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, ENTERTAINMENT FOR МЕ 


RIPPING 


MARCH 1984 + $3.00 


MS BIG WOMEN 


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PREMED 
STUDENT 
PORN STAR 


SEXY CARS! 
HOT CYCLES! 
PLAYBOY'S 
GUIDE 
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io 


. 1 P بے‎ Seagram's V.O. It's everything 


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— Mixed or straight, you'll taste the 
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about how you drink as you are 
about what you drink. Then taste V.O. 
And toast all the others goodbye. 


COBRA INTRODUCES 
THE TRAPSHOOTER. 


Actual size 


smallest radar detectorever. 


Who says you have to be big to act big? We call our 
new Cobra radar detector the Trapshooter, because it's 
an expert outsmarter. City or highway, it offers superior 
road performance. With superhet sensitivity on X and K 
band speed radar frequencies, and specially designed 
Cobra circuitry to screen out false alerts, the Trap- 
shooter picks up just what you need to know, justwhen 
you need it most. 

Yet it's not much bigger in size than a cigarette case. 
And it's almost as light. Only ten tiny ounces. So it's 
perfect for visor or dash, and just the right size to pop in 
a pocket or briefcase while on business or vacation. It's 
priced just right for your pocket, too—less than $200.00. 

Oi course we're proud. After all, people call Cobra 
“the king of the road.” And we've earned our name by 
offering innovative products like this one. 

Our new Trapshooter. In the world of radar 3 
detectors, this little Cobra is big stuff. 


For “where to buy” information about Cobra ( О bra: 


Radar Detectors, call toll free 1-800-COBRA 22. 


CLOTHES YOU HAVE TO WEAR VS. 
CLOTHES YOU LOVE TO WEAR. 


The way we figure it, clothes you have to wear make up about half of your 
wardrobe. 

It's suits, and sports jackets, and shirts, and ties, and certain styles of shoes. 

"These are all clothes that, because of business requirements or social functions, 
you have to wear. Whether you feel like it or not. 

But it's the other half of your wardrobe that we’re interested in. 

It's the clothes that you can't wait to get into when you can't wait to get out of 
the clothes you have to wear. 

It's your jeans that go back to a time when jeans were called dungarees. After 
all these years, they still look and fit better than anything else you own. 

It's shirts, and chinos, and crew necks, and leather belts, and corduroy jackets 
that have onc thing in common: They've stood the test of timc. 

It's into this category that we place Timberland” handsewns. Which, you'll find, 
also get better over time. 

The leathers, like any fine leathers, acquire a patina, making them softer and even 
more supple. 

Then there’s Timberland’s handsewn moccasin construction, rare in this world of 
cookie-cutter production. This construction allows the shoes to form around your feet, 
making them so comfortable that you'll hold on to and enjoy them year after year. 

Oh, don’t get us wrong. 

You'll like your Timberland’s when you buy them. You're just going to like them a 


whole lot more after you wear them. And wear them. And wear them. 
е o 


Avatable к styles lor men ard women 


The Timberland Company, РО Box 370, Newmarket, New Hampshire 03857 


Available at: Abercrombie & Fitch, Burdines, Open Country. 


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NEARLY FOUR YEARS AGO, we assigned David Sheff to interview the 
reclusive ex-Beatle John Lennon and his wife, Yoko Ono. Sheff 
turned in his interview at the end of September 1980, and on De- 
cember eighth, Lennon was assassinated. The Interview, which 
appeared in our January 1981 issue, took on new meaning: It was 
Lennon's last for publication. 

Sheff and his wife and writing partner, Victoria Sheff, spent 
more than a year investigating the ghoulish aftermath of Len- 
non's death; during that time, says David, “our phone would 
ring and somebody would hang up; our hotel room was broken 
into; we were noticeably trailed several times." Then the most 
chilling moment: “Victoria took a cab across town with a friend 
and was talking about the story. When she arrived at her destina- 
tion, the driver turned around and smiled slyly, and it was Fred 
Seaman—one of the people we'd been investigating. Vicky got 
ош of that cab fast.” The result of the Shells’ odyssey through a 
world of nightmares is The Betrayal of John Lennon. 

Contributing Editor Asa Baber is certainly having bad dreams 
after considering the circumstances surrounding the downing 
of K.A.L. flight 007 last August over Sovict territory in his 
Reporters Notebook: Killing Us Sofily with Their Song. The 
thought that the Government may be stonewalling something 
doesn’t upset Baber as much as the apparent complicity of the 
mass media with such a cover-up. 
becomes an exercise in optimism when you're 6'10” and 
earning more than $2,000,000 a year as the dominating center in 
professional basketball. It feels good to be Philadelphia 76er 
Moses Malone, the subject of this month's Playboy Interview, by 
Lawrence Linderman. The man who slam-dunks like a howitzer 
talks about playing rough, drugs in the N.B.A., the pressures of 
the play-offs and his toughest focs on the court. 

And while we're on the subject of men in their prime, Pulitzer 
Prize-winning playwright Sam Shepard, 40, is certainly in his. 
Shepard is a musician, a poet and a cowboy who played Chuck 
Yeager in the movie The Right Stuff (which is to say he’s also a 
hell of an actor). Robert Goldberg defines the man and his moods 
in Sam Shepard, American Original, illustrated by Thomas Ingam. 

D. Keith Mano, another writer in his prime, has never been 
known to be self-effacing (except for money), but he certainly 
knows the score on being a man and proves it in The Manly 
Arts, illustrated by Boris Vall One of the Manly Arts, as Mano 
points out, is an appreciation of automobiles. Whether you're 
a past master or still a novice, you'll want to look through our 
Playboy's Guide to Wheels, featuring The Return of the Sexy Car, 
by Gary Witzenburg, and a not-so-fond backward glance at 
vintage sports cars, by P. J. O'Rourke. Every auto fact was 
checked by rtavboy's corps of Researchers: Nancy Banks, Carolyn 
Browne, Jackie Johnson, Marcy Marchi, Bari Nash and Mary Zion. 

To take stock of cars or almost anything valuable, you may 
need advice from Andrew Tobios, whose financial Quarterly 
Reports: Going for Brokers tells you how to pick a broker instead 
of letting him pick you (clean). And then there are some manly 
qualities that even money can't buy; consult Lenny Kleinfeld's 
short story, The 16th Summer of Daq Jaddarra. 

To round out the issue (literally), we pay overdue homage to 
Rubensian women in Big & Beautiful, photographed by 
Palma Kolansky; we show you the best of the latest raincoats for 
spring, modeled by Pierce Brosnan (a.k.a. Remington Steele) and 
photographed by Contributing Photographer Mario Casilli; we 
bring you a bchind-the-scenes look at porn princess Bridgette 
Monet (who has a surprising alter ego); we aim a backward 
glance at one of the screen's hottest properties, Rachel Ward, in 
the role that gave her her first film exposure, that of a professor's 
assistant in Night School. Finally, there's Miss March, Dona Speir; 
Contributing Photographer Ату Freytag is the lucky stiff who 
covered her visit to Cancun. Now, she’s got the right stuff. 


PLAYBILI 


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PLAYBOY 


vol. 31, no. 3—march, 1984 CONTENTS FOR THE MEN'S ENTERTAINMENT MAGAZINE 


PLAYBILL aaa rent 
THE WORLD OF PLAYBOY . . 
DEAR PLAYBOY ...... 
PLAYBOY AFTER HOURS 
МЕМЕТ tectae ap 

WOMEN eco Wigs ao AO even us TUE Nomen Лл ЛД АРГУ, 

THE PLAYBOY ADVISOR ........ 5 Doctor Love 


А REPORTER'S NOTEBOOK: KILLING US SOFTLY—opinion ........... ASA BABER 50 
PLAYBOY INTERVIEW: MOSES MALONE—candid conversation PUES, 53 
THE MANLY ARTS—article ...... 5 D. KEITH MANO 70 


BIG & BEAUTIFUL—pictorial .... UM 0674 
THE BETRAYAL OF JOHN LENNON—article . .... DAVID ond VICTORIA SHEFF 84 
THE GREAT POPCORN EXPLOSION—food ............. EMANUEL GREENBERG 88 
SAM SHEPARD, AMERICAN ORIGINAL—personality ........ ROBERT GOLDBERG 90 
GIRL ON THE RUN—playboy's playmate of the month ................- 92 
PLAYBOY'S PARTY JOKES—humor asas Sa ee 106 
RAINWEAR STEELES THE SHOW-attire ..................... HOLLIS WAYNE 108 
THE 16TH SUMMER OF DAQ JADDARRA—fiction ............ LENNY KLEINFELD 114 
GYM DANDY TO THE RESCUE—modern living ................. с 117 
QUARTERLY REPORTS: GOING FOR BROKERS—orticle ANDREW TOBIAS 121 
PLAYING DOCTOR—pictorial ................ 122 
PLAYBOY FUNNIES—humor 28138 
BERNARD AND HUEY—sotire JULES FEIFFER 145 
PLAYBOY GUIDE: WHEELS .. Bet Re + PES Tx 147 
SYMBOLIC SEX- humor a AL Eun eL aus DON ADDIS 173 
PLAYBOY ON THE SCENE .................... EN setters: see 197 


COVER STORY 

When computer enthusiast Susie Scott appeared as Miss May 1983, we 
dubbed her pictorial Love ai First Byte. This month’s cover, shot by Contributing 
Photographer Steve Wayda, proves Susie's second byte is equally lovable. 
Good luck locating the Rabbit Head she's hiding. It's just a hair difficult to find. 


none ano SANL PROVIDED BY DNE WOMAN, NN 
LETS TALK SEI. CABALLERO CONTRDL COMP. P. raa; aul SUN BY тА зт, SWEAR BY ROBERT VANCE LIMITED, WATER TOWER 
КОС Сис, © We, WLUETRANONS Өт: DAVID BECK. P. 37: MELNDA GORCON. P. 200: BRIAN KRUEGER, P. 20: GEORGE MAS. P. 47 (2: PAUL MOCH, P. 24: PAT NAGEL, P. 10, 39, аз: JOEL NAKAMURA, Р. 32; BILL 
тезел. Ras: Len WS. P. 201. PLAYBOY CLUBS INTERNATIONAL CAND SERT BETWEEN PAGES 178-179. т) 


COMFORT & COFFEE 
Hot black coffee [regular or chicory]. 1 oz. Southern Comfort. Sugor (to 
taste). Whipped cream (optional). Pour Southern Corrfort into mug of 

stearning black coffee. Sweeten to taste. Garnish with whipped cream. 


COMFORT CAKE 
Coke! 18Y2-0z. Duncan Hines Yellow Cake Міх 1 3%-оз. pkg. Instant 
Vonillo Pudding Mix. 4 eggs. Y cup cold water. Y2 cup cooking oil. 1 cup 
chopped pecans or walnuts. Y cup Southern Comfort. Glaze Ye lb. butter 
or margarine. Ya cup water. Y2 cup granulated sugar. % cup Southern 
Comfort. Combine cake ingredients in large bowl; beat at medium speed 
for2 minutes. Pour into greased and floured 10-inch tube or 12-cup bundt 
pon. Bake ct 325° for 1 hour Set on rack to cool. Invert on serving plate. 
Prick top immediately; drizzle and brush half of glaze evenly over top and 
sides. Reserve half of glaze. After cake has cooled, reheat glaze and brush 
it evenly over coke. To moke glaze, melt butter in saucepan, Stir in water 
ond sugar. Boil 3 minutes, stirring constantly, Remove from heat and stir in 
Southern Comfort. 

Fora free copy of Southern Cornfort's newest recipe guide, please write to: Recipe Booklet, 

Dept. CB, Box 12427, St. Lovis, MO 63132, or call toll-free: 1-800-325-4038. 


PLAYBOY 


HUGH M. HEFNER 
editor and publisher 


NAT LEHRMAN associate publisher 


ARTHUR KRETCHMER editorial director 
TOM STAEBLER art director 
DON GOLD managing editor 
GARY COLE photography director 
G. BARRY GOLSON executive editor 


EDITORIAL 

NONFICTION: JAMES MORGAN articles editor; ROB 
FLEDER senior editor; FICTION: ALICE K. TURNER 
editor; TERESA GROSCH associate editor; PLAYBOY 
GUIDES: MAURY Z. LEVY editor; STAFF: WILLIAM J 
HELMER, GRETCHEN MCNEESE, PATRICIA PAPANGELIS 
(administration), STEPHEN RANDALL (west coast), 
DAVID STEVENS senior edilors; ROBERT E. CARR, 
WALTER LOWE. JR. JAMES R. PETERSEN, JOHN REZEK 
senior staf] writers; KEVIN COOK, BARBARA NELLIS, 
KATE NOLAN. J. F. OCONNOR, SUSAN MARGOLIS-WIN. 
TER (new york) associate edilors; DAVID NINMONS 
asistani editor; MODERN LIVING: ED WALKER 
associate editor; JIM BARKER assistant editor; 
FASHION: HOLLIS WAYNE contributing editor; HOL- 
LY BINDERUP assistant editor; CARTOONS: MI- 
CHELLE URRY edilor; COPY: ARLENE BOURAS editor; 
JOYCE RUBIN assistant editor; NANCY BANKS, CAR- 
OLYN BROWNE, JACKIE JOHNSON, MARCY MARCHI, 
BARI LYNN NASH, MARY ZION researchers; CON- 
TRIBUTING EDITORS: ASA BABER. JOHN BLUMEN- 
THAL, LAURENCE GONZALES. LAWRENCE GROBEL, D. 
KEITH MANO, ANSON MOUNT, PETER ROSS RANGE, 
DAVID RENSIN, RICHARD RHODES, JOHN SACK, TONY 
SCHWARTZ (television), DAVID STANDISH, BRUCE 
WILLIAMSON (movies), GARY WITZENBURG 


ART 
KERIG POPE managing director; CHET SUSKI, LEN 
WILLIS senior direciors; BRUCE HANSEN, THEO 
KOUVATSOS, SKIP WILLIAMSON associate directors; 
JOSEPH PACZEK assistant director; BETH KASIK 
Senior art assistant; ANN SEIDL, CRAIG SMITH art as- 
sistanls; SUSAN HOLMSTROM traffic coordinator; 
BARBARA HOFFMAN administrative manager 


PHOTOGRAPHY 

MARILYN GRABOWSKI west coast editor; JEFF COHEN 
senior editor; JAMES LARSON, JANICE MOSES 2550- 
ciate editors; PATTY BEAUDET, LINDA KENNEY, МІ. 
CHAEL ANN SULLIVAN assistant edito POMPEO 
Posar staff photographer; DAVID MECEY, KERRY 
MORRIS associate staff photographers; DAVID CHAN. 
RICHARD FEGLEY, ARNY FREYTAG, RICHARD IZUI, 
LARRY LOGAN, KEN MARCUS STEPHEN WAYDA COR. 
tributing photographers; BARBARA CAMP, JANE 
FRIEDMAN, PATRICIA TOMLINSON stylists; JAMES 
warn color lab supervisor; ROBERT CHELIUS busi- 
ness manager 


PRODUCTION 
JOHN MASTRO director; ALLEN VARGO manager; 
MARIA MANDIS asst. Mg7-; ELEANORE WAGNER, JODY 
JURGETO RICHARD QUARTAROLI assistants 


READER SERVICE. 
CYNTHIA LACEY-SIKICH manager 


CIRCULATION 
RICHARD SMITH director; ALVIN WIEMOLD Sub- 
scription manager 


ADVERTISING 
CHARLES M. STENTIFORD director 


ADMINISTRATIVE 
J.P-TIM DOLMAN assistant publisher; MARCIA TER 
Rones rights & permissions manager; EILEEN 
KENT contracts administrator 


PLAYBOY ENTERPRISES, INC. 
CHRISTIE HEFNER president; MARVIN L HUSTON 
execulive vice-president 


Beneath every mans shirt 
beats the heart of an 

ў animal. And with it comes 
the very physical instinct to 
compete. 'To be the best. 

To stand out. 

But in today's run-around, 
earn-a-living world, that 
physical urge can sometimes 
be frustrated. 

Kong offers a way back to that basic, primal strength 
in a patented* machine that works your body like no other. 

If you want muscles, Kong will help you build them. 

If you'd rather tone and condition, Kong will help you 
do that, too. 

It'll get your body into a better shape. 

While it pumps your heart. And works 
your lungs. = 

Kong is built to give you visible results. 
Fast. Yet it's easy to use. And that's 
important. Because today it's still survival 
of the fittest. 

For a free brochure about what Kong 
can do ae the animal in you, yg аш 
write us. Or call us toll-free at 
1-800-348-6477 ком 
nn BY PROFORM. 


Survival of the fittest. 


NOW YOU DON'T 
HAVE TO BE ON YOUR 
TOES TO MAKE 
PERFECT RECORDINGS. 


Until now, making serious recordings was a 
matter that couldn't be taken lying down. 

But now, there's the C , a tape deck so 
automatic you can practically make perfect record- 
ings in your sleep. 

To begin with, the CF90R will automatically 
reverse direction, allowing you to record in both 
directions without stopping to turn the cassette over. 
Because an IC Sensor detects the leader at the tapes 
end, it can reverse directions so fast (0.5 seconds) 
that you hardly miss a beat of music. 

Auto BLE system measures the first eight 
lape he correct 
pecifi 


f- 


frequency response and the lowest distortion. 

A Real Time Counter displays the exact 
minutes and seconds of remaining recording time, 
digitally. So you never run out of tape or music 
or patience. 

As for the CT-90Rs music reproduction 
quality, Pioneers exclusive three-head design guar 
antees optimum recordings because each head is 
designed for a specific function. 

The CF90R also features Pioneers exclusive 
Ribbon Sendust Heads for wide dynamic range, 
extended high frequency response, and high signal- 

ratio. Dolby*C noise reduction minimizes 


sophisticated 3-Direct-Drive-Motor Tape 
‘Transport features our own smooth, cog-free, DC 
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Then theres С.А.С. (Computer Aided Convenienc 
a system that provides a unique ease-of operation 


BlankSkip and Reverse, and Music Rep 
Together, all these features give | 

cassette deck thats so autom: 

to do one thi 


AAA 


QW PIONEER’ 
Because the music matters. 


© 1983 Pioneer Electronics ( USA) Inc. (800) 474700. in Minois:( 8001322-4400. ‘Dolby is a registered trademark of Dolby Laboratories. 


THE WORLD OF PLAYBOY 


in which we offer an insider's look at what's doing and who's doing it 
8 


A PLAYBOY FAMILY REUNION 


Mark Wilson (below right) called the Mansion West 
late last fall, politely asking if he could meet Hugh 
Hefner. He said he was Hef's son. A ten-page letter 
from his mother vel а it. Hef never knew she had 
borne his child. Now Mark is frequently at Hef's 
side. Thrilled over the turn of events, Hef slew the 
fatted cake to celebrate Marks 26th birthday. 


JOHNNY WITH A 
DRY MARTINA 


The rich man's Alan Thicke 
joined Martina Navratilova 
recentlyto raise a racket for 
charity at Playboy Mansion 
West. Carson was looking 
forhelp by day's end (above); 
Martina never broke a sweat. 


SAM LOVES KYM A BUSHEL AND A PECK 


In the Las Vegas Hilton recently, two American 
symbols—Playmate and eagle—got to know each 
other better. Kym Malin and Sam the Olympic Eagle, 
mascot of the summer Olympics, kissed for good 
luck as cries of “Coochie, coochie” rang out from 
behind them. Kym was in town to brighten up the 
California Grocers’ Association Convention. She 
avoided real-life Mr. Whipples who wanted to squeeze 
the charmin' (evidence below) Miss May of 1982. 


TRACY DOES LEGWORK 


Blake Edwards found the most beauti- 
fullegs in the world—attached to our 
own Tracy Vaccaro (right), Miss Octo- 
ber 1983. Tracy had 
two legs (below) up 
оп the competition 
(above) for the role 
of the legs that ob- 
sess Burt Reynolds 
in The Man Who 
Loved Women. For 
Tracy in toto, see 
lastOctober's issue. 


кы. Er ULTRA LIGHTS: 5 mg. "tar", 0.5 mg. nicotine av. per cigarette by FIC method; 
FILTER: 9 mg. "tar", 07 mg. nicotine av. per cigarette, FTC Report MAR. 'B3. 


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


VANTAGE 
SALUTES THE 1984 PGA TOUR. 


SEE THE VANTAGE SCOREBOARDS 
AT THESE 1984 PGA TOUR TOURNAMENTS* 
Seiko/Tucson Match Play Tucson, AZ 
Championship 
Bob Hope Classic Palm Springs, CA 
Phoenix Open Phoenix, AZ 
Isuzu-Andy Williams San Diego, CA 
San Diego Open 
Bing Crosby National Monterey, CA 
Pro-Am 
Los Angeles Open Los Angeles, CA 
Honda Classic Ft. Lauderdale, FL. 
USF&G Classic New Orleans, LA 
Tournament Players. Jacksonville, FL 
Championship. 
Greater Greensboro Open Greensboro, NC 
Sea Pines Heritage Golf Hilton Head, SC. 
Classic 
MONY Tournament of Carlsbad, CA 
Champions 
Byron Nelson Golf Classic Dallas, TX 
Colonial National Invitation Ft. Worth, TX 
Manufacturers Hanover Westchester, NY 
Westchester Classic. 
Georgia-Pacific Atlanta Golf Atlanta, GA 
Classi 
Senior Tournament Players Cleveland, OH 
Championship 
Western Open Chicago, IL 
Miller High Life Quad Cities Moline, IL 
Open 
Sammy Davis, Jr.—Greater Hartford, CT 
Hartford Open 
Buick Open Flint, MI 
PGA Championship Birmingham, AL. 
World Series of Golf Akron, OH 
B. C. Open Endicott, NY 
The Bank of Boston Classic Boston, MA 
Greater Milwaukee Open Milwaukee, WI 
Panasonic Las Vegas Las Vegas, NV 
Classic 
LaJet Coors Classic Abilene, TX 
Oct. Texas Open San Antonio, TX 
Southern Open Columbus, GA 
Pensacola Open Pensacola, FL 
Dec. J.C. Penney Classic Tampa, FL 
Chrysler Team Invitational Boca Raton, FL ш 
"Dates subject to change. — 


VANTAGE 
GOLF 


PGA TOUR 


See beyond the ordinary. 


The Canon A-1 is no ordinary 
camera. It is a creative tool. Con- 
ceived as the ultimate in automatic 
SLR's, the A-1 is unsurpassed in 
providing exposure control options. 
There are six, to be precise, allow- 
ing you to select the one best suited 
fo your subject. Choose a shutter 
speed to control and interpret 
action. Select a lens opening and 
blur away a background. 

In the programmed mode, the 


1983 Canon USA. ne 


= А-1 makes 
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you so ycu 
can really con- 
centrate on 
your subject. 
You just focus, 
compose and 
shoot. 


«Canon AL 


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automatic flash, You can shoot at up 
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optional Motor Drive MA. But most 
important, the A-1 does everything 
automatically. Freeing you to shoot a 
special subject in your own special 
way. and make a picture that 
nobody else saw. 

The Canon A-1. It's half of what 
you need to turn photography into 
fine art. 


And create. A bright digital display 
in the viewfinder Shows the 

speed and aperture being 
selected in any automatic 

mode. 

The A-1 provides the 
versatility to match your 
imagination. Add any of 
over fifty Canon FD lenses. 

A Canon Speedlite for 


DEAR PLAYBOY 


ADDRESS DEAR PLAYBOY 
PLAYBDY BUILDING 
919 N. MICHIGAN AVE. 
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 60611 


MAGNUM, PLAYBOY INTERVIEW 

I just finished reading December’s 
Playboy Interview with Tom Selleck and 
am very glad someone finally took the time 
to find out whats inside the superstar. 
"There is no doubt that Tom is very attrac- 
tive, but the main reason I like him is that 
he's someone I would genuinely like to 
know as a friend. Your interview shows 
that he is not only great-looking on the 
cutside but a pretty terrific guy inside, as 
well. Don't ever lose what you're made of, 


Tom. It’s nice stuff. 
Suzanne Borton 
Collingswood, New Jersey 


Before reading your interview with 
Tom Selleck, I thought of him as only 
another handsome man. My mother and 
many acquaintances have been infatuated 
with him, but a man must have more than 
good looks to interest me. Your interview 
is excellent. If Tom wants to meet an 
interesting woman, I am willing. My hus- 
band says that is fine with him, as long as 
he can meet Olivia Newton- John or Vic- 
toria Principal. 

Nancy Perrault 
Burlington, Vermont 


Selleck has the potential to revive a lost 
genre of the movies—the Western. His 
TV movie The Shadow Riders was an ear- 
nest start. With his authentic masculinity, 
modest vulnerability and a smile that 
could stop an outlaw at 20 paces, he is a 
natural for an Eighties version of John 
Wayne or even Roy Rogers. One question 
remains: Can he sing? 

Zell Malcolm 
Atlanta, Georgia 


CLASS ACT 

Thank you a hundred thousand times 
for your cover and pictorial of a truly great 
star— Joan Collins (PLAYBOY, December). 
The best photographers photographed 


her, and she deserves nothing less. For any 
woman to look that magnificent at her age 
is truly remarkable. More power to you, 
Joan! I love you. 
Greg Wells 
Hampden-Sydney, Virginia 


Joan Collins was and is hot stuff. 
"Thanks for the revelation. 

Ted Richards 

Dallas, Texas 


Congratulations to the photographers 
and kudos to Joan Collins for one of the 
most tastefully done photo layouts of a 
contemporary woman I've ever seen. 

Bob Mohs 
Tacoma, Washington 


Thank you so much for the pictorial on 
Joan Collins. You confirmed what I've 
always suspected. The lady has no ass. 
Class, but no ass. 

Jane Curran 
Redondo Beach, California 


I have two serious problems. One, I 
have not received my December issue of 
your excellent magazine. Two, I am 
incarcerated. (The latter problem is not 
nearly as serious as the former!) Do you 
know how long I have waited for an exclu- 
sivc PLAYBOY pictorial on Joan Collins? 
Needless to say, I have been out of my 
mind with anticipation. Please! Send me 
my December issue, and hurry! 

(Name withheld by request) 
London, Ohio 

It’s on its way, Name Withheld. Sit 

tight. 


TWILIGHT'S LAST GLEAMING 

In the midst of all the maudlin media 
hype surrounding the 20th anniversary of 
President Kennedy’s assassination, it was, 
indeed, refreshing, if saddening, to read 
William Manchester's One Brief Shining 
Moment in your December issue. My 


Q 

“ац TANQUER 
ONDON "EN 

"шд 


Own a bottle. 


Its worth the 
price to have at least one 


thing in your life thats 
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PLAYBOY 


only complaint is that the excerpt, like the 

Kennedy Presidency, is far too short. 
James B. Fulton 
Evanston, Illinois 


While acknowledging his polished 
writing skills, one must be somewhat sad- 
dened that William Manchester does not 
also possess the gift of objectivity. As a 
friend of Kennedys, the sycophantic 
Manchester has penned all the obligatory, 
if phony, praises and panegyrics to an 
unworthy President. Do the facts that 
Kennedy accomplished virtually nothing 
as Commander in Chief and that his Pres- 
idency was characterized by puffery and 
nonachievement occur to Manchester? 
Obviously not; he has himself been hood- 
winked by the Kennedy mystique. 

Lanny R. Middings 
San Ramon, California 


SCARLET LETTER 
Your great December cover shot of 
Joan Collins proves once and for all that 
scarlet is the color for passion, but I'm red 
in the face from looking for a photo credit. 
I'm sure not all of 
your readers pay 
as much attention 
to the men behind 
the camera as to 
the women in 
front of it, but 
some of us want to 
know the names of 
the guys we envy 
so much. Do all of © 
us vicarious PLAYBOY photographers а fa- 

vor and tell us who took the picture. 
(Name withheld by request) 

Sarasota, Florida 

We're blushing, too, for having failed to 
tell you that Contributing Photographer 
Arny Freytag captured Collins for our 
December cover. The real photo, of course, 
is much bigger than the one you see here; 
this is a look at our Lilliput edition. 


DIFFERENCE OF OPINION 
Fear and loathing in Hawaii? Thank 

you for publishing The Curse of Lono 

(eLarsox, December). Hunter S. Thomp- 

son brings to life the true meaning of the 

fast lane. As a good ol’ boy, I would like to 

commend your good ol’ taste in writers. 
John Brasfield 
Birmingham, Alabama 


Hunter S. Thompson, you vicious bas- 
tard! You gibbering, twisted freak! You 
presumptuous, blathering idiot! Your dis- 
tortion and convolution of the basic 
precepts of sanity have exceeded even my 
limits of endurance. No more will you 
tempt me by presenting horribly deranged 
behavior with such romanticism that the 
heart and imagination of a poor Florida 
beach boy/student reel to the thrilling 
beat of unknown elixirs. To hell with your 
visions of psychopathic nirvana. ГЇЇ beat 
the social game and the goose-stepping 


goons of conformity, too. But at their own 
game. If you're lucky, ГЇЇ let you ride in 
my Porsche. 
Ric Hess 
Tampa, Florida 


МО ROTTEN APPLES 
Peter A. McWilliams’ articles about 
computers and how to deal with them 
(PLAYBOY, October, November and De- 
cember) are long overdue. In a magazine 
like PLAYBOY, there must be room for a 
columnist to follow what happens in the 
field every month. 1 see McWilliams’ 
series as a fine beginning. 
Henrik Bentzen 
Fredericia, Denmark 


MILITARY EXERCISES 
We, the troopers of the 1/505 Air- 

borne Infantry, are here in Grenada and 
have just received the December PLAYBOY. 
We think the Government is trying to test 
our nerves. It's bad enough it can't decide 
when to send us home; now it's reminding. 
us of the beautiful women back there. 
Now that the fighting is over, we would 
like nothing better than a personal look at 
the 1983 Playmates. Who could pass up 
a performance for the best battalion in 
the 82nd Airborne Division on a sunny 
Caribbean island? 

"The Men of the Recon Platoon 

1/505 Airborne Infantry 

82nd Airborne Division 

APO Miami, Florida 

Miss January to Miss December, inclu- 

sive. But they send their best wishes and 
hope that all of you are now home safely. 


FATHER-AND-CHILD REUNION 
Three cheers for Asa Baber! He says it 

straight in his Men column: Men can and 
do love their children as much as the wom- 
en who carried them for nine months, and 
they are indispensable models for their 
children—both male and female. The su- 
perstate and women will learn not to fuck 
with the father-child relationship, because 
one of these days (soon, I hope), men are 
going to wake up to the injustice dealt 
them and come out fighting. And while 
Tm at it, let me add that it’s time to try to 
make our marriages work, too—for our 
kids, our society and ourselves. 

Judith Tuck 

Tampico, Mexico 


WHAT A FEELING. 

Congratulations to Marilyn Grabowski 
and Steve Wayda for their supersexy 
Flashdancers pictorial in the December 
issue. If Kim Arrow ever needs a partner 
for a pas de deux, place my name at the 
top of the list. 

J. E. Pardo II 
Englewood, New Jersey 


NOT GUILTY 

Regarding Craig Veuer's The Desex- 
ing of America (PLAYBOY, December): The 
importance of recent changes in sexual 


attitudes lies not in being guilty over hav- 
ing sex or not having sex in a relationship 
but, rather, in having the freedom to 
choose between the two without guilt. 

B. Kirkpatrick 

Fort Whyte, Manitoba 


WE'RE CRIMSON; BROOKE'S NOT 

In Sex Stars of 1983 (rLAvBov, De- 
cember), Jim Harwood says, "Brooke 
Shields... ; is concentrating on her upcom- 
ing collegiate career at Princeton, which 
she chose after Harvard refused Mom's 
demand that it promise to admit Brooke 
before she applied.” Brooke never applied 
to, nor had any intention of attending, 
Harvard University. Therefore, any al- 
leged demands on my part are totally 
without foundation. 

Teri Shields 
Haworth, New Jersey 

While asking us to clear up the confu- 
sion over her daughter's choice of schools, 
Teri Shields mentioned that Brooke did 
well in her first-term grades, earning an A 
in psychology and a B-plus in French. In 
biology, though, we hear she keeps looking. 
for Calvin Klein genes. 


NIHEN'S A TEN 
I have been a subscriber to PLAYBOY 
for many years and never thought Га 
write a letter about a centerfold. But 
Richard Fegley’s photographs of Decem- 
ber Playmate Terry Nihen have me in 
orbit. They say good things come in small 
packages. Well, 100-pound Terry fills the 
bill. Mucho thanks. 
John J. Evangelisti 
Dover, New Jersey 


Congratulations for Miss December, 
Terry Nihen. She seems to be a down- 
to-earth, natural and beautiful woman 
any man would fall head over heels for. 
I'm still picking my face off the sidewalk. 
She is a Venus. Who other than PLAYBOY 
could picture a female with such form, 
grace and symmetry? I need to see her one 
more time! I am on my knees! 

Robert Gorham 

Wake Forest University 

Winston-Salem, North Carolina 

So is Terry, Robert. She's really thank- 

ful to all who wrote in singing her praises, 
but you're the only one whose face attacks 


T 


а 


sidewalks over her. She'd Бе there with а 
spatula, but she’s all tied up with her bath- 
ing suit right now. 


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Imported by William Grant & Sons, Inc., NY, NY • 56 proof + Produced and bottled by Barbero S.PA., Canale, Italy « About fifteen dollars a bottle. 


_ PLAYBOY AFTER HOURS 


IT MUST HAVE BEEN MURDER 
The following is excerpted from The 
Dallas Morning News: “Mitchell’s body 
was in the back of his daughter's Camaro 
hatchback. He had been shot once in the 
head and twice in the rear storage area." 


©. TRUE OR FALSE? A. YES 

Our nominee for the Orwell That Ends 
Well Award for 1984 is press secretary 
Larry Speakes, declining to answer a 
question about White House infighting: 
“Pm not discussing that stuff. Whatever is 
history is history, be it fact or fiction.” 

. 

The travel section of the Chicago Sun- 
Times has let itself be misled by dreams of 
imperial glory. “BRITISH VIRGINS ARE JEW- 
ELS OF THE CARIBBEAN,” a headline pro- 
claimed. "UNTAINTED BY COMMERCIALISM,” 
boasted a subhead. But a second subhead 
gave away the game: “л MUST STOP FOR 
SAILORS.” Oh—those Virgins. Hey, when 
an urchin brags about his sister, a real 
journalist checks out the facts personally. 


TURNING THE CAR TRICK 

Red-white-and-blue sheriff Joe Neaves 
didn’t like all the pink on display inside 
San Antonio’s X-rated Puss ’n Boots The- 
ater. He decided to embarrass potential 
customers by having his men park right in 
front of the theater in a marked patrol car. 
The sheriffs plan backfired, though, 
when the theater’s management put up a 
sign reading PARKING SECURITY BY SHERIFF'S 
DEPUTIES. Neaves admitted defeat but 
promised a return engagement 


SWAT TEAM UPDATE 


In February, we told you about the 
latest techniques in bringing down our lit- 
tle airborne-insect friends. This month, 
we move on to mammals. A Chemical ё 
Engineering News reader offered the 
magazine some advice on how to deal with 
bats. The reader armed himself with a 


tennis racket and flailed at two bats in his 
lakeside home. But he was no match for 
their sophisticated radar. C. & E. News 
reports: “They dodged his forehand with 
ease and his backhand ‘with disdain.’ " 
But the batophobe developed a different 
technique: He waited until the bats had 
whizzed past him and then used his over- 
head smash. He won in quick, straight 
sets. Conclusion: “Bats do not have rear- 
ward-scanning radar.” 

. 

A Hollywood director wanting to end 
his relationship with his live-in girlfriend 
told her that he was leaving on a business 
trip and that when he returned several 
days later, he wanted her and her belong- 
ings out of his house. Upon his return, he 
was pleased to see that she had moved out 
and that the house was in good order— 
except that the telephone was off the hook. 
When he put it back, he heard a strange 
language on the line: It turned out that he 


was connected to the time number in 
Tokyo, which brought that month’s bill to 
$80,000. 

. 

An ad in a Toronto newspaper—“For 
Strippers Only. . . . Must be able to per- 
form in dimly lit quarters"—brought 12 
men and 70 women. No women were 
hired, but some men were. They had rec- 
ognized Ihe address as that of a print shop, 
and strippers is a term used in the trade. 

. 

Anne Pawelck of 
filed a class-action suit in US. di 
court on behalf of all Polish-Americans. 
She is seeking to excise what she calls (and 
spells) “Pollock jokes" from last year's hit 
movie Flashdance. As far as we can tell, 
20th Century abstract expressionists are 
not following suit. 


icero, Illinois, has 


. 

England’s Westmoreland Gazette pub- 

lished this cheery classified ad: “Lost— 

Cartmel area. Bald, one-eyed ginger tom 

Crippled in both back legs, recently cas- 

trated, answering to the name of Lucky.” 
. 

Romantic Evenings Take Careful Plan- 
ning Department: A 53-year-old Bell- 
flower, California, man was arrested at a 
Skaggs Drug Store after being accused of 
stealing a package of prophylactics, a de- 
sensitizing lubricating gel and a box of 
NoDoz tablets 


PERSIAN GOLF 


The Wall Street Journal reports that 
one of Kuwait's four barren golf courses is 
landscaped with steel pipes twisted to look 
like we 


. Players carry around square 
patches of artificial turf to hit from, but 
Astroturf is out of bounds—Monsanto 
does business with Israel. Fairways are 
covered with lizard holes (and the lizards 
run to more than a foot long), so if your 
ball goes into one, local rules allow you to 


Ў Ly 
Thus, Marco Polo is remembe 
substantial work in camel dentistry 


theory of relativity, even though his theory of spo 


ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL: 

* Yelling (1867) 

* Very long megaphone (1869) 

= Wires held up by big poles (1871) 

* “Collect” brick through the 

window (1869) 

* Cordless hat (1875) 

» “Pretend” telephone (1874) 

* Unlisted shirt size (1872) 

* Obscene yodel (1876) 

* Connecting ear muffs (1873) 

* Talking plastic (1877) 
ALFRED NOBEL: 

* Exploding shoes (1861) 

+ Exploding telephone (1859) 

* Exploding light bulb (1876) 

* Exploding phonograph record 

(1892) 

* The Alfred Prize (1888) 

* Al’s Prize (1889) 

* The Nobel Door Prize (1890) 

» Al’s Suitcase o” Money (1867) 

* The Exploding Nobel Prize 

(1878) 
THOMAS EDISON: 

* Campfire in a bottle (1869) 

* Brightly painted tungsten (1879) 

+ Screw-in ceiling ornaments (1874) 

* Lightning-bug leash (1878) 

* Crown of candles (1875) 
WILBUR AND ORVILLE 
WRIGHT: 

» Extremely light locomotive (1901) 

* Supersonic bicycle (1904) 

* Comfortable cannon ball (1899) 

* Film-ruining machine (1902) 

+ Very dark-brown box (1909) 

* Deep, deep-purple box (1910) 

* Opposite-of-white box (1910) 

+ Bicycle built for 260 (1906) 
JACOB SCHICK: 

* Electric face biter (1925) 

* Electric false-beard applicator 

(1923) 

* Giant wheat shaver (1930) 

* Uscless buzzing box (1926) 

* Kerosene razor (1928) 

* Exploding electric razor (with 

Nobel) (1896) 


io ent to China, ignoring his 
Wall be forever linked to his 
jy space monsters is well worth 
considering. Nowhere is this more evident than unth the world’s great inventors, 
whose lesser-known inventions have never shared the limelight. Until now: 


Eins 


LEONARDO DA VINCI: 
+ Everything (1512) 
ELI WHITNEY: 
+ Interchangeable cotton balls 
(1794) 
* Seed-reinforced pants (1790) 
* No-seed cotton candy (1802) 
= Cotton rifle (1788) 
ROBERT FULTON: 
+ Vapor boat (1805) 
* Ice boat (1806) 
+ Scalding-water boat (1806) 
* Steam flying saucer (1809) 
* Exploding steamboat (with 
Nobel) (1822) 
GUGLIELMO MARCONI: 
* Talking mice in a box (1890) 
= Long-distance ventriloquism 
(1894) 
GABRIEL DANIEL 
FAHRENHEIT: 
* Large glass toothpick (1713) 
* Miniature anus flagpole (1716) 
* Fund-raising graph (1724) 
+ Thing you shake (1714) 
HENRY FORD: 
* Horseless fancy dinner party 
(1892) 
+ Horseless Presidential campaign 
(1888) 
* Ratless carriage (1895) 
* Gasoline-powered horse (1890) 
* Carriage, pulled by quiet, 
invisible horses (1895) 
* Antique car of the future (1896) 
* Dog face blower (1900) 
J- ROBERT OPPENHEIMER: 
* Adam bomb (1943) 
e "Atem" bomb (1944) 
* Extra-strength toupee glue (1946) 
+ S.P.F.-500 sun screen (1946) 
JOSEPH GUILLOTIN: 
+ Unwieldy hedge trimmer (1786) 
* Venetian blinds of death (1785) 
+ "Gag" peephole (1780) 
+ Dangerous bench press (1779) 
* Blood-sprinkling system (1785) 
* Brain surgery while-u-wait 
(1785) 
— JACK HANDEY 


“play a new ball from the opening without 
penalty.” Kuwaitis apparently don't un- 
derstand the integrity of the game. Thats 
a stroke anywhere else. 


б 
The story was about poultry, but the 
headline in the Ventura, California, Star 
Free Press read: “FROZEN COCKS LEAVE LAW- 
YER COLD.” 
. 

Gorillas and orangutans at Washing- 
ton’s National Zoo have become football 
fans; they watch the Redskins play every 
Sunday on TV sets in their cages. "We did 
it to counteract the boredom," said Cald- 
well Graham, animal keeper at the great- 
ape house. The sets are paid for through 
donations, and the apes are given snacks— 
such as straw and pomegranate pieces—to 
munch on. 

б 

Here in Paris, ап English-language 
weekly, described the program at a Mo- 
zart festival: “The Paris Orchestra, con- 
ducted by Daniel Barenboim, plays 
concert tunes by Dietrich Fischer and 
Dieskau"—the greatest singing duo since 
Sonny and Cher. 


TAKE HIM, HE'S HERS 

(1) Insert tab A into slot B. (2) Claim 
you spent the afternoon shopping around. 
That's the advice Los Angeles psycholo- 
gist Cynthia Silverman is giving in a how- 
to workshop for married women who 
want to have an affair. Silverman is a firm 
believer that “a white lie is better than a 
black truth"— never, ever confess, she 
counsels her students. She also recom- 
mends explaining disappearances with al- 
ibis that can't be checked. And, above all, 
the well-adjusted adulteress does her wan- 
dering with a married man; he's got as 
much at stake in discretion as she does. 
Silverman's credentials consist of a frank 
admission that she personally conducted 
field tests on her theories. But she says 
she's no longer in the market for an 
affair—her third marriage is too happy. 
Of course, that’s also what she'd say if she 
were busy screening applicants lor hus- 
band number four. 


THAT OR BAN KNEES 


The Chicago Sun-Times, in its Sports 
People column, reported that five Toronto 
doctors had written to The New England 
Journal of Medicine that basketball play- 
ers—especially leapers—should wear pro- 
tective cups similar to those worn by 
football and hockey players. 

They described “the rather unusual cir- 
cumstances surrounding the case of a 19- 
year-old, normal, sexually active athletic 
man who . . . executed a perfect slam dunk 
and while descending suffered intimate 
contact with the opponent's knee." 

And “despite normal libido," the doc- 
tors said, the Unknown Dunker couldn't 
function sexually for a year. 


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


Box: 16 mg. “tar”, 1.) mg. nicotine, Kings; 17 mg. “tar”, 
12 mg. nicotine, av. per cigarette, FTC Report March 1863 


2 


Don Fagenson (left), Dovid Weiss. 


IHE BROTHERS WAS HERE: Don 
Fagenson was sitting in a Detroit 
steakhouse, absently mashing the remains 
‚of his baked potato, when a pretty blonde 
waitress minced up and put her hand on 
his shoulder. 

“Don!” she said. “Great album.” 

“Oh, you heard it?” 

“Oh, yes. Was (Not Was). Wow!” 

That's what a lot of otherwise rational 
people have been saying about Born to 
Laugh at Tornadoes (Geffen), the second 
album by Fagenson and his partner/best 
friend, David Weiss. Fagenson and Weiss 
are a couple of 31-year-old Detroiters 
whose nom de vinyl is Was. Their brain- 
child is Wes (Net Was), already an accom- 
plished and sometimes brilliant band. The 
name comes from a day two years back 
when Don's son, then just starting to talk, 
was “getting into the idea that things 
could be opposite." 

Was (Not Was) is a warm ticket now, 
but until recently, things were just the 
opposite. “For 15 years, David and I 
made tapes for two or three friends," says 
Don, the musical force behind the band. 
“Our goal was to make a record once in a 
while and play college clubs, just making a 
living. Now, all of a sudden, we're playing 
in San Francisco and people are filling up 
the room, mouthing the words to our 
songs. And we never met them before. 
"That's what amazes me.” 

"The fans may know David's lyrics, but 
no one seems to know what kind of music 
he and Don represent. It is and isn't jazz, 
funk, electronic and rock "n' roll. The Was 
Bros.— siblings in soul but not in blood— 
pick and choose from all of the above. 
"Then they stir it up in their slightly crazed 
sensibilities and turn out a sound that slips 
through all the cracks but tends to stick 
between your ears. 


“I don't see our music as rock or funk,” 
Don says. “It’s what David and I were 
doing when we were 16 years old, only. 
we're better at it now. 105 American pop- 
ular music. 

“The cool thing we've developed is the 
lack of a clear identity, a clear sound. All 
anybody expects of us is to keep doing 
different shit all the time. I would hate it if 
we were locked into being like Ted Nu- 
gent and had to be crazy game hunters all 
our lives, you know?” 

One reason people can’t get a handle on 
composer Fagenson and lyricist Weiss 
(the former plays bass and all things elec- 
tric; the latter plays flute and sings) is that 
they keep giving the spotlight to guest 
stars. One reviewer, disarmed of his cate- 
gories, threw up his hands and called them 
“ministers of eclecticism.” Born to Laugh 
at Tornadoes offers Marshall Crenshaw 
crooning Feelings in the background of 
The Party Broke Up. Mitch Ryder sings 
Bow Wow Wow Wow. The Knack’s Doug 
Fieger sings two songs. Ozzy Osbourne 
does one, and so does Mel Tormé. Mel 
Tormé? 

Lyricist Weiss, then a Los Angeles Her- 
ald Examiner jazz critic, was the Was 
who persuaded Tormé to sing Zaz Turned 
Blue. “Mel’s really from the old-pro net- 
work," he says. *He came in and did the 
song like a hit man. Bang, bang, bang and 
he was back out the door.” 

“Tt was a potentially embarrassing situ- 
ation," Don recalls. “You can't ask Mel 
"Tormé to ‘sing it with a little more feel- 
ing.’ But he studied the song and sang the 
piss out of it. On the way to the studio, he 
was saying, “Tell me more about this fel- 
low Zaz.’ He really wanted to get it 
right.” 

David's lyrics are always darkly comic. 


He compares his craft to playing the fool 
in motley, giggling at how seriously King 
Lear takes everything. Critics still call 
Zaz Turned Blue a joke, a parody. It is 
And is not. 

“In their own way,” says Don. 
songs are dead serious. Zaz is a little 
obscure and gets covered by the irony of 
having Mel Tormé sing it, but I knew the 
real Zaz. I was there when he got choked. 
It’s not a comedy.” 

The band is about to embark on a third 
album. It won't be a comedy, but there'll 
be plenty of jokes. Starting with the title. 

“Was (Not Was) Live at Budokan 
now you're talking,” laughs David. “Ac- 
tually, I already have a title for our next 
album. We'll call it Has-Beens.” 

“In the end,” Don says of laughing at 
everything from tornadoes to betrayal to 
death, “I think it's just that we come from 
this long Jewish tradition cf wise guys, of 
getting through school and life by being 
the wise guy. But instead of becoming the 
next generation of Shelley Bermans, we 
turned it into a musical thing." 

Which may be the best possible descrip- 
tion of what Was (Not Was) is. Or was 
last week, anyway. —KEVIN COOK 


REVIEWS 

While Genesis always sounds more 
synthetic than Phil Collins does alone, 
Genesis (Atlantic) is fine—another good 
performance by Collins, Tony Banks and 
Mike Rutherford. Strange, though, that 
all the good cuts are on side one and all the 
bad ones are on side two—for this record, 
you won't need autoreverse on the cassette 


TRUST US — 


HOT 


Rolling Stones / Undercover 

Big Country / The Crossing 

Charlie Haden / The Ballad of the 
Fallen 

Paul Simon / Hearts and Bones 

Ray Parker, Jr. / Woman Out of Control 


NOT 


Mac Davis / Who's Lovin’ You 


deck. That's All and Home by the Sea 
make for excellent Genesis: tricky, unex- 
pected melodies and compact, contrapun- ‹ \ 
tal lyrics. But Illegal Alien, which opens à UNCONVENTIONAL THOUGHT #1 
side two, trivializes its subject throughout 
(“It’s no fun being an illegal alien”) with 
phony Mexican accents in both the music 
and the vocals. Genesis should not attempt 
the Tijuana sound. 
. 

Tt wouldn't be right to call John Cougar 
Mellencamp (the surname's back—he 
ought to write a song about that) a mature 
artist. He's still a real bad boy with 
enough sense to stay that way. But now 
Cougar has cut some of the swagger out of 
his songs and has hit upon a hack-saw 
simplicity that makes his one of the smart- 
est voices in the land between Flatbush 
and the Basin. “Some people say I'm 
obnoxious and lazy," he sings in Crum- ERI 
blin’ Down, “that I'm uneducated and my Gaia КЕ 
opinion means nothin’, But 1 know I'm a 
real good dancer.” He's a real good writer 
and singer, too. Uh-huh (Riva Records) is a 
terrific album, and Pink Houses is a great 
song. 


"id 
o 


Thomas Porr. born A.D) 


: 
{ 


ov 


. 

Windham Hill Records is a success. 
Its product—impressionistic instrumental 
music that eludes prompt categorization— 
seems to have caught on. This melodious, 
mood-provoking music puts you in touch 
with those deep and warm feclings that 
give pleasure in an unhurried way. 
Windham Hill artists—mostly acoustic 
guitarists, pianists and chamber groups. 
obviously fill a need. On October 9, 1982, 
ten of them gathered at the Berkelee 
Performance Center in Boston for two 
concerts. Contained on An Evening with 
Windham Hill tive are the best from that 
date, including solo performances by gui- 
tarists Michael Hedges and Alex deGrassi 
and pianist George Winston. A beautiful 
introduction to this innovative label. 

. 

If you saw The Temptations and the 
Four Tops face off on NBC's Motown 25, 
you knew two things were just a matter of 
time—a tour together and new Motown 
albums. Both events have come to pass. 
The Temps’ album, Back to Basics, brings 
producer Norman Whitfield (among oth- 
ers) back to the group, and the results are 
pretty terrific. The music has a contempo- 
rary feel but maintains that famous mel- 
low vocal blend. That’s an achievement 
when you remember that The Temps are 
responsible for My Girl, probably the per- 
fect Sixties ballad. You'll be glad to have 
this one. 

A different situation exists on the Four 


Suauodul ST) BIOS + WOA WON UOA MON "4 тийш COMES 


bse your Uncle Henry. 


- The Bear Paw is a masterpiece of fine 

АКУ BA Wi aT BrE STIE DnE UNIE aftsmanship. ae against lossforone 
them with the famous songwriting team \ .. year from date of registration. 
Holland, Dozier, Holland and should It comes with genuine leather sheath 

work like a dream. But it's too lush, too for easy carrying. 

thick with sounds. Part of the Four Tops’ Uncle Henry lockbacks are 

considerable appeal is a certain roughness, available in many different sizes. 


a funk before there was funk, that is miss- 
ing here. Side two fares much better and 
features, by the way, vocal assistance by 


Write for your free Schrode Almanac to Schrade Cutlery Corp , Ellenville, N Y 12428-0590. 


FAST TRACKS 


Es 


WHIPS AND CHAINS DEPARTMENT: We get our chuckles any way we can, and here's the 
latest one: We don't have to worry; Grace Jones has finally got someplace to wear all that 
leather she's been flashing the past few years. She's playing the female lead in Conan the 
Barbarian, Part Il, opposite Arnold the Body. Her character, Zula, was a man in the orig- 


inal comic strip. but that's no sweat for Grace. She's got androgyny, 


well, locked up. 


UOTE OF THE MONTH: We asked Ivan 

Dorpschuk of Men Without Hats his 
opinion of the older generation: “God, 
I hope Pm not doing what they're 
doing 15 years on. Take Jagger and 
McCartney - . . they have millions and 
billions of people listening to them. 
They have such impact, and they’re 
saying nothing. McCartney’s just sing- 
ing silly love songs, and Jagger's trying 
to make us believe he’s still 25. He’s 
going to be the Mae West of rock *n* 
roll.” 

REELING AND ROCKING: The music of 
Culture Club, Giorgio Moroder and Heaven 
17 will be featured in Electric Dreams, 
a film about a girl who falls in love 
with a guy who makes music by com- 
puter. . . . Eddy Grant plans to make a 
feature-length movic. . . . Keith Richards. 
is coordinating the music for a movie 
about legendary blues great Robert John- 
son. ... Another legend—a living one 
this time— promoter Bill Graham has а 
part in Francis Ford Coppola's upcoming 
Cotton Club. . . . A one-woman event: 
Patti LaBelle has landed a choice role for 
her film debut. She'll be the only female 
in the screen version of the Pulitzer 
Prize-winning A Soldier's Play. 

NEWSBREAKS: Jerry Hall modeled ma- 
ternity clothes for a cool $100,000. . . . 
Levon Helm is playing opposite Jane Fonda 
in the TV movie The Dollmaker. . 

It now looks as if Red Stewart has bowed 
out of his plans to supertour with Elten. 
Elton's pissed. . . . The Wailers have 
decided to reunite, make an album and 
tour. . Album notes: Look for new 
stuff from Air Supply, Journey, Foreigner, 
а David Bowie-Iggy Pop collection 
of the best of Iggy and Ray Charles 
and Friends—his second country 


album— which includes such friends as 
Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, Rosanne Cash 
and Hank Williams, Jr. . . . Under the 
heading of Лу All Illusion, Anyway, 
we wanted you to know that the son of 
magician Harry Blackstone, Jr., toured а 
few dates with Van Halen. Blackstone MI 
and his band, White light, open with the 
drummer levitating. That’s what we 
call high. . . . The Kinks’ Dave Davies has 
spoken out about his membership in 
the Actherius Society. For those not in 
the know, it’s a Hollywood-based (nat- 
urally!) cult that believes Jesus lives on 
Venus. The founder is a former Lon- 
don cabdriver (naturally, part two). .. . 
When singing’s not enough: Peabe Bry- 
son wants more than a Top 40 hit, he 
wants the best-dressed list. He wants 
designer je Armani to participate. 
Says Peabo: “Pd love to endorse him or 
become a spokesman for him.” . . . Cat 
Stevens is leading a campaign against 
permissive sex education in the British 
schools and is mad at teachers for 
exposing kids to “wayward lifestyles.” 
Say good night, Cat. . . . Here'sa group 
we wouldn't mind breaking bread 
with: James Brown has been inducted 
into the Georgia Music Festival’s Hall 
of Fame to take his place beside the 
likes of Rey Charles, Otis Redding and 
Duane Allman. . . . An interesting statis- 
tic: Of all the instruments and sheet 
music sold in 1982, 20 percent of the 
sales volume was in the area of synthe- 
sizers, according to the organizers of a 
‚conference held at New York Universi- 
ty. Inventor Robert Moog was there and 
once again stressed that he's not afraid 
that musicians will ultimately be re- 
placed by machines. Which is good 
news for us rockers. —BARBARA NELLIS 


Aretha Franklin and The Temps (the 
Four Tops sing one with The Tempta- 
tions on Back to Basics, too). For anyone 
who missed this music the first time 
around, we recommend going back and 
then going forward. Both groups have 
everything one looks for in pop—a good 
beat, catchy lyrics, something fine to dance 
to and, in the ballads, the right backdrop. 
for going all the way. Remember going all 
the way? 
. 

Oregon is a quartet whose members, 
Paul McCandless, Ralph Towner, Collin 
Walcott and Glen Moore, play 50 instru- 
ments and a Prophet 5 synthesizer. Oregon, 
the foursome's initial album for ECM, 
mirrors the unit's collective concern wit 
jazz, electronic music and African and 
Indian sources. The essentially cerebral 
result generally lacks the capacity to pique 
your interest consistently. But the musi- 
cianship is admirable and the album can 
be recommended on that basis alone. 

. 

Simon Le Bon's vocals are interesting 
on Union of the Snake, the best tune from 
Duran Duran's new Seven and the Ragged 
Tiger (Capitol). It’s pretty much what 
you'd expect—good dancing stuff. But it 
also makes for tolerable listening if you 
don't happen to be dancing, a claim D.D. 
could not previously make. 

. 

There are too many echoes in the 
vocals, too much effort expended in lean- 
ing toward “significance” on ABC’s 
Beavty Stab (Mercury/PolyGram), a fol- 
low-up to Lexicon of Love. Someone 
should tell ABC that relevance went out 
with the Sixties. ABC is one of the best 
new bands, but it ought to leave solving 
the world’s problems to Maggie Thatcher. 
Or John Cougar. 


SHORT CUTS 

Toni Basil (Chrysalis): Toni gives video 
and dancing her best shot; music is merely 
method for her madness, much as a school 
song is to a cheerleader. But her great 
school spirit makes it to the record. 

Jimmy Cliff / The Power and the Glory (Co- 
lumbia): The reigning king of reggae 
sings, typically, with his soul exposed. 

DeBarge / In a Special Way (Gordy): This 
bunch had to follow Michael Jackson on 
NBC's Motown 25, but since then, its luck 
has improved. If this is the new Motown, 
we like it. 

3B Special / Tour de Force (A&M): Solid 
rock from a solid band that hasn’t quite 
lived up to its first hit single, Hold on 
Loosely. .38 Special kills decent music 
with banal words. 

Girlschool / Play Dirty (Mercury/Poly- 
Gram): The Go-Go's try to do T. Rex. 

Grace Stick / Software (RCA): This is 
halfhearted new music, but Today 1 Think 
ГИ Rearrange My Face is excellent. 

The Pointer Sisters / Break Our (Planct): 
They're hip, fast and funky, and they sure 
can sing. You'll be dancing. 


MOVIES 


By BRUCE WILLIAMSON 


VETERAN DIRECTOR Stanley Donen has 
managed to beat the odds against recycled 
cinema. He took a bland, all-but-forgotten 
French comedy titled One Wild Moment 
(by Claude Berri), commissioned a 
sprightly new screenplay by Charlie 
Peters and Larry Gelbart—Gelbart’s 
laundry list of credits includes Tootste— 
and came up with a winner in Blame It on 
Rio (Fox). This glib, Americanized high 
comedy about marital and parental trans- 
gressions is validated at every weak point 
by Michael Caine's finely frazzled per- 
formance as a vacationing businessman 
who's seduced by his best friend's 
daughter. Joseph Bologna runs a strong 
second as the anxious friend, a joker 
sweating out his divorce settlement during 
a Brazilian holiday. And movie newcomer 
Michelle Johnson—not yet a seasoned 
actress but a voluptuous screen presence 
on a par with Brooke Shields—does better 
than all right as Bologna’s daughter, a 
Precocious teenaged temptress with a 
crush on Caine. Demi Moore plays 
Caine's daughter (who goes hang gliding, 
which struck me as far more worrisome 
than her merely being interested in sex), 
while Valerie Harper pops in a few sur- 
prises as his disenchanted wife. Among 
the juicier comic bits is the happy conster- 
nation of Caine and Bologna as they tiptoe 
through a sea of bare breasts on Rio's 
famed Copacabana beach. “I hope I don’t 
step on anything,” says Caine. The entic- 
ingly erotic atmosphere of Rio itself is 
intrinsic to the movie's sex appeal as an 
emancipated ode to middle-aged amorali- 
ty. Contrived and imperfect, to be sure, 
but more fun if you don’t fight it. ¥¥¥ 
б 

Jamie Lee Curtis shows тоге skin in 
Love Letters (New World) than she did in 
Trading Places, but she also proves that 
she's an emphatic screen presence even 
when the odds are against her. As a trou- 
bled Los Angelesd.j. having an affair with 
a married man (James Keach, Stacy's 
brother), Curtis strives gamely to keep 
Letters from going astray. It’s а no-win 
situation, how: ental, hack- 
neyed, with negligible merit as a showcase 
for either Jamie Lee or James. YY 

E 

During one of many dull moments in 
Scandalous (Orion), the camera dawdles, 
directing our attention across a street to 
the sign on a shop called Arabesque 
Which can only be director Rob Cohen's 
wistful allusion to a similar but far superi- 
or 1966 comedy by Stanley Donen— back 
then, Gregory Peck and Sophia Loren 
flirted with intrigue, danger and cach oth- 
er. Now it's Robert Hays, whose flair for 
romantic film farce is probably surer than 


Michael Caine, Michelle Johnsan revel on the racks way down in Rio. 


When it comes to 
laughter, there's 
nothing like raising Caine. 


Hays, Gielgud in Scendalous waste. 


Peck's ever was, playing a TV reporter in 
London, where his wife gets murdered 
while he's on the trail of a pair of con 
artists. This blackmailing duo is played by 
Pamela Stephenson (the buxom blonde 
villainess of Superman III, who's hardly a 
match for Sophia) and John Gielgud, who 
affects frequent disguises, none even a 
fraction as funny as his butler in Arthur. 
Except for some nice bits by Jim Dale as a 
Scotland Yard man feigning homosexual 
tendencies, the humor is strained, reason 
enough for Hays to look eternally per- 
plexed. ¥¥ 


. 

"The villainous title character of Christine 
(Columbia), as loyal Stephen King read- 
ers already know, is a wicked and willful 
1958 Plymouth. John (Halloween) Car- 
penter directed this cunning adaptation of 
King's 1983 best seller and did a bang-up 
job on it, in every sense. With a little- 
known company of young actors, plus 
Harry Dean Stanton as the inevitable 
investigator who wonders how Chris- 
tine survives all those fatal crashes, the 
movie has pop-rock music, edge-of-your- 
seat suspense and enough teen talk to cap- 
tivate its target audience of wayward 
youth. Reel by reel, cheap thrills and dan- 
dy special effects soon overtake simple 
plausibility, but credibility is hardly an 
issue here. While I much prefer Carrie as 
a flesh-and-blood shocker, the chromium- 
plated Christine generates some satirical 
thrust as a semiclassic caricature of a 
young American male (Keith Gordon) 
whose beloved car holds the key to his sex- 
ual and social identity. The money they'll 
make on this baby ought to put everyone 
concerned in mint condition. УУЖ 

. 

The economic crunch in Glasgow 
moves one unemployed young lout (Rob- 
ert Buchanan) to organize an ambitious 


25 


PLAYBOY 


26 


caper—the theft of 90 or so stainless-steel 
sinks from a warehouse full of plumbing 
supplies. Thus the title, That Sinking Feeling 
(Goldwyn), a capricious minor comedy 
made by Scottish-born writer-director Bill 
Forsyth in 1979, just before Gregory’s 
Girl and the subsequent Local Hero lifted 
him from relative obscurity to internation- 
al celebrity. This seminal work has the 
unexpectedness and the quirky good 
humor typical of Forsyth at his best, even 
though his best was yet to come. But 
Forsyth just warming up is still more 
relevant and more amusing than five out 
of ten film makers whose supercharged 
big-screen foolishness puts me right to 
sleep. ¥¥ 
. 

