and he is 
spending money on me for onc thing 
nd he can’t wait to get out of the res- 
taurant and get me into bed. When we 
got home, I said I had a headache. He 


RESEARCH а DEVE. 


e 


eas) үй 


153 


“Well, anyway, Гое got it up here.” 


PLAYBOY 


154 


said, ‘To hell with your headache. I 
didn’t have a headache. I was trying to 
think of what I could do to assert 
myself. I hit on a brilliant idea. I de- 
cided 1 would screw my husband like a 
callgirl who gives her customers their 
moneys worth. I pulled out every stop. 
I moaned. I kissed him where I haven't 
kissed him in years. I scratched his back. 
I dug my nails into him. I thrashed my 
legs, as they used to say in the sexy 
novels I read at Smith. I wouldn't let 
him out of bed to fumble for a box of 
Kleenex. I kept him in bed and forced 
him to puff like a heart patient taking 
a treadmill test. I wrote this all up in 
my notebook. In the notebook, it's witty, 
perceptive; Y achieve a depth that V 
Cather gets at her best. The writing of 
that scene was exciting to me, though 1 
know it won't hold together on a printed 


words that I am certain the words can't 
claim for themselves. I put into my 
notebook my desire to sleep with my 
son, It's not an obscene thought. It’s not 
perverse. 1 think its a feeling most 
mothers have. To experience their sons. 
1 can sec it being warm and protective, 


full of wonder, and if I could teach my 
son to sit on a toilet seat, ] see no 
reason why 1 shouldn't be able to teach 
him how to know a woman. 1 don't 
k we come to these things instinc- 
tively. I think we come to them through 
of bad habits, bad infor- 
rites. You 
to me. "You 
listen like a writer. You don't interrupt. 
You 
I couldn't see her face in the pitch- 
lack of the train. But I could make out 
a dim outline. She wore her hair pulled 
back. She had taken off her jacket. She 
wore a tailored shirt. She sat facing me, 
turning her whole body, not the way the 
passengers usually spoke on the Penn 
Central, holding their bodies stiff. 
claiming an entire scat for themselves. 
"Fm not a writer the way you mean 
a writer, I said. “I have worked on 
newspapers. I even used to work for the 
newspaper that passes out four stars so 
Now Yorkers will know where to cat. 
“The Times" she said, "Why are 
people always in awe when they meet 
someone from the Times? Its a news- 
paper greater than any of its independ- 
ent parts. The writing in the Times is 


bi 


“This won't take long, Blackie . . . he's got the 
fastest gun in the West!” 


ordinary. The words are stacked neatly, 
like crates in a warehouse. You seldom 
get a line of emotion. Doesn't anybody 
feel anything on the Times? Doesn't 
injustice deserve its own language? Who. 
dreams up those stories on the woman's 
page? It makes us seem like a nation of 
children. You say you used to work for 
the Times. What do you do now?" she 
asked. 

“I sit on trains most of the time. This 
stalled train is an exception. I feel мете 
moving faster than any train that ever 
yan on th 

“That's a good way of putting it. You 
are a writer, Writers announce them- 
selves. I don't know how. But they do. 1 
feel this train is moving. I can feel it. We 
move fast when we feel ourselves think- 
ing. That's why I feel so good when I 
write in my notebooks.” She moved closer 
to me. I knew she would. Our hands 
touched, then we grasped each other as 
though we were falling off the Matter- 
horn, 

"That feels good." she said. “So good.” 
I moved closer to her. We had a seat that 
usually held three passengers, but no one 
claimed the middle seat when the train 
left the station. Her arms went around 
my neck. Her body was soft, still firm, her 
breasts were as firm as those of any girl 
of 20. We kissed like a couple dating in 
a Nebraska moviehouse on a Saturday 
night. I was biting her lips. She put her 
full tongue into my mouth. I had never 
known that perfume could be so strong. 
‘The perfume was under her cars. It came 
from her breasts. It was on her arms. She 
rubbed her breasts against my shirt. I 
slipped one hand into her blouse, finger- 
ing her nipple, which was taut, sensitive, 
and she let her hand go down to my 
pants, She skillfully took hold of me 
with her fingers. She stroked me in a way 
that made me want to be capable of a 
dozen orgasms. She brought her mouth 
away from a kiss and whispered in my 
ear, “I think we can fuck without being 
seen, ГШ turn my back to you and you 
сап get into me sideways. 1 like it that 
way, don't you?" She kissed me again on 
my mouth and then with her tongu 
leaving my mouth, turning her back. I 
held on to her from the side, my hands 
still on her breasts, and I could hear hi 
slipping off her underpants, 1 put my 
raincoat over us. When 1 put my hand 
on her, my fingers, she arched her body 
toward me. I found her on the first try. 
She pressed herself into me. 1 could feel 
the fluttering inside her. It held me in 
s grasp. I moved into her. She held me 
in her grasp. Any motion from her would 
have sent me into an orgasm lasting a 
month. My arms encircled her. My hands 
asts. "Now," I heard her 
say, “now.” She began pushing into me. 
I plunged into her. I brought my hands 
down to her hips and pulled her into me. 
"Now!" she said, "now," suppressing a 


were on her br 


оза я. J. Reynolds Tobacco Co. 


= 
"WO n 


м 


He does more 
than survive. He lives. 
Because he knows. 
He smokes for pleasure. 
He gets it from the blend 
of Turkish and Domestic 
tobaccos in Camel Filters. 
Do you? 


Turkish and 
Domestic Blend 


Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined 
That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous toYour Health. 


ye 


CO.. N.C. AMERICAN WHISKEY—A BLEND. B0 PROOF. “SEVEN-UP" AND "7 U 


The trick to washing a dog is to somehow keep the dog 

from washing you. 

The trick to a Seven & Seven? That's no trick at all. Just plunk 
a few ice cubes in a tall glass, adda jigger of Seagram’s 7, 

and then fill’er up with 7 Up. Youcan even toss in a 

lemon peel, just to give this old favorite a new twist. | 

But whatever, the easiest par iking it. 
The Seven & Seven. 

You make it with Seagram’s 7, the whiskey 
America likes best. 


Seagram's 7 Crown. 
It's America’s whiskey. 


SEVEN & SEVEN 


moan but not suppressing the movement 
st me. I felt her body shudder so 
deliciously that I was reminded of a 
dreamlike feeling I remembered of the 
wind awakening me when 1 fell asleep 
on the bank of a pond near our house in 
Seward. 

“My God,” she said, “it will never be 
the same after this.” We both sat back in 
our seats like swimmers gasping for 
breath. “I don't want the lights ever to 
come on again. I don't want this train 
ride to end." 

The train was still pitch-black. I could 
sec now like a leopard in the dark. 

“On the train,” she said. "My God, it 
was so delicious. That shows you what 
you can do when you dare. I don't think 
we could do it again. This time we'll be 
listening for the conductor. It won't be 
the same. "That was so good. Not to think 

bout anything else. I always hear the 
water running somewhere in thc house 
or the refrigerator defrosting itself.” 

"It was very good,” I said. 

"I won't put this in my notebook. I 
don't need to be reminded. Nothing went 
wrong. I usually write in my notebooks 
about everything that went wrong during 
the day." 

"You must have а book already." 

"But not a book anybody else would 
read. I'm not a writer. I don't care to be. 
All T about now is not bcing ovcr- 
whelmed by the vulgarity of my husband. 
‘That is a full-time job for me. He doesn't 
sleep. He started taking sleeping pills. He 
has three drinks before dinner. He still 
insists on cating red beef every night. 
His veins must look like a dogged-up 
sewer. He will die soon. He is a machine 
that was wound up by the Harvard Law 
School and pointed in the direction of tax 
You know," she said, "we could 
never do this again. What you and 1 just 
did. I've been thinking if we could meet 
at the Drake or the Plaza, but where 
could we find such a marvelous couch at 
the Plaza for making love as this Penn 
ic seat? [ will never knock 
this railroad again. I'll tell you what I am 
going to do. The car is still pitch-black. 
I'm going to get up and find another seat, 
in another car. You shouldn't see my face 
and I shouldn't see yours. I shouldn't talk 
anymore about what we did. It was too 
good to waste on conversation. I don't 
think you want to know more about me 
than what you now know, which is prob- 
ably more than anybody else has known. 
The tr will start soon. I don't think 
there will ever be another train ride like 
this for either of us. I can't imagine it 

ver being repeated. I absolutely won't 
share this with anyone else, not even my 
lined notebook. But who are you?” she 
whispered, as though she had been sent 
from another planet to ask me that 
question. 

This morning, when I woke up, when 
Cleo looked at me and whimpered, I 


heard mysclf say aloud, “This is the day 
when you will take the Remington semi- 
automatic rifle in the closet, load it with 
15 bullets and shoot Miriam, Tony, Alex, 
Sheila and yourself. You will do it about 
8:15, after you return from New York on 
the 5:30, just when Miriam calls you 
down to dinner. You will shoot Miriam 
first, then the children, then it will be 
over; for at least that part of what we 
think we know of this life and for the rest 
after that, nobody has told us anything 
that a schoolboy couldn't imagine." АП 
men think of killing their families. Some 
men do it. The kitchen. would be the 
scene of the shooting. Miriam would 
probably be shot at the kitchen sink. The 
children would be seated around the ta- 
ble, the one true bargain I bought in my 
life, an original Shaker trestle table I 
found in a Danbury farmhouse for $18. T 
made no provision for any of our posses- 
sions to be passed on. Neither Miriam 
nor I had any family left. We were the 
only people on carth we knew and we 
in't know ourselves, The bigger family 
I had grown up in always relied on rela- 
су to set our heads straight. No one 
could ever be pompous in our living 
room, no dream ever got further than the 
cutting analysis of my Uncle Walter. Life 
was lived in the family. It was there we 
drew our courage as though it were a 
weekly salary. We arc not meant to live 
alone. A stairway led into our kitchen, 
one of those rear stairways built in the 
18th Century houses. Neither Miriam nor 
the children would see me enter the kitch- 
en until I was already on them, with 
Miriam in the sights of the Remington. 
At the range of 15 feet, I couldn't miss. 
We will be gone from the world and 
away from whatever harm the world can 
bring to the children, Miriam or me. For 
a billion years, none of it will be able to 
touch us, the feeling that we can't live 
with one another because we don't dare 
to, even though that is what we want 
more than anything else the world has 
to offer. 

“No,” the woman on the seat next to 
me said. “No, I know too much already; 
don’t tell me who you are,” and she was 
gone, up the aisle, before I could speak. 
1 leaned back in my seat and looked 
to the pitch-blackness of the train. I 
ited for the train to lurch. The wheels 


wi 
didn't move. It was past 7:30. We had 


been in the tunnel for two hours. No one 
the train raised his voice. I half- 
expected the commuters behind me to 
lean over the seat and whisper congratu- 
lations to me, but apparently they had 
seen nothing. 

How could they sce what they would 
never believe? More than the raincoat 
shielded us. She had been so skillful with 
me, The actual intercourse may have 


on 


lasted only а minute or two, but I had 


stayed in her longer because of the flutter- 
ing, which to me was one of the most 


aordinary sensations on earth, some- 
thing like the birth of puppies, something 
Thad experienced from Miriam only once 
and that was in London, not in our own 


house. 
The train lurched at 7:45. We began a 
slow, halting ride through the tunnel, 


n 


stopping every few feet, then moving 
with caution. The lights came on agai 
When we reached 125th Street, the train 
began to glide with its usual speed 
toward the Bronx. We roared through 
the Westchester towns toward Connecti- 
cut in the vain hope that the train could 
make up for lost time. I stared out the 
window at the houses flashing by аз 
though they would go up in smoke in a 
series of explosions. 

The cause of the holdup had been а 
fire in the tunnel at 94th Street. One fire- 
man had been killed when he stepped on 
the live tracks, The conductor passed the 
news to us. 1 thought the engincer should. 
have let out three loud blasts for the dead 
fireman. But death is no longer an affair 
for mourning. We mourn the living more 
than the dead. 

The white Connecticut houses were be- 
ginning to appear alongside the track— 
the white-dapboard houses built in the 
innocent days. A pitcher of lemonade on 
a hot July afternoon had saved my fa- 
ther's generation. I was born in a house 
with white clapboards, a peaked roof, а 
porch, a swing hanging from two hooks, 
a musty toolroom where I found old 
copies of Liberty magazine. On Sum 
my father always sat in a hickory rocker 
that faced the afternoon sun, which was 
where he died with a copy of Steinbeck's 
Red Pony in his hand. The funerals in 
Nebraska were stately. I disliked the New 
York funerals I attended, with funeral 
parlors on the street level and shops on 
either side where ladies would purchase 
costume jewelry. We were approaching 
Wilton, Branchville, Georgetown, then 
Redding. 

1 put on my raincoat and went to stand 
between the cars, so that the rushing wind 
would wash me clean of New York. The 
train rattled and roared. The white 
houses rushed by, the lights were on in 
the kitchen windows, the red lights flash- 
ing when we cume to a station. The cars 
nervously waited at the crossroads. Red- 
ding was only a minute or two from 
Georgetown. The train swept through the 
wooded fields. In Redding, there was a 
siding where the cars waited, a post ollice; 
the train always glided into the Redding 
station like a monster running out of 
breath. 

I saw Miriam looking at the wain as 
though it had arrived from outer space. 
She waved to me from the Volvo. I 
alkcd quickly toward her. I was trem- 
bling like a prisoner about to be hanged. 


157 


PLAYBOY 


H OUST! ON (continued from page 105) 


cars. I said I was here for my compact, 
and she sa was the red station wagon, 
and I said I didn't bring friends, and she 
said that if you can drive a compact, you 
can drive a station wagon, honey. She 
gave me a half-moon smile and I swayed 
off in search of Greater Houston, which 
has an incorporated area of 501 square 
miles, nearly half the size of Greater 
Rhode Island. 

I drove 25 miles, not because I wanted 
to but because J took an exit ramp that 
was actually a spawning freeway, and get- 

ing off a Houston freeway can be similar 
to crawling up out of the gutter И you 
are drunk or a bowling ball. A crimson 
light on the dashboard flashed, meaning 
we were thirsty, and I stopped in front of 
ittle Caesar's. 

Rosebud, or Rose Bud, said come in. 
Another bathing beauty, pink from 
pinches and pats, presented her slightly 
bikinied posterior as an hors d'oeuvre, so 
1 popped her elastic and was led to a very 
nice table by the jukebox, where Fats 
Domino, you remember him, had a clear. 
shot at my inner ear. 

It was dark, the way Little Caesar 
would have wanted it. Hanging over the 
аг were imitation machine guns, and 

p over my table was a friend of 
bud's, who called me baby. My 
heral vision included both of her 
breasts, casually supported by material 
you hardly cven noticed. 

1 said, “Beer, Pearl.” 

She said Pearl didn 
establishmen 

If you have ever ordered peach Melba 
on the turnpike, you know how things 
like this can happen. 

I said, “You Texans have some kind of 
sense of humor. 

She said, “I am not a ‘Texan. 

I said, “What are your” 

She said, “I am а go-go dancer and a 


work at this here 


Nor does Annie work here. She maybe 

used to work here. 
1 said to myself, there is no use in try- 
g to break the ice in Houston, which 
lies at 29 degrees, 45 feet, 26 inches lat- 
itude, roughly the same as Rampur, Cairo 
and Midway Island. 

Sitting in clusters were men who were 
men. One man, wearing a napkin tied 
over his head, stood next to the stage, 
lunging at a dancer, who was doing her 
Johnny Bench imitation. She was signal- 
ig for other than the knuckler. 
] asked my waitress if this were a 
Shriners’ convention. She said the only 
Shrincr she knew was Herb. She said 
these people were surgeons and physi- 
cians, part of a convention of 1200 that 
would be in Houston one week. 

In 1974, 277 conventions and 426,455 
delegates visited Houston, and it was es- 


i58 timated that $65,000,000 was spent in the 


pursuit of professional and individual 
self-betterment, which includes lodging, 
food and some light ass grabbing. 

A surgeon at the next table introduced 
himself, and I said, “Jay Cronley, Tulsa, 
Oklahoma.” 

He said, “Hey, boys, we got a godd 
Okie. Goddamn Okie can't even find 
ifornia,” 1 ed when was the seminar 
concerning malpractice. He said you 
can't sue for malpractice if you are dead. 
and he went off to practice what he had 
learned chasing nurses. 1 made a note on 
a book of matches to do what I could to 
stay healthy. 

I talked some more with my waitress 

I go, “Some weather,” and she goes, 
“Scen it worse in the East,” and I go, 
“Long drive in from the airport, about 
twenty miles,” and she goes, “Not as far 
as in Dallas," and I go, “The traffic,” and 
she goes, “Easier here than Los Angeles.” 

I go, “Why do you and so many others 
live here?" 

She goes, "Because it is not bad." 

1 go to the toilet. 

The check was for $1.65. That is one 
beer, any. I said that I was not a surgeon. 

I went outside. The fog had lifted into 
what could have been a halo, and the sun 
was applying midmorning makeup to 
the buildings that sit up straight as good 
tulips to form downtown Houston. I 
stared at the United Gas Building, which 
I identified in section Р-11 of my map, 
and the United Cas Building stared 
back, because builder Kenneth Schnitzer. 
wrapped its puts in glass that reflects what 
the sun says. 

As I stood blinking at One Shell Pla 
(50 stories), and Allen Center, and Two 
Shell Plaza, and Dresser Tower, and the 
Exxon Building, and other monuments 
to man's reach, one of Caesars girls 
tapped me on the shoulder. 

“You forgot your billfold."" 

Whereas many go-go dancers look so 
fine under Fantasia lights, this one did 
not age noticeably in natural 
You know," I said, “go-go dancer- 
are all right.” 
she said, “I am not bad.” 


Houston has a personality. It is rich. 
If it were a person, the swelling to the 
extremities would be diagnosed as gout. 

Brothers John and Augustus Allen 
bought and named Houston in 1836. 
They purchased 6612 acres for $9428. It 
was a good buy. It was their ambition, 
and the ambition of others, that Houston 
should become an ocean port, which can 
be difficult if you are not on an ocean. 
But Houston brought the ocean inland, 
ation system that extends 


In 1876, the Clinton floated up Buf- 
ou, the ship channel, and carved 
its way into Houston, carrying freight. 
"The Daily Telegraph said, "AN OCEAN 


STEAMER COMES THROUGH THE SHIP CHAN- 
NEL LOADED DOWN WITH FREIGHT, САІМ 
TON'S CUTTLEFISH—ITS WHARF COMPAN 
FLANKED AND ЄНЕСЕ МАТЕР 

Houston was in competition with Gal- 
veston, which, being an island, had more 
al talent. After visiting Houston's 
uly mock-up port, a resident of Galves- 
ton said, “If you people could turn the 
channel into a pipeline and suck as hard 
as you blow, you'd have deep water at 
Houston.” 

Galveston figured that Houston would 
become a port over its dead body, which 
happened in 1900, when a storm carrying 
a six-foot tidal wave destroyed most of the 
island. Contrary to rumor, the storm had 
not come from the north. Six thousand 
people were killed. In the next decade, 
Galveston's population decreased slight- 
ly while Houston's doubled; and cver 
since, Galveston has served as Houston's 
finger bowl. 

Galveston. launched a comeback in 
1974, advertising nationally, "Galveston? 
It’s a port. Galveston is south of Houston, 
in the Cult of Mexico, not just near it. 
No, we are not as big as Houston, but 
being big docsn't necessarily mean being 
best." 

But when somebody says, in effect, 
screw Houston, there are not always 
tornadoes. 

Houston considers Dallas its country 
cousin, where you can get a great deal on 
Western wear. Dallas is Wes:. Houston 
feels more flexible, very cosmopolitan. It 
is not that there is anything exactly 
wrong with Dallas, but whereas Dallas had 
ample opportunity to become a Super- 
star, all it could come up with was a 
money changer s airport that gives 
95 cents on the dollar. And if there is any- 
thing Houston hates, it is a good idea. 

Houston does not smell only of suc- 
cess. Another thing it smells of is shit. 
This is because of what is sometimes 
dumped into the ship channel and con- 
necting bayous. Which is shit, Or its 
synthetic counterpart, garbage. 

"Ehe material dumped into the channel 
was noticed soon after Houston became 
a port, because it caused unpleasant 
such as plague. 

In 1893, a spokesman for the Houston 
Cotton Exchange said that Buffalo Bayou, 
named for buffalo fish, was “an immense 
cesspool, recking with filth and emitting 
stench of vilest chai 

In 1967, Dr. Joseph L. Melnick of the 
Baylor Medical School discovered in Buf- 
falo Bayou viruses that could cause 


“colds, thea, encephalitis and 
meningitis.” 

Time docs not always heal open 
wounds, 


On April 14, 1974, Professor Eleanor 
J. Macdonald, chief epidemiologist for 
the M. D. Anderson Hospital and Tumor 
Institute, reported that deaths from lung 
ncer were highest in sections near the 


“Man, you can talk these substitute teachers into anything.” 


158 


PLAYBOY 


160 


channel and the central city, where air 
pollution was most concentrated. 

Generally, the wind blows toward Gal- 
veston, although clouds created by Hous- 
ton's factories have been reported as far 
as Dallas; and when there is nothing 
man-made to call fog, you can smell Hous- 
ton's natural by-product, which is money. 

Money can also smell like people and 
fumes. 

But if many of the people are employed 
construction workers (about 1.07 billion 
dollars in nonresidential and $713,000,000 
in residential construction reported in 
Houston in 1974); if the banks in your 
county have resources of 11.8 billion 
dollars; if salaries and wages paid 
roughly 9.8 billion dollars; if you have a 
space center that contributes $150,000,000 
yearly to your economy; if your port 
handled 84,000,000 tons of cargo in 1974, 
it smells like Houston. 

Nobody secms to worry about inhaling 
too much gold dust. 


Houston is good to its groupies, the 
tourists who come to be photographed 
next to a big-name building or a monu- 
ment to a champion. 

I had my picture taken in the center 
field of the Astrodome, where Mickey 
Mantle stood in the first baseball game 
played there, in 1965. Mantle hit a home 
run, but Houston won, 2-1, establishing. 
а one-game winning streak that is still 
thought of as pretty good. 

The Astrodome—a creation of Judge 


Roy Hofheinz, who borrowed the design 
f the Romans, then leased the fa- 
to several teams that. play like the 
Christians—is part of a complex includ- 
ing Astroworld (a Disneyland spin-off), 
astroshops and various hotels that form 
Astrodomai: d when the sun hits it 
just so, it looks like the carth has coughed 
up previously buried cities of gold. 

There is only one Eighth Wonder of 
the World. Residents of Houston dismiss 
eyewitness sightings of the New Orleans 
Superdome as swamp gas. Being Fighth 
Wonder of the World is 121,000,000 times 
better than being Ninth Wonder of the 
World. This formula is computed by sub- 
tracting the cost of the Astrodome, about 
$42,000,000, from the revised, projected 
сом of the Superdome, $163,000,000. 

The Astrodome is ten years old this 
year. Buildings seem to age faster than 
people. 

І also had my picture taken with the 
San Jacinto Monument, because the man. 
from San Antonio said it was truly one 
of the great pure-D tributes to American 
history. 

“I heard the Washington Monument is 
more spectacular," I said. 

“That is pure-D shit,” he said. 

His wife and children said nothing. 

He said it w: is Santa Anna, a. 
pure-D asshole ybody's book, had an- 
nexed the Alamo in 1836. Santa Anna had 
momentum. He followed General Sam 
Houston all the way to the San Jacinto 
River, where a colonel of the general's 


said, "Remember the Alamo," which 
nobody could forget; then it happened. 
“The Battle of San Jacinto," I said. 
“You got it," he said. 
"General Sam Houston and his men, 
outnumbered twelve hundred to 
hundred and ten, made a fight of 


“Two days.” 

"Wrong. You should read up on your 
history, podner. It lasted eighteen min- 
utes, Guess how many Mexicans got 
killed?” 

“АП but six. 

“Wrong. There were six hundred and 
thirty killed, two hundred and eight 
wounded, the rest captured. Guess how 
many Texans were lost?" 

“I have no idea 

“Wrong, Only nine. 


е is not six 


hundred and thirty.” 

"We want,” said a child, ^to go,” said 
his brother, “to Disneyland, id their 
brother. 


“This,” the father said, "is why you 
have undoubtedly heard of the famous 
‘Texas Mystique, which says that it is im- 
possible for one or more Texans to be 
outnumbered. 

I said I had heard that Sam Houston 
was а sissy. 

Son," he said, “you are full of natural 
gas.” 

I stood next to the pureD monument 
and smiled at the camera, gently cursin; 
Santa Anna, who helped make all of this 
possible. 


It is casy to feel right at home in Hous- 
ton if you are in a dark lounge with a 
group of people who are also from out 
of town. 

A man from Mobile says it is a scien- 
tific fact that he gets drunk quicker when 
he is away on business. Somebody s; 
s the 87. percent humidity. Somebody 
said it was the salt in thc air. Some- 
body said it was the beer. The man from 
Мої lit was because he wasn't al- 
lowed to drink at home. Somebody said 
all four of those were funny ones. 

You must have rules. You must be a 
tourist. It is rule one, page one, para- 
ph one, written right here on the 
napl 

Rule two specifies that the winner gets 
a free drink from cach of the losers. 
Those are the rules. The unwritten rule 
that cheaters never win. 

“1,” she said, “skated around Galleria 
Post Oak shopping center. 1 am from 
Shreveport. The Galleria contains one 
hundred and twenty merchants and. was 
designed and built by Gerald D. Hines of 
Gerald D. Hines Interests, which is re- 
sponsible for more than one hundred and 
forty diversified projects. Hines created 
One and Two Shell Plazas and Pennzoil 
Place. Within the confines of the Gal- 
зо bought two straw hats for 


lc sa 


What? SipB 
you mix it? 


CARDI BLDG., MIAMI, FLA, 33137 RUM BO PROOF 


SEND FOR YOUR FI 
"BACARDI AND THE 


cet), and delightful 


PLAYBOY 


162 


sixty-four dollars." 

“Thank you very much.” 

The Ноог was open for questions. 

"What exactly is it you weigh, my 
good woman?" 

“One-ninety-two.” 

I asked if there was an iceskating rink 
at the Galleria and, if there was, did she 
skate around it on skates? The answers 
were yes. 

“Ts it true you haye skated before?’ 

“That is a damn lie. 
gentleman with a mustache rose and 
“I rode up the glass elevator at the 
Hyatt Regency Hotel twenty-five times, 
l was asked to leave because 1 was cre- 
ating a hazard." 

"Was this the elevator that President 
Nixon rode when he visited Houston 
early in 19742" 

“lt w: 

“Did you also ride the elevator down 
twenty-five times? 


cy at the time of this scenario: 
“No. I was a guest of the Sheraton- 
Lincoln across the street. 
The next contestant said, "E walked 
through the Texas Medical Center, which 
is two hundred acres of twenty-five build- 


ings, representing an investment of two 
hundred and eighty million dollars, and 
approximately seventeen thousand people 
work there.” 

He sat down. 

“Do you have a son named Hay-soos?” 

"No. 

"What made your tour so meaningtul? 

T had a hundred-and-two fever at the 
time.” 

The next woman had toured, the Lyn- 
don B. Johnson Space Center. 

She did not know when the Space Cen- 
ter was built (1962), the number of acres 
involved (1610), how many Brazilian as- 
tronauts had died in outer space (none) 
or how far the Space Center was from 
downtown, 

We shouted 22 miles at her. 

1 rose and explained that between the 
hours of nine л.м. and two PM., I had 
had my picture taken in front of 21 im 
pressive buildings, including Texas 
ern Transmissions downtown project, 
which will double the size of Houston's 
central business area. Ehe 74-acre project 
will alter 33 city blocks. It will require 
bout 15 years to complete. 

“How many times bigger than Rock 
feller Center in New York City 
bez" 

“Two. Twice.” 


“Exactly what do you mean, dear, when you 
say our lifestyle sucks?” 


A man wearing а handlettered. press 
sticker in his touring cap read from a 
brochure that the project would be three 
times bigger than Rockefeller Center. 

Г appealed. 

By a hand vote, it was determined that 
the woman who had skated around Gal- 
leria was Tourist of the Day, for she 


Houston is not as kind to. season- 
ticket holders. There is professional foot- 
ball, basketball, baseball and hockey, but 
with the exception of the hockey Aeros, 
Houston's pro teams are best known for 
possessing the characteristics that come 
from repeatedly turning the other cheek. 

Fortunately, the scoreboard at the As- 
trodome is a family scoreboard. 

The Acros, winners of thcir World 
Hockey Association division, have pro- 
vided a temporary rallying point. A goal 

ay not be as exhilarating as a pictur- 
esque one-foot sneak by a by-God all- 
American or a double by a by-God 
rawboned country boy, but ice hockey 
will do, since finishing first is American. 
heritage enough. 

It helps if the hero is Gordie Howe. 
Somctimes a combination of vowcls and 
hyphens сап confuse a Southern accent 
te Jacques? Bust-his-ass Gordo is much. 
better. 

Two of Howe's sons are also regulars 
for the Acros. It was suggested that 
Howe, 47, should wcar a helmct to pro- 
tect his skull and the Houston franchise. 

“Helmets are the greatest thing in the 
world,” he said, "for kids, not me.” 

A nice suntan should never be covered 
by a helmet. 

The Houston Astros joined the old 
National League in 1961, and in 1962, 
the first year they played, finished eighth, 
which is not bad, since finishing eighth is 
much better than not having a team. This 
logic was to be debated at later dates, 
1963 through 1974. 

Since 1962, the Astros have finished 
ninth, ninth, ninth, eighth, ninth, tenth, 
fifth, fourth, fourth, second, fourth and 
fourth. The di the National 
League into halves was responsible for 
the fourths and the fifth. 

After combing the archive, the Baseball 
Record Book, you will notice that Hous- 
ton individuals have, at one time or 
other, hit. Rusty Staub hit .333 in 1967. 
Wynn had 37 home runs in 1967, 
impressive, since the only wind 
that blows out in the Astrodome is caused 
by shouts. 

Staub and Wynn were traded. 

Although it takes time to get your fect 
on the ground and it s time to rebuild 
if this process is frequently interrupted by 
rebuilding, the Astros’ public-relations 
people do not slump. The 1974 ticket 
campaign was, "Winning in '74. It's in 
the stars.” There you have astrology. 

A loyal season-ticket subscriber, when 


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163 


PLAYBOY 


164 


asked his opinion of the Astros, said, “It’s 
comfortable.” 

