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PLAYBILL 


A JANUARY ISSUE Of PLAYBOY is always big. This one’s smart, 100. 
You'll discern the sweet reason of William F. Buckley, Jr., in Rede- 
fining Smart, a Nautilus program for the mind. Sagely illustrated 
by Robert Giusti, Buckley's think piece suggests that the age of the 
Renaissance man is over but the eternal verities remain. Among 
them are equal justice under law, baseball and changing Ameri- 
can sexuality, examined this month in Freaks and the American 
Ideal of Manhood, by another great thinker, James Baldwin. 

If Jacksonian androgyny is the order of the day, what's to 
come next? In our line-up, it’s the perfectly feminine Goldie 
Hawn, Laugh-In girl turned superstar. “Any preconceptions I 
might have had about interviewing a giggle-voiced, dafly blonde 
were dispelled the moment I met her,” says Lawrence Grobel, 
whose Playboy Interview with Goldie covers her days as a go-go 
dancer, her relationship with actor Kurt Russell and her life as one 
of a mere handful of “bankable” female stars. 

There are plenty of bankable women in music. You'll sec a lot 
of them in The Girls of Rock n’ Roll. Rock's better half has never 
been stripped down so well, thanks to Contributing Photogra- 
pher Ken Marcus, West Coast Photo Editor Marilyn Grabowski and 
Assistant Photo Editor Patty Beaudet. 

Our holiday fiction rocks, too. You'll never forget You Must 
Remember This, in which Robert Coover recounts what probably 
happened that one bed-rocking night Rick and Ilsa spent 
together in Casablanca. Elmore Leonard's Glitz, an excerpt from 
his forthcoming Arbor House novel, finds a cop on leave in 
Puerto Rico being trailed by a vengeful con. And in One for His 
Lordship, and One for the Road!, illustrated by Charles Bragg, mas- 
ter fantasist Ray Bradbury bellies up to the bar with the tale of an 
olde Irish lord and his disloyal opposition. Sex, revenge and 
booze—what more could you ask for the holidays? 

How about The Joys of Success? Los Angeles Magazine's Jean 
Penn asked Gore Vidal, Tom Brokaw, ad wizard Joe Sedelmaier and 
other celebs what makes them feel they've reached the top. With 
а wildly successful illustration by John O'Leary, this feature may 
give spoils a good name. 

The joys of sex may depend on girl density—a principle stud- 
ied at length by Seth Rochlin and George Van Hoomissen. “George 
and I traveled to 52 girls’ schools," Rachlin told us. “Girls would 
ask us what we were doing there. “We ran out of gas’ worked well, 
but “We're writing a book about women's colleges’ got skeptical 
glares.” All skepticism aside, girls, the book will be published by 
Crown as Where the Girls Are Today, and the authors have adapted 
some of its juiciest info for this month's special pLaygov chart. 

Veteran hell-raiser Larry 1. King bemoans the new asceticism in 
Wholesome Blues. Asked about his next project, King sá 
never plan more than two hours ahead, though I am th 
about becoming king ol England.” 

In Fathers, Sons, Blood, Horry Crews (shown here with his son 
Byron) explores the trials and treasures of fatherhood, while 
Morris’ The Women and Dogs in My Life spotlights other essentials. 
“J felt that great women and dogs have been central to my life,” 
says Morris. “This is my way of thanking them all.” Trust us, 
Ms. Steinem—Morris is no sexist. 

Diane Lane is sexy, though. We sent Gontributin; 
Rensin to ask her 20 Questions; the 19-year-old actr 
perfect score. Our 
Playboy's Bloopers, Boners and F**k-Ups is sexy and fi 
Patrick Nagel is a tribute to a fine PLAYBOY artist who died tra; 
cally last year (a scholarship fund in his name is being set up by 
the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena). Don't miss Dan 
Jenkins’ great new Sports column; Miss January, Joan Bennett, 
limning the City of Light in the center of the magazine; or The 
Spirit of '85, fashion predictions from four of the world's leading 
designers. Then there's The Eleventh-Hour Santa, a last-minute- 
gift directory, the Playboy Guide to Holiday Entertaining and 
more. But we're out of breath. 


Editor David 


BRADBURY 


wi- 


LEONARD END O'LEARY 


MORRIS 


PLAYBOY. 


vol. 32, no. 1—january, 1985 CONTENTS FOR THE MEN'S ENTERTAINMENT MAGAZINE 
o AAA * 5 
DEAR PLAYBOY 13 
PLAYBOY AFTER HOURS .................................................. 19 


. ASA BABER 47 
. CYNTHIA HEIMEL 49 
. CRAIG VETTER 51 


AGAINST THE WIND . 


THE PLAYBOY ADVISOR 53 
DEAR PLAYMATES. 6 
65 
7 
REDEFINING SMART-artice 505 94 
THE GIRLS OF ROCK ‘N’ ROLL—; 98 


FATHERS, SONS, ВІООр-агіісіе. ................... . HARRY CREWS 110 
THE ELEVENTH-HOUR SANTA-— gifts. . .. . 
WHOLESOME BLUES—article 
YOU MUST REMEMBER THIS—fiction 
THE SPIRIT OF 'B5—attire 
THE WOMEN AND DOGS IN MY LIFE—mem 


.. LARRY L KING 116 
. ROBERT COOVER 122 
.. HOLLIS WAYNE 124 
. WILLIE MORRIS 128 


THE JOYS OF SUCCESS............ ........ compiled by JEAN PENN 132 
AMERICAN IN PARIS—ployboy's planets ова еее 134 
PLAYBOY'S PARTY JOKES—humor ................................. 148 


FREAKS AND THE AMERICAN IDEAL OF MANHOOD—essoy. ... JAMES BALDWIN 150 
20 QUESTIONS: DIANE LANE .. . 

GLITZ fiction .............. 
PLAYBOY'S BLOOPERS, BONERS AND к“ K-UPS—pictorial......-.............. 156 
ONE FOR HIS LORDSHIP, AND ONE FOR THE ROAD!—fiction .... RAY BRADBURY 162 
PATRICK NAGEL—tribute 
WHERE THE GIRLS ARE . SETH КАСНИМ and GEORGE VAN HOOMISSEN 172 
THAT WAS THE YEAR THAT WAS—humor. TOM KOCH 178 
PLAYBOY'S PLAYMATE REVIEW—pictorial . 
PLAYBOY FUNNIES—humor. 
PLAYBOY GUIDE: HOLIDAY ENTERTAINING. А TIT 
BERNARD AND HUEY—satire.......... B JULES FEIFFER 231 
LITTLE ANNIE FANNY—satire. .. . “HARVEY. KURTZMAN ond WILL ELDER 279 
PLAYBOY ON THE SCENE ... 


Success Stories 


French Postcards 


COVER STORY That bubbly blonde in the champagne glass is the intoxicat- 
ing Goldie Hawn. Our cover was shot by Contributing Photographer Arny 
Freytag, produced by West Coast Photo Editor Marilyn Grabowski and fea- 
tures hair styling by José Eber of Maurice José, Beverly Hills, and moke-up 
by Armando Cosio. Goldie's Playboy Interview begins on page 71. Cheers! 


GENERAL OFFICES: pavor ашыш, из NORTH MEHAN AVE.. CHICAGO, OH 6O81). RETURN POSTAGE MUST ACCOMPANY ALL AAC. DRAWINGS AND MO TOCA SUDMITTED Y THEY AME TO BE 
‘on UNSOLICITED Mi ¿Cocer PURPOSES 


PLAYBOY 


HUGH M. HEFNER 
editor and publisher 


NAT LEHRMAN associate publisher 


ARTHUR KRETCHMER editorial director 
TOM STAEBLER ar! director 
GARY COLE photography director 
С. BARRY GOLSON executive editor 


EDITORIAL 

AMES MORGAN articles editor; ков 
FLEDER senior editor; FICTION: ALICE K. TURNER 
editor; TERESA GROSCH associale editor; PLAYBOY 
GUIDES: MAURY Z LEVY editor; WEST СОАУ 
STEPHEN RANDALL editor; STAFF: WILLIAM у 
HELMER. GRETCHEN MCNEESE. PATRICIA PAPANG 
Lis (administration), DAVID STEVENS senior edi- 
lors; ROBERT E. CARR, WALTER LOWE. JR. JAMES R 
PETERSEN, JOHN REZEK senior staff writers; KEVIN 
COOK, BARBARA NELLIS. KATE NOLAN. J. E. O'CON 
NOR, SUSAN MARGOLIS WINTER (пеш york) associale 
editors; DAVID NIMMONS, MONA PLUMER assisi- 
ant editors; MODERN LIVING: ED WALKER associ- 
ate editor; JIM BARKER assistant editor; FASHION: 
HOLLIS WAYNE editor; HOLLY BESDERUY assistant edi 
for; CARTOONS: MICHELLE URRY editor; COPY: 
ARLENE BOURAS edifor; JOYCE RUMIN assis- 
аш editor; NANCY BANKS, CARON BROWNE 
PHILLIP COOPER, JACKIE JOHNSON, MARCY MAR 
CHI, MARY ZION researchers; CONTRIBUTING 
EDITORS: ASA BABER, STEPHEN MIRSBAUM (fravel), 
JOHN BLUMENTHAL, E. JEAN CARROLL. LAURENCE 
GONZALES, LAWRENCE GROBEI. D. KEITH MANO, ANSON 
MOUNT, PETER ROSS RANGE, DAVID RENSIN, RICHARD 
RHODES, JOHN SACK. TONY SCHWARTZ, DAVID STAND. 
ISH. BRUCE WILLIAMSON (Movies), GARY WITZENBURG 