"The London stage production of Privates. 
en Parade (Orion Classics) was a brilliantly 
zany and unique theatrical experience. 
Peter Nichols’ award-winning black com- 
edy, with director Michael Blakemore 
repeating his chores for the film version, is 
still very special—very English, very liter- 
ate, yet full of broad satirical strokes about 
a British song-and-dance unit entertain- 
ing the troops in Communist-ridden 
Southeast Asia circa 1948. In the pivotz 
role, as an outrageous drag queen in 
charge of the show, Denis Quilley out- 
camps La Cage aux Folles, impersonating 
everyone from Carmen Miranda to one of 
the Andrews Sisters. When a fuzzy- 
cheeked young recruit named Sergeant 
Flowers (Patrick Pearson) announces that 
he's "going to be attached to your section," 
Quilley all but bursts into song. “Sounds 
heaven," he trills. With John Cleese of 
Monty Python as an uptight major in 
charge of the troupe, Privates also has Ni- 
cola Pagett, Simon Jones and an elite 
corps of clowns to belt out its message. 
There are some bitter pills about war, 
colonialism, greed and corruption mixed 
in with the showstoppers of a musical 
comedy that’s sometimes unsteady, but it’s 
as far out as a Beatles film (George Harri- 
son is billed as one of the executive pro- 
ducers) and quite unlike anything that’s 
gone before. УУЖ 


б 

Why remake апу movie that was done 
right the first time? The question persists 
even after one chuckles through parts of To 
Be or Not to Be (Fox), produced by Mel 
Brooks and co-starring Mel and his wife, 
Anne Bancroft Like Jack Benny and 
Carole Lombard in director Ernst Lu- 
bitsch’s scintillating and sophisticated 
wartime comedy (vintage 1942), they play 
a famous theatrical couple in Warsaw 
during the Nazi Occupation. Directed by 
Alan Johnson, the Brooksian 7o Be or 
Not to Be gets off to a swift, hilarious start. 
with Mel and Anne onstage belting out 
Sweet Georgia Brown in Polish. All too 
soon, however, the movie becomes an obvi- 
ous but overextended series of Polish jokes 
and recycled scenes—passably funny for 
audiences unable to tell the difference 


Quilley (center) and fellow chorines. 


Everything's getting 
recycled, from stage 
hit to screen classic. 


Sutherlond, Christine Baronski ir 


Crackers. 


between Brooks's brashness and the leg- 
endary Lubitsch touch. ¥¥ 
. 

More a rehash than a remake, Crackers 
(Universal) is adapted almost too loosely 
from Mario Monicelli's 1958 The Big 
Deal on Madonna Street, a classic Italian 
caper comedy that starred Vittorio Gass- 
man and Marcello Mastroianni. This 
Americanized version by French director 


Louis Malle is reset in San Francisco’s 
seedy Mission: District, and Malle ap- 
pears to be in love with his location, just as 
he was in Atlantic Сиу. He doesn't 
approach anything like that picture’s level 
of off-the-wall spontaneity, however, even 
with an easygoing, spirited company of 
actors headed by Donald Sutherland, Sean 
Penn and Wallace Shawn. Sutherland, 
Penn and a bunch of engagingly inept bad 
eggs decide to burglarize the safe in a 
pawnshop owned by a greedy friend (Jack 
Warden, dourly funny, as usual). Nothing 
goes right with the robbery, of course, but 
nothing quite clicks in the comedy, either. 
So many caper movies have been made for 
laughs in the past 25 years, I'm afraid that 
Malle's amiable secondhand spoof simply 
registers as a mis-Deal. ¥¥ 
. 

While Louis Malle pursues success 
the U.S.A. (see above), Bob Swaim 
American in Paris who has been making 
out like a bandit as writer and director of 
la Balance (International Spectrafilm). 
Winner of three 1983 César awards 
(France's answer to Oscar) for best film, 
best actress (Nathalie Baye) and best actor 
(Philippe Léotard), the movie generates 
runaway excitement in a familiar cops- 
and-robbers format— all at such a head- 
long pace it's easy to forget the English 
subtitles and relish the expertise of a laid- 
back latter-day French Connection. The 
“balance” of the title is slang for an 
informer in the Parisian underworld, 
where Léotard’s character is a smalltime 
hood alleged to be a pimp because he lives 
with a prostitute named Nicole (Baye). 
Both are used by an inspector of the elite 
Territorial Brigade to get at a top mobster 
dealing in drugs and stolen works 
of art, among other things. As the tough 
cop, Palouzi, Richard Berry plays a new- 
breed gendarme—street-wise, snappy and 
quick-witted—in a gritty performance ab- 
solutely on a par with those of his award- 
winning co-stars. Don’t let the Paris label 
scare you off. La Balance is a contempo- 
rary mean-streets melodrama made with a 
lot of moxie. ¥¥¥ 


. 

Disarmingly eccentric, Experience Pre- 
ferred . . . but Not Essential (Goldwyn) is a 
featherweight boy-meets-girl comedy from 
England, easy to take for those of us who 
savor such flyaway imported trifles. The 
activities offered are summer romance, 
boozing, bed hopping and kitchen duty at 
a country hotel in Wales, where a plucky 
student-waitress (Elizabeth Edmonds) ex- 
periences first love after some awkward 
preliminaries with a single-minded Scot- 
tish chef, drolly played by Ron Bain. Since 
the year is 1962, director Peter Duffell 
wrings some snickers from such sociologi- 
cal phenomena as provincial British birds, 
all sporting bouffant dresses and Kim 
Novak hairdos—plus a loutish local Lo- 
thario who performs the worst Elvis Pres- 
ley imitation of all time. June Roberts 


The 60's was 
the wild look. 


| The 7O's was 
the let it be look. 


{ 
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the neat look. 


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for a full-bodied, natural look. 

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use Vitalis Super Hold or 
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the pump sprays that give your hair 
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that's always soft and natural, 
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let the rest of you down) 


61984 Brstot Myers Co. 


PLAYBOY 


28 


concocted the screenplay, full of unexpect- 
ed asides as well as acute observations. 
Experience Preferred, while not absolute- 
ly essential, is the kind of minor work that 
sends you home feelin’ good. ¥¥¥ 

. 


The revamped, overwrought Scarface 
(Universal), directed by Brian De Palma 
from a screenplay by Oliver Stone, is 
nearly twice as long but not half as good as 
Howard Hawks's 1932 classic with Paul 
Muni in an unforgettable performance as 
a gang lord rather like Al Capone. De 
Palma has Al Pacino gnashing the scenery 
as Tony Montana, one of those undesira- 
bles fleeing Castro's Cuba circa 1980. A 
vibrant actor, Pacino ignites the screen 
early on as an immigrant hustler-assassin 
whose meteoric rise and fall is all the plot 
you're gonna get. But by the time hc 
winds up a multimillionaire dope impre- 
sario, marked for murder and falling nose 
first into a pile of cocaine, the movie has 
become a grotesque Grand Guignol of 
guts, gunshots and fiercely moralistic corn 
about the evils of drug use (“Don’t get 
high on your own supply” is the operative 
slogan). It’s impossible, at last, to take 
Scarface seriously, despite several stun- 
ning backup performances —by Steven 
Bauer as Pacino's closest amigo, by Mary 
Elizabeth Mastrantonio as his sister, by 
Michelle Pfeiffer as the beautiful blonde 
cokehead he marries. Obviously, the in- 
tention here was to emulate the Godfather 
saga. Slim chance. The night I suffered 
through it, Scarface had half thc audience 
in stitches as a pre-Christmas release 
heavily laden with slaphappy holiday col- 
or: plenty of red blood, greenbacks and 
white "snow." ¥¥ 

б 

Italian writer-director Marco Belloc- 
Chio's The Eyes, the Mouth (Triumph) is 
deep, moving and masterful, worth the 
sometimes stringent demands it makes on 
an audience. Bellocchio starts off with a 
wake and a funeral for a young man 
whose suicide has shaken up his mother 
(Emanuelle Riva), his twin brother (Lou 
Castel) and a former fiancée (Angela 
Molina), who doesn't seem to feel as 
guilty as she might about the fate of the 
man she jilted, Before he can make peace 
with himself, his mother and his own 
troubled past, the twin brother—an actor 
who has been pursuing his career in 
Rome—plunges into a torrid affair with 
the girl. Much later, he also shows up in 
his mother’s bedroom in the wee hours, 
wearing ghostly make-up, trying to reas- 
sure her that her dead son's spirit is at 
rest, The scene is emotionally rending and 
beautifully played, as are Castel's passion- 
ate scenes opposite Molina. The price Bel- 
locchio makes you pay for soaring along to 
the high points of his poignant psycho- 
drama is a pervasive air of earnest intel- 
lectualism, plus an awful lot of subtided 
dialog. There are specific references to 
Bellocchio’s first film, the 1965 Fists in 


ES 


Success spoils Al Pacino in Scarface. 


Pacino sinks in still 
another rehash, but 
Truffaut’s hommage scores. 


Molina, Castel, Giampaolo Saccorola in Eyes. 


the Pocket, which also starred Castel and 
concerned an Italian family afflicted with 
everything from murder to epilepsy to 
incest. Small wonder that Bellocchio 
movies almost never win wide popularity 
over here. The man’s visions are dark, 
indeed; but this time, his undeniable talent 
cuts through the gloom like heat light- 
ning. УУУ 
б 

French director Francois Truffau's 
Confidentially Yours (Inl Spectrafilm), al- 
ready a major hit in Paris, gets my vote of 
confidence to repeat its success Stateside. 
But probably not in the boondocks. The 
French are famously fond of the American 
film noir, those suspense melodramas of 
the Forties, characterized by dark passions 
and dark, wet streets. Here, in black-and- 
white photography by the masterful Nes- 
tor Almendros, Truffaut renders an 
hommage drenched in wry humor, style 
and sophistication, adopted with a pi- 
quant French touch from a Charles Wil- 
liams novel. Celebrating the genre more 
than spoofing it, Truffaut plays every 


cliché poker faced while spinning a yarn 
about a feisty secretary who turns amateur 
detective in order to clear her boss of mur- 
der charges. Asa matter of fact, dead bodies 
keep piling up after the hero (Jean-Louis 
Trintignant) leaves the scene where his 
wife's former lover has just had his head 
blown off in a duck blind. Then the errant 
wife gets hers, and things look bad for 
Trintignant until the secretary he has 
recently fired starts to meddle. Of course, 
the indomitable Barbara (played with 
great class and assurance by Fanny Ar- 
dant, Truffaut's lady offscreen as well as 
on) is secretly in love with her boss—what 
else? Since the vintage originals still pop 
up regularly on TV, maybe it's crazy or 
pointless to create a reasonable facsimile 
of a good B movie of yesteryear. I'll argue 
for the defense that Truffaut makes Confi- 
dentially Yours a delicious game. Why 
quibble when it’s such fun to play? ¥¥¥ 
5 


The Spanish-language Erendira (Mira- 
max) would be noteworthy if only because 
this quirky black comedy, directed by Ruy 
Guerra, has a screenplay by Nobel Prize- 
winning author Gabriel Garcia Marquez. 
Erendira was initially a screenplay, then a 
story that Garcîa Marquez subsequently 
included as a mini anecdote in his land- 
mark novel One Hundred Years of Soli- 
lude. Let me issue an up-front warning: 
"This movie is more than a wee bit strange. 
In the title role, a lissome Brazilian 
nymphet named Claudia Ohana plays a 
14-year-old waif whose grandmother 
forces her into a life of prostitution after. 
she accidentally burns down their house. 
As the lunatic grandma, Greece’s formida- 
ble Irene Papas almost literally chews the 
scenery—her outrageous attack on a poi- 
soned birthday cake is a match for the 
memorable eating scene in Tom Jones—in 
a performance that’s either unforgivable 
or unforgettable, or perhaps both. YY 

. 


The title El Norte (Cinecom Internation- 
al) signifies the hope of freedom and a 
better life to be gained by moving north to 
the US.A. In this overlong and often 
lugubrious drama, a brother and sister 
escape from Guatemala to Mexico and 
find their way as illegal immigrants into 
the barrio of L.A. “Where are all the grin- 
gos?” asks the innocent Rosa (Zaida Silvia 
Gutierrez), whose brother (David Villal- 
pando) is nonetheless delighted to find 
even a menial job in the States. The 
unhappy lot of good people on such a 
hopeless odyssey, forever hounded by im- 
migration agents, is movingly and some- 
times amusingly dramatized—en route to 
the border, the inside word is “If you don’t 
say fuck a lot, they'll know you're not 
Mexican." From a knowledgeable screen- 
play by Gregory Nava and Anna Thomas, 
directed by Nava, El Norte is the kind of 
well-intended movie that scems to beg for 
a pat on the back. Likable, yet 1 wish I 
had actually enjoyed it more. YY 


MOVIE SCORE CARD 


capsule close-ups oj current films 
by bruce williamson 


Blame It on Rio (Reviewed this month) 
Caine's keen in Stanley Donen’s May- 


December bedroom farce. yyy 
Carmen From Spain—Bizet bodies 
dancing wild flamenco. wy 


Christine (Reviewed this month) Car- 
crazy youth, or vice versa, in a shocker 
by Carpenter out of S. King. vr 

Confidentially Yours (Reviewed this 
month) Forties crime flicks fondly 
hailed by Truffaut, in French. ¥¥¥ 

Crackers (Reviewed this month) An 
OK carnival of thieves. vv 

The Dresser Stagy all-stops-out show- 
piece for Finney and Courtenay. УУУ 

El Norte (Reviewed this month) 
Illegal immigrants rough it in L.A. YY 

Erendiro (Reviewed this month) 
Kinky García Márquez on film. YY 

Experience Preferred . . . but Not Essential 
(Reviewed this month) Offbeat youth 
comedy at a Welsh resort. Wh 

The Eyes, the Mouth (Reviewed this 
month) Italian family skeletons. ¥¥¥ 

Gorky Park Terrific; maybe a mite less 
so if you loved the book wy 

ta Balance (Reviewed this month) 
French-style cops and robbers. ¥¥¥ 

lovo Letters (Reviewed this month) 
Jamie Lee puts her stamp on it. YY 

Privates on Parade (Reviewed this 
month) Oddball British musical. ¥¥% 

The Right Stuff High, wide, exalting 
epic about the Mercury seven. УУУУ 

Scandalous (Reviewed this month) 
Another not-so-sprightly caper. — YY 

Scarface (Reviewed this month) 
Compared with Muni in his classic, 
Pacino and De Palma are punks. ¥¥ 

Silkwood Meryl Streep's triumph as 


an antinuke Norma Rae. vvv 
Star 80 Grucling recap of the Doro- 
thy Stratten story, by Fosse vw 
Streamers A long, hard night in 
an Army barracks. ww 
Sudden Impact Dirty Harry shoulda 
stood in bed. ¥ 


Terms of Endearment MacLaine, 
Winger and Nicholson, heartbreakers 
all—and hilariously human. УУЖ 

Testament Days after in suburbia. Y 

That Sinking Feeling (Reviewed this 
month) Scottish kitchen-sink caper. ¥¥ 

Te Be or Not to Be (Reviewed this 
month) Mel, make mine Lubitsch. YY 

Yentl As a nice Jewish boy belting 
out big ballads in Eastern Europe circa 
1904, Streisand sabotages Singer. ¥¥ 


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PLAYBOY 


TO COLLECT ... TO ENJOY ... TO DISPLAY IN YOUR HOME 


The Ducks of North America 


William ]. Koelpin, dean of American 

wood carvers, creates a definitive collection 

of hand-painted miniatures —the first ever to 
portray every species of duck in North America. 


Thirty-six intricately detailed miniatures 
in all —available by subscription only. 


Hand-painted duck decoys have a beauty and 
fascination all their own. Crafted according to 
traditional skills passed down from generation to 
generation, decoys today are admired and sought after 
by collectors as unique expressions of American folk 
art. Yet never has there been a collection portraying all 
the species of North America's ducks—until now. 

For now, the dean of American wood carvers, 
William J. Koelpin, has accepted a commission from 
The Franklin Gallery to create just such a collection. A 
collection of miniature decoys portraying all of the 36 
different kinds of wild ducks native to North America. 
Each decoy will be superbly detailed —hand-painted 
in its full natural colors. Together, they will form an 
unprecedented display of sporting art in a uniquely 
American collecting tradition. 


Classics—by an acknowledged master 
The art of William J. “Bill” Koelpin 
has won numerous awards and can 
be seen in major museums and 
private collections throughout the 
country. In 1974, Koelpin was 
chosen “Best in World” at the World 
Championship Wild Fowl Carving 
Competition in Salisbury, Maryland. 
х He has been named "Master of the 
Guild" by the International Wood Carving Guild. And 
our nation's most prestigious wildlife museum—the 
Lehigh-Yawkey-Woodson Art Museum in Wausau, 
Wisconsin—has called him “one of America's 
premier artists." 

Bill Koelpin's enormous talent— his artistic 
mastery, his accuracy and complete authenticity— 
will be in evidence throughout The Ducks of North 
America Miniature Decoy Collection. 

Working directly in miniature, he has hand-carved 
an original master for each species of duck. From 
these master models, expert craftsmen take special 
molds, so incredibly detailed that they capture every 
line and curve of the sculptor's art. Fach decoy in the 
collection is then crafted from these molds in a blend 
of resins and wood to create a perfect miniature. A 


work so lifelike, in every respect, that you will 
actually be able to see the attitude of the bird ... the 
texture of its wing plumage ... and the true-to-scale 
proportion of each species— from the majestic Mallard 
and King Eider to the compact Surf Scoter. 


The rich colors and shadings of nature 
To add to the life-like realism of the collection, each 
miniature decoy is then individually hand-painted in 
as many as twelve colors. These colors are carefully 
chosen and painstakingly applied to accurately define 
the rich hues and subtle shadings found in nature. 
The iridescent green hood of the Mallard, for 
example. The steel-blue head and muted speckled 
breast of the Blue-winged Teal. And the brilliant 
plumage of the Wood Duck —a rainbow of purple, 
green, burgundy and bronze. 
| Indeed, this individual hand 
painting of each miniature is 
the only way to achieve the 
authenticity that distinguishes 
the most desirable decoys. 
The result of all this 


Miniature Decoy Collection 


meticulous craftsmanship is a collection of 36 
miniature decoys that represents a truly remarkable 
achievement. For each one is faithful to nature. 
Crafted with the precision and detail that would do 
credit to a full-size decoy— in a miniature that rests 
comfortably in the palm of your hand. 

To complete the presentation, the base of each 
decoy will bear the signature of William J. Koelpin, 
together with the name of the waterfowl portrayed. 
And each decoy will be accompanied by a specially 
written commentary, describing the duck, its seasonal 
markings and its habitat. ши 


A dramatic display to | 
showcase the collection 
So that these superb 
hand-painted miniatures 
may be displayed to their 
best advantage, a 
handsome display rack 

will be included as part of 
the collection. 

This fine hardwood rack 


will provide a dramatic accent for 
the walls of a study, den or office. Its design allows 
ample room for the collection to be arranged in any of 
several ways. 
Enter your subscription by April 30th 
The Ducks of North America Miniature Decoy 
Collection will be crafted exclusively for subscribers. 
Itiis available only by direct subscription from The 
Franklin Gallery. It will not be sold through stores. 
If you appreciate the beauty of nature's most 
spectacular waterfowl. . . and its expression in the 
uniquely American tradition of finely crafted decoys 
+ . this collection of hand-painted miniatures will 
provide you with rich and lasting satisfaction. 
To subscribe, please reply by April 30, 1984. 


MALLARD 


"Um Э 


Decoys, at left, shown reduced. Average length is 3 inches. 
The base of each decoy will bear the name of the species portrayed, the 
Signature of the artist, and the copyright of The Franklin Gallery, 


The Ducks of North America 


MINIATURE DECOY COLLECTION 
Please mail by April 30, 1984. 


; 
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1 The Franklin Gallery 

1 Franklin Center, Pennsylvania 19091 

i Please enter my subscription for The Ducksof North Amerjca 
1 Miniature Decoy Collection by William J. Koelpin, consisting 
1 of 36 hand-painted miniature decoys, to be issued to me at 
i the rate of one per month. 

N I understand that the original issue price is $27.50* foreach 
} — miniature decoy and that this price will be guaranteed to me 
1 

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sent to me at no additional charge. 

Ineed send nomoney now. | will be billed for each decoy in 
Grassi oe mass. "Plus my stete sales tax and 
я. for shipping and handling. 


Signature 
Mr. 
Mrs. 
Miss = = 


Address — 


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for the entire collection. The hardwood display rack willbe — 1 
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hc “hero” of God's Pocker (Random 
House), Pete Dexter's fine first novel, 
is the corpse of a jabbering psychopath 
named Leon Hubbard, whose life ends as 
the story begins. The attempt to dispose of 
Leon's body triggers a rollicking chain of 
events that seems bound to undo everyone 
who comes in contact with the corpse—the 
cops, the reporters, the Mobsters, the bar- 
flies and the relatives who hang, like bats, 
from Leon’s family tree. These are the 
people of God’s Pocket, a tough Philadel- 
phia neighborhood that comes to life in 
these pages just as surely as Leon passes 
away. Dexter has a bone-deep feel for the 
street and an ear for the voices you hear 
there. Despite his popular column in the 
Philadelphia Daily News, Dexter is one of 
the best-kept secrets on the literary scene. 
God's Pocket should blow his cover. 
. 

l's been a good year for mysteries: 
We've read all of James Crumley and 
Elmore Leonard and Stephen Greenleaf. 
Into this banner year, unannounced, came 
Tapping the Source (Delacorte), a first novel 
by Кет Nunn. He is in a league with the 
masters. The novel captures life in a 
Southern California surfing town, com- 
plete with bikers, dope dealers, pornogra- 


Leon's dead, but he won't li 


Mystery, Matthiessen, first 
novels and our last laugh. 
with our imitators. 


Imitation being the sincerest form 
and all that, we at eLAYBOY have been 
flattered frequently over the years. No 
other magazine has come close to 
spawning so many parodies—and no, 
we're not talking about our regular 
imitators out there on the newsstands. 
Punch, The Harvard Lampoon; name 
the publication and it has probably 
taken a satirical shot at us. 

But even we were a little dazed by 
the shoot-out last fall and winter be- 
tween two competing parodies: Play- 
bore and Playboy, The Parody. While 


we thought both were provocative, if 


ARS ( 


'A RIGHT ROVALSPEEAD, 


ITEMS FROM, 
CHRISTMAS 
Ахи 


Pe 


we have a vote, we'll cast it for Play- 
boy, The Parody. 

While Playbore, first on the news- 
stands, limited itself to inside jokes 
about the Hefners and some detestable 
jokes about murdered Playmates, Play- 
boy, The Parody put us on a spit (see 
cover) and roasted us but did so in a 
way that suggested it understood the 
foibles of this magazine. From a Prin- 
cess Di centerfold we wish we owned to 
a tasty spread on “Wife Tasting,” it’s 
terrific. Hats off to its ingenious staff. 

We now return you to the real 
thing. 


mena 
euet 
IS DEAD 
Bun 
оста 
Eod 
BER 
IS WRESTUNG 
am 
RERS 


BEDROOM CRISIS: 


йш" 


phers and runaway girls. Nunn’s hero is 
an almost catatonic kid from the desert, 
come to the promised land in search of a 
lost sister. This belongs on your book- 
shelf. 

. 

If you're thinking of making beaucoup 
hucks by writing a best-selling novel that 
will be turned into a television miniseries, 
read Susan Isaacs’ novel Almost Paradise 
(Harper & Row) for your prototype. 
She’s got everything here: glamorous 
characters, incestuous relationships, opu- 
lent living, sordid affairs, mental illnesses, 
family squabbles. Trust us. This novel’s a 
hot one. 


. 

Somewhere in the middle of this very 
fine book, you perceive a structure to each 
chapter of Indian Country (Viking), by Peter 
Matthiessen. In his descriptions of his 
its to the far-flung lands of American 
Indians (the Miccosukee of Florida, the 
Hopi and the Navaho in the Southwest, 
the Eastern Cherokee, the Mohawk, the 
Lakota, the Western Shoshone, Paiute, 
Ute and others), Matthiessen gives us first 
a short history of the tribe and its territo- 
ry, then a description of the lives of its 
members today—and finally a dear sense 
that so-called civilization is about to tear 
apart both the land itself and the Indians’ 
way of life. First the Indians. Then the 
rest of us. 


. 
It’s reassuring that someone as smart 
and stylish as Renata Adler is writing 
novels. In Pitch Dark (Knopf), Kate is leav- 
ing her married lover of many years. She 
also has a bizarre and paranoid escape 
from Ireland, ing in unfamiliar ter- 
rain in the pitch-dark of night. Kate has a 
perfect memory for stories and conversa- 
tions with her friends and the cadences of 
their speech—to the reader's advantage. 
Adler keeps her distance, though. Pitch 
Dark is an ambivalent, wonderful book. 


BOCK BAG 


Out of the Blue (Crown), by James 
McManus: An almost flawless kidnaping 
snatches a child from her parents, but the 
kidnapers have made one mistake; they've 
taken the wrong child. This thriller shifts 
from placc to place and person to person 
in a style that keeps you off balance and 
uncertain throughout. If ever a book put 
you solidly in the middle of a traumatic 
event, this one is it. 

The Trimtab Factor (William Morrow), by 
Harold Willens: A successful Californi: 
businessman, Willens has aimed this 
about the nuclear-arms race straight at the 
business community. He proposes practi- 
cal, pragmatic steps that businessmen can 
take to help end that deadly race. 


xx COMING ATTRACTIONS x 


By JOHN BLUMENTHAL 


1001 GOSSIP: Eddie Murphy 
have been set to team in 
Defense, a comedy based on Robert Gross- 
bach's novel Easy and Hard Ways Out 
Moore plays a down-and-out industrial 
engineer developing the Army's newest 
war machine; Murphy portrays an Army 
licutenant who, when ass 
the weapon, stumbles upon an interna- 
tional incident. . . . Woody Allen has 
decided moi to star in his next film, The 
Purple Rose of Cairo, but he will direct and 
has, of course, written the script. So far, 
ia Farrow and Danny Aiello have been cast. 
As usual, no plot details are available. . . . 
Dolly Parton and Sylvester Stallone have been 
signed to co-star in 20th Ce i 
Rhinestone, a romantic comedy with songs. 
Parton plays a singer who bets her boss 
she can make a country-and-western 
singer out of anybody; Stallone plays 
the anybody (a New York cabby). . 

David Keith, Drew Barrymore, George C. 
Scott, Martin Sheen, Art Carney, Louise 
Fletcher and Heather Locklear make up the 


Moore Murphy 
star-studded cast of Universal's Firestarter, 
based on the Stephen King best seller. . 
Director John Huston will bring to the 
screen adaptations of two great novels— 
Anatole France's The Revolt of the Angels 
and Nobel Prize winner Gabriel Garcia Mar- 
quez' The Autumn of the Patriarch John 
(Return of the Secaucus Seven) Sayles will 
write the screenpl 
versions of both of Jean M. Auels besi- 
selling novels, The Clan of the Cave Bear 
and The Valley of Horses. . . . Burt Reynolds 
will star in and direct Universal's Stick, 
based on Elmore teonard's novel about an 
ex-con who inadvertently gets hooked up 
with the Mob. George Segal, Candice Bergen, 
Charles Durning and José Perez co-star. 
E 

CHANGE OF PACE: As carlier announced in 
this column, Murray is undertaking his 
first serious dramatic role in Columbia's 
The Razor's Edge, based on the novel by W. 
Somerset Maugham. Murray plays Larry 
Darrell who, after witnessing the horrors. 
of World War One, returns home to his 
fiancée (Catherine Hicks) and a job as a 
stockbroker. Although most men would be 


for Universal's film 


content with this lot, Darrell is not. Some- 
how, wealth and security cannot quite fi 
the philosophical and spiritual gap in his 
life, so he sets out on a pilgrimage first to 
Paris, then to a monastery in the Tibetan 


Hicks Murray 


mountains. Ten years later, his life’s pur- 
pose clearer, he returns to Paris to confront 
the people and the problems he left 
unresolved. Says director John (Heart 
Beat) Byrum, “Bill Murray and I are drawn 
10 The Razor's Edge for the same reasons. 
We identify with Larry Darrell in h 
curiosity about a larger world beyond the 
onc in which he was born." Theresa Russell, 
Denholm Elliott and James Keach co- 
in the picture, which is set for an Octob. 
release. 


. 

JUNGIE ROT: Sultry Kathleen (Body Heat) 
Turner heats up the sere ide Michael 
Douglas in Fox's romantic comedy- 
adventure Romancing the Stone. Turner 
plays Joan Wilder, a writer of romance 
novels involving a beautiful heroine 
named Angelina and the usual swashbuck- 
ling adventurers; the authoress hers 
however, lives in timid seclusion in a New 
York apartment. Her simple life behind 
the typewriter is rudely interrupted one 
day when she gets a call for help from her 
sister, who is being held captive in South 


Turner Douglas 


America. Next thing we know, our reluc- 
tant heroine is standing in the middle of 
the South American jungle in a three-piece 
Bergdorf Goodman ensemble and two- 
inch heels. Enter Jack Colton (Douglas), 
your basic strong, handsome soldicr-of- 
fortune romantic-hero type, packing а 
12-gauge Winchester pump and offering 
his assistance. Off they go to find Sis, 
and guess what happens along the way? 
Directed by Robert (Used Cars) Zemeckis, 


Romancing the Stone co-stars Danny DeVito 
and Mary Ellen (The Stone Bay) Trainor. 
. 

MISS POPULARITY; In Maria’s Lovers, small- 
town beauty Maria Bosic (Nastassia Kinski) 
is adored by three men—Clarence Butts 
(Keith Carradine), a handsome drifter with 
a mesmerizing effect on women, Al Griselli 
(Vincent Spano), an Air Force colonel; and 
Ivan Bibic (John Savage), a former GI 
recently returned home afier years in a 
apanese POW camp during World War 
wo. Of the three, Bibic is the most se 
tive, having created a fantasy marriage to 


Savage Kinski 


Maria during his imprisonment. The 
uestion is, Whom will Maria choose? 
Tentatively sei for a spring release, 
Mana's Lovers co-stars Robert Mitchum as 
Bibic's father. 


. 

DEBUT: The tentatively titled Nat King 
Cole Story is set to go before the cameras 
sometime this spring, with Al Jarreau, in his 
feature-film debut, starring as the late 
singer. (At presstime, no other cast members 
ad been chosen, though word has it Ben 
Vereen has been approached.) The movie 
will highlight Cole's struggle against can 
cer, his efforts to finance the first black TV 
and his experience as the first black 
- (Cole's son, Kelly, 
has been hired as a research consultant.) 
Says Jarreau, “I'm really excited about 
trying my hand at film. To portray a 
legend, lm going to have my hands full.” 

P 

LOVE TRIANGLE: Grandview, U.S.A. is a bit- 
tersweet comedy about a love triangle 
olving young people in a small 
Midwestern town. Both €. Themas (The 
Outsiders) Howell and Patrick (Missing in 
Action) Swayze have the hots for none other 
than Jamie Lee Curtis. (Howell is the high 
school valedictorian, Swayze is a married 
construction worker and Curtis is Mike 
dy, the tough-talking, tow-truck-driving 
owner-operator of a demolition-derby 
track.) "Keep "em guessing’ is my mot- 
to,” says Jamie Lee, who's not a bit sorry 
to be temporarily ndoning her sexy 
Trading Places ima "Mike Cody's a 
wonderful part. 1 don't have to take off my 
clothes and I don't have to look pretty.” 
Grandview, U.S.A. is directed by Randal 


Kleiser. 


PLAYBOY 


"My hotel 
recognizes the 


quality of Smirnoff. 


My guests 
А demand its value” 


“Atthe Stanford 
Court, we've built 
our business on quality— from the back of the kitchen 
to the front of the bar. 


“That's why we pour Smirnoff? vodka. It's distilled from the finest quality grain 
money can buy. And only Smirnoff is checked 47 times for quality and 
smoothness. So for just a little more than ordinary vodkas, we can offer our 
guests the quality of Smirnoff. 


JAMES A. NASSIKAS, President 
The Stanford Court Hotel 


“T think Smirnoff is an excellent value in vodka. s 
And our guests must, too. They keep asking for it^ mimo 


LEAVES YOU BREATHLESS 


There's vodka, and then there's Smirnoff. 


REMEMBER SPECIAL OCCASIONS BY SENDING A GIFT OF SMIRNOFF ANYWHERE INTHE CONTINENTAL U.S, CALL TOLL FREE, 1800-528-6148, 
SMIRNOFF" VOOKA 0 & 100 PROOF O'STILLEO FROM GRAIN. STE. PIERRE SMIRNOFF FLS(OIVISION OF HEUBLEIN, INC) HARTFORO, CT, —"MAOE IN U.S.A 


By ASA BABER 


ONE OF my earliest childhood memories is 
of boxing with my father. I was about five 
years old when we started doing that. I 
remember that the gloves were brown and 
smelled like new leather. They were too 
large for my hands, and they were hot and 
heavy to tote around the living room. 
“Come on, Ace,” my father would say as 
we circled each other. Jab, jab, jab, light 
punches into my face, nose-stinging, scary. 
"There was no way I could reach him, but I 
tried. “That-a-boy, come on.” 

"Understand that I loved my father and I 
honor him. But that image of the two of us 
sparring fits our history perfectly. In my 
heart, 1 am sure my father wanted to be 
my friend, but the role he assigned himself 
was that of master. Because ] was the boy 
of the house, he often unleashed his 
aggression and anger directly at me, 
achieving obedience, yes, and possibly eas- 
ing the frustration he felt from his failing 
career. But he set a way of being that was 
damaging to me: The first lesson I learned 
was that to be male, you must be angry. 
The second was that my fellow males 
were as likely to hurt me as they were to 
help me. 

T wasn’t alone in receiving those mes- 
sages. At home, my childhood colleagues 
and I were whipped and spanked and hit, 
and then we went out into the street to do 
the same to one another. Fighting was a 
male rite of passage. Like all rites, it set a 
tone and left scars. 

When I was cight, a kid named Jamie 
Hodkins used to beat the shit out of me 
every day before school. Jamie smelled 
like a garbage can and lived in a tenement. 
He was a couple of years older than me 
and was huge. I tried running and duck- 
ing, I tried hiding, 1 tried every dodge I 
could think of, but Jamie always caught 
me before I could get to the school door. 

I took about a week of that crap. Then, 
on a morning I still clearly remember, 
something in me snapped. I didn't know it 
at the time, but what was breaking inside 
me was my last hope for innocence. Jamie 
had me pinned to the playground and was 
doing a tattoo on my face. The other kids 
were cheering the morning’s entertain- 
ment. The teachers were looking the other 
way. “I don't like this," I told myself, 
“and if I don't do something about it, Pm 
going to end up with a busted skull.” 

That was the morning J discovered that 
I have very quick hands and no physical 
fear in certain situations. I rose up and 
smote Jamie with a number of well-placed 
punches. The sight of his nose splashed all 
over his face was not peaceful or wonder- 
ful to me, but better his nose than mine, I 
decided. And to keep the momentum, I 


THE ROOTS OF 


AGGRESSION, 
PART ONE 


“When I was eight, a kid named 
Jamie Hodkins used to 
beat the shit out of me 

every day before school.” 


turned the tables and ambushed him every 
day of the following week as he went to 
school. I even enjoyed my new status as 
bully. I hadn't yet learned that those 
whom the gods of aggression will destroy 
they first make victorious. 

І can chart my youth in the Forties and 
Fifties by referring to specific fights. The 
culture itself reinforced the idea that 
aggression was OK. Movies and television 
taught me that you could kill Indians, 
Germans, Japanese and anybody else you 
defined as bad guys, and that was perfect- 
ly all right. As a matter of fact, it was 
rewarded. 

Dying seemed to be mostly a male pre- 
occupation. Friends of mine died in the 
street, in the military, in prison. "Live 
fast, die young and have a good-looking 
corpse!" Willard Motley wrote. Most of 
us bought that concept, not because we 
weren't inwardly frightened but because 
we wanted approval. Aggression begat 
approval, especially from the men on 
whom we modeled ourselves. 

I am saying that the male world is a 
unique world. The male consciousness is 


exposed to excessive violence as it is form- 
ing, and it is no accident that most men 
can give you a list of rumbles, collisions 
and punishments from their youth that 
they remember vividly to this day. Aggres- 
sion is drilled into us. In most cases, it is 
the only consistent standard of behavior 
held up to us as acceptable. At home, in 
school, in sports, in the culture, we learn 
that if we don't stay aggressive, terrible 
things may happen to us. Aggression is 
made central to our lives, and I submit 
that—whether tapped or not—it runs 
through us like a river. We spend much of 
each day trying to determine when to use 
it, when to react to it, when to control it. 

So what’s the problem? 

It depends on whom you talk with, I 
guess, but I see major complications: (1) I 
believe that continuous aggression is 
taught to us, that it is not natural; (2) the 
river that runs through us wears on us and 
destroys us prematurely; (3) aggression as 
a pattern of behavior is essentially a loser's 
pattern, not a winner's (and, as a corollary 
to that, men who buy aggression as the 
way to function are buying the scam of the 
century). 

I grew up in the house of a man who 
was extremely aggressive. A handsome 
man, always well groomed, graceful and 
compact, my father could lose his sense of 
humanity in a flash. Yet his anger never 
served him well. It hurt him with his 
family and it hurt him at work. His 
aggressiveness destroyed him. And still he 
held it out as one of the only things he 
could teach me. Much to my sorrow, I 
learned his lesson well, and controlling my 
temper has always been one of my basic 
struggles. I believe I have many brothers 
in that inherited struggle. It is primarily 
male. Thus, I maintain that the river that 
runs through us men is channeled there; it 
is not solely born in us. 

Women, for example, handle aggres- 
sion much differently from men, and for 
my money, they handle it better. Why is 
that? Because they are raised in another 
world and the signals they receive about 
aggression and anger are completely dif- 
ferent from the ones we receive. 

"That's what I want to talk about next 
month: anger and aggression as learned 
emotions. And the fact that what is 
learned can be unleamed if we're willing 
to think clearly. 

"Those of us caught in aggression’s trap 
can use our wits and our intelligence 
to get out of it, and we would be 
wise to be about it. 


1984BEWTCo 


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


Kings, 9 mg. "tar", O .7 mg. nicotine; 100's, 11 mg. "tar", 
0.8 mg. nicotine av. per cigarette, FTC Report Mar. ‘83. 


ly one wa 
to play it. 


There's only one sensation this refreshing. 
Low 'tar' Kool Lights. The taste doesn't miss a beat. 


By CYNTHIA HEIMEL 


TM SITTING HERE praying he doesn't come 
in. Wherever he is, whatever he's doing, 
please, God, let him do it for just a few 
minutes longer. A couple of hours, say. All 
right, an hour will do, even half. Just a 
couple more minutes and I'll be fine. 

What do you figure I’m doing? Boning 
up for my neurosurgery exam? Putting 
the finishing touches on a gelignite bomb? 
Constructing a complicated soufflé? 

Nah, I’m just lying around, picking my 
nose. And when that gets tedious, I start 
fastidiously scraping the paint off every 
one of my toenails. For a treat, I light a 
few cigarettes and consider making toast. 

But I don’t want him here right now, 
even though he is the love of my life. What 
a guy. Tall, gorgeous and peppy. Smart, 
talented. Will give any and every bum on the 
street his last quarter. An intuitive streak 
as wide as the Nile. Can play my favorite 
songs not only on the guitar but on the 
saxophone, the bass, the clarinet and 
almost the flute. Will climb mountains, 
but will also take taxis. Has been known 
to bring me flowers. A devastating lover. 

Ask me if I care about any of the above. 
No, I do not, not at the moment. What I 
care about is that this misbegotten toad of 
a man refuses to put caps on anything. I've 
got myself worked up into a fine lather 
Over the uncapped shampoo, vitamins, 
ketchup, shaving cream. And he refuses to 
wrap up the bread after he uses it. And 
leaves wet towels on the sofa. Have I men- 
tioned how he leaves his herb tea in the 
pot, so that I can't make my Earl Grey? 

Don't tell mc I'm an idiot. I know. A 
petty, insipid, Seventies cliché of an idiot. 

I mean, what I'm talking about here is 
space. As in “I need my” or “Gimme 
some.” I may be an idiot, but I’m no fool, 
and I know that the only reason I’m sitting 
here scraping at my toenails is that this 
dream man, this man I adore, is just too 
goddamned close. Tooth-paste caps, for- 
sooth! What right-minded girl would give 
a flying fuck about tooth-paste caps? 

Me, that’s who, and I’m so humiliated. 
Space to me is a silly concept, redolent 
of encounter groups, self-improvement 
courses, hot-tub therapy and all those oth- 
er cult-of-the-self things that I find so 
repugnant and banal. To me, soul-search- 
ing is the sort of thing you do when there's 
nothing on the Late Show or when you're 
14 and don't know why you're horny. 
Loving others, that's the ticket. Feeling 
connected, warm-blooded, responsible yet 
irreverent, humble yet freewheeling— 
these are the things I hold dear. 

But please don't let him come in right 
now. Pm feeling anxious; I can't breathe. 

And it’s not just me. My best friend 
reckons she has the perfect marriage 
because they live together only on week- 


WHAT IS THS 
THNG CALLED 
SPACE? 


“We postwar babies all seem to 
have been dropped on our heads. 
We fall madly in love, we fall 
madly out of love.” 


ends. Every Friday, they go to their coun- 
try house; every Monday, they drive back 
to their separate apartments in the city. 
My other best friend just broke up with 
her live boyfriend of six years and 
wakes up in the morning feeling immense 
relief. She's in love with a musician in 
L.A. now—he’s 3000 miles away—and 
she couldn’t be more jolly. I phoned 
another friend tonight, asked him how his 
wife was. “She’s out right now,” he said. 
“We're getting along great, but I’m sitting 
here dreading her coming in.” 

“Me, too!” I crowed, delighted to find a 
soul brother. “Whats the matter with us? 
People sometimes stay married for 20 
years, or 30, or 40. Happily, I’m told.” 

“Our generation has the most trouble of 
all,” he said sadly. 

I think he's right. We postwar babies 
all seem to have been dropped on our 
heads. We fall madly in love, we fall mad- 
ly out of love. We rush in where angels 
fear to tread, and then hotfoot it right out 
of there the instant the going gets weird. 
And we continue to blabber on about 
space. Space! Communists don’t talk 
about space, and they're all living six to a 
bedroom. People during the London blitz 


didn’t talk about their space, they just 
passed the hot soup. And children love 
sleep-over parties, where eight or nine of 
them cram together on the floor in sleep- 
ing bags and giggle. Yet I, for one, can. 
become a sniveling wimp if one stunning 
man comes into my territory. 

Why? 1 have a theory. I think all of us 
inner-space seekers have missed an essen- 
tial part of our development. Perhaps 
there is a virus in the air that arrests 
brain-cell growth. 

I think we never got over being 14 and 
horny. Consider the 14-year-old, if you 
dare: pimply, gangly, gumchewing, con- 
stantly jerking off. Not child, not adult, a 
miasma of insecurity and hormones. The 
most distinguishing characteristic of the 
14-year-old is that she (or he) has no dis- 
tinguishing characteristic. They all say 
and think the same things, they all listen 
to the same ghastly rock ’n’ roll, none of 
them would be caught dead without their 
regulation-cut Lacoste shirts. They buy 
anything TV tells them to. They make 
frenzied dashes toward independence, 
then get scared and rush, shivering, back 
under Mommy’s wing. They’re stubborn, 
wrongheaded, moody. 

They act like that because they don’t 
yet know who they are. Their personali- 
ties are still amorphous blobs. A 14-year- 
old may be dimly aware that she likes 
biology better than history, but that’s 
about it. She (or he) is still molting. 

I would like to propose that many of us 
are still like that. We're still wondering 
whether or not we like The Rolling 
Stones. If someone asks us to name our 
favorite color, we're baffled. It isn't space 
we need to achieve, it’s definition. 

That makes for plenty big trouble when 
we try to form relationships. We haven't a 
clue to who we are, but there is this person 
next to us who may be able to tell us. 

My lover is gripped by the mysteries of 
the Pyramids, and I find myself equally 
gripped. He likes folk music and, sudden- 
ly, so do I. My personality, still searching 
for a shape, assumes his. I become de- 
pendent on him to tell me who I am. 

Then I get mad, and panicky, and 
claustrophobic. My own dependence 
scares me. I cling closer and enjoy it less. 
His presence becomes overpowering, all- 
encompassing, and all I want to do is run 
screaming from the room. 

Not a pretty picture. But I'm taking 
myself in hand. Whenever things get 
really strange, I read a Wodehouse novel. 
1 like Wodehouse; he doesn't. I buy a pair 
of shoes, have lunch with a girlfriend, lis- 
ten to Willie Nelson. Slowly but surely, 1 
am building a personality for myself. 

After all, if I have no personality, I have 
nothing to give. Nobody wants to come 
home every day to a girl picking her 
toenails. Does he? Ej 


37 


y F 
w be Peg. 
= Rosso A 


шг! 4 


HE ANS 
Winning Wordly. Well bred. A == 


THE PLAYBOY ADVISOR 


| | жй гиа куаш кї any ze 
many fine articles, including The Playboy 
Advisor. I would like to call your attention 
to this situation: I have been married for 
three years now and am very much in love 
with my wife. She has a fantasy of my 
giving head to another guy while she 
watches. She claims that by doing that, she 
would be able to tell what I wanted her to 
do to me (she figures that I would know 
what I was doing, I guess). There isn't 
anything I wouldn't do for her, not even 
give a blow job if that's what she wanted. 
"The problem is getting the other person. I 
have asked two very close friends of ours. 
One said no flat-out and the other said 
OK, but not with her watching. I told him 
no way. Do you have any suggestions on 
how we can get a consenting third party? I 
would appreciate your thoughts and com- 
ments.—R. A., Utica, New York. 

Your wife wants to know what you like? 
Put her fingers into your mouth. Pretend 
they are a penis. Do unto her, etc. Forget 
about third parties, unless it's a party you 
шат. 


Las winter, 1 told myself that I wouldn't 
go through another summer in my over- 
weight condition. I embarked on a fitness 
program that I gleaned from one of the 
fitness manuals now on the market. The 
result was two muscle pulls, a wrenched 
back and feet that ached constantly. I had 
to give up halfway through the program. 
A friend with whom I was working out 
had no such problems. OK, this year I 
vowed the same thing. How do I avoid the 
same result?—P. P., Seattle, Washing- 
ton. 

Remember the old joke: Man: Doc, it 
hurts when I do this. Doc: Don’t do that! 
Well, there’s a lot of fitness wisdom in that. 
It seems to us you're making at least two 
mistakes. The first is setting yourself an 
unrealistic goal. The second is turning 
your fitness program into a competitive 
exercise. If you've been overweight for 
some time, it’s going to take a while for 
your body and your mind to get in line. If 
an exercise hurts when you do it, don’t do 
it. Find a different way to exercise the 
same part of your body. Forget the mas- 
ochists who tell you, “No pain, no gain.” 
Fain is a sign that something is wrong! 
Expect a little soreness, a little fatigue, a 
slight ache because you are waking up 
muscles that haven't been used in some 
time. But don’t push yourself to the point 
of incapacitation. That's not what a fitness 
program is all about. Start slowly. If you 
can’t do the required 15 push-ups, do five. 
Don't feel you have lo be able to run a 
marathon to be fit. Above all, don't try to 
compete with someone else to see who can 
become fit first. No two bodies are the 


same. They differ in metabolism, fat 
content, structure and durability, not to 
mention tolerance for pain. Fitness train- 
ing ts not a blood sport. If you’re not in 
peak shape by this summer, next summer 
will do fine, or the summer after that. This 
is one of the rare cases in which you get 
points, and results, for trying. 


M, husband is an avid subscriber to 
your magazine, and after thoroughly scru- 
tinizing several issues, I have come to the 
conclusion that the people who do your 
research actually do know their business. 
So how about a bit of psychology? I know 
that all people fantasize to a certain 
degree. However, is there a right and a 
wrong way to do it? My fantasy is rape. I 
am usvally watching from a hiding place 
while one or two men rape a woman or a 
young girl. It is always nonviolent and the 
victim always becomes terribly turned on 
as it proceeds. It usually ends up with anal 
intercourse, and sometimes I even fanta- 
size about men raping another man. 

I do enjoy anal sex on rare occasions, 
but it frightens me to realize that these 
fantasies are the only thing that will bring 
me to orgasm. The thought of an actual 
rape is appalling to me, so why do I obtain 
such enjoyment from thinking about it? 1 
don’t even like to be dominated. 

Гуе never breathed a word of this to 
anyone, as I am so afraid that it is really a 
sicko thing to do and no one would under- 
stand. After many years of wondering 
whether or not I am normal, I feel as 
though 1 will pop if I don’t find out. I am 
thanking you in advance for any help you 
can offer.—Mirs. Н. G., Chicago, Illinois. 

There is no right or wrong way to fanta- 


size. We've mentioned this before: Many 
women report having a favorite fantasy 
that they rely on to precipitate orgasm. 
Researchers call such erotic scenarios “old 
friend” fantasies, even though the subjects 
may vary. That much is normal. However, 
when a technique becomes the only source 
of pleasure, or when it stops working, you 
have a problem. Besides, your fantasy is 
not that uncommon. More than 45 percent 
of the women included in “The Playboy 
Readers’ Sex Survey” (January 1983) 
said they had fantasies of molestation or 
humiliation. It’s not ready for prime-time 
TV, but it works. 


AA couple of years ago, I spent ten mis- 
erable months working for a guy I just 
couldn't get along with. He fired me about. 
the same time I walked out. Since then, 
I've found a better job and my record here 
has been such that I am receiving offers of 
employment from a number of very good 
companies. Those companies always re- 
quest that I send them a résumé. Frankly, 
T'd just as soon forget that one bad experi- 
ence and I really don't want a prospective 
employer talking to my former boss. Do 
you think it would be all right to leave that. 
off my résumé? What if they ask me about. 
the missing ten months?—A. M., Сіпсіп- 
nati, Ohio. 

Let's put things in perspective. You're 
not trying to cover up a felony, you're just 
trying to forget a simple personality con- 
(flict. We see no reason for your not taking 
the Fifth in this case. A résumé is not a 
confession. In the real world, it serves as 
an advertisement for yourself. You are your 
own product, and there's no way you can 
sell a product by telling people about the 
rare occasions when it doesn't work. That 
kind of information is usually relegated to 
what's called fine print. You will have the 
opportunity to add your fine print when 
you get a face-lo-face meeting. If you add 
it to your résumé, you may not get that 
chance. Put those things in Ihe resume that 
you are proud of and that reflect your true 
accomplishments. Once you've got your 
Joot in the door, that’s soon enough to bring 
out the dirty laundry. Most employers will 
allow for one bad experience in a career; 
none of us is perfect. And your current 
record will show that it was, indeed, a 


fluke. 


ЇН: the letter from L.S. of St. Louis in 
November’s Advisor: There may be one 
more factor at work in the gentleman's 
inability to have his mate achieve that 
“rapid and effortless” orgasm. L.S. may 
comfort himself with the fact that many 
women find sex with a man who no longer 
loves them to be highly exciting. This 
appears to be something of a phenomenon 


39 


PLAYBOY 


among us old-fashioned, highly moral but 
highly passionate women. 

Much to my own surprise, and after 
months of dreading and/or withholding 
sex, I began to seduce my soon-to-be-ex- 
husband. I derived a great deal of satisfac- 
tion from being irresistible to a man whom 
I no longer loved and who no longer loved 
me. I experienced a very heady sensation 
of power and also a conviction that I was 
finally doing something for me, getting in 
touch with my body again and, most 
important, proving I really didn’t need the 
love of this once all-important man to be 
alive, desirable and loving. That renewed 
self-respect made those seductions unusu- 
ally passionate and exciting. I have never 
quite decided whether or not my behavior 
was morally responsible, but I walked out 
of that man’s life with my head high. 

So please tell L.S. that the ex may be 
receiving the lady's favors but not her 
respect, and that a rapid and effortless 
orgasm may indicate that a woman is 
enjoying her own company—not that of 
the man in bed with her.—Mrs. B. G., 
Vancouver, British Columbia. 

Thank you for sharing this experience. 
We're glad it ended well for you and hope 
you learned enough about yourself that the 
next time, love and great sex won't be 
mutually exclusive. 


Even though I already have a credit card, 
I keep getting offerings in the mail to 
upgrade my card to a premium type. Most 
of their special privileges, however, are 
related to travel, which I simply don't do. 
Is it worth my while to upgrade my card, 
or is this just another way to get a few 
more bucks out of my wallet?—L. P., 
New York, New York. 

While you can pretty well bet that the 
new upgrades aren't designed to save you 
money, they do offer increased services for 
the extra cost. Those generally include 
higher credit lines, cash advances, auto- 
matic travel insurance, personal-check- 
cashing services, guaranteed reservations 
and the like. While your present credit 
card may be sufficient for your needs now, 
there is no telling when you might find 
yourself destitute in Pago Pago. The point 
is, you are not only upgrading your card, 
you are upgrading your credit, too. That 
upgrade will follow you the same way your 
original credit rating did when you go to 
buy a house or a car, or even a toaster at a 
local department store. If you can pass 
muster for one of the premium cards, you 
are more likely to pass muster when you 
ask for credit in other places. Also, there is 
no denying the fact that the cards have a 
certain cachet. Carrying one tells strangers 
that you are a member in good standing of 
the “Haves” club. Whatever you think 
about status symbols, having one is better 
than not having one. So if you are entitled 
to one, why leave home without it? 


About a year ago, the girl 1 am seeing 
now was wearing an Angora sweater. It 


was very soft to the touch and feminine- 
looking. That night, while initiating fore- 
play, I slid my penis up under her sweater 
to get between her tits. I immediately 
noticed ultimate stimulation, as if the 
hairs in the sweater were tickling every 
nerve ending in my penis. She grabbed it 
and began to massage it. I was in ecstasy 
and soon came, and she swallowed it all. 
Then we made love—the best I ever had. 
She sometimes masturbates me with An- 
gora sweaters, as she knows how much I 
like it. Гуе noticed that the softer ones, 
with 50 percent rabbit hair and 50 percent 
lamb’s wool, feel the best. Now, whenever 
I see a girl in a sexy-looking Angora 
sweater, I get a hard-on. How can I get 
her to tease me more often with these 
sweaters without coming right out and 
asking? I have bought her three of them 
and want to buy her more. I thought some 
of your female readers might want to try 
this on their mates. It sure drives me wild; 
it seems to get me up no matter how many 
times I’ve already come.—C. B., Walnut 
Creek, California. 

What's wrong with asking outright? As 
long as you pay for the Woolite, it’s OK. 


While shopping for a VCR, Гуе no- 
ticed that some of the sets have keypads 
and some have 13 preset push buttons for 
making channel changes. I’ve just about 
decided to get the presets, since they seem 
more convenient. Which do you think is 
better?—L. D., Morton Grove, Illinois. 
In the new world of video, having 13 
station presets is a lot like having an AM- 
only radio: What you get may be good, but 
what you're missing is another world. 
These days, when you buy electronics, you 
have to think system. If you don't have it 
now, eventually you will probably have a 
cable, pay-TV or earth-station (dish) sys- 
tem that can expand your viewing 
pleasure to 100 or more channels. With 
presets, you will have to choose the 13 most 
used of those, an impractical choice to have 
to make. A keypad setup will allow you to 
tune any of those 100 channels directly. 
The same logic holds for receivers. If you 
purchase a TV set that gets only 13 chan- 
nels and your VCR gets 100 or more, a 
problem will arise when you try to tape 
from one channel and watch another: You 
will have to choose among the 13 channels 
that the TV receives, since only your VCR 
has access to the extra channels. We're in a 
transition period now in video electronics, 
on our way to multichannel capability, 
microprocessor control, high-fidelity stereo 
sound and high-resolution pictures. A lot 
of the equipment currently on the market 
is both limited and out of date. What looks 
like a convenience now can become an 
obstacle in the not-too-distant future. 


Wn the December Playboy Advisor, in 
response to Mrs. A.C. in St. Louis, you 
asked women to write in about their 


orgasmic experience. Here are my feelings 
on the subject. 

It is my belief that throughout history, 
the clitoris has been a very elusive little 
critter to both men and women. You can’t 
expect the penis to find the clit all by itself, 
then, can you? Not always, anyway— 
though Гуе read and heard it said that 
some women (a lucky few) are built with 
the clit closer to the vaginal opening than 
the rest of us (alas) “normally” built 
women. (Of course, who's to say what's 
normal in that respect?) That allows clito- 
ral stimulation from penile penetration 
during intercourse, facilitating a true or- 
gasm for an “unusually built” woman. (I 
wish I were built that way.) 

I have experienced many minor or- 
gasms through intercourse, but never the 
body-shaking, thigh-tingling, nipple-rais- 
ing feeling I've had when I climaxed a 
full-throttle orgasm from oral sex. Don't 
get me wrong—intercourse is great. I love 
to feel a cock inside me. I could never do 
without it. Pm just not built with my clit 
close enough to my vaginal opening to 
allow it to be stimulated by a thrusting 
penis. I believe the majority of men do not 
know this about women. 

Tn all of my two and a half decades, I 
have met only two men who are master- 
fully experienced in the manipulation of 
the clit. Needless to say, they are my 
favorite dates. "Thanks to them and the 
minority of men who know (or even care) 
about clitoral stimulation, we women who 
are not built to be lucky can still get off. 

My own advice to Mrs. A.C. is to stress 
the importance of clitoral stimulation/ 
manipulation to her husband, if he wishes 
to please her. 

Perhaps the Advisor should publish 
advice about the nature of this subject and 
its importance from time to time for those 
men who care to learn how to give pleas- 
ure to their women—maybe even direc- 
tions for finding the clit. I've heard that 
some women don't know they have a clit 
or what it does! They may never have a 
beautiful, body-wrenching orgasm unless 
someone gets them educated.—Miss J. L., 
Atlantic City, New Jersey. 

Thanks. 


All reasonable questions—from fashion, 
food and drink, stereo and sports cars to 
dating problems, taste and etiquette—uwill 
be personally answered if the writer in- 
cludes a stamped, self-addressed envelope. 
Send all letters to The Playboy Advisor, 
Playboy Building, 919 N. Michigan Ave- 
nue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. The most 
provocative, pertinent queries will be pre- 
sented on these pages each month. 

If you want to read almost everything 
we know about sex, try “The Playboy 
Advisor on Love & Sex.” It’s available at 
bookstores or for $10.95 from The Putnam 
Publishing Group, Department PBM-5, 
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New 
York 10016, 

Ej 


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DEAR PLAYMATES 


МУ. know a lot of women who've gone 
out with married men—by accident 
Maybe it was where they met or the wa: 
they met. Maybe thc man didn't wear a 
ring. That can create one set of problems 
in a less-than-honest situation. But how 
about the other possibility, that the 
woman knows he's married right from the 
start? We checked in with our Playmates 
to get the straight stuff. 
"The question for the month: 


Would you knowingly date a married 
man? 


Mr ı didn't have a boyfriend and if the 
man was separated, it's a possibility. It 
would: have to 

be clear that his 
menene fled 
no future. 1 
wouldn't want 
to ruin any- 
thing that still 
had a chance 
for success. He 
exemit es 09 
live away from 
home, really 
be separated. 
None of this 
“My wife doesn't understand me" stuff. I 
guess the bottom line for me is that I don't 
like messing around on someone, married 
or single. It's that simple. 


Af pios ол) 


MARIANNE GRAVATTE. 
OCTOBER 1982 


В have in the past, and I knew they were 
married. It’s usually a dead-end street. 
It evolves into 
nothing. I'm 
the kind of 
person who al- 
ways looks for 
growth—in life 
and in rcla- 
tionships. And 
I hate to go 
into something. 
knowing in ad- 
vance that it 
was never go- 
ing to be any- 
thing. I'm the type who would find it hard 
to live just for the moment like that. Га 
want more. 1 seriously doubt if I'd ever do 


it again. 
CATHY LARMOUTH 


O», yeah, I have. 1 find married men 
the most interesting. They're more settle 
Uis Dem, vot GY wer an. GT Ns 
They've accepted responsibility and they 
deal with relationships differently. They 
prone ce 

tive. They re- 


spect your 
opinion. They 
are interested 
in what you 
have to say; 
they're turned 
on by your 

They are 
more in tune 


with your needs 
and desires and 
are terested 
in pleasing you. A single man has things to 
prove—to himself and to a woman. Not 
married men. I have lots of married me: 
friends, too, whom I’ve never slept with. 
We enjoy each other’s company. So I get 
the best of him. I'm not at home taking 
flak. When he comes to see me, he's ready 
to give me his best 


Ау? 


[n would depend on the circumstances. 1 
wouldn't want to be the one who broke up 
another rela- 
tionship or who 
interfered. But 
he was un- 
happily mar- 
ried but still at home, I might go out with 
him. The responsibility lies in cach person. 


if we hit it off 
and he wanted 

If he was happy in his marriage, he 
wouldn't be coming on to me in the first 


to scc me, there 
place 


would have to 
be a reason, 
KYM MALIN 
MAY 1982 


AZIZI JOHARI 
JUNE 1975 


right? If he was 
getting a di- 
vorce, Га go 
out with him. If 


V vould not go out with a married man. 
No way. And if I were interested in a 
man and found 
out hc was 
married, I'd 
terminate the 
relationship. 1 
used to work as 
a private inves- 
tigator, and I 
followed mar- 
ried men and 
women. I 
wouldn't want 
that mess I 
would want 
someone just for me, someone I didn't 
have to share with anyone else. And if he 
was doing that to his wife, what would 
stop him from eventually doing the same 
thing to me? 


ола Mel N 


¡ONNELL 
MARCH 1979 


DENISE M 


WM wouldn’t go on a date with a married 
man. I'd have a drink or lunch, something 
casual, some- 
thing friendly, 
but no dates. I 
would try to 
judge the situa- 
tion by how I 
would feel if 1 
were the wile, 
Would I be up- 
set? I believe 
there is a differ- 
ence between 
dating and a 
casual cir- 
cumstance. I would prefer it if wife 
knew he was meeting me, so that if she 
were to walk into the room, she would 
trust us both and it wouldn't look like a 
date to her. 


SUSIE SCOTT 
MAY 1983 


Send your questions to Dear Playmates, 
Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan 
Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. We won't be. 
able to answer every question, but we'll try. 


43 


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


1003 a. nevno Ў 7 
2 
Ke > 


2 


P. 


THE PLAYBOY FORUM 


a continuing dialog on contemporary issues between playboy and its readers 


LANGUAGE BARRIER 

After reading Mark W. Jones's letter in 
The Playboy Forum (November), I would 
like to make a small point that may pre- 
vent embarrassment. The word wank is 
common in England, butit is not a synonym 
for fuck. In fact, it means masturbate. I 
hope this spares your correspondent a 
serious faux pas. 

On the subject, a common term in 
American slang also has a more specific 
meaning in colloquial English. The word 
is fanny. I believe you use it to refer to the 
posterior, or bottom; the English are refer- 
ring to the female genitals when they 
employ the term. Hence, the expression 
"all that horseback riding has given me 
one hell of a sore fanny” should be avoided 
over here. 

Michael Robinson 
Cleveland, England 

We can see where proposing masturba- 
tion could get a fellow off on the wrong foot 
with an English lady, especially if he pat- 
ted her on the fanny. 


TRY, TRY AGAIN 

1 read in The Chattanooga Times that a 
county judge declared a mistrial after 
more than half the prospective jurors 
admitted that they probably wouldn't re- 
turn guilty verdicts against a couple of 
guys charged with possession of mari- 
juana. A disc jockey /musician said he had 
cut a record extolling the virtues of pot; 
another man talked about a 90-year-old 
lady, presumably his grandmother, whose 
eyesight had improved remarkably from 
the marijuana he'd given her. The others 
simply said they had too many friends and 
relatives who smoked the killer weed. The 
judge said he had never encountered such 
a contrary group in his ten years on the 
bench and that he'd try, try again. 

How long will it take people to figure 
out what's going on? 

(Name withheld by request) 
Chattanooga, Tennessee 


ZERO TOLERANCE 

l am a petty officer first class in the 
Navy and am in a position to assist in the 
enforcement of the Navy's zero-toler- 
ance drug policy, which includes not only 
the urine testing that some of your readers 
complain about but also the counseling, 
education and rehabilitation programs 
aimed at combating the abuse of all drugs, 
including alcohol. The zero-tolerance pol- 
icy is worth while and long overdue, and 
the time, effort and money being spent to 
attain a drug-free environment have 
proved quite cost effective. 


Although unpopular with some, the 
program has significantly improved the 
discipline, morals and mission of the U.S. 
Navy and the Armed Forces in general. As 
military personnel and as representatives 
of the United States here and abroad, we 
cannot allow ourselves the questionable 
privilege of using chemicals that will affect 
our judgment, our decision-making ability 


“The word wank is 
common in England, but 
it is not a synonym for 
fuck. In fact, it means 
masturbate. I hope this 
spares your 
correspondent 
a serious faux pas." 


and our ability to carry out our primary 
ission—the defense of our country. 
M. A. Clark, P.O. 1 
U.S.S. Bagley 
FPO San Francisco, California 


Mothers Against Misuse and Abuse 
(MAMA) is a state-wide organization in 
Oregon, expanding to nationwide, that 


believes that the Chemical People pro- 
gram promoted by the Reagan Adminis- 
tration and the National Federation of 
Parents for Drug Free Youth is inade- 
quate and counterproductive. The pro- 
gram deals with illicit drug use by our 
youth, which we consider merely a symp- 
tom of much greater problems. Those 
problems, in our opinion, are the drug- 
oriented attitude of our entire society and 
the lack of current scientific education 
about the many dangers of improper use 
of any drug, legal or illegal. 