"There are always the Texas Rangers of 
the American League up the road in Dal- 
las. They are also comfortable. 

Houston's National Football League 
team is, if anything, more spectacular, 

e 11 people per team play football, 
two more than baseball. 

Houston won its game in 1973, defeat- 
ing Baltimore, 31-27. The winning 
touch-thing was scored with 32 seconds re- 
maining on the clock, thereby proving 
that on a given day, any N.F.L. team is 
capable of defeating another N.F.L. team, 
if it does not mind losing 18 in a row 
first, which Houston 

From 1970 through the 1973-1974 sea- 
son, the Oilers had four head coaches, four 
defensive-line coaches, three defensive- 
back coaches, four offensive-line coaches, 
three linebacker coaches, three trainers, 
three general managers, three team phy- 
Ts 
made up for finishing 7-7 in 1974, their 
best record since 1968, by hiring another 
coach, O. A. Phillips. His nickname is 
"Bum." 

Many people in Houston fish. 

There are always the University of 
Houston Соц 

About the only pros who pla 
the Astrodome a 
Billie Jean King, 
Graham, 

Houston had a 
Football League. 

Houston has never been accused of not 
having enough balls. 


sicians and se 


al players. The O 


y well in 
e George Foreman, 
Ivis Presley and Billy 


entry in the World 


All cities are not created equal, Some 
are born to riches. Spindletop, a major 
oil field near Beaumont, came in in 1901, 
creating a network of pipelines with 
Houston as distribution center. 

Time flies, and you could easily con- 
clude that the lack of zoning in Houston 
was nothing more than an oversight. 

Houston has always been preoccupied 
with luring corporations, such as Shell, 
h moved 1200 workers from New 
York in 1970. The best way to attract a 
chairman of the board is to give him a 
shovel and a city map, and unless he has 
poor aim, he will likely build on a free- 
way, of which there are 193 miles 
Houston and 198 more in various stages 
of development. 
ances are you would like Houston, 
unless you were prone to heat prostra- 
tion, and even then, chances are you 
could build within range of one of the 56 
is County. 

Houston got around to zoning most re- 
cently in 1962, and residents of Harris 
County mainly decided to go with what 
they already had; therefore, about all the 
zoning you will find is in incorporated 
communities within Houston’s 

‘There are “office parks” 


‘industrial 


parks” that come equipped with appro] 
ate facilities, but the sound of turning 
soil on a vacant lot could be enough to 
make a property owner plow his split- 
level into a parking lot in self-defense. 

Many believe a lack of zoning (actually, 
it is not a lack of zoning, it is just no 
zoning) has contributed to Houston's 
balanced growth—balanced between 
downtown and suburbs and balanced 
sectionally. 

Gerald D. Hines, who fought for zoning 
in 1962, has said he would likely fight the 
other way if it came to another vote. Ken- 
neth Schnitzer, of Century Development, 
said projects such as his Greenway Plaza, 
a 127-acre development on Houston's 
west side, would not have been possible 
in a city with zoning. 

Others believe that no zoning is adu- 
ally hardening of the arteries, a condition 
lentifiable by roads pointing everywhere. 
Whatever it is, it is Houston's business, 
and in 1974, 34 major businesses moved 
to town. 


It is man who is created equal. It is the 
law of God, the theory of man, the de- 
sion of the Interna] Revenue Service 
that a life beginning in the ghetto is 
worth exactly the same deduction as a life 
beginning in splendid arcas of town, such 
as Memorial and. River Oaks. Too bad 
some people cannot read the Bill of 
Rights or the Bible. 

River Oaks is west of downtown, a 
pocket of prospering branches and Ber- 
muda grass. 

It is the South restored, great bulks of 
brick and board that sit well back into 
dscapes. Whereas some houses are de- 
scrving of numbered identification and 
Codes, the manors of River Oaks sug- 
gest more subtle recognition, in honor of 
prevailing terrain, mood, or proper name 
of the merger that made it all possible. 

Nobody would put a skyscraper near 
River Oaks, for fear of devaluing the 
proper 


Go south on McGowan from down- 
town, past Enr 

Mention parts of town such as this to 
the chamber of commerce and you get 
coughed on. If you do not wish to call it a 
ghetto, call it tei ally poor- 

A ghetto factor is proportionate to a 
net worth, because there has got to 
be somebody to deftly handle the horse- 
shit jobs, and the wealthier a city be- 
comes, the more horseshit jobs there are, 
so you h n ever-expanding society of 
tops of bottoms. 

"There are poor white parts of town and 
poor black parts of town and poor 
chicano and Mexican parts of town. 
Houston's population is about 20 percent 
black, ten percent Mexican and chicano. 
That is a lot of labor. 

Houston's poor areas are fortunate in 


that many of them border downtown, and 
from where I stood, I could clearly see 
the buildings that are frequently photo- 
graphed from the air for brochures. The 
pictures are generally cropped before you 
get to where my red station wagon was 
parked. 

I drove into a driveway in River Oaks, 
put the station wagon in park and walked 
across а yard. Somebody turned on the 
underground sprinkling system, and if 
you are from an area where moisture 
comes from the northwest, the sudden ex- 
pulsion of water from beneath your feet 
can be startling, when you expected oil. 

"There is something about a yard con- 
nected to a mansion, fronted by aristo- 
cratic columns of white, framed by plants 
breathed on only by wind, that makes you 
want to explore. I found a dry spot and 
felt. The d smelled like mint. 

Houston is a greenhouse. Most amy- 
thing will grow, and if you have an acre, 
you may choreograph a backdrop of mag- 
nolias, willows, mimosas and ivy that 
virtually feeds on compliments. 

А boy came by. 

"Hi, kid. 

He is attractive, He should talk more. 

“You live here, kid?” 

“A kid is a goat.” 
‘ou live here, goat? 

He lives around here. 

"You know how to kick a field goal? 
This yard should be in the N.F.L. Where 
1 come from, the ground gets so hard you 
cannot make a place to tee up the ball 
unless you bring a glass of water.” 

I showed him how to dig your heel into 
the ground. He said his father was in 
insurance, which I would need if I kept 
plowing up yards in the neighborhood. 
He played soccer. 

“You here for the yard?” he asked. 


‘ou're white. 
“So was Johnny Appleseed.” 
“You don't look like a yardman, 
“Horticultural supervisor. 
“Let me see your card.” 
“What card? Look at these hands.” 
“They're white.” 

“I wear gloves." 

"Pull a weed. Pull a weed or TIL call 
my mother.” 

IE you cannot beat around the bush, 
you surround the weed. You then run 
your thumb and first finger down the 
stem, loosening the whole arrangement. 
If the vibes are good. you remove the 
weed by a vertical movement of the arm. 

“That's a holly fern.” 

"Whats a holly fern?” 

“What you pulled.” 

“I know it's a holly fern.” 

“Why'd you pull it?” 

“Holly ferns cause hay fer 

“You're full of crap.” 

“We in the trade refer to it as manure, 

Before leaving River Oaks, I paused in 


“Dash it all, girl —do I have to teach you everything? 


Where are the finger bowls?" 


PLAYBOY 


166 


a vacant lot to transplant the holly fern. 
I found a quarter in the dirt. 

It gets dark early just off McGowan, 
about the 25th of the month, when you 
get out of money. 

A boy wants a half. He does not want 
to borrow a half, Chances are, if nobody 
will give it to him, he will still get it, so I 
make it a lot easier. Sick relative? Sick of 
being poor. 

I walked around the block. There were 
three young black men sitting in lawn 
chairs, propped against a building. 

“Man is а gotdamn detective of po- 
lice," said the one on the end. 

“Be nice,” said the one in the middle. 

"Im nice," said the one on the other 
end. 

I figured I was dead. It may be min- 
utes, perhaps even a half hour. It was not 
that I wanted to die. Far from it. You do 
not always get what you want here. 

"Detective of police," said the one who 
had spoken first, "I want to report the 
theft of a 1974 Cadillac convertible.” 

“Factory air.” 

“Tape deck.” 

If I am a detective of police, I must 
keep my hands in the open, since I am 
obviously armed to the teeth. One thing 
I could do is make a dash for my station 
wagon. Another thing I could do is tell 
them I am not a detective of police, but if 
Iam, my partner would be lying on the 
floorboard, since we work in р 

“Man looks like Columbo.” 

“Sergeant Friday.” 

“Ain't Shaft.” 


I began to think of myself as a detec- 
tive of police, and Houston-area police- 
men are not regarded as all that brilliant. 
The crime rate, particularly the number 
of murders, generally puts Houston in the 
first division of deadly cities. Police re- 
ceived much criticism for not solving any 
of the mass murders of the Heights arca, 
discovered in 1973, until Wayne Henley 
shot Dean Corll, then told police where 
to find the 27 bodies, and the police took 
it from there. People are all the time de- 
manding more officers, more protecti 
It is difficult for us to anticipate the times 
and locations of murders. We mostly 
catch the crooks. Talk to the parents. 
“Police brutality.” 


Ме, too.” 
A man looked up from across the street. 
An attractive woman walked by, wearing 
tight pants and not too much shirt, and 
the three young men began talking to her, 
proving that there is a contrary reaction 
to every action, as Newton said. 

I got into the station wagon and drove 
away. 

It seems that not many strangers visit 
the poorer areas of town. Except maybe 
detectives of police. 

Some days, it can be difficult to estab- 
lish an identity in a large city. 


Sam Houston Р: is downtown. 
Houston has more than 250 parks; Sam 
Houston is part of the 5450 acres that 
do not hold up water. In the park are re- 
constructed dwellings representing vari- 
ous periods of lifestyles and architecture. 


“Hey! Be nice! You think I send a twenty-five- 
dollar wreath for nothin'?" 


There is a log cabin, below where free- 
ways and parkways and ramps synchro- 
nize as if directed by Busby Berkeley, and 
the before-and-after illusion seems to im- 
ply that Houston is capable of defending 
itself against bullies, such as time. 

As I looked at the log cabin, a Lincoln 
nearly ran through me, since 1 was in the 
street, and in Houston, pedestrians have 
all the rights of claim jumpers. 

Isat on a park bench, next to the log 
cabin, where one may temporarily ex- 
empt himself from all but the fringe 
benefits of reality. 

Houston has always been unlikely. 

When the roads were dirt, they were 
described: “They were impassable; not 
even jackassable.” 

In 1954, the city traffic engineer, who 
was on Houston's side, said, “There is ab- 
solutely nothing more that can be done to 
speed up downtown traffic, except to fur- 
ther curtail curb parking or push the 
buildings bac 

French journalist Pierre Voisin 
directly to the point in 1962: 

“There is no plan. I am horrified, Ev- 
eryone is doing just as he pleases, build- 
ing here and building there. Houston 
spreading like a spilled bucket of water. 
If something isn’t done about it quickly, 
it will be horrible, horrible.” 

Others complain about a lack of ade 
quate mass transportation, 

Houston dismisses such material as so 
much libel. There are 1,006,986 cars and 
292.513 trucks in Harris County, which 
create plenty of mass. 

Texas is politically conservative. When 
President Nixon visited Houston in 197. 
he was asked newsconference questions 
such as, "How's your dog?” or "What do 
you think of cate?" or “Is it true you 
ended the war, and would you care to 
elaborat 

In 1973, however, Houston elected a 
liberal mayor, Fred Hofheinz, 37, son of 
Judge Hofhcinz. 

It will not sit for analysis. 

Houston's beauty is as much created 
natural: Some 15 major, modern arch 
tects have been imitated in developments, 
and, therefore, the city’s charm is its 
almost flaunted individuality, which often 
a loved one to fully appreciate. 
It has shrugged off as inconveniences 
a reduced space progra п energy 
crisis, whatever the hell that was, more 
than the usual office-space vacancies and. 
shock waves from prevailing economic 
trauma, as if Houston has been assured 
that its greatness is permanent. 

An airplane passed over me and the log 
cabin. 1t lolled contemptuously before 
ng to the left. It is one of ours. Со 
get ‘em, boys. Give 'em hell in Acapulco. 

Despite repeated assaults at a person's 
health, possessions, relatives and sub- 
ious, you can almost feel indestruct- 
ible in Houston. 

3 


| FAI (continued from page 100) 


beans stand, covered, 1 hour. (This step 
eliminates overnight soaking of beans.) 
g to boil, reduce heat and 
il beans are very tender—1 4 
to 2 hours, Do not undercook. Add more 
sary, to keep beans covered 
during cooki з well. Remove bay 
leaf. Chop tomato coarscly. Remove pits 
from olives and chop coarsely. In salad 
bowl, combine be 
onion, parsley, dil 
well. Add lemon juice and salt and pep- 
per to taste, Toss well. Chill thoroughly. 
Just before serving, add more oil or 
lemon juice, if desired. 


GREEK SALAD FOR PITA 
1 qua 


mixed greens (lettuce, romaine, 

role, water cress, etc.) 

8 Kalamata olives 

4 ozs. feta or hasseri cheese 

B anchovy fillets, finely minced 

2 tomatoes, peeled and seeded 

1 mediumsize cucumber, peeled, thinly 

ed 

1 tablespoon 

parsley 

lions, white and green parts, very 

y sliced 


very finely minced 


thi 
4 cup fresh mint leaves, finely minced 
Olive oil 


Salt, freshly ground pepper 
Red-wine 


Wash and dry greens. Use a paper 
towel, if necessary; there should not be 
a droplet of water left. Cut greens into 
thin strips. Drain olives. Crumble feta 
cheese or shred kasseri cheese through 
large holes of metal grater. Place greens, 
olives, cheese, anchovies, tomatoes, cu- 
cumber, parsley, scallions and mint in 
salad bowl and toss. Add 3 tablespoons 
oil and toss till all ingredients are thor- 
oughly coated with oil (If Kalamata ol- 
ives are packed in oil only, 1 tablespoon 
oil may be included.) Add more 
oil. if desired. Season generously with salt 
and pepper. Add 1 tablespoon vinegar or 
more to taste. Toss thoroughly. Chill 
well. 


of thi 


CUCUMBER-AND-RADISH SALAD 
WITH YOGHURT 


1 medium-size cucumber 
14 cup thinly sliced red radi 
scallions, very thinly sliced 
tablespoon very finely minced fresh 
mint 
cups yoghurt 
tablespoon olive oil 
tablespoons lemon juice 
medium-size clove garlic 

Salt, white pepper 

Peel cucumber and cut into 4-in. dice. 
Combine cucumber, radishes, scallions, 


= 19) 


юе 


mint, yoghurt, oil and lemon juice. Force 
garlic through garlic press into mixture. 
Тоз well. Add salt and pepper to taste. 
Chill well. 


GARLIC SAUCE WITH 
(1Y cups sauce) 


X4 cup pine nuts, lightly toasted 
2 slices stale white bread 

1 cag 

1 cup olive oil 

14 cup lemon 

Y, teaspoon salt 

14 teaspoon sugar 

2 or 3 large doves garlic 

If pine nuts (pignolias) are not toasted, 
place in moderate oven 5 to 8 minutes 
until they turn light yellow (they should 
not be browned), then cool. Place in 
blender and blend until they are finely 
pulverized. Soak bread in cold water. 
Squeeze gently to remove excess w. 
Break into small pieces. Add egg, 
lemon juice, salt and sugar to blender 
and blend until smooth. Add bread. 
Force garlic through garlic press into 
blender and blend until smooth. Add 
more salt, if desired. Chill well. As sauce 
stands, it tends to become thicker. Thin 
with cold water or lemon juice, or both, 
if desired. 

Now, all you have to do is enjoy your- 
self{—tfor pita's sake! 


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PLAYBOY 


168 


SPOILS OF BUENAVISTA 


overalls looking ill at ease and grinning 
in а way MacBean did not understand. 
Suddenly, he vanished after the others. 

The girl stood motionless, tall as he 
was, full-breasted, full-hipped, wearing 
black boots, a black, full skirt, a black 
jacket with a profusion of white ruching 
at the throat. Her nose was the nose of 
the boy in the blue uniform in the paint- 
ing. Her shining hair was wound into a 
bun on the left side of her head, and now 
her left hand rose to touch it, while her 
right hand, holding the riding crop, fell 
to her side. 

“We are at your merc 
she said in a low voice. 
us?” 

Who is the patron here, señorita? 

“Don Pedro de Valdivia, my 
señor. 

And where is he, Señorita de Val- 


Señor Capitán," 
Will you abuse 


di 

Her pallid lips haltopened. She 
touched them with the pointed tip of her 
tongue and closed them again. "Here 


he asked, and she inclined her head. Now 
her left hand was at her throat and a 
crucifix had appeared in 

MacBean said harshly, "My men were 
fired upon and one killed when we had 


(continued from page 92) 
offered you no abuse, señorita.” 

“What will your men do with Padre 
Cipriano?” she whispered. 
hey will shoot him.” They would 
shoot her father also, and probably shoot 
her unless he prevented it. He watched 
her lips work. Her eyes were so dark they 
seemed to be all pupil. 

She said, “But you do not speak the 
truth, señor, when you say you offer us 
no harm. You һауе come to rob the 
decent and to violate the pure. We know 
of your doing, you se 

He was touched in spite of himself, nor 
could he help grinning. He had captured 
something very rare here, but so much a 
part of himself it was as though he had 
known her all his life, No doubt she was 
a stupid, arrogant woman like all her 
class, clad in those fanatic Spanish obses 
ions of honor and virtue and religion, 
like a coat of mail. 

Now she slumped a little. "Please, 
señor,” she said. "You do not seem to 
be one of these degenerate murderers— 
please, if you could help me to make my 
lalajara. There are friends 
there who will. . . 

Her voice faded to 


g at 


lence. She stood 


по. and he 


straighter, star 


as 


“A virgin? Really? I’ve always liked virgins!” 


touched again by the fear in her great- 
pupiled eyes. He strolled past her, 
thumbs hooked into his cartridge belt. It 
pleased him to realize that she was in his 
power. Her request was simple enough to 
gratify. He would send her into Guadal. 
jara with an escort and a note to Gener: 
Justo. Possibly she would be grateful to 
him, but more probably she would accept 
his assistance as no more than her due. 
Outside there was a volley of rifle fire. 

As he turned toward her, pain 
ploded in his face. He reeled away from 
her riding crop. He tripped on the pil 
low the priest had knelt on, stumbling to 
his knees, a hand raised to fend off the 
slashing whip. She had a revolver. Drop 
ping her дийн. she aimed it at him with 
both hands. He flung himself aside. The 
blast seemed to burst his eardrums. He 


ex- 


thought she had killed him, but he 
leaped at her with hot fluid pouring into 
is eyes, to twist the revolver away. He 


couldn't see: He heard the crack of her 
running heels. He swiped with his sleeve 
at the blood dripping into his eyes. 

He caught her in the hall, jerked her 
around and slapped her with all hi 
strength. She fell, bunching herself into 
а black-clad ball as he stood over her, 
panting, He reached down to catch the 
knot of hair and dragged her back along 
the hall over the polished tiles and into 
the chapel again. He released her hi 
grasped her jacket and, hauling her to 
her feet, tore it off. She shrank against 
the altar while he stood spread-legged 
before her, swiping at the blood that ran 
into his eyes, The blood on his hands 
infuriated him. With another jerk. he 
tore her blouse away and wiped his face 
with it. She was murmuring; she was 
praying. 

She faced him in her shift and skirt, 
torn sleeve of her blouse still on one arm 
arms folded over her breast. On her white 
check was the shape of his hand, pa 
pink bruise, part bloodstain, Her h 
hung loosely down one shoulder. He bent 
to pluck up the riding crop she had dis- 
carded for the revolver and, with а sud- 
den vicious movement, slashed her arms. 
She cried out. Her upper teeth showed 
pain. They made flat grooves on her 
lower lip. Gently he brushed his forehead 
with her camelliascented blouse and 
looked at hi ing the cloth. 

Please, señor,” she whispered. "Do not 
hit me anymore.” 

Holding the riding crop poised in his 
ight hand, her blouse in his left, he 
slashed her yet again before she began to 
undress. He was cautious cnough to 
place her revolver, a heavy 44, its butt 
opulendy inlaid with silver and mother- 
ofpearl, along with the encumbrances 
of his own revolver and cartridge belt, on 
а chair on the other side of the litle 
chapel from the sobbing girl, the altar 
and the pillow before it. 


blood stai 


Whither George Dickel? 


With or without the What? The thought 
rocks? Either way its through charcoal. For a that quality always 
superb Tennessee smooth, ex pensive taste. takes a little longer. 
Sour Mash Whisky. 


When? With a friend. 
George Dickel makes anytime special. 


А ms 0 Rep” 


Theres alittle bit GCE 


of Tennessee in every sip. ELLE 


WHISKY 


©, a? us 
é *Negi i 


ws 
© 1973 . GEO A OICKEL & CO - 85.8 PROOF - TULLAHOMA TENNESSEE George Dickel Sour Mash Sippin Whisky. 3 


PLAYBOY 


ws 


€NJOY TWO 
GREAT ENTERTAINERS 


Reproduction courtesy Ronald Lederman Collection. Beverly Hills 


100% Blended Scotch Whiskies, Imported by Hiram Walker & Sons Inc., Peori 


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Enjoy Dionne Warwickes latest Warner Bros. album, Then Came You” 


CLARK GHENT'S SCHOOL DAYS 


will say that. Like when them six Arnold 
County truckers found him and Beth Ann 
Pease parked on a turnout one night and 
thought they'd have some fun and Clark 
couldn't stand it, The Red Cross seemed 
happy to have the work. 

And then when Beth Ann told him one 
day between classes how she'd gone and 
missed her period, Clark give a great 
how! and run right through the che: 
try lab, and I don't mean in one door 
and out another, but right through both 
walls, lab tables, sinks, desks, everything. 

He got ап A once in chemistry, by the 
way, as amazing as that sounds and con- 
idering his intelligence, which wasn't 
much more than a rumor. He got perfect 
scores in analyzing unknown compounds 
and such. He could tell what was in them 
by taste. For two bits he'd drink an Erlen- 
meyer flask full of sulphuric acid. 

Now, right there was a part of 
the problem. you understand, that you 
couldn't hardly hurt old Clark with any- 
thing less impressive than a flame thrower 
or antitank gu 1 even then it wasn't 
so much that you couldn't punish the big 
ox without blowing your own self all to 
hell. but that I don't expect Clark ever 
did get a clear idea of the notion of pain, 
or harm, other than that they happened 
to everybody else and were not regarded 
favorably. I know for a fact you couldn't 
poison him, as he would drink a half gal- 
lon of gas on a February morning just to 
cut the chill. We cut his hair with an 
ylene torch. 

Even so, he always was jumpy around 
clectricity and deep water, and loud noises 
would set him off like a hare, as I will 
relate shortly. 

But a lot of damage he done was on 
account of that he wasn't normal and 
couldn't live a normal kind of life, which 
is not so important in a metropolis, 
but which in Littleville was like spitting 
on the cross or being made out of live 
toads. For instance, the place was abso- 
lutely crazed over high school sports, but 
they wouldn't let Clark compete, though 
they would have had to give over whole 
chapters of the record books to him, on 
account of such early incidents as with 
Kraut and the fact that the other teams 
wouldn't show up. nor even Clark's team- 
mates. Because all he had to do to attract. 
ambulances was to snecze in a crowd. 

It wasn't casy on him, is what I'm 
g Lo say. 


His sex life was no bed of roses, either, 
for your information. You take a guy 
can put his middle finger through a shect 


of boiler plate or drop-kick a cement 
mixer with one toe, you can imagine the 
potential of some of his other extremities; 
you get my meaning. 1 mentioned Beth 
Ann—she was one of the rare few women 
could accept Clark's favors without re- 
penting later on the critical list. Beth Ann 


(continued from page 148) 


had rode state rodeo for five years or she 
would have gone into traction. 

The only woman who would—or 
could—take him on regular was Buffalo 
Rose, who was one of the girls at Annie 
Wakelys Towne House in Gummon 
Rose was built like a jukebox and wres- 
dled mules at the state fair. It was Rose 
first called Glark the “man of steel,” and 
she'd spent World War Two in San Diego 
and could bust a Nehi bottle with her 
thing, so she should have knowed. 

In addition to which, whatever power 
Clark carried in his hide was in his sced, 
100. Clark could get a woman pregnant 
by fooling with himself in the next room. 
Beth Ann, as I say, got knocked up the 
only time he humped her, and even then 
he swore he was wearing four dollars’ 
worth of Trojans. Beth Ann miscarried 
after two months. 

Doc Ganch told some guys at the Rotary 
that it looked like the fetus had been 
trying to make a break for it. 

And finally Clark had naturally in his 
imbecility come down with a rash of the 
crabs, which of course proved to be 
some fierce mutant strain that laughed 
at blue water and thought A-200 Pyrinate 
was Kool-Aid. "This was no real nuisance 
though, since he could just mash the bug- 
gers by banging away at his crotch with a 
ball.peen hammer. Guys would pay half 
а buck to watch. 

The consequence of all this was that 
all you had to do was get Clark alone in 
a room with a gil and she'd yell for 
the sheriff. 

So anyway you diminate fighting, 


sports and fucking from a teenage boy's 
schedule. and you get some real tension. 

Like, there was the evening I was try- 
ing to fix the radio. Clark had burnt a 
hole through it with an angry glance the 
previous winter, when the Browns lost the 
М.Е... championship to Detroit. Me and 
Uncle John and Aunt Martha was on the 
porch just before dusk with the cool and 
the crickets and all. 

E gone olt to see the Brockwaite 
girl again?” John asks. 

“Yes he has,” frets Martha, “and I'm 
worried. Lamar Brockwaite don’t trust 
k at all, ever since Clark went show: 
ing off for the girl and bent a's 
plowshare into a big sword. Lamar Brock- 
waite keeps a loaded rifle by his door 
when they're together. and I don't fecl 
right about it.” 

“Well,” John comforts her, “I'd worry 
about the 0.5.5, Lexington before Га 
worry about Clark. He's a big 

TI ance was broke through by a 
loud report from down the post road, fol- 
lowed by this dazzling blur of color, which 
swooshed toward us across the open fields 
and then through the yard, sucking up 
dust, leaves. tools and a few chickens into 
its wake. This blur was Clark. Behind 
him, losing ground, was a slug from a 
Remington 306. 

"God Jesu 
goin’ faster than a specding b- 

“I know.” John cuts me off, scratching 
his chin with thought. 

And there was some real edgy moments 
in his senior year, but finally they gradu- 
ated Clark along with the rest of his class. 
"A carrot could have gotten 
grades," the principal told John, 


I says in a croak, "he's 


“Got you at last, man of a thousand faces. 


p 


168 


PLAYBOY 


170 you 


another year the school would have looked 
like Pearl Harbo 

After the ceremonies and all the эпи 
fling had subsided, we took Clark back out 
to the house and had a chat in the yard 
You got superpowers, you know that, 
says John. 

Yeah, I been thinkin’ about that, Р 
Clark nods uncasily. 

“Well. your pa and 1 have been doin’ 
some thinki s Aunt Martha, 
taking the reins, “and we've decided that 
what with your superpowers and all, you 
ind to fight for truth and 
ay. and so on. 
d don't the 
ys Clark. You got to 
was before Jack F. 


hoy 


owe it to ma 
justice and the American V 

"What if manki 
American Way: 
remember, this 
Kenned 

“Horseshit,” says John, impatient. “You 
just Goss that bridge when you come to 
- 1 scen you make more trouble than а 
-19. You shouldn't have no problem 


want 


ng your own way. 
Yow, І sewed you a suit, here, out of 
by blanket,” says Martha, "and 1 
want you to wear it when you're fighting 
for truth and justice, since it’s strong like 
e, what with it being from the same 


you was wearing it 


“Aw, Ma.” Clark shullles his feet and 
goes all red in the face, But around here, 
“Honor thy father and mother" is not 
loose talk, and so he went and put it on. 
It was the mo: 


ridiculous goddamned 
thing you ever saw. 

1t was all blue and red, w 
the front, and I'll be damned to this day 
it 1 know why Martha put an S there, 
unless maybe it was because her maiden 
me was Stanyard and she figured Clark 
ter her half of the fami 


on 


у. or maybe 
vas for Sweetheart, which she would 
call him as, or a dollar sign without the 
ines. The best and most appropriate 
thing would be Stupid, of course, but 1 
wouldn't give Aunt Mart ihat much 
credit nor so cold a heart. 

And 


had red boots and a sort of red 
jockstrap and some trim and it fit the 
poor simple son of a bitch like a coat of 
Kem-Tone. I mean, it didn't leave a whole 
lot to the imagination, it being a stretch 
fabric and him having grown some in 18 
years. Grown some! I tell you, he looked 
like the most dangerous queer that ever 


lived. Kind of like a cross between Sonny 
Liston and Tinker Bell. 

The damn thing even had a big red 
cape hanging down the back, because 
Martha had never had a train аг her 
wedding, and no daughters, and always 
wanted to sew onc, so there it was. Grow 
ing up at the knee of that woman, 1 
sometimes am amazed that kid didn’t go 
out and destroy the whole planet with his 
bare hands, 

What actually did happen was that 
John finally says, “Well, you best be get 
ting along now, Clark. Go off to the big 
city and knock around a spell.” 

“Pa,” Clark brightens, “1 ain't got 
any money.” 

“Get a job!” John snaps at him. “You 

big dumb dod, you got a body like King 
Kong. You could do two weeks" work in 
45 minutes. Go look up the Green Bay 
Packers or the Defense Department or the 
Ringling Brothers. Be somebody else 
headache for а while.” 
But till then, though.” Clark was still 
hanging on. “For train fare and like tha 
меп, bud," John lectures at him, 
пеш legs of yours, you ought to be able 
to jump all the way to Baltimore. What 
you need a train for? Love of Jesus, you're 
stronger than a goddamn locomotive. 
Never did see how far you could jump. 
Hell, 1 bet you could jump over goddamn 
Lake Michigan if somebody tokl you 
there was a cathouse on the other side. 
Go on, jump the hell out of here, 

"OK, Pa," Clark says reluctantly, and 
he goes and flexes these great ropy mus- 
cles of his till they are coming out on hi 
legs like hawsers, and takes a serics of 
whooshing deep breaths until we are 
hanging on to the fruit wees in the gusts. 
And finally he says, “Here goes!" and 
couches down and poises and then 
springs away in this huge, volcanic, roar- 
ng. mighty, supe ight up. 
You should of been there, there was tor- 
nado warnings all the way to Council 
Bluffs. and I broke my shoulder when I 
landed on the garage. He leaped straight 
up and went straight up and up and ир, 
ull he was a bird and then a fly and then 
a pinhead and then nothing. | mean, 
straight up. 