2 Ф ART 
KERIG POPE managing director; CHET SUSKI, LEN 
Befittinel Рае 
KOUVATSOS. SKIP WILLIAMSON associate directors; 


JOSEPH PACZEK assistant director; FRANK LINDNER 
ANN SEIDL. CRAIG SMITH art assistants; SUSAN 


® 
Beefe ater. HOLMSTROM traffic: coordinator: BARBARA. НОР 
. Man administrative manager 


PHOTOGRAPHY 
MARILYN GRABOWSKI west coast editor; JEFF COMES 
senior editor; LINDA KENNEY, JAMES LARSON. JANICE 
MOSES. MICHAEL ANS SULLIVAN associate editors; 
PATTY REAUDET assistant edilor; POMPEO POSAR Sen- 
ior staff photographer: DAVID MECEY, KERRY MORRIS 
staff photographers; DAVID CHAN. RICHARD FEGLEY 
ARNY FREYTAG, RICHARD IZUL LARRY 1. LOGAN, KEN 
MARCUS, STEPHEN wavDA contributing photogra- 
hers; JANE FRIEDMAS, PATRICIA TOMLINSON stylist; 
JAMES WARD color lab supervisor; ROBERT CHELIUS 


PRODUCTION 
JONN MASTRO director; MARIA MANDIS manager: 
ELEANORE WAGNER. JODY JURGETO, RICHARD 
QUARTAROL assistants 


READER SERVICE 
CYNTHIA LACEY-SIKICH manager 


CIRCULATION 
RICHARD SMITH director; NIVIN WIEMOLD subscrip 
lion manager 


. = 
Banc Burma уп London End ADVERTISING 


CHARLES M. STENTIFORD director 


ADMINISTRATIVE 
JF riw DOLMAN assistant publisher: MARCIA 


BEEFEATER GIN. me ا‎ 
The Gift of Excellence. PLAYBOY ENTERPRISES, INC. 


CHRISTIE HEFNER president 


To send a gift of Beefeater anywhere, phone 800-238-4373. Void where prohibited. 


1 D JTKUS DANNY 
Organized crime has never been this disorganized! 


8 mg "tar. 0.6 mg nicotine av. per cigarette, by FTC method - N 

x отер arete melo JE NER, 
‘ SECS MG Ea NN N NON 
KA м УХ A " x . ^ 


available in 
Soft pack. 


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


© 1984 Toyota Motor Sales. USA. Inc. 


Cut across rock-strewn gorges. 
Kick through sand that used to hold you 
back. Pound your way through places 
you always thought were impossible. 

The new 1985 Toyota 4x4 has a 24 
liter engine, me most powerful engine 

A y, ever built for a 
truck of its 


snorting horses 
c^ f will take you where 
you want to go without working up a 
sweat. How? Its all-new computer- 
controlled Electronic Fuel Injection 


always feeds 'em when they're hungry. 


Exactly what they need. 

Built like a tank, this feisty 4x4 
boasts wide, rugged P225/75R15 tires, 
and pounds along because it can take 


a pounding. For the lofty spirit in you 
that wants to get above it all, you get 
the highest running ground clearance 
in its class. So you'll ride high over the 


OH WHAT A FEELING! 


obstacles—not into them. 

Its double-wall bed construction is 
matched with solid steel skid plates 
under the transfer 
case and fuel tank. Its 
suspension system 
with solid front-and- 
rear axles has been 
proven off-road for 
reliability and durability. 

Ask around. Toyota 
owners reported the lowest. N 
incidence of repairs for any small truck— 


you, there is full, rich carpeting and an 
УМРА sound system that'll 
«floor you. With this 4x4 SR5 
XTRACAB you get extra 
ES space behind the 
. seats and automatic 
_ locking front hubs, 
so you can change 
from 2WD to 4WD on 
command from the 
comfort of the cab. Get one. 
“Cause there are mountains waiting. 


imported or domestic" 
For the creature comfort needs in 


© 1884 J.D. Power Compact Pickup Truck Survey. 


TOYOTA TRUCKS. MOST POWERFUL EVER! 


THE 1985 TOYOTA 4X4 SRS. 
GO BERT UP A MOUNTAIN. 


DEAR PLAYBOY 


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


LETTERMAN’S CLUB 
Thank you for the October Playboy 
Interview with David Letterman. I am 
impressed with Letterman's honesty, 
unique humor and sardonic wit. He is a 
class performer without the inflated sense 
of self-importance that most entertainers 
have. Again, thanks for an enjoyable /nter- 
view with a truly nice guy 
Doug Keil 
‘Tucson, Arizona 


Your overwhelmingly delightful Playboy 
Interview with David Letterman left us 
with three thoughts: We know him, we 
love him and we can’t live without him. 

Т. Gary Gambardella 
David Minicozzi 
Springfield, Massachusetts 


I really enjoyed Sam Merrill's Interview 
with David Letterman. I felt as if I were 
right there doing the Interview myself. 1 
would have asked one more question, 
though: “David, was it your past beer da; 
or some other occurrence that caused 
those awful bags under your eyes?” 

Vince Kelly 
Redondo Beach, California 


SHARING UNIQUENESS 

My reactions to E. Jean Carroll's When 
Real Men Meet Real Women (PLAYBOY, 
October)—about the weekend event Jerry 
Lipkin and I created three years ago 
and now cofacilitate—were sadness and 
outrage at what seems to me a sen- 
sationalized, distorted view of what hap- 
pens at our weekends, We have no 
answers. We preach no dogma. We do, 
however, share our philosophy of androg- 
yny, the belief that men and women have 
the same full range of human capacities 
from emotion to reason, intuition to intel- 
lect; it’s only gender programing that 
keeps us from our full humanity. Our 
weekends (and subsequent follow-up 
activities) make it fun and casy for men 
and women to make friends with them- 
selves and one another so as to support 


and encourage one another at work, at 
home and in bed. While issues of sex are 
discussed, they are a small part of the 
whole (and certainly are not dealt with as 
portrayed in Carroll's article). There are 
films, journal exercises and explorations of 
everything from parents to progr: 
personal goals. The weekends begi 
day evening with about 80 indivi 
aged 16 to 78—from every walk of life. 
All are interested in personal growth, 
improved relationships and meeting new 
fricnds. Saturday, with men and women in 
separate groups, they begin friendships by 
sharing laughter, insights and occasional 
tears. Sunday is a day best described as 
indescribable. We know Real Men/Real 
Women is bridging many gaps by bringing 
men and women of all ages and back- 
grounds together in a spirit of increased 
understanding and appreciation of how 
we're all so much alike yet unique 
Maria Arapakis 
Creator and Facilitator 
Real Men/Real Women 
Oakland, California 


CAPED CRUSADERS 

The new addition to рілувоу, Playboy 
Editorial, is the perfect complement to the 
perfect magazine. “The Indecent 
sade” (October) is a classic, and the last 
two sentences say it all. Thank goodness 
we do have a choice. Lll take the Elvis 
records, too. 


John O'Brien 
Scousdale, Arizona 


UPRIGHT PROGRAMING 

While sailing off the coast of Nova 
Scotia, 1 became intrigued by the numer- 
ous satellite dishes that were visible along 
the coast. After docking at one of the many 
quaint fishing villages along our route, 1 
began to converse with a fisherman's 
daughter. Our talk soon drifted to the 
ubiquitous satellite dishes, She told me 
that there were two satellites to train 
upon, one of which offered The Playboy 
Channel. She also mentioned, with a sly 


fhe home robot. 


HERO JR. will wake you in 
the mérning, guard your 
home at njght, remind you 
of your appointments for 
the week, and entertaih 
your family throughout the 
day with engaging small 
talk, songs, poems, games 
...even strolls around 
the house. 

Introduce your family to 
the wonders of robotic 
living...for less than the 
cost of a computer. For the 
name of your nearest 
dealer, 


‘Call for HERO JR 
at 1-800-253-0570" 


Ask for operator 9 
(In Michigan, call 616-982-3454) 


Heath/Zenith 


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grin, that one can always tell which house- 
hold is watching The Playboy Channel by 
observing the angle of the antennas. It 
turned out that those watching The 
Playboy Channel had their antennas 
pointing to the heavens at a more erect 
angle. Just thought you'd like to know 
Ronald B. Orr 
Brookline, Massachusetts 


RANDOM NOTE 
Shirley MacLaine told your interviewer 

(PLAYBOY, September) that I thought her 
book Out on a Limb wouldn't sell and 
therefore didn’t want to publish it, but 
that isn't true. 1 had no idea how well it 
would sell, though I thought that it might 
sell very well, indeed. But 1 didn’t want to 
publish it whether or not it sold. I turned it 
down because in a fragile democracy, one 
should not treat one’s fellow citizens as 
fools and that is what 1 would have had to 
do, in my opinion, if I had published 
Shirley's story of her serial reincarnations 
and her thoughts on extraterrestrial com- 
munication. 