MAMA is concerned about the emo- 
tional attitudes of those groups, and we 
question their motives. They appear to be 
more politically motivated than actually 
concerned with providing drug informa- 
tion. We believe the Reagan Administra- 
tion is attempting to establish, through. 
those parent groups, broad-basc support 
for President Reagan's re-election. 

"This is a matter that we believe should 
be brought to the attention of your readers 
before the problem of drug abuse becomes 
politicized without regard for those it 
affects the most. 

Sandee Burbank, Director 
Mothers Against Misuse and Abuse 
Mosier, Oregon 


THE BOLLES CASE 

About the time the November issue of. 
PLAYBOY went on sale in Phoenix, the 
Arizona Supreme Court set the execution 
date of John Harvey Adamson, sentencing 
him to die in the state gas chamber on 
December 14, 1983. Had it not been for 
the efforts of the Max Dunlap Defense 
Committee, Dunlap and James Robison 
likely would have already been executed 
for a crime—the bombing murder of Don 
Bolles—that they did not commit (“Post- 
script to a Reporter's Murder,” Playboy 
Casebook, November). 

Of course, Adamson will undoubtedly 
carry his appeals to Federal courts; and 
should he ultimately go free because of the 
prosecution’s bungling, Arizona will have 
no convictions at all in the most publicized 
murder case in state history. The great 
amount of taxpayers’ money already ex- 
pended will increase considerably if Dun- 
lap rightfully prevails in his 605,000,000 
damage suit against those who would have 
wrongly put him to death. 

Ironically, the one thing clearly estab- 
lished by the Phoenix police investigation 
of the Bolles homicide is that all the other 
persons involved in the killing of Bolles 
are not only still free but probably out of 
danger, perhaps by now even laughing as 
the Arizona officials, egg on their faces, 


45 


PLAYBOY 


46 


privately trade accusations of responsibili- 
ty. Never in my 20 years of defense inves- 
tigation has a case so clearly and bitterly 
condemned the death penalty itself. 
PLaysoy’s clear and concise reporting of 

this convoluted case is greatly appreciated 
by those of us involved in the postconvic- 
tion investigation, as was the financial 
support of the Playboy Foundation. 

Lake Headley 

Director of Investigation 

Law Offices of Gentile & Massi, Ltd. 

Las Vegas, Nevada 


Your November “Playboy Casebook” 
recounting the Don Bolles murder case 
and its interesting aftermath has been 
received in our fair city—the site of that 
debacle—with the same deafening silence 
that must have greeted the first archaeolo- 
gist to enter King Tut’s tomb. This is not 
surprising. If our local authorities man- 
aged to teach the nation’s police depart- 
ments and judicial system a grand lesson 
in artless blundering, they did so aided 
and abetted every misstep of the way by 
our two newspapers, The Arizona Repub- 
lic and The Phoenix Gazette. Both have 
ignored PLAYBOY's story even more thor- 
oughly than they ignored the news of a 
former defendant's $605,000,000 lawsuit 
against the city and its police—which 
begrudgingly received a few lines of type 
several days after the fact. The embarrass- 
ment over the Bolles case extends to the 
community as a whole, which I believe is 
now saying its prayers that the courts con- 
tinue to function just well enough to put 
the confessed bomber into the gas chamber 
in order that the truth die with him. 

As one who has some knowledge of the 
case and several of the principals involved, 
let me compliment you on making sense 
ош of an extraordinarily complex murder 
mystery. 

George P. Vlassis 
Attorney at Law 
Phoenix, Arizona 


BABY SEALS 

Paul E. Clark has misunderstood the 
social and economic dynamics underlying 
the Canadian slaughter of infant seals 
(The Playboy Forum, October), and his 
suggestion that animal protectionists help 
provide a living for scal hunters has al- 
ready been tried with no success. Offers 
have been made by the Fund for Animals 
and other conservation organizations to 
substitute a tourist trade that would fea- 
ture dog-sled trips to the ice so people 
could see the seals; to set up a large fake- 
fur factory to provide employment; and, 
simply, to give money to the Canadian 
fishermen or their government not to kill 
the seals. 

In response to those offers, the Canadi- 
an Department of Fisheries and Oceans 
recently stated, “Such a form of welfare is 
unacceptable, since there is no conserva- 
tion basis to stop the harvest.” 

Those who kill baby seals are not, in 


fact, subsistence hunters. They are fisher- 
men, and the seal slaughter provides only 
a small fraction of their total income. 
Since those of us who work for animal 

rights cannot help the hunters, we must 
continue to condemn them as butchers and 
keep trying to stop them. 

Gene B. Salinas 

Valdez, Alaska 


ENERGY CONSERVATION 

I defy statistics on penis size to stand up 
in court. Data drawn from members out- 
side the vaginal environment cannot be 
used as conclusive evidence in determining 
the success or failure of the coital outcome. 


Forum Library 


- Human Sexuality: A Search for 
(West, $23.95), by 
Knox. This ac- 
illustrated, compre- 
hensive and just plain interesting 
600-page book qualifies as state of 
the art on the complex topic of 
human sexuality. Developed as a 
college text, it’s properly devoid of 
sexual politics and propaganda but 
thoroughly cognizant of today’s sex- 
ual reality. Good glossaries at the 
end of each chapter; overall, an 
excellent repository of information 
useful to the layman and the scholar 
alike. If you can’t find it locally, call 
West Publishing Company in St. 
Paul at 800-328-9424. 

+ Journal of Popular Culture has 
devoted its current issue (Volume 
17, Number 2) to nine essays on 
eros and pornography, including 
learned treatments of such sexual 
curiosa as comic soft-core films at 
drive-ins, role realignment of male 
strippers, subliminal sexual adver- 
tising and pornography as political 
expression. Good for livening up 
dull parties. Seven dollars, postpaid, 
from Journal of Popular Culture 
Bowling Green State Universi- 
ty, Bowling Green, Ohio 43403. 

* Naughty Logs. This entertain- 
ing mixture of parable and mock 
pornography. worked as a con- 
sciousness-raising device for some 
concerned conservationists in Ju- 
neau trying to draw the attention of 
apathetic fellow Alaskans to defor- 
estation and wilderness destruction 
by the logging industry. Witty and 
literate and eclectically illustrated, 
it got them into headlines and hot 
water that nicely served their pur- 
pose and could give other groups 
some lessons in strategy. Send 
$3.85, plus one dollar for postage 
and handling, to Instabook Publish- 
ing Company, 137 Gastineau Ave- 
nue, Juncau, Alaska 99801. 


ls partly the weathers fault. Listen, 
when the penis is outside the vagina, it 
cools and shrinks; when inside, it warms 
and expands. The coital withdrawal mo- 
tion wastes energy unless the female labia 
extend over the penis during its back- 
stroke. Then the penis remains warm, 
maintains its size and actually increases in 
size during its return stroke. Some women 
are uneasy lovers, so their partners may 
have to resort to the use of cunnilingus 
desperatus and train the pudenda to ex- 
tend and contract at will. Those women 
will eventually learn to apply vaginal 
dutch to the penis long enough to extend 
their labia clear out to the jelly beans, 
regardless of where they happen to be at 
the time. This will result in a penile- 
vaginal contact of sufficient extent to trig- 
ger the most awesome event in recorded 
history, the megaorgasm, or megasm, in 
the language of physics. Megaorgasm is a 
form of energy similar to star building, 
with the potential dynamics of a binary 
star system, which consists primarily of 
two energy forms sharing an intense 
interest in each other. 

All orgasms contribute to the earth's 
energy field and help stabilize it, thus sta- 
bilizing our solar, galaxian and universal 
systems. 

Bill Loren 
Rockville, Maryland 

We like that. Stand by while we recali- 

brate our bullshit detector. 


GUNS AGAIN 

Let me support the observation of Т. 
Garcia in the September Playboy Forum 
that the press, either by design or by 
instinct, completely missed the signifi- 
cance of the California vote on Proposition 
15 that would have started controlling 
handguns right out of private possession. 
Our local rag, the Hastings Daily Trib- 
une, has to be a tiny oasis for the liberals 
who live in this desert of conservatism 
called Nebraska. 

Prior to the November elections, we 
were bombarded all the way out here with 
almost daily news that Prop 15 was on a 
roll, virtually ensured of passage. After it 
got knocked on its ass by roughly two to 
one, the coverage here was zilch. Our 
Bleeding Heart Bugle might have re- 
ported it, but if so, it carefully hid the 
item. 

"Thanks for the impartiality you have 
shown on the gun-control issue. 

William R. Pearson 
Hastings, Nebraska, 

We're not impartial on the need for 
effective and enforceable laws, but we'll try 
to handle the debate in that fashion and 
stick to our guns, so to speak, on the civil- 
liberties questions. 


SEX EDUCATION 

I was unfortunate enough to have par- 
ents who were unable to discuss sex, even 
with their children. I was terrified when I 


FORUM NEWSFRONT 


what's happening in the sexual and social arenas 


SORRY, WRONG NUMBER 
HAWTHORNE, CALIFORNIA— Police of- 
ficers seeking an outlaw motorcycle- 
club member, “Ruby Red” Malloy, in 
connection with an attempted murder 
raided some 43 homes in six weeks, 


according to the Los Angeles Times. 


They still hadn't found Ruby Red but 
had managed to burst in on a pregnant 
woman about to give birth, a mentally 
handicapped girl, a licensed child-care 
operator tending five babies, several 
people sound asleep and a housewife 
stepping into her shower, plus quite a 
Jew other surprised citizens. Warrants 
had been based on a two-year-old roster 
of telephone numbers seized at a club 
member’s home. A Hawthorne detec- 
tive said it wasn’t important that many 
of the homes had nothing to do with the 
motorcycle gang. “The thing is,” he 
complained, “we didn’t find Malloy.” 


PRICE TO PAY FOR SEX 

WASHINGTON, DC—Faced with its 
first “wrongful birth” case, the US. 
Supreme Court rejected without com- 
ment the appeal of an Illinois couple 
seeking compensation for costs of rear- 
ing a child born after an unsuccessful 
sterilization. The Illinois Supreme 
Court had earlier held that “in the hier- 
archy of values, the benefit of life should 
not be outweighed by the expense of 
supporting it.” 


TEST TAMPERING 

KNOXVILLE, IOWA—4 man has been 
sentenced to 20 days in jail and fined 
$500 for contempt of court because two 
years ago he persuaded a friend to take 
the blood test that got him off the hook 
as the legal father of his girlfriend’s 
infant son. He admitted the deception 


recently after an assistant county attor- 
ney noticed signature discrepancies, 
and his former girlfriend, miffed, is 
back on track with her paternity suit. 


CHASTITY ACT CHALLENGE 

WASHINGTON, D.c—Three Methodist 
ministers in Virginia have joined with 
the American Jewish Congress in filing 
a lawsuit challenging the constitution- 
ality ofa 1981 law—the so-called Chas- 
tity Act—providing Federal money to 
religious and other organizations that 
discourage premarital sex and abortion 
among persons under 19. The Govern- 
ment program specifically denies 
grants to any group that would “advo- 
cate, promole or encourage abortion." 
The plaintiffs, represented by 
the AC.L.U., argue that the law's 
restrictions mean that only religious 
organizations that oppose abortion and 
formally advocate teenage celibacy 
qualify for funds and that they will use 
the money to promote their views. 


STOMPER AND LICKER 

NASHVILLE—Police say that a man 
arrested 40 times in 15 years for stomp- 
ing on women’s feet went back into 
business less than a month after his 
release from a four-year prison sen- 
tence. Nattily attired in a three-piece 
black pinstripe suit with a red rose in 
the lapel, the Foot Stomper injured the 
feet of three women in a bus-station lob- 
by before a security guard chased and 
nabbed him. Remarked the guard, 
“One day, he’s going to pull that stunt 
on somebody’s wife when her husband 
is standing nearby and he’s going to kill 
him.” According to the cops, the man 
has been out of jail only eight months 
during the past 13 years. 

Meanwhile, in West Virginia, the 
Martinsburg Leg Licker has been 
charged with breaking into a home and 
lapping the limb of a sleeping woman 
while her husband and child were 
asleep in the same bed. The 21-year-old 
man uas tracked by police to a nearby 
residence and was charged with tres- 
passing and battery. 


LAWYER SUIT. 

CHICAGO—A 52,600,000 malpractice 
suit has been filed against two Chicago 
attorneys by a Highland Park woman 
who contends that while the divorce 
lawyers represented her in court, her 
husband frittered away a multimillion- 
dollar estate. Now she wants the law- 
yers to pay her the amount she would. 
have received before the frittering. The 
suit, possibly the largest of its kind ever. 


filed in the U.S., "may prove that a 
divorce lawyer stands the same risk as a 
surgeon if he messes up," according to 
an unnamed source quoted in a local 
newspaper column. Several Chicago- 
area attorneys agreed that such a case 
could open up a fertile field for inter- 
lawyer litigation and the endless recy- 
cling of fees. Said one, “You could call it 
a ‘perpetual motions? machine.” 


EXILED 

SAN FRANCISCO— Living in lowa does 
not constitute "cruel and unusual pun- 
ishment,” the Ninth U.S. Circuit Court 
of Appeals has ruled. The case involved. 
conditions of parole that required a 
Seattle man accused of strangling his 
girlfriend’s cat and convicted of illegal- 
ly selling guns to live with his parents 
in Iowa and remain under court super- 
vision in that state until 1994. 


NO WAY TO TREAT A LADY 

EVERETT. WASHINGTON—A 31-year- 
old woman who claimed her estranged 
husband infected her unth herpes dur- 
ing an attempt at reconciliation has 
been awarded $40,000 in a county 
court. Furthermore, she is now going 
through with the divorce proceedings. 


PATERNAL RIGHTS 
CHICAGO—/n Illinois, mothers of ille- 
gitimate children can bring paternity 
suits against the fathers until the off- 
spring reach the age of 18, the state’s 


appellate court has ruled. The three- 
judge panel unanimously struck down 
a state law’s two-year statute of limita- 
lions on such suits, holding that it did 
not provide women adequate opportu- 
nity to locate vanished lovers and put in 
their rightful claims. 


47 


PLAYBOY 


began menstruating and learned what was 
happening only from my older brother’s 
girlfriend. In fact, everything I learned 
about sex was from schoolmates and 
“dirty books.” There are many young 
people who don’t know where to turn for 
sexual advice and help. As long as we pay 
taxes to support schools, why shouldn’t 
they provide good information on such an 
important subject? 

Barbara McCray 

River Ridge, Louisiana 


RIGHT TO ABORTION 

The American principles of life, liberty 
and the pursuit of happiness are 
mocked—indeed, nullified—if woman's 
ability to become pregnant is determined 
by law to exceed a role in life she might 
choose for herself. 

The New Right is attempting to reem- 
power an old wrong; the concept that a 
woman’s pregnancy is more important 
than her rights. This barbaric notion 
reduces a woman to a solely biological sta- 


tus. She is more breeding stock than per- 
son if a baby to be takes legal precedence 
over a woman that is. 

Americans have autonomy to choose 
their lives and directions. The Constitu- 
tion specifies such protection to “all per- 
sons born.” Yet Congress now dares to 
debate whether or not a woman’s repro- 
ductive function outweighs her choices. It 
now dares to debate whether a woman is 
primarily a container for future persons or 
a person with inviolable rights of her own. 


SEXUAL REVOLUTION—THE DAY AFTER 


surprise! quile a few more young people 
have fornicated and survived than indicated by Ihe administrations body count 


Just when American parents were 
adjusting to the idea that their teenaged. 
daughters probably wouldn't survive 
both the sexual revolution and the Age 
of Permissiveness without getting 
knocked up, we received this discon- 
certing news: The birth rate for girls 
aged 15 to 19 has actually fallen by 45 
percent since 1957. Put another way, 
the female children cresting puberty 
this side of the sexual revolution are 
about half as likely to end up accidental 
moms as were their own moms. 

What accounts for this deplorable 
outbreak of wholesomeness? Not 
herpes; that crisis hadn't been invented. 
yet. According to Jo Ann S. Putnam- 
Scholes in last July’s issue of The 
Atlantic, the culprit is birth control. 
Correlating the drop in the pregnancy 
rate with the spread of birth-control 
information, she concludes that teach- 
ing kids about contraceptives doesn't 
inspire them to sexual frenzy but does 
teach them how to deal more intelli- 
gently with that universal youthful 
affliction, horniness. 

"This surely must have come as a dis- 
appointment to the Reagan Adminis- 
tration after its Department of Health 
and Human Services had worked so 
hard to manipulate the 1980 census 
data into a national impregnation per- 
il. Seems the trouble with the Govern- 
ment’s banner-headline report— *oNE 
IN SIX BABIES BORN TO HORNY TEEN- 
AGERS?"—was that it failed to take into 
account the over-all decline in the birth 
rate for women of all ages, especially 
20 to 29. By ignoring that as well as 
simple demographics, the Minister of 
Morality could make it sound like 
teenaged girls were pumping out new- 
borns like machine-gun bullets, In fact, 
Scholcs's research shows, the birth rate 
among adolescents has steadily de- 
clined since its peak in 1957, of 96.3 
births per 1000 (married and single) to 


By ROD DAVIS 


only 53 per 1000 in 1980. 

There's worse. Not only are fewer 
teenagers having babies but at last 
report they were keeping them and 
rearing them at a rate of 96 percent. 
Among unmarried white mothers, the 
keeping percentage rose 15 points be- 
tween 1971 and 1976, from 75 percent 
to 90 percent; among blacks, the per- 
centage went from 94 to nearly 100 
percent. Since only about one third of 
unwanted teenage pregnancies end in 
abortions, that means that more than 
ever before, the country is being lit- 
tered with openly claimed evidence of 
young girls who had to have gotten 
laid. What we've got is not a problem 
with teenage pregnancy but with pub- 
lic motherhood. 

No wonder the Administration and 
the Moral Majority are trying to plug 
the dike. You can have legal abortion 
available at safe and inexpensive clin- 
ics, or you can have welfare rolls 
bloated with enough babies to finance 
an entire MX missile. But you can't 
have both: That would be Govern- 
ment-subsidized sin and no missile. 
But you can't fault the present strategy. 
The attempt to force family-planning 
clinics to snitch on minors, coupled 


with proposals to eliminate sex educa- 
tion from schools in favor of prayer, 
would have helped make unwanted 
teenage pregnancies a reality again— 
and a proper object lesson in misery to 
all those little fuckers who thought sex 
was nice. Yes, indeed. By recasting 
young motherhood as a dirty little 
secret, the guardian patriarchs of the 
sanctified nuclear family could still get 
those nubile and errant young mom- 
mas out of the shopping malls and into 
homes for unwed mothers; their babies 
could be removed from the sight of 
decent folk and returned to orphanages 
where they belong. 

Despite the best efforts of the pur- 
veyors of perversity to corrupt the mor- 
als of American youth in the past three 
decades, it’s become obvious that a 
modicum of good sense, coupled with 
knowledge of the pill and the condom, 
is prevailing and, yes, challenging the 
premises, prophecies and policies of the 
sin fighters. It’s depressing. Not only 
has the opprobrium been taken out of 
adult sex, it’s disappearing from its his- 
toric bastion, the psychic recesses of 
puberty. Is nothing sinful anymore? Is 
everyone wising up? 

If you care about this country, if you 
care about keeping little bastards off 
the streets, if you care about scaring 
young girls shitless, you'll find little 
solace in the decline in the teenage 
pregnancy rate. You'll do what any 
red-blooded, God-fearing American 
would do—you'll write to your Con- 
gressman, demanding an end to legal 
abortions, more cutbacks in Aid to 
Families with Dependent Children 
and a defunding of family-planning 
services. Sex must not go unpunished. 


Rod Davis is a former teenager, an 
English teacher at the University of 
Texas (Austin) and a founder of The 
Mad Dog Writers’ Consortium. 


"This outrage is not unlike the medieval 
mentality that deliberated on whether or 
not a woman had a soul, whether or not 
she was a person. 
Constance Robertson 
Peoria, Illinois 


"FAN CLUB” UNDER FIRE 
Good God! I just finished reading that 
whining, pouty diatribe against women 
from that male-chauvinist piglet who so 
cutely signs himself Norman Bates Fan 
Club (The Playboy Forum, December). It 
came as quite a surprise. I didn’t know my 
husband could write. 
(Name withheld by request) 
Birmingham, Alabama 


I don’t know whether or not the so- 
called Norman Bates Fan Club deserves 
a reply to such derogatory statements 
against women, but they struck a chord in 
my life. 

My fiancée received a promotion and 
was relocated to Atlanta some months ago. 
I gave up a decent job and joined her. 
Since then, she has been pursuing a career 
while 1 stay home doing the housework. 

In the past, I might have felt that taking 
care of a house was a piece of cake, but I 
have now changed my mind and haven’t 
quite gotten the tan I thought I would. So 
this one’s for you, ladies, from “just one of 
them good ol” boys.” 


Greg Goss 
Atlanta, Georgia 


To the president, or whatever he is, of 
the Norman Bates Fan Club in Birming- 
ham: Bet you fit the description of a good 
ol’ boy, all right. Bet you got a great big 
belt buckle and a little-bitty peter. 

Sandi Hoffer 
New York, New York 
That's a cowboy, ma'am. 


I have one thing to say to the Norman 
Bates Fan Club: Back up in a corner and 
use your free hand. 

Гуе no doubt that some women do bitch 
about working all day and then going 
home to care for a family. I myself bitch 
about less. It's hard on us, and we need to 
get it off our chests. As a woman bartend- 
er, I hear plenty of bitching from men. 

Sign me "one of them good ol’ girls.” 

A. E. Moore 
Owensboro, Kentucky 

If we'd responded righteously to the 
truly disgusting ideas in the “Norman 
Bates” letter, we would have pre-empted 
the pleasure that countless readers, male 
and female, have had in straightening out 
our "good ol’ boy.” 


COCK TALK 

The main issue of circumcision is child 
development and the resultant effect dur- 
ing adolescent interchange with peers. 
Issues such as a noncircumcised male’s 
response to an environment of circumcised 
peers can be critical during that period of 


growth and development. Is the child seen 
as different in the locker room, for exam- 
ple? Are his parents supportive and un- 
derstanding of these philosophical issues? 
Does the child’s religion play a significant 
part? 

"These are issues that need to be studied 
and quantified objectively, not journalisti- 
cally sensationalized. Allow the scientist to 
examine and deal with these various sensi- 
tive matters in the best interests of our 
younger generation. 

Timothy J. Bray, M.D. 

Assistant Professor 

University of California, Davis 
Medical Center 

Sacramento, California 


Twice damned am 1, a circumcised 
urologist. Before I read the essay by 
Richard W. Morris in the December 
Playboy Forum on “child abuse by cir- 
cumcision,” my life was serene. I could 
take my dick in my hand and its naked 
head would seem to wink at me; Pd wink 
back: “Nice going, guy!” Now it leers at 
me as if to accuse, as if it were my fault 
that I was circumcised. 1 can remember 
that day when my sleep patterns became 
altered irrevocably. I can remember my 
last good night's sleep before 1 was fear- 
fully trussed up on the circumcision board. 
1 remember looking over at the kid next to 
me, thinking that he had a lot of balls, 
since he pissed on the doctor. He was 
lucky to be a C-section kid. I was born the 
usual way, and since I had just had my 
six-inch brains pushed through a four- 
inch hole, I was having trouble getting my 
shit together. 

And no wonder my sex life is all 
screwed up. I used to associate penis 
manipulation with large breasts, and 
I used to think that was normal. Now I 
realize it is only sublimated child abuse. I 
will swear to a life of chastity. No longer 
will my cock be abused by anyone. 

Attorney Morris reports that other 
people belong to tribes or groups that have 
many distinct prescriptions and proscrip- 
tions as to the disposal of circumcised fore- 
skins. 1 lie awake at night wondering what 
happened to mine. Since I was born in 
Brooklyn and the hospital has been leveled 
into an asphalt playground, who knows 
what those people could have done with 
my precious part? Do you suppose they 
collected many foreskins and fashioned 
them into something like a basketball? I 
hate to think of my foreskin's being slam 
dunked. 

Torn with guilt and worry, I called my 
mother and told her that I fully forgave 
her felonious complicity in my childhood 
assault. She hung up on me, and I under- 
stand she has canceled her SPRINT con- 
tract. Since then, I have even considered 
refusing to do circumcisions; but then, 
who would put my kids through college? 
And who would pay for my new sports 
car? PLAYBOY must share some of the 
blame, because that's where ] saw the 


advertisement for it. On second thought, 
my contribution does have its bounds. 

But let us arise against this abuse. 
Down with those dens of iniquity, the 
hospitals. Down with the doctors (the ones 
who don't refer patients to me). Down 
with mothers—unless they're going 
down on fathers. But more important, 
down with litigious lawyers like my old 
friend Morris. Pm the guy who foolish- 
ly suggested that he submit his piece to 
PLAYBOY, because more of us organ grind- 
ers read your publication than the Journal 
of Urology. 

Alan H. Walther, M.D. 
San Diego, California 

We had rather hoped the foreskin de- 
bate would fizzle out so we could get on to 
other matters, but we think Dr. Bray raises 
a valid point, even if he doesn't seem to 
quite understand the purpose of “The 
Playboy Forum” or have a sense of humor. 
But Dr. Walther provides that, so maybe 
we come out even. 


MOUNTAINS FROM MOLEHILLS 

Some people believe in an infallible 
God who created the world and all things 
in it. I would like to ask them one ques- 
tion: Why did He put nipples on men’s 
breasts? Were they supposed to suckle the 
babies? 

Edwin L. Tice 
Rockford, Illinois 

Well, now, Mr. Tice, that’s a pretty 
weighty question, and we had to take it to 
our Great Issues expert, Dr. Horace Nai- 
smith, who responds: “Beats hell out of me. 
Maybe male nipples were part of a cre- 
ationist backup plan in case Eve had to be 
scrapped. That would not be an indication 
of fallibility but merely good contingency 
planning. At the same time, male nipples 
strengthen the case of the evolutionists, 
who claim to have found them on all sorts 
of male animals that do not suckle their 
offspring. From that observation, we must 
assume either that male and female hu- 
mans evolved from lower life forms in 
which there was a certain amount of sexual 
confusion or that the good Lord at some 
point exercised His omnipotent right to 
change His mind. There's one possible 
explanation that probably won't sit well 
with your average creationist: that the 
Creator decided to give males some eroge- 
nous zones that had less of a tendency to 
get hung up in bushes. Another is that God 
was engaging in a bit of whimsy to teach us 
all an object lesson against making moun- 
tains out of molehills, Even so, nipples 
on males have long served the illustrative 
purpose summed up in the old expression 
"Useless as tits on a boar hog.” " 


“The Playboy Forum” offers the opportu- 
nity for an extended dialog between readers 
and editors on contemporary issues. Address 
all correspondence to The Playboy Forum, 
Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Ave- 
nue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. 


A Reporters Notebook 


KILLING US SOFTLY WITH THEIR SONG 


why did ted koppel broadcast a false story? why didn't robert mac neil 
ask the obvious questions? why did the press let us down? 


PLAYBOY SENT ME to Washington, D.C., 
in the fall of 1980 to profile a place 
called the Center for Defense Informa- 
tion, a politically moderate think tank 
run by retired admiral Gene La Rocque 
and other former military men. The idea 
that high-ranking officers would form an 
organization that was not right wing by 
definition was intriguing, and the article 
I wrote (What You're Not Supposed to 
Know About the Arms Race, PLAYBOY, 
June 1981) examined defense issues 
through the focus of those men's person- 
alities and combat experiences 

The people at the center were cooper- 
ative, spoke frankly, answered all my 
questions. But when 1 tried to talk with 
members of the Washington and New 
York media to get their feedback on the 
subject, it was a different story: Sudden- 
ly, no one was home. It was “Don’t call 
us and we won't call you." 

It took me a few days to figure it out. 
What I was confronting was clannish- 
ness. I was being told that I was not part 
of the media pack. This rejection was not 
personal. The subject of arms control 
was a hot potato. The newly arriving 
Reagan Administration was not eager to 
discuss it, and the media did not push it 
A conservative tide was washing through 
the capital, and the media pack was 
going to ride it for a time, few questions 
asked. I was learning firsthand that in 
the world of television and print journal- 
ism, there is an etiquette at work in all 
seasons. At certain times, certain ques- 
tions are considered rude, bush league; 
in 1980, a moderate approach to arms 
control was one of those taboo subjects. 

A few months ago—August 31, 1983, 
to be exact—I was reminded of that 
chilly lesson. That was the night it was 
announced on ABC's Nightline that 
Korean Air Lines flight 007 was in some 
kind of trouble in the Far East. You may 
remember that evening. Reports were 
sketchy. The word was that flight 007 
had been forced down over Russian ai 
space and was sitting safely on Sakhalin 
Island. There were no casualties and it 
was expected that the aircraft would be 
released soon. "There was a picture from 
Seoul of relatives and friends waiting for 
the arrival of fight 007. The people 
there looked apprehensive but hopeful. 
And that was the image America carried. 
to bed that night: All was well, we were 
told; a little bit disorderly but well. 


opinion By ASA BABER 


I had some immediate problems with 
the story we had been handed that eve- 
ning. For one thing, I had trained as an 
air observer in the Marine Corps and 
had spent some limited time with Ma- 
rine units on Okinawa, so I knew a little 
bit about Soviet forces in the Far East. I 
knew that anybody who flew over Kam- 
chatka and Sakhalin was asking for 
trouble, that the submarine bases, mis- 
sile sites and radar defense nets in the 
area were cosmicall top secret in 
U.S.S.R. terms. I also knew that over- 
flights were a common tactic on borders 
of important countries—a game of chick- 
en played in the sky, usually in fairly 
civilized fashion, occasionally with civil- 
ian aircraft (that only makes the game 
more complex, you see) —but the K.A.L. 
airliner was definitely out of bounds, on 
a route akin in sensitivity to a detour 
from a corridor while flying into Berlin 
ог an attempt to overfly the sub bases at 
Murmansk. If K.A.L. 007 had flown 
where it was said to have gone, there. 
were some logical possibilities that I 
assumed the press would investigate: (1) 
that it had possibly been an intelligence 
flight carrying unwitting passengers; (2) 
that it was not sitting safely on the 
ground but had been shot down. I waited. 
anxiously for the next day's news, 
naively hoping that some tough ques- 
tions would be asked. 

But on the evening of the second day, 
Ted Koppel opened Nightline with a 
statement that produced no further ques- 
tions about our own Government's ol 
ously misleading cover story. "Senior 
US. officials led us to believe, and we 
led you to believe, that the plane had 
landed safely on Soviet territory. Sadly, 
that was not true." As far as I can 
remember it, not once over the next eve- 
ning did Koppel, a man whose work I 
usually admire, ask any of his guests 
why we were originally told the plane 
was safe. It was as if we were supposed 
to forget that first bedtime story we had 
been told on Nightline. I found that very 
hard to do. 

“The evidence is clear. It leaves no 
doubt," President Reagan said later. 
What evidence? What clarity? No 
doubts? 

The media asked few hard questions 
those days. What we got instead was 
the Richard Burt/Lawrence Eagleburg- 
er/Jeane Kirkpatrick show, complete 


with compliant newspeople who regu- 
larly served up simplistic queries and 
declined to follow up on hazy answers: 
"The fourth estate waltzed with the Rea- 
gan Administration's version of events 
while the public sat and tried to make 
sense of it all. (Interestingly, the public 
seemed less inclined to dance than the 
media: Two weeks after the incident, a 
New York Times/ CBS News poll 
showed that 61 percent of the sample 
thought that the U.S. Government was 
“holding back information that people 
ought to know.”) 

Indeed, our Government was holding 
back information. On the ninth of Sep- 
tember, in an unprecedented news con- 
ference in Moscow, Marshal Nikolai V. 
Ogarkov reported that Soviet fighters 
had fired warning shots (four bursts, 120 
rounds) to signal K.A.L. 007 that it 
should follow them down to a safe land- 
ing; three days later, we Americans fi- 
nally had that fact confirmed in our own 
press: “a NEW US. TRANSCRIPT INDICATES 
SOVIET PILOT FIRED ‘CANNON BURSTS. 
COULD BACK CONTENTION OF RUSSIANS 
THEY TRIED TO WARN KOREAN JET,” said 
The New York Times in its headlines 
that day. Why did we learn the truth 
about that critical question from the 
chief of the Soviet general staff before we 
learned it from our own Government? 

To put it bluntly, during those first 
days in September, I felt as if I were 
living in a dictatorship. My own Gov- 
ernment was passing out contradictory 
and incorrect information, yes, but what 
was even more frightening was the way 
in which the media cooperated with that 
exercise in news management. 

“U.S. experts said the interception of 
signals around Japan is so wide ranging 
and automated that there was a good 
chance no human ears were actually lis- 
tening for much of the time,” Newsweek 
wrote in an article that was typical of the 
reporting we saw then and have seen 
since, “that the danger became apparent 
only in the final moments of flight 007— 
since other commercial planes have 
scrambled Soviet defense systems and 
flown on safely.” 

It is not American journalism’s finest 
hour when a major news magazine 
leaves the reader with the false impres- 
sion that K.A.L. 007 was not being 
closely monitored by human eyes and 
ears on both sides of the iron curtain. 


You can take this much to the bank: The 
American RC-135 aircraft nearby and 
the Soviet defense networks on Sakhalin 
were watching K.A.L. 007 like a hawk. 
So were some satellites in space. 

Why didn't our people who were 
watching it send out a warning to get the 
plane back on course? Tass, the Soviet 
news agency, asked the same question. I 
was appalled by my own Governments 
answer: “The United States was not 
aware that the Korean airliner was in 
jeopardy until after it was shot down," 
said Secretary of State George Shultz. 
Riiiight. There were no human ears lis- 
tening and we didn’t know there were 
Soviet fighters closing in. Riiiight 

Hard questions asked? Not for quite a 
while and not in any thorough fashion. 
Richard Burt almost got cornered once. 
He was on The MacNeil/Lehrer News 
Hour, usually one of the best news 
shows. Peter Shrag, editor of The Sacra- 
mento Bee, asked Burt a key question: 
Had other incidents such 2s this oc- 
curred in the past? Burt’s answer was 
hazy: “There has not been a pattern of 
Soviet complaints. They have not come 
to us or other countries that we're aware 
of and warned that they were going to 
take action such as this. . . .” That was a 
critical moment. Burt was skirting a 
direct answer to a simple, tough ques- 
tion. But as I heard it, Robert MacNeil 
failed to follow up, and soon Shrag and 
his line of questioning were dismissed 
MacNeil surely wasn’t being a hard- 
nosed newsman at that moment. 

Thad quite a few questions I was hop- 
ing to hear asked during those first days, 
among them: 

- Why were we first told the plane 
was OK and sitting safely on Sakhalin 
Island when for many hours our Gov- 
ernment had known that it had been 
fired on, had fallen in a 12-minute 
descent to about 2000 feet and then had 
lost all control and crashed into the sea? 
"The next of kin were lied to, but our 
Government had known all along what 
was happening; what was the reason for 
issuing a cover story? 

+ There must have been an American 
RC-135 on station during the entire epi- 
sode; that aircraft has the capability of 
getting a message into the hands of the 
President of the United States in ten 
minutes from anywhere in the world; did 
that RC-135 simply not communicate 
what was happening for two and a half 
hours? Or did people high in the Gov- 
ernment know, in fact, what was going 
on? Was the President informed? 

+ Was the many-hour delay in getting 
any news to the public connected with 
our Government’s need to know whether 
or not the Russians had already obtained 
the black boxes from the wreckage of 
K.A.L. 007? 

- How could the K.A.L. pilot report 
his position as southeast of Hokkaido 
when he was north of Hokkaido and not 


be warned from the ground that he was 
many miles off course? 

- How could a 747 encounter all the 
problems that this one did? Wrong coor- 
dinates on the computer? All radios 
dead? Radar transponder dead? Weath- 
er radar dead? Visual and celestial navi- 
gation unused? Cockpit blind to warning 
shots and the presence of waggling fight- 
er aircraft fore and aft? Coordination 
with RC-135s a coincidence, as well as 
significant changes in flight direction 
during those two and a half hours that 
sent K.A.L. 007 over some of the most 
classified territory in the Soviet Union? 
Radio silence from our own observers 
another coincidence? Changes in K.A.L. 
007's altitude as fighters closed in anoth- 
er coincidence? 

The television and press people failed 
us. It's that simple. The pack ran with 
the official version of the story. I submit 
that in so doing, it made a terrible mis- 
take. The polls show that we felt gypped 
by the reporters and editors who were 
waltzing so carefully. The newspeople 


were in a position to give some form to 
our scattered fears, but the big names let 
us down. An earnest search for truth 
might have helped us understand earlier 
that the world is not an illogical place 
where an innocently straying aircraft 
can be shot down without warning or 
provocation just because Russians like to 
do that sort of thing. Whatever hap- 
pened to flight 007, the story is a hell of a 
lot more complicated than that. 

Don't tell me that we're living in a 
society that can be as controlled as Rus- 
sia's during a crisis and that the control 
is voluntary, that the censorship is born 
inside the pack; don't tell me that the 
pack fears alienating its official sources 
more than it loves the truth, that it pre- 
fers to play the game sedately even when 
it knows it’s being manipulated and lied 
to and that it sticks together in rough 
weather, never even asking the burning 
questions. 

No, don't tell me that. I mean, you 
don't have to. I've seen the evidence 


of it. El 


51 


Hennessy уз 


the civilized way NT D | 
-tosurrender | | 
| - A^ 


pavor nevew: MOSES MALONE 


a candid conversation with the intimidating, closemouthed 


Think about pro basketball's brightest 
stars for a moment and you'll. probably 
picture oversize athletes endowed with 
astonishing grace. Julius Erving soars into 
the air and then rides a current before 
coming down with a slam dunk; Kareem 
Abdul- Jabbar's incomparable sky hook is 
the most beautiful basketball shot ever 
invented; Larry Bird, a stoic genius, obvi- 
ously can achieve whatever he can con- 
ceive; and then there’s the Magic show, in 
which one Earvin Johnson uncorks passes 
that seem impossible only until you realize 
that he can see out of his ears. Ever wonder 
what would happen if this land of sporting 
Nureyeus were attacked by Darth Vader? 
No need to ponder it further, for it has 
already happened. Unfortunately for his 
fellow pros, the invader is even tougher 
than Darth, We're referring, of course, to 
Moses Malone; and last year, the public 
finally picked up on something his cal- 
leagues had known for some time: Moses is 
numero uno in the National Basketball 
‚Association. The Man. The Force. 

Consider the following: After leading 
the Philadelphia 76ers to their first world 
championship (finally!) last June, Ma- 
lone was named the N.B.A.'s Most Valu- 
able Player for the second straight year 


“Тт not going to name names, but when 
people want the nation's number-one high 
school player, there's a lot they want to 
‚give you. Yeah, I had college coaches take 
care of me. They kept my pocket full.” 


(his third such award) and was also voted 
M.V.P. of the championship series, in 
which the "Sixers demolished Los Angeles 
in four games. The last time a player won 
both the championship-series and the 
league M.V.P. awards, the year was 1971, 
and the player was a young fellow who 
then went by the name of Lew Alcindor. 
During the 1982-1983 season, Malone 
scored 24.5 points a game and led the 
league in rebounding for the third straight 
year, but his stats aren't nearly as impos- 
ing as his presence on the court. Although 
only a modest (by N.B.A. standards) 
610" tall, Malone has become basketball’s 
best big man, primarily because he's the 
N.B.A.'s most relentless competitor. After 
the 76ers blew out Los Angeles last year, 
Lakers forward Kurt Rambis described 
what it was like trying to cope with 
Malone: “There are certain forces in 
nature you can't stop, and he is one of 
them.” The Phoenix Suns’ Maurice Lu- 
cas, a superb rebounder in his own right, 
has been battling Malone on the boards for 
nearly a decade. “With Moses, there is 
never any break,” he says. “He's always 
coming at you. Always coming at you! . . . I 
can't think of anyone who's euer been like 
that before." 


“A lot of folks are probably looking to find 
out ıf Moses Malone is into drugs, but the 
closest I come is drinking a Coca-Cola. I 
neuer tried cocaine and I'm never gonna. 
Look at me: Im 6'10" —high enough.” 


Veteran Milwaukee Bucks center Bob 
Lanier puts it more succinctly: “Moses is а 
monster.” 

That, of course, is not the truth. Malone 
only plays like a monster. Once he ambles 
onto a court, he is all scowls, growls and 
effort. He believes he should come down 
with every errant shot thrown up by mem- 
bers of either team. When Moses doesn’t 
get a particular rebound, he gets bothered. 
Riled. He will then try harder to snare the 
next missed shot. Malone has such appar- 
ently inexhaustible energy that by the 
fourth quarter of most games, he has al- 
ready worn out at least two opposition 
players. At that point, he becomes posi- 
tively lethal. "No one works as hard as 
Moses, and he is tireless,” says Billy Cun- 
ningham, head coach of the 76ers. Cun- 
ningham has more bad news for the rest of 
the N.B.A.: He believes Malone has yet to 
reach his peak. If that’s so, we're talking 
Mount Everest, sports fans. 

Moses Eugene Malone, the object of all 
those encomiums, was born in Petersburg, 
Virginia, on March 23, 1955. His father 
left home when the bay was two years old, 
and Moses was raised by his mother, Mary 
Malone, a religious, strong-willed woman 
who worked as a nurse's aide and later as a 


BALE C09 ai FT тт 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY VERNON 1. SMITH 


“Sometimes I think I am a fighter on the 
court. During the play-offs, there were 
games when I thought 1 should've brought 
boxing gloves, but that’s the way the game 
is played: rough and tough.” 


53 


PLAYBOY 


54 


supermarket meat packer. He grew up in 
modest comfort and, like most of his 
friends, spent a lot of time playing football 
and baseball at a nearby schoolyard. 

In many ways, his childhood ended the 
first time he picked up a basketball: Before 
he turned 14, Malone was dominating. 
taller, older boys who played for Peters- 
burg High. When he became a student 
there, he proceeded lo break virlually 
every Virginia schoolboy basketball record. 
In his senior year, he averaged 36 points, 
26 rebounds and 12 blocked shots per 
game—and by then, scores of college bas- 
ketball coaches from around Ihe country 
were encamped at Petersburg. 

Malone was probably the most sought- 
after high school basketball player in histo- 
Ty, and it took him an inordinate amount 
of time to decide where he wanted to go to 
college. He finally settled on the Universi- 
ty of Maryland, but a funny thing hap- 
pened as soon as he got to College Park: 
He was immediately drafted by the Utah 
Stars of the American Basketball Associa- 
tion. No player had ever jumped directly 
from high school to pro basketball—and 
when Malone signed a contract reportedly 
worth several million dollars, the coaching 
fraternity was outraged. Tom Heinsohn, 
then the coach of the Boston Celtics, said, 
“It’s utterly ridiculous to pay that kind of 
money to a kid like this. He may be great, 
but there's no way a 19-year-old kid is 
going lo step into pro basketball and be 
great right off the bat.” 

Heinsohn was dead wrong. In his rookie 
season, Malone scored nearly 19 points a 
game and was his team’s leading rebound- 
er. It's hard to imagine that ever happen- 
ing again Lo such a young player. 

To interview the 29-year-old phenome- 
non, PLAYBOY sent Lawrence linderman to 
meet with Malone during a recent visil to 
‚Petersburg. He reports: 

“The first thing to remember about 
Moses Malone is that he goes his own way. 
After I flew to Richmond, he telephoned to 
say that he'd come over to the hotel for our 
interview; he was visiting his mother in 
Petersburg, a half hour away, and he 
didn't want me disturbing her privacy. 
Later on, when I saw him in Houston, 
where he and his family reside, he didn't 
want me disturbing the privacy of his wife, 
Alfreda, and their three-and-a-half-year- 
old son, Moses, Jr. Basically, Moses, Sr., 
keeps his distance. 

"Before we met, the impression. I'd 
formed of Malone wasn't particularly 
flattering. He's not fond of the press, 
approaches interviews the way he ap- 
proaches a dentists appointment and has 
been depicted by the media as a kind of 
hulking man-child. That last impression ıs 
formed only because it’s hard to under- 
stand what he’s saying the first few min- 
utes you talk with him. Moses has a typical 
Virginia accent and speaks faster than 
anyone else I've ever interviewed—or met, 
Jor that matter. He spews out language at 
78 rpm; the rest of us are accustomed to 


listening al 33%. Once I got the hang of it, 
though, I found myself confronting a pretty 
shrewd operator who's very sure of himself. 
He has reason to be. 

“In any case, when we sat down to 
begin our conversalion, the subject of 
cocaine use among N.B.A. players was 
very much in the news. Flinching ever so 
slightly, I began our interview by asking 
Malone about it.” 


PLAYBOY: We may as well get to this at the 
outset: Most basketball insiders believe 
cocaine use is more widespread among 
N.B.A. players than among athletes in 
any other sport. Are they right? 

MALONE: I got no idea, ‘cause I never 
actually see guys in the league doing that 
stuff, but you never know what they do 
behind closed doors. Players get invited to 
a lot of parties, and at some of them, you 
find out that they got a lot of good stuff 
that can get you messed up—and that’s a 
situation you got to stay away from. You 
just can't get with the wrong people, espe- 
cially the ladies: When the ladies see an 
athlete walking around, they think, Well, 
he got the cocaine, so let's go get high with 
him. Tell you this: If a player does that 
stuff at one party or with one lady, word's 
gonna get out that you're into cocaine. 


“T still love to play 
ball. I always keep the 
little boy in me and I 

think if I ever lose him, 

ГИ be in trouble." 


Seems like everybody wants to know if an 
athlete is on drugs, so you got to stay clear 
of wild people. I figure a lot of folks are 
probably looking to find out if Moses 
Malone is into that stuff, but the closest I 
come to drugs is drinking a Coca-Cola. I 
don't want that cocaine; it's not for me. 
PLAYBOY: Have you ever tried it? 

MALONE: No, and I’m never gonna try it, 
because you got to pay a lot for cocaine, 
and that's not the way I want to spend my 
money. It’s not gonna keep me high for the 
rest of my life, so why keep paying for it? 
What am I gonna do with cocaine? Get 
high and then get another $2000 out of my 
pocket and buy some more? Not me. I got 
a family; I don’t want that stuff around. I 
don’t even allow smoking in my house. 
People come to my house and they sec a 
Sign: PLEASE DON'T SMOKE OR MOSES WILL 
PUT YOU OUT. Light up a cigarette in my 
car and ГЇЇ put you and your cigarette out 
on the freeway. Wanna smoke? I'm gone 
Wanna do cocaine? I'm gone. 

PLAYBOY: Does that put a crimp in your 
social life? 

MALONE: Well, 1 hang by myself a lot, but 


when we're on the road and I go to a club, 
all kinds of people come up to me and 
sometimes I think somebody's saying, 
"Work on Moses Malone." Plenty of peo- 
ple have offered me cocaine, but I just tell 
'em I don't do that stuff. I don't worry 
about what they'll think when I tell 'em 
that, either. I've had guys say, "Look, 
Moses, if you can't handle it, you can't 
hang with us.” I tell 'em, “Hey, I got 
Washington, Grant and Abraham Lincoln 
in my wallet, and they’re my friends— 
they're gonna buy me something. You're 
gonna take something, so why should I 
hang with you?" 
PLAYBOY: What's the usual reaction? 
MALONE: People might get mad for five or 
ten minutes, but then they respect you 
more. And the next time they see you, 
they'll tell their friends, “Don't go up to 
him with that stuff—he don't mess with 
cocaine." If they're gonna do that with 
their lives, it's their problem. I’m not 
gonna do that with my life. People proba- 
bly wonder about me 'cause I make so 
much money, but they don’t have to worry 
about Moses and any of that stuff. Look at 
me: I'm 610"—Fm high enough. 
PLAYBOY: Let’s clear up something else at 
the beginning. Ever since you became a 
pro, you've studiously avoided the press. 
And this interview is something of a 
departure for you. How come? 
MALONE: I’ve always just wanted to play 
ball, that’s all. I didn’t want to do no 
interviews, because I didn’t want to be 
bothered with reporters. Pm doing this 
because . . . well, PLAYBOY's got a good rep, 
and it gives you good pub. But I still don’t 
talk to reporters, because they’re gonna 
what they want to write, so let "em 
write what they want to write. 
PLAYBOY: Are you aware that most sports- 
writers have interpreted your silence as 
proof that you have nothing to say? 
MALONE: Well, reporters don’t know me, 
because I don’t talk to them; I just talk 
to the players. Every once in a while, 
ГЇЇ talk to a reporter; and over the years, I 
think they treated me well, and I think 
they been treated well. I gave "em what 
they want and they gave me what I 
want... whenever we talked. 
PLAYBOY: All right, let's talk about money. 
Your six-year contract with the Phila- 
delphia 76ers reportedly pays you 
$2,200,000 a year, which would make you 
the highest-salaried athlete in America. Is 
that figure accurate? 
MALONE: Yeah, it is. 
PLAYBOY: You've been a millionaire for 
many years now. Has that been as much 
of a kick as you thought it might be? 
MALONE: Oh, it’s a living. 
PLAYBOY: It’s a living? 
MALONE: That’s what il is. People got to 
realize that the owners who been paying 
me are a lot richer than / am. It’s not like I 
was born rich; I had to play basketball to 
make this type of money. The only reason 
owners pay me is ‘cause of what I can do. 
Owners want to make their team a winner 


IF YOU WANTA HIGH PERFORMANCE 
| MOTO 


RCYCLE, YOU'RE BETTER OFF 
_ BUILDING IT YOURSELF. - 


[P ia 


— THAT'S 


There are two ways to get a really 
high-performance bike. 

One is to buy an entire motorcycle for 
the engine alone. Spend a small fortune 
on performance accessories. Retire to 
your garage. 

And after weeks of bending, drilling 
and adjusting your “bolt-on” parts, you 
might wind up with a bike almost as 
good as the Nighthawk’ S. 

Of coursethe other way is to simply 
реба Nighthawk S. 


EXACTLY 


In fact, you might be tempted to buy 
it for the engine alone. Its more power- 
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FOLLOW THE LEADER 


PLAYBOY 


so they can get more fans in the stands, 
and that’s why they go after the best ball- 
players and pay 'em what they're worth. I 
think we all should get paid what we're 
worth. Larry Bird's geting what he's 
worth, and if the Lakers didn't give 
Kareem Abdul-Jabbar what he's worth, 
they wouldn't even make it to the play-offs 
this year. Can we back up for a second? 
PLAYBOY: Do you want to change some- 
thing you said? 

MALONE: No, I want to change something 
you said. For most of the nine seasons I 
been in the pros, I was only a part-time 
millionaire. I might be full time now, but I 
was part time then. 

PLAYBOY: We stand corrected. Have you 
found any drawbacks to being a full-time 
millionaire? 

MALONE: I guess some people are jealous of 
what I make, but that's about it. Listen, I 
enjoy money. You got to know how to 
enjoy it, though. A lot of people enjoy it 
the wrong way: They spend it all. 
PLAYBOY: You don't? 

MALONE: Oh, I get what I want to be hap- 
py, but I’m conservative with my money. 
Pm the one who's got a family and I can't 
be playing basketball forever, so when I 
retire, I want to live on what I’ve made. I 
see a lot of athletes who retire and then 
they gotta go looking for work—and I 
don’t want that happening to Moses. 
When I retire, I wanna be able to just lay 
back. Only way to make it happen is to be 


investing my money, not spending it. 
PLAYBOY: What do you invest in? 

MALONE: Right now, I got between 30 and 
35 investments I put money into every 
year, but I don’t want to get into no invest- 
ment talk with you. I got good advisors in 
Washington, D.C., who tell me what they 
think, and then I check it out and decide 
what to do. 

PLAYBOY: No other problems handling all 
that money? 

MALONE: Well, I gotta admit, I have a lot of 
relatives now— most of "em I never heard 
of when I was growing up. [Laughs] No, 
mainly it’s that when you make a lotta 
money, you got a lotta people shooting at 
you. Anywhere you go, the tab goes up. 
People borrow stuff from you, you don't 
see it again—they figure, Hell, Moses 
ain't gonna miss it, why do I have to 
return it? 

PLAYBOY: If salary is a measure of a play- 
er's worth, do you think being pro basket- 
ball’s highest-paid player means that 
you're the best? 

MALONE: No, and I never felt that way. 
People been saying I’m the best 'cause I'm 
on the team that won last ycar, that's all. 
People never said I was the best two, three 
years ago 

PLAYBOY: Was it true then? 

MALONE: I don’t think my game’s changed 
none in the last two, three years. But I 
never thought I was the best; I just thought 
I was one of the best. Give that number- 


one rating to Larry Bird or Julius Erving 
or Kareem, because they all can play the 
game. I can play the game, too. So can the 
other 275 guys in the league, "cause to 
become a pro, you gotta be doing some- 
thing right. Take my word for it: The only 
reason people are saying I’m the number- 
one player is because I'm with the num- 
ber-one team. 

PLAYBOY: The 76ers may have won the 
N.B.A. title last year, but what makes you 
so certain you'll be champions this sea- 
son? 

MALONE: It’s real simple: The 76ers are the 
best team in the league. I rate our guards 
as the best in the N.B.A., "cause they're 
the best combination: Mo Cheeks, he can 
run the show, and Andrew Toney can 
score against anybody. Bobby Jones is the 
best sixth man in the league, and then you 
got Dr. J, and who’s better than him? We 
also got a good bench, but check this out: 
Doc, Toney, Cheeks, Jones—they’re all 
All-Stars. That’s why I wanted to come to 
Philadelphia in the first place. In Hous- 
ton, I was the only All-Star on the team, 
and sometimes they’d look for me to win 
games by myself. When I signed with 
Philadelphia last year, I knew I didn’t 
have to worry about scoring a lot to help 
the team win, which was a load off my 
mind. My main concern with the 76ers 
was to make them a better rebounding 
team and be able to run with them. 
PLAYBOY: Before you joined the 76ers, a lot 


ver lose a magic momen 


e 100th re-recording 


“HG Master Seri 


of people wondered how well you'd fit 
into a team that, as you just pointed out, 
already had several stars on its roster. Did 
you think that might be a problem? 
MALONE: I had no doubt in my mind 
about fitting in. I figured the 76ers were a 
great team before I got there, so I'd just do 
what Billy Cunningham, the coach, 
wanted me to do. I knew that once I 
learned the plays and Billy’s system, I'd be 
ready to go. 

PLAYBOY: How long did it take for you and 
the rest of the 76ers to mesh as a team? 
MALONE: Didn't take long at all, We prac- 
ticed for a month and then played some 
exhibition games, so we were pretty to- 
gether when the season started. By then, 
the other players knew me and what I do 
best, and I knew them and what they do 
best. After that, we just ran our stuff the 
way Billy wanted us to. See, I didn't come 
in there wanting to change anything and 
make the 76ers my team. I figured Doc’s 
been there, so it’s his team. And it is his 
team, 'cause Doc's the leader. 

PLAYBOY: In what sense? 

MALONE He keeps everybody together. 
Doc's a very smart individual who knows 
the game well and who plays it well. He's 
also a great guy—one of the best 1 ever 
met—and a great contributor to the 
younger players on our team. Sometimes 
to the older players, too. 

PLAYBOY: Has he helped you out at all? 
MALONE: Yeah, he has. When he sees me 


not taking my shots right, he'll come over 
and give me 2 hint about what I’m doing 
wrong. Last ycar, he saw that I was rush- 
ing my shots, and he told me about it. He 
saw that if I took a little more time, I could 
be better, and he was right. 

PLAYBOY: Given all the scoring talent on 
the 76ers, does it ever seem as if one 
basketball isn't enough to go around? 
MALONE: No, you have problems like that 
only when you're on a losing team; win- 
ning teams don't have too many people 
trying to be superstars. Guys like Doc and 
Bobby Jones, they been around and they 
know its about winning, not worrying 
about ego problems or who’s gonna get all 
the publicity. That was my biggest 
surprise about the 76ers: They're the most 
unselfish team I’ve ever been on. Every- 
body on the 76ers just wants to win, and 
they don’t care who does what to make it 
happen. That was my main goal—to help 
the 76ers win a world championship 
and I came here with the attitude that we 
could win it. Most everybody picked us to 
win, but the guys on the team had been 
through that for so many years without 
doing it, and I think I saw the reason why: 
When everybody thinks you should win, 
then you start feeling like you gor to win, 
and that’s no good. 

PLAYBOY: Why? 

MALONE: Because to play your best, you 
gotta be relaxed—you can’t worry what 
people will think if you lose. You want to 


win, but you can’t get uptight about it, 
see? Too many people were putting pres- 
sure on the 76ers to win every year, and I 
think some of the players were feeling it. 
PLAYBOY: You didn't? 

MALONE: No, I never feel any pressure 
about winning. I just go out and play my 
game, and I knew we'd win it if the guys 
just went out and played their game. That 
was the pressure I felt: I hoped the team 
would be relaxed enough to play the way 
they can. 

PLAYBOY: How important was winning 
that championship to you? 

MALONE: Very important. You know, I 
been a pro for nine years, and every yezr, 
you play more than 100 games—and you 
Want to get that ring one year. And then, 
when you get that ring, you wanna keep 
on getting it. Well, we got it last year, and 
we'll get it this year. 

PLAYBOY: The Los Angeles Lakers might 
have something to say about that. 
MALONE: Don't matter what the Lakers 
say, we're a better team than they are, and 
we proved it last year. We can run with 
them, but they have to be very strong on 
the boards to beat us, and after Magic 
Johnson, they don't haue a strong re- 
bounder. 1 figured that if we played solid 
defense, we could beat the Lakers, so 
that's what I concentrated on. What made 
it a great series was that everybody 
wanted to see me and Kareem matched up 
against each other for the title. What made 


PLAYBOY 


it an even belter series was that the Lakers 
had beaten Philadelphia in the finals two 
out of the last three years, and now people 
wanted to see if Los Angeles could beat 
^em with Moses on the team. Well, they 
couldn't. We swept ’em four straight. 
PLAYBOY: Do you think that would have 
been the case if James Worthy, the 
Lakers’ superb rookie forward, hadn't 
been out with injuries? 

MALONE: Hey, before Worthy got hurt, we 
played the Lakers twice and beat them 
dead. I'm not saying the Lakers aren't a 
strong team, "cause they are. But if they 
make it to the finals again this year, it'll 
just be another good show on CBS. It'll be 
like two big powerhouses meeting each 
other—and we'll beat ‘ет again. We can 
control them, but they can't control us, 
because we gol too many weapons. The 
Lakers couldn't control Dr. J or Toncy, 
and they couldn't control me with the two 
68” guys [Kurt Rambis and Mark 
Landsberger] they had guarding me. 
When I get the ball near the basket, 1 
don't think there's a 6’8” player in the 
league who can guard me. I get the ball 
down low, it's all over; they're too small to 
stop me from scoring. 

PLAYBOY: Aren't you too small to stop 
Kareem from scoring? 

MALONE: Nobody stops Kareem from scor- 
ing. Kareem’s been the greatest ballplayer 
of his time—he's been league M.V.P. six 
times—so you know he’s got to be the 
greatest scorer of his time. All you can do 
is make him work for his points. 
PLAYBOY: And how do you do that? 
MALONE: I try to take his hook shot away 
from him. Every center in the league tries 
to stop Kareem from shooting his sky 
hook, but it’s hard to do, 'cause you can’t 
keep him away from the ball. Kareem’s 
7'2"; if 1 play in front of him, his guys will 
just lob the ball up over me, and now 
Kareem’s gonna stuff it down the hole. 
My thing is to try to keep him from going 
to his right, which is when he shoots his 
sky hook. I try to outwork him and make 
him go to his left, and maybe take a jump 
shot or something else he can't shoot as 
well as his hook shot. I guard [the Mil- 
waukee Bucks'] Bob Lanier the same way, 
"сері he's a lefty, so I try to keep him from 
going to his left and taking his hook shot. 
PLAYBOY: Are Abdul-Jabbar and Lanier 
the most difficult for you to guard? 
MALONE: I have to worry about every cen- 
ter, because they all can play the game. A 
guy like Robert Parish . . . well, I mean, 
Robert Parish is a whole different story. 
When we play the Boston Celtics, 1 know 
І can't stop Parish's jump shot, because 
he's 71% Only way to play him is to keep 
him from getting to the spots he likes 10 
shoot from. To stop any of the league's 
centers from scoring, I gotta know what 
they do best; I gotta do my homework. If I 
didn’t study films of the big guys, they'd 
kill me out there. 

PLAYBOY: What kinds of things do you look 
for on film? 


MALONE: I starı with a player's offensive 
game first—his best shots and where 
he shoots 'em from—and then I check 
out everything else. I want 10 know all 
about the man. Is he tough on the boards? 
What type of runner is he? Does he get 
down-court quick? Does he foul a lot? Is 
he a good foul shooter? If he isn't, that 
gives me an edge: If we're in a close game 
and time’s running out, I won't. worry 
about trying to block his shot and maybe 
picking up a foul. But if Pm checking 
somebody who's а good foul shooter, I'll 
have to think twice about maybe sending 
him to the line. 

PLAYBOY: Are you a good foul shooter? 
MALONE: Yeah; I make about 77 percent 
from the line. Mc and Kareem are proba- 
bly the two best centersin the league when 
it comes to shooting foul shots. 

PLAYBOY: You and Abdul-Jabbar arc 
probably the two best centers in the league 
by any measurement. How do you get 
along with him? 

MALONE: Karcem's a good fella; me and 
Kareem have never had no problems. I 
talk to him and he talks to me. I think I 
learned a lot from Kareem. I’m still trying 
to pick up on that sky hook of his, but 
there ain’t but one guy in the league who 
can make it happen 

PLAYBOY: Abdul-Jabbar has said he learns 
something from you every time he watches 
you play. What do you think you've 
taught him? 

MALONE: The power game underneath and 
working on staying power—you want to 
be as strong at the end of a game as when 
it starts. You watch enough 76ers’ games 
and you'll see that in the fourth quarter, a 
lotta guys I play against get too tired to 
beat me underneath. 

PLAYBOY: Do you think that much of your 
success depends on being in better shape 
than your opponents? 

MALONE: That ain't really it, "cause you 
can’t play pro ball without being in shape. 
I might be stronger than some of the other 
guys, that’s all. But they know it, cause 
they watch films of me just like I watch 
films of them. They see what I can do best 
and they try to stop me from doing it. 
PLAYBOY: Who's the toughest player for 
you to score against? 

MALONE: I really don’t know. Several guys 
play me tough, but, like I said, I don't 
worry about offense, "cause the 76ers got a 
lot of players who can score. I concentrate. 
mainly on defense and on trying to stop. 
the seven-footers from scoring. 

PLAYBOY: At 610”, you're one of the short- 
est starting centers in the league, yet 
you're also the N.B.A.’s most dominant 
player at that position—or any position, 
for that matter. How do you compensate 
for your lack of height? 

MALONE: I make up for it with speed and 
power. See, I play a different style of cen- 
ter than other players in the league. My 
first three years in the pros, І was a for- 
ward, and J bet I could be the best big 
forward in the league—and if Billy Cun- 


ningham ever gave me the green light, 1 
might even make it as a guard. Anyway, 
after my second year at Houston, Kevin 
Kunnert, our center, was traded away and 
the coach decided to put me in the middle. 
Well, back then, I weighed maybe 220 
pounds, and all of a sudden, every night I 
had to battle guys who went from 6’11” to 
74”. 1 couldn't do that weighing no 220, 
so I started working out on a Nautilus 
machine, lifted weights, ate starchy foods, 
and I bulked up to 255. I'm not one of 
them muscle-beach guys—they can’t move 
and you need speed in the N.B.A. I just 
worked on strength and staying power. I 
like that power game; I like to get under- 
neath and make contact with other players 
and let ’em know I’m there. 

PLAYBOY: And we thought basketball was a 
noncontact sport. 

MALONE It’s never been a noncontact 
sport. You don't see basketball players 
wearing shoulder pads like football play- 
ers, but it might not be a bad idea, "cause 
there's a lot of bruising underneath. 1 
wear a boxer's mouthpiece, and a lot of 
guys are starting to use 'em, because every 
time you go up for a rebound, elbows start. 
snapping all over the place. ] wind up 
taking a lot of punishment and sometimes 
Ithink I am a fighter out there. During 
the play-offs, there were games when I 
thought I should’ve brought boxing gloves, 
but that’s the way the game is played: 
rough and tough. You want to be a center 
or a forward in the N.B.A., you gotta be 
strong and you gotta go to the glass with 
power. 

PLAYBOY: Have you ever thought that per- 
haps you play the game loo rough? 
MALONE: How can I be playing too rough? 
Thaven’t fouled out of a game in five or six 
years. 

PLAYBOY: Since you're the N.B.A.’s most 
physical player, how have you managed to 
pull that off? 