"Well" says Marth: 
feet, “that’s that.” 

And, by God, it w. 

We really figured we'd hear about the 
big simpleton on the TV or in the news. 
You'd think а guy can burn holes in a 
bank while balancing boxcars on his head 
would some attention. But we never 
heard a thing. 

Hell. we didn't even know which way 
to listen. After all, he left home traveling 
straight up. Or straight out, if you want 
to tke that view. Like Unde John 
would say afterward: “Big dimwit; didn't 
know his own strength. 


sonic leap, stra 


getting to her 


PLAYBOY INTERVIEW (continued from page 76) 


question about my planned trip to the 


prices. 
PLAYBOY: Perhaps the problem was that 
the shah did not understand American 
slang? 
SIMON: Oh. 1 think he docs now. 
PLAYBOY: After your Middle East trip, you 
predicted that the price of oil would drop 
to about six to eight dollars a barrel. It is 
now more than 511. Do you still feel the 
prices will come down? 
SIMON: Why. of course, they're goi 
come down. It's not a matter of whether 
prices will come down. it's when! And no 
one knows when. Unfortunately, when I 
make a statement like that and а re- 
duction isn't reported in the next d 
newspapers, everyone gets worked up. 
assumes it won't happen. The fact is, 
that’s a pol well as an economic 
question. The cconomics of a cartel, the 
politics of the entire Middle East and the 
Arab-Isracli problem—all of these are 
tertwined in this very complex area and 
will require very delicate negotiations. 
It's in the best interests of the producers 
s well as the consumers to have lower oil 
prices so they сап have an assurance of я 
long-term market. So they'll come dow: 
"They cannot sustain the oil prices at this 
level for a prolonged. period of time, giv- 
en the economic damage that it’s going to 
do to the nations of the world. 
PLAYBOY: Do feel that the goal of 
Project Independence, which would make 
us free from dependence on any foreign 
sources for energy requirements ten years 
from now, is still realise 
SIMON: Of 
blessed with a superabund 
resources in this country: so we h 
ability for self-sufficiency. That doesn’t 
1 that we're not going to import oil. 
We've always imported ой. But I pre 
sume we would not deplete our reserves 
the way we did the last time 
PLAYBOY: Why пог establish a Federal 
oil-and-gas corporation to test the fe 
bility of new methods and perhaps to set 
up a sort of yardstick? 
SIMON: 1 think the fellow who proposed 
the Federal Oil and Gas Corporation had 
marvelous sense of humor. because if 
you look at its acroi 's FOGCO. And 
any person who m suggestion that 
the Federal Government can do bener 
than our great frec-enterprise system— 
vell. he and I part company 
both philosophically and realistically. The 
Federal Government docs almost cvery- 
thing that it attempts in а most ineficient 
nd wasteful fashion. Government is a 
me We have more government than 
we need, more government than most 
people want and certainly more govei 
ment than anybody's willing to pay for. 


5 to 


you 


course it's re; 


PLAYBOY: Well, at this point, early in 
1975, what do you foresee happening over 
the next year—as best you can predict it? 
SIMON: I'm glad you added that last 
We sec the first half of the year as a pe 
riod of negative growth, with the econ- 
omy bottoming out this summer and then 
starting an upturn, This upturn will con- 
tinue in the fourth quarter and into 1976, 
with a diminution in interest rates, which 
will help restore consumer confidence 
This, of course. is based on the assump- 
tion that we don't do anything as silly as 
Government has done in the past. such 
as overstimulating the economy. T 
would lead us down the same road we've 
traveled so many times, where the Gov- 
ernment presents the American. people 
with more bills to pay for its irresponsible 
policies. We refused to pay these bills in 
the past. and cach succeeding time they 
came due, the amounts were larger and 
is the central prob- 
lem: We hardly ever do anything in Gov- 
ernment for the long-run good of the 
country. Most everything we do in Wash- 
ned at the 


ington is next election: 


that’s the long run here, and that's too 
ment can do better, 


bad. Gov 
up to an enlightened Ame 
see that it doe: 
PLAYBOY: You've been 


an public to 


lot 


ler quite 


of pressure in V 
years now. How h 
SIMON: I've got 
to show for i 


hington for a couple of 


And 1 suppose the past 
two years must surely be equivalent to ten 
years in any other field. But Î must say, 1 
wouldn't have mised out on all of this. 
nd 1 think the country would be better 
off if more people left the privare secte 

to help fight these battles in Washington. 
Some people say 1 work too hard, but 1 
frankly don't know any other way of 
coping with the many problems that cross 
my desk. Some have also said I'm too 
rd on my associates, but it's simply that 


already get plenty of that fro 
ernment. Obviously, we Ameri 
wful lot from their public lea 
ж them and blast them or we set 
them up on pedestals, pretending they're 
not like other mortals. Even so, some sur- 
vive the ordeal and manage to do a real 
job. One of those, 1 might add, is Presi- 
dent Ford. Another President, Harry 
Truman, summed it up by saying, “И you 
can't stand the heat, you should stay out 
of the kitchen.” Well, I think I can- 
least 1 have so far. And I'm going to stay 
in there, fighting for sensible Government 
policies with all my strength. The people 
have every right to expect nothing less. 


we 


1 


T 


PLAYBOY 


172 


PLAYBOY FORUM 


propaganda circulated by this group of 
ic youngsters who have a profit 
motive in the making. 

Let's face facts! Toilet rooms in pub- 
lic places are the most abused parts of 
buildings. Someone must pay for sup- 
plying, cleaning and repairing toilets. 
This is how coin locks help keep rest 
rooms in good condition. 

I have been a toiletrelated busi- 
ness for more than 30 years and I feel 
I know more about this field than any 
of the CEPTIA kids. Let's start a worth- 
while campaign to stop the abuse of 
public toilets instead of publici 
group that is helping to destroy bi 
managements’ incentive for providing 
clean facilities. 

Robert L. Stambach 

"Toilet Sanitarian 

The Nik-O-Lok Company 

Indianapolis, In 
H's really not our wish to be sucked 


(continued from page 59) 


any more deeply into the swirling pay- 
toilet controversy but we can't. imagine 
what profit motive the CEPTIA people 
have, unless they're a “capitalistic” front 
for some powerful Washington towel- 
and-toilet-paper lobby that considers free 
toilets good for business. 


DOWN-HOME DRAGON 

Oklahoma City district attorney Cur- 
tis Harris has been coming on like a 
dragon of late—threatening to imprison 
a bevy of fair maidens who have aroused 
his wrath. Harris, who snorts fire at the 
mention of anything to do with sex 
launched a massive campaign against 
nude dancing resulting in the arrest of 
two dozen young women entertainers. 
To the rescue rode attorney Stephen 
Swanson, who succeeded in having cases 
against 21 topless dancers dismissed. He 
defended two more women in trial 
that ended. in a hung jury (Forum 
Jewsfront, January). Finally, in the trial 


“Well, ГИ be damned. A Peeping Uncle Тот!” 


of still another nude dancer, he not only 
won acquittal for his client but also 
brought the dragon himself to bay, call- 
ing Harris as an expert witness on con- 
temporary community standards. 

After examining some magazines, 
induding rLaysoy, Harris testified that 
he was not aware these magazines were 
sold in the Oklahoma City arca. Shown 
a copy of the November 1974 issue of 
PLAYBOY and asked specifically if he felt 
that the magazine would be patently 
offensive to the ordinary person, Harris 
turned to the centerfold and said, “I 
see a picture here that I think 
abiding 
be offended by." He also testified that 
he had never heard of Michelangelo or 
Leonardo da Vinci an 1 dar he 
had never seen, in any art museum or 
elsewhere, nude paintings or other de- 

ictions of the human body intended for 
Adopting a down-home 
is said, "I was 
"m not 
Not dis- 
armed, Swanson pi over his 
methods in prosecuting obscenity cases, 
which led to a shouting match that wa 
stopped by the judge. After 20 minutes" 
deliberation, the jury acquitted the ac- 
cused young woman. And the dragon 
withdrew to lick his wounds. 

e withheld by request) 
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma 


EQUAL PROTECTION 
Police in Franklin County, Ohio 
charged a theater operator with exhibit- 
ing obscene material and seized copies of 
Deep Throat and The Devil in Miss 
Jones as evidence. When municipal judge 
James A. Pearson viewed the films, he 
discovered that all the scenes of explicit 
sexuality had been deleted, and he there- 
fore declared the films not obscene under 
the most recent U. S. Supreme Court rul- 
ater had adver- 
he one and only 
Deep Throat, icized the police 
for totally ignoring this fraudulent claim 
and declared, ns who enjoy por- 
nographic movies are entitled to the 
same protection of law-enforcement offi- 
cers as those who enjoy religious movies.” 
John E. White 
Westerville, Ohio 


THE FRENCH CORRECTION 

Historical research Гуе been doing has 
turned up an interesting bit of informa- 
tion. To w The activity rench 
kissing may first have been recognized as 
a method of sexu ulation not on 
the Continent but in Merry Old England. 
It seems that when Henry УШ tired 
of his sccond wife, Anne Bole and 
became interested in Jane Seymour, he 
accused Anne of infidelity, alleging adul- 
tery with numerous courtiers and even 
her own brother, One of the counts of 


y we call 


indictment returned against her reads, in 
part: “The Queen . . . procured and in- 
cited her own natural brother, George 
Boleyn . . . to violate her, alluring him 
with her tongue in the said George's 
mouth, and the said George's tongue 
in hers.” 

Thus, Henry's second wife may have 
played the аара ate dm promoting 
what we blithely refer to as Frenching. 
ОГ course, it’s unlikely that common 
usage will be corrected in the interest of 
historical accuracy; I don't think the act 
will be referred to їп the future as 
;nglishing. 


Ed Moore 
Durham, North Carolina 


THE SPANKING JUDGE 

The New York Times carried a story 
about a judge who's a handsdown, no- 
competition candidate for Wowser of the 
Year. For moralism at its meanest and 
most malevolent, meet the spanking 
judge, His Honor Daniel Futch: 


-old woman with a con- 
rt defect, convicted 


à two-year prison sentence yesterd: 
because slie violated parole by living 
with her mother. 

iel Fuich, chief judge of the 
rida] Circuit 
Division, ordered 
„on the ground 
lizabeth Ortiz had resumed liv- 
ing with her mother, deemed unfit 
by the judge because the mother's 
boyfriend sometimes spent the night 
with her. 

“Ics like raising a child,” Judge 
Futch said in a telephone interview. 
“They have to know that if they 
olate parole, they're subject to he 
ked.” 

The judge said he believed the girl 
would be better off in prison than with 
her mother who, in his view, holds "im- 
proper moral valu 

We treat judges like little gods. We 
dress them in black robes, stand up when 
they enter the courtroom, seat them on 
high benches and address them in servile 
tones. We give them virtual lifc-and- 
death power over those brought before 
them. Is it any wonder some men so dei- 
fied forget themselves and behave with 
capricious cruelty? Thank you, your hon- 
or; it's been an education just reading 
about you. 


Robert Fleming 
San Francisco, California 


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EUGENE FODOR first fiddle 


M A BORN extrovert—I'm not going to lie about it. At the 
age of cight, I knew I wanted to be a soloist. And if I had ever 
thought 1 would be buried in an orchestra, I probably would 
have quit.” "Thats the confession of Eugene Fodor, a 25-year-old 
violinist from Turkey Creek, Colorado, who is currently the 
hottest thing on the classical-music circuit. He enjoys that status. 
partly because, last summer, he won top honors at Moscow's 
‘Tchaikovsky Competition—thc first American since Van Cli- 
burn to score there; аз а result, Fodor is assured of 100 concerts 
а year for the next few seasons (and a long-term recording con- 
tact with АСА). Bur, as he points out, he was doing fine before 
that, since he'd already toured most of the world and played 
with its greatest orchestras. It figured that Eugene would be 
able to handle a violin: His father, a contractor, handles one 
pretty well as an amateur, and his older brother handles one 
professionally for the Denver Symphony. But our hero—who 


ment—the same way blind people become acquainted with 
the furniture in а room." Since then, it’s been more a matter 
of living and loving, learning about emotions and how they 
сап be expressed in music. “Гуе had several love affairs—in 
fact, I almost got n ied—so 1 fe hell of a lot more than 
I did at eighteen," says Eugene, who has been called the Mick 
Jagger of the concert hall. ОГ course, there are other things in 
his life—such as motorcyding and horseback ridin 

gene feels that all his interests contribute to his artistry 
think of anything worse than to be practicing twelve hours a day 
or to be thinking music, music, music all the time.” Which 
an OK attitude for Fodor, because he's been given somc- 
thing even he can't explain. The rest of us had better practice. 


WILLIAM RASPBERRY capital improvement 


A FELLOW JOURNALIST has called him the Lone Ranger, but 
William Raspberry, 39-year-old, widely syndicated urban-affaits 
columnist of The Washington Post, gets the bad guys with 
words, not silver bullets. His column zeroes in on his personal 
interests and on those issues that affect the black community— 
notably, drug abuse, public education (“Massive busing solely 
for the purposes of racial integration is a waste”) and criminal 
justice (“People who believe it pays to get tough do not admit 
they were wrong when it doesn’t work; they simply get tough- 
cr"). When digging for information, he skips press briefings 
in favor of conducting personal interviews. What's important 
pberry is asking the right questions: “We keep askir 
»swering the wrong questions and, as a result, we don't 
solve any problems." Although Raspberry is deeply concerned 
with the plight of the black, his skepticism about simplistic 
solutions to complex problems has irritated both militants and 
Unde Toms. That, to him, is a plus; he sees himself as а 
member of the radical middle and his column as a living 
organism, within which his views can change and grow instead. 
of being firmly set for all time. Born and raised in Mississippi. 
Raspberry moved North, was graduated from Indiana Central 
College and worked as a reporter-photographer-editor for the 
Indianapolis Recorder. In 1962, he landed а job at the Post— 
library assistant. Quickly working his way up through a 
succession of jobs—teletype operator. general 
porter, copy editor and assistant city editor—he earned his own 
column in 1965. That first year, he received the Capital Press 
Club's Journalist of the Year award for his coverage of the 
Watts riots in Los Angeles, and he's been piling up the prizes 
ever since. This year, Raspberry was selected to serve on the 
juries for both the Robert F. Kennedy Journalism. Aw. 
and the Puliver Prize, We suspect his fellow journalists 
more than a little relieved that he's a judge, not a competitor. 


as 


ssignment. re- 


BEN MARTIN 


ED STREEKY/ CAMERA 5 


BAD COMPANY good company 


ANYONE FOR влысу Bad Company. a metallic blues-based 
British rock group, has resuscitated and revitalized a style 
and sound all too rare on the current music scene—rock "n? 
roll without the gimmicks. "It wasn't any kind of master 
plan." says Mick Ralphs, 27, who left the lead-guitar slot and 
маву antics of Mott the Hoople to form Bad Compan 
was just a shared feeling that we wanted 10 put more reality 
nto the scene.” In 1973, he got together with Paul Rodgers, 

former lead singer with Free, a band wracked by person 
lity clashes, and began scratching out the music that, with 
Rodgers’ gutsy voice, distinguishes Bad Company's hard-ass 
approach, Simon Kirke, 26, the rockingsoul drummer (also 
out of Free), compares Bad Company's music to British rock 
of the late Sixties “balls, down to earth, without preten- 
sions." The epitome of cultivated. scruffiness, Bad Company 
tours without glitter or even platform shoes and there are 
none of the murky mind trips that bassist Boz Burrell left 
behind when he split from King Crimson. “All those bands. 
throwing in everything but the kitchen sink, the whole thing 
has gotten out of hand," says Rodgers, With the firm con- 
viction that rock is simple, Bad Company retreated to the 
English countryside, plugged into a mobile studio in an Air- 
strea 
album, Bad Co. 


wi 


n trailer and put together a carefully underproduced 
1 


which sold over 1,000,000 copies witl 
months of its U.S. relcase and was nominated for a Grammy 
These due to a second hot album called Straight Shoote 
and a world tour that's tearing ‘em up, Bad Company is in- 
creasingly tagged as a supergroup; but in a time when you 
can’t tell the supergroups without a score card (or at least 
subscipton to Rolling 510пе), it’s in no hurry to claim 
that distinction. Says Ralphs; "Supergroups arc people who 
don't know each other but are brilliant musicians. We do 
know cach other, and that makes us what we are—a band." 


175 


PLAYBOY 


176 


WORT BRIGADE 


(continued from page 121) 
feat on their Harley-Davidson 74s, or 
Norton Atlases. Those reckless pioneers 
soon discovered the meaning of ground 
clearance (a well-placed rock could tear 
а lowslung exhaust pipe right out from 
under them) and traction (the rubber- 
bandsized treads on a highway 
couldn't pull a quarter-ton bike out of a 
ditch or a sandy beach). Obviously, a dif- 
ferent kind of motorcycle was needed. 
(Fans of Then Game Bronson—ihe TV 
series of a few years past—may have no- 
ticed that whenever their hero took his 
chopper off the road, it miraculously 
changed into a dirt bike outfitted to look 
like a Harley.) The few riders who got 
bitten by the desert bug stripped their 
Triumphs and BSAs down to the fame 
added knobby tires. but those make- 
shift changes weren't enough. A road 
bike is built for main-line comfort—the 
weight, steering geometry and gearing are 
designed to handle highways that were 

tended for cirs—where a driver isn't 
expected to make more than one decision 
every hour. A few companies responded 
to the demand for off-road vehicles with 
"scrambler" versions of their road 
bikes—upswept pipes, knobby tires, a 
larger sprocket on the rear wheel, a steel 
plate to protect the underbelly of the 
engine. A slight improvement, but you 
an't break a thoroughbred for range 
ding. Eventually, engineers realized 
that a different breed was needed 


set out to build the mechanical equiva- 
lent of the quarter horse. 

The bikes shown are the result of 
several years of research and develop- 
ment—projects fueled by an awesome 
market. During the early Seventies, 
increasing numbers of Americans took 
their pursuit of happiness to the end of 
the road and beyond, leaving a trail of 
dollar bills. Because form follows func- 
m, the similarities between off-road 
machines are greater than the differences. 
Superlight materials, a simplified frame 
and an сус for the absolute necessities 
of travel have brought the weight down 
to under 300 pounds. Narrow tanks and 
seats, longhorn handlebars, larger wheels, 
higher ground clearances and flexible 
suspensions make the machines more 
maneuverable, if somewhat less comfort- 
ble. And most of the bikes have single- 
cylinder two-cycle engines that are light, 
y to repair and develop incredible 
stump-pulling torque when channeled 
through a high-ratio gearbox. Climb into 
the saddle of one of these machines, find 
а descrt, a fire road or a plot of land 
about to be claimed by a housing project 
1 you'll experience a total involvement. 
h the environment that people in 
wheel portable living rooms will 
never know. As William Blake wrote, 
close to 200 years apo, "Improvement 
makes straight roads; but the crooked 
roads without improvement are the roads 
of genius." To say nothing of the land 
beyond the barbed wire. 


"Oh, yowre alone—I thought I heard voices." 


AUSTRALIA AND CANADA 
(continued from page 126) 


together like two clappers in the same 
bell. She was fat. solid. Her body felt in 
his arms hingeless; she was one of those 
wooden peasant dolls, containing con- 
gruent dolls, for sale in Slavic Europe, 
where he had once been, and where she 
had been born. He asked her among their 
kisses, which came and went in his con- 
sciousness like the sound of the rain, and 


which traveled circularly in grooves like 
the music, if they should wait up for 
Peter and Moira. 

"No," Hannah said. 

had been there, she would 

have elaborated, but she wasn't and 
didn't. 

"Shall I come up?" Bech asked. For 


Glenda lived on the top floor of a To- 
тошо castle a few blocks’ walk—a swim, 
through shadows and leaves—írom the 
house they had left. 

“АП I сап give you," she said, “is 
coffee.” 

‘Just what I 


need, fortuitous! 


“You poor dear,” Glenda said. “Wa 
so awful for you? Do you 
parties like that every 

“Most nights,” he told her, "I'm scared 
to go out. I sit home reading Dickens and 
watching Nixon. And nibbling pickles. 
And picking quibbles. Recurrently. 

"You do need the coffee, don't you 
she said, sill dubious. Bech wondered 
why. Surely she was a sure thing. That 
shimmering body touch. Her apartment 
snuggled under the roof, bookcases and 
Iean lamps looking easy to tip among the 
slanting walls. In a far room he glimpsed 
a bed, with a feathery Indian. bedspread 
and velour pillows. Glenda, as firmly as 
she directed cameramen, led him the 
other way, to a small front room claustro- 
phobically lined with books. She put on a 
record, explaining it was Gordon Light 
foot, Canada’s own, A sad voice, gentle 
to no clear purpose, imitated American 
country blues. Glenda talked about her 
career, her life, the man she had been 
married to. 

“What went wrong?” Bech a 
riage, and disease, fascinated him 

She wanly shrugged. “He got too de- 
pendent. I was being suffocated. He was 
terribly nice, à truly nice person. But all 
he would do was sit and read and ask me 
questions about my feelings. These books, 
> mostly his." 

You seem tired,” Bech s. 
the feathery bed. 

She surprised him by abruptly volun- 
ng, “I have something wrong with 
my corpuscles, they don’t know what it is, 
I'm having tests. But I'm out of whack. 
"That's why I said I could offer you only 
coffee.” 

Bech was fasci 
Sex needed partici 


а. Mar- 


, picturing 


ed, flattered, relieved. 
m, death needed 


only a witness. A loving witness, She was 
lovely in her movement as she rose and 
flicked back her hair and turned the rec- 
ord over. The moyement seemed to gen- 
erate a commotion on the stairs, and then 
a key in the Jock and a brusque mas 
culine shove on the door. She turned a 
notch paler, staring at Bech: the pink 
part of her nose stood out like an ex- 
clamation point. Too startled to whisper, 
she told Bech, "It must be Peter 

Downstairs, more footsteps than two 
entered the little house and from the 
grumble of a male voice, Bech deduced 
that Moira had at last returned with Pe- 

er. Hannah slept, her body filling the bed 
ith a protective turnipy warmth he re- 
membered from childhood kitchens. The 
couple below them bumbled, clattered, 
tittered, put on a record. It was a Chilean 
flute record Hannah had played for him 
earlier—music shrill, incessant, searching, 
psychedelic. This litle white continent, 
abandoned at the foot of Asia, looked to 
the New World's west coasts for culture, 
for company. California ciothes, Andean 
flutes. “My pale land," he had heard an 
Australian poet recite; and from airplanes 
it was, indeed, a pale land, speckled and 
colorless, a Wyoming with a seashore; 
and then tilting beneath the wing the 
red-tile roofs of Sydney like some western- 
most suburb of London. A continent 
lonely as the planct. Peter and Moir 
played the record again and again; 
otherwise, they were silent downstairs, 
deep in drugs or love. Bech got up and 
groped lightly across the surface of 
Hannah's furniture for Kleenex or lens 
tissue or anything tearable to stuff into 
his ears. His fingers came to a paperback 
book and he thought the paper might be 
cheap enough to wad. Tearing off two 
corners of the title page, he recognized 
by the dawning light the book as one of 
his own, the Penguin Brother Pig, with 
that absurdly literal cover, of a grinning 
pig, as if the novel were Animal Farm or 
Charlotte's Web. The paper crackling 
and cutting in his ears, he returned to 
the bed; beside him, stately Hannah, 
haltcovered and unconscious, felt like 
a ship, her breathing an engine, her lu 
bricated hody steaming toward the morn- 
iug's harbor of love, her nipples relaxed 
in passage. The flute music stopped. The 
world stopped turning. Bech counted to 
ten, 20, 30 in silence, and his conscious: 
ness had begun to disintegrate when a 
man laughed and the flute, and the 
pressure in Bech’s temples, resumed. 

“This is Peter Syburg,” Glenda said. 
“Henry Bech.” 

“Je sais, je sais,” Peter s: shaking 
Bech's hand with the painful vehemence 
of the celebrity-conscious. "I saw your 
gig on the tube. Great. You talked а blue 
streak and didn't tip your hand once. 
What a con job. Cool. I mean it, The 


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PLAYBOY 


“Up until now, Margie and I never got too 
involved with neighborhood activities." 


medium is you, man. Hey, that's a com- 
pliment. Don't look that way." 

^] was just going to give him coffee,” 
Glenda interposed. 

“How about brand: 
need my spirits fortified. 

“Hey, don't go into that act,” Peter 
said. "I like you." 

Peter was a short man, past 30, with 
thinning ginger hair and a. pumpkin's 
gattoothed grin. He might have even 
been 40; but a determined retention of 
youth's rubb 
sibilit 
chair and kept aos; 
his legs, which were so short he scemed 
to Bech to be twiddling his thumbs. 
Peter worked on the margins of tele- 

i n some sort of problematical 
film making. and used Glenda's apart- 
ment when she was in Montreal. Wheth- 
er he used Glenda when she was in 
Toronto was not clear to Bech; less and 
less was. Less and less the author under- 
stood how people lived. Such cloudy 
episodes as these had become his only 
windows into other lives. He wanted to 
go, but his going would be a retreat, 
Montcalm wilting before Wolfe's stealthy 
ascent, so he had more brandy instead. 
He found himself embarked on one of 
those infrequ ents in which 
he tested, dispassionately as a scientist 
bending metal, his own capacity. He 
felt himself p. as before televi 
sion exposure, while the brandy flowed 
on and Peter asked him all the questions 
not even Vanessa had been pushy enough 
to pose ("What's happened to you and 
Capotez" "Whats the timer makes you 
Yanks burn out so fast?" "Ever thought 


Bech asked. 


178 of trying television scripts?) and ex- 


patiating on the wonders of the post- 
Gutenberg world in which he, Peter, 
with his thumblike legs and berry-bright 
eyes, moved as a succesful creature, 
vhile he, Bech, was picturesquely extinct. 
Glenda flicked her hair and studied her 
hands and insulted her corpuscles with. 
cigarettes. Bech was happy. Опе more 
brandy, he calculated, would render him 
цег!у immobile, and Peter would be 
laced. His happiness was not even 
punctured when the two others began to 
to each other in French, about call- 
a taxi to take him away. 
Taxi, non,” Bech exdaimed, strug- 
gling to rise. “Marcher, ош. Je pars, 
maintenant. Vous le regretierez, quand je 
suis disparu. Au revoir, cher Pie 
You can’t walk it, man. It's miles." 

"Try me, you postprint punk," Bech 
said, putting up his hairy fists. 

Glenda escorted him to the stairs, and 
down them, one by one; at the foot, she 
embraced him, clinging to him as if to 
be rendered fertile by osmosis. “I thought 
he was in Winnipeg,” she said. “I want 
to have your baby.” 
asy does it," Bech 
best he could do 


Glenda asked, “Will you ever come 
back to Toronto?” 
“Jamais,” id, “jamais, jamais; 


and the magical word, so true of every 
moment, of every stab at love, of every 
step on ground you will not walk again, 
rang in his mind all the w 
hotel. The walk was generally downhill. 
The curved lights of city hall guided 
him. There was a forested ravine off to 
his left, and а тиса river. And stars. 
And block after block of substantial, un- 
troubled emptiness. He expected to be 


mugged, or at least approached. In his 
anesthetized state, he would have wel- 
comed violence. But in those miles he 
met only blinking stop lights and impas- 
sive architecture. And they call this a 
city, Bech thought scornfully In New 
York, I would have been killed six times 
over and my carcass stripped of its 
hubcaps. 

The cries of children playing woke 
him. The sound of the flute had ceased. 
ist night's pleasure had beconie straw 
in his mouth beside him 
seemed a larger sort of dreg. Her eyelids 
fluttered, as il in response to the motions 
of his mind. It seemed only polite to 
reach for her. "The children beneath the 
dow cheered. 


the woman 


Next morning, in Toronto, Bech 
shuffled, footsore, to the Royal Ontario 


Museum and admired the Chinese urns 
and the totem poles and sent a postcard 
of a carved walrus tusk to Bea and her 
children, 
Downstairs, in 
fiddling with last 
whistling to her 
tune, “Wher 


їйїн dishes 
elf. Bech recognized the 


ked. 

"He doesn't 
ed up hours 
nd you never came 


's Peter?" he 

"He's gone" she said. 
believe you exist. We wa 
for you last night 
home." 

“We were home," Hannah said. 

“Oh, it dawned on us finally. Peter 
was so moody I told him to leave. I think 
he still loves you and has been leading 
this poor lass ast 

“What like for breakfast?” 
Hannah asked Bech, as wearily as if she 
and not he had been awake all night. 
Himself, he felt oddly fit. for being 50 
and on the underside of the world. “Tell 
me about 1—should I go 

. and he seuled 
beside her on the carpeted divan while 
Hannah, in her lumpy blue robe, shuf- 
fled in the kitchen, making his breakIast. 
“Grapefruit if you have it,” he shouted 
to her, interrupting Moira's word tour 
of Kabul. “Otherwise, orange juice." 
My God, he thought to himself, she has 
become my wife. Already I’m flirting 
with another woman. 

Bech boarded the plane (from Aus 
tralia, from Canada) so lightheaded with 
lack of sleep it alarmed him | 
when the machine rose into the 
stomach hu lined with 
face looked gray in the lavatory 
His adventures seemed рез 
backward. Mysterious dis nge 
men laughing in the night, loose women. 
He considered the nation he was re- 

g its riots and . its 
y derelictions and gnashing me 
He thought of Bea, his plump suburban 
softy, her belly striated with fine silver 
lines, and vowed to marry her. to be safe. 


do 


as 


IT'S A PLOT! 


(continued from page 133) 
powerful man in America 

"So? 

"Prick. Only the most powerful man 
in America could have killed John 
Kennedy.” 

America, Americ 
conspiracy freaks. impassioned res 
ers, ranging from outside right to far- 
thest left, and if the theories they clobber 
you with are more than somewhat con- 
tradictory, they do have one blessing in 
common: certitude. And none is more 
fiercely convinced of the absolute justice 
of her cause than Mrs. Mae Brussell. sole 
Degetter of the Conspiracy Newsletter, 
a feature that has all but gobbled whole 
the once bracingly skeptical Realist. 