Jason Epstein, Vice-President 

Random House 

New York, New York 


CIRCLE IN THE SQUARE 
Wonderful picture of Gloria Steinem in 
the October Grapevine. While you com- 
ment on her shape, you fail to mention the 
greatest asset to the photograph—the 
square Band-Aid covering Gloria’s nipple. 
Is true feminism dead? 
Bo Overlock 
New York, New York 


Either Gloria Steinem has a square 
areola or she’s wearing a Band-Aid. Did 
Phyllis Schlafly bite her? 
Stan Patrick 
Trinidad, California 
It's а Band-Aid —a modest touch. Let's not 
be catty. 


WHITE LIGHTNING 

We at NIDA think Laurence Gonzales’ 
Cocaine: A Special Report (pLavpoy, Sep- 
tember) is useful in informing your readers 
about the risk of harm from cocaine use 
In attempting to summarize complex data, 
however, one is always forced to empha- 
size certain aspects of the findings. Over 
the years, some have chosen to convey to 
the public the impression that the data as 
to the dangers of drugs such as cocaine 
and marijuana are ambiguous; ergo, these 
drugs are safe. Such reasoning may be par- 
tially responsible for the current wide- 
spread use of cocaine. In any case, we take 
a conservative stance and emphasize the 
possibility or likelihood of harmful effects 
when the data support such a possibility. 
We know that many Americans have tried 
cocaine without known harmful effects. 
We also know that a significant propor- 
tion of those who start out as experi- 
menters with cocaine progress to intensified 
or compulsive use, with serious adverse 


DUARTE AND MACMICHAEL 


President José Napoleon Duarte of 
El Salvador charges in November's 
Playboy Interview that Nicaragua is the 
aggressor in El Salvador because it pro- 
vides the weapons for the F.M.L.N 
Since early 1981, there has been no 
proof of such Nicaraguan involvement. 
El Salvador's own military-intelligence 
files, examined in March 1984 by Allen 
Nairn, contain no evidence to support 
that charge. Duarte’s motive for mak- 
ing it lies in his well-rewarded collabo- 
ration with the Reagan Administration 
After all, the C.I.A. paid for his presi- 
dential campaign. 

As to his comments about me, my 
visits to Nicaragua—including cotton 
picking—make me more, rather than 
less, credible. I am nota liar. 1 say only 
that from March 1981 to April 1983, 
while I was in the C.LA., I did not see 
verifiable evidence of the so-called 
arms flow from Nicaragua. Wayne 
Smith, former head of the U.S. Interest 
Section in Havana, also asked to see 
this evidence and found that it did not 
exist. If the U.S. or the Salvadoran gov- 
ernment has credible evidence, let it 
make that evidence public and I will 
shut up. 

Iam not a Marxist; however, I cannot 
help contrasting “Marxist” Nicaragua, 
where the only atrocities are carried 
out by the contras—the so-called free- 
dom fighters—with EI Salvador, 
where, under the two “democratic” 
regimes over which Duarte has pre- 
sided, it is the U.S.-aided government 
forces that have astonished the civilized 
world by their use of state terror, bru- 
tality and random slaughter. 

Alas, no one is paying me to say that 
the arms flow is a fiction. I have lived 
56 years without seeking public atten- 
tion and would rather not have to 
expose myself to the media now. As for 
resentment at losing my job, I will say 
only that by my current action, I have 
denied myself the well-remunerated 
independent research contracts with 
the C.I.A. that were offered to me after 
the expiration of my two years of serv- 
ice with the National Intelligence 
Council. 

President Duarte, who has never met 
me, has no basis for his charges against 
me. His own cooperation over the past 
four years with the very forces in El 
Salvador that once tortured and exiled 
him and have carried out, under his 
auspices, a campaign of terror that has 
taken the lives of at least ten U.S 
citizens—not to mention those of 


50,000 of his fellow Salvadorans— 

makes him far less credible than I 
David Macmichael 
New York, New York 


The freedom 0 be your best. 


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© 1981 Pentax Corporation. 


PLAYBOY 


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consequences. None of those who have be- 
come addicted had planned to or believed 
they would. Moreover, we do not currently 
have information that would allow us to 
predict who is at risk and who isn’t. The 
only safe conclusion, therefore, is to avoid 
cocaine—not because one use will damage 
your brain but because one use may lead 
to the next, down a path toward what may 
be the cruelest of all addictions. 

Jack Durell, M.D 
Associate Director for Science 
ational Institute on Drug Abuse 
Rockville, Maryland 


FRIGID FOOD 
In Praise of Frozen Food (р.лувох, Octo- 
ber), by Stephen Randall, is delightful. 
The illustration, by Sandra Hendler, had 
me running to the freezer. Now that frozen 
food is getting the recognition it deserves, 
“Heat and serve” will be the motto for the 
Eighties! 
Marshall Hanson 
Troy, New York 


HEAVY MEDAL 

If they give medals for photography, 
Pompeo Posar deserves a gold for his lay- 
out on Miss October, Debi Nicolle 


Johnson, Compared with the more overt 


sexuality of your usual 18- or 19-year-old 
Playmates, the exquisite Miss Johnson's is 
a welcome combination of beauty, intelli- 
gence and mature sensuousness. 


‘Thomas Schultz 
St. Louis, Missouri 


1 

Playmate of the Year was going to be since 

1979. Miss Johnson is my pick for 1985. 
Todd Alfiers 
Riverside, California 


е correctly guessed who every 


BUT FEWER FOXES 
I thought you would be more flattered 
than threatened to see how the Minnesota 
Zoo is attempting to increase its gate at 
your expense. Although the zoo may, 
indeed, feature more leg than your publi- 
cation, it can hardly top м.лувоу “bear for 
bare” in my book 
Frank Hawthorne, Jr 
Rochester, Minnesota 
We are flattered, Frank, though we're a lit- 


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To send a gift of Cutty Sark anywhere in the ., call 1-800-BE-THE Void where prohibited 


Cutty Sark. You earned it. 


PLAYBOY AFTER HOURS 


HEAVY WEATHER 

When Boston city councilman Albert 1. 
O'Neil appeared on Dick Sinnott's phone- 
in radio talk show, the topic was “all kinds 


of abortions” being performed at Boston 
City Hospital. O'Neil told a woman caller 
that he was very upset about it and would 
launch an investigation, declaiming, “I'll 
get to the bottom of this. May lightning 
strike me dead if | don't." 

Lightning struck immediately, hitting 
transformer and knocking O'Neil and the 
station off the air 


. 

A rough day for Jerry's kids: The Mus- 
cular Dystrophy Fun Day celebration in 
East Haddam, Connecticut, included 
“drag races.” 


. 
If you doubt that things move at a mel- 
lower pace down South, peruse the follow- 
ing flash from the Arkansas Democrat: 
“SISTERS REUNITED AFTER 18 YEARS IN CHE 
OUT LINE AT SUPERMARKET.” 
. 

When Minneapolis vice officers con- 
ducted a sweep of prostitutes, they netted 
more than 100 Johns—including a fellow 
police officer. Lieutenant Roger Brown, 
however, was most impre: 


d by the num- 


ber of men his vice unit picked up during 
You wouldn't imagine the 


the operation. 
volume of pcople out looking for prostitu- 
he said. "Wc had people coming 
every five minutes.” 
. 
Well, It's Sort of Like a Taco Department: 
We liked this headline in the Griffin, Geor- 


tion,” 


gia. Daily News: “WOMAN DESCRIBES SNATCH.” 


JIZZ WONDERFUL! 


A French court has cleared the way fora 


r-old widow to receive the sperm of 
her late husband. Alain Parpallaix suf- 
fered from cancer of the testicles and so 
de deposits in a sperm bank during the 


time he was courting his wife-to-be, 
Corinne. After his death, Madame tried to 
get the sperm, but the bank gave her the 
withdrawal slip, contending that it had no 
written instructions from her husband to 


let her have it. But a court has ordered that 
the sperm be released to a doctor of Ma- 
dame Parpallaix's choice. “This makes me 
a happy woman,” gushed Madame. “I 
can now realize the dearest of my desires, 
to have Alain’s baby. I thank justice and 
my lawyers." We think she should have at 
least given Monsicur Parpallaix a fair 
shake, too. 


THE CHINA SYNDROME 
China's Communist Party, which is 
encouraging people over 30 to marry, is 
telling prospective bridegrooms not to be 
so picky about marriage candidates. 
“Almost all the men insist that their wives 
have the face of an actress, the figure of an 


athlete, the attitude of a waitress, the voice 


of an announcer and the culinary skills of 
chef,” Peking's People's Daily said in a 
commentary. “This can only be found in 
some dreamworld.” We guess when it 
comes to dreamworlds, you either dim sum 
or lose some. 


DEMOCRACY IN ACTION 
“HUSBAND BEATS REPUBLICAN WIFE," pro- 
claimed a headline in The Indianapolis 
Neus. So much for the idea that we can't 
get as passionate about politics as Euro- 
pean couples do. 