MALONE: Well, some people might think 
I'm too rough out there, but I play the 
game the way referees think it should be 
played. I never foul out because I never 
commit six fouls in a game. I play aggres- 
sive defense, but I don't beat people up; I 
play to make "em work, that's all. 
PLAYBOY: Do you stop playing tight de- 
fense after you get called for a few fouls? 
MALONE: Nope, I play my same game from 
beginning to end. Even if I got five fouls, if 
I see a player driving toward the basket 
and I know he's gonna jump into me, I 
might not try to block his shot, but Pm 
gonna hold my position. You know, when 
some guys foul out, they jump up and 
down and argue with the refs, just so they 
can look good to the fans. It’s like they're 
trying to get the fans to think, / didn’t do 
it—the ref did. Well, we ain't got any ref- 
erees who don't let you play the game, But 
you got to know how to play the game, and 
you gotta play smart. 

PLAYBOY: Does playing smart basketball 
include psyching out your opponents? 
MALONE: Not for me, it don’t. The only guy 


1 psych out is myself. 
PLAYBOY: In what way 
MALONE: I watch tapes of our games to 
see how hard I'm playing. I wanna see 
tension in my eyes, | wanna see me sweat- 
ing and getting angry out there—and if I 
don't see that, it gets me mad. If I look at a 
tape and see myself relaxing, or laughing 
and smiling during a game, 1 say, “Heck, 
I ain't doing my work.” Some people 
won't understand, but the name of the 
game is winning. The 76ers don't pay me 
to watch the ball come off the glass; they 
pay me to get rebounds and put em in the 
hole and help the team win. They pay me 
to win, and that’s why I play so hard. 
Can't win if 1 don't play hard. 

PLAYBOY: Aside from salary considerations, 
is winning that vital? 

MALONE: Yeah, I love to win. You win, 
you're the champ, and when you're the 
champ, ain't nothing anybody can say. All 
they can do is come back and try to take 
your crown away from yov. I don't care 
where I play, even if it’s the championship 
game in a schoolyard, I want to win. 
PLAYBOY: Do you play in schoolyards? 
MALONE During the off season, I do. 
When I'm home in Houston or visiting my 
momma in Petersburg [Virginia], I'm out 
playing pickup games three or four times 
a week. 

PLAYBOY: How do schoolyard players feel 
about going up against Moses Malone? 
MALONE: A lot of “em don’t know I'm 


Moses Malone, 'cause I don't tell 'em. Up 
until I got with the 76ers, I wasn't on the 
tube that much, so when I'd go out to a 
schoolyard, Га say my name was Mike 
Wynn, and people would think I was just 
some old guy they could take care of. 
When I run across a player who don't 
know Pm Moses Malone, and if 1 end up 
getting 85 points on him, I'll say, “You 
know who you're playing against?" He'll 
say, “Yeah, Mike Wynn." Well, I tell him 
who I am, and now he's all excited. He'd 
have been mad if I didn't tell him, but now 
that he knows he's been up against Moses, 
he ain't mad anymore. He can turn 
around and say, “Sure he got 85 points off 
me. He's a pro." See, if I told him who I 
was to start out, it would be a different 
game—he'd hammer me all night 
PLAYBOY: Are schoolyard players that 
tough? 

MALONE: I run across plenty of 'em that 
are. And if they watch me play on TV, 
they see how I get beat up and they'll 
think, Well, if he can get beat up on TV, 
he can take the beating Г give him 
PLAYBOY: Then why play in schoolyards? 
MALONE: It's exciting, you know? I can go 
out there and see young players who show 
me different moves, and I might learn 
something new. It keeps me sharp. 
PLAYBOY: Counting play-off games, the 
N.B.A. schedule now drags on for nearly 
nine months. Don't you get enough bas- 
ketball during the season? 


MALONE: Sure 1 do, but I also gotta prepare 
myself for the season 

PLAYBOY: Are there stretches during the 
season when you almost have to manufac- 
ture enthusiasm for the game? 

MALONE: Nope, I try to stay consistent the 
whole year round. H is a long season, but 
it’s not tough like having 10 get up and 
work from eight to five at a job you gol to 
do. I know I can't be playing ball all my 
life, so while I’m still in the league, I want 
to get the most I can out of it—and the 
only way to do that is to give 110 percent 
every game. I can relax when the season's 
over, and I figure that people pay a big 
dollar to see us play, so I don't take no 
breaks out on the court. I like for the team 
to look good and for me to look good. 
PLAYBOY: Have you always worked so hard 
at the sport? 

MALONE: Always, yeah. I didn't pick up a 
basketball till I was 13 and a half, but I 
worked hard even then. Every day after 
school, Га go over to this playground on 
Virginia Avenue and play ball till about. 
two in the morning. They put up lights 
there after I left, but back then, there was 
just a streetlight that flashed a little bit on 
the basketball court. Me and a guy named- 
Gut Johnson would be out there every 
night playing one on one, full court —we 
played hard against each other. 

PLAYBOY: Gut Johnson? 

MALONE: Yeah, as in gut. [Pals his stom- 
ach] Tried 10 eat everything. He'd have 


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100 gingersnaps, you'd ask for one, he'd 
complain he only had 99 left 

PLAYBOY: Didn't your mother find your 
night games a bit unusual? 

MALONE: No, she knew I wouldn't get into 
no trouble playing ball. The only trouble 1 
had was I kept wearing out my shoes. 
Back then, I didn’t get no high-priced 
shoe; I had to get them old P.F. Flyers. I'd 
wear them for about five days and then it 
was time for a new pair 

PLAYBOY: How long was it before all that 
hard work started to pay off? 

MALONE: Only about a year—one of my 
years was worth five of anybody else's. 
When I was 14, I was going up against 
much older guys and putting it to ’em. 
PLAYBOY: At what point did the college 
cozches start coming around? 

MALONE: After my freshman усаг at 
Petersburg High. They really started 
coming around after I went to a basketball 
camp in Pennsylvania that Pro Hayes, my 
assistant high school coach, told me about. 
It was called the Five-Star Basketball 
Camp, and 250 of the best high school 
players in the country went up there every 
year. I didn’t want to go, "cause I didn’t 
think I'd learn anything there, but the 
coach arranged for me to go, so I decided 
to check it out. 

PLAYBOY: To see how you stacked up 
against the best players in the nation? 
MALONE: That’s right. The camp was run 
by a New York guy named Howie Gar- 


finkel, and he rated players from one star 
to five stars 

PLAYBOY: How many did he give you? 
MALONE: Garfinkel gave me seven—he 
said I was the best player to ever come to 
his camp. The camp was split up into 
teams, and when I got there, he put me on 
a team with two other good players, but 
the rest of "em couldn't really play. Well, 
we went and defeated the whole camp— 
we were the champs. After that, wherever 
I went, people would tell me that Garfin- 
kel always said Moses was the baddest 
thing that ever came through there. 
PLAYBOY: How far along was your game at 
that point? 

MALONE: Oh, I had some szufJ. 1 could han- 
dle the ball, I could dribble and shoot the 
jump shot, block shots, rebound—I don't 
think I had a weak point. Remember I 
said I don't think I’m the number-one 
player in the pros? Well, I can tell you I 
was the number-one high school player in 
the country. 

PLAYBOY: A lot of college coaches evidently 
reached the same conclusion, especially 
after you led Petersburg High to 50 
straight victories and two consecutive state 
championships. How many colleges of- 
fered you basketball scholarships? 
MALONE: Between 300 and 400. Seemed 
like every college, including a lot I never 
heard of before, sent somebody around 
ptaveoy: Did all that attention turn your 
head? 

MALONE: No, everybody except me thought 


I was great. I was all right as a ballplayer, 
but I didn’t kid myself about nothing else. 
People were telling me, “Moses, you're 
one of the greatest ballplayers in high 
school history." Right. Well, I could have 
tore up a knee the next day, and I still 
would have been one of the greatest ball- 
players in high school history—but if that 
happened, I wouldn’t be talking to you 
now and the colleges would have stopped 
talking to me. 

PLAYBOY: Were you under a lot of pressure 
during that period? 

MALONE You mean when I was being 
recruited by colleges? No, I enjoyed the 
whole thing. Press and TV people would 
come around all the time and ask, “What 
are you going to do, Mo?” That was the 
part I really liked, because I was never in 
that situation before. I’m from the ghetto, 
and Id heard of rich people getting that 
type of publicity, so I wanted to see what it 
felt like. Pressure? Pressure where? It was 
fun! 1 traveled every time 1 got a break. 1 
visited at least 26 schools. Every time you 
looked around, I was flying somewhere 
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of the world; but when I started visiting all 
those colleges, I realized Petersburg was 
the only part of the world I'd seen. It 
didn't change my feeling none about Pe- 
tersburg, but things were a lot different on 
the West Coast, in the Southwest, in 
Hawaii, all over. 

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one of those trips, dozens of college 
coaches were practically camped out cn 
your doorstep. How did you handle that 
part of it? 

MALONE: I didn't; I let my mother do it. 
PLAYBOY: Is it true that Oral Roberts 
offered to cure your mother's bleeding 
ulcer by faith healing if you enrolled at 
Oral Roberts University? 

MALONE: Well, I know he came down and 
talked to my mother, but while a lot of. 
those things were going on, Moses was 
out the door. I really don't know how she 
got that ulcer, but I know I didn't let any 
Of the recruiters worry me to death. What 
with all the coaches and reporters hanging 
around the house, people thought I was 
under a lot of pressure, but I didn't feel 
hassled about it at all. I thought it was 
nice. They all wanted to know what / 
knew, and 1 wouldn't tell "em. I only told 
"em what I wanted to tell "em. 

PLAYBOY: Which was? 

MALONE: That I hadn't made up my mind. 
PLAYBOY: Did some of the coaches who 
pursued you offer under-the-table cash as 
an incentive to enroll at their schools? 
MALONE: Oh, I had some good offers. I’m 
not going to name any names, but when 
people want the number-one high school 
player in the nation, there's a lot they 
want to give you. Yeah, I had college 
coaches take care of me. They kept my 
pocket full 

PLAYBOY: Was Maryland's Lefty Driesell 


among the contributors? 
MALONE: No, I picked the University of 
Maryland because my mother wanted me 
to go there and it was close to home. Lefty 
Driesell was really a down-to-earth guy. 
It wasn’t all basketball with him; he was 
concerned about me getting an education 
and having something to fall back on if I 
didn’t make it in the pros. I liked Driesell 
and the school, so I enrolled at Maryland. 
I was in classes for a day and a half when 
I heard Pd been drafted by the Utah Stars 
of the American Basketball Association. 
PLAYBOY: What was your reaction? 
MALONE: I thought it was a joke. When 
somebody around school told me I'd been 
drafted by the Stars, I said, "Don't give 
me that. They're not gonna take no player 
out of high school.” Later on that day, I 
saw it on the TV news, so I thought, Well, 
it must be true, so I better check it out. But 
it was still a surprise, a big surprise. 
PLAYBOY: It must have been quite a sur- 
prise to Driesell as well 

MALONE: Sure it was, but when I told him I 
was interested in playing pro ball, he was 
just so . . . kind to me. Lefty said, “I know 
some great lawyers in Washington, D.C., 
and Га like you to sit down and talk to 
them before you make a decision." And he 
did get me two great lawyers—Lee Fen- 
tress and Donald Dell—and they talked 
for me and got me a five-year contract 
PLAYBOY: The Utah Stars of the now- 
defunct A.B.A. supposedly signed you to a 


$3,000,000 five-year contract. Are those 
figures correct? 

MALONE: Yeah. That's what we agreed on, 
and the contract was guaranteed—they 
couldn't cut me from the team and they'd 
have to pay me even if I got hurt. It was a 
‚great contract; I was just coming out of 
high school and I figured that kind of 
money could make me happy for the rest 
of my life. So I signed with the Stars, and 
me and Driesell stayed friends and we're 
still friends. Lefty knows that if I was 
going to play college ball, it would've been 
at the University of Maryland. We still 
joke about the whole thing. I told Lefty 
that I still got four years of college eligibil- 
ity left, so when Pm finished in the 
N.B.A., maybe T'll come back and play for 
Maryland. Might have to go to court to 
get that done. 

PLAYBOY: You were the first basketball 
player ever to go directly from high school 
to the pros. Do you have any regrets about 
not going to college? 

MALONE: No, I think I made the right deci- 
sion. Even back when it happened, in 74, 
I felt that if I was making a mistake, well, 
it’s my life, nobody else's, so I'd have to 
deal with it. The thing is, 1 thought college 
ball was too easy. In college ball, you just 
touch a player and they call a foul. I like to 
play a really tough, aggressive game, and I 
like to play against the best ballplayers, 
because I think it's better for me. I figured 
that if I could skip college and play pro 


65 


PLAYBOY 


ball, I'd be at the best stage for me. 
PLAYBOY: But what about the fact that you 
denied yourself an education? 

MALONE [Pause] Pm smart enough. I 
know what's going on. I got common 
sense. I know enough to survive. 
PLAYBOY: What do you tell kids—especial- 
ly all the young black kids who look up to 
you? 

MALONE: I tell "er not to try to do it my 
way, to do their lessons first, ¿hen play pro 
ball. 1 tell em that if they think they're 
great in high school, it don’t matter, it'll be 
different in the pros. 

PLAYBOY: While in high school, did you 
ever compete against professionals? 
MALONE: No, I never played against any 
pros till I got to be one. But I played a lot 
of sand-lot ball in Petersburg against older 
guys who were more aggressive than me, 
and there was some great talent around 
back then. I was pretty sure Га do OK in 
the pros. 

PLAYBOY: You were barely 19 when you 
went to Salt Lake City to play for the 
Utah Stars. Was living out there difficult 
for you? 

MALONE: My first year was tough. Basi- 
cally, I was homesick. I don't have nothing 
bad to say about Salt Lake City, but I 
didn't have too much to do there. The 
whole city's surrounded by mountains and 
lots of people go skiing, but I never got 
into that. It was physically tough, too. In 
high school, I was playing 18 to 25 games 
a year, and in the pros, there were six or 
eight pre-season games, then about 80 
regular season games, and then play-offs. 
That was the biggest change for me. 
PLAYBOY: What about the fact that you 
were going to a state with so few blacks in 
it—did that make you uncomfortable? 
MALONE: No; just about all my teammates 
were black. Utah was OK. 

PLAYBOY: Bucky Buckwalter, who coached 
the Utah Stars, says that when you 
arrived, your teammates did their best to 
physically intimidate you on the court. 
Did they resent all the money and public- 
ity you'd gotten? 

MALONE: No, they were good guys, but 
they did try to intimidate me. I never paid 
no attention to that, and after a couple of 
wecks, they started saying, “Well, this kid 
from high school, we're not intimidating 
him—when is he gonna start intimidating 
us?” I never backed down, so I really 
didn’t have a problem with the guys. Most 
of the players on the Stars—especially the 
older ones like Ron Boone and Gerald 
Govan—treated me like I was their kid 
and they were my daddy. They'd tell me, 
“Moses, you can’t do this and don’t do 
that,” and I listened to them, They al- 
ways told me the right thing to do; they 
never told me the wrong thing. 

PLAYBOY: In your rookie season, you were 
the Utah Stars’ leading rebounder and 
second leading scorer. Did that surprise 
you? 

MALONE: Like I said, I knew I was ready 
for the pros. I felt even stronger coming 


into my second year, but I only played half 
a season—I fractured my right foot. 
Wasn't nothing serious, though. 

PLAYBOY: Before you recuperated, the 
Utah Stars went bankrupt, and then the 
A.B.A. itself folded. At the start of the 76 
season, you spent a total of three weeks 
with N.B.A. teams in Portland and Buffa- 
lo before being shipped down to Houston. 
Why didn’t those clubs want you? 
MALONE: Oh, Portland had Bill Walton at 
center and Maurice Lucas at one forward. 
and didn't think they needed me. Before 
the season started, they traded me to Buf- 
falo and I didn't spend but a week 
there— Tates Locke, Buffalo's coach, 
didn't want me on the team. 

PLAYBOY: Why not? 

MALONE: Well, we had a little recruiting 
problem when Tates Locke was the coach 
at Clemson and wanted me to come be his 
center. Some people from Clemson gave 
my uncle $2000 to get me to go to school 
there, and when my mother found out 
about it, she made him give the money 
back. [Malone's uncle denied it.] Clemson 
got into trouble later on, and I don't think 
Locke ever forgot it He acted like he 
wasn't still angry about it, but I think he 
was. When I got to Buffalo, he just 
wouldn't play me. I figured, Well, this is a 
shame, but I didn't like the weather in 
Buffalo, anyhow. I wanted outa there, so I 
think they did me a favor by trading me to 
Houston. The Rockets wanted me for 
scoring and rebounding, and I did my 
part. 

PLAYBOY: You were voted the league's 
Most Valuable Player after the *78-"79 
season, by which time you'd emerged as 
the N.B.A.’s leading rebounder and one of 
its top scorers. What does it take to be a 
great rebounder? 

MALONE: It takes a lot. It is tough under the 
boards, and a lot of players don’t want 
that pain. You also got to use your body 
well and your weight well, and you can't 
let up under there. You got to keep it in 
your mind that every shot is gonna miss. 
That way, every chance you get to go to 
the boards, you'll be there. 

PLAYBOY: Most basketball experts claim 
you're the finest offensive rebounder in the 
sport's history. Is there any particular rea- 
son you excel in that department? 
MALONE: Well, ] know how our guys shoot 
and where the ball will probably go if they 
miss. Some guys shoot hard, some soft, 
some put a big arch on their shot. I’m out 
playing with the Sixers every night and 
practicing with 'em on off days, so when 
they miss, Pm gonna know where to be 
better than the centers Pm playing 
against. 

PLAYBOY: Some N.B.A. coaches still don't 
understand how you get so many rebounds 
and claim that compared with most pro 
jumping jacks, you can barely get off your 
feet. Is that true? 

MALONE: "Course not. I’ve heard it, though: 
“Moses isn’t a great leaper, so how come 


he got all the rebounds?” Well, I can leap, 


I can jump. I just think people need things 
to talk about, and every year there’s 
something different they say I can’t do. 
Now they’re saying Moses ain’t a great 
leaper, but Moses been leading the league 
in rebounds every year, so what’s he doing 
to get those rebounds? Hey, I’m going up 
above the rim to get those rebounds. It’s 
just like when I first came into the league 
and people tried to say I couldn't score 
But I’ve always been able to put the ball in 
the hole, I was never just a rebounder. 
People have said my hands are too small, 
but I ain't got no problem holding the ball 
Next year you might hear that my feet are 
too small. I think it’s all bullshit. It's like 
when I was with Houston and people said 
I couldn't run. They just couldn't see what 
was happening in front of them. 

PLAYBOY: What did they miss? 

MALONE: "They didn't understand the kind 
of offense Houston used. This is why you 
gotta get with the right coach, one who'll 
let you show all the talent you have. At 
Houston, the Rockets played a slow game, 
a ball-control game, so people said I 
couldn't run. But when I got with the 
76ers and coach Billy Cunningham, all of 
a sudden, I could run and get down on fast 
breaks. Hey, I could always run, just like I 
could always jump and could always 
score. You understand? I could always do 
the stuff people said I couldn't do. Once I 
got to Philadelphia, it all changed, but in 
Houston, I never got recognition for what 
I could do. 

PLAYBOY: If that’s true, why do you think it 
happened? 

MALONE: You play in the Southwest and 
not too many people around the country 
are gonna find out what you can do. The 
Rockets were never on the TV that much, 
but as soon as I got with Philadelphia, 
well, everybody knows about the 76ers 
and sees us play on the TV. You also got 
the best press on the East Coast, especially 
in Philadelphia, where they really know 
their basketball. And Philadelphia news- 
papers have a way of traveling around the 
country; Houston papers travel from 
Houston to Houston. Whatever they write 
about you stays there—it ain't going 
nowhere. 

PLAYBOY. If Philadelphia sportswriters 
really know their basketball, are you 
implying that Houston sportswriters don't 
know theirs? 

MALONE Houston sportswriters don't 
know a good ballplayer from a bad one. 
Same thing's true about other cities. Phil- 
adelphia people really know their basket- 
ball. Houston don't know basketball. 
PLAYBOY: Since you played in Houston for 
six years, how much did that bother you? 
MALONE: Hard to say, hard to say. I live in 
Houston. I have more peace in Houston, 
because people don't follow basketball too 
much there. Houston was always low- 
profile, and that was OK—I didn't want a 
big profile where everybody would recog- 
nize me. In Philadelphia, if I go into a 
restaurant and sit down, everybody's in 


PLAYBOY 


my face, saying, “Moses, would you sign 
an autograph?" I really don't want that; I 
just want to be a down-to-earth person 
sitting there eating and having a good time 
with the fellas. I don't want to have a 
thing where everywhere I go somebody's 
gonna say, “Oh, there's Moses Malone.” 
PLAYBOY: But doesn't that come with the 
territory? 

MALONE: Hey, I got nothing to complain 
about. If you're doing good, if you're a 
star, you can go anyplace you want to go; 
but when you retire, then you got to leave, 
and it’s all over. Right now, it’s like if we 
hadn't won the world championship, 
people wouldn't be calling Moses to do 
this or do that. When the Lakers won the 
championship the year before we did, 
nobody called me then. So I look at it both 
ways: If I wasn’t in this position, people 
wouldn't be asking me to do commercials 
and to sign autographs; but at the same 
time, I ain't gonna stop being Moses. I'm 
not out to show people I’m on an ego trip; 
I'm showing people myself, and I'm gonna 
be myself. If I don't want to talk to 
nobody, I don’t. I’m a private man; ] like 
10 have privacy. 

PLAYBOY: Doesn't that seem impossible to 
maintain right now? 

MALONE: No, all that happens is that 
people get mad when I don’t do what they 
мапі me to do. But you gotta be your own 
тап; you gotta tell people how you feel 
and what you want to do, and you be 
insane if you don’t do that, because then 
you're doing what everybody else wants 
you to do. You gotta get your own peace of 
mind; you can’t worry what people are 
going to think of you. You know, up until 
last year, that wasn’t even a problem, but 
now everybody wants to see Moses and 
Doc and the 76ers ‘cause we're the 
champs—and that’s even happening in 
Houston. The people there just started 
recognizing me this year. Inthe off season, 
a whole lotta people in Houston came up 
to me and said, “Moses, we really miss 
you. We shoulda kept you here.” 
PLAYBOY: How close did the Rockets come 
to keeping you? 

MALONE: They didn’t come close enough! 
The people who tell me how much they 
miss me should have had a picket line in 
front of the Summit [the Rockets’ basket- 
ball arena] with signs saying, KEEP MOSES. 
KEEP MOSES. They didn’t miss me until 1 
went to Philadelphia and helped the 76ers 
win a world championship. Now they 
found out what I can do, so now they miss 
me. I won M.V.P. twice while I was in 
Houston, but the people didn't understand 
what it meant, It was a big joke to them. 
PLAYBOY: It couldn't have been a big joke to 
the Rockets’ owners. When your three- 
year, $3,000,000 contract with them сх- 
pired after the 1981-1982 season, did you 
become a free agent because you wanted 
out of Houston? 

MALONE: I didn't want to leave Houston, I 
just wanted to get paid what I was worth. 


I became a free agent because I didn't 
think the Rockets really tried to sign me 
and that made me feel low-down; but my 
spirits went up when Harold Katz, the 
owner of the 7Gers, wanted me. 

PLAYBOY: Why were only the 76ers inter- 
ested in you? 

MALONE: I didn't have other offers because 
the price was too high. If 1 asked for half a 
million, all 23 teams would have tried to 
get me. My situation was different: When 
Î became a free agent, everybody knew 
that since I won M.V.P., I'd ask for a big 
price, but the money didn’t really make no 
difference. I just wanted to have some- 
where to play and be paid what owners 
thought I was worth. When Philadelphia 
gave me an offer sheet for $13,200,000, I 
signed it and gave it to the Rockets’ owner, 
Charlie Thomas, who'd been telling 
everybody he’d match whatever offer I got 
from another team. Turned out to be a lot 
of bullshit, so I thought, If Houston don’t 
want me, I want to be in Philadelphia. 
PLAYBOY: It. sounds as if you're still upset 
about that. Are you? 

MALONE: Yeah, I am. I didn't like how the 
Rockets blufled the fans down there for 
two years, telling "em they'd match what- 
ever offer I got from another team. Soon as 
1 got an offer from Philadelphia, they 
went and traded me to the 76ers. They 
figured I wasn't worth all the money Katz 
was gonna give me, and then Thomas said 
1 told him I didn’t want to be in Houston, 
and I never said that! He said other things, 
too, like how I didn’t win a world champi- 
onship for Houston. Well, the year before 
1 went to Philadelphia, the Rockets won 
46 games; last year, without me, they won 
14 games. All I know is that when I signed. 
that offer sheet, I crossed an ocean. 
PLAYBOY: Because the Rockets finished last 
in the N.B.A.’s Western Conference last 
year, they flipped a coin with the Eastern 
Conference's weak sister, Indiana, for the. 
right to pick first in the league's college 
draft. They won and, as expected, selecied 
Virginia's Ralph Sampson—and a lot of 
people now feel that Thomas is something 
of a genius. Do you? 

MAIONE: I just think he got lucky. But, see, 
now he has to pay Ralph Sampson 
$1,000,000 a year, and Ralph's a guy who 
was a great ballplayer in college but never 
proved himself in the IN.B.A. 

PLAYBOY: What's your opinion of him? 
MALONE: He's a great offensive ballplayer. 
He's got a lot of good stuff around the 
hole, and he’s gonna do it in this league. 
But Ralph’s not gonna make Houston a 
winner in his first year, because he's 
young and he's got a lot of things to learn. 
So people shouldn't put pressure on him 
and he shouldn't worry about pressure. 
PLAYBOY: Don't you think that all the pub- 
licity Sampson's received—together with 
that $1,000,000 salary—makes it almost 
inevitable that he wall feel pressure? 
MALONE: Ralph should be like me and for- 
get it. He shouldn't worry about all that 
stuff; he should just go out there and 


do what he can do best. Ralph was the 
number-one college player for three years, 
and now that he’s making big money as a 
pro, it don’t mean he got to prove a point 
to anybody. The only point he’s got to 
prove is to himself—that he can play the 
game. He can’t try to prove to people that 
he can make the Rockets the champs. 
PLAYBOY: Does playing against Sampson 
present a special challenge to you? 
MALONE: I gotta play hard against him, 
"cause Ralph's 7/4”, but otherwise, no, it's 
no challenge, "cause Houston will never 
beat us. If we play the Rockets 25 times, 
we'll beat ’em 25 times. Houston’s ours. 
PLAYBOY: You're obviously a confident 
man; but considering your reticence about 
the press, would you say you were also a 
shy man? 

MALONE: I’m not shy; I just don't put 
myself in a category a lot of people do: 
“There goes Moses Malone, superstar of 
the Philadelphia 76ers.” I keep mysclf out 
of that position. I’m just Moses Malone; I 
was Moses Malone when I was born and 
when I grew up, and I ain't по different 
now. I don’t let people put me on a high 
cloud, because when the time comes, 
they'll bring me back down to а low cloud 
When your band wagon’s going good, 
everybody jumps on it—and right now my 
wagon's going real good—but when that 
wagon starts going bad, ain't nobody 
gonna jump on it. When I retire from pro 
ball, you ain’t gonna hear too many people 
asking after Moses Malone. 

PLAYBOY: Have you thought about how 
much longer you plan to play? 

MALONE: Oh, I'll play at Icast four more 
years—that’s what I got left on my con- 
tract. After that, maybe I'll be too old. And 
Tam geuing old. 1 don’t feel any wear yet, 
but I keep ice on my knees after our games 
just to be ready to do all the work I got to 
do on the court. 

PLAYBOY. According to our calculations, 
you'll have to play at least another ten 
seasons to break Wilt Chamberlain's 
N.B.A. career record of nearly 24,000 
rebounds. Is that one of your goals? 
MALONE: No, I don't set no goals, except to 
win. 1 just go out there and play for the 
pleasure of playing. 

PLAYBOY: Has nine years of pro ball taken 
any of the edge off that pleasure? 
MALONE: No, 1 still /ove to play ball. 1 
always keep the little boy in me, and 1 
think if I ever lose that little boy, Pl be in 
trouble, because then PII lose the fun of 
playing. When that happens to players— 
and it happens to a lot of 'em—they stop 
working to make themselves better. But 1 
don't see that happening to me. 

PLAYBOY: What if it does? 

MALONE: Then I'll stop playing, but I'm 
sure that ain't gonna be a problem. 
PLAYBOY: Why are you so sure of that? 
MALONE: Because all I do is play basket- 
ball. It’s like a doctor's a doctor and a 
lawyer's a lawyer. Pm a basketball player; 
that’s my profession. 


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here's to those rites and talents thai are 
undeniably, inherently male 


THE 


MANLY 


ARTS 


ISTEN," my mother has said to me, “you know why men are useful? 
It’s that little inside pocket in their jackets. They can carry a pass- 
port. Maybe a pack of Chesterfields for you. It’s very convenient.” 
“Ts that all?” 
“Mmmm. A man has a razor you could borrow for your legs. 
You can wipe your glasses on his tie. Also, a man is good for 
screwing” 

“Uh, Mother, my therapist told me I shouldn’t talk with you about that 
kind of —” 

“And unscrewing. Especially light bulbs way up on the ceiling. And 
faucet handles so they won’t drip. And wringing wet laundry out. And jars 
I married three times just so I could get jars open. A happy male-female 
relationship should contain lots of tightening and opening. Otherwise, you 
need a man as much as you need a spastic colon.” 

This sort of talk has never jeopardized my self-esteem. Sce, I know that 
Mother doesn’t consider me a man, she considers me a son—which is 
something different, possibly genderless. But don’t get the wrong slant on 
her: Mother isn’t spermicidal. She appreciates male companionship and 
will treat all men with the same unfailing, patient grace that she would 
accord to any slow hotel porter. 

Me, I’m not so pessimistic. I think the Manly Arts still exist—each a 
mysterious and intrinsic act that men alone can bring off, either because 
women can't, or won't stoop so far, or are afraid their nail polish might 
flake off while they’re doing it. From these our culture, ever since Cro- 
Magnon man first took mastodon garbage out or bought his mate some 
cheap wrist corsage, has knit a receiving blanket of obligation and trust that 
won’t change much even though Ms. Ride reached escape velocity last year. 
After all, there should be something that will distinguish male and 
female—aside from yeast infections or a handle-bar lip fern. 

Here, then, is the Manly Art (M.A.) accordion file—rites and talents 


article 


By D. KEITH MANO 


ILLUSTRATION BY BORIS VALLEJO 


7 


PLAYBOY 


that, in my opinion, would seem so innate 
as to be gene determined. I don't claim 
proficiency for myself. I’m a son, remem- 
ber. I have, however, seen other men per- 
form well. Upon these M.A.s, I suggest, 
the enduring bond and the native civility 
that persist between man and woman are 
grounded. (By all this acoustical cologne I 
mean: Thank God she still needs you to fit. 
that damn thready, flimsy little hook and 
eye together at the back of her dress.) 


LIFE IN THE EXACT-CHANGE LANE 


"Women can’t manipulate anything 
more complex than a Pez dispenser. They 
get along with mechanical equipment 
about as well as roaches get along with 
boric acid. You'll think I made this up, but 
it is down-pure true. See, I'm at a self- 
serve pump and Ms. Goodwrench has just 
bought one quart of motor oil. “Know 
where to put it?” I ask. Complete snub 
and heavy, basic indignation. Then mem- 
sahib, she yoicks her hood up and, my 
God—gloppo!—she is now shaking oil all 
over her entire engine block, the way 
you'd sprinkle vinegar on escarole. Wom- 
en drive off jacks they can’t pump down 
and throw away your birthday-present 
butane lighter when it has run out of gas. 
Also, a camera will completely f-stop 
them, which is why, I guess, so many 
appear nude in magazines: Someone has to 
snap the shutter. Men and machinery, by 
contrast, have a fine understanding, like 
that between young children and dirt. 
Motors and drive shafts and clock escape- 
ments have to be dealt with firmly: You 
catch rattlesnakes so, hard, behind the 
head, Trouble is, women think of metal as 
male; they try to seduce it. But even if. 
she's so sexy she'd make your nose hard, a 
flooded carburetor won't respond. 


E ONE WING AND THREE 
LEGS, PLEASE. 


My father, now, he could slice a full 
bladder. He could cut the Pope’s nose 
from T-bone steak. Man, he was 
George Washington Carver. Keep your 
knife sharp as cheap schnapps, he'd tell 
me, cut along the grain and don’t get emo- 
tionally involved with dinner. That was 
my problem: I could anthropomorphize a 
chicken. I'd feel sorry and end up with all 
dark meat. Women won't carve, possibly 
because they don't like to reveal their 
aggressive nature. And they won't eat, 
either: Wornen are forever dieting or 
scared to unsimonize their lip gloss. Per- 
haps the least understood and most impor- 
tant M.A. is plain old eating. Men have to 
smack their chops and ask for a third help- 
ing and get gas so that our whole social 
fabric won't unravel. Heartiness is male. 
There's no such thing as a hearty woman, 
is there? You wonder we men throw up 
fat-thrombosed clots and infarct all over 
by the time we're 39? 


YOU'VE NEVER MET A FEMALE SHOE. 
FETISHIST, HUH, HAVE YOU? 


No. Because few women get real beef 
satisfaction from good leather. To them, 
shoes are just dumb ornament—a kind of 
coiffure for walking in. Men, even hobos, 
understand that broken footwear is abso- 
lute social death. Women let their toe gear 
derez almost at once; it'll look like the Ele- 
phant Man's palm by next week. Avoid 
this foot fault. Work good oil around, ply 
and squeeze. Insert one finger, then mas- 
sage gently, with an Eine Kleine Nacht- 
musik beat. Educe natural juices. Don't 
forget the tongue: Get in decp with it and 
stroke to your own peculiar coxswain's 
call. Shoe care of this kind may be the 
quintessential Manly Art. 


C'MON, BABY, LIGHT MAH 
CHARCOAL GRILL 


Ever see women trying 10 start а wood 
fire? They'll bend down and look for the 
pilot light cvery time. That subtle step up 
from kindling point (tight newspaper) to. 
higher kindling point (twig and bark) to 
highest kindling point (major wood with 
good draw beneath) is less comprehensible 
than a unified field theory. Their brain 
waves go flat when they consider fire. 
Women, moreover, are more impressed by 
sheer flame than by smooth, even burning, 
because they're always cold. Гус never 
known a warm woman. That's why wom- 
en prefer the missionary position: You're 
not their lover, you're their flesh bed- 
spread, Irvin. Also why they have to put 
solid-kapok underwear on right after sex. 
(“But Im cold, dear, and you've seen it 
once alrcady.”) 


GENEROUS, FULL-BODIED AND WET 


Itis an M.A., utterly thankless, to select 
that special wine. Women, I think, have 
just 12 scanning lines on the tongue, some- 
what fewer than your cheesiest computer 
screen. Robust, earthy Bordeaux will taste 
like raw potted plant to them. Better it 
should smell like a premature dessert. And 
be white, endlessly, blindingly white. At 
Lutèce, she'll say, “A glass of white wine, 
please,” as I'd say, “A glass of liquor, 
please,” at my neighborhood bar. Califor- 
nia still means cheap donk to women, so 
buy French anything—mis en bouteille 
sous la Place Pigalle—since French is now 
cheaper than Californian. Hopeless: 
She'll never admit to enjoying it. If she 
did, you'd pour more and then she'd vornit 
out your no draft on the trip home or, 
worse, make love spontaneously. 


SCREW THAT CORK 

My method may be tacky as painting 
on black velvet, but it’s efficient. Work 
your corkscrew in, then—while you hold 
it at center with chin or nose—turn the 
bottle. Aha! A Polish sommelier. Easier, 
though, to twist that big, solid bottle 


straight than to turn that jiggery cork 
screw straight. And there is no morc tes- 
tosterone-inhibitive second—I’m impotent 
for one full week after—than when you 
catch dry cork and make the gourmet 
equivalent of fool-sole parings on her 
kitchen counter. As for champagne, of 
course, the trick is not to pop it and waste 
carbonation. Women, of course, love loud 
sound. Champagne is a big thrill for 
them—like, oh, taking NyQuil in the 
afternoon. Practice tock! noise against 
your palate. And let gas out slowly, the 
way you would a dark fart at 10 Downing 
Street. 


JUST SO1 CAN'T TELL THERE'S ANY 
LIQUOR INIT 


Women don’t tend bar well; their mar- 
tinis taste worse than ear grease on some 
old pay-phone receiver. Women want the 
ideal cocktail to (A) look pretty (ever try 
swallowing your lava lamp?) and (B) taste 
like a Barricini holiday assortment. My 
wife has been seen ordering Kahlüa 
mixed with Baileys Original Irish 
Cream—known among New York bar 
people as The Final Yoo-Hoo. It is mas- 
culine and artful to pour Galliano (over 
your knife edge) atop a Harvey Wall- 
banger—so it'll remind her of Creamsi- 
cles. Even then, she'll nurse it longer than 
the Fabulous Invalid. Here we may as 
well discuss a yet more essential M.A.— 
pure drinking. How elsc—tell me—are 
you gonna stay in that nice piano bar? 
She’s got her one half-rotted Wallbanger 
and Mr. Officious Waiter is wiping the 
table with your hand still on it. Me, I have 
to order bourbon after bourbon until I 
belong in a Frozen Embryo Repository. 
Then, later at home, with my prowess on 
backward, she'll say, “You sure overdid it 
tonight, didn’t you?” 


THE FACT THAT YOU'RE HIGH ON 
GRASS DOESN'T QUALIFY YOU FOR 
HANDICAPPED PARKING 


Women don’t know one loose gram 
about scoring drugs. So you, Percivale, 
will have to meet Bacciagalupe, with his 
face like a gangland-style execution, in 
some dark playground sandbox. One 
hundred years for possession, life for 
dealing—yowre just fortunate they run 
consecutively. Even if your French Con- 
nection is Aunt Mimi in De Gaulle, New 
Jersey, try to suggest great personal risk. 
Come back talking black jive, such as 
“That half-steppin’ ho-daddy splib, cat 
try and walk on it with Polly-dent, off 
him, off him, he not wrapped too tight, 
ditty bop an’ thuh Motown soun’.” This 
ethnic badinage will thrill her—more than 
the junk, which is probably half fly ash 
and half old pocketbook dirt. Either way, 
no sweat, no threat, because even when 
women get good stuff, when they're out 
prone on tiptoe, they say, “I just don’t feel 

(continued on page 82) 


Er 


EI" 


“Play me or trade me!” 


thin may be in, but a full-figured woman 
has a little more of everything 


76 


PETER PAUL RUBENS was a great Flemish painter of the 17th Cen- 
tury. He liked plump women. He liked to paint them and he 
liked to hang out with them, for they were the standard of 
beauty in his day. What you might call the Peter Paul 
Mounds— his models’ soft, round curves—were in those days 
thought by all to be indescribably delicious. 

Rubens' models were heftier than most of the women you find 
in our pages, but just as lovely if you widen your perspective a 
little. In these days of supermodels on whose hipbones you could 
shave (some of our acquaintances have tried), we thought it 
would be an invigorating change of pace to present seven modern 
Rubensian ladies we found both refreshing and, yes, sexy. 

We wondered if locating beautiful middleweights might be as 
difficult as signing a worthy opponent for Marvelous Marvin 
Hagler, but the matchmaking was simpler than that. Unbe- 
knownst to us, a breadth-taking new industry was springing up 
even as we considered shooting this pictorial, one devoted to 
putüng full-figured girls in the spotlight. These young women 
are some of the best that new industry has to offer. We found 
them through agencies that place "larger models" in commer- 
cials, catalogs, newspapers and billboards, but they're not exact- 
ly used to nude modeling. That doesn’t seem a very weighty 
matter to them, though. Kelle Kerr, who holds a degree in 
speech and drama from North Texas State University, echoes 
the rest in her pride in the work she did with us. “I wanted to 
work with Palma [photographer Palma Kolansky],” she says, 
“and I think the idea behind the pictorial is very good. The 
pictorial itself is tasteful. It’s beautiful.” And if ever there were a 
PLAYBOY pictorial that drew its inspiration directly from the work 
of great artists in great art museums, this is it. 

Glancing over the newsstands and into the tube, one could think 
that modeling is a narrow space women can enter only sideways, 
that only the skinniest of the skinny ever get in. But the past few 
years have brought a boomlet in business for models of a larger 
scale. It has a great deal to do with identification—many women 
consumers have trouble connecting with the ultralean models 
they sce so often in Vogue and Harper's Bazaar. They’re more 
comfortable patterning their buying on women closer to their 
own Size, as long as those women are pretty enough. 

“Bigger models work a lot,” says Mary Duffy of New York's 
Big Beauties agency, which represents Maureen Roberts and 
Debbie Laster. "You'll see them in the large sizes of clothing in 
catalogs, in print ads and in live fashion shows for department 
stores. This is only a seven-year-old industry, and for a while, 
people said it might not last, but it’s here to stay.” 

If so, we had better get used to seeing a more Rubensian 
look in our media. Duffy thinks that's a good thing, especial- 
ly for the photographers. She believes most of today's high- 
fashion models pay too high a 
price to be thin. 

“Twelve hundred calories a 
day just aren't enough,” she ex- 
plains, making excellent sense. 
“If you go through life and never 
have an ice-cream cone, your 
disposition is not going to be very 
good.” Many of New York’s top 
fashion photographers have told 
her how difficult it can be to 
work with thin and edgy models. 
“They tell me they love working 
with the bigger girls. Well, of 
course! They're not starving 
themselves all the time. A lot of 
people will look at them and say, 


“My God, those girls must be eating all kinds of junk food.’ No 
way. The difference is that we'll have salads with the dressing. 
But my girls do not eat junk food. They have to have good 
nutrition," Duffy says. 

"Things were not always thus. From the prehistoric artist who 
made the Venus of Willendorf nearly round to a contemporary 
skiing acquaintance of ours who measures his vacation con- 
quests in tonnage, there have always been men who like their 
women to have a little heft from right to left. But the law of. 
supply and demand makes rare things valuable; in earlier times, 
there were few plump women and many thin ones. Nutrition— 
good ог bad— was the business of only the feds, and there were 
many more unfeds. Today, so many people can afford to be fat 
that it’s “in” to be thin; but in the days before Twinkies, when 
Rubens was working, the fashionable shoe was on the other foot. 
All the best models were plump. Thinness signified hunger, not 
fashion, and the best measure of beauty was probably the tape. 
But there’s no compelling reason all models have to come from 
the same mold, as though the idea were to save wax. It’s exciting 
to see full figures squeezing into the picture again. 

Now that the youth and feminist movements, the Black and 
Gray Panthers and the Silent and/or Moral Majorities have all 
had their day in the spotlight, even popular politics is turning to 
weightier things. A relatively new group called the National 
Association to Aid Fat Americans has taken on what it considers 
our cultural bias toward thin and hasreceived heavy media cover- 
age for its efforts. Founded in 1969 and burgeoning every day, 
the N.A.A.F.A. dedicates itself to fighting “fat oppression.” 

“Fat can be beautiful” and “Fat can be fit” are two of the 
N.A.A.F.A.'s slogans. “Plump can be pleasing” would be a more 
fitting motto for this PLAYBOY feature, but the N.A.A.F.A. isn’t 
interested in drawing arbitrary lines when it comes to eroding 
what it sees as an arbitrary standard of beauty. It’s interested in 
blowing that standard to smithereens, in making us believe even 
extreme fat can be not only beautiful but sexy. A 300-pound 
female spokesperson, being stared at by a roomful of “F.A.s”— 
fat admirers—was quoted as saying, “I kinda like being a sex 
symbol!” Her organization has yet to put out a line of posters, so 
don’t worry about our nation’s forests, but many heavy thinkers 
do believe we're entering an age in which beauty will come in 
many shapes and sizes. There's already an excellent fashion- 
and-lifestyle magazine for “the abundant woman” called BBW: 
Big Beautiful Woman. Can extra-wide centerfolds be far behind? 

As the people who gave the world its first close look at such 
lithe sex symbols as Marilyn Monroe. Victoria Principal and 
Bo Derek, we're not sure we're ready to join the N.A.A.F.A. 
in the realm of superheavyweight sex symbolism. We are ready, 
however, to open the door to some of the loveliest, roundest 
models. 

Duffy doesn’t hesitate to 
speak up for her currently hard- 
charging charges: “They're 
really the same as any other 
models. They go through the 
same trials. They have to worry 
about their grooming, their 
make-up, their skin. These 
women are all gorgeous, as your 
readers are going to see." 

So feast your eyes, and re- 
member that even Venus, the 
goddess of love, was portrayed— 
at Milo, at least—as a little on 
the chunky side. But she was no 
less disarming for that. 


In our opening spread, you saw Volerie Rehling, Rubension pride and joy of Sonto Barbora City College. Just 19, Valerie is portial to “shiny sports 
cars, the beaches at sunset ond—get this, storving models— "mint-chip ice cream." On the focing poge is Sonta Monica's Conni Peoch, who, when 
osked what kind of men she likes, says she likes them mole. Above: Inger пто, who recently subtrocted from her perfect 39-27-39 by losing 30 pounds. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY PALMA KOLANSKY 


78 


Mavreen Roberts (left and below left) and 
Debbie Laster (below) come from BB—the Big 
Beauties agency—and they definitely qualify 
on both fronts. Maureen has a full-scale 40- 
inch bust and a waist of only 29. She's been 
described as a Rubens painting come to life, 
only prettier. Debbie, ct 5'B”, is among the 
shortest of our well-rounded ladies, but she’s 
got perfect 40-30-40 measurements. Yester- 
day's painters and today’s photographers 
would prabably call her pretty as a picture. 


Jody Myles (right) of Plus Models Manage- 
ment, Ltd., makes a fine additian to any model- 
ing session. She attended Manhattan's Fashion 
Institute of Technology, which may explain how 
she managed to engineer the perfect pose in 
what even we will admit is the least likely outfit 
af the month. There's plenty of advertising 
work far larger models these days, particularly 
incatalogs; this one might be from the “Shawls 
R Us" catalog. At 26, Jady's ready to move 
an now to even bigger ond better things. 


This page belongs to Plus Models’ Kelle 
Kerr, whose now-wholesome, now-sultry 
face has personified the Macy Womon 
for that most celebrated of deportment 
stores. A member of the Screen Actors 
Guild, Kelle's both a model and an 
up-and-coming actress. You may have 
noticed that we haven't said how much 
о single one of these ladies weighs, but 
we'll offer a barometer now—to set the 
betting line. Kelle makes no bones about 
it—she weighs 150 pounds, ond every 
One mokes a good impression. 


HAIR AND MAKE-UP BY DAVIS GARVIN / STYLING BY DEBORAH LA GROCE KRAMER 


PLAYBOY 


82 


MANIY ARTS (continued from page 72) 


“We are their mouthpieces. Men don’t become in- 
volved with women; they’re retained by them.” 


it at all, do you? It has no effect on me.” 
Sure, Mildred, but you just ate a dime and 
now you’re dialing my left nostril. But we 
do need women. Only they can roll a 
decent tight joint. Mine come out as fat as 
monarch-butterfly cocoons and burn fast- 
er than the Coconut Grove fire. 


BAKSHEESH, OR, FACE IT, GUY, 
WOMEN ARE CHEAP 


Hell, they wear perfume and flash 
inner thigh and retain water in attractive 
places; why should they tip, too? If your 
wife is buying, leave an extra fin behind. 
Otherwise, the waiter will sprinkle amoe- 
biasis in your doggy bag. Women actually 
think they should tip for good service—a 
concept that threatens Western civiliza- 
tion as we know it. Doing a smooth palm 
lube is supermanly. Fold your bill tight, 
denomination up, and try to look Middle 
Eastern when the disco bouncer passes by. 
Also, recognize your mark. I once slipped 
a bus boy $20 for preferential seating. 
(Now, wait—he was better dressed than I; 
it’s sometimes hard to tell.) We were put 
conveniently near a live dumb-waiter, but 
he did run one of those little crumb carpet 
sweepers over my suit all night. Massag- 
ing the human silk gland may be your 
most critical M.A. If men didn’t take 
women out, cabbies, waiters and mechan- 
ics would have little not to report on their 
collective 1040. Think of it. The under- 
ground economy would get starch blocked 
and almost nothing would trickle up. 


IF IT'S BIGGER THAN AN ANT AND 
DOESN'T ANSWER TO FIDO, SCREAM 


Women who are cool with the surprise 
Pampers and unflung formula become 
shrieking Roquefort when any after-din- 
ner-mint-size creature moves. A palmetto 
bug'll make your wife pop her cervical 
cap. And then she becomes instant Caligu- 
la, right? “Kill it, kill it!" she'll yell as you 
take a Luna moth back cutside. Manliness 
requires you to bait her hook with the 
worm, then remove whatever she might 
have caught. In between, though, she's 
‚Fishing. And remember Rover? He'd lift 
his leg on your attaché case every AM 
before work and sniff right there with that 
cold nose just when you were coming. 
Yeah; but now that a transit-mix truck hit 
him, Rover is your pet. Гуе conducted 
more dog obsequies than any K9 Corps 
chaplain. And what about mice? I think. 
women fear mice for the same reason an 
elephant is supposed to. Only their trunks 
are shorter. 


HER WORK IS NEVER DONE, PROBABLY 
BECAUSE SHE LOST IT 


Extensive aptitude testing has shown 
that men are twice as lobed to cope with 
shape and organization as women. Father 
could pack our car perfectly (primeval 
M.A., that) while Mother was still trying 
to get channel four on her Dial-a-Lash. 
"The female pocketbook is one neighbor- 
hood that'll never be gentrified. And as for 
that predictable kitchen “thing” drawer, it 
must come with her trousseau—old bat- 
teries fizzy from acid, string, blank 
thumbtack cards, chance books for some 
1974 Roman Catholic automobile, one 
moving part, onc Iran Air stand-by reser- 
vation, one cuff link, one ankle weight, 
one ben-wa ball—this drawer is on a 
secret list at the Center for Disease Con- 
trol. No wonder they don’t find women in 
organized crime. It is an important M.A. 
to keep separate emergency duffel hidden 
somewhere: second flashlight, second can 
opener, second car key, second diaphragm, 
second tube of Ortho-Gynol, second petro- 
leum-jelly jar, second thought about your 
relationship. 


GIRLS THROW LIKE, AH, GIRLS. 


Women face every sport chest on, as if 
they were all—tennis, softball, Frisbee—a 
pub dart game. They don’t comprehend 
torque, angle or leverage; they could get 
fouled in the act of taking a foul shot. 
Moreover, they presume that just one 
body part is requisite: arm for throwing— 
yike! forgot to open the hand and, yow! 
why did my right foot step on my left toe? 
Watch her bowl. Exotic approach copied 
from Laverne on TV. Then—eerrrk!—a 
dead, shoe-burning stop (which negates 
the approach completely). Release gutter 
ball. Stand with hands on hips, body 
English sent under separate cover. Curse 
a torn cuticle. Then—jolé/—follow- 
through. Female movement is serial: She 
will dive, swing, serve the way committees 
take up an agenda. It is manly to keep 
your woman from being killed by her own 
Jarblonjet biofeedback. I know, I know, 
there are great female athletes. I also hear 
that some Russian has taught an elephant 
to speak. 


THE ELECTRONIC REVOLUTION. OR, DOES 
MS. PAC-MAN HAVE BULIMIA? 


Anything with one plug and three 
knobs will give a woman an occluded 
head. She can’t even tune her color TV 
right—O. J. Simpson is green and Kermit 
is high yellow. A vague sense of propriety 


there, I guess: It isn’t nice to adjust some- 
one else's base make-up. Stereo: Well, the 
left speaker is for treble and the right is for 
her wandering Jew, which could use sun- 
light, so turn the whole component toward 
a window. A woman does not, ba-ba-dah- 
dum, rock on down to Electric Avenue. 
She is piss awful at Donkey Kong and 
Pitfall! and Berzerk, maybe because the 
Atari joy stick reminds her of a hand job 
she once knew. But don’t explain, do: 
Software for a woman is a silk chemise. If 
you point at her tone control, she'll watch 
your finger tip. Women are extremely 
observant; they just observe the wrong 
thing. Women have poor sequential logic. 
Read the service manual, tune or focus or 
install and offer her warranties of your 
continual presence. 


DOI HAVE TO DRAW YOU A MAP. 
ETHEL? HA, SO YOU WANNA CONFUSE. 
ME, GEORGE? 


It’s left over from the Fallopian time— 
this female inability to read a road map 
Women won't concentrate: They figure, 
from their egg P.O.V., if they wait long 
enough, asphalt will move underneath and 
a destination will come to them. Men, by 
comparison, have sperm instinct and hus- 
tle. Hang that left at North Utero or you 
die, Drip off the Old Block, Thank Saint 
Stercoraceous for this Manly Art. With- 
out it, civilization would still be calling the 
AA.A. from a phone booth on some dark, 
membranous highway. 


IF YOU'RE A MAN, CALL THE MAN 


Electrician, plumber, landlord, bureau- 
crat—they all deal with your woman as 
though her brain had been redistricted by 
CREEP. If you're home when Mr. Man 
calls, however, he probably won't put an 
expensive damper pedal on her sewing 
machine or convert your furnace for Tex- 
aco Hi-Test Anti-Knock. We do treat 
women the way corrupt surrogate judges 
treat minor children. And women think, 
with too much justification, that a male 
phone voice or presence will pull down 
more respect. If she rear-ends the squad 
car, you and Officer Macho can conspire. 
“Go easy, huh? She's careful driving, but 
you know how women are—reflexes of a 
hydrangea.” Shell get warned, where 
male you or I would end up trying to sur- 
vive freshman week at Attica. We are 
their mouthpieces, agents, managers. Men 
don't become involved with women; 
they're sort of retained by them. 


PLUG INTO YOUR OUTLET, THEN PLUG 
INTO YOUR OUTLET 


Most sex-aid stores are patronized and 
run by a kind of human venereal wart 
“Pick ’em out," Jabba the Hutt will say, 
“pick ’em cut, this ain't no liberry,” while 
braiding his latest mucoid discharge be- 
tween thumb and forefinger. One look is 

(concluded on page 174) 


“The reason I didn't make a pass at you all winter 
is because I thought you were a nun.” 


three years after his death, 
his message of love and peace... 


When John died, I thought it was the worst thing 
that could ever happen. But that was only the 
beginning. 

—YOKO ONO, summer 1983 


NOVEMBER 1980 


THE MORNING winter light is streaming into the kitchen 
window of the Lennons’ huge apartment, one of six they 
own in the Dakota, Manhattan’s West Side landmark 
building. John Lennon is sitting at the breakfast table, 
sleepily reading the morning paper, steam rising from his 
coffee cup. Fred Seaman, a sandy-haired assistant in his 
late 20s, wearing an IMAGINE T-shirt, enters the room 
from the inner-courtyard stair well, piles of mail and 
magazines stacked in his arms. Without looking up from 
his paper, Lennon holds out his hand and asks for the 
latest music papers. 

The Lennons album Double Fantasy has just been 
released. Seaman hands Lennon copies of Billboard and 
Cashbox and Yoko Ono rushes into the kitchen to watch 
over John's shoulder as he flips to the Top 100 charts. 
David Geflen, whose record company Ono chose to dis- 
tribute Double Fantasy, called earlier to tell them the 
album entered the charts at number 25, but Lennon 
wants to see it with his own eyes. He breaks into a big 
grin and glances up at Yoko. *Not bad, eh, Mother?" He 
grabs a red pen and circles the entry: Number 25 with a 
bullet. With the marker's bold line, he draws an arrow 
from the number-25 slot to number one, putting a line 
through Barbra Streisand’s album Guilty. “Were on our 
way,” he laughs, putting the Billboard into a drawer in 
the wooden kitchen table. 

"The buzzer on the phone is heard and Mioko Onoda, a 
Japanese maid, rushes to answer it. She turns to Ono, 
announces that Rich De Palma wants to speak with her. 
De Palma is office manager of Lenono, John and Yoko's 
business, which takes up the entire first-floor apartment 
known as Studio One. Ono answers De Palma's barrage 
of questions about interview requests (from Barbara 
Walters, among others) and tells him she will be down to 
sign the pile of checks he says are 


asks him to order a limousine for two PM., the time they 
plan to go to the recording studio. They are working 
on the songs for Milk and Hone), the intended sequel 
to Double Fantasy, Lennon's first album in five years. 
Ono then leans over to kiss Lennon, telling him she is 
headed down to Studio One. Lennon nods. She handles 
the family business. 

Downstairs, surrounded by huge filing cabinets labeled 
APPLE and HOLSTEIN Cows, Ono signs checks, makes some 
calls and an hour later, buzzes Lennon, who is still loung- 
ing upstairs. Lennon, revitalized by Double Fantasy, is 
listening to the song they had recorded the night before. 
Ono asks him if he wants to go out and get a cup of coffee 
before they head off for the studio. Minutes later, he is 
downstairs, wearing a black-canvas shirt and black-cord 
pants, fingering a pair of tortoise-shell glasses that have 
replaced his familiar round workingmen's specs. 

Arm in arm, Ono and Lennon walk out through the 
archway of the Dakota. Ono's thick black hair is tied 
tightly back, her wrap-around sunglasses shielding her 
eyes. Although it is a clear day, the wind is biting, and 
Lennon complains that he did not wear a coat. Ono has 
only a light sweater on and feels the cold, too, so they 
clasp each other more closely. As always, there are a few 
fans outside, including Jeri Moll and Jude Stein, two 
women in their late 20s, who have waited outside the 
Dakota seemingly every night for the past five years. 
"They are old-timers and murmur familiar greetings to the 
couple as the Lennons say hello. 

Lennon and Ono wander down the block toward 
Columbus Avenue, then over to 71st Street, where they 
stop at Café La Fortuna, a coffeehouse, for espresso and 
pastries. They're trying to stay on a macrobiotic diet but 
fall off the wagon a lot. Conversation is light: They banter 
about their son Sean's latest antics, as reported by his 
nanny, Helen Seaman, a large woman who looks after 
Sean when John is busy. Helen is Fred Seaman's aunt; 
today, she is out at the Lennons' Long Island estate in 
Cold Spring Harbor. John says he regrets that work on 
the album has kept him from the boy so much lately. 

"Let's bring him in for the weck- 


waiting. Before hanging up, she article By DAVID and VICTORIA SHEFF end, even if we're working,” he 


. THE BETRAYAL OF JOHN LENNON 


March 1, 1975: John Lennon à wife Yoko Опо, at the 
Grasay Awards. 


...seems lost in the lying, thieving, backbiting 
shuffle to destroy his widow and make a buck off his name 


says. Ono nods. John makes the domestic decisions. 

"They return to the Dakota for messages and stop at 
their offices. Rich and Greg Martello are there now, 
doing some routine filing. They are two young brothers 
who broke into the apartment building of their hero, John 
Lennon, some months ago as a prank and, since they 
seemed harmless enough, were put to work. It is that kind. 
of place—a bit zany, what with business decisions some- 
times affected by Ono's reading of the tarot cards or the 
numbers—but by rock-’n’-roll-millionaire standards, a 
friendly and down-to-earth sort of place. 

Outside, the limo has been waiting, so they slip out the 
archway again, pile into the car’s back seat and head off 
to the recording studio. There, inside a glass booth with a 
color photo of Sean tacked above it, they sing cuts for the 
album, then work on mixing them into the other tracks as 
the evening wears on. They won’t get out until late that 
night, but that’s not unusual. 

In fact, nothing that has happened today is remarkable 
for the colorful couple who, after years of upheaval, fol- 
lowed by years of reclusiveness, now seem to be finding 
contentment along with a fresh burst of creativity. As to 
the contentment, it’s about time: John just turned 40. 
“Life begins at 40,” he told an interviewer. “It’s like, 
Wow, what’s going to happen next?” 


DECEMBER 9, 1980 


It is minutes after midnight, and the horror will not 
sink in. John Lennon was murdered just over an hour 
ago, but those who have been part of his everyday life 
cannot comprehend it, cannot do anything but try to find 
a way into the first-floor apartment at the Dakota. A few 
of them have managed to fight their way through the 
growing crowd of men, women and children who are 
shivering at the corner of Central Park West and 72nd 
Street, candles lit, holding hands, many with tears 
streaming down their faces. The police, on horseback, 
help clear a way for Lenono staffers, as the horses snort 
steam into the freezing air. 

Yoko Ono, accompanied by Geffen, has been sneaked 
into the building through the rear entrance and is in the 
kitchen of her apartment. Speaking numbly, she asks 
De Palma to make only three calls: to Julian Lennon, 
John’s 17-year-old son from his first marriage; to John’s 
aunt, Mimi Smith, who raised him; and to Paul McCart- 
ney. De Palma is unable to contact any of them directly 


but does manage to reach Mrs. Lee Eastman, McCart- 
ney's mother-in-law, who responds, “You expect me to 
wake Lee over this?” and hangs up. The second time 
De Palma calls, she is more adamant: “Don’t ever call at 
this time of night again!” 

De Palma reports to Ono, who winces and tells him to 
keep trying to reach the three; because all the lines are 
jammed, it proves almost impossible. As soon as one light 
on the telephone console winks out, another lights up. 
Ono stands up shakily. She wants to be alone in her 
bedroom. 

From upstairs, the voices in the street can be heard 
echoing through the old apartments corridors and boom- 
ing up the canyonlike inner court. The crowd has grown 
to 5000, bringing traffic to a standstill on Manhattan's 
West Side, and people are singing Jmagine and Give 
Peace a Chance in slow, echoing cadences. There is even a 
chorus of Dear Yoko. 

De Palma stays downstairs in a Lenono office, fielding 
calls, trying to give each person a few words in reply 
before pushing another button on the console. There 
is one call he is especially glad to get: Elliot Mintz, 
one of the Lennons’ closest friends, is flying in 
from Los Angeles. 

A couple of hours later, Mintz arrives, is rushed 
through the crowd, past the outer offices rapidly filling 
with wreaths and flowers and packages, and into the 
elevator to the living quarters above. Pausing outside 
the huge mahogany door to the Lennons’ apartment, he 
draws a breath and knocks. Mioko, pufly-eyed but silent, 
lets him in. *Yoko-san in her bedroom," she says. Mintz 
walks toward the bedroom but cannot bring himself to go 
in. Instead, he goes back downstairs to Studio One to 
pitch in with the others. 

In Studio One, the Lenono group has swelled to a small 
group of assistants, attorneys and businessmen, including 
David Warmflash, a lawyer who worked for the Lennons 
for some time, and Geffen. It was Geffen who got to the 
hospital after the shooting and then emerged supporting 
Ono as they faced a horde of reporters and photographers. 
Mintz assists in organizing the group to screen calls for 
the remainder of the night with De Palma, ferrying up. 
the most important questions for Ono to answer in her 
apartment above. 

Ono makes one decision immediately: Lennon's body is 
to be cremated at a mortuary (continued on page 175) 


87 


THE GREAT 


POPCORN 
EXPLOSION 


for a real blowout, take it 
from the kernel and try such 
nouvelle flavors as taco, 
barbecue and kahlúa 


food 
ByEMANUEL GREENBERG 


ALTHOUGH JULIA CHILD, Paul Bocuse and 
other epicures might raise an eyebrow 
at the notion, "gourmet" popcorn has 
burst upon us. [n popcorn land, this 
refers to vividly colored kernels in such 
unlikely flavors as watermelon, bubble 
gum, root beer, shrimp cocktail, bacon 
and egg, New York rye bread and doz- 
ens more, It’s nouvelle popcorn, all 
right—and even amatcurs arc giving it 
a go. You might have problems repris- 
ing the likes of shrimp cocktail or bub- 
ble gum, even if you wanted to, but you 
can achieve taco, barbecue, chocolate 
and Kahláa popcorn with no strain—as 
you'll see farther on. Flavored popcorn 
is not entirely new. Cheese and caramel 
have been around for ages, and a Chi- 
cago venture called Krazy Korn had a 
bricf whirl with multiflavored popcorn 
30 years ago. The concept languished 
until 1978, when Charlic Bird, an 
entrepreneurial Dallas gent, opened 
his Corn Popper shop. Somchow, he 
divined the time was ripe for new 
popcorn flavors; his first offering was 
chocolate. At a customer’s suggestion, 
he added jalapeño-pepper-flavored 
corn. It took off like Secretariat—and so 
did old Charlie. Corn Poppers are now 
franchised in about 40 states, and there 
are 60 flavors, marketed sclectively. 
Clam chowder and maple, for example, 
are designated for Boston, while jam- 
balaya and praline go to New Orleans. 
Like Willy Loman, Charlie knows his 
territory. 