Mrs. Brussell, understandably suspi- 
us of visits from strangers, had to be 
approached obliquely, in my case through 
the distinct pleasures of a Chinese lunch 
in San Francisco with her editor, Paul 
Krassner, of The Realist. Krassner and 
I got off to a spiky start. As a friend of 
Ken Kesey’s, he objected to a deprecat- 
ing piece I had written for The New 
York Times about Kesey's last book, а 
scissorsand-paste catchall tiled Kesey's 
Garage Sale, And, as I took to Krassner 

mmediately, 1 felt honor-bound to tell 
him that I wasn't much impressed with 
another friend of his, Tim Leary. Leary, 


T recalled, had written that he had taken 
his 


the LSD trip more than 300 time: 
appetite just possibly whetted by a 
necring voyage iuto inner space, wherein, 
mong other illuminations, it was re 
vealed to him that he “may well be one 
of the wisest men born before 1915." 
Which struck me as nice, very nice, for 
Tim, but did create problems in.my ow 
earth-bound mind. Leary's primary claim 
was that LSD was mind-expanding, more 
nourishing for our kids than crunchy 
granola. Being a nontripper, I couldn't 
y for sure. But what aroused my sus 
picions was that if Leary found LSD so 
incredibly mind-expanding, he had, on 
the evidence of his published work, the 
decidedly unfair advantage of there be- 
ing so much room to begin with 
Krassner, unlike me, did not believe 
that our time was characterized by in- 
choxte violence, chaos and mindless 
brutality. Instead, he espied sinister con- 
nections everywhere. G. Gordon Liddy, 
he pointed out, served his apprenticeship 
pursuing Leary. “Our country is run by 
an unholy trinity. Organized crime, mil- 
igence and corporate bureauc 
ning a Communist threat 
terest. “You can't have an 
anti-Communist regime unless you have 
Communists to hold up as a specter.” 
Krassner was, he said, in correspond- 
ence with Charles Manson. Though 
Manson's letters tended to ramble inco- 
herently, they were shot through with 
genius. “Manson was let out of prison 


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on a leash and protected, until he did 
what he was supposed to do, discredit 
the counterculture.” 

After lunch, I phoned the elusive Mae 
Brussell in Carmel. She still wasn't sure 
she would see me. Her time was valu- 
able, she s: 

“Mine, too," I allowed, 

“How do I know you're not w 
EBD? 

“Aw, come on. 

“Or the CLA? 

“Im a Canadian," I protested, “from 
Montreal.” 

“Montreal. There's a foundation up 
there, Penn that runs an assas- 
sination school in Mex 

“You mean like in 
View?" 

“That film was telling you something. 
It was a mind-blower for people new 
into conspiracies. 

“Do you think I'd say 1 was from 
Montreal if I had been sent out from 
there to, um, kill you? 

"You never know." 
gly, Mrs Brussell 
agreed to an interview under certain 
conditions. It would be taped. I would 

n a prepared statement beforehand. 

In the end, the interview not 
taped, at least so far as I know, but she 
did present. me with a statement, which 
I duly signed. 


That I, Mordecai Richler, а 

White Male Caucasian, 43 years of 
age, did on the 20th day of October 
1974 introduce, and represent my- 
self upon recommendation of the 
PLAYBOY magazine to опе Mae Brus- 
for the stated purpose of 
article for the said 
azine having to do with 
current thcorics and rescarch proj- 
ects pertaining to Govern 
cies and assassinations; 
t my reason for mecting 
Mae Brussell is to put into writing, 
in an aride, the findings of her 
research of the past II years; 

That any information shared dur- 
ing this meeting will be credited to 
her name in any articles written by 
me, Mordecai Richler, on this sub- 
ject matter; 

That all findings and opinions 

of Mae Brussell will be described 
as accurately and objectively as 
possible, stating her findings and 
opinions; 
That I will not follow these re- 
marks with snide suggestions, derog- 
atory statements or generalities and 
false conclusions; 

That these conspiracy theories will 
mot be intended to bc accepted. as 
having a basis in fact, inasmuch as 
1 have spent only one or two hours 
interviewing the said Mac Brussell 


h the 


ico.” 
The Parallax 


was 


nent con- 


Th 


and have not done the 11 years of 
rescarch on the subject matter as 
she has; 

That all I will end 
present my i 
tory decide for 
the conclusions reached therein; 

That in the event this agreement 
and/or contract is broken or dis- 
respected or dishonored to any sub- 
stantial degree, I, Mordee: hler, 
agree to be sued for breach of this 
agreement /contract and the good 
faith of our visit. In addition, in the 
event of any adverse publicity or 
jeopardy accruing to the research 
efforts and good name of one Mae 
Brussell having no basis in fact, I 
shall agree to be sued or held li- 
able and expect to make a finan- 
cial settlement with the said Mae 
Brussell for no less than $10,000, 
avoiding the necessity of legal 
penses and a long delayed court 
procedure. , . . 


ivor to do is 


But before actually meeting with the 
incomparable Mrs. Brussell, 1 did some 
homework. Caution: homework. 
ell, divorced mother of 
40s, is the daughter of a 
reform rabbi. She was raised in affluent 
Beverly Hills and majored in philosophy 
at Stanford, She first became obsessed 
with conspiracies aft and an- 
по! ig the full 26 volumes of the War- 
теп Repor 
the J.F.K. 
gence operation 
Government agent. Mis. Brusell, 
devours pers daily, does an 
hourlong weekly radio show, Dialogue 
Conspiracy, for station KLRB-FM, Car- 
mel, and also conducted the first accred- 
ited university course in Conspiracies 
and Аза ns, at Monterey Penin 
sula College. She has written a piece for 
the Berkeley Barb, asking, "Is S.L.A.'s 
qué the first black Lee Harvey Os- 
waldz" as well as lengthy articles 
for The Realist, all of which I read the 
ht before I met her. 

Mrs. Brusscll, alas, is an appalling 
writer; her syntax is unner her 
prose muddled, lumpy and uncommonly 
repetitive. Put plainly, until history d. 
cides for itself, the viewpoint of thi 
White Male C; ian, 43 ycars of 
is that she writes without wit, style or 
even a rudimentary grasp of language. 
But there is no denying that her ferocity, 
her flat statements, stacked one on юр 
of another, often without counection or 
qualification, leave me breathless. 

Mrs. Brussell is convinced that a web 
of conspiracies has been strangling this 
ation. “It is impossible," she writes in 
The Realist (December 1972), “the way 
the courts are constructed, to force any 
revelations that would damage the exist- 
ing power structure, If Richard Nixon 


ht newsp 


moves out of office, Spiro Agnew moves 
in and Ronald Reagan will follow him.” 
In the same issue, she observes that 
“J. Edgar Hoover did not have an au- 
topsy. His body was not removed in a 
hearse. There was no indication of poor 
health. There is reason to exhume his 
remains; the possibility of poison in the 
apple pie might be discovered as his last 
Americin supper," and she goes on to 
promise a piece, not yet delivered so far 
as I know, titled, Why Was J. Edgar 
Hoover Murdered? Meanwhile, she notes 
that Hoover, who didn't mind helping 
a couple of Kennedys get killed, did fear 
a CIA take-over and a destruction of all 
civil liberties. 

In an earlier issue of The Realist 
(August 1972), Mrs. Brussell states Папу 
that the CIA killed President Kennedy 
and that hard Nixon was offered the 
money he needed for his 1968 election if 
he took political unknown Spiro Agnew 
as Vice-President, Ted Kennedy's car, she 
writes, was pushed into the water at 
Chappaquiddick at a time when nobody 
knew in what capacity Howard Hunt was 
serving the CIA. Even so, she has no 
doubts that the entire Chappaquiddick 
affair "was ClA-staged for the purpose of 
yemoving Ted Kennedy as a Democratic 
a ate.” Furthermore, she notes that 
“the widow of Drew Pearson, Jack Ander- 
son's former boss, could have in her hus- 
band's files important information that 
was passed to J.F.K, on October 28, 
196: s trip. Arrest 
Lee Harvey Oswald.” Anderson refused 
to help find this memo, passed it off as 
‘too farfetched. Mrs. Brussell is also 
of the mind-boggling opinion that 
“Germany, like England, Italy, France, 
Austr 


jan and milita anged 
its pol system after its World War 
One defeat. Behind the back of the 


ruling class deyeloped an illegal, 


government. 
Mrs. Brussell writes that if Sirhan Si 
han and Charles Manson were free to 
talk, they would shake American “jus- 
tice” and conspiratorial processes down 
to their very roots, and yet—and yet 
she ventures, in another article, that Sir- 
han was hypnotized and told to foret 
the persons who associated with him and. 
controlled him before he became a patsy 
in the Robert Kennedy murder, and so 
one can’t help but wonder how much he 
could tell us, if he were free to speak. 
In Why Was Patricia Hearst Kidnaped? 
(The Realist, February 1974), Mrs. Brus- 
sell in her typically unequivocal 
manner that the 5.L.A. was created by 
the CIA, the goals being no less than 
World War Three and to phinge the 
Third World masses into starvation and. 
slavery. Other motives, if needed, were 


to set up conditions for martial law and 
prevent free elections in 1976. Further- 
more, she writes that we are being brain- 
washed by the mass media if we be c 
Ted Kennedy was actually responsible 
for the death of Mary Jo Kopechne. 
William F. Buckley, Jr, is a CIA 


The CIA kidnaped Frank Sinatra, 
Jr. immediately after the John K 
hedy assassination to divert news and 
attention from political events. 

Pass it on. 


two-hour drive to Mae Brussell's house, 
tooling past the artichoke farms and 
seemingly endless fields of pumpkins, 
taking in Pebble Beach, then turning 
onto the Carmel Valley Road, a sort of 
munchkin's suburbia, I was sorely 
tempted (even at the $10,000 risk of 
ent) to apply philoso- 
ssell's logic in order 
to illuminate the hitherto unexplained 
connection between the emergence of 
Fidel ито. the ultimate transfer of 
the second Washington Senators base- 
ball franchise to Texas, the boom in 
Southern tobacco crops, the so-called 
suicide of Ernest Hemi: y and thc 
funding of Rockefeller's enormously ex- 
pensive ns for the Presidential 
nominatio 

Look it this way: If Fidel, reputed: 
ly a good glove man, had not fl 
his tryout with the ori 
Senators, he would ol: 
repaired to the Sierra Maestra, where- 
from he emerged such a sorchead 
Certainly, if it has not alre: 
sixed. a skilled conspiracy res 
should seek out the original scouting 
report on Castro. Maybe, like country. 
men Tony Perez and Luis Tian, he 
had the makings of a majorleaguer. Pos 
sibly, the CIA dirty (sports) tricks depart 
ment, recognizing him for a grudgy type, 
kept him out of the original Washington 
Senittors’ undeniably porous infield be. 
cause it knew he was bound to stir up 
the Cuban 
you explain the fact that the once threat- 
ened antitrust Jaws were not invoked 
when the Washington Senators skipped 
to Texas, where John Kennedy had been 
assassinated at a lime when nobody knew 
what Howard Hunt was np 10? 

By not making Fidel a bonus baby, 
cheap even at 200 laundered thou, the 
a stroke, accomplished the fol- 


d 1015. Otherwise, how do 


ablished a bona fide Commie 
menace in the hemisphere, which en- 
abled the CIA budget to leap millions, 
maybe billions. 

2. Which led 
Missile Cris 
Nielsen 
news shows, and, therefore, more profits 
for NBC, a network in which the Chase 


nevitably, to the Cuban 
king for higher 1 


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PLAYBOY 


182 


Manhattan Bank has an interest; that is 
to say, the ubiquitous Rockefellers, who 
were consequently enabled to bank-roll 
Rockys campaigns, not to say his no- 
fault loan program to Henry Kissinger, 
among others. 

3. In the sudden absence of Monte 
Cristos and other fine Ha 
there was a boom in inferior Southe 
tobacco crops. Payola for 

4. And, most likely, murdered for 
Cuban resident and onetime fellow 
traveler Ernest Hemingway, who, if you 
remember, in his last days was convinced 
that he was being pursued by IRS 
agents. Paranoia? Or did Hem know too 
much? 


сй over these terri- 
І found myself at 


Even as | rumi 
fying possibilities, 
Mae Brussell’s door. 

“May I sce your driver's license?” she 
demanded. 

Why?” 
“How do I know you are who you 

m you are? 

Good thinking. Sheepishly, I turned 
over my tattered license. Mrs. Brussell 
noted the numbers on a pad and then 
we sat down to coffee and her delicious 
banana cake. 

“This coun: 
s run by bullets 

"IL," I said, quoting from one of her 
articles in The Realist, “J.F.K. 
indeed, the victim of a CIA plot, why 


didn't his brother Robert speak u 
Тһе Kennedys had а proclivity for 

promiscuity. Roberts dalliances would 

have been revealed had he talked.” 

Well, maybe. . . . But he would have 
had to have been especially vile, don't 
you think, to acquiesce to his brother's 
murder merely to conceal some com- 
monplace adulte 

“Why do you think they killed Mari- 
lyn Monro: 

"I beg your pardon?" 

“She was murdered. Absolutely. It was 
set up by military intelligence to look 
like suicide. In fact, it was a ng 
for Robert. 

Well, OK, then after he was killed, 
why didn't Ted speak up?” 

“He was warned. too. Or don't you 
recall the privateplane crash where he 
is back? Then they set up 
iddick. 

You mean... ? 

"His drink was drugged. They put 
something in it. He still doesn't know 
what happened that night.” 

Before I could put in a supplementary, 
Mrs. Brussell was into the Manson case. 
"You realize that was also a military- 
intelligence operation. They groomed 
d protected him, putting him on а 
leash. . . .” 

Why 
A new generation of antiwar kids had 
isen, there were the comm 


“For the time being I'm going to take you off 
Valium and put you on Valerie." 


an end to consumer society as we know 
it. Manson was used to discredit the 
counterculture. Murray Chotiner was 
murdered, too; theyre getting rid of the 
old-timers. Why, Oswald never even 
owned a es 

But I remember the famous photo- 
ph of him holding a rifle.” 

"That's а fake. A cropped photograph. 
His head, another man’s body. Now, 
angle? Who clse are you 


Colas 
ington and 


"Can you prove tha 
“It doesn't matter whether he's ac- 
tually on the payroll. his columns clear- 
Iy reflect their line. There are the agents 
nd the assholes. An asshole," she ex- 
ined, “is anybody who spins the CIA 
ne. 
І sce. Now, when we talked on the 
phone, you mentioned a foundati 
Montreal, Perminde P 

Yes. They run 
Mexico." 
"Could you give me their address. 
please? I'd like to look into that.” 

"Remember what happened to the 
reporter in The Parallax View?" 

“Ha, ha.” 

Even so, she let me have the address. 
Later, I discovered there is no Permindex: 
listed in the Montreal telephone book: 
fact, there is no such address, Clever 
bastards, those conspirators. 

“One final question. If so many have 
lready been murdered because they 
knew too much, how come you . 

“If I were reaching more people, I 
wouldn't be 


pl 


n assassination school 


20,000,000 readers. Shit. What if 
Arthur Kretchmer, PLAYBOY'S Editorial 
Director, were a CIA agent, like Buckley, 
like Von Hoffman, and had cunningly 
brought me down from Canada only so 
that Mac Brussell could reach enough 
people to justify her being killed? That 
would make me xomplice to mur- 
ler. Worse. An asshole. 

Los Angeles. To those of us who live 
ugly and bemused in North Апи 
ngly, that America, 
is going paranoid. Maybe, after 


be 


all, the center won't hold, everything 
flying apart. Certainly, my sojourn in 
post-Manson Beverly Hills was far from 


reassuring. The canyons echo not only 
with fabled affluence but also with ter- 
ror. Electrified fences, Doberman pin- 
schers, private security guards. But, above 
ай, the fear that the coming crash, ma- 
nipulated by the gnomes of Zurich, the 
Jewish syphilis minority, the CIA, the 
who control P.LD., or whoev 


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PLAYBOY 


may shortly render all monies, all prop- 
erties equally worthless. 

Gold, thar's the stuff. The overachiev- 
er's security blanket. Or is it? 

The president of one of Hollywood's 
major studios, an astute man, told me 
that for months he had been profession- 
ally consulting a broker who had written 
а best seller about how to make money 
when everyone else was losing his. 
They never met, but spoke on the tele- 
phone, often for an hour at a time, Again 
and again, the broker argued for selling 
abyolutely everything and converting to 
gold. Finally, the dancing to bullion 
stopped. There was a breakthrough. 
“Look here,” said the broker, “I get the 
feeling, after all our talks, that you're 
a sophisticated man.” 

“Sure. 

"Don't buy gold. It's a load of shit. It's 
my bag and I've got to peddle it, but the 
truth is there's only one thing to do. Its 
а four-point plan.” 

“Shoot.” 

“How many niggers did you see on 


p 
___ Ш 


your way to work this morning?" 

“Well, I—I'm not sure.” 

“You saw lots." 

“OK” 

“And where do you think they're going 
to be when the shit hits the fan? Out 
on the streets, that's where.” 

“Uh-huh. 

“You've got to get yourself four guns, 
get it. and lois of ammo. Sink all your 
cash into canned and dried foods, Then 
you hunker down somewhere to wait it 
out. Me, I recommend Utah; the Mor- 
mons don’t like niggers, and my guess is 
they can hold that territory.” 

“Trouble is I'm a boat man myself.” 
uan you get to your yacht in twenty 
minutes?” 

“Yes, 

“The only problem is you'd be in- 
clined to sail south. Right?” 

"Right. 

"No good. Those fucking Me: 
will be out there, pirating. Rui 
amuck. On the other hand, if you got 
yourself a couple of bazookas, that would 


Amn 
per) 


“I want you to know how much the wife and I enjoyed 
the dramatization of your crime on TV last night." 


certainly surprise them when they pulled 
alongside.” 


Definitions. 

It strikes me as neurotic, maybe, yet 
still reasonable, to be charged with terror 
on any airplane flight; but if, like me, 
you also tread in fear, even crossing the 
street, that you might be struck by an 
errant, possibly anti-Semitic missile, then 
you are more than likely paranoid. 

Coming from Canada, being a writer 
and Jewish as well, I have impeccable 
paranoia credentials. Digging into my 
childhood, I can recall that my father 
was utterly convinced of the Detroit plot 
and could embellish on it lovingly at the 
kitchen table. Dunking his bagel into 
hot milk, he would assure us that they 
had long ago developed an automobile 
engine that required no more than a 
pint of gas to run 100 miles, but the 
bDastards were keeping it under wraps 
to protect the oil industr chip off 
the old block, 1 quickly grasped as I 
grew to pimply adolescence myself that 
any neighborhood girl who wouldn't "go 
the limit" with me was clearly a part of 
ihe lesbian conspiracy. In our home, 
nobody's fools, we also learned early to 
appreciate that the gentiles were con- 
standy plotting against us, though a joke 
current at the time did much to under- 
mine this thesis. 

It's the story of the Jewish boy, a 
would-be radio announcer, a rank-one 
scholar, who studies at the very best 
diction school, working day and night, 
graduating at the top of the class, before 
he finally goes to New York, only to be 
rejected by the three major networks. 

"Why: Why? How could they turn you 
down?" wails his mother, slapping her 
check, appalled. 

“B-bb-because they're a-aall 
Semites,” he replies. 

Many Canadian writers, most of whom 
tend to feel unfairly neglected, are con- 
vinced this is not due to any inadequa- 
cies of their own. They are not published 
abroad, they insist, because London is a 
closed faggots shop and the New York 
literary scene is no less than a Jewish 
cabal. Even more of my countrymen, 
especially those inclined toward 
nalism, can smell nkee plot wher- 
r they turn. In fact, one of 1973's 
bestsel i the ap- 
palling Ultimatum, a book with charac 
ters so wooden they could be used for 
splintering, had to do with an American 
plot to seize what they did not yet own 
of our natural resources, and many were 
those readers who subscribed. 

Writers everywhere, myself included, 
are most commonly paranoid about their 
l and tend to sniff conspiracy on 
those sour mornings that yield no offers, 
mot to say royalty checks, or at least 
letters of appreciation, A friend of mine, 
a wellknown writer. his sanity un- 
doubted, actually mails himself letters 


a-anti- 


from time to time, if only to test the 
continuing integrity of the postal system. 
‘The vast and burgeoning literature of 


ranoia is something else again. In our 
time, runs from Kafka's Castle, 
through Evelyn Waugh's Ordeal of Gil- 


bert Pinfold and Saul Bellow's Victim, 
to, most recently, Joseph Heller's Some- 
thing Happened, wherein the protago- 
nist tells us on the first page. "I get the 
willies when I sce closed doors. Even at 
work, where 1 am doing so well now, the 
sight of a closed door is sometimes 
enough to make me dread that some- 
thing horrible is happening behind it, 
something that is going to affect me ad- 
versely . . ." and only nine pages later 
observes, “In the office in which I work 
ihere are five people of whom I 
afraid. Each of these five people is afraid 
of four people (excluding overlaps), for 
a total of 20, and cach of these 20 people 
is afraid of six people, making a total of 
120 people red by at least 
one persor 
arlier, the popular John Buchan, 
First Lord Tweedsmuir, governor general 
of Canada and author of The Thirty- 
Nine Steps and other Richard Hannay 
, was also obsessed with vile plots 
but felt no need to equivocate as to who. 
was behind them, We are barely into The 
Thity-Nine Steps when we are intro- 
duced to Scudder, who tells Hannay that 
behind all the governments and the 
armies there was a big subterranean move- 
ment, engineered by a very dangerous 
people; that is to say, the Jews. 
is everywhere, but you 
down the back sta E 
any big Teutonic business concern. If you 
have dealin an you 
nce von und zu Something, an 
nt young man who talks Eton and 
lish. But he cuts no ice. If 
ess is big, you get behind h 
and find a prognathous Westphalian 
with a retreating brow and the manners 
of a hog. .. . But if you're on to the 
biggest kind of job and are bound to get 
to the real boss, ten to one you are 
brought up against a little white-faced 
Jew in a Bath chair with an eye like a 
r, he is the man who 
is ruling the world just пом... 

The clear progenitor of these con- 
ѕрігасісѕ is the notorious anti-Semitic 
forgery The Protocols of the Learned 
Elders of Zion, which first appeared in 
western Europe in 1920 and had, by 1930, 
been circulated throughout the world in 
millions of copies, The Protocols were 
used to incite massacres of Jews during 
the Russian civil war. They were espe- 
Gally helpful in fomenting the pogrom 
at Kishinev in Bessarabia in 1903. From 
Russia, the Protocols traveled to Nazi 
Germany. n 

The 24 protocols purport to be made 
up of lectures delivered to the Jewish 


novi 


your bu 


"Regardless of the signs, I'm going to feed him!" 


secret government, the Elders of Zion, 
on how to achieve world domination. 
Tangled and contradictory, the ma 
idea is that the Jews, spreading confusion 
and terror, will eventually take over the 
globe, their only present rivals, if Robert 


Welch. the arold founder of the 
John Birch Society, is to be believed, 
being those irrepressible goyim, the 


Rockefeller family, and their minions. 
Interviewed by Philip Nobile of the 
Chicago Sun-Times in 1973, Welch 
“Among the Insiders who are working 
toward world government ruled by the 
Communists ате Nelson Rockefeller, 
Henry Ford Il, Ted Kennedy and Henry 
Cabot Lodge." His best guess about 
Watergate, he added, was "that Rocke- 
feller planned the whole thing behind 
the scenes, He wants to get rid of Nixon 
and become President in 1976." 
iso worth pointing out that a 
1 y. somewhat sanitized variation 
ol the Protocols plot surfaces in some of 
the most popular novels of our time, the 
late Tan Fleming's James Bond book: 
wherein the intrepid 007 usually does 
battle with one or the other of two 
world-wide conspiracies, SMERSH or 
SPECTRE. 

SMERSH, first described in Casino 
Royale, is the conjunction of two Ru: 
sian words: Smyert Shpronam, meaning, 


roughly, “Death to spies!” 


SPECTRE is the Special Executive 
for Counterintelligence, Terrorism, Re- 
venge and Extortion, a private enter- 
prise for private profit, and its founder 
and chairman is Ernst Stavro Blofeld. 

Blofeld has а Jewish-sounding name, 
as does another primary Bond villain, 
Auric Goldfinger. For the rest, the ill- 


doers are occasionally yellow (Dr. No) 
or black (Mr. Big). 

Mumination II: Flying over Salt 

Lake City, a defensible sanctuary should 
the niggers run amuck, it occurred to 
me that just possibly nothing, absolutely 
nothing was what ppeared to be. 
Looked at closely, life isn't absurd, after 
all. There are no accidents. The sound, 
the fury, Bill Shakespeare notwithstand- 
ing, does signify something. We are, to 
come clean, bı ulated by con- 
spirators, and once you grasp that 
ineffable re „ all mysteries resolve 
themselves. There are no more conun- 
drums. 
Take, for instance, the hitherto. un- 
revealed connection. between the Front 
for Liberation of Quebec (F.L.Q), the 
ros and Queen Elizabeth H's 
honors list. 

Remember, as Мас Brussell has al- 
ready pointed out, having solved onc 
assassination, the others slip readily into 
place. A sagacious conspiracy buff knows 
ctly what to look for. The same, I 
think, cam be said of terrorist groups. 
Tf, as Mrs. 
ac 


Brussell has ventured. the 
i front 


and terrorists 
everywhere are en order to 
coerce hoi polloi ng for 
martial law, then surely the "Tupamaros 
and the F.L.Q. should be looked at again 
in this light. 

The Tupamaros, of course, 
sibly Uruguayan urban guerrillas and 
the EL.Q. represents the most violent 
and extreme of French-Canadian separa- 
tists. In 1970, the F.L.Q. kidnaped Que- 
bec Labor Minister Pierre Laporte, 

(continued on page 188) 


185 


PLAYBOY POTPOURRI 


people, places, objects and events of interest or amusement 


FRESH CUP OF HEMLOCK 
Connoisseurs of counterassassination and mountain climbing will 
be pleased to learn that Jonathan Hemlock, the art professor cum ki 
hero of best sellers The Eiger Sanction and The Loo Sanction, will again 
take to the pitons and carabiners in a Universal release of The Eiger 
Sanction scheduled for about Memorial Day. And who will be playing the 
aloof, taciturn Hemlock? Why, none other than aloof, taciturn Clint 
Eastwood, who, in case you missed the book, is given the assignment of 
performing a sanction, or hit, on one of three fellow climbers. 

Small problem: Hemlock has no idea which of the three is the traitor 

he's expected to rub out. The ending is literally a cliff-hanger. 


NO LOSERS 

Surviving a strip-poker game in your living 
room is one thing, but surviving one 

in the middle of the antarctic is another. 
"That is, unless you're equipped with a 
$4.95 deck of Survival Playing Cards, a 
product of Environs Inc. (Route 2, Box 
508, Hood River, Oregon). Printed on 
each card are instructions on everything 
from campsites to how to keep warm. 
But if you're traveling à deux, 

you might have an idea of your own. 


THE DEVIL TO PAY 
Now, we like fantasy as much as the next guy—maybe more, in fact—but 
The Stellar Almanac: A History and Tour Guide of the Infernal 
Kingdom of Hades (Tarnhelm Press, Lakemont, Georgia 30559) boggles 
even our jaded mind. It's a $5.95, 318-page softcover book that tells 
you everything you (and Dante) did or didn't want to know about hell 
and includes a dassified-ad section for devilish paraphernalia, info 
on holidays, polities, marriage and family customs, plus a very detailed 
description of which poor damned souls end up at which infernal levels 
and what they do after they get there. You might wish to browse through. 
it some dismal night, preferably seated in the center of a pentagram. 


INFLATIONARY MOVE 


President Ford is gonna love this: a Beat 
the Inflation Blues Box in which you 
deposit а quarter, turn the handle and 

out comes 30 cents. (You've loaded it with 
nickels, dummy.) The mere act of getting 
instead of giving is a nice psychological 
litt—both for you and for inventor Sam. 
Kasmir, at Campique, Ltd., P. O. Box 
10742. Dallas, Texas 75207, who's asking 
$29.95 for his nifty little invention. 


CLASSIC EXIT 
To several generations of 
young procrastinators—and 
lazy adults—Classics Hlustrated 
were the easy way out of 
wading through some of the 
world’s great literature. Well, 
it's back to the originals, gang, 
as Twin Circle Publishing 
is discontinuing the Classics 
series and peddling what's 
left for 39 cents each (plus 25 
cents shipping per order). For 
a list of those still available, 
write to them at 86 Riverside 
Drive, New York City. 
Alas, poor Hamlet (Classics 
number 99), we knew him well. 


FOR WHOM THE SMELL TOLLS 
If you just can't get into any of the spiffy shirts 
sported in our “T” Formations feature elsewhere 
in this issue, get a whiff of this: Smell It Like 
It Is Inc., at 1501 N.W. 14th Street, Miami, 
Florida, is producing scented Ts (and panties) 
at prices that are nothing to sniff at; $5 a shirt, 
$3 the undies. The scents are primarily 
fruit, but custom orders can be arranged on 
anything from anchovy to yeast. No, they don't. 
stock that particular scent. 


YOU SUPPLY THE ICEBERG 
Even though you've put together models of the Edsel, the 
Corvair and the Andrea Doria, you've missed the big one: the 
Titanic, Now this loser of losers can be yours for only $29.95 from 
F A O Schwarz, Fifth Avenue at 58th Street, New York, New 
York. Built 1/350 to scale and measuring over 30 inches long and 
81 inches high. it features the ultimate in detail as derived 
from original drawings and photos. (That includes too few life- 
boats, we presume) And, by the way, it's not guaranteed to float. 


BIG BAD JOHN 
"There's a lot more to the 
Dillinger legend than that 
mythical mammoth appendage 
of his that allegedly resides 

in the Smi 
Institution. There are, for 
example, his death mask, his 
not-so-lucky rabbit's foot 

and the trousers he wore when 
he was killed. All this mem- 
orabilia can be seen in the 
new John Dillinger Historical 
Museum, Nashville, Indiana, 
along with letters he wrote 
and wax replicas of him as a 
living and dead legend. 

Joe Pinkston, co-author of 
Dillinger—a Short ё Violent 
Life, put the whole shebang 
together. Rat-a-tat-tat. 


PARADISE FOUND 


In the good old days, if you wanted to escape 

the hubbub of the city, you went to the country. 
But nowadays, how do you escape the hubbub 

of the country? You get in touch with Private 
Islands Unlimited (17538 Tulsa Street, Granada 
Hills, California), an outfit that will sell 

you your own personal island. Price tags go from 
$8000 to a cool million and the firm offers 
locations from the Adantic to the Adriatic. As 
owner of your own island, you are also master of 
the domain, which means you may haul in 
trespassers and hold inquisitions. 