MY CUP RUNNETH OVER 
When a young English couple decided 
to buy a home in the country, the local 
vicar showed them through a house but 
failed to show them its bathroom. They 
later contacted him, asking where the 
W.C. was located. His response: 

“The W.C. is about seven miles from 
the house. This is rather unfortunate if you 
are in the habit of going regularly. It is 
made to seat 300 people, and the commit- 
tee has decided to install plush s 
ensure greater comfort. The last time my 
wife went was three weeks ago, and it was 
so crowded she had to stand all the time. I 
myself never go at all 

“There are special facilities for ladies, 
presided over by the minister, who is glad 
to give them any assistance they require.” 

The vicar thought W.C. referred to 
Wesleyan chapel. You could say he was 
plumb wrong 


s to 


ONE STEPPE BEYOND 


105 like John Milius" worst nightmare 
come true, but it's got to be the truth: It 
was in Pravda. 

Students at the Ufimsk Aviation Insti- 
tute have created the first gasoline- 
powered internal-combustion boot. Each 
piece of footwear is mated to a fiye-and-a- 
hall-pound engine. “Odd-looking,” Pravda 
admits; but by strapping on a pair, 
an ordinary pedestrian evolves into 


19 


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Ulimskian Man, capable of taking nine- 


hour. “The wearer presses down on 1 
platform under the sole of the boot. The 
fucl mixture combusts and the pressure of 
the gas forces the cylinder up and, with it, 
the platform on which the wearer stands." 

The implications of this invention are 
profound, and not just for the military; 
think what it’s going to mean in terms of 
break dancing. Other questions 
What's the boots’ range? Do they burn a 
lot of oil? How g the warranty? But 
the qu n that intrigues us most is th 
If the boots fire every time the wearer 
presses down, how do you turn them off 
once you've reached your destination? 

е 

“Wanted: Experienced boners; paid by 

piccework" read the classified ad in the 


Lexington, Kentucky, Herald-Leader. 


BEAR FACTS 


When an 18-month-old, 300-pound 
bear wandered out of the Los Padres 
National Forest and into Goleta, Califor- 
nia, Deputy Sheriff Linette Lefkowitz’ car- 
lier stint as a ranger at Yosemite sure came 
in handy. Apparently, she learned to 
speak bear by making "the same noises 
they do." So when the young bear climbed 
a tree in the Santa Barbara suburb, 
Lefkowitz persuaded it to stay put until 
animal-control officials arrived to tran- 
quilize it with a dart gun and take it.back 
to the forest. “He wanted to come down 
out of the tree, but I told him he couldn't," 
she said. 


LATE FOR DINNER 


Everything tastes better outdoors: 
When Dianne Fellman found out that her 
husband. Elroy, had contracted a seriously 
debilitating disease. she did not take the 
bad news gracefully. Mrs. Fellman, 36, 
pulled out à .22 automatic pistol and 
pumped several bullets into her husband, 
killing him. She then reportedly hacked 
his body into bits and threw part of the 
remains onto the family barbecue, where 
she proceeded to grill them and occasion- 
ally gnaw on one of Elroy's charred arm: 
Said the prosecuting attorney in the ensu- 
ing case: “She told people she would never 
push a wheelchair.” The moral: Some- 
times it pays to marry a vegetarian. 
. 

A Charlottesville schoolgirl’s letter to 
Santa appeared in The Daily Progress. She 
asked for a “little good-luck Care Bear, 
and a Chrisunas book, green paper and 
white tits, and a Santa that plays Christ- 


mas music. 
. 

"The Medina, Ohio, County Gazette ran a 
story about bats’ invading apartment 
houses but promised much more than it 
delivered when it headlined the piece "ru 
ING MAMMALS TAKE OVER; FAMILY FLEES FROM 
CONDOM.” 


is the season again for us to recom- 
T mend books that will make terrific 
gifts to give—and get. As usual, our 
friends at Harry N. Abrams have some 


wonderful colfee-table books. Among 
them: Baseball, with photographs by 
Walter looss, Jr, and by Roger 


Angell; That's Dancing, by Tony Thomas, 
the companion volume to the film; and 
Automobile and Culture, which traces the 
image of the auto in art by Gerald Silk, 
Angelo Tito Anselmi, Strother MacMinn 
and Harry Flood Robert, Jr., with original 
photography by Henry Wolf. 

There are three very witty cartoon col- 
lections to consider: Omnibooth: The Best of 
George Booth (Congdon & Weed); drawings 
by William Wegman, titled Everyday Prob- 
lems (Brightwaters); and Parallel Universes 
(Harper & Row), by Roz Chast. 

If you're 1 by what to get your 
favorite capitalist, we suggest the best 
seller What They Don't Teach You at Harvard 
Business School (Bantam), by Mark H. 
McCormack. 

In a year that saw a refocusing of the 
Ameri spirit, we offer the following: 
American Vaudeville as Seen by Its Contempo- 
raries (Knopf), edited and with commen- 
tary by Charles W. Stein; also from 
Knopf, Square Meals, a cookbook covering 
everything from Mom’s pot roast to tuna- 
noodle casserole, by Jane and Michael 
Stern; and Mid-Century Modern: Furniture of 
the 1950's (Harmony), by Cara Greenberg, 
designed by George Corsillo. 

Sierra Club Books produced a 
beauty, The Wilder Shore, with photographs 
by Morley т, text by David Rains 
Wallace and a foreward by Wallace 
Stegner. The photos are of California, and 
the text combines impressionistic vignettes 
with an esami; n of California writers 
from London to John Steinbeck 

Certain coflee-table books are even 
more unusual than you'd expect, and 
Knopf has two in that category. David 
Hockney has spent the past couple of years 
experim with his camera. The result 
is a knockout volume, Cameraworks, with 
text by Lawrence Weschler. The other 
book is by Valentine Lawford and is called 
Horst: His Work and His World, with 288 pho- 
tographs by the great fashion and society 


stump 


photographer. 

Publishers Stewart, Tabori & Chang 
you ought to consider. 
In Entering Space, by Joseph P. Allen with 
Russell Martin, astronaut Allen gives a 
step-by-step account of a shuttle flight 
Rock Stars, by former Rolling Stone editor 
"Timothy White, traces the roots of rock "n" 
roll and highlights 40 of its heavies. The 
ageless Mr. J 

Fi 
go by without our contribution to spice. 
Too much sugar dulls the senses, alter all. 


have two volumes 


ger graces the cover. 


ally, we'd never let a holiday s 


Jr.. in his book Quiet Neighbors (Е 


CONTEMPORARY 
AMERICAN 


EROTIC 
PHOTOGRAPHY 
v 


JOYCE BARONIO-CHRIS CALLIS- PHILLIP DIXON 
JEFF DUNAS ROBERT FARSER LARRY DALE GORDON 
MITCHEL GRAY -ART KANE ANTONIN KRATOCHVIL 

STAN MALINOWSKI- ROBERT MAPPLETHORPE 
КЕМ MARCUS: RICHARD NOBLE PETER STRONGWATER 


Our kind of holiday cheer. 


Holiday gift books, plus 
new fiction by Tom Robbins 
and E. L. Doctorow. 


We highly recommend. two. photo. books 
from Melrose Publishing Company in 
L.A.: The first, which illustrates this gift- 
book roundup. is volume one of Contempo- 
rary American Erotic Photography. 1t includes 
the work of photographers who regularly 
appear in rraveoy, such as Jeff Dunas, 
Phillip Dixon and Ken Marcus. The other 
is Jeff Dunas’ Voyeur. Get it: 105 gorgeous. 
And sexy. Happy New Year to you! 
б 

“How did Nazi war criminals come to 
the United States?” asks Allan A. Ryan, 
arcourt 


n, 


Brace Jovanovich). “We invited the 
he answers. “The Displaced Persons Act of 
1948 was a brazenly discriminatory piece 
of legislation, written to exclude as many 
concentration-camp survivors as possible 
and to include as many Baltic and Ukrain- 
ian and German [people] as it could get 
away with." Ryan, who headed the Office 
of Special Investigations in the Depart- 
ment of Justice from 1979 to 1983, goes 
on to describe in detail the “quiet 
ncighbors"—former Nazi killers who 
came here afier World War Two and lived 
anonymous lives, people such as John 
Demjanjuk, known to the inmates of 
Treblinka as Ivan the Terrible, a man who 
helped slaughter thousands of victims 
came to America as a displaced person in 
1952, became a citizen in 1958, bought a 
ranch house in the Cleveland suburb of 


yet 


Seven Hills and cultivated a large garden 
in his back yard. Why didn't we know who 
this man was? “We did not know, I think, 
because we did not want to know,” writes 
Ryan. “A curtain of silence had fallen over 
the Holocaust.” Ryan, to his credit, has 
finally documented the screams of silence. 
. 
We don't usually review paperback 
thologies, but John Clark Pratt’s 
пат Voices (Penguin) is too fine a collection 
ss up. Shrewdly, Clark has divided 
the history of that war into the five-act 
tragedy it was, from 1941 to 1975 ( 
epilog to 1982), and he has compiled an 
original mix of writings to give us the full 
flavor of the Vietnam experience. The 
range of materials is enormous: A chapter 
of a novel may be set next to a coldly 
worded intelligence report and followed 
by the actual transcript of a conversation 
between a pilot on a bombing run and his 
forward air controller. Everything about 
this anthology is imaginative and exciting, 
from the graffiti that are quoted between 
chapters (IN VIETNAM, THE WIND DOESN'T 
BLOW. IT SUCKS) to the s 
opinions in various Government reports 
(there was more diversity of thought than 
our Government admitted) to the small 
gray boxes interspersed throughout that 
chart the growing numbers of U.S, Serv- 
icemen killed and wounded in action. 
Many voices, much truth 
E 


to | 


E. L. Doctorow puts a lot of information 
into a small place. Lives of the Poe! 
Stories and a Novella (Random House) is 
like a mental Alka-Seltzer—once ingested, 
it fizzes and expands and makes the world 


stop moving for a while. The topies these 
stories engage are family, love, the terror 
of loneliness, the fierce honesty of children, 
adultery and the weird logic and freedoms 
of adulthood. The book pretty much cov- 
ers the whole ball of wax, but it docs so in 
а style that is both classic and colloquial. 
You'll find ground here not covered any- 
where else, Doctorow gets the goods down 


on paper as well as anybody writing, 
. 