The success of The Corn Popper 
inspired others. Dave Evans, who 
makes commercial popcorn equipment, 
notes that “since 1980, more people 
have gone (continued on page 194) 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY DAVE JORDANO 


Sam Shepard, 


American Original 


he’s a hot actor, a 
pulitzer playwright, 
a poet, a musician, 
а cowboy—and 
hed rather you not 
know any of it 


personality By Robert Goldberg 


1 figure it’s more like a game 
a’ pool. You know, the way some- 
times you got the feel. You got 
the touch. All the practice and 
technique in the world can’t beat 
ya, cause you got magic. 

—SAMSHEPARD, “Geography 
of a Horse Dreamer” 


DRIVE Sunset Boulevard from the Pa- 
cific Ocean as it winds through the 
palisades, Brentwood, Beverly Hills, 
and eventually you're in Hollywood. 
But before that, where the meridian 
divider shrinks to a white line at the 
beginning cf the Strip, you pass 
Hamburger Hamlet. The Hamlet 
isn’t actually in Hollywood, but it’s 
Hollywood all the same. For a burger 
joint, the women’s hair is a shade too 
blonde, the men’s shirts open a button 
too low. All around, people are push- 
ing projects, promoting themselves: 
The air is heavy with hype. 

A tall, lean, leathery type slouches 
back in his booth. Sam Shepard 
wears a dark-leather jacket over a 
T-shirt, with faded jeans and cowboy 
boots. No one recognizes him, and he 
prefers it that way. He looks over his 
shoulder and signals the waitress. 
Hamburger Hamlet is famous for the 
elegant burger, the posh burger. 
Shepard orders catfish. 

Rugged individualism—it’s what 
America was built on. If the flacks 
in this restaurant were asked to sell 
Shepard, they'd say the story writes 
itself; you don't even need to breathe 
hard. They'd call him one of those 
rare animals, a natural. What a story! 
A poor kid from a broken family in a 
two-bit Southern California town 
who went on to be a playwright—a 
world-famous playwright. A play- 
wright who was ten ümes honored 
with Obie awards for his off-Broad- 
way plays end who won the 1979 
Pulitzer Prize. A playwright who, at 
40, without even a college degree, 
would come to be considered by many 
America's greatest living dramatist. 

But that’s only the beginning. 
"Then there's Shepard the actor, the 
guy who stole the movie The Right 
Stuff with his low-key portrayal of 
test pilot Chuck Yeager. The flacks 
would rave about his look: the raw- 
hide frame, the jutting chin, the high, 


hard cheekbones. (Two actresses who 
know him nod as they pass Shepard’s 
table. “Нез got great bones," one 
says to the other. “Great bones?" 
whispers the second. *He's got great 
everything.") It’s a knife of a face, but 
boyish. Believe me, it can open into 
an all-American teenage grin. The 
teeth are irregular and the features a 
little uneven, but any way you cast it, 
it's handsome. 

But wait, the flacks would say, 
there's more. He lives with actress 
Jessica Lange, whom he met while 
making the movie Frances. Clearly, 
Sam Shepard is a very hot story. 

As recently as 1976, however, he 
had never even acted in a movie, and 
they made him a star. He played a 
Texas ranch owner in Days of Heau- 
en, and he wore the role like his cow- 
boy boots. The critics loved him, and 
the offers poured in for strong, silent, 
handsome leading-man roles. So he 
took the parts in Resurrection, Rag- 
gedy Man, Frances and The Right 
Stuff. When that last film opened, 
Newsweek said of him: “If he wants 
it, he stands on the brink of an extraor- 
dinary new career in the movies.” 

And he has music, too. Shepard is 
a drummer, and he played with a 
bunch of rock groups in the Sixties. 
Now, those groups—they called 
themselves Lothar and the Hand 
People, and the Holy Modal Round- 
ers—weren't big, but they opened for 
the big names, such as Ike and Tina 
Turner and Lou Reed. Shepard sat in 
for Charlie Watts and jammed with 
The Rolling Stones. He lived for a 
year with rock poet Patti Smith. He 
has written music for his plays. And 
Bob Dylan invited him on the Rolling 
"Thunder Revue to document the ex- 
travaganza. 

But there's just one problem. In 
spite of the fact that his success in 
The Right Stuff has forced him to 
deal with the media, Shepard doesn't 
even like to have his picture taken. 
And interviews? Forget it. If you try 
to get him to talk about his personal 
life, his parents, his family, his rela- 
tionships, 99 times out of 100, the 
door slams. Boom. No one home. Do 
not disturb. And if he finally begins 
talking, (continued on page 112) 


ILLUSTRATION BY THOMAS INGHAM 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY ARNY FREYTAG 


only a quarter of a mile wide. Not much room to hide in if 

you're a bank robber on the lam. But if you're a hard- 
working model and all you want to duck arc the F.T.D. man and 
the incessant ring of the telephone, Cancun is a haven where an 
attractive woman can forget the rat-race. Indeed, by the time she 
left Las Vegas after a recent moceling/public-relations assign- 
ment, Dona Speir had just about had it with the predatory urge of. 
some uncouth men. She has just turned 21, but several years ago, 
puberty had been generous to her, giving her a woman's body 
from which to view Saturday-morning cartoons. She had a 12- 
speed, supercharged, armor-plated juggernaut of a body when she 
wasn't even old enough to get a driver's license. In the warm half. 
of California where she grew up, however, there is a driving 
instructor on every corner. In the twinkling of a hormone, Dona 
became quarry. 

Determined to make some good out of her fortune, Dona 
enlisted in the Hollywood modeling corps, an elite group often 
dispatched to, ah, underdeveloped areas for special missions. That 
was why, when Dona returned from Las Vegas recently, she 


( Ст IS REALLY just an island, about nine miles long and 


when the wolves gather at her door, 
our miss march heads for the warming 
therapy of a perfect mexican beach 


Girl onthe Run 


When modeling gets you down, a breezy hammock in Can- 
cun cools you oul. “How long will I model? Well, I believe 
ГИ go crazy before I get too old for this business. If anything 
drives me ош, it'll be insanity, not stretch marks.” 


Cancun, off the shore of Yucatán on the Caribbean 
side of Mexico, has been a tourist resort for only ten 
years. Fonatur, the national tourism development 
agency, has turned it into an entrancing blend of 
the old and the new. In the market (below), Dona 
‚finds hand-carved marionettes almost as charming 
as she is. Just outside Cancun (right) are jungle 
huts where kids love a tickle, as they do at home. 


The Aeromexico flight from L.A. 


to leave Dona the energy to make it to the Bar Bikini 
(above) of the magnificent new Hotel Fiesta 
Americana. Dona’s accommodations in the Presi- 
dential Suite knocked her out. “Getting up in the 
morning, all you could see were white-sand 
beaches and beautiful water. It was incredible.” 
At right, Dona splashes in the beach shower. 


didn’t want to think about the opposite sex. “I was at this convention there for three days. I 
signed more than 2000 posters. Two thousand men went in and out of my life in three days. 
God only knows what they do with those posters. They put them in their garages, keep them in 
the rubber band for a year, I don’t know. What they’re looking for is the girl in the picture. So 
І portray that all day long and I joke around with them. It’s fun, because I can express a part of 
me that most people don’t see.” 

Because she has been at it for a while, Dona knows how to handle men. There aren’t 
many lines she hasn't heard and not many she doesn’t have an answer for. You don’t choose 
Dona, she chooses you. “I think that’s how I manage to get a lot of work. I mean, sometimes 


NS 


Digging your toes into the white 
powdery sand along the Cancun 
coast line (above) makes all your 
problems disappear. In the eve- 
ning (below), Dona gets a lesson 
in folk dancing from the Folk- 
lore Dancing Ballet, a student 
group that performs regularly at 
the Cancun Convention Center. 


you just gotta trip ‘em. On interviews, 
especially, you've got to stand out in the 
crowd. How are they gonna remember 
your picture from 44 others? I walk in and 
first thing I ask them as they're looking 
through my book is, ‘What are you look- 
ing for?” And they'll say, ‘Well, I'm look- 
ing for this, that and the other.” And 
usually, you know, they're looking for a 
blonde! And I'll say, ‘I can do that. I've. 
done such and such. I just have to tell 
them up front to hire те!” 

"The youngest of six children, Dona has 
had some practice in calling attention to 
herself. “All of them were wonderful stu- 
dents in school and they all went to college 
and they all work in the dental profession, 
except for my brother who's in the Service. 
God, I knew I did not want to become a. 
hygienist. All my sisters do it and my older 
brother was a lab man once and my broth- 
ers-in-law are in the business.” 

Dona decided to buck the trend by 
being a terrible student, hanging out with 
a shifty crowd and engaging in acts of 
senseless rebellion. There were rumors 
she had something to do with the disman- 
ling of two telephone booths. 

What is verifiable is that she learned 
from the experience. Modeling helped. It 
brought some discipline to her more or less 
shotgun approach to life. A turn zs a vol- 
unteer in a drug-and-alcohol rehab pro- 
gram helped, too. 

“That will get you grateful, yeah. And 
all of a (text concluded on page 136) 


"People who don't know me sometimes 
underestimate me. I think I have a lot on 
the ball for a person of my age. When I 
put my brain to something, if I really 
want it, I will do it, no matter what,” 


“The men I seem to stick with aren! partic- > 
шагу good-looking. They're wholesome, » 
though: the kind who meditate and are " 
vegetarians. | think it’s Jie because 

that's just the opposite of the way I am." EJ 


.. 


ye? 


"Modeling? It's fantasy. As not reality whatsoever. You know, after Гое finished an assignment, the 
clothes stay in the studio, I го! home, 1 take a shower and the make-up goes down the drain and th 
hairdo goes limp. The m course, goes in the bank. What's left? But I'll admit that 
a magazine Pue posed fo: mes out, т immediately at the rack to see it —and t ratifying. 


MON SSIW. 


PLAYMATE DATA SHEET 


ONS Í Apan 


BUST: 34 WAIST: a HIPS: TOW 


HEIGHT: am WEIGHT: d 18 


Alles 


= BOOKS: “рта. 


PLAYBOY'S PARTY JOKES 


Pregnant as the result of having been caught up 
in an orgy at a Texas Aggies fraternity house, 
the girl gave birth to the child in due course, then 
took legal steps to have all the chapter brothers 
present on the occasion joined in a paternity suit. 
For his part, the presiding judge ordered the 
defendants to submit to blood tests. “How do you 
think you made out?” one of the Aggies asked 
another as they left the testing laboratory. 

"Man, I'm in the clear!" he chuckled. “The 
lab jerk went and took blood out of the wrong 
finger!” 


Reports have been reaching us about an upcom- 
ing late-night adult-cable- 
It to Beaver. 


sitcom called Put 


He said I had the makings of a star,” the well- 
built novice actress told a good friend, “but Pve 
discussed my future with that producer several 
times now, and I wonder how many more mak- 
ings it’s going to take.” 


Му Far Eastern mistress,” sighed Chase, 
“Who's left me, ts tough to replace. 
Һе was super in bed, 
Giving fabulous head, 
So what's shameful is my loss of face.” 


What did your wife give you for your birthday 
this year?" a salesman who was on the road a lot 
was asked. 

""The same thing she gives me each and every 
year,” he replied. “The only thing is that this 
year, I noticed it was a full size larger.” 


Our Unabashed Dictionary defines brunette 
bush as the dark side of the moon. 


In a recent survey on why some men are homo- 
sexual, 82 percent of the gay chaps responding 
said that cither genetics or home environment 
was the principal factor. The remaining 18 per- 
cent revealed that they had been su into it. 


My newest boyfriend told me the other night,” 
remarked the girl, "that he only had eyes for 
> 

“What a romantic way to put things!” her 
listener gushed. 

“But then my charming Mr. Romance went 
on to say that he consequently expected I'd only 
have ass for him.” 


His publishers are trying to convince an egotisti- 
cal born-again golfer that the title he has chosen 
for his autobiography is not in the best possible 
taste. He wants to call it God Was My Caddie 


А youth on a nude beach for the first time was 
unable to stem an erection. Two unobserved 
Valley girls were watching him. "Why, that's 
Gordon!" exclaimed one. 

“And look at the size of his hard-on!” added 
the other. “That's Gordy to the max!” 


And then there was the mean son of a bitch who 
found his wife copulating with a sailor and beat 
the tar out of her. 


For a house-to-house salesman named Moore, 
Getting housewives’ attention’s no chore: 

He’s endowed with a dong 

That is 12 inches long, 
So he wedges his foot in the door 


How could you sleep with another man?" 
exclaimed the outraj ysician after his wife 
had confessed to having been unfaithful 


“It goes with the territory,” she responded. 
“You keep telling me how lousy 1 am in bed—so 
I just wanted to get a second opinion.” 


Our Unabashed Dictionary defines tempera- 
mental gay as a rima donna. 


So all right,” the rich bitch finally agreed in the 
apartment. “ГЇЇ try oral sex on you if you can 
prove it's not unnatural.” 

The fellow thereupon leafed through an ency- 
clopedia and showed his luxury-loving date that 
in the case of a certain species of fish, the female 
lays her eggs and then takes them into her 
mouth, after which the male ejaculates on them. 
“Let's do it, then,” he grinned as he unzipped. 

“Just a minute,” countered the girl. “) 
where’s my mouthful of caviar?” 


Heard a funny one lately? Send it on a post- 
card, please, to pay okes 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. 


irst, 


“We just got this cassette from Miss Malone in 
answer to the contract we offered her.” 


107 


RAINWEAR 
STEELES 
THE SHOW 


tv's sexy supersleuth 
solves the case of 
the rumpled trench coat 


attire By HOLLIS WAYNE 


E VERYBODY KNOWS that trench coats 
and private eyes go together like 
Nick and Nora Charles and Bogey and 
Bacall. Columbo practically slept in a 
battered Burberry (or whatever brand 
it was) and we don't even want to think 
about what Mike Hammer might have 
done in his. Pierce Brosnan, the man of 
the TV detective series Remington 
Steele, brings a more tailored image to. 
the tattered trench. Can you imagine 
him squiring his gorgeous gumshoe 
boss, Laura Holt, played by Stephanie 
Zimbalist, around town in something 
that resembles a belted dog blanket? 
Brosnan's classy good looks and sexy, 
unaffected style are the perfect comple- 
ments to the downpour of water-repel- 
lent togs that have flooded the men's 


left: The face that sets millions of female 
hearts to fluttering each week on the TV 
detective series Remington Steele is thot of 
Pierce Brosnan, and the obligatory trench 
he's wearing is anything but the sad, soggy 
style commonly associated with private 
eyes. This one is a water-repellent cotton 
coat that reverses to black ribbed rubber, 
by Andrew Fezza, $3B0. (His fringed cotton 
scarf is by Ron Splude, $90.) Right: Our 
man of Steele has on an Italian interpreta- 
tion of the classic trench coat; it's made 
of water-repellent cotton and has rag- 
lan sleeves, which are comfortable over 
а suit, by Ermenegildo Zegna, $410. 
(Brosnan’s duck-handled cotton poplin 
brolly is by Just Richard for American 
Umbrella Co., about $35. His rubber-tread 
portfolio is by Mandarina Duck, $100.) 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY MARIO CASILLI 


110 


WOMEN'S FASHIONS BY JEAN CHARLES. CHICAGO 


Right: Brosnan wears another intriguing trench that would be right at home 
on the boulevards of Paris or the back streets of Bonn. It's a Zepel- 
treated water-repellent polyester/cotten chintz style with classic appoint- 
ments—wide lapels, angled pockets, wrist tobs, a box back pleat and a 
throat tab, by Pierre Cardin, $225. A padded shoulder flange also gives the 
wearer a dashing broad-shoulder look that thinner men will find appealing. 


fashion market, Rubberized trenches, for example, in a 
variety of cuts and colors, have wheued everyone's 
interest; styles range from a reversible treated-cotton and 
black-ribbed-rubber model to a white military-style coat 
of water-repellent cotton. White, incidentally, is great to 
wear while walking in the wet, as it bounces light up 
into your face, improving your complexion and making 
you more visible on rainy nights. Other foul-weather 
tips to the wise: Wear dark 10 medium-dark trousers on 
а wet day, as they tend to show raindrops less. Keep 
your raincoat shade conservative, but jazz up your image 
with a bright umbrella, sweater or tie. And swap your 
leather attaché for a water-repellent rubber or treated- 
metal one. Rubber is the new fashion status material 
that has just slid into the stores. Let’s hear it for Akron! 


Left: The great white hope for a rainy day (no, we're not 
referring to Brosnan’s ladyfriend)—a white-cottan double- 
breasted trench coat with zip storm-flap pockets, by Marcel 
Lossonce, $300. (His black-vinyl umbrella is by Mespo, about 
$25.) Right: Olive drab never had it so good; a woxed-cotton 
oilcloth raincoat with a stand-up convertible collar that you 
can wear buttoned up or open fo show a brightly colored 
sweater, by Stanley Blacker Rainwear, about $200. (Khaki 
cotton water-repellent umbrella, by Mespo, about $20) 


PLAYBOY 


112 


Sam Shepard (continued from page 90) 


““Pm not interested in speaking to a big mass audi- 


ence. I don’t see the point. 


222 


he never says anything good about him- 
self. He just keeps cutting himself down. 
Some star. Some personality. The conver- 
sation goes like this: 


Q: How many plays have you 
written? 

А: Too damn many. 

Q.: Which play are you proudest 
of? 

‘A; I'm not proud of any of them, 
but the one I feel least embarrassed 
by is True West 

Q- How do you feel about your 
acting? 

A- I always feel precarious. I don't 
really have my chops as an actor. 


When it comes to self-promotion, Shep- 
ard is hopeless. He pauses, he holds back. 
It seems as if he has nothing to say. But 
when he gets going on almost any other 
subject, he’s a real surprise—fluid and 
articulate. Between bites of fried catfish, 
right now, he’s talking about cars. He’s 
talking about a '58 Impala that was 
chopped and channeled and rode low, a 
perfect cruising machine when he and his 
buddies from Duarte High checked out 
the chicks down at Bob's Big Boy. He's 
talking about his Ford pickup, with this 
great four-wheel drive, that he uses to 
haul horses and ropes and feed around: 

If Shepard reminds you of the old West, 
it finally has less to do with owning horses 
and riding them and roping cattle—all of 
which he does—than with constantly 
pushing on, looking for new challenges, 
new ground to explore. “The key to the 
whole thing,” he says in his soft, slow 
voice, “is to keep moving, to always move 
in a new direction. In order to remain cre- 
ative, you have to open to new territory. 
You can’t stay in the same little four acres. 
You gotta move.” 

‘And move he does. His latest play, Fool 
Jor Love, opened in New York last spring. 
True West is also enjoying a run there at 
presstime. There are movie roles (the 
soon-to-be-released Country, with Lange 
as co-star); a book of short stories and 
poems, Motel Chronicles, published last 
year; a new feature film, Paris, Texas, 
directed by Wim Wenders; a new screen- 
play, Synthetic Tears, which Shepard 
hopes to direct, as well; a collaboration 
with longtime friend Joseph Chaikin—an 
important force in off-Broadway theater 
and the leader of the Open Theater—on 
an experimental-theater piece. 

Shepard seems destined for the lime- 
light. Ironically, he works very hard to 
avoid it. Just looking at him tonight, 


slumped back in the booth, it's clear that 
he is an unlikely star. Although he can 
now command six-figure salaries for his 
appearances, he rejects most acting pro- 
posals. He declined parts in Shoot ihe 
Moon, Urban Cowboy and Reds (the role 
of Eugene O'Neill, filled by Jack Nich- 
olson), among others. “I’m not interested 
in becoming an ‘actor,’” he says. “I’m 
interested in working with film makers. 
Everything depends on the projects." 

He turns around, pushes away his 
plate, lights up an Old Gold and plants his 
elbows on the table. “You know, I never 
set out to act in film. It was more or less 
accidental. It caught me by surprise. I 
always feel it’s kind of dangerous—like 
walking a tightrope. For the most part, I 
feel like Pm getting away with it.” He 
laughs. “But it's exciting to discover a new 
area where you can plunge in." 

1f Shepard is an unlikely star, he is an 
even more unlikely playwright, a maver- 
ick in the world of theater. “I don’t think 
I've ever written a play that looks like а 
play," he says. "They look more like 
apparitions.” He ignores most of his col- 
leagues: “I don't read plays. 1 don’t enjoy 
going to the theater. I find theater 
disappointing for the most part.” He 
shuns conventional formats: “Who needs 
well-made plays? I don't want to write 
drawing-room comedies.” John Lion, 
founder and general director of the Magic 
"Theater, recalls that “Sam once told me 
he's not looking for actors, he's looking for 
chance takers.” Shepard is a master of the 
unpredictable. His works—the early ones 
most markedly—are charged with intense, 
staccato monologs (which have come to be 
known as arias) and a fearless theatri- 
cality. The stage overflows with images: 
mounds of corn in Buried Child, scores of 
purloined toasters in True West. At the 
end of La Turista, the protagonist exits by 
running full speed at the backstage wall 
and smashing right through it. 

Shepard has never had a work on 
Broadway—he has never wanted to: “I 
don’t know who to address on Broadway. 
Т always felt 1 was writing for people who 
would understand me. I never had any 
aspiration to talk to people I don’t know. 
It's a question of strangers versus friends. 
I'm not interested in speaking to a big 
mass audience. 1 don’t see the point.” 

Preferring the small, personal touch, he 
refuses to inflate his plays or their signifi- 
cance: “I’m not making monuments. My 
plays aren’t for all time, they’re just for 
this time. Eric Dolphy once said that the 
thing he loved about music was that it 


went out into the air and it disappeared. 
That's what I like about theater.” 

As for winning the Pulitzer Prize— 
well, “I’m honored and all that,” he says, 
leaning back and blowing out a cloud of 
smoke. "But that’s not the reason I'm 
writing, to win prizes.” For Shepard, the 
most important thing was to avoid the 
publicity the award brought with it: 
“It’s mostly getting over it. You know, 
there’s this great line in one of my favorite 
films, The Hustler. Paul Newman is hus- 
tling these guys at eight ball and they start 
making jokes about his missing shots. And 
he looks up and says, ‘I don't rattle.’ I like 
that stance—you can’t pussyloot around. 
Im not going to write anything different 
because I won a prize.” 


That's where I was raised, anyway. 
A small town. A town like any other 
town. A town like Momma used to 
make, with lace doilies and apple pie 
and incest and graft. No. It’s not true. 
Tam an American, though. Despite 
what they say. In spite of the scandal. 
Iam truly an American. I was made 
in America. Born, bred and raised. I 
have American scars on my brain. 
Red, white and blue. I bleed Ameri- 
can blood. . . . I came to infect the 
continent. To spread my disease. 
—“Operation Sidewinder” 


There’s no doubt that Shepard sees 
himself as a man of action, not an intellec- 
tual. He may mention Christopher Mar- 
lowe, Bertolt Brecht and Grand Guignol 
in passing, but he'd rather talk about 
farming or playing drums or driving. He 
talks about "putting aside all the big 
ideas" and writing about sensory experi- 
ence, "what it's like to have life reach out 
and touch you in the shin.” He calls him- 
self “a physical writer more than an intel- 
lectual one. Like Cesar Vallejo, who 
called his writing ‘the poetry of the purple 
cheekbone'—of the body, of the visceral. 
I'd love to write like a European writer; 
they're so elegant. Take Peter Handke, 
with that impeccable syntax. But I can't 
get this American thing out of my bones. 
It’s like those American painters, Franz 
Kline and all those guys. They have that 
physical splash that's just unmistakable. 
"They're all over the canvas.” 

Shepard himself is just as unmistakably 
American. He has driven Route One and 
Interstate 685 and collected the pieces. His 
characters are movie tycoons and cheer- 
leaders, cowboys and rock stars, gangsters 
and Midwestern families. His plays are 
attics cluttered with the paraphernalia of 
American life: Bibles and baseball caps 
and bottles of booze, drive-in movies and 
shopping malls, jazz riffs and jukeboxes, 
back-seat sex and smog and weirdness and 
paranoid violence. 

For him, the United States is a country 
that has lost its roots, been “cut off from 


(continued on page 192) 


“T should have done this thirty years ago!” 


113 


“TWENTY-FIVE? Twenty-five?” the great-bellied 
merchant Fadab fluted like a eunuch. "Surely, 
that must be your price for this entire lot of 
cloth. In which case I might be interested — 
slightly." 

“The ghosts of my ancestors would be 
laughed out of paradise,” replied Suulemaion. 
“It is only because you are an old friend that I 
offer this fine Dwazian silk at only twenty-five 
for each bolt.” 

“Silk? The trickster who sold you this 
claimed it was silk?” 

Oblivious of the heavy-handed sun, Suule- 
maion and Fadab had already sweated their 
way through hours of unmanly haggling over 
the prices of blankets, cooking utensils, medici- 
mal herbs—with jewelry, spices and several 
precious kegs of Baaj wine still to come. I 
sweated with them. Suulemaion had sworn he 
could not afford my wages until he'd made a 
sale. Га sworn I'd not leave his side till Га been 
paid. Since in town I was to be his bodyguard, 
that did not distress him. 

А 

I had met the intrepid but stingy caravaneer 
in the Kug, that vast, arid emptiness men call 
the Wilderness at the Heart of the World. 
That mighty desert occupies the center of the 
world’s largest continent, separating its great 
civilizations and, thus, keeping them from 
destroying one another. I had entered from the 
North, pursued by a troop of angry cavalry, 
even though the duel in which their captain 
died had been an honorable one. Soon after 
losing the cavalry, I lost my horse. Three 
extremely honorable days later, I crawled into 
an oasis. There were a few scrawny date palms 
whose treasures I gobbled, after which I laid 
waste to the population of lizards and spiders. 

A few evenings later, I bade farewell to 


the 


th 
SUMMER 
of 


Оза JadOaRRa 


o delectable witana, with your 
exquisite face, your voluptuous body 
and, alas, your powerful husband 


fiction by 


lenny klemfeLo 


PLAYBOY 


116 


my depleted haven, heading south. I'd 
been walking several hours when I met 
Suulemaion's scouts, two grizzled men of 
the same temperament and aroma as their 
camels. I greeted them without unseemly 
enthusiasm: a young warrior out stretch- 
ing his legs. The scouts, after all, were the 
ones who were lost; making an cast-west 
crossing, they'd passed south of the casis. 

I led them back to it. They refreshed 
themselves, then their mounts; offered 
their thanks; struck me with a rock 
and grabbed hold of me with intentions of 
using me as a boy. 

In the morning, I rode east. When I 
found the caravan, I presented their heads 
to Suulemaion, along with an honest 
account of their failings, and offered my- 
self as their replacement. The hawk-nosed 
caravaneer scratched his thin beard, 
squinted up at me and said, “So young, so 
large, so serious . . . can you find the city of 
Jemot?” I said I could, which was not 
exactly an untruth; my grandfather had 
been there once. 

This was in my 16th summer, when I 
knew I could do anything. 

For seven weeks we trekked westward. 
It was my duty to find oases before we ran 
dry and bandits before they found us. I 
have a nose for water—since childhood, 
I'd come down to the Кир when I needed 
to be alone. And my grandfather had 
taught me that when desert scum are 
awakened by the sound of a Jaddarran 
war cry and the sight of a howling Jaddar- 
ran whirling a reddened blade over their 
recently retired leaders, they will hurry off. 
to ply their trade elsewhere. 


. 

Nothing about the Kug—save the ab- 
sence of women—was as torturous as the 
bargaining in Jemot. The spot where the 
caravaneer and the merchant were happi- 
ly arguing and roasting was not 100 paces 
from the gate of Fadab’s walled garden, a 
tract only slightly larger than the village 
Pd been born in. Set high on the slopes of 
a verdant valley, looking down on the city 
proper, the densely planted paradise sur- 
rounding Fadab’s enormous villa was 
cooled by brooks and spring-fed ponds and 
scented by 100 varieties of fowers. But no 
trader was invited to sample its delights 
until prices had been sweated out. 

As hawk nose and great belly engaged 
in improbable speculations about the gen- 
ealogy of the silk, I attempted to shut out 
their jabber by dreaming of how far my 
wages would take me. Suulemaion wanted 
me to continue escorting his caravan 
through the western towns as far as Cho- 
go, the wealthiest port on the Western 
Sea. But I'd left home to enjoy the world, 
not to nursemaid camels. I had yet to taste 
the notorious pleasures of the South, yet to 
see the awesome citadels of the East with 
their fabled —— My reverie was broken 
as the garden gate swung open. 

A curtained litter emerged, carried by a 


pair of squat, copper-colored M’ddrrggs 
and guarded by two more. All were naked 
except for their weapons, with shaved 
heads, ritually scarred faces and ritually 
mutilated genitals. They came to a halt at 
a respectable distance, the thickly muscled 
bearers holding the litter as steadily as 
though it were set into a pair of miniature 
stone monsters 

Fadab excused himself with a weak 
grin and waddled to the litter. After a 
whispered conference with its occupant, 
he clapped. One of the stone monsters 
came to life and fetched the more ornate 
silks. 

The curtains parted the width of a 
snake’s tongue, Each bolt was perused. 
One, sea green shot through with silver 
threads, was satisfactory. 

Fadab burbled approving noises, then 
began laboriously conveying himself back 
toward us. Behind him, the litter's cur- 
tains suddenly billowed open—enormous 
green-gray eyes, rich-lipped wide mouth, 
honey-dark ringlets cascading over golden 
skin The curtains closed on my 
breeze-blown gift. 

Except there had been no breeze. 

My n gurga hardened fiercely. 

“For that bolt, twenty-five,” lamented 
Fadab. “I can refuse my precious wife 
nothing.” 

Suulemaion held up a solicitous hand. 
“Please. That bolt is my gift.” He smiled 
sincerely. “It is these others that are twen- 
ty-five apiece.” 


. 

“A man reaches an age when a young 
bride can make him exceedingly”—Suule- 
maion glanced at the merely pretty slave 
girls attending and spying on us— "gener- 
ous.” 

“Does not his generosity incite the rest 
of his harem?” I asked, accepting a pear 
from a girl who brushed my arm with her 
merely ostentatious d'lalls. 

“There is no harem. Fadab has nev- 
er——" Suulemaion stopped short and 
dismissed the slaves. They disappeared 
along one of the cunningly contrived paths 
that twisted through Fadab’s private jun- 
gle. Except for a tiny, caged golden bird 
that trilled soothing melodies, we were 
now alone in the small, lavishly pillowed 
pavilion where, to celebrate the consum- 
mation of our commerce and to render us 
fit to have into the main house for supper, 
we'd been bathed, oiled and pampered. 
When I'd declined as much pampering as 
the slave girls offered, Suulemaion had 
steered the conversation to our hosts 
bride. 

“Fadab has never felt the need for more 
than one wife,” he continued. “His true 
passion is bargaining; his true delight, 
wealth. There were only two previous 
wives. Both barren. Both summoned to 
paradise at an early age.” 

I was seized by a vision of Aer suffocat- 
ing beneath. 


Suulemaion coughed tactfully. I fol- 
lowed his gaze down to my hand. Crushed 
pear oozed between my fingers. 

"Overripe," I muttered. 

“Ius the climate,” he offered. 

It is, I suddenly knew, that she needs 
me. She needs me. The golden bird sang 
its rapturous agreement. 

The bird fell silent as a M'ddrrgg mate- 
rialized in front of the pavilion. He was 
carrying a small bronze casket. He 
grunted respectfully, set the casket down 
before Suulemaion, folded his arms and 
turned back into stone. 

Suulemaion instructed him to leave us. 
The M’ddrrgg uttered what I took to be a 
protest—no language finds a comfortable 
home on a M’ddrrgg’s ritually mutilated 
tongue. (All that ever comes out is 
m’ddrrgg.) Suulemaion assured the stony 
little man that we could find our way in to 
supper. The M'ddrrgg made what was 
doubtless a polite reply and vanished. 

The casket held the payment for the 
day’s sale: a small pile of silver coins and 
some thin slabs of gold. I said it didn’t look 
like much. 

“If you’d paid attention,” Suulemaion 
pointed out with infinite charity, “you'd 
remember I'm to select part of my pay- 
ment from the goods in Fadab’s storing- 
houses. In fact, if you were to take your 
wages in goods instead of —” 

I snorted and held out my hand. Suule- 
maion shrugged and counted coins into my 
palm as reluctantly as if they were his 
children. 

While Suulemaion busied himself se- 
creting the remainder of the precious met- 
als in pouches and belts beneath his robes, 
I reached up and opened the golden bird’s 
cage. 

. 

As we approached Fadab’s three-story 
villa, I only dimly noted its desperate 
splendor, the late-afternoon sun glinting 
along its gilded tiers of sloping roofs fanci- 
fully dotted with terraces and turrets. 

Inside, nothing about the fabulously 
appointed feasting hall merited a second 
glance, not even the immense Dwazian 
carpet with its intricately woven map of 
the world. Suulemaion swore that travers- 
ing that carpet required a camel and wo 
days’ water. I floated across, levitated by 
the pleasurable ache that sang through 
me: I was concentrating so hard on con- 
trolling my n’gurga that my desire seemed 
to seek expression at every extremity from 
teeth to toes. 

On the other side of the world carpet, 
set into the far wall, was an immense 
curved niche proportioned like an altar of 
a major deity. Three broad steps led up 
to it. Ensconced on an upholstered throne 
as wide as a dock was the regally robed 
and bejeweled behemoth who'd spent his 
day arguing the price of pots and pans. 

(continued on page 120) 


modern living 


GYM DANDY 
TO THE RESCUE 


home exercise 
equipment has 
come out of 

the closet for keeps 


«^ 


A few years ago, anyone who owned 
a home gym consigned it to the back 
closet. Today, compact body-building 
machines have muscled their way 
into living rooms, bedrooms and dens 
to stand, like pieces of high-tech 
sculpture, next to a classic Knoll 
chair or the latest glass-topped 
coffee table. Ladies such as our 
July 1983 Playmate, Ruth Guerri 
(pictured in this feature), also are 
intrigued by this new breed of 
exercise equipment. (They prefer 
toning their bodies to locking at 
etchings.) Here, Miss Guerri checks 
out Soloflex' latest machine, on 
which 24 traditional weight-lifting 
exercises can be performed, $625. 


up = 


Below: In our next life, we'd like to come back as 
Ruth Guerri's leg warmers; but in the meantime, 
we'll settle for a workout with her aboard Master 
Gym 1350, a modular unit that allows you to add 
exercise stations. This chrome Master Gym in- 
cludes a Mach One press station with a 220-pound 
stack of weights, a latissimus pull station with a 
180-pound stack, a quad pulley station with two 
50-pound stacks and a leg station with a 120- 
pound stack, by Marcy Fitness Products, $3450. 


Right: The wall-mounted Lifestyler 1000 stands 
79" high and measures 5⁄4” wide, yet you can per- 
form up to 30 exercises with it, including some de- 
signed to improve your racquetball or tennis game, 
by AMF American, $99. Below: Arthur Jones's 
offspring, the home Nautilus Aerobic Machine, 
gives the user all the aerobic benefits of jog- 
ging, biking, etc., without any of the troffic 
hazards; plus, it builds muscles, something Jones 
claims other aerobic exercises don't do, $2395. 


Right: Sixty-one exercises can be 


performedontheDPGympac800, | >= t 4 


в compact unit (adjustable for 
height and desired resistance) that 
comes with a 110-pound weight 
stack, bench/slant boord, handle i og 
bar with hand grips, leg lift/ 1 
leg curl, double-hondle pulley sys- 
tem, pulley bar and ankle straps, 
by Diversified Products, $399. 


TL mn 
= 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY DON AZUMA 


PLAYEOY 


Ога JAITARRA (continued from page 116) 


“Witana inclined her head and murmured a 
greeting, her voice a trickle of warm nectar.” 


Standing alongside was the woman who 
needed me. 

She was just five feet in height, though 
next to Fadab she appeared no larger than 
one of those household fetishes devout 
lowlanders carry about. Her face was half 
veiled. The rest of her was swathed in just 
enough layers of sheer silk to obscure the 
delights they closely outlined. What little 
of her flesh showed was flawless, lustrous, 
in tone the same muted gold as the famed 
war horses of Ibdossa. But what fed my 
fever were those green eyes flecked with 
icy gray—alive, intent, amused as Suule- 
maion began spouting preposterous salu- 
tations. 

I have since heard emperors petitioned 
with greater dispatch. Not to be outdone, 
Fadab testified in a sensitive whine to the 
divine benevolence that led us to grace his 
humble tent, surely the honor of this and 
any other of his lifetimes. His speech 
began 10 put me in mind of the three days 
in the Kug after my horse died; I ceased 
being able to make out the meaning of any 
of his words—until I saw a huge, doughy 
hand descend upon her shoulder. . . . 

“The succor of an unworthy husband’s 
declining years, a daughter of the isle of 
Kytra and of the Kytrarch Witanor, that 
greathearted lord of the sea whose ships 
are more numerous than a virgin’s fears, 
Kk-huk k-huk” —he made the damp, clotted 
sound that was his laugh—““and dear as a 
daughter to me, my only wife, Witana.” 

Witana. 

Witana inclined her head and mur- 
mured an islander's cautious greeting, her 
voice a trickle of warm nectar: “May the 
solace the weary trayeler finds in our har- 
bor equal the joy he brings, Welcome, 
Suulemaion of Kesseria. Welcome, Daq 
Jaddarra.” 

It was as though Га never heard my 
name before. 

Slaves carried in gleaming porphyry 
tables. The largest was set before Fadab. 
Others, at which we were seated, were set 
one step down and to his left. Witana sat 
on the right arm of Fadab's throne. 

'There were courses more numerous 
than a husband's self-deceptions. Wines 
rarer than a discreet lover. I kept my dis- 
tance from the grape. Like many young 
men, I was embarrassed by not being able 
to down as much wine in an evening as a 
lifelong drunkard could. Given the oppor- 
tunity, I would usually attempt to drown 
my embarrassment and end up multi- 
plying it. This night, I often placed a hand 
over my flagon when slaves offered to 
refill it. 


There was also an opulent flow of 
entertainments. Dancers, jugglers, a fire- 
eater, a pair of married dwarfs who quar- 
reled and merrily beat each other with 
staves. Each was rewarded according to 
how well the master had been pleased. 
Out of the corners of their eyes, slave girls 
sized up performers, calculating the 
chances of separating each from his coins. 
I had a dishonorable thought about the 
dwarf and the slave girl with the ostenta- 
tious d'lalls. 

“Look how contemplative the battles of 
our tiny friends have made young Dag,” 
Fadab roared, besotted k-huk k-huk 
k-huks bubbling up from his vast innards. 
“Perhaps he realizes for the first time the 
terrors a husband faces.” 

My cheeks burned at this insult to 
Witana. 

Suulemaion thumped me. “From what 
Гуе seen, Daq fears nothing of this 
world," he proclaimed. With tipsy enthu- 
siasm, he related the grisly circumstances 
of our first meeting, then poetically de- 
tailed the slight carnage resulting from my 
midnight raids on bandit camps. Witana 
cast down her eyes. But her breathing 
deepened. 

So did Fadab's. “Chogo!” he burped. 
“That is why the goddess summoned you 
from the Wilderness at the Heart of the 
World, in this of all years!" 

Suulemaion paled. “The boy is not 
meant for Chogo. I did not know this was 
the tenth year, on my oath.” 

Curious. Suulemaion had urged me to 
ride with him as far as Chogo. Now he 
was against it—and referring to me as a 
boy. In my deepest voice, I said, "Neither 
Chogo nor its goddess is any concern of 
mine." 

Fadab smirked. “Have you never heard 
of the Selecting? Can this be?” 

“Tt can.” 

Fadab smiled benignly. “My dear Dag, 
Chogo is ruled by a high priestess. She 
cannot have a husband but must have a 
daughter to inherit her domain. So once 
every ten years comes the divine Selecting 
of an appropriate sire." 

“In the arena," muttered Suulemaion. 
“In the gladiators pit, where Chogoans 
wager on slaves and animals.” 

“No, no; in this highest of holy festivals, 
only highborn and free men may fight. 
The winner, dear Daq, is rewarded with 
his weight in gems and gold. And after his 
wounds heal, he is anointed consort for 
three years. I think—no, the devil with 
thought; I feel, I vow by my sacred gift for 
predicting the main chance—you are to be 


selected! Think, dear Daq, of the 
wealth—think of the glory—think, k-huk 
k-huk, of the favors of a high priestess.” 

"I am thinking, noble host, that you 
would very much like to be a friend of the 
consort and, thus, of the woman who rules 
Chogo.” 

“Suulemaion,” Fadab brayed, “you did 
not tell me he was as keen as he is valiant! 
Yes, Daq, like yourself, I wish to go as far 
in this world as I can—and by your 
insight, you’ve convinced me more ihan 
ever that you are destined to be selected! I 
would be honored beyond reason if you'd 
permit me to equip you with the finest of 
arms, engage a gladiatorial slave to teach 
you all the tricks, provide —” 

“Many thanks, Fadab of Jemot. I can- 
not accept." 

“What a shame to deny the will of the 
goddess," Fadab pouted. “Not to mention 
her gold." 

“When my grandfather taught me what 
he knew of the blade, he made me swear to 
use it honorably. Not to kill where there is 
no quarrel. Not for the amusement of the 
mob." 

Fadab studied me for a moment, then 
nodded gravely. "He was wise, most 
wise. . . . Now," he announced with 
abrupt good cheer, “you must taste some 
of the exquisite Baaj that Suulemaion has 
carried so far at so great a cost, k-huk 
k-huk." 

Golden chalices were set before us. A 
steward solemnly filled them from a gold- 
en amphora. I did not taste any reason for 
the wine's ruinous price. (Today, if I 
could lay hands on a single keg of that 
vintage. . . .) 

While Suulemaion and Fadab dis- 
cussed the Baaj in terms sorcerers reserve 
for their most arcane potions, slaves began 
rolling back the world carpet. Witana 
whispered excitedly to one of her hand- 
maidens. Fadab noticed and patted her 
head. 

“Yes,” he crooned, “the spotted one.” 

There are no man-eating cats on her 
home island, which explained—per- 
haps—Witana’s gleeful anticipation of 
being indoors with a leopard. After a 
majestic fanfare, the beast was led into the 
hall by a tall, gaunt, hollow-eyed Nork. 
He controlled the cat with only a lead 
chain and a short whip, the sound of 
which seemed to frighten the long-toothed 
killer. Should whipcracks prove insuffi- 
cient, the Nork's apprentice, an oiled dan- 
dy, stood ready with a stout spear. 

Before long, I decided the spear was to 
impress the audience rather than the leop- 
ard, which willingly performed such tricks 
as children teach their dogs. But the Nork 
was a canny showman; each succeeding 
trick was at once more whimsical and 
more dangerous than the last. Ву. ће time 
he put the leopard’s paws on his shoulders 
and led it in a clumsy dance, Witana was 

(continued on page 140) 


кзы QM 


eports 


a timely accounting of timeless principles of personal finance 


arlicle 


By ANDREW TOBIAS 


GOING FOR 
BROKERS 


before putting stock in your brokers advice, think 
of him as his employers do—as a salesman 


HE WAY TO BE very, very wealthy, someone 

wrote, is to be very, very, very rich. Short 

of that—far short—there are investment 

books and the business press and annual 

reports and investment letters and the 

Financial News Network. And there is 
Olumba Olumba Obu. But the first place the novice 
might turn to get rich is to a pro. A broker. For us, getting 
rich is merely a desire. For him, it is a calling. 

Browsing through the collection of 19th Century 
advertising posters at the New York Historical Society, 
with its ads for the bicycle (“tan ever-saddled horse that 
eats nothing”) and for Dr. John Wesley Kelley’s Dia- 
mond Pectoral (“a sure, pleasant and safe remedy for all 
diseases of the throat and chest” pictured in a sweet fami- 
ly scene titled Mother Is Saved’, one comes to a poster 
celebrating the nation’s centennial. Dominating the post- 
er is a prosperous farmer with his plow and horses. 
Beneath him, the banner 1 FEED YOU ALL! Framing the 
farmer are his countrymen, with banners of their own. 
There are the soldier (1 FIGHT FOR ALL), the merchant (1 
BUY AND SELL FOR ALL), the clergyman (1 PREACH FOR ALL), 
the doctor (1 PHYSIC vou ALL), the lawyer (1PLEAD FOR ALL) 
and the stockbroker—1 FLEECE YOU ALL. 

The artist just couldn't resist. 

A lot of barbs have been aimed at stockbrokers since 
then, but you'll find none of them here. Oh, sure, they 
smell funny and would sell their moms for a dollar, but 
Pm not going to get into all that, because almost none of it 
is true. (The smell comes from handling county sewage 
bonds.) 

The fact is that brokers, particularly since the pro- 
longed shakeout of the Seventies, are for the most part a 
well-trained, well-intentioned, hard-working and profes- 
sional crew. The fact also is that on average, there is very 
little they can do to enrich you that you could not do as 
well or better yourself (but that’s not their fault). And 
there's always the chance you will find the outstanding, 
exceptional, far-above-average broker who can. 

Tt is a thin chance, but ГИ get to that. 

In 1981, there were 56,000 active brokers in the U.S.; 


by the end of 1982, 64,000 —and the great bull market 
had barely begun. By now, the ranks have surely swelled 
beyond 70,000, which means that with perhaps 20,000 
new brokers all told in the past couple of years, the phone 
has been ringing off the hook. Twenty thousand brokers 
starting fresh and looking to sign up 200 or 300 clients 
(graduates of E. F. Hutton’s impressive four-month 
training program are expected to sign up 20 new accounts 
a month) may at first make 30 cold calls a day. Some 
make far more. So you're talking maybe 150,000,000 cold 
calls a year. Which wouldn't be so bad, except that far 
from being spread over the entire adult population, one 
call apiece, most of the calls are made to a relative handful 
of attractive prospects. 

The first thing you want, when you pass the six- 
hour “Series 7" exam that qualifies you to be a broker, is 
lists. People to call. Some leads may be provided by your 
firm, but the freshly matriculated broker will be encour- 
aged to obtain or compile his own lists as well. Hence the 
classified ads in Registered Representative (the trade 
magazine that is to brokers approximately what Life 
Insurance Selling is to life-insurance salesmen) pitching 
lists of “42,000 casino ‘credit-rated’ gamblers. All have 
phone numbers... .” 

Other available lists include aircraft owners, aircraft 
pilots, dentists, dentists who are heavy investors, Arabs 
who gamble and invest, cattle breeders, female investors, 
gold buyers and seminar attendees, investors who are 
known art lovers, investment-book buyers, investors con- 
cerned about inflation, Jewish investors, people with 
large deposits in savings accounts, high-value-home own- 
ers, Mexican-gold buyers, millionaires, investors in lim- 
ited partnerships, psychiatrists, teachers who buy loaded 
mutual funds (ie., dumb teachers), wealthy ranchers 
and farmers who invest and ultrawealthy Americans. 
Given that the average psychiatrist is an ultrawealthy 
American millionaire concerned about inflation, with a 
high-value home, large savings deposits and a love of 
art—not to mention Jewish—one can imagine the volume 
of cold calls he must fend off in the course of a day. 

We like to think of (continued on page 130) 


121 


PLAYING 
DOCTOR 


bridgette monet is the hot new princess of porn, but 
on campus, she’s a premed student with a different view of anatomy 


“| don't consider myself a feminist,” says Dona, "but I'm a very independent person. Plus, | have sex- 
vol freedom. It takes a woman who is open and secure enough in herself to do this kind of work.” 


like any other extremely pretty young college student. She talks about the typical 

college woes: the pain of computer registration at California State University at Long 
Beach, her problems with chemistry—a crucial class, since she’s a premed student—and the 
discipline necessary to tackle the enormous amount of homework assigned. 

She fantasizes about the future, too, speaking lovingly of her live-in boyfriend, Dave 
Smith, and the family they plan to raise together someday—and dreaming of the day she'll be 
a doctor, preferably a pediatrician (she loves children) or, perhaps, a pediatric weight-control 
specialist (she lost 30 pounds five years ago and has kept it off). She's bright, articulate and 
charming, 

"Then, Dana begins to talk—with the same intelligence and honesty—about her part- 
time job, the work she docs on the side that allows her to continue her studies and maintain 
the well-furnished apartment she and Dave share only three blocks from a gorgeous stretch 
of California shore line 

"The job? For a few days each month, Dana puts away the textbooks and becomes the 
sultry Bridgette Monet, one of the hottest actresses in the steamy world of hard-core pornog- 
raphy. Dana/Bridgette has played the lead or a major part in I Like to Watch, Talk Dirty to 
Me Part II, Sorority Sweethearts, Let's Talk Sex and the upcoming Bodacious Ta Таз, 


р sits on her couch in her Huntington Beach, California, apartment, looking 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY KEN MARCUS. 


among others, and she was named Most Promising 
New Actress of 1983 by the East Coast Producers 
Association at the Critics Adult Film Association 
Awards in New York last year. 

Just as Dana is obviously no ordinary premed 
student, Bridgette is hardly your run-of-the-mill 
porn star. Sexually explicit films have often had a 
problem luring the most attractive actresses, but 
Dana is a wondrous exception. And while the pub- 
lic has taken note of her beauty, those inside the 
adult-cinema industry have come to realize that 
they’re dealing with an outspoken and sometimes 
cynical leading lady 

“I don't really have a lot of good things to say 
about the people in this business,” Dana explains, 
as her cat, Checkers, romps next to her on the sofa. 
“A lot of the guys, for instance, think that they're 


let's Talk Sex (below) is Dono's lotest porn effort. “I 
really don't feel thot women ore downgraded in adult 
movies,” she insists. “After all, in so mony of these 
films women hove control. They're sexually oggressive.” 


God's gift to women and I just don't get along very well with that kind of person. I 
get a lot of talk behind my back about being a princess, thinking I’m too good for 
other people, but I’m not in this business for my ego, and that’s where 99.9 
percent of the men are coming from." 

"There's one notable exception in the remaining one tenth of one percent. Dave 
Smith, Dana’s longtime boyfriend, joined her in adult films as an actor. He also 
borrowed her name, working professionally as David Cannon, and often stars as 
Bridgette Monet’s love interest. 

“Actually,” says Dana, “I feel sorry for the men. It’s a lot harder for them; they 
get all excited thinking that this is their big fantasy, and then they realize that it's 
work—and nothing happens. A sex scene can take up to three hours to do, and 
there's a lot of starting and stopping and cutting to different angles. It's difficult. 
Even guys who have been in it for a long time have problems occasionally.” 

These days, Dana manages to put one important proviso on her film career: 
There are no sex scenes with any men other than David. “I'll keep working in the 
business as long as I can have things on my own terms. But if I can’t, Pd just as 
soon not do it. I have other things I could be doing." 

Most porn films, of course, stick to a basic formula, and that formula calls for 


“It’s fun to watch aurselves,”” says Dana, "We use our 
topes as a kind af foreplay.” She ond bayfriend/ 
co-star Dave Smith (left and belaw) enjoy being the 
audience as much as they did being the film's stars. 


128 


“Му family doesn’t know anything about what | do,” admits 
Dana. “If they're going to see one of my movies, then it's some- 
thing they're secking. That gives them less room to criticize.” 


the leading lady to have sex with mere than one partner. 
Even the most easygoing producers insist on Dana’s doing 
one or two lesbian scenes. 

“J don’t have any problems being with other girls,” says 
Dana. “I guess other people would consider me bisexual, 
but I don’t really see myself that way. I just do what I 
have to do for the film. It’s pleasurable, like being with a 
man is pleasurable, but it’s not something I seek.” 

Still, her decision not to work with other men has made 
some producers reluctant to use her. “I’ve actually 
restricted my own earning power quite a bit by working 
only with David,” she explains. “I could probably be 
earning twice as much.” 

Despite her loyalty to David, actually getting married 
has never seemed necessary. “Our relationship is going 
great and there’s no real reason to change anything right 
now,” explains Dana, who's 24. “We probably won't get 
married until we want to have children, and I don't know 
when that will be. I still have to finish school and there're 
a lot of things I want to accomplish in my life." 

Since she has been increasingly picky about roles and 
co-stars, Dana has been augmenting her income with an 
erotic phone service, so that her fans can have aural sex 
with their favorite hard-core star, and she's consider- 
ing an advice column— called “Dear Bridgette”—for 
an adult-movie magazine. (concluded on page 136) 


h 


B. 


Pe 


PLAYBOY 


GOING FOR BROKERS 


(continued from page 121) 


* Asset allocation, not selling! You asset allocate. Some 


real estate, some oil and gas, some utilities... . 


222 


brokers as great stock pickers, and a hand- 
ful are. Most spend very little time picking 
stocks. They are primarily engaged in 
selling new accounts and, as their book of 
business builds, servicing old ones. Listen 
to Ken Catanella, of E. F. Hutton’s Phila- 
delphia office, in a video-taped address 
viewed by thousands of brokers (not just 
Hutton's) across the country: “You must 
firmly believe and you must take the 
oath," he says, “that none of you are truly 
financial analysts. I know that I am not an 
analyst. / am a salesman. 1 look like a 
salesman, I dress like a salesman, I talk 
like a salesman. I am a salesman for the 
led up an astounding 650 
new accounts his first year with Hutton 
(previously, he had been with Paine Web- 
ber, and then with Shearson, in Indiana). 
In his second year, 1981, he generated 
$1,100,000 in commissions for the firm, or 
about six times the average. 

Very much a salesman, he exhorts his 
fellow brokers to “throw away all the neg- 
ative vibes you had when you walked into 
this room. And you know exactly what I 
mean. No more problems with the margin 
clerk, no more arguing with the office 
manager—you name it, it has to stay out- 
side. The stock that research gave you at 
40 that’s now 20—1саус it out there. 1 
can't help you with that, and neither can 
anybody else. Open up now, and let me 
come in.” 

"The three things that make someone a 
big producer, Catanella advises, "are, one, 
he must be hungry—hungry as hell. 

“Two, he must be professional. We are 
not used-car salesmen in this business. 

“Three, he absolutely must be dedi- 
cated. Dedicated means reading, studying, 
coming to conferences like these." 

Not all brokers think of themselves as 
salesmen, and even the ones who do would 
just as soon you didn't think of them that 
way. As Catanella sees it, the smart sales- 
man today needs a subtler pitch. “Asset 
allocation, not selling! You sell nothing! 
You asset allocate. Some real estate, some 
oil and gas, some u under dividend 
reinvestment, some growth stocks—you 
asset allocate, and for the first time in your 
client’s life, somebody has shown him a 
plan.” 

Contrast that with the old-fashioned 
approach, still standard, that Catanella 
calls the influence sale. 

“It's the carrot sale—the probing, teas- 
ing sale, where the investor really might not 
understand the product, but you cajoled 


him and you eased him into saying yes 
to it—that is not a comfortable sale as far 
as I’m concerned. I consider the client my 
equal. I like to educate the client. I feel 
very comfortable with that not only when 
Pm right but when I'm wrong.” 

Catanella thinks most investors consid- 
er their portfolios hobbies. “Once you con- 
vince them that you do the business not as 
a hobby but as a war, that it’s your life- 
blood, that your family depends on it, your 
firm has pride in it, I feel that they will 
feel that they do need the assistance of a 
professional.” Even if he is just a salesman 
and does have 649 other accounts to worry 
about at the same time. 

Space precludes touching upon all of 
Catanella's sales theories: Radio is more 
effective for brokers than newspaper ad- 
vertising; cold calls are a waste of time; 
hire a high school girl to take down names 
from building directories; do all your 
mailings on parchment; seminars are 
great. But what the thousands of brokers 
who heard his talk didn't know, and what 
may be the tiniest bit embarrassing, is 
that—if the current set of plaintiffs in 
Federal court are to be believed —"de- 
fendant Catanella took on more customers 
than he could possibly handle on a respon- 
sible basis; directed that unauthorized 
transactions be made for [their ac- 
counts] . . . repeatedly churned accounts so 
as to generate commissions to himself and 
Hutton; engaged in margin and options 
trading without disclosing the risks or 
costs"; and just was not what you'd call a 
square-shootin’ guy. Hungry as hell, to be 
sure, but not a dedicated professional. 

Of course, it’s all well and good for a 
bunch of disgruntled customers to make 
accusations. Catanella denies them. But 
what keeps a layman from accepting his 
denial entirely at face value (and what 
makes Hutton’s decision to hire and pro- 
mote him telling) is Judge Cale J. Hold- 
er’s opinion in a previous set of lawsuits 
(not the current ones, at this writing still 
pending) back in Indiana. There was 
more than one plaintiff in the case, and 
more than one charge, but a few snippets 
from the opinion are worth quoting: 

“The defendants knew that a commodi- 
ties account was not in Mr. Brown's best 
interest... . 

“Mr. Brown in April of 1973 notified 
Mr. Catanella to sell all securities in his 
commodities account at [Shearson] and 
further notified [him to stop trading]. Mr. 
Catanella and Shearson disregarded Mr. 


Brown's notification and continued to 
make unauthorized and excessive pur- 
chases of commodities [for another four 
months] . . . for the purpose of generating 
unauthorized and excessive commis- 
sions." 

Now here's the one I love: 

“Mr. Catanella’s and Paine Webber's 
bad judgment visited upon the Browns 
rose to a crescendo when Paine Webber 
sent its ‘tax-shelter expert’ and Mr. Cata- 
nella to interest Mr. Brown in investing in 
‘tax shelters,’ even though they knew 
before they visited Mr. Brown that Mr. 
Brown was not in a 50 percent tax bracket 
and his losses in the stock market and in 
his farm operations gave him no tax to 
shelter.” 

But let’s return the floor to Catanella 
and his 1982 video-taped address to bro- 
kers: “Credibility. How do you get it? 
You're gonna have to work extra to gain 
credibility. I don’t care how you get it; I 
will tell you the areas that I think you 
should be involved in to get it. I think 
you should write a local article, I think you 
should try and do a talk show, I think you 
should try and do a market report... . .” 

Credibility. I don’t care how you get it. 
Tt reminds me of George Burns's wonder- 
ful line about honesty. "The main thing 
about acting," he said, "is honesty." Long 
pause. “If you can fake that, you've got it 
made." 

. 

All brokers are not from one mold—far 
from it. The other man on the video tape 
was Leo Shear, a complete contrast to 
Catanella, not nearly so dapper or self- 
assured. In 1962, Shear went to Wall 
Street from Dun & Bradstreet, where he 
had been a credit and financial reporter. 
His first full year as a broker, he grossed 
$12,000 in commissions. “I am not a sales- 
man myself,” he says, “or at least 1 do not 
‚consider myself as such.” And yet he has 
become the largest producer on Long 
Island. (If you are wondering what it is 
exactly that brokers "produce," you are 
not seeing things from the firm's perspec- 
tive. Brokers produce commissions.) 

Shear would find one stock he really 
believed in and push it to anyone who 
would listen. Some went down; most, 
especially in the Sixties, went up. And 
when they did go up, he wouldn't sell 
them. That might have generated commis- 
sions, but it would also have generated 
taxes for his clients. And as long as a win- 
ner was in the account, he looked good. 
Many of his clients were willing to refer 
new prospects, whom Shear diligently 
pursued. “From one lead in Rutland, Ver- 
mont,” he says, “I now have between 30 
and 40 accounts up there. I've lost track of 
the number. I probably do more business 
than the local stockbroker.” 

He was handed a dormant account 


m sorry. I didn’t realize sex on a first date turned you off.” 


131 


PLAYBOY 


132 


from a broker who'd quit, an account in 
Amherst, Massachusetts, that contained — 
are you ready?—eight shares of stock. He 
called the client “and got into a little dis- 
cussion.” That account subsequently re- 
ferred 15 others. 

Shear is slow but steady. He says, and 
you believe him, “You should never rec- 
ommend a stock because there's a large 
commission or the firm is pushing it. You 
should recommend it because you sincere- 
ly believe you are doing right for the 
client. The fact that there's a larger com- 
mission credit to a particular item is one 
that I find obnoxious. You sell a munici- 
pal bond not because there's a $30 credit 
instead of a ten-dollar credit; you sell the 
bond because you believe that product is 
right. And I stress that point because 
when you get through with all of this, 
you've got to live with yourself." 

Most brokers would echo that senti- 
ment wholeheartedly. But it's one thing to 
echo a sentiment and another always to 


resist temptation. And the temptation is 
always there. 

There’s simply a lot more hucksterism 
in stockbroking than the big wire houses 
would have you know. (Even venerable 
Lehman Bros., whose clientele is largely 
institutional, has a cadre of high-powered 
retail telephone salesmen. “Our gorillas,” 
a friend there affectionately calls them.) 

Chances are, when your broker calls 
from Prudential-Bache’s Phoenix office to 
suggest that you invest in the Prudential- 
Bache Research Fund, he won't tell you 
that there’s a contest on in the office and 
that he and his fellows stand to win week- 
ends for two at wherever. That is not to 
say the fund isn’t terrific—who knows? 
It’s brand-new and at this writing down 
only six percent (plus a redemption 
charge)—or that brokers foisted it upon 
even a single client to whom it was 
unsuited. It is merely to note the tempta- 
tion. Prudential’s Phoenix office sold 


$5,600,000 of the fund in a month. 


| 


“You're charged with loitering, soliciting 
for prostitution and false and misleading advertising." 


In 1982, according to a broad sur- 
vey conducted by the Securities Industry 
Association, the average broker grossed 
$164,000 in commissions and got to keep 
just over 40 percent of іс $67,000. Well, 
it's a living. Weed out from the survey 
brokers in training and it's an even slight- 
ly better living. In 1983, it was a better 
living still. Paine Webber's 3800 averaged 
around $95,000 apiece. For its 5500 bro- 
kers, Hutton projects average pay of 
around $125,000 for 1985. 

In addition to pay, there are perks 
(which tend to be skimpy), sales support 
and incentives. According to Registered 
Representative, Hutton spends about 
$15,000,000 a year on trips and contests. 

Robert Hughes, manager of Mosely 
Hallgarten’s New York office, prefers to 
emphasize new-account generation over 
sales when he runs a contest. “If you stress 
gross production,” he told Registered Rep, 
“then you may induce someone to do 
something he shouldn’t.” 

But most contests are won by selling. 

And there’s more than ever to sell. As 
banks and brokerage houses and life 
insurers encroach increzsingly upon one 
another’s turfs, “the traditional man- 
date to sell stocks,” in the words of The 
Wall Street Journal, “has been supplanted 
by a new rallying cry: Capture assets.” 

. 


Mrs. P. (not her real name) is a 68- 
year-old widow who had $47,000 in a 
Merrill Lynch money-market fund. Her 
broker earned nothing from all those cap- 
tured assets. (Merrill has since begun pay- 
ing its brokers a sliver of those balances.) 
Being an enterprising fellow, and one of 
the more senior in the office, he called 
Mrs. P. periodically to suggest that she 
switch her cash into one of Merrill 
Lynch's Ginnie Mae funds. Ginnie Maes 
(short for G.N.M.A., Government Na- 
tional Mortgage Association) are pools of 
Government-insured mortgages. To un- 
derstand fully the dynamics of the 
G.N.M.A. market takes a patient and 
agile mind, so it is easier to say, simply (if 
you're trying to sell the fund), that the 
fund is completely safe—the U'S. Govern- 
ment stands squarely behind these mort- 
gages—and that the yield is about 12 
percent instead of the nine percent Mrs. P. 
was earning. What’s more, you can even 
write checks against the fund, just like a 
money-market fund! The two things Mrs 
P.’s account executive did not tell her in 
the several calls he had to make before he 
finally persuaded her to switch were, first, 
that 3.9 percent of her $47,000 would 
immediately be syphoned into Merrill 
Lynch's pocket (the broker would get 
about $525 of that) and, second, that her 
remaining $45,167 would fluctuate in val- 
ue in response to market forces. Over the 
short term (which is something to consider 
when you're 68), it could go down. 

And did. 

^ Merrill Lynch broker who refused to 


| BENSON& HEDGES - 


ENSONs HEDGES 


à 


B { 
11 mg "tar," 0.8 mg nicotine av. per cigarette, FIC Report Mar:83. 
хе , 


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


PLAYBOY 


134 


sell the G.N.M.A. product says, “These 
things were made to look just like money- 
market funds. Very clever from a market- 
ing point of view. You can get paid 
monthly or, if you really want to compli- 
cate your life, reinvest the income from the 
fund. Then the monthly statements you 
get become completely incomprehensible. 
The check-writing feature they threw in 
to make it look even more like a money- 
market fund is crazy, because you are, in 
essence, taking a 3.9 percent bath every 
time you write a check.” 

The product is so complicated, the 
statements so unfathomable and the ranks 
of unhappy customers so large, this Mer- 
rill Lynch vice-president claims, Merrill 
had to put out a 30-page memo to help 
brokers understand it. (The memo— 
marked FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY; DO NOT DIS- 
TRIBUTE—actually runs 11 pages. It does 
seem longer.) 