PLAYBOY 


len 


IT'S A PLOT! (i.4 pon pose 155) 


subsequently murdered, as well as James 
Cross, the senior British consular officer 
in Montreal. And Prime Minister Pierre 
Trudeau, fitting neatly into Mrs. Brus- 
sell’s thesis, hastily invoked the Dr: 


an War Measures Act, which cflectively 
revoked most Canadian civil liberties, 
albeit temporarily. 


A year later, the Tupamaros kidnaped 
Geoffrey Jackson, the British ambassador 
to Uruguay. 

Gross was held for 59 days and shortly 
thereafter awarded the O.RLE. in the 
Queen's New Year's honors list 
held longer, for 244 days, 
and won a knighthood in the honors list. 
lence, no: payola, yes. 

An asshole, is true, might feel that 


mprisonment, 
kept his cool in 
ation, filth and, 
жогы of Bur blessed 
with insight, I now re: MIS. 
ing a leaf from the CIA dirty-rricks book, 
was behind both the Cross and the Jack- 
son so-called kidnapings. 

In a stroke, they did much to discredit 
both the F.L.Q. and the Tupamaros and 
ged ıo 1 poorly paid 
shed h farte 


circumst 


rewa 


un- 


8 


associates w 


titles 


Clearly. on the new scale of honors-list 
obloquy, British foreign-office types based 
broad now understand. that if they are 
“kidnaped” and held for from one to 59 
days, they will qualify for an ОВЕ: 
but if they can endure detention for 244 
or more days. it's worth a knighthood. 

The mind reels. 


Illumination IV: In a modest, decay- 
ing duplex on the South Side of Chicago. 


I finally meet Sherman Skolnick, self- 


the C 
Courts. Skolnick, 44 years old, 


plegic, is a gentle 


tended by 


David Hoffman, 30 ycars old, also 
cippled. his left arm severed below the 
clbow. Later. we are joined by the 
truculent Alex J. Bonos, Jr, chief 
stalt investigator and sell proclaimed for- 
mer infiltrator of a notorious airplane- 
robbery gang. 

Skolnick, like Mrs. Brussell, is con- 


vinced that the S.L-A. is a CIA front and 
that Patty Hearst was apparently b 
washed. The Hearst family made a 
CIA target because, in the Forties, their 
newspaper chain led an attack on the 
Rockefellers, which family was "active 
in seeing to it that the atomic secrets 
to the Soviets in the early 
Forties before the U.S. had completed 
its first bomb.” Even so, the ubiquitous 
Rockefellers were a principal force be- 
hind the creation of the CIA and took 


a- 


were give 


umbrage when, in 1973, the Hearst 
Corporation, through its Avon Books 
Division, brought out one of the first 
attacks against the CIA. The Glass 


House Tapes. Hearst, fully aware of 
what's going on, doesn't protest because, 
since 1912. his publishing business 
thrived on gangster lore. 

I sat with the curiously touching, 
heavyset Skolnick in his tiny kitchen. 
nned foods stacked everywhere, as he 
llicked on his tape recorder and told me. 
manner self-conscious, that he didn’t 
come from ite background.” His 
father, a ladies’ tailor, had left him a 
small trust fund, inadvertently sparking 
olnick's interest in corruption and the 

3 t he said, was man 

by a cooked broker, and Skolnick pur- 
sued him through the courts for nine 
years, studying law on his own. In 1963, 
he founded the Citizens’ Commitee to 
Clean Up the Courts to probe cases that 
м the public interest. "We live 
on a shoestring,” he said. 

Ours" said Hoffman, "is a qua 
organization. It can't be infiltrated or 
ken over. 

Skolnick told me ће was жо 
story for The Realist. "Vm w 
the dozens and dozens of people who were 
murdered or died under odd circum- 
(cs in the wake of Watergate. We 
have contacts all over the Western 
world. Europe, Canada. . . 
“Who have you got in Ci 
ked. "Anybody I could sec” 

Well, for onc thing. we don't openly 
discuss contacts. Some are strategically 
placed newsmen. . . .” 

kolnick went on to say that from 
Dallas. through Watergate, to now. the 
networks. the media, have known the 
pout Oswald but wouldn't dare 
print them. I asked him, as I had asked 
Mae Brussell, why Robert Kennedy 
spoken up if there had, indeed, 
te John Kei 

"Rohert Kennedy couldn't protest.” 
said Hoffman. “Irs like a bank robber 
gets caught, he has nobody to compl: 
10," 
simple-minded peopl 
nick, “those who are not profound re- 
searchers, like Mae, ask why the 
Kennedys don't speak out. 

Taking his point. T changed the sub- 
ject and asked Skolnick about the c 
of the United Airlines planc. ne 


ng on a 
ting about 


cts, 


he 


n a plot to assassin edy 


said Skol- 


Сап you prove it was s 
The mass media have time and ag 

ed to protect United Airlines. They've 
made statements thar our case is unsup- 
ted. Why? They have United Airlines 
as an advertiser. We have more than t 
teen hundred pages of documents: they 
say we have no proof. Rockefeller. you 
know, owns all three networks, through 


the Chase Manhattan Bank, and the fam- 
ily is a major stockholder in United. So 
they are going to put us down, which has 
been our problem for two years, There 
are angles and angles and angles. . . .” 

“What evidence have you got that 
Mrs. Hunt was carrying two million in 
travelers checks as well as ten thousand 
in саз 


^] don't know a quick answer.” said 
Skolnick. “But our chief investigator can 
tell you a lot about that. 


Within minutes, he was with us in the 
crowded kitchei 

“Here he is,” said Skolnick, "Alex 
Bottos: one day after appearing with me 
с-ир.” 
1 asked. 
js manner icy, replied: “Does 
there have to be a reason today 

"They put him in what we call Clock- 
work Orange. Missouri, the behavior 
modification plant He was there for 
forty. days. 

Immediately, Bottos presented me 
with a tape. An hour long, it began with 
spooky music, reminiscent ol radios 
Inner Sanctum. А girl's voice announced 
that we would hear id 


in public, he was in jail on a f 
"What were you in jail for 


Bonos, 1 


perimental psychology and had person- 
ally observed brainwashing with his 
ion in Korea, before being forced 
himself right here in 


to it 
“We st 
you don't play this tape immedi 
before a meal. It is brutal, shocking, at 
times disgusting, but also tru 

Alas, like many a poster for a porno 
flick. the girl's promo promised better 
than the tape paid, It was, for the most 


part. a pontifical sermon. delivered by 
Bouos in а slow, mournful voice. 
“Words,” he began, "how flippantly we 


learn to use so many of them. It 
was difficult to pinpoint. he said, when 
this country went wrong. But, clearly, 
we had reached low and were 
“the victims of mental and sexual 
despots.” Ther y ways fo 
sinate a man, he continued lugubriously, 
but the most insidious is called zombiism. 
Toul degradation. “I have sickening 
news for you. As a matter of policy 
law, our Government is now prac 
zombiism, and doing it in your 
and then he descr 

“You to: 


new 


now 


are m ssas- 


a four-bysix cell block. no sink, no toilet, 
nothing, amd you control the lighting 


ature. You keep hi 
to а wee 


sound amd tempe 
there for seventy-two hou 
creating fatigue, fear 
High temperature 


drugs and if this doi work, you 
mix brutality with sexual perversions. 
You force the man, through beatings, to 
perform unnatural sexual acis and 


to have others perform them on him, 
I he is so docile he will perform 


“Now, that's what I call evolution!” 


189 


PLAYBOY 


190 


the worst kind of perversion willingly." 

Bottos then went on to play an ex- 
cerpt from The Manchurian Candidate. 
after which he suggested that Lee Harvey 
Oswald, like Laurence Harvey, may have 
d. "Lee Harvey Oswald.” 
employed at number five 
Street, Moscow, the Experi- 


meni n of the Electrotechnical 
Тим the Building of the Ad- 
ма nces. The ten A.M. on 
March 30, 1961, he was entered in a 
hospital in Minsk, Russia, for ап ade- 


noidal operation. wl 
12а for he wasn't until 
Mpril 11, when he mysteriously received 
visa. bling him to return to the 
United States." 

Our criminal пи l-health laws, mod- 
eled on Beria’s, Bottos s: were in- 
troduced by the CIA, and once again the 
bled Rockefeller brothers, who wish 
10 introduce world government, sharing 
control of the globe with Russia. Too 
had. Bottos continued, that we didn't 
heed the warning of California journ 
ist Frederick Selig. who. in June 1964, 
tried to tell u the seriousness of 
homosexual penetration withi 
ment. Homosexuality, Selig wrote, 
was a practicing religion. world-wide, 
their ultimate 1 to be a total control 


about 


our Gov- 


of the population and—through th 


ght 


control—to coudition us to believe that 
normal relations between men and. 
women were a crime. 


And vet—and vet—before interviewing 
spiky Mae Brussell or siting with rhe 
obsewed Skolnick in his Кисеп, I had 
sought ош Art Buchwald in Washington 
“The trouble with conspiracy theories.” 
Buchwald said, “is that so many of them 
have proved to be right. For yews, 1 
laughed at my left-wing friends when they 
told me their telephones were bi 
tapped or that Nixon was а crook 
now, look, they were right all along. 

And, he might have added, though few 
of us would have believed it before, the 
truth is that idea man Liddy actually did 
in Ацошеу General John Mitchell's 
office and propose an offshore floating 
whorehouse wherein delegates to the 
Democratic Convention could be tempted 
aped. There were. there's no deny- 
and the so-called 
¢ House horrors we all now 
too much about. And one of the 
J- Edgar Hoover's pet projects, it has 
now been revealed, 
which meant no less than FBI 
of leftwing groups such as the SLA 


ow 


ate 


was 


TÍNY TOTS PUBLISHING Co Lra. 


“Take a break, Miss Fanshaw. I'm just going out fora wee-wee.” 


The Wanen Report, it must be said, 
leaves 100 many questions iswered. 
Writing in The Washington Post on Sep- 
tember 27. 1974. Von Hollman observed 
“If it should ever be discovered that Lee 
Harvey Oswald was а Cuban agent, it takes 
no eltort of the imagination to think that 
Fidel Castro might have dispatched the 
killer to Dallas to avenge the CIA's 
attempts on the Cuban boss's own life. 
When three major political figures a 
murdered and another is nearly so in the 
space of a decade, it becomes harder and 
harder to accept the idea they were all 
gunned down by lonely nuts acting out 
the murderous and private fantasies of 
sickened minds.” Furthermore, from the 
rty tricks, 
rous, others ugly, 


more merely incredibly childish. In The 
CIA and the Cult of Intelligence. authors 
Victor Marchetti and John D. Marks 


write that for several s the agency 
subsidized the New York Daily Worker 
n fairness to the Workers май, it 
must be noted that they were unaware 
of the CIA's assistance, which came in 
the form of several thousand secretly 
purchased prepaid subscriptions. The 
|y hoped to demonstrate by 
American public that 


the thr n in this country 
was, indeed, real; 

My problem with the conspiracy 
theorists is that given a yard of provable 


dirty work, they want us to run another 


99 with them to 


I irrespon- 
y in rumor and innuendo. Belore 1 
saw him, poor Skolnick suspected 1 was 


an FBI fterward, he 
telephoned rLaypoy to say he could 
prove I was, in fact, а Canadian govern 

went. Given his and Mae Brussell’s 


que, 1 cam help by making the 
ial case for the 
nd again in 1965. 


In 
awarded generous grams by the С: 


1958, l was 


Council, ostensibly for writing. But the 
chairman of the council а и Lime was 
Peter Dwyer, а h MIS 

Mm, 

Rooted in England for 18 years, 1 
wrote for, among other magazines, En- 
counter, then considered a leading intel- 
lectual journal amd since rev to 
have been secretly funded by the СТА. 
Since my retum to Montreal two years 
аво, I have traveled to Ottawa. once 
week, officially a visiting professor 
Carleton University, but unofficially. . . 


wartime 


aled 


in 


A drinking companion of mine 
Ottawa is one Don Wall, formerly ad- 
visor on security to the cabinet. 


How do 1 know,” М 
"you are who you cli 
How, indeed? 


Brussell asked, 
n you ате?” 


Se 
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PLAYBOY 


192 


THE DEAD ARE DYING OF THIRST 
that could have happened. I feel as if 
somebody close to me just died.” Could 
it be the developing determination of 


his body that had just died. his difficult 


approach то good condition? But even 
to speak of good condition is to confront 
the first mystery of boxing. It is a rare 
state of body and mind that allows a 
heavyweight to move at top speed for 15 
rounds. That cannot be achieved by an 
ct of will. Yet Ali had been trying. How 
many months had he labored at Deer 
Lake! And to try to cure his hands, which 
were aching with arthritis. he even ate 
fish and avoided meat. Then his energy 
diminished. After that long season of 
training, his energy still diminished! 
ing in the cosmic laws of violence 

ıd command you to eat 
Күсе given up fish. resumed 
the flesh of animals, ate desserts, and his 
blood sugar came back. He might even be 
ready at last to enter the fight that would 
test the logic of his life. The postpone- 
aent must have felt like an amputation 
What a danger. Every cell in his body 
could be ready to mut 
He was, however, philosophical on this 
morning 48 hours later. "А real disap- 
pointment, a real disappointment. But 
Allah has revealed to me that I must look 
on this as my private lesson in disappoint- 


(continued [rom page 146) 
ment. This is my opportunity to learn 
how to convert the worst of disappoint 
ment into the greatest of strength. For the 
seed of triumph сап be found in the 
misery of the disappointment, Allah has 
allowed me to sce this postpo 


blessing,” said Ali, and, finger 
added, “The greatest surprise is аһ, 


be found in one’s own hear 
Only Ali could make thi 

the 

he 


morning and 
believed it. 
it is hard. 1 am tired of wain- 
ng. T want to eat all the apple cobbler 
and drink all the sweet cream." Then— 
was it because they were standing through 
this specch?—the interviewer 


was now 


formally introduced to Ali's black associ 
ates as ^ t writer. Norman is a man 
of wisdom id Ali. A serious hindrance 


to the interview. For after such an intro- 
duction, how can not wish to read his 
poetry? In tum, a man of wisdom may 
wish to be courageous, but, obliged to 
face he will take up the cult 
of the a How Norman dodges Ali's 
desire for a critique on the poems. Every 


literary principle is swallowed as Ali 


uch vei 


recites—it is equal in aesthetic sin to 
applauding the design of Nsele. 
Time passed uneventfully im the 


room with the Borox furniture. People 


came into the villa and went. Ali sat on 
one of the green-velveteen chairs and 
w, then another. He 
"s cut, plus its effect on 
s never been cut before. 
He used to think he was invincible. This 
has to hurt him.” When analysis was 

i Ali went through 


interview 
nd expatiated 
on his intention to travel through the 
country of Zaire after the fight. He spoke 
of his love for the Zairois people. “They 
arc sweet and hard-working and humble 
and good people.” 

ime to go. If one would catch one's 

plane, it was time to go. He sat down 
beside Ali, waited a minute and said his 
farewell, Maybe it was the thought of 
his imminent departure that produced 
such an unexpected reply. Clearly, Ali 
muttered, “I gotta get out of this place. 

Could he believe what he had heard? 
icd. forward. This was as close as 
d ever been. "Why don't you go. 
ari for a couple of days? 
h this remark, he lost the rest of his 
exclusive. Why hadn't he just said, “Yes 
it's rough.” Too late would he recognize 
that you approached Muhammad's psyche 
as delicately as you walked up on a 
squirrel. 

“No,” said Ali, thrusting himself away 
from any remptuion to scratch at the 
new itch, “I'll stay here and work for 
my people.” Boxing is the exclusion of 
outside influence, A classic discipline 

Norman went back to the States wi 
appy intimations of the fight 


no 
come. 


10. 


CHAPTER 4 
If our man of wisdom was now won- 
dering what name he ought to use for 
his piece about the fight, it was ou 
no excess of literary ego. More. indeed, 
from concern for the reader's attention. 
It would hardly be congenial to follow 
a long piece of prose if the nam 
appeared only as an abstraci The 
Writer, The Traveler, The Intervi 
That is unhappy in much the w 
would not wish to live with a woman for 
years and think of her as The Wife. 
Nonetheless, Norman was certainly 
feeling modest on his return to New 
York and thought he might as well use 


of 


y one 


his first name—everybody in the fight 
game did. Indeed, his head was so de- 
terminedly empty that the alter 


me. Never 
wisdom appeared more invi: 
id di condition for 
» anonymous voice. 

Back in Kinshasa, however, one month 
later, much was changed. Now he had 
a good room at the Inter-Continental, 
and so did every figure in Foren 
camp, the Champion, the n 
sparring partners, the 
nds, the skilled t 
ig of no les than Archie Moore 
indy Saddler—everyone in the ret 


was to do a piece without a 
had h 

to hi 
acquiring 


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PLAYBOY 


196 


were registered, as well; most notably, 
Bundini, who later would have verbal 
wars in the lobby with Foreman's people. 
What wars! They must yet be de- 
scribed, The promoters of the fight stayed 
at the Inter-Continental—John Daly, 
Don King, Hank Schwartz. Big Black, the 
big conga drummer from Ali's camp, was 
here. Interviewed by a British reporter 
who asked him the name of his drum, he 
nswered that it was a conga. The report- 
cr wrote Congo. The Zairois censor 
changed it to Zaire. Now Big Black could 
ay in interviews that he played the Zaires. 

Yes, a different mood. ‘The food was 
better at the Inter-Continental; so were 
the drinks, The lobby was moving with 
sy action between Black and white. 

Musicians left over from the festival 
four weeks hefore, operators at the fringe 
of the promotion, fight experts, hustlers 
and even a few tourists mingled with 
assing African bureaucrats and Euro- 

businessmen. Employees, male and 
le, from the gambling casinos came 
by for a look and mingled with Peace 
Corps kids and corporation men from 
cartels, Dashikis, bush jackets and pin- 
s passed through the lobby. 

ions was quick to speak of 
shasa’s living room." It was most 
peculiarly an agreeable lobby, although 
the autumn brown and pastel orange in 
the carpets, wicker dhairs, walls, lamps 
and sofas were not different from autumn 
brown at the Indianapolis Hilton or the 
Sheraton Albuquerque. It worked in 
A lite creature comfort (even 


gave zap! The 
s eges! Taxis came quickly. 
Still, the happy action was a function of 
the flow in the lobby rather 
s of people gathered. Social arbiters 
of Heavyweight Championships would 
have gone blind looking for a face im- 
portant enough to ignore. If on the 

| few well-known 


zier and David Frost for three— 
the old celebri ity of the fight crowd was 
. The fight cadre, plus George 
Plimpton, Hunter Thompson, Budd 
Schulberg and himself, made up the 
notables. Any notions of anonymity had 
to be discarded. 

For these days, Norman was being 
welcomed by Blacks, If Ali had intro- 
ed him as "a man of wisdom"—Ali, 
who had seen him in a dozen circum- 
stances over the years and never quite 
lowed that he was sure of the name— 
Foreman, in turn, said, “Yeah, I've 
heard of you. You're the champ among 
writers." Don King presented him 
great mind among us, a genius.” 


" Bun- 
lying in his teeth, assured every- 


one, “Nomin is even smarter than 1 am. 
rchie Moore, whom Nomin had long 
revered, was cordial at last. A sparring 


tner asked for 
What celeb 


n autograph. 
ion. Being greeted this 


warmly on return to Africa, he felt de- 
ered at last from the bowels of the 
bummer. The final traces of the miser- 
able fever that kept him in bed for a 
week on return to New York were 
now gone. ме маз һарру to be back i 
Africa. 


g ıı nearly so 
much as praised, and since the Black 
American community, with its curious 
ics of opinion, so much like psychic 
waves, was spreading a good word on 
him for uo overt reason—no recent 
published work or extraliterary relation 
to Blacks half so close as books and 
articles he had done ten or fifteen years 


earlier—he came to realize at last the 
fair shape of the irony. Months ago, a 
ad gotten into the newspapers 
writing. His pub- 


hers were going to pay him $1,000,000. 
sight unscen, for the book. H hiis candles 
had been burning low in the literary 
cathedral these last few years, the ne 
story went its way to hastening the 
ction. He knew that his much pub- 
licized novel (still nine tenths to be 
written) would now have to be twice as 
good to overcome such financial news. 
Good literary men were not supposed 
to pick up sums. Small apples for him 
to protest in every banlieu and literary 
purlieu that his Boston publisher had 
ot been laid low with a degenerative 


disease of the cortex but that the 
51.000.000 was to be paid out as һе 
wrote 500,000 to 700.000 words, the 


nt of five novels. Since he was 
g rewarded only 
work, and had debts and a sizable ad- 
vance already spent and five wives and 
seven children. plus a financial nut at 
present larger than his head, so the sum 
маз not as large as it seemed, he ex- 
plained—the S1.000000. you see, was 
nominal Here in Africa, however, it 
was another tale. Since the word of his 
ces, his name 
throughout the black community had 
been underlined. Nomin Million was a 
man who could make it by using his 
head. No rough stuff! He did not have 
to get hit in the head, nor hit on the 
lc of your head. This man had to be 
the literary champ. To make $1,000,000 
without taking chances—show respect! 
Го sign for a sum that heavyweight 
champs had not been able to make until 
Muhammad Ali came along—why, the 
optimistic element of the black com- 
munity looking now at every commercial 
horizon in America began to gaze at 
writing. Hang around thi . went 
the word. Something might rub off! 
Once, he would Nave been miserable 
at being able to profit [rom such values. 
But his love affair with the black soul, 
а sentimental orgy at its worst, had been 
given a drubbing through the scasons 
of Black Power. He no longer knew 
whether he loved Blacks or secretly dis- 
liked them, which had to be the dirtiest 


secret in his American life. Part of the 
woe of the first trip to Africa, part of 
that irrationally intense detestation of 
Mobutu—eyen a photo of the President 

his plump cheeks and horn-rimmed 
eyeglasses igniting invective adequate 
to a Harvard professor looking at an 
icon of Nixon—must be a cover for th 
rage he was feeling toward Blacks, any 
Blacks. Walking the streets of Kin 
оп that first trip while the black crowds 
moved about him with difference 
to his presence that succeeded in nis 


gering him, he knew what it was to be 


looked upon as invisible. He was also 
approaching, if not careful, the terminal 
animosity of a Senior Citizen. How hi 
hatred seethed in search of a justifiable 
excuse. When the sheer evidence of 
a finally overcame these newly big- 
oted senses (when a drive over miles of 
highway showed thous: 
ably hungry Zairois runw 
new slum inhabitants for overcrowded 
buses, and yet in some absolute stat 
ment of aesthetic, some imprimatur of 
the holy and final statement of the line 
of the human body, these Blacks could 
sull show in silhouette, while standing 
line for the bus, almost every one of 
those 1000 slim dark Africans. an inco 
ruptible loneliness, a stonc-mute dignity. 
some African dignity he had ncver seen 
on South Americans, Europeans or Asi- 
atics, some tragic magnetic sense of sell, 
as if each alone and all were carrying 
the continent like a halo of sorrow about 


their head) then it became impossible 
not to feel ul life and sorrow of 
Africa—even if Kinshas: to the г: 


forest as Hoboken to Big Sur—yes. 
impossible not to sense what cveryone 
had been trying to say about Africa lor 
100 years, big Papa first on line: The 
place was so fucking sensitive! No horror 
failed to stir its echo а thousand miles 
away, no sneeze was ever free of the lea 
that fell on the other side of the hill. 
Then he could no longer hate the Zairois 
or even be certain of his condemnation 
of their own black oppressors, then h 
animosity switched a continent over to 
Black Americans with their arrogance, 
their jive, ethnic putdown costumes, 
caterwauling soul, their thump-your- 
testide organ sound, and black new 
vomitous egos like the slag of all of alien- 
ated sewage-compacted-heap U.S.A; then 
he knew that he had come пог only 
to report on a fight but to look a lite 
more into his own outsized feelings of 
love and—could it be?—sheer hate for 
the existence of Black on earth. 

No, he was hardly surprised when hi 
illness flared on return to the States, 
and he went through a week and the 
ten days of total detestation of himself, 
a fever without fantasies, an illness w 
out terror, for he felt as if his soul had 
expired or, worse, slipped away. Tt was 
enough of a warning to lay a deep wart 
ng on him. He got up from bed with the 


if 


“Surely, Nurse Greer, you must have had some suspicion 
Mr. Appleton was no longer here!" 


22212222 


197 


PLAYBOY 


198 


determination to learn a little about 
Africa ‘before his return, a healthy im- 
pulse that brought him luck (but then, 
do we.not gamble with the unrecognized 
thought that a return of our luck signi- 
fies a return of our health?). After in- 
quiries, he went to the University Place 
Book Shop in New York, an operative 
definition of the word warren, up on 
the eighth or ninth floor of a wheezing 
old office building below 14th Street— 
the smell of the catacombs in its stones— 
to find at exit from the clevator a stack 
and excelsior of books, cartons and dust 
where a big blond derk with scraggly 
sideburns working alone assured the new 
customer that he could certainly afford 
these many books being laid on him, 
since he had, after all, been given the 
$1,000,000, hadn't he, a worthless excur- 
sion to describe if not for the fact that 
the clerk picked the books, the titles all 
unfamiliar. Would there be one para- 
graph of radium in all this geographical, 
political, hi: i sludge? His luck 


came in; not a paragraph but a book: 
Bantu Philosophy, by Father Tempels, 
a Dutch priest who had worked as mis- 
sionary in the Belgian Congo and e: 
tracted the philosophy from the language 
of the tribes he lived among. 

Given a few of his own ideas, Nor- 
man’s excitement was not small as he 
read Bantu Philosophy. For he discov- 
ered that the instinctive philosophy of 
African tribesmen happened to be close 
10 his own. Ваши philosophy, he soon 
learned, saw humans as forces, not be- 
ings. Without putting it into words, he 
had always believed that. It gave a pow- 
erful shift to his thoughts. By such logic, 
men or women were more than the parts 
of themselves, which is to say more than 
the result of their heredity and experi- 
ence. А man was not only what he con- 
taincd in himself, not only his desires, 
his memory and his personality, but also 
the forces that came to inhabit him at 
any moment from all things living and. 
dead. So a man was not only himself but 


“Cut! Stunt man!” 


also the karma of all generations past that 
still lived in him, not only a human with 
his own psyche but also a part of the reso- 
nce, sympathetic or unsympathetic, of 
сусгу root and thing (and witch) about 
him. He would take his balance, his 
ering place, in a field of all the 
forces of the living and the dead. So the 
meaning of one's life was never hard to 
find. One did one’s best to live in the 
pull of these forces in such a way as to 
increase one’s own force. Ideally, one 
would do it in harmony with the play 
of all forces, but the beginning of wis- 
dom was to cnrich oneself, enrich the 
muntu that was the amount of life in 
oneself, the size of the human being in 
oneself. Crazy. We are returned to the 
Calvinism of the chosen where the man 
with most possessions is chosen, the man 
of force and wealth. We are certainly in 
the ghetto where you do not invade an- 
other turf. We are allied to every pride 
of property and self-enrichment. Back to 
the primitive sinews of capitalism! Ban- 
tu philosophy, however, is not so primi- 
tive. It offers a more sinister vision: 
Maybe it is nobler. For if we are our own. 
force, we are also a servant of the forces 
of the dead. we h to be bold 
enough to live with all the magical forces 
at loose between the living and the dead. 
It may be equal to recognizing the mes- 
es, the curses and the loyalties of the 
dead, That is never free of dread. It 
takes bravery to live with beauty or 
wealth if we think of them as an exist- 
ence in themselves. 

An African, for example, aware of 
the presence of a woman who is finely 
dressed, might do more than grant her 
the reasonable increase of power that ac- 
crues to wearing an elaborate gown. To 
his сус, she would also have borrowed the 
force that lives in the gown itself. the 
kuntu of the gown. That has its own ex- 
istence as a force in the universe of 
forces. It is analogous to the way an actor 
feels an increment of power when he 
enters his role, even fecls the separate 
existence of the role as it comes up to 
him, as if it had been out there waiting 
for him in the dark. Then, it is as if he 
takes on some marrow of the forgotten 
caves. It is why certain actors must act 
or go mad—they can hardly live without 
the clarity of that moment when the role 
returns. 

Here is a passage [rom The Palm-Wine 
Drinkard, by Amos Tutuola: 


We knew "Laugh" personally on 
that night, because as every one 
of them stopped laughing at us, 
"Laugh" did not stop for two hours. 
As "Laugh" was laughing at us on 
that night, my wife and myself for- 
got our pains and laughed with him, 
because he was laughing with cu 
ous voices that we never heard be- 
fore in our life . . . so if somebody 
continue to laugh with "Laugh" 
himself, he or she would die or 


faint at once for long laughing, be- 
cause laugh was his profession. . . . 


If laughter presents such. power, what 
are we to make of the African’s attitude 
toward lust? Or the inevitable kuntu of 
fuck? Yes, every word can have its rela- 
tion to the primeval elements of the uni- 
verse. The word, says a Dogon sage named 
Ogotemméli, "is water and heat. The 
vital force that carries the word issues 
from the mouth in a water vapor which 
is both water and word." Nommo is at 
once the name of the word and the spirit 
of water. So nommo lives everywhere in 
the vapor of the air and the pores of the 
carth. Since the word is equal to water, 
all things are affected by nommo, the 
word. Even the ear becomes an organ of 
sex The good 
word, as soon as it is received by the ear, 
goes directly to the sex organs, where it 
rolls about the uterus. . . .” 

What exhilaration! This short fine 
book, Bantu Philosophy, and then a larg- 
er work bursting with intellectual sweet- 
meats, Muntu, An Outline of the New 
African Culture, by Janheinz Jahn, is 
illumining his last hours in New York, his 
flight on the plane—a night and a da 
his second impressions of Kinshasa. It has 
brought him back to a recognition of his 
old love for Blacks—as if the deepest 
ideas that ever entered his mind were 
there because Black existed. It has also 


when тотто enters; 


brought back all the old fear. The mys- 
terious genius of these rude, disruptive 
and—down to it!—altogether indigestible 
Blacks. What noise they still made to the 
remains of his literary mind, what hoot- 
ing, screaming and shrieking, what prom- 
ise of oblivion on the turn of a card. 