The Nuclear Crisis Reader (Vintage), 
edited by Gwyn Prins, is a collection of 
essays on the subject by men who favor 
arms control, These 
as Rear Admiral Eugene J. Carroll, Chap- 
lain (Major General) K. D. Johnson, 
George Kennan, McGeorge Bundy and 
John Kenneth Galbraith. The most 
impressive mind on display here belongs 
to Admiral Noel Gayler, former com- 
mander in chief of all U.S. forces in the 
Pacific (1972-1976). “We and the Soviets 
need the vision to see that continuing to 


r arms is 


nelude such people 


struggle for advantage in nucle 
futile 


and increasingly dam he 


h of 


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writes at the conclusion of some very prac- 
tical suggestions for ending the arms race. 
An informative and surprisingly blunt 
book that strips away the ridiculous rheto- 
ric of the past several years. 

. 

Tom Robbins doesn't know when to 
stop. He plays with language until the 
reader is exhausted, inspired, amused and 
bemused. He can put “Descartes before 
des horse.” He can describe sex in terms 
that rival the best of PBS: “Wiggs worked 
her as if she were an archaeological dig: 
spading sifting dusting cataloging. Now 
lying in a puddle on the sofa she felt like 
she was ready to be shipped to the British 
Museum. Accompanied by a crate of late- 
20th Century bone shards.” His fourth 
novel, Jitterbug Perfume (Bantam), is set in 
Paris, Seattle, New Orleans and Tibet. It 
is about immortality and the search for the 
perfect deodorant. It is also wretched, 
rewarding excess. 


. 

Graham Greene wanted to write а novel 
about a female journalist driving around 
Panama with a trusted aide of its leader, 
General Omar Torrijos. Instead, he wrote 
a memoir about his own jaunts around 
Panama—in search of a drink or political 
justice or both—with Torrijos’ aide, the 
womanizing poet-philosopher Chuchu. 
(“ ‘We make love together? Chuchu 
demanded with a certain cagerness” when 
Greene confided the plot of his novel.) Get- 
ting the (Simon & 
Schuster), alas, misses both opportunities: 
It's not a novel and its earnest, naive 
remembrances of Torrijos make one long 
for more of the real Chuchu 


to Know General 


BOOK BAG 


Spoiled Sport (Little, Brown), by John 
Jnderwood: The author thinks sports 
have becn ruined by drug-addled players, 
grandstanding owners, TV moguls, slick 
agents and cheating alumni. If only we 
could return to the mythical golde 
sport—when Underwood was 


a kid. 
Spoiled Sport wall be a hit with nostalgic 
curmudgeon. 

Peter Burwash’s Aerobic Workout Book for 
Men (Dodd, Mead), by Peter Burwash and 
John Tullius: Feel silly trying to get into 


Jane Fonda's leotard-and-leg-warmer rou- 
tine? At last, here’s a no-nonsense guide 
for guys on how to burn off the fat that spe- 
cifically plagues men. Sweat out this book. 

Columbus Avenue (St. Martin's), by Alan 
Gelb: A love story set in the Big Apple, 
told from both the male and the female 
points of view. "That's a pretty neat trick 
these days. 

Money Angles (Linden Press), by 
Andrew Tobias: From financial foreplay to 
inside information, from fancy footwork 
to terms of enrichment, the author of 
млуюү'ѕ Quarterly Reports gives sound 
advice. Tobias combines financial exper- 
tise with a sense of humor, and you need 
both to survive today 


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24 


By DAN JENKINS 


1 SLEEP BETTER at ni 
` Sam Baugh, Tom Harmon, Doak 
Walker and all of my other gridiron heroes 
of yesteryear never had (0 wear one of 
those perforated, mesh fish-net see 
through football jerseys. You know the 
kind. It's the jersey, much in vogue now, 
through which you can sec a player's pads, 
tape, tattoo, -birthmark—everything but 
his school colors. ‘The jerseys were around 
this season like recruiting violations, but 
as far as I'm concerned, they're worse. 
They make teams look stupid. I stopped 
counting Doug Flutie’s touchdown passes 
for Boston College back in October, 
because | got tired of seeing а rib cage 
where a jersey ought to be. I wondered 
what a kid would say to the BC quarter- 
back if he went up to him for an 
autograph: “Hi, Doug. Nice chest hair” — 
something like that? 

My grudge against the see-through jer- 
sey goes back to the first time Lever saw 
one, which was, I think, in the season of 
1971. Imagine my shock, a crusty old tra- 
ditionalist like me, a man who had been a 
college football junkie since the age of 


seven, when I'd watched Sam Baugh sli 
Doug Fluties for TCU back in Fort Worth. 
T was all set to watch this big game on 


when the fierce Auburn Tigers pra 
onto the field with their linemen looking 
like screened-in porches and their Басі 
looking like bimbos on 48th Street. Were 
the Auburns going to play football or form 
а chorus line? Had Auburn's Shug Jordan, 
then the coach, opted for a new version of 
the old Georgia Tech tear-away jersey? In 
the Fifties, Bobby Dodd's Ramblin’ 
Wrecks had made famous a clinging jersey 
that came off when the wind blew. After 
опе quarter, a Georgia Tech ball carrier 
looked like а thief stealing shoulder pads 
from the equipment room. You didn 
tackle the Georgia Tech runner; you tac! 
led a roll of fabric. Now here were the 
Auburn Tigers in their see-throughs. 
What edge would the jerseys give them? 1 
gathered that they were designed to make 
the opposing players swoon wite 
them to homecoming dances. For a few 
minutes, | assumed that Auburn's real jer- 
seys had been stolen and the team mothers 
had thrown together something out of 
r sewing kits. Then it dawned on me. 
The world was never going to be the same 

n. My thoughts turned to Grantland 
па the lead he would have written: 
“Outlined st a blue-gray October 
sky, the Fou rode aga 
achy, Dior, Blass and Cardin." 
nember anything about that 
TV. АП 1 could do was gape 
als hanging from jaunty angles 


game oi 
the num 


REAL MEN DONT 
WEAR MESH 


Perforated, mesh fish-net 
football jerseys look silly. 
And the mesher the jersey, 
the sillier it looks. 


ince that dreaded afternoon, it seems to 
me that halfbacks have been fumbling 
more than ever, but I say to you that it has 
nothing to do with the high-risk wishbone; 
it’s the guilt and embarrassment that go 
with wearing a perforated, mesh fish-net 
see-through jersey. 

Like I said, the serious thing about the 
jersey is that it looks unarguably dumb— 
nd silly. And the mesher the jersey, the 
lier it looks. The N.F.L. doesn’t do 
many things right these days. Its season is 
too long, it has overdosed America on tele- 
ed football and its players are too rich 


ish pasted on the 

OK, I hear that the college players like 
the dumb jersey for warm-weather games. 
Their bodies can breathe. But I have a 
question: Who cares what players like? For 
100 years of college football, nobody's 


body needed to breathe. Red Grange's 
body 


didn't breathe. Bronko Nagur- 
body didnt breathe. Frank 
inkwich's body didn't breathe. I say а 
guy's body doesn’t need to breathe any 
more today than it did then, not when 
you're giving him a free four-year educa- 
tion and all the Tri Delts he can handle. 
The least he can do is dress right. 


So whom do we blame for this horrible 
thing that’s happened to college football? 
The nitwit who invented the fish-net jer- 
sey? No. The equipment salesmen who 
peddle them? No. Blame the coaches who 
buy them, that’s who. Coaches follow one 
another in uniform trends the way they've 
followed one another from the split T to 
the belly series to the I formation to the 
veer. Coaches look for any edge they can 
find. They went for the see-through jersey 
like they go for a doctored transcript. It 
was after the first equipment salesman 
said to the first coach, “Look at it this way 
Brick. In the fourth quarter, your team 
won't be sweating as much as 

Here's my hero today: the first coach 
who has the guts to stand up and say, “Га 
rather suck a dead dog's dick than let my 
team wear that mesh shit. 
aches, as we know, have a quaint wa 
of expressing themselves. 