In short, there is a big difference 
between being a successful broker, like 
Mrs. P.’s, and being a successful client. 
One broker who earned $500,000 in 1983 
buying and selling stocks for his clients 
has never bought stocks for himself. “I’m 
no fool,” he laughs, only half kidding. 

. 


There is a strong case to be made—not 
here—that the overwhelming majority of 
brokers will do no better investing your 
money than you would do throwing darts 
at the stock pages. (“If brokers were as 
smart as they'd like you to think they are,” 
says a blunt young fellow who trades bil- 


lions of dollars in Government securities 
for his brokerage firm's own account, 
“they wouldn't be brokers.”) Therefore, if 
you trade with any frequency or in any 
volume, you should zvail yourself of the 
services of a discount broker and save 
yourself a pile of money on commissions. 
Or buy shares in a prudently selected 
no-load mutual fund or two and get pro- 
fessional management of your money 
without nearly the paperwork and worry 
of buying and selling stocks yourself. 

But if you think discount brokers lack 
cachet and mutual funds are too tame 
(they're not! You can lose a bundle in 
mutual funds, too!), or if it is the buying 
and selling and paperwork that you like— 
if, that is, you are looking for a 
coach and confidant or for someone to 
blame or complain to, where do you 
look? 

One sensible suggestion (already you 
know it's not for you) is Yale Hirsch's 
Directory of Exceptional Stockbrokers. 
(“How much do you have to produce to 
get in there?” a fledgling stockbroker 
asked eagerly before I explained that 
inclusion was not based on production.) 
Although somewhat out of date for its 
$39.95 price tag, it is a manful effort, 
based on three years’ research, to identify 
125 solid brokers and to sketch the 
approaches that have won the approval of 
their clients and colleagues. The Hirsch 
Organization (6 Deer Trail, Old Tappan, 
New Jersey 07675) believes these folks 
are OK. 


“My wife doesn't understand me; 
she thinks I'm a golf nut." 


But then, so are many mutual funds. 
The problem with entrusting your funds 
to either type of stranger is that it robs you 
of the chance to throw some business your 
old college roommate's way or to your 
brother-in-lew—not because you really 
want to do him a favor or because you 
think he can really make you some money 
but because it makes you feel good to be 
able to throw the big bills around like that. 
(You say I’m projecting? I don't have a 
brother-in-law and my college roommate 
went into politics, so how can I be project- 
ing?) 

General rule: Brokers are better off not 
doing business with friends (it can cost 
them friends) and friends are better off 
not doing business with brokers (it can 
cost them money). 

. 

The man I want for my broker is 
Olumba Olumba Obu. 

“Never in the history of mankind— 
since the creation of the world, and after 
the birth and death of our Lord Jesus 
Christ—has anybody anywhere in the 
world possessed the tremendous spiritual 
and supernatural power, universal influ- 
ence and the over-all authority to deter- 
mine the fate and the future of people 
anywhere in the world and at any time, as 
the Sole Spiritual Head of the Brother- 
hood of the Cross and Star, Leader Olum- 
ba Olumba Obu. 

“He has the universal power to deter- 
mine or change the course of events as they 
affect individuals or institutions. He has 
the supreme and unquestionable authority 
to solve all kinds of problems anywhere in 
the world —whether such problems are of 
physical, spiritual or material nature." 

And he has the wherewithal to take out 
a full-page ad in The New York Times 
saying all that and a great deal more. 
“Physically based in Calabar, Nigeria,” 
he was able, for example, to conduct a 
spiritual X ray of a Mrs. Grace Cosmos 
Tom, who at the time of her difficulty was 
two and a half years pregnant. By follow- 
ing Olumba Olumba Obu’s instructions, 
the doctors were finally able to deliver 
Mrs. Tom's baby daughter without inci- 
dent. (The ad gives no clue as to the 
weight of the child.) 

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PLAYBOY 


Girl onthe Run 


(continued from page 97) 


sudden, you don’t have any problems. It 
was part of my therapy. My worst days 
are when the whole world revolves around 
Dona. When I can't get out of myself 
enough to say, ‘Whoa, there're other 
things going оп” When I get in the ‘I 
want, I want, I want’ syndrome, boy, I'm 
just miserable. And I’m real unhappy and 
I'm real unpleasant to be around. Being 
grateful helps me. Being grateful for what 
Гуе got.” 

Part of Dona’s design for better living 
is, as we mentioned earlier, a self-imposed 
social hiatus. It was too much, the flowers, 
the dinners, the endless pursuits by end- 
less suitors. It ceased to be fun. So she 
went to Cancun to thaw out. 

“It's not that I've had it with men,” she 
said when she returned home. “I’m just 
very content to be without one right now, 
that's all, very content. You know what it 
is now? I just don't give men the control I 


used 10. If a guy called for lunch before, it 
would be, ‘Oh, I can't pass this up,” but 
now I say, ‘I can’t. I'm staying in all day, 
watching television, and that’s the way it 
is.’ I've found that if I'm out looking for a 
man to get involved with, ГЇЇ never find 
him. It’s when I quit looking that I trip 
over him.” 

And what can she offer the lucky guy 
who trips her up? 

*] remember one of my last boyfriends. 
When we started dating, I went over to his 
house one day. We didn’t really know 
each other that well. 1 walked in with a 
blindfold in my hand. I put it on him and 
spun him around a few times, then walked 
him out to my car and put him in. We 
drove for about an hour before I took him 
up into a canyon where I used to live. I 
walked him out into a field, and then I 
took the blindfold off. I had brought a kite 
and we flew the kite all afternoon. I like 
things like that, out of the ordinary, Not bi- 
zarre, just out of the ordinary. You know, 
a liule bit of fantasy.” Yes, we know. 


“You know, Carl, that’s a mighty big “if.” 


PLAYING DOCTOR 


(continued from page 128) 
Both are jobs she can do at home, which 
makes studying easier. School, despite the 
thousands of dollars she makes from her 
various porn projects, is still extremely 
important to her, a remnant, perhaps, 
from childhood. 

“I was very strait-laced,” she says. “I 
grew up in a white, upper-middle-class 
neighborhood in San Diego. I was a 
straight-A student and I was in advanced- 
placement classes. Plus, I was in student 
government, on the track team and in a lot 
of other activities. My parents were kind 
of restrictive—they discouraged me from 
sexual contact, because that’s what par- 
ents do. It probably lasted later in my life 
than it does for most girls.” 

After high school graduation, Dana got 
а job at an insurance company, where she 
fell in with a more sophisticated crowd. “I 
had a lot of good friends there and they 
were older, and that’s when I learned how 
to drink, had my first experience with 
smoking pot or whatever. Everyone was 
pretty free sexually, too.” Through her 
new friends she met David. 

“I guess Pm just a one-man woman,” 
she sighs. “We're pretty much married.” 

Of course, not many married couples 
have sex professionally with each other— 
or with strangers—for the camera. “You 
learn to separate working and your real 
sex life,” explains Dana. 

Sometimes, even cynical professionals 
can combine business with pleasure. For 
Dana and Dave, it’s occasionally watching 
their handiwork on their home video 
recorder. “It can be exciting sometimes. 
There're a couple of things we've done— 
three-way kind of things with another 
girl —that can be fun to watch, in modera- 
tion. We use it as a kind of foreplay.” 

But how would potential patients re- 
spond to seeing their doctor in a three- 
way, even if one third of it was the doctor's 
boyfriend? Dana foresees no problems. 
“Anybody who's going to bring it up to 
you is going to have positive things to say 
about it. They think it’s good or they wish 
they could do it. The other people aren’t 
going to see these movies,” she explains. 

“I do want to do something that I feel is 
respectable and something that would 
help people, Tha's why I want to be a 
doctor. And I’ve always done very well at 
science,” she says. 

“When I'm a doctor, I'll be a doctor on 
my own merit,” she insists. “It’s not going 
to have anything to do with what I’ve 
done. Besides, my name is different— 
Bridgette Monet is a stage name.” 

One thing she’s not going to do, though 
she seems eminently well qualified, is 
become a sex therapist. “I really don’t care 
about people's sex problems,” she says. “1 
just want to entertain them. Or treat them. 
But not at the same time.” 


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XM NOT THE ONLY 
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WHO ADMITTED IT BEFORE... 
TELL ME AGAIN, WILL YOU2, 


Ц 


de] 
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TYRANNOSAURUS SEX 


by Chris Browne & John Stevens 


SEE | LISTEN, РМ GLAD 
I| YOU TOOK ME OUT 
ON THE TOWN... 


GIRL AN? Т KEEP 
ASKING HER. TO 
HAVE SEX WITH 
ME,EUT I. CANT 
GET TO FIRST 
BASE WITH HER!" 


this Kindly country 
| doctor as pee 
| forka us Just LIKE Your 


ie en 


CRUISER 


IMAGINE ... HOLDING A MEETING 
uS HIS EX GIRLFRIENDS. 


SUST THE EAST 
COAST MEMBERS. 


Bey, CRUISER SURE 
HAS GOT GUYS... 


COME ON! I'M AN INTELLIGENT 
MAN....1 FIND IT HARD TO BEUEVE 
THAT NONE or YOU EVER EEL P 
THE MOMENT OF ЕСЅТАЅУ.. 4 


AND WHY 
15 THAT 50 
HARD TO 
BELIEVE? 


AAT WE 


2 
^ DAY 


I'VE. CALLED THIS MEETING BECAUSE 
A QUESTION'S BEEN TROUBLING ME. 
1 RECENTLY READ THAT MOST WOMEN 
FAKE SEXUAL FIREWORKS FROM 
TIME Т2 TIME, AND I 


di A 


E 


ne 


BUT NEXT 
TIME 1 WANT 
TO PICK WHERE 


OF COURSE YOU CANT- 

GIRL WANTS To HAVE SER 
ON А BASEBALL HELD! ASK. 
HER BACK TO YOUR APARTMENT, 


How DARE Yet 
THINK THAT I 
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THE LIMITI 


WITH ME- 
INTE EE 


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PELLI 


m: 


139 


PLAYBOY 


140 


dAQ JADOARRÁ (continued som page 120) 


“I caught a whiff of perfume and felt an incredibly soft 
hand slip a sticky shori-sword into my grasp." 


laughing so heartily moisture sparkled 
around her eyes; they would never believe 
this on Kytra. Having provoked such 
laughter, the Nork brought us to rapt 
silence by ending his performance with his 
head between the beast’s jaws. 

Witana led the applause. The Nork 
casually acknowledged his due. Witana 
murmured in Fadab's ear. He shook his 
head. Witana drew one of her perfect 
hands along his jowl and caressed his 
chins. Fadab emitted a ponderous wet 
sigh. 

“You there, valiant Nork. My little 
treasure wishes to touch the spotted 
one." 

The Nork nodded, looked frankly into 
the eyes of the woman who needed me and 
beckoned to her. 

Witana took a deep breath. As she 
moved slowly toward the cat, her silks 
whispered lush promises. When she 
rcached the leopard, the Nork motioned 
for her to hold out a hand. The leopard 
sniffed suspiciously, then with interest, 
then licked. A light shudder passed 
through Witana. The cat luxuriously 
rubbed its head against her palm. Her fin- 
Eers curled in the fur behind its ear. Blood 
danced in my chest in rhythm with flicker- 
ing torchlight. 


A soft trill came from the rafters. The 
leopard's attention snapped upward. Wi- 
tana stumbled back, quickly regained her- 
self. The cat made a noise deep in its 
throat. 

A tiny golden bird fluttered noisily from 
the rafters, circled the hall and came to 
rest on Witana’s shoulder. She stroked it 
reassuringly. 

The leopard went for the bird. The 
Nork bellowed, yanking the chain. The 
leopard snarled and twisted backward, 
taking an annoyed swipe. The Nork fell, 
opened from chest to thigh. He died look- 
ing at his dinner and his h’benkas on the 
floor before him. 

There were screams, people scram- 
bling, falling. Witana stood frozen. The 
Nork's apprentice jabbed timidly. The 
leopard snapped at the spearhead. The ap- 
prenüce threw. The spear passed well 
over the cat and pierced a M'ddrrgg. 

I edged toward Witana, as did another 
M’ddrrgg, his short-sword drawn, from 
the other side. The only other armed men 
in the room were the two M'ddrrggs 
behind whom Fadab crouched, a hand 
clamped on each. 

"The leopard faked a charge at the flee- 
ing apprentice, then wheeled. Its eyes 
locked on the bird, piping hysterically and 


“And I think I’ve got the uinning hand, but 
in case Ed Crawford beats it, would you be willing to 
go and stay with him for a weekend?” 


flitting in tight circles around Witana. 
The leopard bunched its muscles. 

We leaped. In mid-air, I hit its flank, 
knocking it sideways. I heard a tearing 
sound as fire shot across my shoulder. 

The leopard came down on the 
M'ddrrgg. The short-sword rattled across 
the floor as crushing jaws found the man's 
throat. Blood fountaincd from the sides of 
the cat's mouth. It shook the M’ddrrgg to 
make sure he was dead, then proudly 
shook him some more. I slammed a por- 
phyry table down on its skull. 

"The stone table cracked. The leopard 
staggered back, hovling, but kept its feet. 
Its right eye was crushed. It snarled, 
showing shattered fangs. Its left front leg 
spasmed uncontrollably as it circled to 
find me with its good eye. 

1 turned with it, keeping between it and 
Witana. I saw Fadab backing toward a 
doorway, clutching his human shields. 
Suulemaion had gotten hold of the Nork’s 
whip; his other arm was protectively 
clutching the amphora of irreplaceable 
Baaj. 

I caught a whiff of perfume and felt an 
incredibly soft hand slip a sticky short- 
sword into my grasp. 

"The leopard charged. It skidded in one 
of the red ponds many of us were creating. 
As it tried to stop, its quivering front leg 
gave way. I plunged the short-sword in 
behind the shoulder and tore back with 
both hands. I heard three ribs snap before 
the blade did, 

The leopard churned, stiffened, made a 
low sad noise, then was no more. 

Perfume. I turned and looked into enor- 
mous, brimming eyes. As I passed out, I 
heard Fadab squeal, “Chogo—we must 


get him to Chogo! 


. 

Crust on my eyes. 

Iblinked. Through a blur, I saw a crea- 
ture who had a thin beard and gigantic 
d'lalls. 

"He's awake." 

I tried to rub my eyes. My shoulder 
screamed at me. 

Someone dabbed my eyes with a damp 
cloth. Beard and d’lalls separated onto dif- 
ferent bodies, 

“You are fortunate,” sighed Suule- 
maion, “that the cat was a tame one.” 

“Wine,” I rasped. 

They poured a goblet of water into me. 
I sat up. There were stars alongside my 
bed; we were on one of the terraces. A 
hideous, guttural parody of human speech 
issued from behind Suulemaion. He 
stepped aside to reveal two powerful trolls 
with runes carved on their faces, accom- 
panied by yet another slave girl She 
announced that the M'ddrrggs wished to 
present me with the spirit knife of the 
tribesman I'd avenged. 

“But . . . it was I who threw the cat into 
him,” I protested, proving modesty and 
tact are not always the same. 

"The older, more awful M'ddrrgg made 


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PLAYBOY 


142 


a grave declaration with what was left of 
his tongue. The girl translated with 
miraculous ease: The M'ddrrgg had died 
suitably, as he was the master's wife’s 
bodyguard. The leopard slew him. I slew 
the leopard. Therefore, his fantastically 
engraved spirit knife was mine. If I 
desired, they would employ it to bless my 
visage with certain protective symbols. 

I accepted the knife but declined the 
blessings. The M'ddrrggs betrayed only a 
little disappointment. The older one pre- 
sented the spirit knife. I clasped his arm. 
It felt as much like granite as it looked. 

The M’ddrrggs gave a formal grunt 
and trotted off. The translator explained 
that the other slain M’ddrrgg had died 
unsuitably, due to the Nork’s apprentice, 
who was so careless with spears. The 
apprentice would be found and introduced 
to the oldest, slowest of M’ddrrgg spirit- 
knife rituals. 

I solemnly thanked the slave girl for her 
translations, inwardly promising never to 
behave unsuitably near a M'ddrrgg. 


Suulemaion shook his head. "So young, 
so large, so serious," he complained. He 
placed a hand on my brow. “At least you 
are free from fever. But not, I suspect, 
from a certain ripeness—it’s the climate,” 
he added, winking, and was gone. 

"The slave girls sloughed off their gar- 
ments and cased into bed. Grinning sor- 
rowfully, I touched my bandage and 
motioned for them to leave. They pro- 
tested softly. They attempted to prove how 
gentle they could be. 

Isent them away. 

Standing up was not impossible. I 
drank more water. Pretended to search for 
portents in the stars. Glanced away from 
the constellations, down to the roof of the 
villa. There was one gilded turret far larg- 
er than the others. A soft light glowed in 
its lone window. 

Crossing the sloping roofs was not 
nearly as hard as standing up had been. 
As I crept to the base of the turret, I heard 
urgent, sinuous piping from above. I 
climbed. 

My shoulder said some unkind things 


“Rest assured, someone’s going to hear from me regarding 
these ridiculous traffic laws.” 


but remained attached, I pulled myself up 
onto the window ledge. I peered down 
through a wide-woven ivory lattice. 

Against the far wall of the rounded 
chamber, seated cross-legged on an enor- 
mous cushion, was a pipe player wrinkled 
enough to pass for the Immortal’s older 
brother. He had a blind man’s clouded 
white eyes. 

In the center of the chamber, on his 
back, lay the husband of the woman who 
needed me. Not precisely on his back: His 
puffy legs were spread and held aloft by 
padded chains, with a wedge of sweat- 
soaked pillows supporting his hindquar- 
ters, around which no description will 
stretch. 

Witana stood naked between the mam- 
moth suspended thighs. Her astonishing 
face looked even younger than I remem- 
bered. There was nothing of the child 
about the rest of her. With one hand she 
anointed her body with oil, while with the 
other she encouraged Fadab’s reluctant 
n’gurga. She spoke to it, cooed at it, 
scolded it, then guided it on a slippery 
exploration of her golden terrain. It began 
to show life, curving upward. 

Fadab groaned, muttering obscenities. 
Witana began whipping him with a velvet 
snake, its diamond fangs leaving tiny red 
marks. She crawled up onto his oceanic 
belly. The velvet snake bit again and 
again, The piper's tempo raced, his tone 
grew harsh. Witana reached beneath her 
and clasped the curved n'gurga to her 
shwussu-shwussu but did not insert it. She 
held it and held it . . . until she could 
inundate it with her shwussu-shwussu’s 
more mundane function—— 

Impossibly beautiful green-gray eyes 
looked up and found themselves looking 
into mine—— 

Fadab wailed and 
chains—— 

An anguished moan broke from Wita- 
na's full-fleshed Kytrite lips — 

My shoulder said nothing as I climbed 
down the turret, down past the terrace 
where 1 should have been healing my 
wounds, down into the garden, where 
I wandered serpentine paths for hours. 
This was in the depths of my 16th sum- 
mer, when I assumed I would spend my 
life feeling as I did at that moment. 

How could she? 1 supposed wifely obe- 
diencc explained a good deal, but. . . . 

Т was searching for explanations among 
the stars, this time in earnest, when I 
caught the scent of perfume. There was a 
remembered sensation of a small hand 
placing a short-sword in mine. . . . 

A small figure in a hooded black robe 
stood on the path. 

“You must leave at first light,” she 
said. 

Thad no answer. 

“Lam afraid.” 

Words failed me still. 

“The world is full of women,” she 


twisted in his 


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PLAYBOY 


insisted, her trickling-nectar voice giving 
the lie to her words. Then, pleading: “I 
fear you will harm him." She held out a 
bulging leather pouch. “Gold enough for 
years. Now, please, go." 

I slapped it away and drew her near. 
Slowly pulled back the hood. Looked. 
Kissed. Tasted. Gently set her down on 
the damp mossy carth, spreading her 
cloak. She sobbed and clung with an end- 
less hunger. 

When dawn threatened, Witana hur- 
ried back to the villa, remembering to pick 
up the leather pouch as she went. 

. 

Summers are lengthy in Jemot. Months 
must have passed. I had no reason to num- 
ber the days. The nights were all the same 
night, one long, delirious torrent that 
brought us to that exquisite pitch only the 
young and unjaded can reach—so easily 
they take it for granted. 

So easily; Fadab slept as heavily as he 
ate and drank. It was Witana's custom to 
leave his chamber after satisfying him. 
Custom now included continuing past her 
own chamber, down to the garden. 

Every few afternoons, I'd corner a dif- 
ferent slave girl and claim my hero's por- 
tion—at Witana's insistence. She was 
wise in the ways of society for one only in 
her 14th summer. But then, she was raised 
in the courts of Kytra. 

Fadab was delighted to hear of my bull- 
ing my way through his retainers. His 
gratitude for my saving his little treasure 
seemed genuine. He made much of me at 
the feasts he gave for the debased nobles 
who nominally ruled the valley. Theirs 
was the name of Jemot; his, the power. 
Each side held the other in contempt, and 
all were terribly courteous. 

I missed Suulemaion. He’d delayed his 
departure until he was certain I was not 
seriously hurt. When I saw him off, he 
admonished me, "Be' sensible—refresh 
yourself and ride on. The world is full of 
women.” 

1 looked at him as though I had no idea 
what he meant. 

Suulemaion sadly shook his head. “Daq 
Jaddarra, there is always a beautiful rea- 
son when a man attacks a leopard with a 
dinner table.” He began to mount his 
camel, stopped, turned, sighed, extracted a 
gold coin from his belt, regarded it wisı- 
fully, shuddered, pressed it into my hand 
and whispered, “A magic coin—it is 
worth more the farther you get from 
Jemot.” 

The M'ddrrggs returned the day Suule- 
maion left. They’d caught the Nork’s 
apprentice in a maiter of hours and had 
since been religiously administering their 
vengeance. No one pressed the translator 
for specifics. 

As my wounds knit, the M'ddrrggs and 
I practiced weapons together. They were 
good, fearless men. I was pleased that they 


accepted me despite my repugnantly 
smooth face. 

But they were not quite real. No one 
and nothing was, except Witana. 

. 

Summer's waning brought complete re- 
covery and maddening pain. I had no 
excuse to stay and I could not go. Not 
alone. 

Witana loved to remain entwined after 
we'd exhausted ourselves, with me still 
filling her. At such times, she often spoke 
dreamily of her homeland. 

“We could go there,” I suggested. 

“You and I cannot go anywhere," she 
murmured, lazily tracing the claw marks 
on my shoulder. “Besides, we have no rea- 
son to.” She gave me a nip 

“Ow. Despite your attentions, Гуе 
healed. If I remain, Fadab will wonder 
why.” 

"Fadab is indebted to you. He likes 
you." She shifted. I slipped out of her. 
“He would find you a place here.” 

“H is already too—— Witana, I have 
never had to feign friendship for a man 
І... dislike.” 

“The practice will do you good.” 

“Tm not some two-faced lord or fawn- 
ing merchant.” 

Her golden features sank into a golden 
despair. "That is not kind,” she teased, 
“to say to a daughter of a Kytrarch and a 
wife of a merchant.” 

“I can save you from that," I protested. 
“It's not in me to go on pretending, Wita- 
na, to be unable to touch you all day, to 
know what you and he do at n” 

She stiffened. “Promise you will never 
take hand or weapon to him." 

“I do not wish him harm,” I lied. “AN I 
want is you." 

“Swear.” Huge green-gray eyes wid- 
ened, threatening to engulf me. I swore in 
the names of enough gods, demons ard 
ancestors to risk damning untold genera- 
tions of Jaddarrans. 

“Now,” I begged, “will you come away 
with me before we're caught? This morn- 
ing is not too soon. This moment would be 
better." 

Witana said something, but her lips 
were too occupied with other matters for 
me to understand or care what it was. 


. 
The M'ddrrgg said something that 
might have been “The master awaits." He 
took my horse's reins and pointed up the 
garden path I was to follow. I'd just 
returned from a gallop along the Kug. 
"The Wilderness at the Heart of the World 
had looked provocatively simple and invit- 
ing. But my fever brought me back to the 
garden of Fadab as surely as my footsteps 
now brought me to the pavilion where his 
enormousness was spread across the inevi- 
table squadrons of suffering pillows. 
“Fried baby parakeets?” he offered. I 
shook my head. “Your appetite cannot 
have deserted you,” he sang, popping a 
birdling into the curiously tiny mouth that 


sustained that magnificent corpulence. 

I managed a grin. “After riding all 
morning, I’ve an appetite for some of that 
ale you're drinking." 

Fadab gestured for me to help myself. 
“Someday soon," he mourned, “you will 
ride off and not return. | fear your spirit 
has been sore chafed, sharing this dull 
tradesman's existence.” 

“There has been no chafing,” I assured 
him. “I have never known such splen- 
dor." 

“Splendor? Dear Daq, you have not 
known splendor until you've known Cho- 
go,” he decreed, patting my hand with 
greasy fingers. “Please indulge an unwor- 
thy host by permitting him to bore you 
with a tale of wealth and power.” 

I drained my ale, poured for us both 
and nodded. All summer, I’d been waiting, 
for Chogo to come up again. 

“Here is Jemot,” said Fadab, holding 
up a fistful of crisp baby birds. “Gateway 
to the Kug and, thence, the world. There is 
the Western Sea”—a tankard of ale— 
“which knows no mightier trading force 
than the combined fleet of the seven 
Kytrarchs. 1 dominate inland; my father- 
in-law, the sea. But between us, on the 
coast, Chogo—the richest, most conniving 
city of the West.” 

“So you seek an alliance.” 

“Excellent Dear Dag, such an alliance 
would control the commerce of the West 
and then, perhaps, k-huk. . . .” He made 
an equivocal gesture. “But the high priest- 
ess is jealous of her independence and will 
not listen." 

I put down my tankard. “You desire the 
ear of the high priestess, which her consort 
will have.” 

“That is more important to me than 
you will ever know,” he whispered. “And 
will make you richer than you can con- 
ceive.” 

“And all I must do to gain it is cut my 
way through the arena.” 

“That path can be smoothed; oh, yes. 
Opponents have been known to accept a 
small fortune rather than risk all for a 
large one. Others have suffered terrible 
misfortunes with their equipment or 
food." 

Rage rose in me at the suggestion that I 
would have to cheat to survive a contest 1 
had no intention of entering. "My grand- 
father warned me," I growled, "that un- 
earned wealth costs more than it is 
worth." 

Fadab favored me with an unctuous 
smile. “Do not judge me harshly, dear 
Daq. Surely, you know that if the passion 
is grand enough, the man it grips will do 
whatever he must. Even that which a 
grandfather might find dishonorable.” 

He knew. Hc knew about Witana and 
No. 1 was panicking. 

“АП E ask,” he continued, “is that you 
think deeply on what a man loses by flee- 
ing his destiny." Fadab gazed fondly at 


he. 


I PONT BELIEVE I DD IT OWY ID THE 
. MISSIONARY 
POSITION. N 


к LISTEN TO. 
MC MAN ^ 


kool Р 


145 


PLAYBOY 


146 


the final morsel. “I don't know how you 
deny yourself. They are at their tenderest 
when young." 


° 

I squandered the afternoon debating 
whether or not he knew. I lost the debate. 
All I could be certain of was that Witana 
and I had to leave. If I took her against her 
will, Pd lose her. But how to convince 
her? She was so much better with words 
than I. 

Very well. I would demonstrate with 
my absence what I could not persuade her 
of with words. 

That night, I did not wait in the garden. 
I strapped on my M’ddrrgg blade and 
went down the slope to Jemot. To a tavern 
in the low quarter. 

I drank much and traded jests with 
unclean wenches. A lout spilled wine on 
me. I thrashed him. And his comrades. 
And the tavernkeeper. Then I bought 
them all a drink and they toasted my val- 
or. I went outside for some air and vom- 
ited. As I did so, a thief attacked me. I 
grabbed his throat and held him away as I 
finished my spew. My hand must have 
clenched along with my guts—when I was 
done, I found myself holding a blue-faced 
corpse. I sat him against a wall, threw his 
purse to a goggle-cyed old beggar who was 
staring as though he'd never seen an acci- 
dent before and marched back up the slope 
under a dazzling moon, hoping Witana 
had learned her lesson. 

The walk cleared my head but made me 
thirsty. Perhaps that is why I went to the 
pond where I was to have met the woman 
who needed me. I filled my hands with 
cold water. I could not get enough. So I 
jumped in. It felt even better than it 
tasted. 

A twig snapped_ 

A small figure in a hooded black robe 
stood beneath a broad-leafed yggthia tree. 
She stood deathly still. She’s angry, I 
thought. Good. 

I waded out. As I reached the overhang 
of the tree, my wet sandal slipped on a 
mossy rock. I went down but caught 
myself on one knee. I looked up with a 
sheepish grin and saw within the hood a 
scarred copper face. 

I drew my spirit knife and the second 
M’ddrrgg dropped out of the tree just in 
front of me—which would have been just 
behind me had I not slipped. I slashed the 
inside of his knife arm as he came down. 
His dagger dropped as his arm went slack, 
but my knife also went as his falling 
weight wrenched it from my grasp. 

The hooded M’ddrrgg charged. I went 
under his thrust, grabbed the robe and 
flung him behind me into the pond. The 
wounded M’ddrrgg butted the side of my 
face. I sprawled sideways. As he reached 
for my knife with his left hand, I kicked 
him in the throat. I heard the other one 
sloshing out of the pond. I reached across 


the bleeding, gagging M’ddrrgg to get at 
my blade, 

A mistake. He threw his good arm 
around me and closed rock-hard muscles 
across my windpipe, As I wrenched at 
him, I saw the other M’ddrrgg shrug off 
the water-heavy robe. I found the handle 
of my knife, and the M’ddrrgg on my back 
sank his teeth into my shoulder. I heaved 
upward and turned as the other M’ddrrgg 
lunged. His blade went deep into his 
tribesman’s side. I dove out from under 
the dead man as the enraged M’ddrrgg 
yanked his blade frec. He slashed down, 
but I was just out of reach. His cut twisted 
him far enough around for me to bring my 
blade across and open the back of his neck. 
He grabbed his wound and I sliced the 
front of his neck. He took a last feeble 
slash at me as he collapsed. 

І stood. I felt none of the elation that 
lifts a man after surviving an attack. 
There was only a cold sickness, and it 
wasn’t from cheap wine. The M’ddrrggs 
and I had no quarrel. This was between 
me and Fadab—Witana. 

Perhaps I flew; suddenly, I was peering 
through the turret window. Witana’s 
wrists were bound to a chain link high on 
the wall. Torn clothes hung from her hips. 
Fadab was using a flat strap—a whip 
would have cut into the merchandise. His 
face was as red as the outrages on her 
back. He was cursing like a deranged 
squirrel and kneading himself through a 
stained loincloth. 

The blind musician’s head came up 
sharply as my sandal scraped on the win- 
dow ledge. I burst through the ivory lat- 
tice. Fadab dropped the strap and 
shrieked for his M’ddrrggs. 

1 dropped their spirit knives at his feet 
and drew the one they'd given me, the one 
freshly decorated with their blood. Fadab 
cringed against the wall. 

“I didn’t tell them to—I feared you'd 
run, after . . . after our talk,” he babbled. 
"Couldn't sleep . . . sent a M’ddrrgg to 
your terrace, found Witana there, cry- 
ing. . . you must. . . I didn't . . . only told 
those two savages to bring you. . . Pd 
never——" 

I pressed the cutting edge low against 
his gut. “Two lives we must answer for. 
"They doubtless thought you meant to 
watch them carve me. A quick death was 
their parting gift. Savages wouldn't sus- 
pect it wasn't revenge you had in mind but 
a trade—I give you my services; you give 
me your wife's." 

Cadaverously white lips drew back. 
“You learn swiftly.” 

“Pray, bottomless belly of Jemot," I 
hissed. “Set a price with your greediest 
god" 

Behind me, Witana moaned, 


“You 
swore. . - 
I looked at her welts, then at Fadab. He 
whimpered. I cut Witana loose, support- 
ing her carefully. I turned her toward 
Fadab and offered her my spirit knife. 


“No!” She stumbled to Fadab, huddled 
against his bulk. 

A phantom earthquake: I felt the floor 
tilt and buck, though neither it nor 1 
moved. “Witana . . . 2” 

She lowered her head. 

“Look at me,” I said as quictly and 
angrily as I have said anything in my 
life. 

Witana raised her eyes. Those eyes. “I 
am the daughter of the Kytrarch Witanor. 
I cannot break his pledge . . . and I will 
not live as a vagabond.” 

Some unknowable time crawled by. It 
was Fadab who finally spoke, with calm 
satisfaction. "Now, dear Daq, you have 
three choices. A fool would take the satis- 
faction of killing me. He—and the miser- 
able tribe that spawned him—would be 
hunted down and destroyed. An ordinary- 
man would simply run, hoping he was not 
worth the expense of finding. A fighter 
would accompany us to Chogo, where he 
would enjoy my protection and, as you so 
charmingly put it, Witana's services. As a 
sign of my forgiveness, k-huk, she would 
be yours alone.” 

I looked into enormous green-gray eyes 
gone empty. “I have been a man to you. 
And yet you cling to that.” 

“The world," she uttered with finality, 
“is full of men.” 

I don't know what I meant to say. An 
animal howl came out. Witana matched it 
as I plunged the spirit knife at the center 
of Fadab's face. 

1 angled the blade past him and buried 
it in the wall alongside his ear. Fadab 
broke wind and fainted, pinning Witana 
beneath him. 

“Help,” she gasped, tugging with her 
free arm at the soft load spread across 
her. 

I retrieved my spirit knife. “When your 
husband comes to," I told Witana, “tell 
him J have a fourth choice.” 

Frightened, imploring  green-gray 
eyes—I quickly turned away. I went back 
out the window. The sun was peering over 
the edge of the valley as I walked away 
from the villa. I heard a melancholy pip- 
ing and looked back. The blind man stood 
at the broken window, playing a tune for 
Рад Jaddarra. 

е 

At Jemot, I purchased a horse, provi- 
sions, weapons. I rode to the western end 
of the valley, where trails branch off in 
three directions. I took the one to Chogo, 
where once every ten years a man might 
be selected for enough wealth and power 
to shatter another man's dreams. Enough 
to hold even the most desirable of women. 
Where, selected or not, a man could purge 
his errors. 

Thus ended my 16th summer, when I 
discovered the things I did could become 


expensive. 
El 


EG 


J Р E 3 
MAIS 
i 6 2 \ PLAYBOY PICKS 


THE BEST CYCLES 


THE RETURN 
OF THE 
SEXY CAR 


HIGH-SPEED 
STEREO 


HOW YOUR 
CAR WORKS 


& — \ - y 
е ES 
> 4 
, 
w 


a Jeep. Jeep Ж CJ 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


RETURN WITH US now to those thrilling days of yesteryear, when 
THE RETORNO errem eee 

you put your groceries in. For а good while there, it was 

starting to look as if the days of our youth were gone forev- 
THE SEXY AR er—the happy days when cars offered good performance and 

great styling, the days when your car would impress your 

friends and maybe even lure the ladies. The days of thc sexy 
car seemed lost to more practical concerns such as fuel cff 
ciency and kids with long legs. 

The auto industry started building cars that *made sense." 
= That meant they didn't look too great on the open road, but 
1984 signals a new age of auto lust they sure fit into the parking spaces at the supermarket. Sexy 
= _AA— ———— styling was put into the deepfreeze. Reality, the auto makers 

; said. Boring, we thought. Then came high technology. While 
By GARY WITZENBURG outside the song remained the same, things really started 


with high technology and sleek design, 


Nissan 300Z X Gurbo 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY KEN ROSENBERG / WILLARDBON & WHITE 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


humming under thc hood. Turbochargers, lightweight mate- 
rials, acrodynamic styling, electronic fuel injection, electron- 
ic idle control, electronic everything. Under the skin of those 
high-tech machines, computers would monitor everything 
from exhaust content to how far your foot pushed the 
throttle. They would adjust the suspension, control the cock- 
pit climate and optimize the signal strength of your favor- 
ite stereo station. The new technology would bring cars as 
close to mechanical perfection a» — (continued on page 168) 


Continental 


Mark UN L, 


he 1984 Isuzu мө E bulk is built coe the 


highest standards in the automobil 

try, today. Fach Impulse cda 
with power windows, standard. 

Power mirrors, standard. Power 

steering, 4-wheel disc brakes 

and cruise control; all stan- 

dard at no extra cost. As well 

as a tilt steering wheel with 

memory, all glass tinted, 

AM/FM stereo radio and | 

alloy wheels. (Not to | 

mention the I-TEC com- 

puter controlled fuel 

injection.) For com- 

fort, there's our air S 

conditioning, standard. 

Deep pile carpeting, 

Standard. herecining 

bucket seats in front 


and reclining bucket shaped seats in 
back, are all standard. For convenience, 


there are power door locks, stan- 
dard. Plus a rear window washer/ 
wiper/defogger, standard. And a 
standard remote controlled 
hatch release and fuel filler 
lid. Also, for those who 
don't choose to avail them- 
selves of our optional auto- 
matic bigis we 
can even offer a spoi 

5-speed manual ifi 
standard as well. In all, 
there are more than 55 
_— standard features, fea- 
tured on any Impulse 
you buy. Which leaves 
you with the option 

of choosing the color. 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


BEST BIKES 


we choose this year's top cycles 


We know one guy who has a houseful of Ducatis. Obviously, 
he owns his house. Another person we know has been 
smuggling old Nortons, piece by piece, past the doorman of 
his high-rise to put in his living room. People who love 
bikes never let them go, and people who love bikes and have 
alot of money tend to end up with garages full of motorcy- 
cles. The right tool for the right job, they say. If we had the 
money, these would be the bikes we would buy this year to 
keep for the rest of our lives. Gentlemen, start your wallets. 


Did you ever notice that Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Mainte- 
nance was written about a Bavarian bike, the old BMW boxer 
twin? Now BMW has a new religious experience, and it was 
worth the wait. The K-100 RS (shown below—no, below the 
blonde) is a water-cooled, in-line four, longitudinally and hori- 
zontally mounted 1000-c.c. shaft-drive marvel. It won't be 


available in the U.S. until September. Our recommendation: Fly 
to Europe and buy one for approximately $5726 (American 
models will be more expensive). Then take off and tour the Alps. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY PETER WEISSBRICH 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


In every stable of bikes there should be a high-performance 
sport bike, something so awesome you scare yourself silly jı 
sitting on it. View it as sculptured adrenaline. The Kawasaki 
900 is a liquid-cooled, four-cylinder dual overhead-cam engine 
surrounded by a diamond-type frame and a full fairing. A 16- 
inch front wheel gives it road-racer handling. This may be the 
fastest-looking bike money can buy. Estimated price: $4600. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY BRUCE AYRES 


There is only one name for heavy metal, and that name is Har- 
ley-Davidson. The FXRS Low Glide (named for its 26.8-inch seat 
height) is a custom bike that has the look the rest of the world 
tries to copy. The latest from America’s only motorcycle company 
sports a V? Evolution engine with а 1340-c.c. displace- 
ment, five-speed transmission, disc brakes and an appetite for 
concrete you won't believe. It feeds on interstates. Price: $7560. 


м. 


> a 
ARD 


The Honda XL600R is the bike we would most like to have at the 
end of the world after the bomb. It is a dual-purpose bike, 
meaning that it is a kick to ride in the dirt and an absolute nim- 
ble joy to ride on the street. What is amazing is how well it does 
both. With a dry weight of 295.5 pounds, a ground clearance of 
10.6 inches, lots of torque and power and a five-speed transmis- 
sion, it is high-stepping and a hell of a lot of fun for $2348. 


It's been a while since we've seen a two-stroke road bike. Emis- 
sion-control standards endangered the species. The Kenny 
Roberts Replica RZ350LC marks the return of the yellow peril, 
the pocket rockets of yesteryear. It is a two-stroke twin with a 
single-shock rear suspension, an estimated 55 bhp and a mere 
320-pound road weight. It will be the terror of canyon racing, 
able to eat whole 550s. For Yamaha, less is more: $2399. 


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PLAYBOY GUIDE 


SWEET DREAMS ARE 
MADE OF THIS 


they don't build sports cars 
like they used to. thank god 


By P. J. O'ROURKE 


LIKE EVERY normal American male, I 
wanted a sports car—not a “sporty car" or 
a “personal-sized luxury car" but a real 
sports car, a blood-red, wire-wheeled, 
Devil-take-the-left-lane open roadster. 

I am talking about the kind they don't 
make anymore. You see, however slick or 
sophisticated, no Pontiac Fiero, Mazda 
RX-7 or even Porsche Turbo can match 
the visceral appeal of the MGA I had in 
college. It was lean, lithe and made a noise 
more glorious than a Bach concerto. It was 
beautiful form produced by pure func- 
tion—just engine, suspension, me, my date 
and enough sheet metal to keep the beach 
blanket dry. Such automobiles, alas, are 
gone forever. 

I was shopping for a car recently and 
lamenting this state of affairs when the old 
bug began to get the better of me. Forget 
those nimble newcomers, I thought. Pll 
buy a real sports car and restore it. Pll get 
another MGA. I’m reasonably prosperous 
now. I can afford to have it fixed up. And 
with new cars costing what they do, a few 
thousand dollars for an old MGA is a real 
bargain. Of course, I'd have to buy a new 
top, interior, grille, a couple of fenders, a 
rebuilt engine and probably another 
whole MGA for parts. But it would still 
be a bargain. Let's see, a new top would 
go for $150; a new grille would run me 
$100; and then a rebuilt engine would cost 
about $1500. Hmm. . .. 

All right, so it wouldn't be a bargain. 
But sports cars aren't supposed to be 
cheap. "That's not the point. The point is 
style. Real sports cars defined the style of 
an era. It was an era of optimism, an era 
of joie de vivre, an era of much shorter 
hair. Not a lot of windshield on those cars. 
A drive in an open roadster with my cur- 
rent haircut would mean being beaten in 
the eyeballs by thousands of layer-cut 
forelock ends. And when I came to a stop, 
Pd look like Wendy O. Williams. 

That could be a problem. To tell the 
truth, the real point of a sports car is the 
way it attracts women. Most women, I 
have found, don't go for men who look like 
Wendy O. Williams. 


And women have this thing about wind 
in their own hair. “It’s so cute” is the first 
thing a woman says about a sports car. 
But the second thing she says is *Can we 
put the top up?" There goes style. An 
MGA is beautiful form produced by pure 
function, yes. But not with the top up. 


{ 


lcu. 


With the top up, it looks like a hamster in 
a White Sox cap. 

Sports-car tops don't protect you from. 
the wind, anyway. And in the rain, they're 
about as useful as edible underpants. The 
sole function of a sports-car top is to 
make the car look stupid. 

"That is presuming you could get the top. 
unfolded and fitted into place to begin 
with. I couldn't. The top on a real sports 
car is a study in design simplicity. It sim- 
ply doesn't work. 

Because the top didn't work, the MG 
came conveniently supplied with a ton- 
neau cover that could be snapped on over 
the passenger compartment. This pro- 
vided shelter from the wind and rain, hut 
it was very hard to see cut from under- 
neath it. 


The tonneau cover was great, though, 
for drive-in movies. It could be unzipped 
so that it covered only the passenger seat. 
That way, I could get my date into the 
drivc-in for free, But once inside, the car 
was too low for us to see the screen and too 
small and open for us to do anything else. 
The size and the open-air exposure of real 
sports cars were responsible for a remark- 
able persistence of virginity in many 
young people of the early Sixties, especial- 
ly me. 

But I honestly admire the simplicity of 
a real sports car. It lets you have a hands- 


on relationship with the machine. Under 
the hood of a modern automobile, there's 
nothing to be seen but a maze of electronic 
do-funnies. A new car can be repaired 
only by people who wear clip-on neckties 
and spend all night at home-computer 
consoles playing canasta with the NO- 
RAD system. Not so with a sports car. All 
the elements of the drive train are recog- 
nizable and familiar. I understand at a 
glance what everything is and how it 
works. Which is more than I can say for 
sports-car manufacturers. 

English sports-car builders, the chaps 
who gave us the MG, had no difficulty 
understanding electricity. Their Lucas 
electrical systems didn’t use any of it. As 
far as I was ever able to figure out, the 
Lucas people had replaced points, plugs, 


ILLUSTRATION BY ARNOLD ROTH 


159 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


distributors and headlights with an elabo- 
rate system of tallow candles. 

Oil was what they didn't understand at 
MG. They forgot that oil is a lie 
it dribbled out of all the holes with which 
the MG crankcase, transmission housing 
and differential were supplied for reasons 
of weight reduction. MG engineers even 
invented refillable shock absorbers so that 
oil could leak out of those, too. 

I think they did it on purpose. All that 
leaking oil kept weeds from growing in the 
long gravel drives in front of the huge 
homes owned by the kind of people MG 


preferred to have buy its cars. It was hell 


оп my mother's garage floor, though. 


Maybe, then, I shouldn’t get another 
MGA. But surely I wasn’t going to get 
another Alfa. 

After my MGA died (real sports cars 
don’t depreciate or degenerate—they just 
die), I bought an Alfa Romeo GTV. A 
friend called me up. “I hear you bought an 
old Alfa,” he said. “Well, it just so hap- 
pens that I have an Alfa repair kit.” 

“You do?” I said. 

“Yeah,” he said, “a truck full of money 
to follow you everywhere you go.” 

What the Alfa's builders couldn't un- 
derstand was electricity. Italian electrical 
engineers must go to college someplace 
where they teach the periodic table with 
earth, air, fire, and water as the only ele- 
ments. There was a medieval Catholic fla- 


vor to the ignition on that car. The Alfa 
wouldn't start if I ate anything before 
taking Communion or during Lent or any 
other time without special dispensation 
from the Pope. 

Maybe, 1 thought, I should gct somc- 
thing more reliable, such as an old 
Porsche. George Rickley, my best friend 
at school, used to have one of those. 

Unlike the English and the Italians, 
German sports-car manufacturers under- 
stood all the mechanical aspects of sports- 
car building. It was people they didn't 
understand. Dr. Ferdinand Porsche surely 
assumed that what people like to do is 


drive backward off curves at high speeds 
and hit trees. He designed his early 
Porsches so they did that better than any 
other automobile on earth. 

Rickley has probably forgiven me by 
now for what happened to his 356 Cabrio- 
let, and anyhow, high speed, even in 
reverse, is what sports cars are all about. 
Cost, style, sex appeal, reliability—in the 
final analysis, all these take a back bench 
to pure, unfettered speed. 

Yet it's an odd thing. Objectively con- 
sidered, sports cars aren't very fast. Even a 
356 Porsche is no faster from О to 60 than 
a modern Japanese economy sedan. But 
speed is relative. Einstein said it first: In a 
small, light, rather tenuously fastened 
sports car with skinny tires and no safety 
equipment, anything is a high speed. Also, 


there's the matter of proximity. The great- 
er the proximity of a moving object to a 
stationary one, the greater the perception 
of speed. That is why sports cars were 
built close to the road. 

Rickley's Porsche carried that principle 
quite far before my mishap by having an 
exhaust system that actually dragged on 
the ground. It’s amazing how fast even 20 
miles an hour seems when you have three 
feet of twisted manifold pipe and rusted 
muffler dragging behind you. My MG 
increased proximity with doors that flew 
open whenever I went around a corner. 
(Have I mentioned yet that there was no 
other way to open the doors?) And the 
Alfa gave an illusion of speed by having no 
brakes. Therefore, my proximity to any 
stationary object tended to be absolute. 

It's this subjective sense of speed that 
delivers the sports-car thrill. Real speed 
doesn't matter—at least not until you get 
dusted off at a stop light by a secretary 
rubber-duck-colored Datsun B210 a 
Snoopy air freshener hanging from the 
rearview mirror. 

OK, forget speed. Cornering—now, 
that's the true soul of the sports-car expe- 
rience, second only to falling out of the 
MG doors. You can really slide a sports 
car around. In fact, with those old-fash- 
ioned skinny tires, you can’t keep a sports 
car from sliding around except by rolling 
it over. Maybe that's how the windshields 
all ended up so low. 

And there were other endearing fea- 
tures. Sports-car seats were designed by 
the men who did interrogations for the 
World War Two secret services. The only 
way to adjust the driving position in my 
Alfa was to have a head-on collision and 
move the steering wheel into the middle of 
my chest. Sports cars had no luggage 
space, so I was always going someplace 
with a set of golf clubs in my lap. And no 
sports-car heater ever worked, except the 
‘one in my MG, which worked only in the 
summer and had to be kept going full blast 
to prevent the engine from overheating. In 
the winter, I kept warm by cuddling up to 
the transmission hump, which was boiling 
hot because all the transmission oil had 
leaked out, 

Ah, those were the days. They just 
don’t make sports cars like that anymore. 
And come to think of it, who can blame 
them? Not me. I went out and bought a 
Volkswagen Rabbit. 

And whenever I feel overcome by that 
old sports-car desire, what I do is put 
Sounds of Sebring on the VW's cassette 
deck. Then J drive around without any air 
pressure in the tires while my girlfriend 
splashes me in the face with cold water. 
And I stop every half hour and throw five- 
dollar bills down a storm sewer. 


«ABC-TV telecast of the 
1984 Summer Olympic Games, 


» t9B1 ABC Inc. 
"Star in Motion 
1980 L.A. Olympic Committee. 


N 


à 
WE 


N € 
It comes from Nissan. The new As you luxuriate in rich, genuine leather, push 
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ItS straight out of tomorrow. with 3-way electro-adjustable shocks. 
Advanced V-6 at Your Command Step on the accelerator and watch your forward 
This incredible new machine sports the most motion measured in G-forces. 
sophisticated V-6 of any production line. Fuel-injected. Every move you make, every turn you take con- 
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MAU MOTION 
FROM YS SAN 


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Despite the fact that the 
Concord HPL-532 is ingeniously 
designed to fit everybody's car, 
it's definitely not for everybody. 
As Stereo Review said, Concord 
*...is truly an audiophile's car 
stereo” 

And what makes it so different? 


4-GANG FM TUNER 


For extraordinarily clear FM 
reception, the Concord HPL-532 
has an exclusive 4-gang digital 
tuner that provides exceptional 
station sensitivity & selectivity. 

And to make selecting your 
favorite stations even easier it has 
а 10-station preset memory. 

But, as Concord's 22 years of 
innovative stereo design would 
lead you to expect, that is only 
the beginning. 


DC SERVO DRIVE MOTOR - 


We've designed an exclusive 
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tape transport drive. 


vc speed control circuitry 


SPECIFICATIONS: Tuner Section Sensitivity: 30dB Quieting 1.0 Microvolts 11.2dBf, Stereo separation: min 35dB, Frequency гезрс 
30-16,000 Hz Tape Section Frequency response: *-2dB, Standard tape: 30-15,000 Hz, Metal tape: 30-20,000 Hz, Wow 
Section Maximum power: 25 watts/ch, Two way power: 12 watts min. RMS per channel into 4 ohms, 30-20,000 Hz with 0.8 THD тах, 


CONCORD. THE DIFFERENCE IS WORTH THE DIFFERENCE. 


The result? Superior speed 
accuracy, lower wow and flutter, 
and over double the motor life. 


“AMORPHOUS CORE ТАРЕ HEAD. 


you can get in a car stereo without 
add-on amplifiers. 


OTHER IMPORTANT 
DIFFERENCES 


We've also engineered a new 
match-phased = 
amorphous core 
tape head design, 
which means a 
revolutionary 
improvement in 
tape frequency 
response out to 20,000 Hz. 

It's an improvement you'll have 
to hear to believe. 


TWO WAY/FOUR WAY AMPLIFIERS 


And wait until you hear the 
authentic high fidelity sound 
reproduction of the HPL-532. It 
delivers an impressive 12 watts per 
channel into 4 ohms 30-20,000 Hz 
with less than 0.8% THD. 

In addition, it can deliver 5 watts 
per channel into each speaker of 
a four speaker system, because of 
an ingenious two way/four way 
configuration and a front/rear low 
level fader. 

All in all it's the greatest full 
bandwidth power at low distortion 


5 watts min. RMS per channel into 4 ohms, 30-20,000 Hz with 0.8 THD max 


With its exclusive signal 
processor circuitry the HPL-532 
will easily handle anything you 
want to plug into it. 

Like Concord's Dolby* C. 

Or dbx** adaptors. 

Even imagers or equalizers. 

And with lighted switches and 
function indicators the Concord 
HPL-532 is as easy to play at night 
as it is to play in the daytime. 

And because of its front load 
mechanism, it's even easier to load. 

All things considered the 
Concord HPL-532 is an extra- 
ordinary car stereo. 

Of course at around $600 it's 
not inexpensive. 

But when you add up all its 
features you might say this. 

The difference is worth the 
difference. 


¿Dolby is the. 
"dbx is the re 


CONCORD 


Anything else is a compromise. 
CONCORD ELECTRONICS, 6025 Yolanda Avenue, 
Tarzana, California 91356 (213) 344-9335 


tered trademark of Dolby Labs 
ed trademark of dbx 


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flutter: 0.0 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


ROLLING THUNDER 


how to boost your car stereo to new level. 


THERE I5 good news and there is bad news. 
The bad news is that getting decent sound 
in a moving car is no easy matter. The 
good news is that auto-sound makers seem 
to have solved many of the existing prob- 
lems. Even getting good, clear FM stereo 
reception in a car—the difficulty of which 
caused many of us to switch to cassettes as 
our primary mobile music source—is now 
possible thanks to some innovative engi- 
neering, 

If you've ever reached for the mono 
switch on your home receiver to clean up a 
weak stereo signal, you know that on mar- 
ginal broadcasts, mono reception always 
sounds better than stereo. Consequently, 
at home you've probably made a mental 
list of which FM stations come in nice and 
clear and which are listenable only in 
mono. In a moving car, however, reception 
conditions change from second to second 
as your position in relation to the trans- 
mitter changes. Drive into the shadow of a 
hill or a tall building and an FM stereo 
broadcast can go from great to ghastly in a 


flash. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY RICHARD ZUI 


But now there’s hope. No more scram- 
ble switching, no more channel changing. 
Car-stereo makers are building their auto- 
motive receivers with smart circuits capa- 
ble of analyzing the quality of the signal 
being received and making quick mid- 
course corrections to improve reception. 
These circuits (contained in Pioneer, 
Panasonic, JVC, Jensen and Blaupunkt 
receivers, to name a few) provide a pro- 
gressive blending of the separate stereo 
channels as signal strength decreases 
With the new units, you may eventually 
end up with stereo separation of just six 
decibels or so (compared with about 30 dB 
with a strong incoming signal), but the 
change is usually so gradual that you'll 
never miss the decreased stereo effect for 
the extra quiet that comes with it. 

Another hobgoblin of FM reception on 
the road is multipath distortion. When a 
similar multiple-image-signal problem 
appears on your TV screen, it's called 
ghosting. The problem comes as the result 
of the primary broadcast signal's being 
mixed with reflections from hills and 


Avdia ТЕХ-100 AM/FM 


Clockwise: Pioneer TS-1690K reor- 
deck speakers, $150; Sporkomatic 
GE-70 equolizer, $140; Clarion 
stereo 
cassette receiver, $460; Magnum 
2002 FM ortenna amplifier, $200. 


buildings before being grabbed by your 
antenna. At home, you can minimize such 
distortion—on TV and FM —by orienting 
the rooftop antenna so that it is aimed 
in the direction of the transmitting tower, 
thereby decreasing its sensitivity to late- 
arriving reflections. In a moving car, how- 
ever, the antenna is constantly exposed to 
an ever-changing mix of direct and re- 
flected signals, and reception can be fuzzy 
and marred by static even in a strong sig- 
nal area. 

Clarion and Sony have come up with 
what seems to be a clever solution to the 
problem, borrowing a technique used in 
radar installations to guarantee the best 
possible reception. It's called diversity re- 
ception or diversity tuning, and it involves 
the use of more than one antenna. In both 
the Clarion and the Sony implementa- 
tions, an additional antenna is positioned a 
couple of feet from the primary one, and 
special circuitry in the receiver samples 
the strength and quality of the outputs 
from each antenna at an extremely rapid 
rate. If the signal from the main antenna 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


is weak or distorted, the circuit automati- 
cally shunts the output from the second 
antenna to the tuner. Not only should this 
technique improve the multipath situation 
but by giving the tuner more of a chance to 
operate with a consistently strong signal, it 
should significantly lessen the chances for 
“picket fencing"—maddeningly sporadic 
reception that sounds more like a cat spit- 
ting than like music. 

If you can't see your way clear to invest 
in a new car receiver and still want to 
clean up poor reception, sometimes an 
antenna booster will make a dramatic 
improvement. Most boosters are wired 
directly into the antenna cable and ampli- 
fy all signals along with any noise or 
distortion in the broadcast. Should a 
broadcast be strong to begin with, the 
additional amplification may end up over- 
loading the tuner, causing additional dis- 
tortion. A better alternative is an antenna 
amplifier that you can turn off when sig- 
nal strength is high enough to give you 
good reception without it. The Magnum 
antenna amplifier, for instance, can be 
turned off when the signal is strong 
enough, and it lets you zero in on a weak 
signal or cut back on strong adjacent sig- 
nals with a tuning control and then boost 
it with a variable gain control. 


There is one problem, though, that you 
simply cannot control at the source; name- 
ly, the clatter of tires on an uneven road 
surface. You can, however, mask this by 
applying a bit of psychoacoustics to the 
problem. The tire noise is primarily com- 
posed of low-frequency sounds. As a 
counteraction, you have to selectively 
boost the low frequencies of the broadcast, 
which will enable the ear-brain system to 
mask the interfering road noise. A simple 
five- or seven-band equalizer, such as the 
GE-70 from Sparkomatic, is perfect for 
the job. 

In fact, of all the add-ons available for 
car-stereo systems, an equalizer will prob- 
ably make the biggest difference in sound 
quality. For cars in which speakers are 
hidden, for instance, below the dash or 
low on the door panels, thereby directing 
most of the treble into the upholstery or 
the carpeting rather than to your ears, an 
equalizer can boost the highs to restore a 
semblance of tonal balance. 

„If you want to upgrade your speakers 
while you're at it, you'll find lots of fresh 
thinking here, too. Manufacturers have 
finally realized that speakers should be 
designed to compensate for the difficult 
placements dictated by today's car interi- 
ors. With door panels getting thinner and 


thinner, high-performance speakers were, 
until recently, simply too deep to fit. Jen- 
sen is addressing that problem with a 
series of extremely thin units; no speaker 
in its new line needs more than two inches 
of mounting depth, including a six-and- 
a-half-inch-diameter model with separate 
woofer, midrange and tweeter mounted in 
a Triaxial format. 

For rear-deck placement in cars with 
broadly sloping glass above the deck, both 
Pioneer and Sansui have engineered mul- 
tidriver systems with tweeters angled to 
direct their output forward, into the pas- 
senger area. If your current speakers are 
mounted and you don’t want to redo the 
whole system, you should get a bit more 
out of the music by investing in a pair of 
add-on tweeters from Jensen or Philips 
that can be mounted in small cutouts on 
the dash. 

Finally, no matter what sort of system 
you settle on, don't try to install it yourself 
unless you're equipped with the right 
tools, manuals and electrical and mechani- 
cal know-how. Here's one time when it 
really pays to use the services of a profes- 
sional. If you spend all that money on 
components and insist on putting them in 
yourself, you're bound to have a screw 
loose somewhere. 


Clockwise: Bloupunkt Tucson AM/FM stereo cossette receiver, 


$500; 


receiver, $3B0; Jensen J3023 Triax 


speoker, $140 о рой. 


ioneer KE-7200 Supertuner Ill AM/FM stereo cossette 


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We challenged Escort and won. / j / 


Motor Trend, Aug.'83 “Тһе Whistler Spectrum 
resides at the top of the list. A world class 
radar detector." 

Autoweek, Nov. '82 “The Spectrum is the 
most sensitive radar detector Autoweek has; 


— Last yeär-we ehattenged the editors of the majore car magazinesto prove pay the, Whistler? Spectrum ı wasn "t 
the best radar detector on the road. 

The results are in. Spectrum placed a triumphant first with nd, Autoweek, and BMW Roundel. And 
avery close second with Car and Driver (still scoring * i most ritical out of 5 categories*). 

We're not surprised. After all 3 out of 4 truckers ha’ n choosing Whistler since the first Whistler was built. 

And now the Whistler Spectrum beats everyone with : 
“Pollution Solution. A unique circuit that not only “stomps out 
interference from other units, butit enhances sensitivity and eliminates ^ 
falsing as it does so. je — ran 


Go with the name America's truckers trust. And America's leading A = Cm 
car magazine editors named #1. Start driving in Whistler Country. AR کر‎ m 
PS If you already owna смыл and want Pollution Зо 
working Conc e CORR DS Dee Way Westend; Maas a Clanra” ==. АГ 
*Xband only > 


Mhistier" Spectrum Radar Detector 
Portable or Remote 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


How YOUR CAR WORKS 


read this and you, too, can be mr. goodwrench 


REMEMBER WHEN any bonchead could un- 
derstand a car? You turned the key to 
start the engine, which was located up 
front, like its predecessor, the horse. 
You put the car in gear, stepped on the 
gas and it moved. You stepped on it 
harder, it moved faster. 

No one really understood how a car- 
buretor worked, but it was simple to 
find, remove and disassemble. You just 
cleaned all the little pieces and put it 
back together. If there were no litile 
pieces left over, it was probably fixed. 

Alas, an increasing number of en- 
gines these days have fuel injection 
instead of carburctors and computer- 
ized electronic ignition instead of easily 
replaceable little parts. Increasingly, 
turbochargers restore performance but 
raise the complication factor. Trans- 
axles (driving the front wheels) are 
replacing transmissions; MacPherson 
struts are replacing traditional springs 
and shocks; and you and I are not likely 
to be replacing much of anything our- 
selves anymore—except, maybe, the 
sparkplugs, which don't need replacing 


very often, anyway. 

Still, knowing the new language of 
cars will get you over half the hump. 
And Autospeak is not that tough to 
master. For example: 


UNDER THE HOOD 


All engines have cylinders in a cylin- 
der block, in which can-shaped pistons 
travel up and down. A mixture of fucl 
and air is ignited by an electrical spark- 
plug in cach cylinder’s combustion 
chamber, above the piston. The result- 
ing controlled explosion drives the pis- 
ton downward, producing power. The 
pistons turn a rotating crankshaft, 
which transmits the power out through 
the engine block. In-line engines have 
their cylinders in a straight row, while 
V6s and V8s have half on cach side in a 
V-shaped arrangement. 

Atop each row (or bank) of cylinders 
sits a cylinder head containing passages 
(ports) through which the air/fuel mix- 
ture (charge) flows in and exhaust gases 
flow out after” combustion. Each port 
has a long4temmed, mushroom-shaped 


PHOTO ANO PLAYBOY GUIDE COVER PHOTOGRAPHY 
BY RICHARD FEGLEY 


valve to control its flow. These valves 
are held tightly closed by heavy valve 
springs until pushed open at the proper 
time by an egg-shaped Jobe on a rotat- 
ing camshaft. 

A carburctor adds fucl to the intake 
air on its way to the intake manifold, 
which distributes it to the head’s intake 
ports. Exhaust gases are collected from 
the exhaust ports by an exhaust mani- 
fold and are then piped through the 
exhaust system, which includes a muf- 
fler and (in most cases) a catalytic con- 
verter full of chemical catalysts that 
convert pollutants into harmless sub- 
stances. Turbocharging reclaims ener- 
gy from the hot exhaust by using it to 
drive a turbine attached to a pump that 
forces additional air/fuel mixture into 
the cylinders under pressure. Fuel in- 
jection, usually electronically con- 
trolled, mixes fucl into the intake 
charge more precisely than carburetors 
can by squirting it directly into each 
intake port (port, or multipoint, injec- 
tion) or into a single central point in the 
intake manifold. Are you getting this? 


UNDER THE BODY 


Independent suspension means that 
the wheels on both sides of a vehicle 
are free to move up and down 
independently instead of being tied to- 
gether by a single axle assembly. All 
modern cars (and most light trucks) 
have independent front suspension, 
and some are independent in the rear as 
well. Front-suspension springs are usu- 
ally large coils (some cars have twisting 
torsion bars instead). Coils or long, 
beamlike Jeaf springs are used in the 
rear. Springs support the body and let 
the wheels move up and down over 
bumps, while shock absorbers (closed 
tubes with fluid and a piston inside) 
resist that motion to keep the vehicle 
from bouncing like a buckboard. Mac- 
Pherson struts are essentially long 
shock absorbers with coil springs 
wrapped around them to save space. 