How his prejudices were loose. So 
much resentment had devcloped for Black 
style. Black snobbery, Black rhetoric, 
Black pimps, Super Fly and all that vir- 
tuoso handling of the ho. The pride 
Blacks took in their skill as pimps! A 
wrath at the mismanagement of his own 
sensual existence now sat on him, a sor- 
row at how the generosity of his mind 
seemed determined to contract as he grew 
older. He could not really bring himself 
to applaud the emergence of a powerful 
people into the center of American life— 
he was envious, They had the good 
fortune to be born Black. And felt a pri- 
vate fury at the professional complacen- 
су of black self-pity, а whole rage at the 
rhythmic power of those hectoring now- 
insensitive voices, a resentment at last of 
their values, of that eternal emphasis on 
centrality—"I am the real rooster on th 
block, the most terrible cock, the baddest 
fist. I'm a down dude. You motherfuck- 
ers better know it” 

Yet cven as he indulged this envy, he 
felt a curious relief. For he had come to 
a useful recognition. When the American 
Black was torn out of Africa, he was 
ripped out of his philosophy as well. So 


lence and his arrogance could be 
subject for comprehension once 
more. One had only to think of the tor- 
ture. Everything in African philosophy 
was of the root, but the philosophy had 
been uprooted. What a clipped and over- 
stimulated transplant was the American 
Negro. His view of life came not only 
from his livid experience in America but 
from the fragments of his lost African 
beliefs. So he was alienated not from 
one culture but from two. What 
could an Afro-American retain, then, of 
his heritage if not that cach man secks 
the maximum of force for himself? Since 
he lived in a field of human forces that 
were forever changing, and changing dra- 
matically, even as the people he knew 
were killed or arrested or fell out on 
junk. so he had to assert himself. How 
else could he find life? The loss of vital 
force was pure loss, equal to less ego, 
less status, less beauty. By comparison, 
a white Judaco-Christian could live 
through a loss of vital force and feel 
moral, unselfish, even saintly; an African 
could feel himself in balance among tra- 
ditional forces. He could, for example, 
support the weight of his obligation to 
his father because his father was one step 
nearer in the chain to God—that unbro- 
ken African chain of lives going back to 
the source of creation. But the American 
Black was sociologically famous for the 
loss of his father. 

No wonder thei 


voices called attention 


4. Beltit around. 
lem'srefreshing taste 
4 ‚сап take it. 


is 
Жү 


Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined 
That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health. 


PLAYBOY 


to themselves! They spoke of a vital 
(if tense) force. A poor and uneducated 
man was nothing without that force. To 
the degree lived inside him, he was 
full of capital, ego capital, and that was 
what he possessed. That was the capi 
ism of the poor American Black trying 
to accumulate more of the only wealth 


he could find, respect on his turf, the re- 


spect of local flunkies for the power of 
his soul. What a raw, searching, hustling, 
competitive capitalism. What a lack of 
profit. The establishment offered massive 
restraint for such massive fevers of the 
ego. Tribal life in America began to live 
among stone walls and drugs. The drug 
provided a magnification of the senti- 
ment that a mighty force was still inside 
oneself, and the penitentiary was where 
the old idea of man as a force in a field 
of forces could reu Tf the African re- 
straint had been tradition, the American 
Black with a political idea was obliged 
stead to live with revolutionary disci- 
pl his stone walls, 
it became a discipline as pulverizing to 
the soul as the search for condition of a 
boxer. 

Bantu Philosophy proved a gift, but 
it was onc a writer might not need. Not 
to comprehend the fight. There was now 
enough new intellectual baggage to miss 
the train. Norman would bring some of 
it along, and hope he was not greedy. 
or heavyweight boxing was almost all 
Black, Black as Bantu. So boxing be- 
come another key to revelations of Black, 
one more key to Black emotion, Black 
psychology, Black love. Heavyweight box 
ing might also lead to the room in the 


- As he endured ii 


derground of the world where Black 


, Black love? 
from boxers 
was ly comic quest. Box- 
ers were liars. Champions were great 
liars. They had to be. Once you knew 
what they thought, you could hit them. 
So their personalities became master- 
pieces of concealment. There would be 
limits to what he could Jearn of Ali and 
Foreman by the aid of any philosophy. 
ЗИП, he was grateful for the clue. Hu 
mans were not beings but forces, He 
would try to look at them by that light 
CHAPTER 5 

Taken directly. Foreman was no small 
representative of vital force. He came 
out from thc elevator dressed in em- 
broidered bib overalls and dungarce 
jacket and entered the lobby of the Inter- 
Continental flanked by a Black on either 
side. He did not look like a man so 
much as a nding just as erectly 
as а man. He appeared sleepy but in 
the way of a lion digesting a carcass. His 
broad handsome face (not unreminiscent 
of a mask of Clark Gable somewhat flat- 
tencd) was neither friendly nor un- 
friendly: rather, it was alert in the way 
a boxer is in some part of him alert no 


200 matter how sleepy he looks, a heighten- 


g common, perhaps, to all good ath- 
letes, so that they can pick an insect out 
of the air with their fingers but as easily 
notice the expression on some friend in 
the 30th row from ringside. 

nce Norn was not often as enter- 
prising as he ought to be, he was occa- 
sionally too forward. Having barely 
arrived in Kinshasa again, he did not 
know you were not supposed to speak 
to Foreman in the lobby and advanced 
on him with a hand out. In this mo- 
ment, Bill Caplan, who did public rela- 
tions for Foreman, rushed up to the 
fighter. "He's just come in, George.” said 
Caplin, and he made an introduction 
Foreman now nodded, gave a surpris- 
ng smile and proceeded to make his 
ind remark about a champ at writing, 
his voice surprisingly soft, as Southern 
it was Texan. His eyes warmed, as 
if he liked the idea of writing—the news 
would soon come out that Foreman was 
hii f working on a book. Then he 
made a curious remark onc could think 
about for the rest of the week. It w: 
characteristic of a great deal about Fore- 
man. “Excuse me for not shaking hands. 
with you," he said in that voice so care- 
fully muted to re his powers, "but 
you sce I'm keeping my hands in my 
pockets. 

Of course! И they were in pockets, how 
could he remove them? As soon ask a 
poct in the middle of writing a li 
whether coffee is tiken with milk or 
cream. Yet Foreman made his remark. in 
such simplicity that the thought seemed 
likable rather than rude. He was telling 
the truth. It was important to keep his 
hands in his pockets. Equally important 
to keep the world at remove. He lived in 
a silence. Flanked by bodyguards to keep, 
exactly, to keep handshakers away, he 
could stand among 100 people in the 
lobby and be in touch with no one. His 
head was alone. Other champions had a 
presence larger than themselves. They 
offered charisma. Foreman had silence. It 
vibrated about him in silence. One had 
not seen men like that for 30 years, or 
it more? Not since Norman worked 
ital had 
nd so 


#4 
for a summer in a mental hospi 
he been near anyone who could si 


long without moving, hands in pockets, 


ate chamber. 


vaults of silence for his pr 


He had taken care then of catatonics who 
с a gesture from one meal 
ids con- 


would not ma 
to the next. One of them, 1 
tracted into fists, stood in the same pos 
tion for months, only to erupt with a 
sudden punch that broke the jaw of a 
passing attendant, Guards were always 
informing new guards that catatonics 
were the most dangerous of the patients. 
They were certainly the strongest. Оп 

not need other attendants, however, 
to tell you. If 
forest can say, 
placeable and soon destroyed, 
posture of a catatonic haunts the bra 


deer's posture in the 
1 am vulnerable, irre- 
so the 


“Ps 


ovided I do not move,” this posture 
says, “all power will come to me.” 

‘There was here, however, no question 
of wondering whether Foreman might be 
insane. The state of mind of a Heavy- 
weight Champion is considerably more 
special than that. Not many psychotics 
could endure the disciplines of profes- 
sional boxing. Still, a Heavyweight 
Champion must live in а world where 
proportions are gone. He is conceivably 
the most frightening unarmed killer 
alive. With his hands he could slay 50 
men before he would become too tired 
to kill any more. Or is the number closer 
to 100? 

Prize fighters do not, of course, train 
to kill people at large. To the contrary, 
prize fighting diverts a number who 
might otherwise commit murder in the 
street, The amount of violence capable 
of being generated in a champion like 
Foreman is staggering, therefore, to con- 
template when brought to focus against 
another fighter. This violence, converted 
10 а most special species of skill. had won 
him the championship by his 38th fight. 
He had never been defeated. On the 
night he won the championship, he had 
accumulated no less than 35 knockouts, 
the fights stopped on an average before 
the third round. What an unbelievable 
record that is! Ten knockouts in the first, 
cleven in the second, ten in the third 
and fourth. No need to think of him, 
then, as psychotic; rather, as a physical 
genius who employed the methods of 
Catatonia (silence, concentration and im- 
mobility). Since Ali was а geni 
wholly зер 


e ways, one could 
pate the rarest war of all—a collision be- 
tween different embodiments of divine 
inspiration. 

For that matter, who could say Ali 
was without a ch iy religious 
war that took place in Africa? Norman 
had smiled when first hearing of the 
match, thinking of evil eyes, conjurers 
and black psychological helds. “И Ali 
n't win in Africa,” he remarked, “he 
n't win anywhere," The paradox, how- 
ever, on meeting the Champion was th 
Foreman seemed more black. Ali was 
not without white blood, not without a 
lot of it Something in his persona 
was cheerfully, even exuberantly whi 
in the way of a G-foot, 2inch president 
of a Southem college fraternity. At 
times, Ali was like nothing so much as a. 
white actor who had put on too little 
makeup for the part and so was not 
wholly convincing as a Black, just one of 
in Ali, but Fore- 
mun was deep. Foreman could be mis- 
tiken for African long before Ali. 
Foreman was in communion with a muse. 
And she was also deep, some distant 
cousin of beauty, the muse of violence in 
Il her complexity. The first desire of the 
muse of violence may be to remain serene. 
Foreman could pass through the lobby 
like a virile manifest of the walking dead, 


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alert to everything. yet immune іп his 
silence to the casual pollutions of every- 
body's vibrating handshaking hands. 
Foreman’s hands were as separate from 
him as a kuntu, They were his instru- 
ment, and he kept them in his pockets 
the way a hunter lays his rifle back into 
its velvet case. The last heavyweight 
reminiscent of Foreman had been Sonny 
. He used to inspire fear in а man 
by looking at h i 


, and his bad humor 
over intrusion into the aura of his person 
seethed like smoke. His menace was іп 


mate—he could bury a little man as 
quickly as a big one. 
Foreman, by comparison, was a con- 


templative monk. His violence was in the 
halo of his serenity. It was as if he had 
learned the lesson Sonny had been there 
to teach. One did not allow violence to 
dissipate; one stored it. Serenity was the 
vesel where violence could be stored. 
So everyone around Foreman had orders 
to keep people off. They did. It was as if 
Foreman were preparing to defend him- 
self against the thoughts of everyone 
alive. If he entered the arena, and all of 
Africa wanted him to lose, then his 
concentration would become the ocean 


of his protection against Africa. A for- 
midable defense. 
Watching him in training, impressions 


were confirmed. The literary champ of 
Kinshasa was only a boxing expert of 
sorts; of sorts, for example, was his pre- 


ious knowledge of Foreman. He had seen 
him once four years earlier in the course 
of winning a dubious decision in ten 
rounds over Gregorio Peralta. Foreman 
looked slow and clumsy. Then he never 
saw Foreman again until the second 
round against Norton. Having arrived 
Jate at the theater, he saw nothing but 
the knockdowns in the second round. 
It was hardly a complete picture of 
Foreman. 
But secing him in the ring at Nsele, it 
was obvious George had picked up so- 
phistication. Everything in his training 
pointed toward this fight. His manager, 
Dick Sadler, was steeped in bo 
perience. So were Moore and Sandy 
Saddler. Together with Sugar Ray Robin- 
son, they had been precisely the three 
fighters who once offered the most 
brilliant examples of technique for Ali's 
developing gifts. Foreman was one cham- 
pion, therefore, whose t 
designed by other champions, and it gave 
n opportunity to watch how a few of the 
best minds in boxing might coach him. 
Against the pe ici and mass 
hysteria, the antidote was already evi- 
dent: silence and concentration. If Africa 
was not Ali’s only weapon, psychology 
must be his next. Would he try to punish 
Foreman's vanity? No physical activity 
is so vain as boxing. A man gets into the 
ring to attract admiration. In no other 
sport, therefore, can you be more humili- 


g was 


202 ated. Ali would use every effort to make 


Foreman feel dumsy. И, at his most fear- 
some, Foreman looked and fought like a 
ion, he had, at his worst, a resemblance 
to an ox. So the first object of training 
was to work on Foreman's sense of grace. 
George was being taught to dance. While 
he was still happy in the fox tot, and 
Ali was eras beyond the frug, monkey or 
jerk, no matter, Foreman was now able 
to glide in the ring, and that was what 
he would need. Training began with a 
loosening-up procedure other fighters 
did not employ. Foreman stood їп the 
center of the ring and meditated as a 
weird and extraordinary music began to 
play through the publicaddress system. 
lt was pop. As ambitious, however, as 
pop music could ever become; sounds 
reminiscent of Wagner, Sibelius, Mous- 
sorgsky and many an electronic composer 
were in the mix. Nature was awaken- 
ing in the morning—so went one’s first 
assumption of the theme—but what a 
piece of nature! Macbeth’s witches en- 
countered Wagner's gods on a spastic 
Demons abounded. Caves boiled 
vapors. Trees split with the scream of a 
broken bone. The ground wrenched. 
Boulders fell onto musical instruments. 
Into these sounds, lyrical as movie-music 
dew, the sun slowly rose, leaves shook 
themselves and the sorrowful throbs of 
an aching soul [ull of vamping organ 
dumps and thumps fulfilled some hollow 
in the di 

Foreman was wearing red trunks, a 
white T-shirt, reddish headgear and 
brightred gloves, a bloody contrast to 
the sobriety of his mood. As the music 
played, he began to make small moves 
his elbows and fists, minuscule 
locked-up uppercuts that did not travel 
an inch, small flicks of his neck. blinks 
of his eye. Slowly he began to shift his 
feet, but in awkward pivots. He looked 
like a giant beginning to move after a 
year sleep. Making no attempt to 
mpressive, he went through a som- 
mbulistic dance. Near to motionless, 
he yet evoked the muffled roars of that 
steamy nature waking up, waking up. 
All by himself in the ring with a bewil- 
dered press and a wholly silent audience 
of several hundred Africans, he moyed as 
though transition to the full speed of bos 
ing would have to use up its convoluted 
time. Some heavyweights were known for 
how long it took them to get ready—Mar- 
ciano used to shadowbox five rounds in 
the dressing room before a title bout— 
but Foreman's warmup seemed to sug- 
gest that in order to become connected 
again to reflexes in himself, he must de- 
part altogether from 

Yet as the music became less of a tone 
poem to Hieronymus Bosch and more like 
hints of Oklahoma coming through Mous- 
sorgsky—what sweets and sours!—Fore- 
man's fect began to slide, his arms to 
rry imaginary blows. Moving forward, 
he shadowboxed, cutting off the ring, 


ime. 


throwing punches harder at the unstop- 
pable air, working into the woe of every 
heavy puncher when he misses target (for 
no punch disturbs the shoulder more than 
the one that does not connect—profes- 
sionals can be separated from amateurs by 
the speed with which their torso absorbs 
that instant’s loss of balance). Now Sadler 
cut off the music and Foreman went to 
the corner. Remote, he stood there while 
Sadler carefully greased his face and fore- 
head for the sparring to come. But he 
was already returned to a whole mel- 
ancholy of isolation and concentrat: 
He sparred а round with Henry Сан 
not trying to hit hard but enjoying him- 
self, His hands were fast and he held 
them well out in font, picking off 
punches with quick leonine cuffs of his 
mitts, then suiking quickly with lefts and 
rights. He had much to learn about 
moving his head, but his feet were nim- 
ble. He was moving well, and Clark, a 
-looking black heavyweight with 
n of his own (eighth. 
heavyweight contender) was hı 
with authority by Foreman. A favorite of 
the press (for he was friendly and articu- 
late) Clark had been declaring Foreman's 
praises for weeks. “Even a punch on the 
arms leaves you feeling paralyzed, and 
that’s with heavy gloves. Ali is a friend 
ol mine, and I'm afraid he's going to get 
hurt, George is the most punishing hu- 
man being I've ever been in with.” 
This afternoon, however, with the fight 
five days away, Foreman was not working 
s due to fight the 
l with Roy Williams) but, in- 
stead, was working at wrestling. Clar 
would try to hold him, as Ali might, and 
Foreman would throw him off, or shove 
him back, then maneuver him to the 
ropes, where he would hit him lighdy, 
back off and practice the same solution 
again from the center of the ring. For 
whatever reason—perhaps because Clark, 
a big man, was not elusive enough to test 
Forcman’s resources at cutting off the 
ring—Sadler stopped the sparring after a 
round and put in Terry Lee, a slim white 
light heavyweight who had the rugged face 
of a construction worker but happened 
to be fast as a rabbit. For three rounds, 
Lee did an imitation of Ali, backing in a 
circle to the ropes, then quickly skipping 
in the other direction to escape George, 
who held the center of the ring. Lee was 
mot big enough to take Foreman's 
punches, and Foreman did not try to pun- 
ish him, merely tapping Lee when he was 
caught, but Terry gave an exhibition, 
nonetheless, bouncing off the ropes to 
fcint in one direction, bouncing back to 
{ейи in the other, and then scooting 
through any escape route available, cir- 
ding away from one set of ropes only to 
be driven almost immediately to the next, 
where he would duck, slide, put his hands 
to his head, fall back against the ropes, 
spring out, feint, drop his hands, dart 
and try to move away again, Foreman 


203 


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CELEBRATE SPRING! 
SEE PAGE 219. 


stalking him all the while with enjoy- 
ment, for his reflexes were growing faster 
and faster. 

Meanwhile, Foreman was learning new 
tricks every step of the way. Once, Lee, 
springing off the ropes, s 


his father, and the African audience at 
the rear of the hall, sympathetic to Ali, 
roared with derision. 
unperturbed, even interested, as if he had 
just picked up a little trick by being 
fooled, and in the next round, when Lee 
tried it again, Foreman was there to block 
escape. Watching Terry's talented imita- 
tion of Ali, yet secing how cleverly and 
often Foreman was cating up room on 
the ropes, and herding him toward a cor- 
ner, it seemed certain that if Ali wished 
10 win, he would have to take more pun- 
ishment than ever before in his career. 

Foreman was close to genial in a press 
conference that followed. Dressed in his 
embroidered bib overalls, he sat on a long 
table with the press around him and 
quietly refused to use a microphone. 
Since his voice was low, it was a direct 
difficulty for the 50 reporters and camera- 
men gathered, but he was exercising ter- 
ritorial rights. His mood was his property. 
and he did not desire a shriek from the 
feedback to go tearing through his senses. 
Instead, the mike once refused and the 
reporters crowded together, he responded 
10 questions with an casy intelligence, his 
soft Texas voice not without resonance. 
His replies gave a tasty skew to the mood, 
as if there were more he could always say 
but would not, in order to prescrve the 
qualities of composure and serenity—they 
were tasty, 100. 

As Foreman spoke, one of his 50 in- 
terviewers—it must have been our recent 
convert to African studies was thinking 
of Conversations with Ogotemméli by 
Marcel Griaule, a fine book. Ogotem- 
méli looked on the gift of speech as 
analogous to. weaving, since the tongue 
and teeth were a warp and woof on which 
the breath could serve as thread. Given. 
reflection, the idea was not so unsound. 
What, alter all, was conversation if not a 
psychic material to be stitched by the 
mind to other psychic cloth? If most con- 
versations ended in rags, so did most 
textiles. 

Foreman spoke with a real sense of the 
delicacy of what he might be weaving, a 
fine tissue, strong in its economy, a tue 
cloth to come out of an intelligent and 
uneducated man who happened to be 
Champion. 

Samples 

REPORTER: Your eye looks all right to 
me, George. 

FOREMAN; Looks all right to me, too. 

REPORTER: What do you think of your 
weight? 

FOREMAN: Once you're a heavyweight. 
your weight speaks for itself. 

REPORTER: Do you think you'll knock 
him out? 


FOREMAN (in utter relaxation): I would 
like to. 

On the ripple of humor this created, 
Foreman offered a smile. When the next 
questioner wondered what he thought of 
fighting at three A.., Foreman said with 
a bigger grin, “When I was growing up in 
Houston, I had a lot of fights at three and 
four in the morning.” 

Were your opponents tough: 
Right! I wasn't undefeated then.” 

Ali claims he's met more tough fight- 
ers than you have.” 

That,” said Foreman, "may be a fac- 
tor for me. I got a dog who fights all the 
time. He comes home whipped." 

Do you expect Ali to go for the eye?" 

Foreman shrugged. "Its good for апу 
body to go for anything they can as long 
as they can. The crow will go for the 
scarecrow but run away from dynamic 
people.” 

"We hear you're writing a boo 
Oh," Foreman said in his mildest 
voice, “T just like to keep an account of 
what's going on.” 

“Do you have a subject for the book?” 

“IVIL be about me in general." 

“Plan to publis 

He was thoughtful, 
the uncharted Lands of literature that lay 
ahead. "I don't know,” he said. "It may 
be just for my kids. 

REPORTER: Do Ali 


к if contemplating 


remarks bother 


No. He makes me think of a 
keeps saying, “You're stupid, 
you're stupid.” Not to offend Muhammad 
Ali, but he’s like that parrot. What he 
says, he's said before. 

‘They asked him if he liked the country 
of Zaire and he looked uneasy and said, 
first hint of uneasiness to his voice, “I 
would like to stay as long as possible and 
visit.” If boxers were good liars, maybe 
he was no boxer, 

“Why are you staying at the Inter-Con- 
iinental instead of here?” 

Foreman replied even faster, "Well, 
I'm accustomed to hotel life. Although I 
like this place in Nsele." 

He was rescued by another query. "We 
hear President Mobutu gave you a pct 
lion 

Foreman brought back his smile. "He's 
big enough not to be a pet. He'sa serious 
lion." 

Do you 
if reporters had the license to ask апу 
stupid question, any whatever. The trou. 


stupid questions. That was when the sub- 
ject might reveal himself most. “You cn- 
joy being champ?” 

“I think about it every night," said 
George, and added with a rush of com- 
pressed love for himself that he could not 
quite throule into that soft voice, “I 
think about it and I thank God, and I 
thank George Foreman for having true 
endurance.” The inevitable schizophrenia 
of great athletes was in his voice. Like 


artists, it is hard for them not to sce the 
finished professional as a separate crea- 
ture from the child that created him. The 
child (now grown up) still accompanies 
the great athlete and is wholly in love 
with him, an immature love, be it said. 

But Sadler, Moore and Saddler had 
been teaching him to recover from mis- 
takes. So his voice was quict again and he 
added quickly, “I don't think I'm superior 
to any previous champion. It's something 
Ive borrowed, and ГЇ have to give it 
up." He turned expansive. "I even love 
to see young cats looking at me and say- 
ing, ‘Aaah, I can take him,’ and I laugh. 
I used to be that way. Its all right. 
That's how it ought to be." He looked 
so happy with this press conference that 
he had become a natural force in the 
room and everyone liked him. He was a 
contrast to Ali who, when reporters were 
near, was always intent over the latest in- 
jury to his status, and therefore rattled 
on the media like a tin roof banging in 
the wind. 

‘The questions continued. Foreman's 
answers came back with the velvet touch 
of a well-worn pair of dungarees. 

“Do you tl ll be a good fight?" 

He thought for a while, as if bringi 
up to date his latest assessment of Ali 
think itll be a rightful fight," he replied 
with dignity in his soft voic 
George, you seem relaxe 
said. 

Now he was actually merry. The ad- 
miration of the men questioning him 
must have been palpable to his flesh. He 
looked near to sensuous in his calm. "You 
guys relax me,” he said. 


a reporter 


isc you love me,” he said. 
Only once did he give a clue to what 
he might be like in a temper. A reporter 
asked what he thought of Ali's claim that 
he was more militant iu working for his 
people than Foremu 
George got stiff. 


ted. “There is no sugges- 
cone 
ng 


aid, “that can bother sor 
telligent, In answer to Ali bi 
more militant. . . ." But his voice rose. 
don't even think about things like that 
he answered, cutting olt the question. It 
was obvious that anger was upset in him 
as easily as tears from a spoiled child. 
"There must be a massive instability to his 
faculties of rage, explanation in part for 
his rituals of concentration. Like the man 
who fears falling from high places, and so 
fixes his eyes on the floor so that he need 
never look out a window, Foreman fixed 
his mind on the absence of disturbance. 

It's hard,” said Foreman, "to concen- 
tate and be polite when you're asked 
questions you've heard before.” He sub- 
saibed to the principle that терен 
kills the soul. “You sce, I'm preparing for 
a fight. That's my interest. I don't want 
to go in tor distraction. I have no quarrel 
with the press, but I like to keep my 


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mind working on the things I set for it. 
You sce," he said, “you have to be one 
hundred percent stable in everything you 


do." And he looked about him as if to in. 
dicate he had been talking long enough. 

George, one last question. What's 
your fight predictionz" 

Foreman was home. It was over, “Oh,” 
he said, in no faint parody, "I'm the 
greatest fighter who ever lived. I'm a 
wonder. The fifth wonder of the world 
Im even faster than Muhammad / 
And Fm going to knock him out in 
(шее... two... one." He let his eyes 
laugh. “ГИ be doing one hundred percent 
my best," he said. “That my only pre- 
diction.” 

Now Sadler was asked а few questions. 
Short, stocky, abour 60, with a bald head, 
a flattened nose and a flat black beret si 
ting on his bald head. 
rough yet roly-pol 
in his features, for they were a map with 
renovations—Sadler knew how flesh got 
bent in the real world. 

Asked if there might be lastminute 
shifts in Foreman's training or strategy, 
Sadler shrugged at the flatness of the 
question. "I've been doing this for a gang 
of years with a gang of champs. We're. 
not worried. We don't. ve to dip into 
my intuition at the last instant. Ali can 
run, but he sure сапт run for long. 
We're confident. “There'll be no sur- 
prises, This ought to be the easiest fight 
George is going to have.” He nodded to 
the press and took off with his fighter. 
y for all this talent,” he cried 


was dear in the 
y n work next day. 
There was no boxing and по fancy 
sparring, just the ecrie sounds of Fore- 
man's nature music (2 Love the Lord— 
Donny Hathaway) and after 15 or 90 
loosening, brooding and 
shadowboxing, Foreman went to work 
on the heavy bag. Sadler stood holding 
it, a rudimentary exerdse usually given 
to beginners who first must learn to 
punch into a stationary object. But 


minutes of 


Foreman and Sadler were practicing 
something else. 
It is pu г a boxer to have 


а long workout on a heavy bag. It hurts 
one's arms, it hurts one's head, it can 
spring one’s knuckles if the hands are 
ng dummy, 
the bag weighs 80 pounds or more, and 
when a punch is not thrown properly, 
the body shudders with the shock, It is 
like being brought down by an unes 
pected tackle. One bad punch is enough. 
Now Foreman began to hit this bag 
with lefts and rights. He did not throw 
them slowly, he did not throw them fast, 
he threw them steadily, putting all of his 
body into cach punch, which came to 
mean that he was contracting and ex- 
pelling his force 40 to 50 times a minute, 
for he threw that many punches, not fast, 


not wrapped. Big as a tack! 


not slow, but concussive in their power. 
Sadler leaned forward, braced to the 
k of the bag, like a man riding a 
rel in a storm at sca. He was shaken 
with every punch. His body quivered 
from the impact. That hardly mattered; 
that part of the show. When the 
прасі of Foreman's fist on the other 
lc of the bag was particularly hi 
grunted and said “Alors” in admi 

Fifty punches а minute for a three- 
minute round. Н i: 0 punches with- 
out rest, Foreman stopped hitting the 
bag for the 30-second interval Sadler 
lowed between each round, but Fore- 
man did not stop moving. The bag free, 
he danced about it, tapping it lightly, 
moving his feet faster and faster, and, the 
30 scconds up, Sadler was hold- 
ng the bag and Foreman was ng 
punches into it. These were no ordinary 
swings. Foreman was working for the 
maximum of power in punch after 
punch, round after round, 50 or 100 
punches in a row without diminishing 
his power—he would throw 500 or 600 
punches in this session, and they were 
probably the heaviest cumulative series 
of punches any boxing writer had seen. 
Fach of these blows was enough to smash 
an average athlete’s ribs; anybody with 
poor stomach muscles would have a bro- 
ken spine. Foreman hit the heavy bag 
with the confidence of a man who can 
pick up a sledge hammer and knock 
down a tree. The bag developed 3 hol- 
low as deep as a man's head. As the 
rounds went by, Foreman's sweat formed 
a pattern of drops six feet iu diameter 
on the floor: poom! and pom! and 
boom! ... bom! .. . boom! . . , went 
the sounds of his fists into the bag, 
methodical, rhythmic and just as pre- 
dictably hypnotic as the great overhead 
blow of the steam hammer driving a 
channel of steel into clay. One could 
feel the strategy. Sooner or later, there 
must come a time in the fight when 
Ali would be so tired he could not mov 
could only use his arms to protect him- 
self. Then he would be like а heavy bag. 
Then Foreman would treat him like a 
heavy bag. In the immense and massive 
confidence of these enormous reverber- 
ating blows, his fists would blast through 
every protection of Ali, smashing at 
those forearms until they could protect 
Ali no more. Six hundred blows at the 
heavy bag: not one false punch, His 
hands would be ready to beat on every 
angle of Ali's cowering and self-protec- 
tive meat, and Sadler, as if reading th 
psychic temperature of comprehension i 
the audience, cried out from his wise 
girgoyle of a mouth, "Don't stand and 


freeze, Muhammad. Oh, Muhammad, 
don't you stand and free 
CHAPTER G 


Ali was peeping in. There was not 
much Foreman could try that Ali did not 
see. The first to train each day in this 
same ring, Ali had all the time he needed 


to begin his workout at noon, talk to the 
press, walk the 100 yards back to 
villa for a shower, and then come out 
again to take a squint at George. 
If he was more than aware of what 
reman was up to, he seemed none- 
theless more interested in talking to the 
press this week than in working. One day 
Ali did no more than three rounds of 
light shadowboxing. Then he hit the 
heavy bag for a few minutes. Maybe Ali 
had been hitting heavy bags for too 
many years, bur he did it gingerly, as if 
he did not wish to jar cither his hands or 
his head. He seemed to be saving his 
energies for the press, He was always 
ready for a harangue after a workout, 
and there was something unchanging in 
his voice the same hysteria one first 
heard ten years before was still present— 
the jeering agitated voice that always 
repelled his white listeners, the ugly 
voice so much at odds with his cu: 
tomary charm. You could feel Ali shift 
the gears of his psyche as һе went i 
as though it were à special transmis 
sion to use only for press conferences, or 
declaiming his poetry, or talking about 
his present opponent. Then high-pitched 
hiuts of fear would come into his voice 
and large gouts of indignation. Even as 
what he said became more comical, so he 
would become more humorless. “Great 
as Tam," lie would state, “you have made 
me the underdog. 1, an artist, a creator, 
am called the underdog when fighting an 
ox." He would be kingly in disdain, but 
was probably for the castles of Gamp, 
nce he knew that everything he said 
put immediately into quotation 
marks. After a while, one could be- 
gin to suspect these speeches served as an 
organ of elimination to vent the boredom 
of training: he was sending his psychic 
wastes directly into the press 

On Thursday, therefore, five days be- 
fore the bout, Ali gave а typical seminar. 
This fight is going to be not only the 
largest boxing eee-vent, but it will prove 
10 be the largest ece-vent in the history 
of the world. It will be the greatest upset 
of which anyone has ever heard and to 
those who are ignorant of boxing, it will 
seem like the greatest miracle. The box- 
ing public are fools and illiterates to the 
knowledge and art of boxing. This is be 


- you here who write about boxing 


You writers are the real fools and illiter- 
ates, I am going to demonstrate so you 
will have something new for your cot 
umns why I cannot be defeated by George 
Foreman and will create the greatest up- 
set in the history of boxing which you 
by your ignorance and foolishness as 
writers have actually created. It is your 
fault,” he said, mouthing his words for 
absolute enunci har the boxing 
public knows so little and therefore be- 
licves George Foreman is great and I am 
finished. So will demonstrate to you 
by scientific evidence how wrong you 


ұ 


Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined 
That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health. 