Look, I don't want everybody back 
leather helmets and canvas pants. Some 
changes have been for the better. When 
Army and Navy came out in 1941 with the 
first plastic helmets, it was streamlined. 
When Doak Walker and the SMU Mus- 
tangs of 1947 wore the first low-quarter 
shoes, it was slick, classy. When Bud 
Wilkinson's sleight-of-hand Oklahoma 
Sooners sported the first short-sleeved jer- 
seys in 1954, it was neat. But the only 
things we've had since then are face masks 
and fish nets. 

All I can do is wonder how the lusty his- 
tory of the game would have been changed 
if we'd always had the see-through jersey. 
nute Rockne saying, “All 
n опе for the Gipper.” 1 
Idberg, Cassiano, Chickernco 
s, the Scam Backfield, at Pitt. 
of Wojciechowicz, Franco and 
Fordham’s Seven Blocks of Quilting. 1 
think of Barnacle Bill Busik and the Mid- 
stitchmen from Annapolis. I think of 
Texas A & M's Jarrin’ Jane Kimbrough, 
the Haskell Hurricane. I think of that 
“game of the century” at Yankee Stadium 
in 1946, when Luj Sitko, Connor and 
the Fighting Stylish of Notre Dame played 
to a 0-0 tie with Davis, BL ard, Tucker 
and the Black Knits of the Hudson. 

Oh, well, I've survived another regular 
season with the fish net. And now for th 
bowl games. Once again, there’s a chance 
for the moment that could put an end to 
the see-through jersey forever. Here we are 
in Pasadena, New Orle Dallas or 
Miami, at the center of the field, where the 
opposing captains and the referee have 
met for the c toss. The TV cameras 
are there, We have audio. 
aptain Heisman,” the referee ges- 
this is Captain Stagg." 
says Captain Heisman, extending 
his hand with a seductive smile. 

“Hi, yourself,” Captain Stagg says. 


“Great tits!" 


2 


Enjoy the smoothest Canadianever The э 

one that lordsit over all others whenit comes WE 

togaste. The Canadian that's pfoud to calls, * 

itself Lord of the Canadians. Make the climb чс 
P ko Lord Calvert. Lord of the Canadians. ~ 


26 


When Police guitarist Andy Summers and electropopper and New Wave grandpopper Robert 
Fripp collaborated on their second album, Bewitched (А & М), we were amused by a track called 


OCK ‘N’ ROLL AND MISTLETOE: Are 
you wondering what to get your music 
lover for a gift? We've done the research 
for you, so grab this list, huma few fa-la- 
las and head for the stores 
In the book department, look for David 
Bowie's Serious Moonlight: Dovid Bowie Pre- 
sents His World Tour (Doubleday/Dolphin), 
photographs by Denis O’Regan, text by 
Chet Flippo. It covers the tour—all eight 
months of hauling equipment across four 
continents to play for more than 2,000,000 
people. Another must is critic John 
Rockwell's Sinatra: An American Classic 
(Random Housc/Rolling Stone Press) 
Here’s the ultimate celebration of an 
American classic, with lots of pictures for 
those people who want a walk down mem- 
ory lane. Finally, if you've read Philip 
Norman’s book Shout, about the life and 
times of the Fab Four, you know that he’s 
an unusually fine journalist. So we're rec- 
commending his latest, Symphony for the 
Devil (Linden/Simon & Schuster), about a 
few guys called The Stones 
For the would-be musician in your life, 
Baldwin's new PianoPro, a piano with 
microprocessor technology, allows even 


beginners to make professional-sounding 
music. At the same time, PianoPro has the 
dynamics and the touch of an acoustical 
Piano, so your special Gershwin can learn 
to play the traditional way, too. It is only 
when the fallboard is raised that the array 
of controls is revealed. 

Sp 
holidays be without some worthy albums 
of his music? You'll make someone happy 
with Angel's Gershwin: Alexis Weissenberg, 
the Berlin Philharmonic and Seiji Ozawa con- 
ducting Rhapsody in Blue, I Got Rhythm 


ing of Gershwin, what would the 


What Kind of Man Reads PLaveor? Naturally, we looked for an answer and got it from Summers, 
who supplied us with his own upscale, college-educated high-income likeness, above. 


variations and Catfish Row, from Porgy and 
Bess. A couple of greatest-hits albums of 
note include Hank Williams: 40 Greatest Hits 
(Polydor), and The Yardbirds: A Compleat 


Collection with Sonny Boy Williamson 
(Compleat), featuring the young and 
already brilliant Eric Clapton. Last, 


You & 1/ Classic Country Duets (Warner) 
includes, among others, Waylon and 
Hank, Jr., Eddie Rabbitt and Crystal 
Gayle and David Frizzell and Shelly West. 


For your rock-trivia freal 
new board games to test old brain cells. 
Rock 'n' Roll the Dice (Nosul Productions, 
P.O. Box L-328, New Bedford, Massachu- 
setts 02745—don't forget the $2 for ship- 
ping and handling) runs $22.95. More 
than 2500 questions cover the years 
1955-1984. Solid Gold Music Trivia (Mattel) 
can accommodate two to 24 players and 
asks the immortal question “What's Paul 
McCartney's middle name?” You'll find 
this one in any game or toy store. 

Sony's series of music-video 45s and LPs. 
at very affordable prices continues with 
selections that would make fine presents. 
Among the new offerings for less than $20: 
The Evolutionary Spiral, with music by 
Weather Report, David Bowie's new short 
Blue Jean and the latest by Tina 
Turner and Duran Duran. For $30, check 
out video LPs The Son Francisco Blues Festival 
and The Mel Tormé Special. 

Finally, a chuckle is in order. Has the 
person in your life ever swooned over gui- 
tars—especially while watching ZZ Top's 
Sharp Dressed Man video? Those wonder- 
ful zebra guitars are made by Dean Inter- 
national Guitar Company, Box 216, 1744 
West Devon, Chicago, Illinois 60660. You 
can get the Hollywood Zebra-Z model 


, there are two 


Jon 


in red, white or black for $449 with case. 
After all, what would the holidays be with- 
out music? Or zebras? — — BARBARA NELLIS 


REVIEWS 


First, the bad news: Ma: 
been too busy with his filn 
David Bowie bothered to write only three 
new tunes for Tonight (EMI) 
pretty much filler: retreads of old Iggy Pop 
collaborations and a couple of cover tunes. 
God only knows what to make of Bowie's 
grotesquely camp reading of the Beach 
Boys’ God Only Knows, and why is ‘Tina 
Turner mixed so low on the title cut? 
Bitch, bitch, bitch. And the good news? 
Two of the new ones, Blue Jean and Danc- 
ing with the Big Boys, have all the verve 
and kick of last year’s Let's Dance—and 
fortunately for the budget-conscious, they 
both appear on Bowic's current single. 

. 

“We hit the road and the road hit back” 
could be the epitaph for thousands of 
bands that got derailed, bounced or other- 
wise rejected by the force of their own 
career choices. Fortunately, it’s merely a 
great line from REO Speedwagon’s come- 
back album, Wheels Are Turnin’ (Epic). 
These guys kind of fell off the hydraulic lift 
of life after their supersuccessful Hi Infidel- 
ily. Now they're back churning across their 
wholesome, albeit flat, landscape in over- 
drive. REO fans will love this one. 

. 


be he's just 
career, but 


The rest is 


Pat Metheny's new album, First Circle 
(ECM), doesn’t break much new ground 
for this wonderful ensemble of jazz mu- 

ians, but the particular territory 


TRUST US —_ 


We've thought it 
over and hate 
decided that com- 
pact discs are a 
good idea—mainly 


sicia 


because they're inde- 
structible and take up little space with 
ош sacrificing complet 
Also, they 
noise. Here are our current favorites 


CD ALERT: 


Gerord Schwortz and the Y Chomber 
Symphony of New York / Beethoven 
Symphony Number 6: Pastorale 
(Delos) 

Sonny Rollins / Way Out West (Mobile 
Fidelity Sound Lab) 

Miles Davis / Kind of Blue (CBS) 

Lucio Popp, Munich Radio Orchestra, 


liner. notes. 


sound pretty good —na 


leonard Slatkin / Mozart: — Arios 
(Angel) 
David Bowie / CHANGESONEBOWIE 


(RCA) 


CARGO POCKET чањ. 
FASHION JEANS 4 


28 


IF YOU САН TAKE THE HEAT, YOU GET THE KITCHEN OEPARTMENT: We've heard of some crazy radio 
promotions in сиг time on this beat, but a Sydney, Australia, radio station has one going 
that takes the cake. It's a contest for the ultimate Duran Duran fan. The station has 
arranged for the winner to fly to England and take possession of John Taylor skitchen sink. 


Taylor will be on hand to bid his plumbing goodbye. Who says you can't tak 


with you? 


HAT ARE YOU DOING NEW YEAR'S EVE? 