In rear-drive vehicles, power from 
the engine travels through a transmis- 
sion and a long drive shaft into a differ- 
ential, which splits it outward through 
axles to the rear-wheel hubs and re- 
duces rotational speed for more torque, 
or pulling power. A front-drive car 
combines the transmission and differ- 
ential functions in a transaxle to power 
the front wheels. Manual transmissions 
use a foot-operated clutch to mechani- 
cally disconnect the engine from the 
transmission during shifting. If you 
drive an automatic, you don’t need to 
know this. You just step on the gas and 
the car moves. You step on it harder, it 
moves faster. — GARY WITZENBURG 


PLAYBOY 


a) the rock group from 
New Guinea that's break- 
ing records in America. 


b) the latest decorator 
color thats sweeping 
Beverly Hills. 


8 is 


c) the delicious combination 
of equal parts of Drambuie 
and scotch over ice 


BOPROOF LIQUEUR IMPORTED BY © WA TAYLOR A CO. MAMI FLORIDA 1983 


THE SEXY CAR 


(continued from page 152) 
possible. And that meant the auto makers 
could finally turn their attention back to 
making cars exciting again. 

It would start out slowly, with softer, 
more rounded lines all around. Then some 
small fireworks. New sports cars and con- 
vertibles. And then some bigger bomb- 
shells. Ford's new T-bird and Cougar. A 
brand-new Corvette. A new Nissan ZX. 
Chrysler's entry into the sports-car field. 
A Pontiac mid-engine two-seater priced 
for the masses. But enough of the head- 
lines. It's time for you to lean back in your 
bucket seat, and read all about it. 


AMERICAN CARS 


Surprise, surprise! General Motors has 
finally gotten its act in gear and has driven 
right off the middle of the road and into 
the fast lane. Perhaps spurred by the ini- 
tial success of the new Corvette, G.M. has 
put a lot of punch and promotion behind 
Pontiac's new Fiero, a sexy, more afforda- 
ble two-seater that promises to quicken 
the pulse cf those who don't want to blow 
the ranch on the 'Vette. 

At less than half the price of the Cor- 
vette, the plastic-bodied Fiero is America's 
first (and to date only) mid-engine car. Its 
2.5-liter four-cylinder is mounted, race- 
car style, behind the seats, which allows 
room for an ultralow aerodynamic nose, 
which helps make for some uncommonly 
well-balanced handling. The car's snug- 
fitting plastic "skin," an easily removable 
set of corrosion-proof plastic panels, helps 
ward off the dings and dents. With a four- 
speed manual or optional three-speed au- 
tomatic, the current Fiero offers moderate 
muscle, but there's more to come. Next 
year, Pontiac is planning to add an option- 
al V6 version, which should turn this 
sporty little fuel saver into much more of a 
fire breather. Pontiac also has a hot new 
150-hp turbocharged version of its 1.8- 
liter four-cylinder engine available in 
most models of its 2000 Sunbird series. 

Not to be left in the dust in the high- 
tech sweepstakes, Chevrolet boasts a 
new-look front-wheel-drive (fwd) inter- 
mediate Celebrity, with a neat show-and- 
go Eurosport package on its coupe, sedan 
and new-for-’84 wagon. An optional 
130-hp H.O. (high output) V6 gives the 
new Celebrity plenty of punch. Chevy's 
other superstrutter, the luxury Camaro 
Berlinetta, gets ultratech electronic instru- 
mentation that makes the starship Enter- 
prise look like an old Corvair. 

Oldsmobile has also turned to some 
snazzy cosmetic surgery with Euro-look 
ES packages for its three-car fwd series 
(Cutlass Ciera, Omega and Firenza). And 
the top-line Toronade’s changes speak for 
themselves through G.M.’s first talking 
dashboard. 

Buick borrows a page (and a 1.8-liter 
turbo four) from Pontiac’s book for its 
sporty fwd Skyhawk T Type. But that 


doesn’t mean that Buick is without origi- 
nal thought. It has come up with two all- 
new V6 power plants. One, an option in 
the mid-size fwd Century T Type, uses 
multipoint fuel injection to develop 125 
horsepower. The second, standard in both 
Riviera and Regal T Types, is turbo- 
charged and sequentially fuel-injected for 
an even more impressive 190 horses. 

And if the return of the ragtop Cadillac 
(the first since 76) isn’t enough, keep your 
eyes on the showrooms. Caddy will soon 
introduce an all-new fwd deVille, com- 
plete with a 135-hp aluminum V8. Also 
on the way from G.M. are new fwd Buick 
Electras and Olds 98s, both offering high- 
lux motoring with improved space and 
fuel efficiency. 

Ford has finally given up on its barn- 
shaped Lincoln Continental Mark VI in 
favor of a sleeker Mark VII, which should 
shock the usually complacent large-luxu- 
ry-car world. The radical new Mark is 
softly rounded and aerodynamically 
shaped. While there are still toned-down 
hints of the traditional Lincoln grille and 
Continental kit, the big styling news is the 
first domestic use of Euro-style flush head 
lamps. Under the prettier facings is a 
unique computer-controlled air-spring 
suspension that quickly compensates for 
changes in passenger and cargo load. The 
four air-bag springs make the new Mark 
(and its city cousin, the four-door Conti- 
nental) ride and handle like no other big, 
plush luxury car. There’s even a driver- 
oriented LSC (luxury sports coupe) 
version with stiffer suspension and high- 
performance black-wall tires on alloy 
wheels. Imagine that—a serious sporty 
Lincoln! 

Ford offers a stable of newly turbo- 
charged performance cars this year. They 
run from the handsome, quick and mar- 
velously civilized 2.3-liter Thunderbird 
Turbo Coupe to the 1.6-liter versions of 
the little fwd Escort sedan and the EXP 
two-seater coupe. In between, sizewise, 
are a 145-hp turbo Mustang and a special 
new Mustang model called SVO. The lat- 
ter, with a nearly grilleless aerodynamic 
nose, a two-tiered aero wing, a 175-hp 
turbo four and deeply contoured perform- 
ance bucket seats, has the full treatment of 
Ford’s Special Vehicle Operations racing 
department. 

From Mercury (you remember Mercu- 
ry) there's a new performance-model 
Cougar XR-7 with the T-bird Turbo's 
145-hp motor and a choice of five-speed 
manual or three-speed automatic trans- 
mission. Then there's a turbocharged Ca- 
pri RS and, yes, a 120-hp Lynx RS turbo. 

Say, have you noticed that Lee Iacocca 
has been getting more TV time than Bo 
Duke? Well, he does have a lot to brag 
about. His turnaround of the Chrysler 
Corporation is one of America’s greatest 
difi-hanger success stories. But there's 
more to Chrysler these days than just 
a black bottom line. Its long-suffering 


engineers have managed to design and 
develop the industry's best new engine, 
a tough-spirited 2.2-liter overhead-cam 
four, as well as some very nice fwd family 
sedans to put it in. In the past couple of 
years, the Chrysler line has expanded to 
include a couple of nifty convertibles and 
some low-buck pocket-rocket performance 
cars, including the Shelby Charger. 

But all of that was just a warm-up for 
1984, when Chrysler fires a double-bar- 
reled salvo at the competition. First comes 
a pair of sleek, sexy, fast and fine-han- 
dling sports cars called Chrysler Laser 
and Dodge Daytona. The former is a 
showcase for Chrysler electronics, with 
optional everything from digital/graphic 
instruments to systems monitoring, com- 
puter navigation and a more sophisticated 
version of Chrysler's famous talking dash- 
board. The Daytona Turbo Z is more all- 
out performance oriented, with functional 
racer-look aerodynamic spoilers and the 
best suspension yet on a front-wheel-drive 
car. Both the Daytona and the Laser offer 
an optional 142-hp turbocharged engine, 
the same 2.2-liter turbo that’s now an 
option in the fwd Chrysler E Class luxury 
sedan and the sporty Dodge 600 ES. 

Barrel number two banged big early 
this year with the introduction of Ameri- 
ca’s first minisized vans, the Dodge Cara- 
van and the Plymouth Voyager. These 
hold seven people and a fair amount of 
cargo and fit easily in any garage. The 
ruggedly handsome Caravan and Voyager 
drive more like cars than like trucks and 
can be fitted with almost any equipment 
available on your average modern auto. 

Franco-American partners A.M.C. and 
Renault introduce a sportier hunchbacked 
hatchback version (called, appropriately, 
Encore) of their highly successful fwd 
Alliance, plus an all-new downsized and 
modernized four-wheel drive (4wd) Jeep 
Cherokee/Wagoneer series. Volkswagen 
of America has its Pennsylvania plant 
geared up for production of the quick, 
agile and affordable Rabbit GTI, as well 
as an inexpensive new diese] Rabbit called 
Sparmeister. Watch for all-new Rabbits 
to hop into the showrooms later this year. 
Honda of America cranks up assembly of 
its U.S.-built Accord sedan while prepar- 
ing to add the hatchback model to its 
Marysville, Ohio, production line. And 
little Avanti of South Bend, Indiana, 
celebrating its first full year under new 
ownership and management, face-lifts and 
upgrades its custom-built Avanti sports 
car with nicely integrated new bumpers, a 
redesigned interior, a new 190-hp Chev- 
rolet V8 engine and substantial ride and 
handling refinements. 


JAPANESE CARS 


The Japanese are not as enamored with 
fuel injection and turbocharging as are our 
domestic car makers, at least for their U.S. 
models. That's probably because they tend 
to design new engines regularly instead of 


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Wagon powered by a midship-mounted 280-ZX) except for a new, 
2.0-liter fuel-injected push-rod four. Its 
drive Corolla, available in both coupe and most interesting features are a highly 


liftback styles and dubbed (what else?) 
Corolla Sport. The second is an all-new 


styling lifted from the larger fwd Camry 
and some chassis pieces derived from the 


smaller fwd Tercel. Toyota’s other all- 
new model for '84 is а spacy-looking Van 


door sedan and five-door liftback) with 
aerodynamic (for a van) body and the 
world’s first factory auto drink cooler and 


and considerably roomier fwd series (four- 


Toyota, the General Motors 


of Japan, splits its popular Corolla series 


This year, 
is a sporty redesign of the existing rear- 


adding new technology to old ones. But 
the Japanese manufacturers are big on 
electronics and keep trying to one-up one 
another in gimmickry and gadgetry. 

into two enürely different lines. The first 


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Four body styles are available: a squared- 
off two-door hatchback (which looks like 
a tiny wagon); a fairly conventional four- 
door; a tizzarro-back four-door wagon; 
and a neat little two-seat, two-door sports 
coupe called CRX. The base hatchback 
and a supereconomy version of the СЕХ 
(would you believe 57 mpg city and 67 
highway EPA ratings? Neither do we) are 
powered by a 60-hp 1.3-liter engine, the 
rest by a much livelier but fuel-efficient 


gine) and (with optional 
leather interior) the industry's best-yet 
digital/graphic instrumentation. Coming 


Competent and calculating as ever, 
Honda follows its terrific new Prelude 


sporty coupe (introduced last spring) with 
akers back to their drawing boards. 


later this year from Nissan is an all-new, 
optionally turbocharged 200-SX. 

a revolutionary all-new Civic series that's 
likely to send competing commuter-car 


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76-hp 1.5-liter unit. Best of all are the 
new Civics’ prices: from less than $5300 
for the base hatchback to about $7400 for 
the sedan with automatic transaxle. 

Mazda has a hot new version of its 
unique, rotary-powered RX-7 sports car 
called GSL-SE. The heart of this high- 
performance rocket is a new 135-hp 
“13B” rotary engine that generates 0-60 
acceleration in the very impressive 8.0- 
second range. All RX-7s for "84 get a new 
four-speed automatic transmission, vari- 
able-ratio power stecring (both optional) 
and upgraded instrumentation. Subaru, 
the pioneer of affordable 4wd cars in 
this country, adds a new dimension of 
performance with a turbocharged version 
of its unique flat-four engine. Isuzu stands 
pat with its gorgeous Impulse sports coupe 
and practical I-Mark sedans. 

Mitsubishi adds optional turbo power 
for its fwd Cordia coupe and Tredia sedan 
and neatens up the styling on its turbo- 
charged Starion sports car. Long a suppli- 
er to Chrysler, Mitsubishi also provides 
excitement at Dodge and Chrysler-Plym- 
outh dealers by turbo boosting its spright- 
ly little fwd Colt coupe. A version of the 
Starion called Conquest also goes to 
Chrysler, as does an all-new tall-profile 
seven-passenger wagon (almost a mini- 
van) called Vista. The Starion/Conquest 
is fast, fine-handling, feature-loaded and 
highly civilized. The fwd five-door Vista 
beats Chrysler’s own larger, more vanlike 
Caravan and Voyager to the showrooms 
by several months and provides a snappy- 
looking, nice-riding alternative to conven- 
tional wagons for import-oriented buyers. 


GERMAN CARS 


Volkswagen adds the very peppy 90-hp 
Rabbit GTI engine (now standard in the 
Scirocco sports car as well) to two more of 
its German-built products, the funky, 
fashionable Rabbit convertible and the 
GLI, a new performance version of the 
Jetta sedan. VW also lowers base prices 
almost across the board to become more 
competitive with low-buck econocars from 
the U.S. and Japan. The Porsche Audi 
division, on the other hand, adds equip- 
ment, boosts prices on its best-selling 
sports cars and replaces the legendary 
Porsche rear-engine 911SC with a new 
200-hp 911 Carrera version. There are 
also three fine new Audi products: a 140- 
hp turbocharged version of the aerody- 
namic 5000S sedan, a stylish new 5000 
wagon and a Quattro version of the small- 
er 4000 sedan, with 115 hp and 4wd. 
Mercedes-Benz adds a larger (5.0 liter 
us. 3.8), more powerful (184 hp vs. 155) 
VB engine for its big sedan and luxury- 
coupe models and introduces two all-new 
“Baby Mercedes” small sedans, called 
190E and 190D. Considerably smaller in 
length and price than current U.S. models, 
both have four-cylinder engines. The D is 
a diesel. Both versions offer a choice of 


five-speed manual or four-speed automat- 
ic transmission and Mercedes’ new 48- 
month or 50,000-mile warranty. You'd be 
hard pressed to tell these smaller sedans, 
with typically solid Mercedes comfort, 
ride and handling, from their larger breth- 
ren if you rode in one blindfolded—unless 
you rode in the much smaller rear seat. 
With the late-'83 introduction of its 
new small 318i model, BMW continues 
on the same conservative styling path it 
took with the redesigned economy-minded 
midrange 528e. Last year's good news was 
the later addition of an expensive but 
much faster 3.3-liter 533i version of the 
5-series car. This year's bright note will 
be the midyear addition of a six-cylinder 
hot-rod 3-series called 325c. A new four- 
door 318i is also on the way for a late-"84 
debut. Rest assured, however, that while 
more contemporary shapes don’t seem to 
be in the cards at the moment, each new 
BMW boasts substantial engincering im- 
provement over the car it replaces. 


Wal 


When the U.S. branch of Italy's auto- 
making giant Fiat decided to quit import- 
ing sports cars last year, the void was filled 
by a new company called International 
Automobile Importers, headed by none 
other than former Subaru importer and 

ün-sports-car maker Malcolm 
LA.L began shipping in im- 
proved versions of what used to be the 
Bertone X1/9 and Spider 2000 convertible 
just last August. The former, a tylish 
little wedge of a mid-engine two-seater, is 
now called Bertone X/CEL. li gets 75 
horses out of its injected 1.5-liter four and 
sells for a cool $16,000. The latter, a dated 
but still curvaceous convertible roadster by 
Pininfarina, is powered by a fuel-injected 
2.0-liter four generating 102 hp and also 
goes for 16 grand. Both feature standard 
five-speed manual transmissions. 

Ferrari began offering its new 230-hp 
Qualtrovalvole (four valves per cylinder) 
3.0-liter VB engine in its U.S.-market cars 
several months ago. Now there's an excit- 
ing new model to go with it. Joining the 
sensuous 308 GTSi Targa-top sports car 
and the four-seat Mondial is the Mondial 
Cabriolet, Ferrari’s first full convertible 
since the 1969 Daytona Spider. Both mid- 
engine exotics were extensively refined a 
year ago, and Fiat North America (curi- 
ously) continues to import them. 

Alfa Romeo offers a substantial list of 
improvements to its snappy GTV 6/2.5- 
liter sports coupe and the aging but still 
enjoyable 2000 Spider Veloce convertible. 
Addition of digital electronic ignition and 
shorter gearing to both cars increases per- 
formance and economy. The GTV 6 gets 
a new leather interior with very nice 
Recarolike seats, a standard sun roof, and 
transaxle synchronizer and shift-linkage 
improvements. Exoticar maker Maserati, 
meanwhile, finally begins importation of 
its 192-hp twin-turbo Biturbo sedan (a 
move forecast on these pages last year). 


AN CARS 


BRITISH CARS. 


A new company called Lotus Per- 
formance Cars has taken over importation 
of exotic English-built Lotus products, 
including the superfast 205-hp Esprit 
"Turbo. This little wedge-shaped bullet, 
the latest version of the car that once 
sprouted fins and carried James Bond to a 
miraculous undersea escape, is turbo- 
charged and capable of nearly 150 mph 
flat out. It’s also much improved inside 
and accommodates tall, fat-footed Ameri- 
can drivers beuer than earlier Esprits, 
thanks to increased headroom and rear- 
rangement of the pedals and the fooi-box 
area. Jaguar plans a March introduction 
for its hotly anticipated XJ-S Cabriolet 
convertible (which features а new six-cyl- 
inder engine and five-speed manual trans- 
mission) while enjoying record sales of its 
ultrarefined X J6 sedan and V12-powered 
XJ-S coupe, the latter with a new stand- 
ard trip computer for "84. Aston Martin 
continues importation of tiny quantities of 
its hyperexpensive hand-built cars, in- 
cluding the Volante convertible and the 
ultraexotic, wedge-shaped $750,000 La- 
gonda sedan, while Rolls-Royce has little 
new to offer this year save slightly lower 
prices due to the favorable dollar-to- 
pound currency relationship. 


FRENCH CARS 


Renault keeps its nice Sportwagon (for- 
merly the 18i) and aerodynamic Fuego 
and Fuego Turbo sports coupes around 
for 284, but the only new car news from 
France this year is Peugeot’s long-awaited 
505 station wagon. Powered by a choice of 
2.0-liter gas or 2.3-liter turbodiesel en- 
gine, this refined and roomy mid-size 
beauty holds 79 cubic feet or 1125 pounds 
of cargo, whichever comes first. Both vol- 
ume and weight capacities are the highest 
of any imported wagon on the market. 
The excellent ride and handling qualities 
of the 505 sedan are retained in the wag- 
on. And the interior is about as plush and 
comfortable as a European import gets. 


SWEDISH CARS 


All-new cars from Sweden come 
around about as often as tax cuts, but Saab 
boasts some 30 minor changes and im- 
provements to its 900 and 900 Turbo 
lines, while rival Volvo adds an intercool- 
er to its available turbocharged engine, as 
well as automatic transmission for its tur- 
bodiescl 760 model. The intercooler (also 
available as an after-market kit) boosts the 
horsepower of Volvo's 2.1-liter turbomo- 
tor from 131 10 a tire-frying 162. And just 
over the horizon is a 157-hp 2.3-liter tur- 
bocharged four, also intercooled, for Vol- 
vo's luxury flagship, the 760 GLE. 

And there you have it. This year's car 
crop promises to bring back excitement we 
haven't seen in years. The sexy, high-tech 
cars are finally here. We think you'll find 
them well worth the wait. 


You Bow it up! 


more sprightly spoofings of the signs of our times 
humor By DON ADDIS ees} 


1 TOLD You HE WouLDNT ш АЕ T 
KNOW WHAT with it! RY iT AGAIN... 
pkg tad ma SOMEBODY MOVED! 
X 
ох 


DR. FINSTER, You НАМЕ 


| GUESS 175 A NATURAL EXTENSION REFINED THE SCIENCE OF 
OF ARM WRESTLING! CLONING To A HIGH ART? 
Oo a? elo | | о 
v 2 a 
THATS IT? PERSONALLY, | DONT KNOW. 
PLoP-PLoP, Fizz-Fiz2? WHAT ALL THE GIRLS SEE iN Him! 


OO Q d od 


173 


PLAYBOY 


174 


MANIY ARTS „о 


“Оп апу sexual drive-through jungle tour, moreover, 
man must be guide and handyman and head fantast.” 


enough to send a respectable woman into 
instant Mittelschmerz. No way she can 
price real simulated Spanish fly or hot 
Ream Cream. It is manful, then, to get her 
ring size and fetch plastic gratification 
home: cheese-grater condoms and Danc- 
ing Dingers and purple crank dongs so 
large you could start a Model T with one. 
Mechanical adroitness will again be pre- 
requisite—D battery, adjustable screw 
clamp, rubber gasket- men who are all 
thumbs can never please their women. On 
any sexual drive-through jungle tour, 
moreover, man must be guide and handy 
man and head fantast. After all, most 
women approach sex as if they were 
auditing an elective course: no roll taken, 
no class participation. A man should mix 
some warm, some cold, some French, some 
Greek, some B and D, some Water Pik 


and some winsome narrative about Goldi- 
locks and the three chicanos. It can be 
your best M.A., but practice, intuition and 
gentle guile are needed. You don't learn 
this secret by playing a few cuts of the 
White Album backward. 


THAT FOURTH ARM 


"There you are, after a night of love that 
really rotated your tires. You snuggle close 
for sleep, spoon tight against her fertile 
crescent and—and find that God made 
men and women unth one arm loo many. 
Yours. Yours is the fourth arm. No matter 
where you hang it—over a headboard, in 
your crotch, beneath her back—at least 
one major vein will squinch off and 
become necrotic. But the night was splen- 
did, so who cares if you look like Kaiser 
Wilhelm Il next morning: You're a man. 


“Why do they call it self-abuse? I happen 
to love it.” 


IN AN EMERGENCY, CROON 


Men— well, certain men at least —have 
sufficient presence to firebreak panic and 
pour foam on psychological runways be- 
fore the crash. Sure, women can kiss and 
make better, which might be OK local 
anesthesia—but not so effective when the 
Titanic is heading for very uneminent 
domain. Strong men crowd-control be- 
cause, by implication, they are themselves 
at risk. I remember the time my father cut 
in on two knife-out drunken men at a bar. 
Their women were screaming. My father 
simply said, “That'll be enough.” And it 
was—after he had presented his chest as 
an interloper between. "There is sleight of 
voice and body here (why d' you think 
there are so few female magicians?). Men, 
of course, have this power partly because 
they can talk real low. A Cronkite sound 
has about the effect that straight Romilar 
and airplane glue would have: Human 
diaphragms are fork tuned to it. Hysteria 
is a high, thin locust sound, Menudo-fan 
noise. You couldn’t imagine Henry Kis- 
singer shrieking, could you? A man can 
say, “Women and children first” and 
make it stick—except with the Supreme 
Court, where that would be ruled either 
discriminatory or male-chauvinist pork. 


THEN, AS I END THE REFRAIN, 
THRUST HOME 


My father was a powerful man: He 
could swim across the Hudson River and 
back or arm wrestle two firemen down at 
once. In his time, I suppose, he must’ve 
buried three dozen cats with high small 
honor. He could fix just about anything; 
what he couldn’t fix he built again. He 
constructed sumptuous fires, got reception 
where a sound wave had only been un- 
der slight surveillance before. Nothing 
daunted him, neither man nor rattlesnake 
nor, at last, the carcinoma. He was, I 
think, somewhat in awe of women and 
rather glad about that. He and my mother 
were well wed for more than three 
decades. And in his so-convenient inside 
jacket pocket, he carried a heart as big as 
general delivery. 

Manliness, after all, transcends instruc- 
tion or art. It has to do with a genial, 
unnuanced availability. Great males can 
anticipate, as great athletes can, the hair- 
spring grab of human need. Around them 
there will be space without condition— 
and safety that doesn’t impede. They 
defray a general expense of spirit. Wom- 
anhood, to them, is neither dangerous 
antithesis nor client estate; It is an exten- 
sion and a rounding off. As the branch 
spread of a tree above soil must equal 
the root spread below, they are well 
grounded—grace comes most often from 
being easy in oneself. And, yes, they screw 
open a jar now and then. There is becom- 
ing chivalry enough in that. 


JOHN LENNON „асв 


"Now the fringe is being heard from. One man claims 


to have just arrived from a distant planet... . 


» 


in suburban Hartsdale. She gives the 
instructions quietly, asking that Warm- 
flash see to it, Although Ono seems to be 
holding together, someone in the group 
says that the two of them were so close, 
and she is so grief-stricken, might she try 
to harm herself? De Palma is dispatched 
to see that she does nothing rash. | 
De Palma nervously walks into her 
bedroom, says nothing to Ono, who is still 
on the bed, and walks into her bathroom. 
He checks for razors and any sharp 
objects, and Ono pads over to the entrance 
to the bathroom. She asks what he is doing 
and he tells her, somewhat sheepishly. 
Although she is startled, she says, “I 
understand—but don't worry." In fact, 
she continues, she wants De Palma not to 
go easy on her; she wants to know and 
hear everything that happens. They are 
not to keep anything from her—not a 
newspaper headline, not a rumor. As if to 
convince De Palma that she is serious, she 
hes him switch on the television set in her 
bedroom and turn up the volume. She sits 
nd begins to watch TV coverage of the 
murder. It seems surreal, unconnected to 
the events of the past few hours: There are 
clips of the Beatles and film of her and 
Lennon marrying in Gibraltar, romping 
at the bed-ins in Amsterdam, walking 
together in Central Park just a month ago. 
By the early-morning hours, Mintz and 
De Palma are exhausted, still manning 
the phones in the dimly lit offices, which 
are now filled with hundreds of floral 
arrangements. There is a call from the 
receptionist at the Dakota’s front desk: 
Someone has called from Los Angeles to 
swear that he is leaving for New York to 
“finish the job Chapman started.” After a 
little detective work of his own to make 
sure it isn’t another crank call, Mintz 
phones the Los Angeles police, A short 
while later comes word that he was right 
to take the threat seriously: A man is 
arrested at the Los Angeles airport when 
he punches out a police officer and vows to 
“ger” Yoko Ono. He has a history of 
psychiatric disorders. The problem is di 
posed of quickly, but it is the first indica- 
tion that there may be worse to come. 


DECEMBER 10, 1980 


Early this morning, Ono is told that 
Sean is awake. They have not been close 
in the way that the boy and his father 
were, but now she shakily goes in to see 
him. She takes the five-year-old’s hand, 
leads him downstairs in the service eleva- 
tor, through the labyrinth of passageways 
in the basement and up the steps to the 
building’s entryway. There are mourning 


people ten yards away, beyond the iron 
gates. Ono points to a spot by the doorway 
and tells Sean that that was where his 
father was shot. Sean wants t0 know why 
someone shot his father. There is little she 
can say. 

They return upstairs and Ono sits at a 
typewriter to compose a message calling 
for a silent vigil in Central Park and else- 
where. She then goes to comfort Sean, who 
is nearby, with his nanny, crying hysteri- 
cally and calling out for his father. 

There is another disturbing call re- 
ceived downstairs: A man claims he placed 
a bomb in a package delivered to the 
Dakota. By now, the Lenono offices are 
cluttered from wall to wall with flowers, 
gifts, cards, letters and boxes. A bomb 
squad in body armor is sneaked into the 
building, where they find the package 
identified by the caller, cut through it and 
find nothing. The caller was a crank. But 
the two threats and the half dozen other 
ugly telephone calls result in another deci- 
sion: Ono announces that if Lennon’s fans 
to remember him, they should re- 
frain from sending flowers (which were 
stacking up to the ceiling) or gifts and 
should, instead, send donations to the 
Spirit Foundation, the organization the 
Lennons founded in 1978 to distribute 
funds to various charities. 

This is the day a bulletin brings news of 
the suicide of a distraught fan—the first of 
three—and Ono can no longer hold on. 
She breaks down uncontrollably before 
finally placing a call to a New York news- 
paper asking that the suicides cease. 

On the first floor, the phone calls con- 
tinue, and now the outer fringe is being 
heard from. One man claims to have just 
arrived from a distant planet with a mes- 
sage from John to Yoko. Mediums call 
with messages from John they claim are 
matters of life and death. A boy calls to say 
that John’s spirit has taken over his body. 
A man calls from England to say, with a 
trembling voice, that he has absolute proof 
that Lennon's murder was a conspiracy. 
All the callers urgently demand to talk 
with Ono. 

Early in the afternoon, Ono’s returning 
calm is shattered when Mintz and Warm- 
flash turn over to her a small carton con- 
taining John’s ashes, She manages to ask 
Warmflash what John looked like before 
the cremation. “He looked like he was 
sleeping,” he says. Ono, who is on her bed, 
clasps her arms around her knees and 
stares straight ahead for several hours. 

Downstairs in Studio One, the group 
continues to screen the incoming mail and 
calls. Besides De Palma and Mintz, other 


assistants have come to help—and to talk. 
The radio speakers blare with songs by 
Lennon, interrupted by news reports 
about further developments in the case. 
Geffen, whose photograph with Ono is on 
the front page of most newspapers today, 
is on the telephone repeatedly to his sec- 
ond in command at Geffen Records, talk- 
ing about the sales of the Double Fantasy 
album. He talks almost exclusively about 
the effect of the shooting on his busincss 
and is heard to say that he hopes war in 
Poland can be averted, for a war would 
knock the Lennon tragedy off the news- 
weekly covers. 

De Palma is opening telegrams, most 
of them messages of condolence, and he 
stops after reading one. He walks over to 
Mintz and hands him the telegram. Mintz 
reads it and says, “I just can't tell her 
about this one now." "The sender is a 
woman who claims to "know" someone 
who was present at Lennon’s cremation— 
and that the cremation was both filmed 
and photographed. "You may want to 
contact me for more information," the 
message concludes. Mintz turns the tele- 
gram over to a security man. Although no 
further public evidence that these films 
exist has surfaced, the case is considered 
open. 

Another macabre call is directed to 
Doug MacDougall, at the time the Len- 
nons' only full-time security guard, who 
informs Mintz that an attendant at the 
morgue has sold a photo syndicate some 
shots of Lennon's body "with the sheet 
off.” That sets off a frantic flurry of phone 
calls to head off the sale, but it is too late. 
One of the morgue photographs will 
shortly appear on the front page of the 
New York Post and later, in color, of The 
National Enquirer. A Dakota investiga- 
tion later discloses that the attendant was 
paid $10,000 for the photographs. He 
becomes, Mintz observes, “the first one to 
make a buck off John’s death.” 


MID-DECEMBER 1980 


The first to think somewhat more am- 
bitiously about capitalizing on Lennon’s 
death is a member of the inner group, 
Fred Seaman. The slim, German-born 
assistant, a journalism graduate of City 
College of New York, obtained his posi- 
tion through his unde and aunt. Norman 
Seaman was a longtime friend of the Len- 
nons; his wife, Helen, became Sean's nan- 
ny, and so it was natural that Fred should 
come to work in the family business —run- 
ning errands for Lennon, serving as gofer 
during the recording sessions of Double 
Fantasy, taking John and Yoko trays of 
sushi for dinner. 

One of Seaman's assignments was to 
accompany Lennon to Bermuda earlier in 
the year, working as his boy Friday. It 
was there that Lennon wrote and made a 
rough cassette of the flood of new songs 
that would become his half of Double Fan- 
tasy and Milk and Honey. Because he 


175 


PLAYBOY 


Can you 


tell which 
watch 


costs $250? 


One of these watches costs $250. 

The other is far less expen- 
sive. But weve given it a Speidel 
watchband to show you how any 
ofour 200 watchbands can make 
awatch look richand expensive. 
By the way, the watch on theleft 
is the far less costly one. 

So, if youre having difficulty 
telling which watch is which, 
you certainly shouldn't haveany 
trouble deciding which watch 
bandto buy. 


Isn't it about time 
you changed your watchband? 


spent those weeks with Lennon, Seaman 
came to feel that he was the closest person 
in Lennon's life by the time he was 
killed—closer than friends such as Mintz, 
closer even than Yoko and Sean 

Two days after the murder, Seaman, 
who claimed to have been devastated by 
Lennon’s murder, showed up at the door 
of an old college friend to say, excitedly, 
“I'm set for life.” In the days that follow, 
however, he repeatedly tells the people at 
the Dakota that he cannot function, that 
Lennon’s death is too much for him to 
cope with. Ono hears about it and agrees 
that he should take some time off from his 
$36,000-a-ycar job. 

He uses the time well. Within a couple 
of weeks, he has drawn up and notarized a 
contract with his college friend, an aspir- 
ing writer named Bob Rosen. The con- 
tract specifies that they will become equal 
partners on a book about Lennon, and on 
all “projects relating to this book,” includ- 
ing merchandising rights and “John and 
Yoko dolls.” 

Rosen, a slight, short man with a reced- 
ing hairline and a stutter, lives in a tiny 
apartment in a tenement on 169th Street. 
That becomes headquarters for "Project 
Walrus,” as they call their scheme. As 
soon as Seaman returns to work full time 
at the Dakota, he says he will report daily 
to Rosen about goings on there, and Rosen 
will keep notes. (They will also both keep 
daily diaries of their own.) Seaman hints 
that there may be some primary source 
material available. To pay Rosen's salary, 
Seaman will take money out of the Le- 
nono petty-cash fund. 

Seaman returns to work at the Dakota 
as a Lenono assistant. Within a week, he 
has begun a routine that will hardly vary 
over the next 12 months: On Friday after- 
noons, Seaman walks out of the Dakota 
with a shopping bag full of documents 
taken from the office files and from the 
Lennons’ apartments. He passes beneath 
the archway, walks a couple of blocks 
west, then rides up to Rosen's apartment. 
There, on a nearly full-time basis, Rosen 
reads, digests, copies and disülls the per- 
sonal papers Seaman has stolen. 

For Ono, the weeks after the murder 
pass either in isolation, hardly leaving her 
bedroom, or in taking care of business— 
all the memorials for John, the letters that 
need answering. She insists, despite the 
mood in the apartment, that Sean cele- 
brate Christmas. A tree is put up, lights 
are hung, tinsel is placed on the branches. 
A female Akita puppy that Lennon 
bought for his son's Christmas present 
nearly starved in the days after Lennon's 
death—nobody knew who was supposed 
to feed it. Now Ono puts the puppy under 
the tree for Sean with a ribbon saying, 
FROM DADDY. Sean names the dog Merry. 


JANUARY 1981 


After New Year’s, Ono allows Sean and 
the puppy to go down to the Lennons’ 
estate in Palm Beach, Florida, where the 


boy can escape New York’s winter and 
the funereal mood around the Dakota. She 
does that partly because, as she is frank 
enough to admit later, she finds it painful 
to be around Sean. Although still in shock, 
she can find solace in work and returns to 
the recording studio to complete a song she 
and Lennon were working on, Walking on 
Thin Ice, which Geffen will release a 
month later. Although work on the record 
proceeds well, she spends the vast majority 
of her time in bed at home, eating choco- 
late cake delivered by a local gourmet shop 
and sipping tea in the dimly lit room. 

From time to time, she emerges from 
the bedroom and makes brief forays 
downstairs. Sean returns from Florida 
and she almost cannot bring herself to see 
him: The memories are too disturbing. 
But she knows she must and begins to 
spend more time with him, begins to get to 
know him as she did not before Lennon’s 
death. 


APRIL 1981 


There have been no more death threats, 
the crowds around the Dakota have 
thinned and for Ono, there is the possibili- 
ty that, as gloomy as things are around the 
apartment, at least the worst of it may be 
behind them. She feels strong enough to 
tackle a large project: a solo album in 
which she will work through some of her 
feelings. It will be called Season of Glass 
and one cut will contain gunshots. For the 
cover photo, Ono chooses a window in the 
Dakota that Lennon used to sit at and 
stare out of, daydreaming, and places his 
bloodstained glasses on a table in front of 
it. She knows it will be controversial, but 
this is how she feels she must express her 
grief. She insists on clicking the camera's 
shutter herself. 

Uptown, Project Walrus is proceeding 
on schedule. Rosen is sifting through the 
bags full of papers Seaman has brought 
him. It is a treasure-trove and Rosen 
records his reactions to the material in his 
journals, which will surface later. He is 
beginning to feel like Lennon’s alter ego, 
the only one who really knows him—and 
that includes Yoko, who is brooding in the 
Dakota, and even his partner, Seaman, 
who is so busy plotting and sneaking 
things out....Only he, Rosen, alone in 
his apartment with John Lennon’s paper 
legacy, knows what he was like. 

‘One afternoon, in a shopping bag that 
Seaman brings in, Rosen discovers the 
mother lode: In hardbound New Yorker 
diaries dating from 1975 to 1980, John 
kept his own private journals. In them, 
Rosen and Seaman have possession of his 
most personal thoughts and admissions 
during the period he was least in public 
view. This is history! More, this is big 
bucks. As Rosen puts it in his own journal, 
“Dead Lennons = BIG $$$$$.” 


MAY 1981 


Seaman, still a trusted aide at the 
Dakota, is sent by Ono to Wales to visit. 


Julian. She wants Julian, Lennon's son 
by his marriage to Cynthia Powell, to 
have some gifts from his father. 

Arriving in Wales, Seaman begins 
courting Julian. He drops hints of his 
growing feelings of disillusionment with 
Yoko. He gives him the gifts—and, as a 
personal token, a copy of the cassette of 
John’s final songs recorded in Bermuda 
Seaman's journals suggest that his aim is 
to draw Julian into the plan, to persuade 
him to claim he knew of his father's dia- 
ries and that Lennon intended his eldest 
son, not Ono, to be the guardian of the 
diaries. Julian knows nothing of this but is 
thrilled at the “gifts.” 

In New York, an assistant relays a mes- 
sage from the New York coroner’s office 
informing Ono that she should claim her 
husband's clothes—the ones he was wear- 
ing when he was shot. Chapman has 
changed his plea to guilty, so the clothes 
will not be needed as evidence. She takes a 
car to the coroner's and comes back with a 
shopping bag labeled PATIENT'S BELONG- 
inGs. Inside, folded neatly, are Lennon’s 
bloodstained clothes. She returns to the 
Dakota and to the refuge of her bedroom. 


JULY 1981 


By midsummer, Ono is making definite 
attempts to reclaim a normal life. Al- 
though she and Sean are constantly at- 
tended by several guards, and although by 
most standards the life of a woman man- 
aging an estimated $150,000,000 fortune 
can hardly be called normal, there is at 
least a renewed interest in the mundane. 
Take the redecorating of the apartments, a 
project begun before Lennon's death: It's 
time to get on with it, she decrees, 

So Samuel Havadtoy, a Hungarian im- 
migrant with a successful career in interi- 
or decorating, returns to work he began 
in the summer of 1980. He soon gains 
Ono's trust with an easy, bantering man- 
ner. Havadtoy enjoys playing with Sean, 
tumbling with him on the grass out at the 
Cold Spring Harbor estate, getting beat at 
video games. Ono realizes she enjoys 
Havadtoy's company and agrees to accom- 
pany him on her first visits to restaurants 
and occasional social gatherings since 
Lennon’s death. They are becoming close. 
Life begins to look hopeful. Not good, not 
happy, just hopeful. 


AUGUST 1981 


Project Walrus proceeds apace. There 
is a new member of the team, Rick Dufay, 
a guitarist with the band Aerosmith, who 
is as excited as Seaman and Rosen about 
helping to shape the true picture of John’s 
legacy for the world. They spend many 
evenings, plotting and fantasizing about 
what their work will mean to the world. 

Rosen's diary entry for August 14, 
writing of himself in the second person: 


You say you're going to incite a 
cultural revolution and by the time 
Brother Walrus returns from his 


Peppermint Twist 


Splash Hiram Walker Peppermint Schnapps 
‘over ice and sip with a very dose friend. 


HIRAM WALKER 


What a difference aname makes. 


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MI 48232 ©1984, Peppermint Schnapps. 60 Proof Liqueur. Hiram Walker Inc.. Farmington Hills, MI 


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PLAYBOY 


178 


mission of great social and political 
importance, people will be rioting in 
the streets "cause of what you've done. 
You say you're going to pull some- 
thing off. In short, you're going to be 
in the vanguard of a massive cultural 
breakthrough, the biggest one since 
Beatlemania, but you can’t go around 
saying stuff like that publicly; you 
barely dare say it privately, "cause 
when people hear weird shit like that, 
fuck it, they'll think you're crazy. So 
we won't say it, we'll just do it. 


MBER 1981 


Lennon was in turn intrigued and skep- 
tical about Ono's use of psychics, whom 
she would pay as much as she would other 
consultants, such as lawyers and account- 
ants, One of them was a man of uncom- 
mon shrewdness, a tarot-card reader 
named John Green who seemed to know 
how to read the cards in a way Ono found 
intriguing. Green became Ono's chief card 
reader during the years the Lennons lived 
out of public view. Since Lennon's death, 
he has been living free of charge in a loft 
building Ono owns, even though she has 


stopped using his services. The only condi- 
tion she has made is that he must not take 
visitors there, because the loft is used to 
store irreplaceable artifacts, such as origi- 
nal acetates of Beatles records, and pieces 
of Lennon’s artwork. 

She hears that Green has been charging 
admission for public events in the loft and 
that he has been bragging about his ac- 
cess to the Beatles acetates, so she has a 
lawyer tell Green to move out. Green is 
given notice to leave by a specified time. 
On that date, the locks are changed, but 
Green has not yet moved out, so he imme- 
diately sues. Rather than appear in court, 
and fearing for the materials in the loft, 
Ono settles for a payment of $30,000 to 
Green. Havadtoy and Warmflash go 
downtown to inspect the loft and realize 
Green has not yet moved all of his belong- 
ings out. On a desk, Havadtoy sees a pile 
of typewritten papers: It is a chapter of a 
book Green is writing about the Lennons, 
which will be published as Dakota Days. 
Havadtoy scans the manuscript and finds 
that, while living free of charge in Ono's 
apartment, Green has been writing a book 
that charges that she is, among other 
things, a neurotic, a practitioner of black 


"That's the law for you; you never know 
what the outcome of a trial is going to be. In this case, 
it’s tails, and you're guilty.” 


aris and the destroyer of Lennon’s talent. 

In Central Park one afternoon, Sean is 
accompanied by his bodyguard, MacDou- 
gall. His responsibility is to stay close to 
Sean at all times. With Ono looking on, 
the boy wanders out of MacDougall's 
sight. Ono gets angry at MacDougall, 
who stiffens. “If you don’t like the way I 
do my job,” he states, "I quit.” Sean has 
become used to MacDougall, but Ono 
feels he has become lax and is trying to 
bully her. She accepts his resignation. She 
will hire a new chief of security, New 
York police detective sergeant Dan Ma- 
honey. Things are now getting nasty and 
she is being tested. A couple of old friends 
have turned on her and new people are 
around. The level of tension around the 
Dakota rises perceptibly. 


OCTOBER 1961 
Rosen’s journal entry for October 18: 


Fred [Seaman's fantasy: I drop 
dead after writing the last word of 
Projet Yoko. Rick [Dufay] drops 
dead after playing the last note of his 
album. . .. Yoko and Scan drop dead. 
Helen [Seaman] drops dead. . . . Jul- 
ian, Cynthia and May Pang [Len- 
non’s lover during his separation 
from Ono in the early Seventies] drop 
dead. Paul, George and Ringo drop 
dead. Everybody who was ever asso- 
ciated with the Beatles in any way, 
shape or form drops dead. Fred is the 
only one who remains alive. He cor- 
ners the gossip market. . . . 

We (Seaman, Dufay, Rosen] are 
all that close. We know how con- 
tempüble the other one is. Interesting 
contest, who is the most contemptible 
among us. .. . Surely, I could not win 
such a contest. Or could 12 


Undated Rosen journal entry: 


The only argument me and Dufay 
had was over who was going to fuck 
Yoko. 


NOVEMBER 1981 


Ina London newspaper, Ono reads that 
Julian Lennon has entered a recording 
studio intending to record some of his 
father’s last unreleased songs—the ones 
intended for the Double Fantasy sequel 
Ono is dumfounded. “How could he have 
gotten John’s songs?" she asks aloud. 

Seaman is sitting nearby in the Lenono 
offices. He shakes his head sympathetical- 
ly. "Didn't 1 tell you Julian was a bad 
seed?” he says. 

Ono calls Julian in England and asks 
him about the songs. He explains that 
Seaman gave him a cassette. Ono is con- 
fused but tells him that his father intended 
the songs for his own album. Julian apol- 
ogizcs. 

There is a call а day or two later from 
MacDougall. Mintz takes the call 

“I'm owed back pay,” he tells Mintz. 

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PLAYBOY 


"Yoko will take care of it," Mintz 
replies. 

“Well, Pm holding some stuff until 1 
get my money.” 

MacDougall says that when he quit, he 
took with him for safekeeping some ex- 
pensive electronic equipment, a dozen cas- 
sette tapes, two Swiss army knives, a pair 
of Lennon's glasses and a love letter from 
Lennon to Ono including the original ver- 
Sion of his song Dear Yoko. He'll be glad 
to return the items when he gets the pay 
he feels he is owed. Mintz takes MacDou- 
gall a check and retrieves the items. 

Ono grows more puzzled by Seaman’s 
behavior. Like MacDougall, Seaman is 
showing signs of arrogance, of sloppiness 
in his work, almost as if he is tempting 
someone to reprimand him or even fire 
him. Ono wants to leave well enough 
alone; she is too close to Seaman’s aunt 
Helen and uncle Norman to make trouble 
for Fred. 

In truth, Seaman has become more and 
more engrossed in Project Walrus and is 
beginning to see the end of his double- 
agent role at the Dakota. He decides, in 
fact, it is time to act more boldly, and so, 
according to his diaries, he and Dufay 
sneak into Ono’s apartment while she is 
out and steal a large haul of audio equip- 
ment, including a costly amplifier Lennon 
used to keep by his bed. Seaman has previ- 
ously taken rehearsal tapes of Lennon 
songs to Rosen's apartment, and Dufay is 
a professional musician, so there is plenty 
of use for the equipment. 

The next day, someone notices that a 
couple of stereo components are gone. 
Seaman says it was probably the air-con- 
ditioning repairmen, who were here. Ono 


nods. She mentions it to Mintz, who is 
coincidentally taking an inventory. Mintz, 
who is now on Ono's staff, discovers that, 
in fact, much more than the stereo ampli- 
fiers has been taken, and informs the new 
security team. Methodically, the guards 
interrogate people and report to Ono that 
it can only be an inside job. 

She begins to agonize. It is not the mon- 
ey but the growing feeling that the tide is 
beginning to turn against her, that people 
in her employ and in her trust are betray- 
ing her. There are roughly a dozen people 
on the staff and another half dozen who 
come and go in the offices on a daily basis. 
Mahoney wants Ono to order lie-detector 
tests for everyone. She refuses, reasoning 
that it would crush morale. Mahoney sug- 
gests calling in the police, but Ono refuses 
that, too, for the same reason. No suspi- 
cion whatever is cast on Seaman, who 
writes in his diary: “Yesterday’s theft 
doesn’t seem to have any consequences, 
thank God.” 

. 

It is now nearly a year since Lennon's 
death. There have been the confrontations 
with employees, the burglary, and now 
there are stories that books are being 
planned by people other than Green. It is 
rumored that Lennon’s cx-lover, May 
Pang, is writing her memoirs. And there is 
also word that Albert Goldman, biogra- 
pher of Elvis Presley and exposer of drug 
orgies and panty fetishes, is negotiating for 
a seven-figure advance toward a book on 
Lennon. Even Rosen is moved to write in 
his journal, after hearing the news about 
Goldman, “God help John Lennon.” 

Ono blocks much of it out and deter- 
mines to push on. But then a letter arrives 


“If you've seen one dragonfly, you've seen "em all." 


that even De Palma is loath to show her. 
"The orders still stand: She wants to know 
everything, no matter how bad. She reads 
the letter, glancing at the envelope, which 
bears a return address of Attica state pris- 
оп; a portion follows: 


Dear Yoko: 
- My new attorney, Marshall 
may have contacted you con- 
cerning a possible agreement that 
would consist of seeking to use any 
funds—earned by the release of 
certain materials—toward char- 
itable (child relief organizations) 
purposes. . . . 

Yoko, if you feel that what I might 
enter into (even though all funds 
would be given to charity) is against 
your wishes, І would honor this com- 
pletely... . 

Sincerely, 

Mark David Chapman 


Chapman, who began his letter re- 
minding Ono that he had earlier written 
to her to “apologize” for murdering her 
husband, ends the letter by saying that if 
she does not want him to proceed with the 
release of his story, she can be assured of 
his “cooperation in this delicate matter.” 

‘The implication is immediately clear to 
Ono: Her husband’s assassin is proposing 
that she assent to his participation in a 
book. He assures her that all funds would 
go to charity (a meaningless gesture, she 
knows, since the well-publicized Son of 
Sam law, named after the mass murderer 
who inhabited the same institution as 
Chapman, makes it virtually impossible 
for a criminal to profit from his crime). 

Sick, Ono heads for her bedroom. 

It is several days later that two men are 
stopped inside the Dakota. They say they 
have business with Yoko. Pressed, they 
begin to run. One gets away, but the other 
is tackled by a bodyguard. Before he is 
taken away by police, the obviously de- 
ranged man shouts that he has come to 
“get” Yoko and Sean. 

Security is further tightened. Ono has 
spent more than $1,000,000 on personal 
protection in the year since Lennon’s 
death. 


DECEMBER 1981 


As the New York weather turns colder, 
Seaman throws caution to the winds. 
Although his use of the Lenono petty-cash 
fund to pay off Rosen has not yet been 
discovered, there is plenty of comment 
about his use of limousines to take him to 
restaurants and clubs—which he prompt- 
ly charges to Lenono. Other expense- 
account discrepancies crop up. At an office 
Christmas party Ono throws at Windows 
on the World, the spectacular restaurant 
atop the World Trade Center, Seaman 
shows up wearing one of Lennon’s 
scarves. Ono spots it and confronts him. 

“Isn't that John’s scarf?” 

“No, Yoko,” he says, “it’s mine.” 

‘The lie is so brazen Ono is shaken. Later 


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181 


PLAYBOY 


on at the party, Seaman approaches Ono 
and admits the scarf may be John’s after 
all. Ono does not know what is going on 
with Seaman, but it soon becomes clear: 
While using the Lenono Mercedes-Benz 
for personal business, something employ- 
ees are forbidden to do, Seaman gets into 
an accident. The repair bill is $12,000. 
Finally, some time later, Ono goes into her 
private bathroom and finds Seaman taking 
a bath during working hours. He will be 
fired and given $10,000 severance. Sea- 
man writes defiantly in his diary, “My 
immediate regret is that I won't have any 
opportunity to go through the files and 
avail myself of ‘research’ material.” The 
thefts—entire file folders, manuscripts, 
journals, even a novella by Lennon titled 
Skywriting by Word of Mouth, which 
Rosen in his journal pronounces worthy of 
James Joyce—have not been discovered 
In the six apartments owned by the Len- 
nons, no one is quite sure where things are 
kept. 
JANUARY 1982 

Living with Lennon’s diaries, typing all 
day and night, deciphering Lennon’s ab- 
breviations and codes, is beginning to get 
to Rosen. It is claustrophobic working in 
his tiny apartment and, he writes, “Pm 
worried about Seaman. It is imperative 1 
have leverage to force him to give me cred- 
it and pay me my full share. Possession of 
the journals are [sic] my best leverage.” 


But he does not want to keep the origi- 
nal journals indefinitely. “It’s going to be 
like having the Lost Ark. Don’t want my 
apartment raided by Indiana Jones.” 

Rosen’s worries about Seaman are well 
founded. Seaman has been under the care 
of Dr. Francis DeBilio, a psychotherapist 
whose practice is in Brooklyn and who 
apparently has not had the sort of contact 
with glamor and fame and intrigue that 
Seaman talks about. The doctor intro- 
duces Seaman to another patient, Norman 
Schonfeld. A retired diamond merchant, 
Schonfeld becomes as excited as DeBilio 
about the potential in Project Walrus and 
agrees to finance the enterprise. It is just 
what Seaman needs, since now his salary 
and perks are gone. 

Seaman tells Rosen they have an angel 
and the three of them get together over 
drinks to discuss terms. For half an 
interest, Schonfeld will pay salaries and 
all expenses. The plan devised by “NS,” 
as Seaman refers to Schonfeld in his jour- 
nal, is to set Seaman up as the real inheri- 
tor of Lennon’s artistic and social legacy 
and to spread as much misinformation 
about Ono as possible. The “black wid- 
ow” is to be discredited by whatever 
means possible, so the world can receive 
what John Lennon left behind through his 
anointed messenger, Fred Seaman. And, 
incidentally, the world will make the mes- 
senger and his helpers rich. 

The only problem is, there are too 


“So you think it might do some good if I brought my 


wife next time.” 


many helpers. Dufay is not an active par- 
ticipant, but DeBilio and Schonfeld per- 
suade Seaman that Rosen should be cut 
out It doesn’t take much persuading. 
Rosen, who shows signs of being worn 
out, is sent on a “vacation” paid for out of 
the project's funds. With Rosen safely in 
the Caribbean, Seaman records in his dia- 
ry what happens next: 


Norman [Schonfeld] and I decided 
to take all the stuff out. Hung out in 
Bob [Rosen|s apartment, smoked a 
joint and then absconded with his 
copy of the journals, the Bermuda 
tape [of Lennon singing] and any- 
thing else we could carry out. A few 
days later we returned with a rental 
car and proceeded systematically to 
remove everything that I had given 
him. 


Upon his return, Rosen finds his apart- 
ment emptied, reports it as a burglary to 
the New York Police Department but 
then gets a call from Seaman admitting 
that it was he who had done it. What is 
Rosen going to do about it? What can 
Rosen do about it? 

DeBilio continues to counsel Seaman 
on their grand strategy. Seaman writes: 


"The more I tell [DeBilio] about 
Julian, the more convinced he grows 
that we can’t rely on him. .. . He 
explains Julian might consider him- 
self the protector of his father's repu- 
tation (on which he's riding) and he 
doesn't want to explode the myth. So 
now we have to think about a way we 
can legitimize my "ownership" of 
the diaries so we have a fighting 
chance in court, or, alternatively find 
some way to prevent y.o. from mak- 
ing a stink. 


Oblivious, Ono makes plans to record a 
new album. Proposed title: It’s Alright 


AUGUST 1982 


Rosen, broke and depressed after being 
cut out of the scherne, tries to sell his story 
to publishers and magazines, including 
юлүвоу. He has salvaged his own journals 
and some other materials, including tapes, 
from Seaman’s raid, and represents him- 
self to publishers as having a photographic 
memory. When he discovers that no one 
will touch the story without documenta- 
tion, he has a friend call Mintz and 
suggest that “certain materials” will be 
returned for a price. Mintz threatens to 
call the police, and so at last, Rosen de- 
cides to come in from the cold. 

By now, Havadtoy is running interfer- 
ence for Ono, and it is he who negotiates 
with Rosen. What Rosen has said about 
Seaman and some missing diaries is 
enough to convince Havadtoy that Ono 
herself should meet with Rosen. A meet- 
ing is held at the Lenono offices, and there 
Rosen spills it all—the thefts, the conspir- 
acy, everything. 

Rosen, dubbed the John Dean of the 


affair by Mintz, is grilled over the next 
several days by Mintz, Havadtoy, lawyers 
representing Ono and, in the end, the New 
York District Attorney's office. Since he 
has come forward voluntarily, Rosen is 
not charged with anything at this time 
(and maintains he was basically a dupe of 
Seaman’s). Because Rosen claims to fear 
for his life and to be flat broke, Ono pays 
for him to stay at a hotel, at which point 
he hands over copies of his own diarics, 
which incriminate him and the others. 

The extent of the plotting and the 
length of time it has been going on stun 
Ono, making her feel both foolish and 
hurt. The mass of material that has been 
stolen is staggering: entire filing cabinets 
full of papers, manuscripts, love letters, 
private photographs, Lennon's clothing 
and, worst of all, his diaries. 

Havadtoy attempts to smoke out Sca- 
man privately. Of paramount concern is 
that Seaman not destroy the materials. 
Calling on Scaman’s unde and aunt, 
Norman and Helen, Havadtoy attempts to 
get a message through, asking that Fred 
return the documents and turn himself in 
Norman relays a message back from Fred: 
“Let Yoko sue me; it will mean a million 
dollars in free publicity.” 

The following day, Seaman himself 
calls Ono at the Dakota. He says it is true 
that he has the diaries and that he took 
them to make certain Julian read them 
first. Nervously, he says, “If you don’t do 
anything rash, the journals might find 
their way back.” The conversation, re- 
corded by Mahoncy, ends with a flat 
statement by Seaman: “I wouldn’t want 
anything to happen to you and Sean.” 

Later that night, Ono sinks back into a 
chair and says to Havadtoy, “What did we 
do to him to deserve this?” She decides 
that this time she will not be driven back 
into her bedroom and determines to con- 
tinue working on her album. But because 
of what she heard in Seaman’s voice, she 
orders even more security for herself and 
Sean. 

Havadtoy continues to use Norman 
Seaman in attempting to negotiate with 
Fred. Norman is one of Ono’s oldest per- 
sonal friends, going back to her days as a 
conceptual artist in Greenwich Village. 
Several days after the call from Fred, 
Havadtoy is saddened to discover that 
Norman is covering for him. 

"Fred did do it for Julian's sake," 
Norman says to Havadtoy. “I saw John 
give Julian his diaries back in 1979. I was 
there when he did it.” 

"Norman," Havadtoy points out, *we 
know the diaries were kept up through 
1980. How could hc have given Julian the 
diaries in 1979?" 

A call to Julian in England confirms 
the point. Havadtoy is in the apartment 
discussing Norman’s lie with Ono, when 
there is a buzz from the receptionist down- 
stairs: A man identifying himself as Willie 
Wilson has arrived at the Dakota carrying 
a box full of papers, talking about John 


Lennon and some diaries. 

Havadtoy rushes downstairs to meet 
Wilson, a shabbily dressed black man who 
promptly opens the box and allows him a 
peck at the contents. Immediately appar- 
ent is a photocopy of one diary in Len- 
non's handwriting, dated 1980, and three 
hardbound volumes that appear to bc 
original diaries. 

“Where did you get these?” Havadtoy 
asks. 

“A junkie in Harlem,” Wilson shrugs. 

“How did you know to bring them 
here?" 

"Didn't take too much brains to know 
where the stuff came from," says Wilson. 

Havadtoy suspects that Wilson is fabri- 
cating the story about the junkie and 
threatens to call the police and charge him 
with extortion. Wilson quickly offers to 
retricve more stolen material from thc 
same source in Harlem if Havadtoy will 
keep the police out of it. Wilson says it 
will cost him $5000 to get the rest of the 
diaries. Havadtoy naively agrees to pay 
Wilson. The man takes the cash, walks 
out of the Dakota and is never seen again. 
To Havadtoy’s chagrin, it turns out that, 
aside from the 1980 photocopy of the Len- 
non diary, the other journals are not by 
Lennon but by Fred Seaman. 

Once the embarrassment of having paid 
for the wrong journals has passed, Havad- 
toy realizes that having Scaman’s diaries 
provides an unexpected bonus. Upon ex- 
amination, the scope of the conspiracy 
becomes evident when clues from Sea- 
man’s diary are put together with refer- 
ences from Rosen's diary. From their 
reading of the diaries, they decide it is 


likely that Schonfeld, as the financier of 
the caper, has possession of the journals. 
He has, after all, advanced $33,000 to 
Seaman, if the conspirators’ diaries are to 
be believed. Havadtoy calls Schonfeld. 

The wealthy diamond merchant agrees 
that he may know how to retrieve the Len- 
non diaries—for “compensation.” Ono 
and Havadtoy confer and agree to pay the 
man off. “We had no choice,” Havadtoy 
says later. “If we had simply called the 
police, the diaries would undoubtedly 
have been destroyed.” And so, for “ex- 
penses" of $60,000, Schonfeld agrees to 
procure the safe return of all of John Len- 
non's original diaries. 

At the appointed time, Schonfeld ar- 
rives with a bag full of documents. "There 
arc file folders of material from the Len- 
ono offices, photographs, letters, the no- 
vella —and four hardbound New Yorker 
diaries filled in with John Lennon's hand- 
writing. Schonfeld smiles as he hands 
Havadtoy an envelope he says is a 
“present for Mrs. Lennon.” It is a draw- 
ing by Lennon. 

"There is no 1980 diary, however. Since 
Havadtoy has seen Willie Wilson's photo- 
copy of it, he knows it is potentially the 
most valuable to history; it was filled in 
through the day of Lennon’s death. 

“Where is 1980?" he asks Schonfeld. 

“I don't know anything about a 1980 
diary," he says. 

After morc discussion, Schonfeld insists 
he has met his part of the bargain, has no 
knowledge of the missing diary, and de- 
parts with his check. 

There the matter rests. The original 
1980 diary never surfaces, and there is 


“What I love about us is that we earn our money the 
old-fashioned way—we steal it!” 


PLAYBOY 


even evidence that the earlier diaries were 
tampered with. Mintz says after examin- 
ing them that there appear to be entries in 
a different hand, and there is a chilling 
entry in Fred’s journal that is discovered 
later: “We [DeBilio and Seaman] have 
intense talk about doctoring diary to show 
Lennon's setting me up to write book . - 
to build up to great intimacy.” Lennon's 
diaries were in the possession of the Proj- 
ect Walrus gang for more than a year. 


SEPTEMBER 1982 


Last spring, Sean asked to have a friend 
from school, seven-year-old Caitlin Hair, 
spend the weekend with him at Cold 
Spring Harbor. His nanny Helen Sea- 
man’s granddaughter, Tanya, also joined 
them. While they were playing, Caitlin 
apparently fell. Now comes the news that 
Caitlin’s mother claims Caitlin was in- 
jured and is suing Ono for $1,050,000. 

Like the bodyguard before her, the nan- 
ny had received specific instructions from 
Ono on caring for Sean. Among them was 
the order that, on that particular weekend, 
no visitors be taken out to the Cold Spring 
Harbor estate. When Ono, upset over the 
lawsuit, asks Helen why her orders were 
rescinded, Helen explains that Caitlin and 
her granddaughter showed up at the Long 
Island estate unexpectedly. She couldn't 
very well turn them away, could she? 

In fact, as Ono finds out later, Helen 
chartered a limousine for the children, 
billed it to Lenono and had them picked 
up in New York and delivered to Cold 
Spring Harbor. That tears it for Or 
she's had enough of the Seamans. For dis- 
obeying instructions and then lying about 
it, Helen is fired and given a $10,000- 
a-year pension. 

“It's been very difficult for Sean,” Ono 
says tightly to a visitor. “First Sean loses 
his daddy. Then his bodyguard [MacDou- 
gall], whom he'd grown close to. And now 
Caitlin and Helen. Sean seems very well 
adjusted, but I'm worried that it may be 
difficult for him to trust people. 


OCTOBER 1982 


If she feels that people in her personal 
life are letting her down, Ono has at least 
one friend in the business world who has 
stood by her. Eddie Germano, owner of 
the Hit Factory studios, where she and 
Lennon recorded Double Fantasy, has giv- 
en her solace and advice through the 
months. In fact, when she finally parts 
ways with Geffen, it is Germano who sug- 
gests that she talk with a close friend of his 
at PolyGram Records, who is extremely 
interested in her work. Since she cannot 
trust the fact that other people’s recom- 
mendations will be disinterested, she 
meets with PolyGram executives, who 
offer her an excellent contract. 

Germano calls to tell her that the exec- 
utives at PolyGram are highly enthusias- 
tic about her proposed album It's Alright 
and that, in gratitude, they want to pay 
him a finder's fee of roughly $50,000. 


Even though he told her he was getting no 
money for this, does she mind if they pay 
him something? Fine, she says, pleased 
that a friend can profit from an honest 
intermediary role. 


DECEMBER 1982 


Ono releases It’s Alright, a solo album 
that gets high praise from previously skep- 
tical reviewers. This has been an issue 
about which she is profoundly sensitive— 
the charges that she is without musical 
talent, carried along only on her dead hus- 
band’s coattails. This is some sort of vin- 
dication, and the mood in the Dakota 
brightens appreciably for the first time in 
months. 


FEBRUARY 1983 


Ono is informed that her close friend 
Germano has received $600,000 from 
PolyGram as an advance against Ono and 
Lennon albums, plus a royalty on every 
record of their music to be sold by Poly- 
Gram. Ono feels he has not only taken 
unconscionable advantage of her but has 
lied to her. It is a final betrayal for Ono. 
“Eddie was one of the closest people ever 
tome,” she says. “I truly thought he was a 
friend.” 