PLAYBOY 


208 


are. Angelo," he said to Angelo Dundee, 
"hand me those records, will you?” and he 
began to read the list of fighters he had 
fought. The history of heavyweight. bo; 
ing over the past 13 years was evoked 
by the list. His first seven fights were 
with pugilists never well known, names 
like Herb Siler, Tony Esperti and Don- 
nie Freem: “Nobodies,” said Ali in 
comment. By his eighth fight, he was in 
with Alonzo Johnson, “a ranked contend- 
cr," then Alex Miteff, “a ked con- 
tender Willi Besmanoff, "a ranked 
contender.” Now Ali made a sour face. 
“At a time when George Foreman was 
having his first street fights, I was already 
fighting ranked contenders, boxers of skill, 
sluggers of repute, dangerous men! Look 
at the list: Sonny Banks, Billy Daniels, 
Alejandro Lavorante, Archie Moore! 
Doug Jones, Henry Cooper, Sonny Liston! 
I fought them all Patterson, Chuvalo, 
Cooper again, Mildenberger, Cleveland 
gerous heavyweigh 
nie Terrell, twice the size of For 
whupped him. Zora Folley—he saluted 
the American flag just like Foreman, and 
Т knocked him out cold, a skilled boxer!” 
The ring apron at Nsele was six fect 
above the floor (thus another example of 
technology in Zaire: A fighter falling 
through these ropes could fracture his 
skull on the drop to the floor). Ali sat on 
this apron, his legs dangling, and Bundini 
stood in front, as if Ali were sitting on his 
shoulders. So Bundini's head. rotund as a 
ball, close cropped and bald in the mid- 
dic, rose like protuberance between 
Alis legs. While he spoke, Ali put his 
ds on Bundini's head, as if a cryst 
ball (a black crystal ball!) were in his 
Ims, and each time he would pat Bur 
ald spot for emp Bundir 


would glare at the reporters like a witch 
dodor in stocks. "То the press I say 
this,” said Ali. "I fought twenty ranked 
contenders before Foreman had his first 
fight!" Ali sneered. How could the press, 
in its ignorance, begin to comprehend 
such boxing culture? “Now, let Angelo 
1 the list of Foreman's fights.” As the 
names went by, Ali did not stop m 
aldhelm." “A порой 
"A nobody. 
y." "Chuck Wepner. 
“Nobody.” "John Carroll.” "Nobody," 
"Cookie Wall Nobody." “Vernon 
Clay," said Dundee. Ali hesitated. "Ver- 
non Сїау—һе might be good." The press 
laughed. They laughed again at Ali's 
ment for Gary "Hobo" Wiler—‘a 
" Now came a few more called 
“Nobody.” Ali said in disgust, “If I fought 
these bums, you people would put me out 
of the fight game.” Abruptly, Bundini 
shouted, "Next weck, we be champ 
again.” “Shut up,” said Ali, slapping him 
on the head, “it's my show.” 

When the full list of Foreman's 
d been delivered, Ali gave the sump 
tion. "Foreman fought à bum а month. 
In all, George Forcman fought five men 
with names. He stopped all five, but 
none took the count of ten. Of the 
twenty-nine name fighters 1 met, fifteen 
stayed down for the count of ten.” With 
all the pride of having worked up a 
legal brief, well organized and well de- 
livered, Ali now addressed the jury. "I'm 
à boxing scho n a boxing scientist 
this is scientific evidence. You ignore it 
at your peril if you forget that I am a 
dan i 


oat like a butterfly, sting like a 
bee,” shouted Bundini. 


“But, Harry, even astronauts have a “backup crew.” 


bald spot. Then he looked hard at the 
press. “You are ignorant of boxing. You 
© ignorant men. You arc impressed 
with George Foreman because he is so 
big and his muscles seem so big. 
rumbled Bundini, * 


hey 


“Shut up,” said Ali, rapping him. 

"Now," said Ali, "I say to you in the 
pres, you are impressed with Foreman 
because he looks like a big black ma 
and he hits a bag so hard. He cuts off 
the ring! I am going to tell. you that he 
cannot fight. I will demonstrate that the 
night of the fight. You will sce my rip- 
ping left and my shocking right co: 
re going to get the shock of your 
Because now you are impressed 
with Foreman. But I let you in on a 
secret. Colored folks scare more white 
folks than they scare colored folks. I am 
not afraid of Foreman, and that you will 
discove 

Next day, however, Ali varied the ro 
There was no press conference. Tn. 
stead, a drama took place in the ring. 
But then, the fact that Ali was boxing 
today was in itself an event. In the past 
weck and a half, he had sparred only 
three times, a light schedule. OF course, 
Ali had been training for so long hi 
stablemates were growing old with him. 
Indeed, there was only one left, Roy Wi 
liams, the big, dark, gentle fighter who 
at Deer Lake had acted as if it were 
sacrilege to strike his employer. Now he 
was introduced by Bundini to the au- 
dience of several hundred African: 
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Roy Wil- 
liams, Heavyweight Champ of Pennsyl- 
vania. He's taller than George Foreman, 
hes heavier than George Foren 
reach is longer, he hits harder 
more intelligent than George Foreman. 
Bundini was the father of hyperbole. 

His remarks were now translated by a 
Zairois interpreter to the h 
They giggled applauded. Ali now 
led them in a chant, “Ali boma yé, Ali 
bo yé” which translated as "Kill him, 
A n old fight cry when all id— 
and Ali took his people through the 
chant as though they were a high school 
crowd crying “Slay Sisley High.” a testi- 
monial of good spirits to Ali's good spirit. 
He looked 18 this morning as he got 
ready to spar with Williams. 

They hardly boxed, however. After 
weeks and months of working together, 
a fighter and his sparring partner are an 
old married couple. They make com- 
fortable love. That is all right for old 
married couples, bur the dangers are 
obvious for a fighter. He gets used 10 


So Ali dispensed today with all idea of 
boxing. He wrestled through am entire 
round with Williams, To the beat of Big 
Black on the floor beating on his conga 
rhyth 


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PLAYBOY 


20 Y 


him, walk with him," Ali said in a loud 
throttled voice through his mouthpiece. 
"Yes, I'm going to walk with him.” Oc- 
casionally, he would fall back to the 
ropes and let Williams pound him, then 
he would wrestle some more. “We're 
going to walk with him." When the 
round was over, Ali yelled to the side of 
the hall, “Archie Moore, number-one 
spy, you tell George I'm running. I'm 
going to work him until he's stupid, 
and then the torturc begins. War! War!" 
Ali shouted, and rushed out, swinging 
like an archetype of determination, only 
to go slack and wave to Williams to 
pound him on the ropes. 

“Archie Moore, number-one spy," he 
called over his shoulder, even as Williams 
was hitting him. 

"These days, Moore looked like an 
orotund black profesor who played 
saxophone on weekends. His gray 
mustache curved down on each side of 
his mouth in а benign Fu Manchu, Dick- 

ian mutton chops were his gray 
leburns, a plump and dashing man in 
late middle age—what a titillation to 
recognize that he was close to 60 and yet 
had been in the ring with Ali. Not for 


nothing had he been the first philosopher 
of boxing. 
Perhaps it was his presence; almost 


cert 


ly. Moore's presence as the first 
philosopher of boxing was encouraging 
Ali to reveal himself as first boxing mas- 
ter of the occult. He proceeded to get 
himself knocked out. As the second round 
beg: Ali beckoned for Williams to 
belabor his belly. Obediently, Williams 
came forward and pounded at Ali's ca- 
pacity to absorb endless punches to the 
stomach. “Oooh, it hurts,” Ali yelled 
suddenly. “It huuuuurts!" 

Quickly. the Zairois interpreter said 
to the Blacks in the back seats: “H frappe 
dur" Ali came off the ropes and 
wrestled again with Williams. As they 
walked, Ali made a speech to Moore. 
“Your man has no class,” he cried loud 
nd dear through his rubber mouth- 
piece, "no footwork, He thinks slo 
The turkey is ready for the Killing. 
Moore smiled benign as though to 
reply, “Not saying which turkey.” 

Ali went back to the ropes. Williams 
hit him the stomach. Ali sank to one 
c. A trainer, Walter Youngblood, 
jumped into the ring and counted to 
eight. Ali got up and staggered about. 
He and Williams now Jooked about 
equal to two sumo wrestlers with sand 
in their eyes. “He goin’ for my gut,” 
grunted Ali in a sad plantation voice 
and on the first punch to the stomach 
went down again, “The man been 
knocked down twice," cried Ali, and 
leaped to his fect. Sparring continued. 
So did more knockdowns. Each was oc- 
casion for a speech. After the fourth— 
or was it the fifth?—knockdown, Ali 
stayed down. To everybody's surprise, 
agblood counted to ten, The mood 


was awful. It was as if somebody had told 
an absolutely filthy joke that absolutely 
didn't work. A devil's fart. The air was 
ruined. From the floor, Ali said: "Well, 
the Lip has been shut. He's had his mouth 
shut for the last time. George Foreman 
is the greatest. Too strong,” said Ali sad- 
ly. “He hit too hard. Now a defeated Ali 
leaves the ring. George Foreman is und 
puted champion of the world.” 


The Africans in the rear of the hall 
were stricken. A silence, not without 


dread, was rising from them. Nobody 
believed Ali had been hurt—they were 
afraid of something worse. By way of 
this charade, Ali had given a tilt to the 
field of forces surrounding the fight. Аз 
а dead man had he spoken from the floor. 
Like a member of a chorus had he of- 
fered the comment: "He's had his mouth 
shut for the last ie." Such words could 
excite the forces of the dead. There was 
hardly a Zairois in the audience who did 
not know that Mobutu, good president. 
was not only a dictator but a doctor of 
the occult, with a pygmy for his own 
private conjurer (distinguished must 
that pygmy be!). If, however, Mobutu 
had his féticheur, who among these Afri- 
cans would not believe Ali was also a 
powerful voice in the fearful and magical 
zone between the living and the dead? 
The hush that fell on the crowd (like 
the silence in a forest after the echo of 
a rifle shot) was at the unmitigated horror 
of what Ali might be doing if he did not 
know what he had done. A man should 
not offer his limbs to sorcery any more 
than he would encourage his soul to slip 
into the mists. When every word rever- 
berates to the end of the earth, a weak 
word can bring back an echo to punish 
the man who spoke, and a weak action 
guarantee defeat. A man must not play 
with his dignity, therefore, unless he is 
master of the arts of transformation. Did 
Ali really know what he was doing? Was 
g to burn out some weakness in 
his soul and thereby daring disaster, or 
was he purposefully arousing those forces 
working for the victory of Foreman in 
order to weaken and disturb them? Who 
could know 

Ali now leaped to his feet and reas- 
sured the crowd, “Tell them,” he said 
to the interpreter, “that this is only a 
trcat. The people will not see it ever in 
real life. Tell the people to cheer up. No 
man is strong enough or great enough to 
knock me out. Ali boma yé," he said. 
“Tell them to boma yé,” "The uansla- 
tion came. Wan cheers, The shock 
would demand its time for recovery, The 
Africans were numb. Do not try to think 
until thought returns, their mood may 
have said. Nonetheless, they cried out 
“Boma yé” Who had ever heard such 
confidence as one heard from the man 
in the ring? The laws of highest magic 
might be in his employ. 

“Jive suckers,” said , crooning to 
the press, “hear what I say. When you 


inst me. 

Big Black tapped the conga drum and 
one had time to think of Ali's dream an- 
nounced the month before that Foreman's 
eye would cut, and time again to think of 
Bundini's boast that he was working the 
magic to make a cut. Then the cut came. 
A weck too soon. If Ali and Bundini had 
been employing their powers, such pow- 
ers proved misapplied. Were they now 
being laid on doser? Much to think 
about in the week of this fight. 

CHAPTER 7 

N'golo was a Congolese word for force, 
for vital force, and so could be applied 
to ego, status, strength or libido. Ali was 
опе artist who felt deprived of his right- 
ful share. For ten years, the press had 
been ch g Ali of n'golo. No matter if 
he had as much as anyone in America, 
he wanted more. It is not the n'golo you 
have but the n'golo you are denied that 
excites the harshest hysterias of the soul. 
So he could not want to lost this fight. If 
he did, they would write up the epitaphs 
for his career, and the dead have no 
n’golo. The dead are dying of thirst—so 
goes an old ng. The dead 


African sayi 
cannot dwell in the n’golo that arrives 
with the first swallow of palm wine, whis- 
key or beer. 


Ali's relations with the press were now 
nonstop. Never did a fighter seem to have 
so much respect for the magical power of 
the written word. His villa with the green 
Borox furniture was open to many a re- 
nd in the afternoons at Nscle, 
ing was over for both men, 
Foreman would ride back to the Inter- 
Continental and Ali would lie about in 
his living room, legs extended from a low 
armchair, his valuable arms folded on 
chest. and answer more questions from 
the reporters sitting with him, his iron 
endurance for conversation never in ques- 
tion. He ran a marathon every day with 
his tongue, strong, sure and never stum- 
bling over anyone else's thought. If a 
question were asked for which he had no 
reply, he would not hear it. Majestic was 
the snobbery of his car. 

He was, of course. friendly to black cor- 
respondents—indeed, Mu- 
hammad was often their apprenticeship. 
With no other famous black man were 
they likely to receive as much courtesy: 
Ali answered questions in full. He an- 
swered them to microphones for future 
radio programs and to microphones for 
reporters with tape recorders, he slowed 
up his speech for journalists taking notes, 
and was relaxed if one did not take a 
note. He was weaving a mighty bag of 
burlap large enough to cover the carth. 
When it was shed, he would put the 
world in that bag and tote it on his 
shoulder. 

So in the easy hours of the afternoon 
that followed his knockout in training by 
Williams, he returned to his favorite 
scenario and described in detail how he 


PLAYBOY 


22 


would vanquish Foreman. "Just another 
gym workout," he said often. “The fight 
will be easy. This man docs not want to 
take a head whipping like Frazier just to 
beat you. He's nor as tough as Frazier. 
He's soft and spoiled.” 

A young Black named Sam Clark work- 
ing for BAN (Black Audio Network) 
which offered black news to black- 
oriented stations. now asked a good ques- 
tion. “If you were to advise Foreman 
how to fight you, what would you tell 
him? 


“If 1,” said Ali, "give the enemy some 
of my knowledge, then maybe he'll have 
sense to lay back and wait. Of course, I 
will even convert that to my advantage. 
I'm versatile. All the same, the Mummy's 
best bet is to stand in the center of the 
ring and wait for me to come in.” With 
hardly a pause, he added, “Did you he 
that death music he plays? He is a mu 
my. And." said Ali, chuckling, "I'm going 
to be the Mummy's Curse!" 

Topics went by. He spoke of Africans 
learning the technology of the world. 
“Usually you feel safer if you see a white 
face flying a planc,” he said. “It just seems 
like a white man should fix the jet en- 
gine. Yet here they are all black. "That 
impresed me very much," he said. Yet 
when he was most sincere, so could he 
mean it least. In a similar conversation 
with friends, he had winked and added, 
“Of course, I never believe the bullshit 
that the pilots is all black. I keep looking 
for the secret doset where they hide the 
white man until the trouble starts.” 

“Are you going to try to hit Foreman's 
си?” asked another black reporter. 

"Fm going to hit around the cut," 
answered Ali. "I'm going to beat him 
good,” he said out of the bottomless funds 
of his indignation, "and 1 want the credit 
for winning. I don't want to give it to 
the cut" He made a point of saying, 


fter T win, they talk about me fighting 
for ten million dollars." 

“If they do, will you still retire?” 

“I don't know. I'm going home with no 
more than one million, three hundred 
thousand. Half of the five million goes 
to the Government, then half a million 
for expenses and one third to my man- 
ager. I'm left with one million three. 
"That ain't no money. You give me one 
hundred million today, I'll be broke to- 
morrow. We got а hospital we're wor 
on, a black hospital being built in Chi- 
cago, costs fifty million dollars, My 
money goes into causes. If I win this 
fight. I'll be traveling everywhere.” Now 
the separate conversations had come to- 
gether into one and he talked with the 
same muscular love of rhetoric that a 
politician has when he is giving his cam- 
paign speech and knows it а good one. 
So Ali was at last in full oration. "If I 
1 Ali, "I'm going to be the black 
Kissinger. It's full of glory, but it's tire- 
ery time 1 visit a place, I got to 
go by the schools, by the old-folks' home. 
I'm not just a fighter, Fm a world figure 
to these people"—it was as if he had to 
keep saying it. the way Foreman had to 
hit a heavy bag, as if the sinews of his 
will would steel by the force of this oral 
conditioning. "The question was forever 
growing. Was he still a kid from Louis- 
ville talki talking, through the after- 
noon and, for all anyone knew, through 
the night, talking through the ungovern- 
able anxiety of a youth seized by history 
to enter the dynamos of history? Or was 
he in full process of becoming that most 
unique phenomenon, a 20th Century 
prophet, and so the anger of his voice 
was that he could not teach, could not 
convince, could not convince? Had any 
of the reporters made a face when he 
spoke of himself as the black Kissinger? 
Now, as if to forestall de he 


“Hippopotamuses get lonesome, too, Miss Bascombe.” 


downed. “When you visit all these folks 
in all these strange lands, you got to eat. 
‘That's not so casy. In America, they offer 
you a drink. A fighter can turn down a 
drink. Here, you got to eat. They're hurt 
if you don't cat. It's an honor to be loved 
by so many people, but it’s hell, man.” 
He could not, however, stay away from 
his mission. “Nobody ready to know 
what I'm up to.” he said. “People in 


America just find it hard to take a fighter 


usly. They don't know that I'm using 
boxing for the sake of getting over cer 
tain points you couldn't get over without 
it. Being a fighter enables me to attain 
certain ends. I'm not doing this" he 
muttered at last, "for the glory of fighting, 
but to change a lot of things.” 

It was clear what he was saying. One 
had only to open to the possibility that 
Ali had a large mind rather than a repet- 
itive mind and was ready for oncoming 
chaos, ready for the disruptions and 
volcanic dislocations that would boil 
through the world in these approaching 
years of pollution, malfunction and eco- 
nomic disaster. Who knew what divisi 
the world would yet see? Here 


as this 


tall pale Negro from Louisville, born in 
psychic slavery to be one of a hundred 
species of flunky to some bourbon-m 


ted 
redolent white voice, and instead had a 
vision of himself as a world leader, presi- 
dent not of America, or even of a United 
Africa, but leader of half the Western 
world, President of the Black and Arab 
republics. Had Muhammad Mobutu 
Napoleon Ali come even for an instant 
face to face with the differences between 
Islam and Bantu? 

On the shock of this recognition, that 
Ali's seriousness might as well be rooted 
in the molten iron of the earth, and his 
craziness not necessarily so crazy, Norman 
came near for a word. “I know what 
ing." he said to Muhammad. 
I'm serious,” said Ali. 

“Yes, I know you are.” He thought of 
Foreman's herculean training and Ali's 
contempt. "You better win this fight, 
he heard himself sta "because if you 
don't, you are going to be a professor 
who gives lectures, that's all.” 

Тт going to win.” 

“You might have to fight like you never 
fought before. Foreman has become a 
sophisticated fighter.” 

“Yes,” said Ali, in a quiet voice, one 
line for one interviewer at last. “Yes, 
said Ali, “I know that, too.” He added 
with a wry small touch, “George is much 
improved.” 

Talk went on, endless people came 
and went. Ali ate while photographers 
photographed his open mouth. Not since 
Louis XV sat on his chaise percée and 
delivered the royal stool to the royal pot 
to be instantly carried away by the royal 
chamberlain had a man been so observed. 
No other politician or leader of the 
world would leave himself so open to 


scrutiny. What a limitless curiosity could 
Ali generate. 

On the strength of his own curiosity 
about the qualities of Ali's condition, 
Norman asked if he could run with him 

ight. Inquiring, he learned that Ali 
and set- 


would be going to bed at 
ting the alarm for three. Norman would 
have to be there then. 

"You can't keep up with те,” said Ali. 

“I don't intend to try. I just want to 
run a litle. 

"Show up." said Ali with a shrug. 

CHAPTER 8 

He could go back to the Inter-Conti- 
nental, cat early and try to get some sleep 
before the run, but sleep was not likely 
between eight in the evening and mid. 
night— besides, there was no question of 
keeping up with Muhammad. His jour- 
nalistic conscience, however, was telling 
him that the better his own condition, 
the more he would be able to discern 
about Ali's. What a pity he had not been 
jogging since the summer. Up in Maine 
he had done two miles every other дау, 
but jogging was one discipline he could 
not maintain. At 5/8" and 170 pounds, 
Norman was simply too heavy to enjoy 
running. He could jog at a reasonable 
gait—15 minutes for two miles was good 
time for him—and, if pushed, he could 
jeg three miles, conccivably four, but he 
hated it. Jogging disturbed the саг 
acter of one's day. He did not feel re 
freshed afterward but overstimulated and 
irritable. The truth of jogging was it 
only felt good when you stopped. And 
he would remind himself that with the 
exception of Erich Segal and George 
Gilder, he had never heard of a writer 
who liked to run—who wanted the bril- 
liance of the mind discharged through 
the ankles? 

Back in Kinshasa, he decided to have 
drinks and а good meal, after all, and 
during dinner there was amusement at 
the thought he would accompany Ali oi 
the road. "You know you have to do i 
said John Vinocur, “T s” said Mail 
er. in full gloom, “Ali isn’t expecting me 
to show up, but he won't forgive it if I 
don’ 

"That's right, that’s right,” said Vino- 
cur. “I offered to run with Foreman 
once, and when I didn't рег there, he 
never let me forget. He brings it up 
every time I see him.” 

“Plimpton, you've got to come with 
me,” said Mailer. 

George Plimpton wasn't sure he would. 
Mailer knew he wouldn't. Plimpton had 
too much to lose. With his tall thin track 
man's body and his quietly buried com 
ion (large as Vesuvius, if 
smokeless) Plimpton would have to keep 
on some kind of close terms with Ali or. 
pay a disproportionate price in humilia- 
tion. Whereas it was casy for Mailer. If 
he didn't get a leg cramp in the first 500 
yards, hc could pick the half-mile mark 
to take his bow. He just hoped Ali 


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PLAYBOY 


“God, am I sick of fish—no offense intended.” 


n't run too fast, That would be jog- 
ger's hell. At the thought of being wiped 
out from the start, a little bile rose from. 
the drinks and the rich food. It now 
only nine in the evening. but his stom- 
as if the forces of digestion were 


Je later, they all went to a casino 
ed blackjack. The thought that 
һе would run with Ali was beginning to 


offer its agreeable tension, a sensation 
equal to the way he felt when he was 


going to win at blackjack. Gambling 
had its own libido. Just as one was ill- 
advised to make love when libido was 
dim, so was tha 


d 
he often won. Every gambler was fami! 
h the principle—it was visceral, after 
all—tew failed to disobey it in one fash- 
ion or another. But never had he felt its 
on so powerfully as in Africa. 
It was almost as if one could make a liv- 
ng in Kinshasa provided one gambled 
only when one's blood was up. 

ally, he drank a little. He had 
friends at this casino. The manager was 
nd in love 
Africa; the 


accents. the keen 
ing intelligence of the London 
working class in their quick voices. He 
was getting mal d' Afrique, the sweet in- 
fection that forbids you to get out of 
Africa 
have vis 
gamble 
one would win or lose. Even ог: 
and vodka gave its good thump. He was 


214 loving everything about the evening but 


the sluggishness of his digestion. Pocket- 
ing his money, he went back to the hotel 
to put on a T-shirt and exercise pants. 

The long drive to Nscle, 45 minutes 
and more, confirmed him in the first flaw 
of his life. He was a monster of bad 
timing. Why had he not paced himself 


so that the glow he was fecling at the 
casino would be with him when he ran? 
Now his n'golo was fading with the 


drinks, By the time they hit the road, he 
would have to work off the beginnings 
of a hangoy э stomach, that 
variably reli 
simply not di 
thick fish chowder and a pepper steak 
were floating down the Congo of his in- 
ner universe like pads of hyacinth in the 
cloued Zaire. My God, add 
rum and tonic, vodka and orange juice. 
Still, he did not feel sick, just turgid— 
normal state for his 51 years, his heavy 
meals and this hour. 

It was close to three in the morning 
as he reached Nsele. and he would have 
preferred to go to sleep. He was even 
ready to consider turning around with- 
out seeing Ali. By now, however, that 
hardly a serious alternative. 

But the villa was dark. Maybe Ali 


would nor run tonight. A couple of sok 
confused by 


diers, polite but somew 


ng—asked them not to knock 
on the door. So they all sat in the dark 
for a quarter of an hour, and then a few 
lights went on lla and Howard 
Bingham, а young Black from Sports 
Illustated who had virtually become 
e photographer, came by and 
brought them in. Ali was still sleepy. He 


had gone to bed at nine and just awa 
ened. the longest stretch. of sleep he 
would take over 24 hours. Later, after 
running, he might nap again, but sleep 
never seemed as pervasive a concern to 
him as to other fighters. 

You did come,” he said with surprise, 
and then seemed to pay no further atten- 
tion. He was doing some stretching ex- 
ercises to wake up and had the su 
of any infantryman awakened 
They would m 


along and Pat Patterson. Ali's personal 
bodyguard, a Chicago cop. no darker 
than Ali, with the solemn even stolid 
expresion of a man who has gone 
through a number of doors in his life 
without the absolute certainty he would 
alk out п. By day, he always car- 
ried a pistol: by night—what not 
to remember if he had strapped a holster 
over his running ge: 

Ali looked sour. The expression on his 
face was not dillicult to read. Who want- 
ed to гип? He gave an order to one of the 
two vans that would accompany them, 
telling it to be certain to stay well be- 
hind, so that its fumes would not bother 
them. The other had Dick Drew inside to 
take photographs and it was allowed to 
stay even. 

Norman may have hoped the fighter 
would want to walk for a while, but Al 
right away took off at a slow jogger's 
gait and the others fell in. They trotted 
across the grass of the villas set parallel to 
the ri nd, when they came to the end 
of the block, took turn tow the 
highway two miles off and kept trotting 
at the same slow pace past smaller villas, 


a species of motel row where some of the 
press was housed. It was like running in 
the middle of the night across suburl 
lawns on some undistinguished 
street of Beverly Hills, an occasio 
light still on in a room here and there, 
one's eyes straining to pick up the drive- 
ways one would have to cross, the curh- 
ings and the places where little wire 
fences protected the plantings. Ali served 
guide, pointing to holes in the 
ground, sudden dips spots 
where hoses had watered the grass too 
long. And they went on at the same slow 
steady pace. It was, in fact, surprisingly 
slow, certainly no faster than his own 
rate when joggin 
man felt, everything considered, 
good condition. His stor 
full soul of heated lead, and it w: 
going to get better, but to his surprise, 
it was not getting worse—it seemed to 
have хешей in as one of the firm d 
contents he would have on this run. 
After they had gone perhaps half a 
mile, Ali said, “You're in pretty good 
shape, Norm.” 
“Not good enough to tal 
swered through closed teeth. 
Jogging was an act of balance. You 


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PLAYBOY 


216 


had to get to the point where your legs 
and your lungs worked together in some 
equal state of exertion. They could each 
be close to overexertion, but if one was 
not more fatigued than the other, they 
offered some sear ad hard-working 
equivalent of the tireless; to wit, you 
would feel no more abominable after a 
after the first half mile. The 
was to reach this disagreeable 


trick 
state without having to favor the legs or 


the lungs. Then, if no hills were there 
to squander one’s small reserve, and one 
did not lose stride or have to stop. if 
one did not stumble and one did not 
speak, that steady progressive churning 
could continue, thoroughgoing, raw to 
one's middle-aged insides, but virtuous— 
one felt like the motors of an old 
freighter. 

Alter а few weeks of steady running, 
could tke the engines of the old 
freighter through longer and longer 
storms, one could manage hills, one 
could even talk (and how well one could 
ski later in the year with the legs built 
up!) but now his body had been docked 
for two months and he was performing a 
new kind of balan Tt was not 
only his legs and his lungs but the 
gauges on the bile in his stomach he had 
to watch and the pressure on his heart. 
If he had always run before br 
and so was unaccustomed to jogging 
with food in his stomach, he was having 
an education in that phenomenon now. 
It was a third factor, hot, bilious, and 
ing like a bellows in reverse, for it 
kept pushing up a pressure on his lungs 
yet, to his surprise, not nauseating, just 
heavy pressure, so that he knew he could 
not keep up with a faster pace more than 
a little before his stomach would be en- 
gorging his heart and both pounding in 
his ears. 

ill they had covered what must be 
three quarters of a mile by now and were 
long past the villas and formal arrange- 
ment of Nseles buildings, and just 
padded along on a back road with the 
surprisingly disagreeable exhaust of the 
lead van choking their nostrils. What а 
surprising impediment to add to the 
run—it had to be worse than cigar smoke 
at ringside, and to this pollution of 
came an intermittent freaking of a pho- 


an 


on 


g act 


tographic flash pack from Dick Drew's 
camera. 
Still. he had acquired his balance. 