The new all-music network Di: 
covery Music Channel, formed by two 
veterans of the Financial News Net- 
work, plans to begin broadcasting with 
a giant New Year's Eve party. А net 
work spokesman says the channel 
hopes to have 20,000,000 subscribers 
by the last day of December. The plan 
is to show about 50 videos in rotation 
each day, and programing will include 
a variety of musical styles, appealing to 
those of us between the ages of 24 and 
45. When and if Ted Turner gets his 
music channel going, MTV may face a 
lot of competition. So get out your 
dancing shoes. 

REELING AND ROCKING: Look for Tina 
Turner in Mad Max III. . . . We hear that 
Mick Jagger has finally found his film 
project, starring opposite Orson Welles, 
who play God. Mick’s role? Satan; 
who else? . . . Jessica Lange plans to play 
Patsy Cline in a movie based on the life 
of the singer, who was killed in a plane 
crash in 1963. Cline is best remem- 
bered for I Fall to Pieces. A movi 
about street gangs, Cry of the City, will 
feature Smokey Robinson, LaToya Jackson 
and Kurtis Blow. Naturally, there will be 
a sound-track album. David Bowie 
and Pat Metheny are writing and ре 
forming the musical score for The Fal- 
con and the Snowman, based on the 
best-selling book about alleged spy 
Christopher Boyce. John Cougar 
Mellencamp has d with Warner to 
make his film debut in Cage Rider. . . 
Rehearsals have finally started for the 
film version of A Chorus Line. There 
will be one change from the stage pro- 
duction. In the hope of attracting the 
Footloose and Flashdance moviegoing 
audience, the main characters will be 
made ten years younger. 


NEWSBREAKS: Look for Talking Head 
David Byrne in a new PBS series called 
Survival Guides, directed by Jonathan 
Demme, who also directed the Heads’ 
concert film, Stop Making Sense 
Richard Thompson is recording іп 
England. The album is planned for a 
February release, and he’s going to tour 
the U.S. again in March or April. . 
There are also touring rumors afloat 
about Roger Daltrey and Emerson, Lake & 
Palmer, if their album collaboration is a 
success. - Wendy ©. Williams, who 
plans to work with Gene Simmons again 
оп vinyl, has explained why she felt no 
need for wild stunts on her recent tour: 
“That's the fun of videos. In them, 1 
can drive cars off clifls." But don't 
expect her to-give up her 
guerrilla wear,” as she descr 


Gens... Ti fe Music’s 
package called The Swing Era is avail- 
able to the public as a single-purch: 
set containing 2! 5 
such as Louis Armstrong's Struttin’ 
wih Some Barbecue, and Stardust, by 
Jazz lives. Did you know 
гоп Maiden sold out five conce 
Poland? Is there something about the 
bloc countries that they're not 
telling us? 

RANDOM RUMORS: Paul McCartney is t 
ing to get his pants back. He lost them 
in a restaurant in Liverpool in 1961, 
when the Beatles were making a fast exit 
without paying the bill. Now, 24 ycars 
later, Paul will have to go to Sotheby's 
and try to retrieve them at auction. 
We've heard of g a watch in licu 
of cash, but black-leather trouse: 

-BARBARA № 


they work is all their own, so that’s not 
nearly the quibble it would be with other 
roups. As with their earlier Offramp and 
Travels, the moods change like weather i 
the Midwest, and almost always, there i 
something both clean and pretty about the 
combinations. Lyle Mays is, as always, 
magic on keyboards, and if there’s a word 
that better describes Pedro Aznar's voice 
than haunting, we can't find it. 
. 

Daryl Hall and John Oates's aptly titled 
Big Bam Boom (RCA) nearly detonated our 
speakers with post-Hiroshima blasting 
techniques. You've probably heard the sin- 
gle Ош of Touch. Ws a deserving chart 
buster, reminiscent of a walk through the 
sweets of Beirut. Despite the guerri 
weekend atmosphere, the rest of the cuts 
are quite diflerent—much less hooky than 
other H and O material. But that 
shouldn't keep you away from a musically 
solid and confident venture. 

. 

On The Unforgettable Fire (Island), the 
h Irish extroverts U2 link up with 
st Brian Eno in the hope of 
acquiring more depth. The marriage 
works magnificently on Pride (In the Name 
of Love), one of the most passionate and 
compelling singles of the decade. But else 
where, the band gets lost in Eno's murky 
atmospherics. The songs meander aim- 
lessly, and with The Edges’ incisive guitar 
muzzled, they lack backbone. In this case, 
fire and water mix to produce little more 
than steam. 


. 

David Byme's Talking Heads have cre- 
ated something genuinely new out ol the 
various fragments of pop, avant-garde, 
R&B and ethnic music floating around the 
postpunk landscape. Call it Afro-funk- 
pop if you will, this is music that 
ages the mind, engages the fe 
and gets those tocs a-tappin’. On Stop Mak- 
ing Sense (Sirc), the sound track to Talking 
Heads’ live concert film, they sound better 
than сусг. This is especially true of 
Byrne’s vocals, which resonate with new- 
found confidence and heartfelt emotion, 
Makes perfect sense to us, David 

. 

When the Jacksons’ Victory (Epic) was 
released, it was inevitably compared with 
Michael Jackson’s Thriller. Unfair. After 
all, Thriller was the brain child not only of 
Michael but of the nearly unerring 
producer/arranger Quincy Jones. With 
Victory, the Jacksons were more or less on 
their own. 

It's a good album. It has four extremely 
likable tunes, three tolerable ones and 
only one complete dud (Be Not Always, by 
Michael, possibly the most depressing song 

i century). We like Slate of 
Shock (a perfect vehicle for Mick Jagger, 
backed up by Michael) and Torture, in 
which Jackie Jackson proves that he's 
probably the best all-round producer in 
the family. Jackie also turned out Wait, on 
which, for the last 90 seconds, we hear 


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what the Jacksons would sound like if 
they weren't all ego-tripping. 
. 
We had to check out Mtume after we 
soul title cut You, Me and He 


(Epic). The majority of the songs, written 
by leader James Mtume (pronounced 
re good if you like standard 
synthesized boogie in the butt, with mar- 
ginal lyrics and few chord changes. But the 
diamond in the rough here is female vocal- 
awatha, who makes the group sound 
significant every time she opens her 
hose of you who, like us, knew 
at Chaka Khan was going to be big the 
first time you heard Rufus, check this out 
Мите may not be around for а long time, 
a will. 
. 
always feel as if we'd much rather 
have Chuck Mangione over for dinner 
than listen to several of his albums in suc- 
cession. However, in his favor, his albums 
usually offer songs worth hearing 
more than once. Disguise (Columbia) is no 
exception, with She's Not Mine to Love (No 
More) and Leonardo's Lady. But Disguise 
is unique because it displays Shirle 
aine's talents as a rap artist. Yes, 
, MacLaine g ainst such 
rap masters as Ne and Afrika 
a on Mangione's appropriately 
titled Shirley MacLaine. But she'd better 
not change her name to MacMasterflash 
just yet. 
б 
Unusual circumstances can bring out 
the best in fine jazz musicians. Example: 
Recently, keyboard artist Dick Hyman, 
playing a Wurliver theater pipe organ, 
combined with cornetist Ruby Braff in 
concert near Pittsburgh. They responded 
strongly to each other, the juxtaposition of 
instruments and ten standards. The result- 
ing album, America the Beautiful (The 
George Wein Collection/Concord), is a 
feast of melod: one love set of 
ations after another, making his horn 
sing and swing. Hyman provides a colorful 
carpet of sound for his colleague and plays 
instructive solos as well, taking maximum 
advantage of the mighty instrument's 
many possibilities 


SHORT CUTS 


The Staple Singers / Turning Point (Private 
alking Head David Byrne a 
here on a full Gospel rendering of the 
Heads’ Slippery People. Awe: 

Aztec Camera / Knife (Sire): 
very pretty Scottish rock, produced by 
Dire Strait Mark Knopfler. 

Every Man Hos о Woman (Polydor): V 
ous artists, including Elvis Costello, 
Rosanne Cash and even Sean Ono 

cnnon, perform Sean's mom's work. 

clebrity producers make this a bright 

d imaginative collection—and Yoko 
emerges as a pretty good songwriter 

The Kinks / 20th Anniversary Edition (Con 


pleat): Good collection mostly of nonhits 
by these beloved British wavers. 


If you can read this, you 
avideotape as sensitive to color as you are. 
Presenting Panasonic Sensicolor. 


Of course, this isn't an official color blindness test. But 
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Panasonic Sensicolor faithfully reproduces color. 
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every color remains true, replay after replay. Because 


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M E Vo 


Begin with Puerto Rican white and gold rums 
and you can make a wonderful variety of drinks. 

Nothing tastes like them on the rocks. Nothing 
mixes quite like them, either. 

Maybe thats why people everywhere are mov- 
ing from vodka and gin to Puerto Rican white rum 


From bourbon, blends and Canadian to Puerto 
Rican gold rum. 

Whether it be on the rocks, or with tonic, soda, 
ginger ale, in a Bloody Mary or as a Screwdriver, 
Puerto Rican rums have a lightness that people prefer. 