She sits in her white “Egyptian” room 
(complete with a genuine sarcophagus in 
the corner), sipping tea and shuffling her 
tarot cards. “Why is this happening?” she 
asks a visitor. Whether it is the money or 
something else about her life, there does 
not seem to be any letup now on thrusts 
from the outside. The mail keeps pouring 
into the Dakota—in 1981, there were 
more than 250,000 letters—and most of it 
is admiring of her and Lennon. But now. 
the psychos seem to be picking up the 
pace. Ono opens one letter in front of the 
visitor and reads it. It says, in part: “To 
fulfill the prophecy, I am going to kill you. 
You were not supposed to have survived." 
Cigarette shaking slightly, she dials Ma- 
honey. Another investigation. 

Just a few days later, another threaten- 
ing letter arrives, and this onc is not han- 
dled so routinely. For a number of 
months, someone in Florida has been 
sending letters announcing the existence of 
a Mark Chapman Fan Club, ending with 
the salutation “Death to Ono." In this let- 
ter, however, which is accompanied by a 
record album riddlcd with bullet holes, the 
writer announces that he has come to New 
York with his brother to kill her. 

Mahoney, who has worked in New 
York's elite career criminal division, in- 
tensifies security around the apartments. 
He tells Ono that he cannot guaraniee her 
security at the Dakota and for a day she 
moves into a midtown hotel. She realizes 
she cannot do that forever and tells Ma- 
honey she is moving back into her own 
home, fearful or not. Mahoney and the 
other guards, all of them off-duty police 
officers, beef up their patrols in the hall- 
ways of the Dakota. 


‘The Mark Chapman Fan Club broth- 
ers have been spotted, tailed and lost. To 
anybody visiting Ono during this period, 
the scene is incongruous: Ono, Sean and 
Havadtoy huddled in the kitchen, as their 
cook slices vegetables for sukiyakı; just 
beyond the kitchen, in the hallways hung 
with photographs of John and Yoko at 
peace rallies, and with the celebrated war 
15 OVER poster, heavily armed guards walk 
warily up and down. 

One afternoon, while Ono is at the 
recording studio, there is a call from 
downstairs, saying that a man fitting the 
description of one of the Florida brothers 
has been spotted lurking near the Dakota. 
Mintz puts on a bulletproof vest and 
approaches the man and asks him for the 
time. When the man looks at his watch, 
his jacket is pulled up and Mintz notices 
the butt of a gun sticking up from his belt. 
He immediately walks away, calls the 
police and watches as they arrive and 
arrest the man. Although the other broth- 
er remains at large, the man will admit 
they intended to "get" Ono, and he is 
apprehended—and later released. 


MARCH 1983 


"There are precious few people left to 
trust, and Ono is depending mostly on her 
bodyguards for any sense of security. So 
when an anonymous call is received saying 
one of her security men is working against 
her, the paranoia around the Lenono 
offices is almost palpable. No mauer that 
Mahoney assures her of his complete trust 
in his staff, the idea that someone in her 
own home may kill her has been planted. 
She begins sleeping badly again. In dis- 
cussions with Havadtoy and Ono, Mintz 
wondersif the threats and calls can be part 
of a conspiracy. Not only is there Seaman, 
who is running around spreading poison 
about the “black widow,” but there are all 
those disaffected aides and retainers. . . . 

What also fuels the dread is the fact 
that she is involved in monumental busi- 
ness battles that include unresolved Apple 
and Beatles affairs, and there are tens of 
millions of dollars at stake. Could any of 
the parties in that war be so desperate? 

The rumors and the threats continue. 
One night, Ono leaves her bedroom to 
find her gentle assistant, De Palma, sitting 
on a chair by the bedroom door, with a 
handgun tucked into his belt. Astonished, 
Ono asks what he is doing. De Palma tells 
her he is at his *post." *You don't know 
how big this thing is!” he cries. “The 
people who are doing this are too big to 
fight!” Some time later, Dc Palma will rc- 
sign with Ono's gratitude for his loyalty. 

Fear is running rampant in the Dakota, 
and the odd sequence of events in the next 
few days does nothing to dispel it: There 
are two mysterious break-ins at the apart- 
ment; a set of keys is left inside a bedroom 
door that was left securely locked; when 
the family and staff attend. De Palma's 
farewell party, they return to find the 


"I think it means we'd better find some shade!” 


PLAYBOY 


186 


doors locked and bolted from the inside; 
and Mahoney’s home is burglarized —and 
only the filles pertaining to the Florida 
gunmen are taken. 

Even more upsetting is the discovery 
soon thereafter of listening devices planted 
in the Lenono offices and in Ono's apart- 
ment Mahoney cannot determine the 
source of the bugs, but he knows how to 
find them and remove them. Several days 
later, he sweeps the offices again as a pre- 
caution—and finds that some of the bugs 
have been replaced. Mintz, who has been 
trying to pull all of this together, comes to 
the conclusion that the threats and break- 
ins and wire taps are part of a plot to 
discredit both Ono and Lennon's memory. 
He has his suspicions but will not divulge 
them other than to say he believes Ono's 
enemies to be “extremely powerful” 

As for Ono, she says to the rare visitor 
she trusts, “I cannot comprehend the 
meanness of it all.” 


APRIL 1983 


Ono hears the news that Fred Seaman 
has landed a book contract with Simon & 
Schuster, reportedly for a $90,000 ad- 
vance (with a third going to a ghostwrit- 
er). In their naiveté, Ono and Havadtoy 
thought that catching Seaman with all the 
diaries, possessing copies of his own in- 
criminating journals, having paid more 
than $65,000 to assorted partners and 
accomplices, having done all of this en- 
titled them to believe that Scaman, at 
least, would be out of their lives. It now 
appears that he is going to publish a book 


WHEN DO You 
GET OFF? 


defaming Lennon’s memory and Ono's 
character, or so the rumors have it. There 
is also word that former security man 
MacDougall is cooperating with Seaman, 
and other disaffected employees may be 
involved, too. But the strongest rumor is 
that the book will be based largely on the 
private diaries of John Lennon. 

It is time to stop the in-house detective 
work and call in the real thing. At Ono's 
request, Havadtoy calls the police and 
Seaman is at last arrested on charges of 
grand larceny. After the arrest, police 
search Seaman’s home and a storage room 
he has leased and find some of the stolen 
electronic equipment. Seaman then turns 
over photocopies of the Lennon diaries, 
as well as tapes and slides. Although there 
is a photocopy of the 1980 Lennon diary 
identical to the one Willie Wilson deliv- 
ered, there is no trace of the original. 

Later, when he is released on his own 
recognizance, Seaman will invite a visitor 
to his apartment in Brooklyn Heights and 
provide an insight into his obsession; The 
place is a virtual shrine to the memory of 
John Lennon. There are photographs and 
posters of Lennon hanging everywhere, 
gold records from Double Fantasy, a 
library of books on Lennon, huge piles of 
records and tapes of Lennon songs. Sea- 
man will put a cassette on the player and 
show slides on a bare wall: John, Yoko, 
Sean, Helen and others at play in Cold 
Spring Harbor, in Bermuda, in Palm 
Beach. When the slide show is over, he 
sits and stares out his window, rubbing his 
hands, muttering, “The black widow is 


going to be destroyed.” 

Near the front door of Seaman’s apart- 
ment is another memento: a piece of 
Yoko’s artwork titled A Box of Smile. The 
visitor opens the box and finds a mirror on 
the inside of the lid. 


MAY 1983 


It looks as if it will be the summer of the 
trashing of John and Yoko. The first of a 
slew of books, long rumored, is out: The 
Love You Make, by former Apple insider 
Peter Brown and collaborator Steven 
Gaines. “Don’t worry about it,” Havad- 
toy tells Ono. “No one takes this trash 
seriously.” But by midsummer, the book is 
a best seller and is being excerpted in 
newspapers everywhere beneath banner 
headlines proclaiming “How YOKO STOLE 
JOHN AWAY FROM HIS WIFE.” 

Ono and Havadtoy are having lunch at 
the Russian Tea Room the same week 
that Brown is publicizing the book in New 
York. By coincidence, Brown is there, too, 
and during the meal is called to the phone 
to hear some welcome publishing news: 
The paperback rights to the book have 
been bought for $750,000. Ono has not 
read the book. As Brown leaves the restau- 
rant, he stops by the table and greets the 
couple. Havadtoy glowers at him and 
refuses to shake hands, but Ono nods 
calmly at him when he says, "We should 
have lunch together" The next day, 
Brown is asked if any of the Beatles are 
still "speaking to him." He says he has 
just met Ono and "She is very happy [with 
the book].” 

John Green's book, Dakota Days, fol- 
lows shortly, with excerpts in Penthouse. 
Green, crediting his “fine memory," re- 
constructs several hundred pages of con- 
versations between himself and John and 
Yoko, depicting Ono as an irrational drag- 
on lady jealous of Lennon's talent. He 
represenis himself as the mastermind be- 
hind Ono’s business success and claims to 
have given Lennon the idea of using his 
househusband status as a cover-up for 
“losing his muse.” He will promote the 
book by reading tarot cards for Penthouse 
Peis at a comedy club. 

And on the heels of Green’s book comes 
May Pang’s book, recounting her affair 
with Lennon during his separation from 
Ono. In Loving John, which will be used 
as the cover story for Us magazine, Pang 
describes Lennon as a vicious alcoholic 
tricked into returning to Ono by being 
lured to a smoking cure, during which she 
hypnotized him. It, too, will receive con- 
siderable media attention. 

‘Throughout the summer, Ono keeps 
her reactions to herself, but as some of the 
stories filter in through the press, she 
finally responds quietly to a visitor: 
“The Green book is particularly unfair to 
John. He hardly ever saw him.” 

Mintz, sitting nearby, adds, “It’s filled 
with imaginary conversations. And as far 
as making up the househusband story— 
John was as proud of staying home with 


Sean as anything he ever did." 

As to the Pang book, Ono concedes 
that Lennon could be a terrible drinker, 
but regarding Pang's most sensational 
claim—that he was hypnotized by Ono 
while being cured of his smoking habit — 
she wryly points out that Lennon could 
not even be hypnotized to stop smoking. 
He was a smoker until the day he died. 

Havadtoy, who has more than once ad- 
mitted that it is hard having a relationship 
with a woman whose idolized husband 
stares down from every wall, is put in the 
position of defending the sincerity of John 
and Yoko's love: “For whatever reasons, 
all these people are trying to prove the 
relationship was bad, but it just wasn't 
true. Their music proves it, if nothing else. 
"Their love was the single most important 
thing in their lives." 

Ono and Lennon were not shy about 
sharing that love with the public, occa- 
sionally even in photographs. But that, 
too, turns out to have a sordid side. One 
evening, the telephone rings upstairs and 
Havadtoy takes the call. The New York 
Post wants a comment from Ono on a 
report that some nude photographs of her 
and Lennon are the cause of a bizarre 
murder plot in New Orleans. It seems that 
a man who claimed he found a carrousel 
of photographs in a garbage can (they had 
actually been under the care of Fred Sea- 
man when he worked at the Dakota) was 
angered over a girlfriend's intention to 
return them rather than sell them to a 
magazine, as he wanted to do. In a rage, 
he plotted to kill her and was caught by 
the police. The photographs, which are 
not explicit, will be nonetheless published 
by Swank in August. 

On May 27, Seaman pleads guilty to 
second-degree grand larceny and is sen- 
tenced to five years' probation. His plea is 
contingent on his agreement not to reveal 
what is in the Lennon diaries. In return 
for not going to prison, he is reported to. 
have agreed to cooperate in the investiga- 
tion of others involved. 

Contacted to tell their sides of the story, 
DeBilio and Dufay are not available; 
Schonfeld spits into the phone that he 
knows nothing about John Lennon, Fred 
Scaman or any diaries; and Rosen says, ^I 
probably knew deep down that the jour- 
nals were stolen, but I never admitted it to 
myself—I didn't want to know.” 


JUNE 1983 


People magazine is preparing a story on 
the rash of kiss-and-tell books it refers to 
as the “SELLING (OUT) OF JOHN LENNON.” 
Since Seaman still has a contract to write a 
book, though presumably without refer- 
ence to the Lennon diaries, People decides 
to include Seaman in its roundup. On 
their way to lunch one afternoon, Ono and 
Havadtoy are walking through Central 
Park and happen onto a photo session for 
the magazine: There is Seaman, silhou- 
etted against the Dakota, posing for a 
People photographer. Ono’s eyes meet 


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PLAYBOY 


Seaman's, but no words are exchanged. 

Nonetheless, Seaman's obsession has 
clearly become manic. He calls a reporter 
at odd hours, saying only, *How does it 
feel to be useless?" then calls the Dakota 
with the same enigmatic message. He 
spreads stories about Ono's wickedness— 
that she is a drug addict, that she was 
having affairs before Lennon died, that 
she had McCartney arrested in Japan for 
possessing marijuana. Seaman will admit 
to friends that the smears are meant to 
“discredit Ono at all costs" Havadtoy's 
former roommate, hairdresser Luciano 
Sparacino, adds more harassment by try- 
ing to inveigle money from him so he will 
not be forced to sell unfavorable stories to 
the media. Sparacino will then sell the 
tabloid press an account of how Lennon 
had planned to divorce Ono before he 
died, and how Ono and Havadtoy had 
secretly married in Hungary. (Demon- 
strably false, Ono says.) 

The stories, circulating wildly around 
New York, take their toll. So do the con- 
tinuing “unexplainable events" around 
the Dakota: Passports are found to be 
missing and then turn up days later on the 
kitchen table; lyrics to new songs disap- 
pear and then just as mysteriously reap- 
pear; collages by Lennon that were being 
admired disappear and then reappear in 
unexpected places. It is beginning to 
sound like the movie Gaslight, in which a 
woman is made to feel she is going crazy. 

One event in particular pulls these vari- 
ous strands together. On a hot summer 
afternoon, Mahoney is relating to a visitor 
some of the occurrences within the Dakota 
over the past several years and points to a 
fat folder labeled DERANGED. It contains all 
the letters received by Ono from clearly 
disturbed writers. He pulls out an enve- 
lope as an example of something extraor- 
dinarily odd—a letter addressed to a man 
in Italy with the Dakota as the home 
address. It was returned to sender when 


the addressee couldn’t be found. The 
name of the sender: Mark David Chapman. 

What is oddest is the postmark— 
August 1980. Four months before Chap- 
man killed Lennon. Evidence, at the very 
least, of premeditation, if it was, indeed, 
Chapman who wrote the letter, using the 
Dakota as his home address. The letter 
inside is chatty and innocuous, except for 
mention of the writer’s “mission” in New 
York City. 

Mahoney mentions that Ono has not 
seen this particular letter, since it was only 
recently received after sitting in a dead- 
letter post-office box somewhere for a long 
time. He intends to send it upstairs. 

One evening some time later, conversa- 
tion in the Dakota kitchen is intense; eerie 
calls have been received from Seaman; 
speculation is rife about who could be 
behind the disappearances and mysterious 
reappearances; could any of it be over- 
heated imagination? Clearly, the partici- 
pants in the conversation—Mintz, Ono 
and Havadtoy—are feeling the heat. Dur- 
ing a lull in the conversation, an envelope 
that has been lying on the table is casually 
picked up—and it looks like the deranged 
Chapman letter Mahoney received. But it 
is not. The postmark, clearly showing 
1980 that afternoon, is now 1981. The 
letter inside, though similar in appearance 
and tone, is also different: There is no 
mention of the writer’s mission in New 
York. If some kind of switch was made, it 
could only have been to make it seem as if 
some crank had written a letter to Italy in 
1981 and, with Lennon long dead, had 
used Chapman’s name and the Dakota 
address as some sort of macabre joke. 

‘The implications are discussed and ev- 
eryone gets extremely agitated. Sitting 
around the kitchen table, they ask who 
could have switched the letter and the 
envelope. Doesn't it have to have bi 
someone in the inner circle? “Who i: 
Ono asks. “I want to know!” The three of 


po 


them look fearfully at one another. More 
Gaslight. 

The moment passes, but the “Chap- 
man" letter remains unexplained. 


JULY 1983 


The hot summer of 1983 passes slowly. 
Ono is back in the recording studio, mix- 
ing Milk and Honey. She spends hours in 
the studio listening to playbacks of Len- 
non’s final songs—Living on Borrowed 
Time, Grow Old with Me—over and over 
again. It is almost masochistic, and Hav- 
adtoy consoles her as she calls for the engi- 
neer to rewind the tape for what seems 
like the 100th time. Often Sean is with 
her, enjoying his father's voice as it pours 
out of the speakers, and just as often he is 
eager to get back to his room, where he 
can outsmart the attacking pickles on a 
BurgerTime video game. 


AUGUST 1983 


There is good news at last. Simon & 
Schuster have dropped their plans to 
publish Seaman’s book. The editors ap- 
parently found too many of his claims 
unsubstantiated, and the rights to the 
material are returned to him. 

As quickly as the relief is felt, it is shat- 
tered. There is talk that Seaman has 
agreed to cooperate with Albert Goldman, 
rather than try to publish his own book. 
Goldman is known to be a talented writer 
but shrewd in his assessment of reading 
tastes: Scandal sells, and the dirtier the 
better, as he found out with Elvis. This 
time, with a $900,000 advance, and with 
sources reluctant to speak with him be- 
cause Ono has made her feelings known, 
he is on the spot—he must produce. So 
there are reports that he has hired a cou- 
ple of women to approach anyone who has 
dirt on Lennon and propose to sign them 
up exclusively for payment. At least one 
person, Tony Manero, a musician who 
knew Lennon briefly during the Sixties, 
says Goldman has offered to pay for his 
exclusive story of a homosexual liaison 
with Lennon. The only problem, says 
Manero, is that the liaison never took 
place. And hairdresser Sparacino admits 
he negotiated with Goldman to sell his 
story. He claims to be the only one who 
knows the “true” story of Lennon’s last 
year. "Only John, Yoko and I know the 
truth,” he says. “John can't tell it, Yoko 
won't and I will.” He is willing to tell his 
story to PLAYBOY as well —“for a price.” 

At least this one causes Ono to laugh. 
“John never even spoke to him,” she 
says. 

Whether or not Goldman is behind the 
new frenzy in publishing circles, someone 
is playing hardball. A possible source on 
Lennon's private life who has refused to 
sign an exclusive agreement to tell his sto- 
ry in a forthcoming book found that his 
house was burglarized shortly after- 
ward—and only material pertaining to 
Lennon was stolen. 

Goldman maintains that his book on 


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= 
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PLAYBOY 


Lennon will be different from the sensa- 
tionalistic biography of Elvis because he 
has “intense respect” for Lennon, and he 
denies offering to pay anyone for his sto- 
ries. “I never do that,” he says. He did, 
however, collaborate with a major source 
on the Elvis book, Lamar Fike, with 
whom he shares a copyright credit and 
royalties. 

When questioned, Goldman denies that 
he will be using material from Seaman but 
acknowledges that he sees certain things 
from Scaman’s viewpoint—charging that 
Ono manipulated the New York District 
Attorney's office (“She went after Fred 
with the avid cooperation of the D.A.’s 
office”) and that Simon & Schuster caved 
in to pressure from Ono (“Yoko's lawyers 
put so much heat on the publisher, they 
decided to squirm out”). 

“On their own, the books are irrele- 
vant," Mintz sums up. “Who reads yes- 
terday's papers? These books come and 
go. Yoko can deal with them after every- 
thing she's been through these past three 
years. But in ten years, Sean will be 18 
and he may want to read some of this stuff 
to see what his father was like. What 
impact will it have on him? That’s really 
the $900,000 obscenity. At what price do 
you rob a child of his dreams and his heri- 
tage?" 

Tt is the end of a trying summer. Ono is 
curiously detached from the renewed plot- 
ting, calmer than she was during the first. 
wave. She is sitting in the white room 
smoking a cigarette, the white piano on 
which Lennon composed /magine behind 
her. She laughs at a visitor’s suggestion 
that her life would make a terrific soap 
opera. 

“No,” she says, “that’s too complicated 
for me. I prefer simple stories, fairy 
tales—perhaps something by Walt Dis- 
ney, like Snow White and the Seven 
Dwarfs." 

“With you as Snow White, no doubt.”” 

“Yeah,” she half laughs. "Only there 
would be seven little books coming out.” 


SEPTEMBER 1983 


The mixing on the Milk and Honey 
album is nearly done and Havadtoy has 
finished the major part of his work on a 
project Lennon conceived and he is exe- 
cuting—an album of Ono's songs sung by 
different artists, such as Roberta Flack, 
Harry Nilsson and John Lennon. It can 
all be finished in San Francisco, they 
decide impulsively. Enough New York 
paranoia and craziness: A breath of brisk, 
tolerant San Francisco air will do them a 
lot of good. 

After a week in San Francisco, their 
mood is so good they decide to postpone 
further travel plans for Japan and spend 
some time in the Bay Area. They take 
drives into the wine country, they go 
climbing in the hills and Sean has his first 
taste in years of playing without a security 
guard a few fect away. Ono and Havadtoy 


make some discreet inquiries: What about 
the schools in the area? Might there be a 
suitable house they could buy? Word 
leaks out and the local media explode— 
“YOKO MOVING WEST!" 

This time, the media attention seems 
benign: There aren't any reporters dig- 
ging for dirt, there are no known plots to 
cash in on their presence. It is all Muir 
Woods and Calistoga mud baths and the 
fog rolling in through the Golden Gate 
Bridge. .. . 

A phone rings in their hotel room. San 
Francisco police. A man has been arrested 
in an apartment about a mile away, firing 
“practice” rifle rounds out his window. 
He has three guns and 700 rounds of 
ammunition and a number of books about 
Lennon and Ono. He has told police he is 
“after” Yoko Ono. 

A West Coast security team is hired 
and guards are stationed. outside their 
hotel room. A bodyguard is rushed to the 
school Sean is temporarily attending. 

A day later, their former New. York life 
seeming to stalk them, they hear of a new 
publishing note: People editor Jim Gaines 
has gotten in to interview Mark Chapman 
for more than 40 hours. A book is 
planned. The Son of Sam law has been 
finessed because Chapman, who once 
wrote to Yoko about his promise on a 
“delicate matter,” will not be profiting 
from his cooperation. 

Ono breaks down in her hotel room, 
sobbing, “Chapman is going to do it! He’s 
going to write his book!” Havadtoy tries to 
convince her that he is not really writing 
the book, only telling his sordid story, but 
it is no use. There is no escaping it. They 
make plans to return to New York. 


OCTOBER 1983 


Sean and John Lennon were born on 
the same date, so it is just as well the 
family is back in New York to celebrate. 
Ono and Havadtoy go out shopping for 
Sean, stop in Little Italy for lunch, then 
return to the Dakota. As their limousine 
pulls up, there is a group of fans gathered 
who become excited. They are the loyal- 
ists, the ones who know when Sean's 
birthday is, who follow Yoko’s travels. An 
Englishman holds a copy of Double Fan- 
tasy in front of her and asks her to sign. In 
a scene reminiscent of other days, fans 
swarm around them. 

Walking under the archway, Ono no- 
tices two women with their children. They 
are Jeri and Jude, among the most loyal of 
John and Yoko fans, the ones who regu- 
larly greeted the former Beatle and his 
wife almost every day since the mid-Sev- 
enties and continued to stand outside the 
Dakota after Lennon’s death. Ono goes 
over and says hello, putting her arm 
around one of the women's shoulders. 

“We have a present for Sean," Jeri 
says. 

“Then why don’t you come up?” Ono 
says suddenly, The women are stunned. 
They have never been closer to the Len- 


nons’ home than the archway. They totter 
after Ono and Havadtoy, following them 
with their children in tow, as the deskman 
at the Dakota looks on suspiciously. 

Struck silent, they can only look around 
as they ascend in the elevator and enter the 
apartment. Ono keeps up a light chatter 
about Sean. “He’s grown, you know. 
You'll be surprised.” 

Sean is called out, the women give him 
their present and Ono invites them to the 
dining room for tea. And there, as if they 
have been waiting three years to tell some- 
one, they begin to tell the story of the last 
time they waited to see John Lennon. It 
comes out haltingly at first, then in a rush, 
as Ono sits, mute and pale. 

It was December eighth, and although 
Jeri had to stay at home, Jude was at her 
post outside the Dakota, as always. She 
noticed the young man from Hawaii who 
had been there once before, among the 
regulars. He recognized her and came up 
to show her the brand-new copy of Double 
Fantasy he was going to try to get Lennon 
to sign. Since it didn’t seem that Lennon 
or Ono would appear any time soon, he 
asked Jude to have lunch with him and 
she accepted. 

They ate across the street at a coffee 
shop. He spoke pleasantly to her about his 
home in Hawaii. Jude said, "I'd love to 
see Hawaii, but Til probably never get to 
see it.” 

The man admonished her, “Don’t think 
that way. You can accomplish anything 
you truly believe in!” 

Around four P.M., Jude had to leave. 
She tried to convince the man that he 
should give up waiting for Lennon and 
come back another time. It was so cold! 
But the man stayed. 

At 11 рм, Jeri heard that John Len- 
non had been shot. Some time later, when 
his death was announced and the name of 
the man who'd murdered him was flashed 
on the television screen, Jude realized he 
was the man with whom she'd had 
lunch. 

Ono says nothing but thanks them for 
coming. At least she feels good about hav- 
ing invited them up. It may well have been 
the most important day of their lives, shar- 
ing these moments with Sean in John 
Lennon's home. Once upon a time, the 
Dakota was that kind of place: A couple of 
teenaged fans could break into the offices 
and find themselves hired. A touch of old 
times. 

The next day, on Sean and John's 
birthday, as friends and children have 
come for the party, fans have gathered 
outside the Dakota again, sorne holding 
up posters and photographs. They begin 
to sing John Lennon songs. Ono is up- 
stairs and hears the voices. She is 
interrupted by an intercom buzzing. She 
answers it. It is the doorman downstairs. 
A man, asking about Yoko Ono, has 
slipped into the building. 


"jn, 


“Any sign of him yet?” 


PLAYBOY 


Sam Shepard (continued from page 112) 


“Twas on different drugs—crystal Methedrine; when 


you walked down the streets, your heels made sparks. 


دوو 


the land and the sky.” He feels that “one 
of the biggest tragedies about this country 
was moving from an agricultural society to 
an urban, industrial society. We've been 
wiped out.” His America is "screwed up.” 
Throughout his plays, things are dam- 
aged, skewed, twisted and torn down. 
From the dilapidated house of Curse of the 
Starving Class to the electric chair of Kill- 
er’s Head, from the shouting matches of 
Buried Child to the repeated clubbings 
of Melodrama Play, from the illness of 
Red Cross, La Turista and Angel City to 
the apocalypse of Operation Sidewinder, 
Shepard’s vision of America is grim. 
Some of the pessimism must surely 
spring from the scars of his adolescent and 
young-adult life. Born on November 5, 
1943, in Fort Sheridan, Illinois, Shepard 
logged more weary miles in his first six 


years than some people do in a lifetime. 
His father was in the Army Air Corps, 
and young Sam and his mother dragged 
after him to Florida and South Dakota, 
Idaho and the South Pacific. “They would 
snatch a few hours together,” he recalls, 
“and he would take off again.” The family 
finally settled in Duarte, a small, work- 
ing-class Southern California town not too 
far from Pasadena. 

Shepard’s home life was rarely peace- 
ful. He and his father had a rocky rela- 
tionship: “My father had a real short fuse, 
He had a really rough life—had to sup- 
port his mother and brothers at a very 
young age when his dad’s farm collapsed. 
You could see his suffering, his terrible 
suffering, living a life that was disappoint- 
ing and looking for another one. It was 
past frustration; it was anger. My father 


“And over here you've got your view of the park and 
your air conditioner and your color TV and. . . .” 


was full of terrifying anger." 

Shepard recalls his high school years 
none too fondly. He was one of many 
rebels without causes who hated school 
and spent their time cruising, drinking 
cheap liquor and taking speed. Then there 
were the fights: In that arca, fighting was 
a kind of badge. I never enjoyed it, but I 
never backed down. There would be these 
incredible slug-outs in the park. I remem- 
ber some guys fought like wild men. 
"There would even be these parties where 
they'd beat up people's fathers—the father 
of the girl who was giving the party would 
get wiped out on the street, with the moth- 
er screaming, calling the police.” 

The high points of that time in his life 
were the escapes—working on a horse 
ranch, exploring the foothills and absorb- 
ing his fathers passion for literature, 
Spanish culture and jazz. After high 
school and three semesters at Mount San 
Antonio agricultural college, Shepard de- 
cided to escape for good. He hit the road in 
1962, taking up with the Bishop's Compa- 
ny Repertory Players, an amateur acting 
troupe. “It was a great time. I really 
learned what it is to make theater. We'd 
go into churches, mostly in New Englend, 
set up lights, do make-up, do the play, tear 
it all down and leave to go down the road 
the next day. It really gave you a sense of 
the makeshift quality of theater and the 
possibilities of doing it anywhere. That's 
what turned me on most of all. I realized 
suddenly that anybody can make thezter. 
You don't need to be affiliated with any- 
body. You just make it with a bunch of 
people. That's still what I like about it 4 

He wound up in New York and briefly 
tried to make it as an actor: “It didn’t take 
me long to crap out of that. 105 terrible 
running around with a picture and a 
résumé. It’s not acting; it's personal pro- 
motion—like being a hooker.” He took to 
supporting himself by odd jobs. 

But it was 1964, and in the cafés and 
the churches of New York’s Lower East 
Side, the off-off-Broadway movement was 
catching fire. From Caffé Cino to the Café 
La Mama, the avant-garde of American 
drama was pushing at the limits of the 
theater. Shepard was swept up in the 
energy of the movement, and he began 
writing plays: His first, Cowboys and 
Rock Garden, were produced in October 
of that year at the fledgling Theater Gene- 
sis in St. Mark’s-in-the- Bowery. “Writing 
was a kind of salvation for me,” he 
remembers. “If I hadn’t had that, I don’t 
know what would have happened to me. I 
probably would have wound upa used-car 
salesman. I didn’t know what to do.” 

It was a hard time for him. Living in a 
condemned apartment, dodging knives on 
the streets, wired on drugs, he ran wild 
with his buddy Charles Mingus, Jr., son 
of the jazz musician. “Sam found New 
York really harsh,” recalls the Open The- 
ater’s Chaikin. “He was like a refugee.” 

Drugs were a big part of Shepard's life, 
but he was certainly no flower child: “I 


couldn't figure out what they were smiling 
about. I wasn’t celebrating back then, I 
was surviving. Plus, I was on different 
drugs—crystal Methedrine, which has 
much more of an edge; when you walked 
down the streets, your heels made sparks.” 
Those years on the streets went by fast, 
and the plays came out faster. They poured 
out of him like water out of a busted fire 
hydrant. When the days began to smash 
into one another, he bailed out: “I just 
came to this point where it was very bad 
news. I wanted to get back into life.” 

He left for London in 1971, patching 
up a shaky marriage, discarding drugs and 
settling down to concentrate on theater. 
Three years later, he returned to the 
United States, to Marin County, with his 
actress wife, O-Lan Johnson, their son, 
Jesse Mojo, and his in-laws. There was a 
relative period of calm, during which he 
experienced family life for the first time. 
But that marriage failed and Shepard now 
lives on a ranch in New Mexico with 
Lange and her daughter from her liaison 
with Mikhail Baryshnikov. 

Shepard’s experience with shattered 
families comes through in his plays. Curse 
of the Starving Class (1976) shows the dis- 
integration of a household: Weston comes 
home dead drunk and rips down the front 
door, Wesley urinates on Emma’s Four-H 
Club project, Ella and Emma scream at 
cach other and Ella runs off with a real- 
estate swindler. Buried Child (1978) is the 
next step, where family members don't 
even recognize one another. Vince, the 
prodigal son, returns home only to be met 
by total indifference. Tilden, his father, is 
too dazed to remember his son. Dodge, the 
crotchety grandfather, couldn't care less: 
“You think just because people propagate 
they have to love their offspring? You nev- 
er seen a bitch eat her puppies?" Finally, 
in True West (1980), two brothers, one a 
writer and the other a thief, are locked in a. 
power play as each tries to take over the 
other's profession. In the final scene, they 
try to kill each other. 

After True West, Shepard sat down and 
wrote eight plays and threw them all 
away. The play he finally wrote, his 
latest, is Fool for Love. It marks several 
new directions for him. First, written for 
two men and one woman, it probes male- 
female relationships for the first time, 
instead of male power struggles. In Shep- 
ard’s words, it’s about “what it’s like to 
fall victim to love.” Second, he aimed the 
one-and-a-half-hour one-acter to have a 
new level of “raw, straightforward testi- 
mony. There’s been nothing in the theater 
that can match the relentless honesty of a 
Merle Haggard song.” 


Full of faith. Hope. Faith and hope. 
You’re all alike, you hopers. If it’s not 
God, then it’s a man. If it’s not a man, 
then it’s a woman. Ifit’s not a woman, 
then it’s the land or the future of some 
kind. Some kind of future. 

— “Buried Child” 


Shepard smiles. Running a hand 
through his sandy blond hair, he talks 
about his role as Chuck Yeager in The 
Right Stuff. 

He chose it because he felt close to 
Yeager, the daring pilot and space pio- 
neer: "The more I talked with him, the 
more interested I got. He was the ace of. 
aces. He made all the astronauts shake in 
their boots. He broke the speed of sound, 
he flipped planes, he crashed them and he 
walked away." 

"There must have been something in 
Yeager, the “natural-born: stick-’n’-rud- 
der man,” that spoke to Shepard, for as 
Tom Wolfe describes him, “he was the 
boondocker, the boy from the back coun- 
try, with only a high school education, no 
credentials, no cachet or polish of any sort, 
who took off the fecd-store overalls .. . and 
lit up the skies over Europe.” 

Ironically for someone who portrays 
Yeager, Shepard never flies, but he rarely 
minds driving or talking about long, dusty 
miles through Southwestern deserts. He 
tells the story of how his screenplay, Syn- 
thetic Tears, was conceived on the road as 
he was driving from the Frances set back 
to his Northern California home. The tale 
of a character who tries to rehabilitate his 
long-lost father and bring him back into 
his family, “it encompasses a whole period 
of my life that I had never been able to 
synthesize, that I had always struggled 
with. This one trip north, while 1 was 
driving, this whole screenplay unraveled 
in my head—I just let it unravel and 
watched it, and the entire film rolled out. 
It was an incredible feeling, because until 
then, I'd been very frustrated in trying to 
put this thing into different forms—into a 
play, a short story, a poem—and all of a 
sudden, it exploded in this screenplay 
form.” 

Shepard’s plan is to retain the rights 
and direct it. Although he has directed his 
plays in London and at the Magic The- 
ater, he has never directed a movie. Sy 
thetic Tears would be another first: 
couldn't get into a situation where this 
screenplay was out of my hands. It would 
be too depressing. Besides, I know I can do 
it It’s just a question of getting the 
chance.” 

As he gets up from the table, he stubs 
out the butt of one cigarette and, walking 
out the door, lights up the next. His Ford 
pickup is at the curb. He settles in behind 
the wheel with a quiet smile, looking com- 
pletely comfortable for the first time all 
night. A turn of the key, the engine roars 
to life and Shepard pulls into traffic. “You 
see,” he says as he accelerates, “it’s not 
interesting to be a specialist. You get to a 
certain point and you want to move. Pd 
like to do a lot of things. I'd like to do some 
sculpture. I'd like to do some painting. 
Just to keep experimenting. Why not? 
Why not try it all?” 


The Black Sheep of Canadian Liquors. 


Discover Yukon Jack. Proud 
and potent at 100 opor Yet so 
smooth, so flavorful, it tempts 
even the most civilized. 
Straight, mixed or on the rocks, 
Yukon Jack truly stands apart. 


Always Smooth. Always Potent. 


ҮК yn Jack. 


Yukon Jack Liqueur, тропе and Bottled Бу Медж. ine 
Hantora.Conn. Sole Agents U.S A * 1907 Dood Med & Co. c 


PLAYBOY 


GREAT POPCORN ыг» pase 88) 


“Our love affair with the big-bang kernel did not 
begin with the advent of popcorn in movie theaters.” 


into a multiflavored-popcorn business 
than in the previous 15 or 20 years." 
Among them, incidentally, is actor Jack 
Klugman, a principal in Jack's Corn 
Crib, which opened in New York in 1982 
and is now branching out to other states, 
with an eye to export markets. 

Popcorn shops tend to be intensely 
secretive about their flavor recipes. But 
most rely on prepared mixes purchased 
from popcorn suppliers—who are con- 
stantly looking for new tastes. Evans 
once played with a flavor similar to Gal- 
liano: “We thought we'd call it Harvey 
Wallpopper." Some popcorn outlets, how- 
ever, have resisted the gourmet fad, re- 
maining faithful to the classics— plain, 
buttered, cheese and caramel—made ac- 
cording to their own recipes. Garrett’s in 
Chicago, which has been quietly popping 
along for a quarter of a century, and Ker- 
nel Poppins, a recent New York develop- 
ment, are exponents of the traditional 
school. 

Contrary to popular assumption, our 
love affair with the big-bang kernel did 


not begin with the advent of popcorn in 
movie theaters. It started some 350 years 
ago, when the Pilgrims were introduced to 
popping corn by Indian guests who 
contributed a deerskinful to the first 
"Thanksgiving feast. Going farther back, a 
16th Century conquistador described a 
type of Mexican corn kernel called 
"momochil . . . which bursts when 
parched and discloses its contents and 
makes itself look like a white flower." Not 
a bad account of the popping process. 

It takes a very special breed of corn to 
pop. The starch in the kernels must be 
hard— not soft, as in sweet corn—and the 
outside skin tough and enamellike. With 
sufficient heat, the droplet of moisture 
buried in the heart of each grain converts 
to steam, building pressure that explodes 
the kernel, and—pow!—popcorn. Pop- 
pability is serious business. Considerable 
research at a number of Midwestern uni- 
versities—much of it supported by the 
Popcorn Institute—has gone into develop- 
ing better strains of corn. These new 
hybrid kernels are said to be ultrapoppa- 


originated. 


ue: Mildly spicy, with а hint of tomato. Good mun 
Bacon and ege "This will never replace America's favorite 
smoky and salty, with a hint of scr: 


eighth-grade palate, you'll love this. 
of either and, frankly, doesn’t taste like much. 
flavor—or is it the color? 
b in the hands of a Kernel Poppins or a Gar- 
racker Jacks. 
sweet-chocolate flavor. Chewy. uni 


sinus e that could put Dristan out of busin 
Nacho: A slightly spicier version of cheese popcorn. 
Рїйа colada: Ranges from pseudotropical taste to acceptable 


coconut flavor, depending on the outlet. 


cream. 
Root beer: Did root beer really ı 
Raspberry: Flat, barely disce 
Sour cream and onion: Lightly 
Strawberry: Synthetic quality 


Taco: Tex-Mex seasoning. Addictive 


Tasty buttermilk: Slightly lactic taste tha ith a 


sprinkling of pepper. 
Watermelon: Fi 


Pistachio: An evil green hue but tasty. Vaguely reminiscent o 


and no seeds to spit out. 


N YOU GET? 


sally like? Read on for tasty bits of 
popcorn flavors. Tasting samples were 


ble, erupting into big, tender, tasty puffs. 
In fact, the Popcorn Institute alleges that 
“popcorn brands today guarantee that 99 
percent of the kernels will pop.” 

That is good news for amateur poppers; 
despite the high visibility of store-bought 
popcorn, perhaps 70 percent of the 9.7 
billion quarts we munch annually is still 
made at home. As a matter of fact, if you 
crave real butter on your popcorn, you're 
going to have to melt your own, since the 
commercial variety is invariably doused 
with butter substitutes. For your own 
gourmet popcorn, follow these recipes. 


HOMEMADE POPCORN 


Follow directions on popping-corn 
package or your popper as to proportions 
of popcorn to oil. Neuer use butter for 
popping, as it will burn. If you don't own 
a popcorn maker, use a wide-bottomed, 
heavy pan or skillet—with at least 3-quart 
capacity—and a domed cover. Pour oil 
into pan and set over medium heat. Add 1 
or 2 kernels to pan and cover. When they 
pop, the oil is hot enough. Add corn to 
pan—never more than a single layer of 
kernels. If the cover of the popping pan 
has no steam vents, set it on the pan very 
slightly askew. This will permit steam to 
escape and keep popcorn from becoming 
soggy. Shake the pan gently and continu- 
ously until the popping noises stop. 


BUTTERED POPCORN: THREE WAYS 


Standard buttered popcorn: Use 2 ta- 
blespoons melted butter for every quart of 
warm, freshly popped corn. Toss and add 
salt to taste. 

Moviehouse “buttered” popcorn: When 
popping corn, use butter-flavor coconut oil 
such as Jolly Time Popping Oil. Sprinkle 
popcorn with butter-flavor salt. 

Low-cal “buttered” popcorn: Pop corn 
in electric hot-air popper such as the 
Wear-Ever Popcorn Pumper, which does 
the job without oil. Sprinkle popcorn with 
butter-flavor salt only. 


VERY BUTTERY BUTTERED POPCORN 


Clarify butter: Melt % cup butter in 
small pan over low heat. Carefully pour 
off clear yellow liquid, leaving foam and 
sediment behind. Toss 3 quarts warm, 
freshly popped corn with clarified butter; 
salt to taste. 

Note: Clarifying concentrates butterfat 
and butter flavor. 


SAVORY POPCORN 


2 quarts warm, freshly popped corn 

Ya cup melted butter 

1 tablespoon seasoning salt 

"Toss popcorn with melted butter, then 
pour into large heavy-plastic bag. Add 
seasoning salt, close bag tightly and shake 
until all popcorn has been coated. (If bag 
is not large enough, divide seasoning and 
do in batches.) 

Note: Seasoning salt can be found on 
the spice shelves of supermarkets. You can 


substitute garlic sali, onion salt, spice 
blends such as lemon-pepper seasoning, 
herb blends—as for pizza, onion flakes, 
laco or other dry seasoning mixes, etc 
Most contain salt, so taste before adding 
more. For a hotter flavor, add chili pow- 
der to taste. 


SMOKY BARBECUE POPCORN 


% cup melted butter 

% teaspoon liquid smoke 

2 quaris warm, freshly popped corn 

1 tablespoon dry barbecue seasoning 

Combine melted butter and liquid 
smoke. Add to popcorn, quickly toss and 
mix well Pour buttered popcorn into 
large heavy-plastic bag; add barbecue sea- 
soning. Close bag tightly and shake until 
popcorn and seasoning are combined. 


CRUNCHY KAHLUA POPCORN 


2 quarts warm, freshly popped corn 

1 cup sugar 

% cup Kahlüa 

% cup light corn syrup. 

М teaspoon salt 

Y cup butter (1 stick) 

2 tablespoons toasted sesame seeds or 

finely chopped nuts 

Spread popcorn in lightly buttered, 
large, shallow baking pan; toast in 300° 
Fahrenheit oven while preparing syrup. 
Combine sugar, Kahlúa, corn syrup and 
salt in 2-quart heavy saucepan. Heat to 


boiling, stirring until sugar is dissolved. 
Cover, turn heat low and cook 3 or 4 min- 
utes to allow steam to dissolve any sugar 
erystals on sides of pan. Uncover, add but- 
ter; cook over moderate heat until mixture 
reaches 300° Fahrenheit—a little syrup 
dropped into cold water will separate into. 
hard, brittle threads. Remove popcorn 
from oven, sprinkle with sesame seeds or 
nuts and slowly pour on syrup, turning 
with large spoon to coat evenly. Return to 
oven for 5 minutes. Transfer to large, 
lightly buttered platter and, when slightly 
cooled, break into chunks. Cool complete- 
ly, then store in tightly covered container. 


CHOCOLATE-FUDGE POPCORN 


2-2% quarts warm, freshly popped 
corn 

6-oz. bag semisweet-chocolate pieces 

24 cup light corn syrup 

Spread popcorn in lightly buttered, 
large, shallow baking pan; toast in a 300° 
Fahrenheit oven for 10 minutes. Lightly 
butter large bowl and set aside. Melt choc- 
olate over hot (not boiling) water. Stir in 
corn syrup. Transfer popcorn to buttered 
bowl; pour melted-chocolate mixture over 
corn and gently toss with 2 forks to coat 
pieces evenly. Spread popcorn in baking 
pan and separate into individual pieces or 
small clusters. Turn pieces occasionally 
until dry on all sides. Chocolaty and 
chewy. 


FRUITY-RED POPCORN 


% cup butter 

Y cup boiling water 

% cup cherry or strawberry gelatin- 

dessert powder (such as Jell-O) 

2 quarts warm, freshly popped corn 

Melt butter in small saucepan. Add 
boiling water and then gradually add gel- 
atin powder, stirring until dissolved. Place 
popcorn in large, warmed bowl. Add fla- 
vor mixture and toss until pieces are well 
coated. Transfer to lightly buttered, large, 
shallow pan. Bake 10 minutes in 250° 
Fahrenheit oven, stir and bake 5 minutes 
longer. Let cool until crisp 


POPCORN PARMIGIANO 


% cup melted butter 

1 teaspoon oregano, crumbled 

2 quarts warm, freshly popped corn 

Y cup grated parmesan cheese 

Salt and freshly ground pepper, to 

taste 

Combîne melted butter and oregano; 
pour over popcorn and toss to mix well. 
Pour popcorn into large heavy-plastic bag. 
Add cheese, salt and pepper. Close bag 
tightly and shake until all the popcorn is 
coated with cheese. 

Having attained the exalted status of 
M.P.—master of popcorn—you're ready 
for better things. So get out your popper, 
invite an appreciative momma—and pop! 


A new 
Shure phono 
cartridge can 


improve your sound 
more than $800 speakers. 


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Shure cartridges put advanced technology at that critical 
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Our exclusive "shock absorber" system compensates 
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If you want to impress your friends, buy new speakers. But 
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You'll hear more from us. 


PSA 
She was a beautiful fugitive. Fleeing from corruption. 


From power. From one man wanting to use her. $E uocat | £3 nn 
He wasa professional athlete past his prime. Ж gum "TUM 
Hired to find her. But instead, grew to love her. (W. ine PS V. Ф 


Love turned to obsession. Obsession turned to murder. 


Апа now the price of freedom might be 
nothing less than theinjives. =” 


RACHEL WARD and JEFF BRIDGES 
IN 
A TAYLOR HACKFORD FILM 


SOMETIMES LOVE IS THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME OF ALL. 


COLUMBIA PICTURES Presents 
RACHEL WARD JEFF BRIDGES JAMES WOODS 
in"AGAINST ALL ODDS” ALEXKARRAS JANE GREER and RICHARD WIDMARK 
Screenplay by ERIC HUGHES Executive Producer JERRY BICK 
Produced by TAYLOR HACKFORD and WILLIAM S. GILMORE A 
Directed by TAYLOR HACKFORD um EEF 


Opens March 2nd at theatres everywhere. 


MAKING IT HAPPEN 


9p ¥ ч J nt 
WHAT'S HAPPENING, WHERE IT'S HAPPENING AND WHO'S 


HABITAT. 
OFF-THE-WALL CLOCKS 


Us not really fair to call them clocks. These time m; English what digital readouts have been beaming at us 
chines are to ordinary clocks what the space shuttle is since the invention of the microchip. Another uses rotating 
to a Frisbee. They tell the time, true, but with such ele Optics to segment a beam of light to indicate hour, minute 
gant tech that your old gold watch is turning green and second. What next? Nuclear-powered sundials? And 
with envy. One tubular timepiece uses the vernacular “a while time is money, most of these clocks are игр! 
quarter past eleven,” etc, to let you know in the reasonable in price. A word to the clockwise is su 


Clockwise from nine: This Lucite-and-brass clock shows the time utilizing a segmented beam of light, by Jerome Simon of BeamO, about 
$1250. Above it: A three-foot-long Word Clock with rotating cylinders, by Muller & Van Dongen Design, $137.50. Time Square, an acry 

and-matte-black-aluminum desk clock, from Kirsch/Hamilton Associates, Boston, $140. The Galaxy Clock, of black metal, brushed 
aluminum and brass, from The Sharper Image, San Francisco, $79. Orb, a Cyclops-style clock, designed by Steve Diskin for Kovacs De- 
sign Group, New York, $70. In the center: Orbichron displays the time via LEDs, resembling an analog timepiece, by Orbichronic, $270. 


NINE 
JUN Lis PASI TE 


RICHARD IZU 


OFFICE 
THE EXECUTIVE JAMES BOND 


he man in the Armani suit glides into your visitor's 
chair and gleams a white smile as he assures you 
that your words will not go beyond the confines of 
your office. Even through the cloud of Eau Sauvage, 
you smell a rat. "Speak freely," says the man. "Confiden- 
tiality is my middle name.” You pause and cordially offer, 


"Won't you have a cigar first? I'm having one." He declines 
and insists, "Trust me" As you reach for your favorite 
smoke, you chuckle—now you know you've caught not 
only a rodent but a bug as well: Your desktop humidor has 
beamed its discreet red light, informing you that an elec- 
tronic eavesdropping device is close by. The rat is bugging 


Below: Talk about executive stress! 
Anyone who needs to tote a brolly cov- 
ered with bullet-resistant Kevlar must 
be catching some heavy corporate 
flak. But if you need it, The Ultimate 
Umbrella is available from ASP, Unltd., 
Atlanta, Georgia, for $900. 


— ———————————————À——————— MÀ— — 


you. Without further ado, you boot him out of your office 
and enjoy your stogie in privacy—your humidor bug detec- 
tor has seen to that. Sound like a spy novel? While the set- 
ting is fictional, the rest is true. This is 1984, and we are on 
the crest of a tidal wave of exotic high-tech security and 
espionage gadgetry. At last count, the market place for spy 
gear edipsed $600,000,000 annually—and that doesn't 
include the Government's spending. Why is this equip- 
ment selling? With a James Bondian arsenal of defensive 


bound to be that much safer. Better yet, the stuff is fun! 
Anyone weaned on Dr. No and Thunderball isn't about to 
light up his Morland specials from a packet of matches 
with DRAW MEI on the cover when he can flick a lighter/ 
camera that will take as many as 36 photos in about the 
time it takes to say Ernst Stavro Blofeld. What's pictured 
here is just the tip of the industrial security/espionage 
iceberg, For a more complete look, there's the softcover 
guide The Complete Spy, which contains enough sneaky stuff 


gear in your home or office, you—and your secrets—are to intrigue even M. —ROBERT MCGARVEY and ELISE CAITLIN 


Right: Ah, J.B., you say this is 
the top-secret formula for 
synthetic Scotch? Mind if I have 
a smoke! Click and the secret 
is yours, thanks to the SC5000 
lighter/camera, from E.S.C, 
New York, $99.95. 


J. VERSER ENGELHARD 


Right: Only you 
and your stogies will 
know if somebody in 

your office is a walking 

bug, as this harmless-looking 
wooden cigar humidor actually 
houses a detector that alerts 
you to the presence of a 
covert transmitter or tape 
recorder, from Law Enforce- 
ment Associates, Belleville, 
New Jersey, $1195. 


Left: Neat- 

ness also 

counts when 

you're de- 

stroying top- 

secret info, and 

there's nothing 

neater than this 

slim-line Ambassa- 

dor A 500 deskside 

shredder that comes equipped with an attached waste- 

basket, by Wilson Jones Company, $945. Right: No 

longer will “The check is in the mail" work after you've 
hooked your phone up to an ESM4000 bar-graph stress E. _ 


monitor that also can be used face to face or con- | F7 ™ 
p: 


—_ 
nected to a recorder, by Research Electronics, $2495. 


Left: If you think President 
Reagan and his black box 
have all the muscle, fake a 
peek inside the Executive 
Communications Security 
System briefcase; its buil 
features include a phone 
scrambler, a bug detector 
and a cassette tape recorder, 
plus more, from LEA, $4995. 
More power to you. 


Bae 


on 


POTPOURRI 


ALL FUCKED UP 
FUCK DIETING, FUCK DEATH, FUCK THE TOOTH FAIRY. 
The Tooth Fairy! Well, Fuck That! Anyway, 
Nancy Batsell’s Fuck Poster expresses our senti- 
ments exactly on everything from Growing Old 
and Parking Regulations to Virginity. And its 
price isn’t going to fuck you over; an unframed 
24” x 20” print costs just $15, postpaid (onc 
framed under Plexiglas is $45), sent to Why Not 
Posters Lid., Р.О. Box 1316, New York 10028. 
How do you say Fuck Thee? Let us count the 
ways. We got to 45 before getting all fucked up. 


UCK DEATH 
Fuck Poverty 

FUCK THIS POSTER 

IU ФЕ УМЕЙ 


E 
I 
a 
7 
т 
rn 
me) 
m 
Po 


Es 
a MS ND муз) 


ТОЧИ! 


FUCK > 
RACISM ` 


SHON UDC 


PARKING REGUL МОХУ sas 


ROLLS KIT AND CABOODLE 


Back in 1934, Rolls-Royce manufactured the 
Torpedo Cabriolet Phantom II for the Maharaja 
of Rajkot. Now, in 1984, Pocher of Turin has 
crafted ѕоте! almost as remarkable—a two- 
foot-long, one-eighth scale replica of the original 
Rolls with an operating crankshaft, steering col- 
umn, brake system, windows, doors, headlights 
and a retractable convertible top. The car comes 
in a kit containing 2905 parts from Executive 
Hobbies, P.O. Box 34, Livingston, New Jersey 
07039, for $449. A lifetime investment. 


WATER MUSIC 
“O Danny boy/the pipes, 
the pipes are calling/from 
goooooork to gluuuuuuush 
and down the mountain 
gegggooooop.” Well, 
what did you think would 
happen when you got 
carried away while sing- 
ing in the shower? Steam 
Press and Kampmann 
Publishing, who created 
The Shower Songbook, 
never claimed it would 
turn you into Robert 
Goulet. But what they do 
offer is a waterproof 
songbook containing 15 
old favorites from Amaz- 
ing Grace to Release Me 
at a price that's also a 
song -only $6.50, post- 
paid, sent to Kampmann, 
9 East 40th Street, New 
York 10016. (Bookstores 
carry it for $4.95.) “ОР 
man river/dat ol’ man 
river/he must know sum- 
‚pin’/but don't say noth- 
in he jus’ keeps rollin'/ 
he keeps on rollin’ 
along.” Patoooooooey! 


STAMPING OUT NEW CITIES 


Who else but the czars would have had the wisdom to create a 
city skyline perfect for putting on rubber stamps? The Belgians, 
of course. And anyone who has always wanted to reproduce 
onion-domed edifices, turreted bridges and other funky European 
architecture can purchase Latex Luxembourg (pictured above) or 
Rubber Russia from Elbow Grease, P.O. Box 25056, Richmond, 
Virginia 23260. Latex Lux ($44, postpaid) contains 11 structures; 
Rubber Russia ($40) has ten. Buy both and go to war! 


DOLLARS AND SCENTS 


Charles of the Ritz has just introduced 
"the next frontier in home entertain- 
ment," the Aromance Aroma Disc 
System. For $20, you get a fragrance dif- 
fuser that "plays" dozens of pint-sized 
fragrance records, including Country 
Moods, Tailgate Lunch, Seduction and 
University Club. (The last smells like a 
leather armchair. Talk about stinking 
rich!) Where do you find an Aroma Sys- 
tem? Just drop by your nearest depart- 
ment store and follow your nose. 


THE ROBUTLER DID IT | 


The two things a RoButler won't do аге 
raid your liquor cabinet and borrow the. 
keys to your car. So for $50, you've got a 
little remote-controlled silent servant that 
will serve hors d'oeuvres, deliver the 
cordless phone or pass around after-din- 
ner brandy and cigars. Designsense, P.O. 
Box 13011, Atlanta, Georgia 30324, is 
the manufacturer. We'd like to sce a ver- 
sion that does windows and dusts books. 


CONFECTIONARY 
CAMEOS 


If you’ve always wanted to be 
immortalized under aspic or 
carved in marzipan but couldn’t 
come up with a food sculptor 

to do the culinary deed, here's 
the next best thing. Chocolate 
Photos, 200 West 57th Street, 
Suite 1106, New York 10019, 
will transfer a snapshot onto a 
piece of delicious dark or milk 
chocolate, creating a toothsome 
portrait that —to paraphrase the 
punch line of an old joke—looka 
so good you can eat it yourself. 
"The Grande Box of 24 bite-sized 
pieces is a mouth-watering $38, 
postpaid. Is there anything that. 
Chocolate Photos won't dare 
"print"? We're not about to tell. 


JACK—IN THE BOX 


“Dangerously delicious caramel 
glazed nut clusters and popcorn 
with a treasure of a gem in every 
single box and a riddle whose so- 
lution will yield a $10,000 dia- 
mond!!!” reads the copy on the 
cover of a box of Diamond Jacks. 
And if you can stop munching 
long enough to dig for the gem or 
iry to solve the puzzle, you just 
may enrich your wallet as well as 
your palate. A 16-02. box of Dia- 
mond Jacks will set you back 
$14.95 sent to Hot Rocks, P.O. 
Box 10122, Chicago 60610. They 
also claim that there's a $1000 
diamond in one out of cvery 2000 
boxes. Great munchies and dia- 
monds! How can you go wrong? 


LAST OF THE 
MOHAWKINS 


This past Halloween, every 
other kid on the block was 
made up like Mr. T. Now 
two West Coast hair stylists, 
David Windsor and Carlo 
Bulgari, of Fabulous Faces, 
233 Grant Avenue, San Fran- 
cisco 94108, have really 
wigged out and created a Mr. 
Teeeeeee hairpiece. Although 
its price is a bit on the hairy 
side (860), you also get a 
feathered earring—and they'll 
dye your Mohawk any color 
from banker gray to titty pink. 
‘They even have one that’s a 
study in brown that you can 
wear to a mecting of the James 
Fenimore Cooper Society. 


201 


LIGHTS 
wi 


3 
r 


" 
-— 
m | 


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


— — — ROVING EYE 


s of Barbarella but remember 
its opening, as well as the scene with 
the orgasmatron. Devotees of Brooke 
Shields slobber over video 
Pretty Baby. Thelatest entry i 
is Night School, a gem of a horror film 
that first hit the theaters in 1981. It 
marked the screen debut of Rachel 
Ward, certainly one of the world-class 
women of our time. If the Japanese had 


showed up, and the rest is 
Reynolds saw the film and signed her for 
Sharky's Machine. Steve Marlin asked 
her to star in Dead Men Don't Wear 
Plaid, in which she sucks bullets and has 
her breasts adjusled. Those parts led to a 
major role in TV's The Thorn Birds. The 
producers of Night School have chosen 
to rereleas spring. Film buffs will 
recognize the tribute to Alfred Hitchcock 
in the scene shown here. Rachel plays a 
student in love with a professor of anthro- 
pology. He surprises her in the shower 
and dabs make-up blood over her body 


any sense, they would give computers her voice. Night School had as a prelude to passion. И must work. Rachel's character is so in love 
originally been cast with D.D. Winters. When she left the set, the pro- — with the professor that she is insanely jealous ví any woman he looks 
ducers held an open casting call in New York. Ward, who hitherto had You can also catch Rachel soon in a new film, Against All Odds, 

ith Jeff Bridges and James Woods. As you can see, the lady is hot. 


GRAPEVINE 


Acting Out 


What do a couple of attractive actresses 
do for laughs on a slow night? Hang out. 
BEVERLY D'ANGELO and LAUREN HUT- 
TON are doing just that in the parking lot 
of an upscale LA. restaurant. So sorry, no 
glitz this time, folks. 


Gold Metalists 


Didn't someone once say, “Never underestimate the taste of the American public"? We 
don't. On the left, CARLOS CAVAZO and KEVIN DU BROW of Quiet Riot; on the right, 
ROBIN ZANDER of Cheap Trick. Zander is decked out for Trick's / Can't Take It video. 
Quiet Riot reached the top of the charts last winter, proving to us that you don't need a 
plane to break the sound barrier. Eat your heart out, Chuck Yeager. 


Diving for Dollars Y * 
Thal's photographer/film maker DAVID HAMILTON in the 
background, checking out the form of his latest discovery, 
MONIKA BROEKE. She asked him for an autograph last 
year in St-Tropez, and the rest is history. Their movie, First 
Desire, should be in a theater near you by now. 


The Heather Report 
Thank God for Battle of the Network 
Stars! It's one of our favorite TV shows. 
The totally gorgeous HEATHER 
THOMAS, The Fall Guy's girl, takes a 
break in the competition with JILL 
WHELAN of The Love Boat. And we get 
to watch. 


к”. 
‹ sn > 
Making Up Is Hard to Do 
We don't know about you, but we're 
endlessly fascinated by ANNIE LEN- 
NOX. Her look and her looks, her 
voice, her outfits, her videos—the whole 


bit. From what we've read, she's thought 
it out carefully. Sweet dreams, baby. 


This Blonde's for You 


Starlet ERIKA DOCKRAY can soon be seen in a creature feature called Hell Hole. She does 
not play the creature! We've always thought pearls go well with basic black, don't you? 
Erika is our celebrity-in-the-making breast of the month. 


BUY DIRECT FROM MANUFAC- 
TURER, SENSUOUSLY SOFT, NO 
SNAG FINISH SATIN SHEETS, 
MACHINE WASH AND DRY, SEAM- 
LESS, NO IRONING, IN B COLORS. 
SET INCLUDES: FLAT SHEET, FITTED 
SHEET, AND 2 MATCHING PILLOW 
CASES. 


CALL NOW (ORDERS ONLY) 


TOLL FREE 1-800-428-7825 ext. 15 
IN CALIF. 1-800-428-7824 ext. 15 


Visa, Mastercharge, or American Ex- 
press number and expiration date, or 


SEND CHECK DR MDNEY DRDER TD: 


KARESS 


18653 VENTURA BLVD., SUITE 325 
TARZANA, CA 91356 


COLORS 
D Twin Set $29.00 О Black 
О Full Set $39.00 О Brown 
[D Queen Set $46.00 (2 Burgundy 
O King Set $53.00 [ Champagne 
LJ Waterbed Set $68.00 [J Red 
(specify size) [ Light Blue 
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on 2 cases $4.00 E) Lavender 
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ALL MAJOR CREDIT CARDS ACCEPTED. 
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Add 62% Sales Tax for California Residents 


NEXT MONTH: 


VIOLENCE DOODAZZE — MISTRESS 


“THE METHOD VS. THE FAST BALL”—WHEN YOU'RE A WORLD- 
CLASS ACTOR SIGNED TO PORTRAY A PRO BALLPLAYER, IT'S EASY 
TO LEARN HOW TO CHAW. HITTING A SCREAMER IS SOMETHING 
ELSE AGAIN—BY ROY SCHEIDER 


JOAN COLLINS TALKS ABOUT HER LUSTY PAST, HER PROMISING 
FUTURE AND WHAT SHE REALLY THOUGHT ABOUT POSING FOR 
YOUR FAVORITE MAGAZINE IN A JUICY PLAYBOY INTERVIEW 


“THE DEVIL AND DOODAZZLE DAKINS"—URGED ON BY A BEAUTI- 
FUL JINNI NAMED YVONNE, AN ACE BASKETBALL PLAYER MATCHES 
WITS WITH LUCIFER—BY WALTER LOWE, JR. 


"THE MIND OF A NEW MACHINE"—WILL COMPUTERS EVER OUT- 
THINK HUMAN BEINGS, OR IS ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE DUMB? 
LET US INTRODUCE YOU TO BORIS, ELIZA AND PROSPECTOR. A 
HARD LOOK AT ULTIMATE SOFTWARE—BY LEE GOMES 


*THE VIOLENCE THAT FINDS US"—A REFLECTIVE ESSAY ON WHY 
SOME PEOPLE SEEM DESTINED TO COMMIT MAYHEM AND OTHERS 
TO ATTRACT IT WILLY-NILLY, FROM A GUY WHO CERTAINLY OUGHT 
TO KNOW—HARRY CREWS 


“MISTRESS”—FABULOUS PHOTOS BY ONE OF FRANCE'S FORE- 
MOST MASTERS OF THE CAMERA, JEAN-FRANCOIS JONVELLE 


*PLAYMATES FOREVER! PART TWO"—YOU ASKED FOR IT, SO 
HERE IT IS AGAIN: NEW UNCOVERAGE OF A DOZEN UNFORGET- 
TABLE GATEFOLD GIRLS, INCLUDING. DONNA MICHELLE AND 
MARILYN COLE 


MARTIN MULL REVEALS WHY HE DOESNT LIKE TO BEND OVER IN 
A MIND-BOGGLING “20 QUESTIONS” 


ГЕФ | 
GEN 

(і $ A PS 
б = EN 4 
ES | 


No other Canadian feels 
as smooth as Black Velvet. 
Premium. Imported. 


m яу DAVID WEE. 


BLACKVELVET* BLÉNDEDCANADUAN WHISKY. BOPROOF IMPORTED BY c 1984 HELIBLE: 


E 


The pleasure is back. 


w 
ma 
Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined 99% і > 
That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health. 0 ar n ec.