What with food. drink and lack of con- 
dition, it was one of the most unpleasant 
runs he had ever made, certainly the 
most c its preview of hell, but 
he had found his balance. He kept on 
running with the other 
happily not stepped up, and came to 
recognize after a while that Ali was not 
a bad guy to run with. He kept m 
ging comments: "Hey, you're 
fine, Norm," and, a little later, 


enco! 
doin 


Say, you're in good condition," to 
which the physical specimen could only 
grunt for reply—mainly it was the con- 
tinuing sense of a perfect pace to Ali's 
legs that helped the run, as if his own 
legs were somehow being tuned to pick 
their own best rate, yes, something easy 
and uncompetitive came off Ali's good 
stride, 
"How old are you, Norm? 

He answered in two bursts, 
one.” 

“Say, when I'm fifty-one. I won't be. 
ch to run to the corner,” 


ifty— 


the turf. 


ran on Patterson, 
pounding concrete, ran on the paving 
of the road and Bingham alternated. 
Norman stayed on the turf. It was gen- 
erally easier on the feet and harder on 
the lungs to jog over grass, and his lungs 
with the pressure of his stomach were 
more in need than his legs, but he could 
not keep the feel of Ali's easy rhythm 
when he left the turf. 

On they went. Now they were pass 
through a small forest, and by his mea 
ure, they had come a little more than a 
mile. He was beginning to think it was 
emotely possible that he could cover the 
entire distance—was it scheduled for 
three miles—but even as he was con- 
templating the heroics of this horror, 
they entered on a long slow grade uphill, 
and something in the added burden told 
him that he was not going to make it 
without a breakdown in the engines. His 
heart had now made him prisoner—it sat 
in an iron collar around his neck, and as 
they chugged up the long slow grade, the 
collar tightened every 50 feet. He was 
breathing now as noisily as he had ever 
breathed and recognized that he м: 
near to the end of his rui 

"Champ," he said, "Im going—to 
stop—pretty soon,” a speech in three 
throttled bursts. "I'm just holding you— 
back.” and realized it was true—except 
how could Ali put up with 100 slow a 
gait when the fight was just four nights 
? "Anyway--have good run," he 
said, like the man in the water waving 
in martyred serenity at the companions 
to whom he has just offered his spot in 
the lifeboat. “I'll see you—back there.” 

And he returned alone. Later, when 
he measured it by the indicator ou his 
car, he found that he had run with them 
for a mile and a half, not too unrespect- 
able. And enjoyed his walk. Actually, he 
was a little surprised at how slow the 
pace had been. It seemed unfitting that 
he had been able to keep up as long as 
he had. If Ali were going to run for 15 
rounds, there should, he thought, be 
something more kin to a restlessness in 
his legs tonight. Of course, Ali was not 
wearing sneakers but heavy working 
shoes. Still. The leisureliness of the pace 
made him uneasy. 


ng 


There is no need to follow Norman 
back on his walk, except that we are 
about to discover a secret to the motiva- 
tion of writers who achieve a bit of 
prominence in their own time. As the 
road continued through the forest, dark 
as Africa is ever supposed to be, he was 
enjoying for the first time a sense of 
what it meant to be out alone in the 
African night, and occasionally, when 
the forest thinned, knew what it might 
Iso mean to be alone under an А! 
sky. The clarity of the stars! The 
the bowl of heaven! Truth, thoughts 

fter running are dependably banal. Yet 
what a teeming of cricket life and locusts 
in the brush about him, that nervous 
endless 
earth. Tt was one of the final questions 
Were insects a part of the cosmos or the 
termites of the cosmos? 

Just then, he heard a lion roar. Tr wi 
io small sound, more like thunder, and 
t opened an unfolding wave of wrath 
cross the sky and through the fields. 
Did the sound originate a mile away, or 
less? He had come out of the forest, but 
the lights of Nsele were also close to a 
mile away, and there was all of this 
deserted road between. He could never 
reach those lights before the lion would 
run him down. Then his next thought 
was that the lion, if it chose, could cer- 
tainly race up on him silently, might 
even be on his way now. 

Once, si n Provincetown harbor 
on nothing larger than a Sailfish, he had 
passed a whale. Or rather, the whale 
passed ] A frolicsome whale that 
cavorted in its sage and was later to 
charm half the terrified boats in its path. 
He had recognized at the moment that 
there was nothing he could ever do if the 
whale chose to swallow him with his 
boat. Yet he felt singularly cool. What a 
perfect way to go. His place in American 
literature would be forever secure. They 
would seat him at Melville's feet. Mel- 
ville and Mailer, ah, the cons 
of the Ms and the Ls—how critics would 
love Mailcr’s now discovered preoccupa- 
tions (see Croft on the mountain in The 
Naked and the Dead) with Ahab's Moby 
Dick. 

Something of this tonic sang-froid was 
with him now. To he eaten by a lion on 
the banks of the Congo—who could fail 
to notice that it was Hemingway's own 
lion waiting down these years for the 
flesh of Ernest unti ate sub- 
stitute had at last 

They laughed back at Ali’s villa when 
he told them about the roar. He had 
forgotten Nsele had a z00 and lions 


might as well be in it. 
Ali looked tired. He had ru 
f. he would estimat 


another 
„ three 
ated uphill for 
hrowing punches, running 
backward, then allout forward 
and was very tired now. “That r " 
he said, "takes more out of me than 


mile and ah 
miles in all, and had s 
the last part, 


“Well, it’s kinda late, but sure, why not? Where's your swing?" 


217 


PLAYBOY 


anything I ever felt in the ring. It's even 
worse than the fifteenth round, and that’s 
as bad as you can get” 

Like an overheated animal, Ali was 
lying on the steps of his villa, cooling his 
body against the stone, and Bingham, 
Patterson li did not talk too much. 
only four A.M., but the 
horizon was beginning to lighten—the 
dawn seemed to come in for hours across 
the African sky. Predictably, Ali was the 
one to pick up conversation again. His 
voice was surprisingly hoarse: He sound- 
ed as if а cold were coming on. That was 
all he nceded—a chest cold for the fight! 
Pat Patterson, hovering over him like a 
truculent nurse, brought a bottle of 
orange juice and scolded him for lying 
on the stone, but Ali did not move, He 
was feeling sad from the rigors of the 
out and talked of Jurgen Blin and 
Blue Lewis and Rudi Lubbers. “Nobody 
ever heard of then they 
fought me. But they trained to fight me 
and fought their best fights. They were 
good fighters against me,” he said almost 
with wonder. (Wonder was as close as he 
ever came to doubt.) “Look at Bugner— 
his greatest fight was against me. Of 
course, I didn’t train for any of them 
the way they trained for me. I couldn't 
If I trained for every fight the way 1 did 
for tl I'd be dead, I'm glad I left my- 
self a little bit for this one." He shook 


218 his head in a blank sort of self-pity, as if 


some joy that once resided in his juices 
had been expended forever. "I'm going 
to get one million three hundred thou- 
nd for this fight, but I would give one 
ion of that up gladly if I could just 
buy my present condition without the 
work.” 

Yet his present condition was so full 
of exhaustion, As if anxiety about the 
fight stirred in the hour before dawn, 
a litany began. It was the same speech 
he had made a day and a half ago to the 
press, the speech in which he listed each 
of Foreman’s opponents and counted the 
number who were nobod and the in- 
ability of Foreman to knock his oppo- 
nents out cold, Patterson and Bingham 
nodded in the sad patience of men who 
worked for him and loved him and put 
up with this phase of his con 
while Ali gave the specch the way 
tient with a threatening heart will tak 
a nitroglycerin pill. And Norman, with 
his food still undigested and his bowels 
hard packed from the shock of the jog- 
ging, blank himself when he tried to 
think of amusing conversation to divert 
Ali's mood. It proved up to Ali to change 
the tone and by the dawn he did. After 
showering and dressing, he showed a 
magic tick and then another, long cyl- 
inders popping out of his hands to be- 
come handkerchiefs, and, ii 
day at training, still haranguing the press, 
Ali ended by saying, "Foreman will never 


catch me. When I meet George Foreman, 
ТЇЇ be free as a bird,” and he held up his 
hand and opened it. A bird flew out. To 
the vast delight of the press. Ali was 

ng the last line of their daily piece 
from Kinshasa today. Nor did it take 
them long to discover the source. Bundini 
had captured the bird earlier in the day 
and slipped it to Ali when the time 
came. Invaluable Bundini, improvisatory 
Bundini. 

Still, as Norman drove home to the 
Inter-Continental and break fast, he meas- 
ured Ali’s run. He had finished by the 
Chinese pagoda. That was two and a half 
miles, not three! Ali had run very slowly 
for the first mile and a half. With an 
empty stomach and the fair condition of 
the summer in Maine, he thought he 
could probably have kept up with Ali 
until the sprint at the end. It was no 
way for a man fighting for a heavyweight 
title to do roadwork. Norman did not 
see how Ali could win. Defeat was in 
that air Ali alone seemed to refuse to 


CHAPTER 9 

Foreman had a sparring partner named 
Elmo Henderson, once Heavyweight 
Champion of Texas and not too recently 
released from Nevada State Hospital for 
the insane. Elmo was tall and thin and 
did not look like a fighter nearly so much 
as like some kind of lean wanderer in 
motley—the long stride of a medieval 
fool was in his step, and he would walk 
through the lobby and the patio and 
around the pool of the Inter-Continental 
with his eyes in the air, as if he sought a 
vanishing point six feet above the hori- 
zon. It gave an envelope to his presence, 
even a suggestion of silence, but this was 
paradoxical, for Elmo Henderson never 
stopped talking. It was as if Elmo were 
F heard voice, and the voice 
was loud and demented. Elmo had 
learned a Franco-African word, oyé (from 
the French oyez—now hear this), and at 
whatever hour of the day he went 
through the lobby or encountered you at 
Nscle, he was passing through the midst 
of a continuing inner vision. The voice 
he heard came from far off and out of a 
deep source of power—Elmo vibrated to 
the hum of that distant dynamo. “Oyé,” 
he cried to the world at large in an 
unbelievably loud and booming voice. 
“Oyé .. . oyé . . ." each cry coming in its 
interval, sometimes so far apart as every 
ten or fifteen seconds, but penetrating as 
a dinner gong to all the corners of the 
hotel. Up in the corridors, and from the 
elevator when the doors opened, out on 
the taxi entrance of the Inter-Continental 
and back at the pool, through the buffet 
tables of the open-air restaurant and all 
ght at the bar, Henderson's ay would 
ear, sometimes 
He would stop 


now 
mitted had failed to reach him, then, 


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Jamaica (Club-Hotel) + 


Kansas City • Lake 
Geneva, Wisconsin 
(Club-Hotel) * London, 
England • Los Angeles * 
Manchester, England « 
Miami * Montreal * New 
Orleans * New York * 
Phoenix * Portsmouth, 
England - St. Louis ~ 
San Francisco 


219 


PLAYBOY 


sudden as the resumption of the chorus 
of a field of crickets, his voice would 
twang through the halls. “Oyé . . . Fore- 
man boma yé. . . ." Hear this 
Foreman will kill him. “Oyé . . . 
boma yé Yt had been an expropriation 
of Ali boma yé but was no longer a cry 10 
destroy Sisley High; rather, a call to re- 
igious war, and every time Elmo picked 
up that chant again, one felt a measure of 
Foreman's blood beating through the 
day, pounding through the night in 
rhythm with the nce that waits 
through the loneliness of every psychotic 
aisle, Henderson walked past children 
and old men, he moved by African 
princes and the officers of corporations 
here for copper, diamonds, cobalt; his 
voice took into itself the force of every 
е he passed—wealth and violence. 
nitation and innocence were all in 
his voice—and he added to it the inten- 
sity of his own force, until the sound 
twanged in one's ear like the boom of a 
cricket grown large as an elephant. 
“Оуё . .. Foreman boma yé . . ." and 
Foreman, whether near Henderson or 
100 yards away, seemed confirmed in his 


as if Elmo were the night guard making 
his rounds and all was well precisely be- 
se all was unwell, 


"Oyé . . . Foreman boma y” Hen- 
derson would cry on his tour through the 
hotel, and once in a while, his face light- 
ing up. as if he had just encountered 
a variation of the most liberating and 
prophetic value, he would add, “The flea 
goes in three, Muhammad Ali," and he 
ould stick three fingers in the air. 
yê.” shouted Henderson one morning 
the back of Bill Caplan’s ear, and the 
publicity man for Foreman's camp re- 
plied sadly, “Oy, vay! Oy, vay!” Once 
Elmo spoke a full sentence. “We're going 
to get Ali," he said to the lobby at large, 
"like a Rolls-Royce when we job it up. 
Oyé .. . Foreman boma yé.” 


Downstairs, in the lobby, on Sunday 
morning, Bundini was having a war with 
Elmo. "Oyé ... Foreman boma yé . 
had been dominating the lobby. So Bun- 
was in the i 
had most certainly gathered. Bundini 
and Elmo stood three feet apart, sure 
measure that it was unwise to come nose 
to nose. Each man kept talking all the 
while. Tt was not a furry but a melee of 
sound. "Your fighter is untutored, can’t 
move his head. My man is going to stick 
him till he's bleeding and dead," shouted 
Bundini. His logic slammed the message 
from rhyme to rhyme. “God is going to 


“I dunno. It sorta snowballed. All I 
wanted to do was get laid." 


leave him infirm, walking like a worm, 
feed him a cabbage leaf, sucker!” 

Elmo, unperturbed, held up three fin- 
gers. Now he kept them in Bund 
face, as though to spear a thricenoxious 
orifice (two nostrils and а big mouth). 
“The flea,” said Elmo in solemnity, “goes 
in three, Muhammad Ali." 


In the circle about the two men, near- 


ly everybody was working for Foreman. 
So they laughed. “Foreman boma yé, 
Foreman boma yé, Foreman boma yé," 
Henderson kept repeating to everything 
Bundini said but at a volume just larger 
than the voice that shouted back. Bun- 
dini's voice grew hoarse, his language 
was obscured. Much pressure was certain- 
ly upon him. Back of Henderson, six feet 
back, his head in a book, was Foreman. 
His huge police dog, Daggo, raised in his 
own kennels, stood next to him. On every 
side were sparring partners and members 
of the retinue, Each time Bundini started 
to speak, they would shout the man 
down. “Bullshit,” they would cry out. 
Then Henderson's tongue would snake 
whip: “The flea in three.” 

It was getting too expensive for Bun- 
dini to pause. “Ali, the flea, he dead in 
three. Оуё!" boomed Elmo, “оё 

"Oy& You call that a sound?” roared 
Bundini, his eyes bulging out of his head. 
Those eyes looked ready to be extruded 
from the skull. Plop would they fall to 
the floor. 

“Foreman hits Ali and Muhammad is 
dead,” said Elmo. 

"He'll never hit him. My man will 
dance. My man knows how to prance. 
He's a genius, he's a god, your man's 
a pug. He'll be looking for the rug. We'll 
let him squirm,” said Bundini, his voice 
getting thinner. “Ali boma yé.” Catcalls 
and whistles. 

"Ihe flea in 
solemnly. 

“Put your money where your mouth 
is" Bundini screamed, whipping the last 
of his vocal cords. "I got a man in my 
corner ready to fight. I'm ready to go 
with him. Who do you have? Your man's 
got a dog for a pet and a mut for a 
companion.” 

Foreman looked up for the first time 
and the dog looked up with him. Then 
Foreman put his face back resolutely in 
the book. A wave came off. It was suc- 
cinct, “Kidding is kidding, but get your 
ass off my pillow,” said the look he gave 
Bund. 

There were too many people working 
for Foreman and something tireless in 
the voice of Elmo Henderson. Maybe he 
was attached to that invisible line which 
runs on high voltage from every mental 
asylum to every bank and government. 
Maybe that is the voltage of them all. 
Bundini, scol reviling, jeering, 
bruising the air with his eyeballs, started 


three," Elmo said 


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heading, nonetheless, for the elevator. 
He was finally extracting himself from 
the wrong turf, It must have felt like an 
electric carpet. Elmo stuck h him, the 
sparring partners stuck, they all stuck 
with him. About ten large black men 
piled into the elevator with Bundini. His 
voice slammed shut in the clanging of 
the gate. Images of mayhem arose in the 
mind—shreds and splinters of Bundini. 
Whose imagination was adequate to the 
dialog in the elevator? Did they laugh at 
the put-on in the lobby or did they now 
exhort Bundini to contemplate their col- 
lective dick? 

Still, in the evening, there he was, 
there was Bundini, eating in the restau- 
rant on the open-air patio with his wife, 
Shere, a white girl from "Texas with red 
hair. green eyes. a stubborn upturned 
nose and a down-home accent. Shere 
(pronounced Sherry or Cheric) looked as 
American as the boy with freckles whose 
face is on the box of breakfast food; why, 
Shere looked сусп more American than 
Marilyn Chambers. Bundini kept calling 
her Mother. She called him by his first 
name, Drew, for Drew “Bundini” Brown. 

Mailer was confused. The last time he 
had seen much of Bundini was years 
ago, and Bundini was married then to a 
Jewish girl. His son, he was proud to tell 
everyone, had been bar mitzvah. A tall, 
good-looking young black boy with curly 
Jewish hair, Drew Brown, Jr., used to 
greet Bundini's Jewish friends with “Sho- 
lem, aleychem sholem.* To black friends, 
the boy would remark, “Start running, 
motherfucker.” 

Once, almost ten years ago, in 
Vegas for the Ali-Patterson fight, Mailer 
and Bundini had done some drinking to- 
gether, At the time, Bundini had been 
fired by Ali for some undescribed mis- 
deed. Since he was capable of buying a 
gross of athletic supporters, muddling 
them in garlic, onion and cream cheese, 
bleaching them in vinegar and selling 
them in leather shops for $25 a rag as 
bona-fide used Ali jockstraps, who could 
ever find out why Bundini had been 
ousted? At any rate, he was at this time 
trying to reach Patterson before the fight. 
It was obvious he still had much feeling 
for Ali, but it is a firm rule of hustling 
that if your man has chosen to reject 
you, you must work against him. So Bun- 
dini kept looking for a connection who 
could lead him to Patterson. He knew, 
after all, every one of Ali's weakne: 
Patterson, however, would not let Bui 
dini near. Patterson did not trust him. 
Bundini, with the aid of George Plimp- 
ton, therefore wrote a neat piece for 
Life that gave open advice on the best 
tactics available to Patterson. Since 
Floyd's back went out in the second 
round and he fought bravely but hope- 
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PLAYBOY 


222 lescent, 


and a muscle spasm, a wholly disappoint- 
ing and miserable fight, Bundini’s tip— 
that Patterson should crowd Ali as in a 
street fight: just what Frazier was to do 
six years later—proved academic. But 
then, Bundini was invariably down on 
his luck that year—there was nobody to 
whom he didn't owe money and the crap. 
tables never took care of his debts; to 
the contrary. 

In compensation, Bundini 
able, Bundini could 
read nor write—so he claimed—but he 
could speak with any street poct. It 
rare for him to make a remark void of 
metaphor. On the Ali-Foreman fight, he 
would comment to the press, “God set 
it up this way. This is the closing of the 
book. The king gained his throne by 
g a monster and the king will re 
п his throne by killing a bigger mo 


vas never 
neither 


ster. This is the closing of the book.” OF 
taining, he would propose, “You got 


to get the hard-on, and then you got to 
keep it. You want to be careful not to 
lost the hard-on and cautious not 
to come.” ОГ George Plimpton, who lent 
him money in the period when he was 
banished from Alis camp, Bundini 
would say, “I'll always be loyal to 
George, because he took care of me when 
my lips was chapped.” 

Norman and Bundini might have be- 
come friends—the writer respected. the 
style with which Bundini could lose 
money. At a time when dragons were 
preparing to break his legs, Bundini 
would drop his last $400 on cight rolls 
of the dice and walk away with a sad 
wise smile. Like most hustlers, he w 
sweet. He could cry like a child—indeed 
he cried whenever Ali boxed with beauty, 
cried at the bounty of the Lord to pro- 
vide such athletic blis—ánd his eyes 
beamed with love at any remark by Nor- 
man that excited his own powers of met 
phor. Then his big round face would 
show the simple happiness of. Aunt. Je- 
mima, his big husky voice would croon 
in adn t such. wonde 
dom. Th f of him: Bund 
just as proud of his other soul. If he 

1 emotion, he was hustler's ice; if 


s of м 


t was h; wa 


nd vou might 
ve him, but “he would,” said a 

› “take the dimes off a dead man's 
s and put nickels back 


за 


" He hid a 
build like nobody else. Over six fect, 
stal ball for a head, he 
ad small shoulders, а small protruding 
h that seemed to center ule 
melon on his diaphragm, and spindles 
for legs—it was the body of a space man 
who grew up in a capsule. Yet he had 
fought in Navy competitions as an ado- 
nd even now nobody would take 


him on for too little (except Al 
course, who slapped 
though dealing with unregenerate 
child). Bund n as a mouth- 
ful of gold teeth and handsome as black 
velvet; if he called his young wife Moth- 
ег, he had been about as fatherly їп his 
ay as any other player—a magazine 
story once spoke of his desire 10 be a 
‘marketable pimp" but then he sold in- 
terviews of himself that told it all, and 
gave metaphors away for nothing: he 
could not spell а word and had а dozen 
i he was trying to sell; his 
med. Recall us to “Float like 
a butterfly, sting like a bee,” Bundini 
was the walking definition of the idea 
that each human is born with two souls— 
two distinct persons to inhabit cach body. 
If Africans did not have the concept, one 
would have to invent it, What a clash of 
nommo and n'golo! He was all spirit 
and all prick. And the two never came 
together. 
Or almost never. On this night, eating 
dinner with his wife, Bundini let Norman 
п оп one fine confidence. “17 
ing the spike. I'm going to 
people the needle tonigh 
“How do you do that” 
“Oh, I'm going to go up to them and 
put money down on Ali. But I won't ask 
lor three to one. I'm going to put two 
thousand dollars a; their three. That 
got to worry them. They be wondering 
where I get the confidence. It go right 


of 
will, as 


n sharpen- 


k to George Forema 
"You have a real two thousand 
dollars? 


“Better be real!” 

They laughed. 

And so in the middle of the same lobby 
where Bundini had been outshouted by 
Elmo Henderson on Sunday morning, 
Bundini returned to joust on Sunday 
night. Elmo was not about. For certain, 
Bundini must have picked a time when 
Elmo was not about. 

Having attracted some of Foreman's 

people, the sparring partner Stan Ward 
mong them, Bundini began to jeer. “I 
don't want three to one, I don't need 
three to one. My man is three to on 

“Then give us three to one,” said Stan 
Ward. 

“I would. If God was here, I would. 
But He ain't. He don’ 
flunkies who work for George 
that big man, that big white man. I don't 
give you three ro one because | don't 
give no advantage to people who work 
for the White Man." 
"hen why you as 


c with 


associ 


g three to two 


instead of three to опе?" someone said 
piciously. 
"Because you the bullies. Anybody 


works for the White M is a bully. A 


bully needs advantage. I'm giving you 
advantage. You go out in the casinos and 
пу to get your bet. You have to lay 
three to get one. You people are too 
fucking scared to do that. "Cause you 
know the White Man upstairs. You know 
his faults. You know you going to lose.” 
Foreman ain't going to lose,” 
Stan Ward 
ive me your bet," said Bundini. 
How much you laying?” 
Му two thousand dollars is in my 
" said Bundini, pulling out a roll. 
Yow show me. nigger. where your three 
thousand dollars is.” 

"I get it right away," said Ward. 
"Bur IIl have it in the morning. I'l meet 
you here at eleven in the morning." 
Yeah, if the White Man tells you to 

head and pee, then you can piss" 


hands, 


in't the White Man." 

"Shit, he ain't. There he is in the 
Olympics, a big fat fool dancing around 
with an ccntsy American flag in his big 
dumb fist. He don't know what to do 
with a fist. My man docs. My man got his 
fist in the air when he wins. Power to 
the People! That's my man. Millions fol- 
low him. Who follows your man? He's 
got nobody to follow him," said Bun- 
s why he keeps a dog." The 
followers of Foreman suddenly roared 
with happiness. The Аии was audacity 
and they paid their respects to the spirit 
of audacity embodied in Bundini. “What 
are you ready to die for?” asked Bundini 
He answered them, “Nothing. You 
ready for nothing. But I'm re. 
for Muhammad. I put my bread on the 
line. I don't have to consult and come 
back here at eleven in the morning with 
my dick in my hand, permission to piss. 
I put my bread on the linc. If I got no 
bread. I'm dead. If I got no loaves. Ги 
cold stone in the oven,” crooned Bun 
dini. “That's what it's all about. Mu- 
hammad Ali has Bundini ready to die, 
and what does the White Man have? 
Twenty-two niggers and а dog.” 

Foreman's people roared with 
happiness of knowing that 
would win and that the spirit of audacity 
was nonetheless not dead. А very heavy- 
set Negro with a cane for his game leg 
and heavy horn-rimmed glasses for hi 
game eyes ga 
high as a spurt of water shooting up. 


I] the 


'oreman 


held out his palm. 
Bundini struck it, showed his own 
palm, the man struck it back. Happiness. 


If words were blows, Bundini was champ 
of the kingdom of flunkies. Long live 
of words. 


nommo, spi 


This is the first of a two-part series. 
The conclusion will appear next month. 


GLORVOSKY, 
DADO" .-- DON'T уор 
JUST LOVE LOOKING AT И УЙУ ISGETTINGA 
[TR LITTLE BEHIND IN 
HIS WORK. 


'CTROPEZ, OM THE WESTERN FLANK OF THE 
FRENCH CÔTE DE OUR SWEETHEART 


R, E REASON Тоо LOOK. FQ 
IN ST-TROPEZ, WATCHIN OEE 
ISLE GRANO SPORT. EEO nro Nou MUST NOT LIKE YOU'RE LOOKING WHEN NES 
PEOPLE FLOCK HERE TO SIT AT THE DOCH- LOOK LIKE YOU'RE YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TOLOOK 
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PEOPLE ON THE YACHTS WHO FLOCK HERE ILOA EIRE DOC CMM TOU LOOKS I атре 

0 LOOK AT THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE ё NOT LOOKING WHEN NOT LOOKING. 5O LOOK? BUT 


Ат THE OOCKSIDE CAFES - ` 7 когоо ROT KE CORE 


LOOKING? 


GET USED TO THIS 
CURIOUS FRENCH EATING, 
FRED. IF THEY CANT B 


WILL WE ‘ 3 WHEN IN ROME, CHILO, YOU 
GOTO THE BEACH 1 MUST DO AS THE ROMANS ОО. | KNOW IT 
SOON? I CAN'T WAIT У М WOULD RAISE A HOWL BACK IN THE STATES, BUT 
7 TO WEAR MY NEW J IN ST-TROPEZ, THE FASHION I5 STRICTLY THE 
SWIMSUIT. DO VOD Think A ONE-PIECE BATHING SUIT! 
THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE 1 
WILL LIKE THis Twos ДУ” 
PIECE STRING 
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MY ОЕАК. PLL 
TAKE THE LIMO? 
HERE ARE THE 


PLAYBOY 


THIRTY-TWO 
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FORTY-FOUR 
BREASTS. 


-DO YOUNOTICE HOW а Ў = 1 

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SPECIALIST ац Year Y 
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WARD TO GETTING 
AWAY FROM HIS 
WORK! 


THE BOAT 1 
THINK FLL 


HI, DADDY! RACE 
VOU TO THE SHORE! _ 


AS You 
WILL SOON SEE, 
THE FRENCH HAVE 
AN ATTITUDE TOWARD 
NUDITY THAT DOESN'T 
EXIST BACK IN THE 
STATES. THERE'S NO 
GAPING OR 
S GAWKING= 


e 
ORIVELING ANO 
= 


YOU'LL BE 
UNCOMFORTABLE 
AT FIRST, BUT YOU'LL 
ADAPT VERY QUICKLY. 
1 KNOW You HAVE 
A AN OPEN MIND, 

CHILO, 
FORA WHIL 
1 THOUGHT VOU' 

BE TOO SHY 
To COME 


WHAT'S 
THIS? ASTRING 
Top!? | TOLO 
YOU IT WASN'T THE 
STYLE IN ST.-TROPEZ! 
-YOV TRYING TO | 
STARTA 
RIOT”? 


vou even THREW AWAY 
THE OTHER PIECE? 


IT'S NOT THAT 1 DON'T 
HAVE AN OPEN MINO -~ IT JUST 

THAT | DON'T LIKE TO БЕ THE ONLY 
BOTTOMLESS SWIMMER ON 


THE BEACH? 


ZUT’ T I5 
HOLLYWOOD? 


BE COOL, CHILD. 
1 HAVE A FEELING 
IT's GOING TO BE 
ALL RIGHT. 


225 


PLAYBOY 


226 


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“THE FIGHT"—IN WHICH A KNOCKOUT WRAP-UP OF THE 
ALI-FOREMAN FRACAS, AND EVENTS SURROUNDING IT, IS 
DELIVERED BY WRITING HEAVYWEIGHT NORMAN MAILER 


JOSEPH HELLER, AUTHOR OF CATCH-22 AND THE CURRENT 
BEST SELLER SOMETHING HAPPENED, TALKS ABOUT WAR, 
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“PLAYMATE OF THE YEAR"—MIRROR, MIRROR ON THE WALL, 
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“BLUE DOG MOBILE ON ANGUSPORT HILL'"—HE HAD HEARD 
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“RICHARD AVEDON”—A PROVOCATIVE WORD PICTURE OF THE 
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“HISTORY OF SEX, PART FIVE"—SO YOU THINK YOU KNOW 
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а better Dry Martini, 

\ it makes a better everything. 

Щ Gordon's Dry Morini: 4 or more ports Gordon's Dry Gin. 
i pets cer neuen N storie 


Strain inte chilled cocktail glass or over rocks 
Option: Add lemon peel twist; olive; pearl onion. 


x— д 59. ^ Gordon's Gin. Largest seller in England, America, the world. 


— 7 
PRODUCT OF U.S.A. 100% NEUTRAL SPIRITS DISTILLED FROM GRAIN. B6 PROOF. GORDON'S DRY GIN CO., LTO., LINDEN, N.J.