Puerto Rico has been making quality rums for 


Gold Rums wor the same d 


almost fiv . Our specialized skills and you diversify your drinks? Make the move so many 
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VEDI ee Saat cabinet while RUMS OF PU RTO RICO 


By BRUCE WILLIAMSON 


CHRISTMAS Comes to L.A. at roughly the 
same time as a global catastrophe in Night 
of the Comet (Atlantic), writer-director 
Thom Eberhardt's irreverent s-f comedy. 
Two teenaged sisters (played with irre- 
pressible zest by Catherine Mary Stewart 
and Kelli Maroney) are among a handful 
of Californians who escape instant 
annihilation—after which Comet proceeds 
as if to ponder how a couple of fun-loving 
Valley girls might face the end of the 
world. Well, they go shopping, for one 
ing, wrongly presuming that the stores 
will be unattended. They check out a local 
radio station, lest the pop music stop, and 
there they encounter a handsome truck 
driver named Hector (Robert Beltran, 
who had the tasty tide role in Edtmg 
Raoul). They also fend olf rapacious zom- 
bies and a bloodsucking, scientific SWAT 
team that aims to sap their plasma to cre- 
ate a serum for survival. It’s one of the 
sprightliest conceits that the 
comely siblings, one a cheerleader, have 
also been trained to handle deadly weap- 
ons by their absentee father, who's “down 
in Honduras with the goddamned Green 
Berets.” Sounds crazy, right? Right. But 
Comet is fresh and suspenseful, too, with 
impudent teenage dialog that rings amus- 
ingly true from start to finish. Plainly a 
film maker of promise, Eberhardt appears 
to be thumbing his nose at Spielberg and 
Lucas by cutting their apocalyptic fanta- 
sies down to size for a latter-day Tammy 


and Gidget. УУЗ 


movie's 


. 

An extraordinary couple of scenes at the 
tag end of Paris, Texas (TLC) are played by 
Nastassja Kinski, with a somewhat tenta- 
tive Texas accent, behind the mirrored 
window of a rap parlor in Houston. She's 
one of the girls who talk to lonely men for 
pay, their customers presumably getting 
Ооп it in the darkness behind a glass par- 
tition. On this oceasion, though, the client 
is the estranged husband (Harry Dean 
Stanton) she has not seen for years, who 
has driven across the Southwest to reunite 
her with the young son she abandoned. 
Even when they are all but speechless, 
Kinski and Stanton bring pulse- 
quickening eloquence to two encounters 
that scem to reshape the invisible barricrs 
between a man and a wom to a kind of 
film poetry. That's partly because actor- 
playwright Sam Shepard wrote the screen- 
play, partly because keenly imaginative 
camerawork by Dutch cinematographer 
Robby Miller makes many bits and pieces 
of Paris, Texas look better than the movie 
as a whole. 

Winner of the Golden Palm for best 
picture at the 1984 Cannes festival, this 
otherwise meandering German-French 
coproduction was directed by Germany's 


Val girls survive Night of the Comet. 


Asizzling Comet, 
а non-Gallic Paris 
and a festival favorite. 


Akinky Kinski in Paris, Texas. 


Wim Wenders, whose second English- 
language feature (the first was Hammett) 
too often resembles a guided tour in pop- 
art appreciation, with special emphasi: 

U.S. billboards, freeways, high-rises 
desert wastelands. First, Stanton—who 
has been missing and presumed dead—is 
found wandering in the wilderness. He 
returns to L.A., where his brother (Dean 
Stockwell) and sister law (Aurore 
Clément) have been surrogate parents to 
his son (played by Hunter Carson, whose 
real-life parents arc L. M. Kit Carson and 
Karen Black). There's a long, long haul of 
wordy pretentiousness and self-indulgent 
cinema foolery, alas, before father a 
re-establish filial bonds and set off to find 
the boy's mom. I had started drumming 
my fingers a lot by the time Wenders, 
travel weary, moved into the final quarter 
of the film— where Kinski appears behind 


that one-way mirror to join Stanton in 
those hypnotic téte-à-tétes that make it 
easy to see how the judges at Cannes were 
dazzled by star dust. УА 


. 

Presumably on a bread-and-butter job 
far removed from Paris, Texas, camera wi 
ard Robby Müller makes New York 
resemble a freaky MTV fantasia in Body 
Rock (New World). The story, what there is 
of it, seems to be about spray-paint graffiti 
and break dancing. There's also a lot of 
footage on handsome Lorenzo Lamas, a 
young hunk known to TV audiences as a 
star of Falcon Crest (and as the son of 
Fernando Lamas and the scrumptious 
Arlene Dahl). Lamas, it's clear, has been 
rehearsed assiduously to perfect his imita- 
tion of John Travolta. He’s got the strut 
down pat and delivers a reasonable fac- 
simile of the ingratiatingly boyish grin. As 
a screen test, Body Rock is OK, maybe rea- 
son enough to consider casting Lamas in a 
real movie. ¥ 


б 

Writer-director Jim Jarmusch's zan 
impudent Stranger than Paradise (Gold: 
wyn) is a grayish-black comedy (shot in 
grainy black and white) that might easily 
be mistaken for an underground movie 
from Rumania. It's all American, though, 
and a festival fav 'orite from Cannes to New 
York. The story is a seemingly improvised 
ramble in which a Hungarian immigrant 
named Willie (John Lurie), his teenaged 
cousin Eva (Eszter Balint), newly arrived 
from Budapest, and his side-kick Eddie 
(Richard Edson) do very little but hang 
out—shoplifting, cheating at cards or 
going to the track. Their aimless existence 
in New York leads them, by slow stages, to 
Cleveland and Florida, where nothing 
really changes. In fact, everywhere seems 
much the same to Willie, Eva and Eddie, 
whose deadpan humor reached its peak, 
for me, as they stood on the shores of Lake 
Erie in winter, doggedly sight-seeing 
despite zero visibility. Paradise may not 
suit audiences accustomed to more con- 
ventional movies, but at best it has the 
subversive and surprising charm of street 
theater performed by precocious ragamuf- 
fins. ¥¥¥ 


bi 


e. 

‘The movie camera obviously loves him, 
but Matt Dillon complements с 
with a sensitive, pensive performance as 
The Flamingo Kid (Fox). It's his best role 
since Tex, and Dillon docs himself proud 
as a plumber's son from Brooklyn, glimps- 
ing the good life and f. 


mer job at El 
Flamingo, a garish Long Island beach 
club for the nouveaux riches. Hector 
Elizondo is excellent as his dad, Richard 
Crenna even better as a hot-shot car 
dealer and gin-rummy champion who fills 


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PLAYBOY 


the lad’s head with get-rich-quick puflery. 
There's also newcomer Janet Jones, abso- 
lutely all right as a warm-weather diver- 
sion from California, a girl who works 
wonders for a bathing suit. Set in the sum- 
mer of 1963, Flamingo Kid is an appeal- 
ing and straightforward coming-of-age 
comedy—formula stuff that transcends 
formula with some wryly observed detail 
about life in upwardly mobile Long Island 
a generation ago. For that, the actors 
owe much to co-writer and director 
Garry Marshall, who gives them quite 
a lot to chew on besides the sun-baked 
scenery. ¥¥¥ 


. 

Some dark comic touches enhance The 
Hit (Island Alive), set in sunny Spain, 
where a hired assassin (John Hurt) finds 
himself disconcerted by the resigned, 
ready-and-willing attitude of the gangland 
informer (Terence Stamp) he's assigned to 
kill. Hit doesn't really get anywhere vet. 
works as a kind of cross-country crooks’ 
tour, with Tim Roth (playing Hurt’s 
squeamish side-kick) and sexy Laura del 
Sol (star of Carlos Saura's flamenco 
Carmen last year, cast here as a Madrid 
moll who knows too much) along for the 
ride. There's a kick or two if you don't 
fall off when the movie lurches into arch 
poetry and pretentiousness on several 
of the sharper turns. YY 

. 


Anne Bancroft, mostly wonderful in 
Garbo Talks (MGM/UA), gets the сапу 
scenes of Larry Grusin's screenplay off to a 
Aying start as a diehard New York liberal 
eccentric, It’s the dichard part that sours 
the fun when that old movie cliché—a 
brain tumor, inoperable and terminal—is 
dragged in to quell the high spirits of Ron 
Silver, Carrie Fisher and Catherine Hicks 
in key roles. Director Sidney Lumet also 
has Dorothy Loudon, Howard Da Silva, 
Harvey Fierstein and Hermione Gingold 
contributing choice comedy cameos dur- 
ing Silver’s search for the clusive Garbo. 
To meet her favorite actress, you see, is his 
ailing mother’s fervent wish. But not, 
Anne reminds him, “my last wish... . 
Pve got a lot more.” To her credit and 
Lumet’s, Bancroft plays down the cheap 
pathos in a character part fairly dripping 
with chances to run amuck. The cockeyed 
truth is that Garbo has all the makings ofa 
truly terrible movie, but it's made s. 1 
that you may find some of the 
humor hard to resist. My resistance crum- 
bled a mite when Gingold, as a dowager 
ham rehearsing Shakespeare in the park, 
imperiously declares, “I never should have 
lent my name to this fiasco." That's ham 
with chutzpah. YY 


. 

You don't have to be English to savor 
The Ploughman's Lunch (Goldwyn), though 
that might be a decided advantage. 
Jonathan Pryce, Tim Curry, Rosemary 
Harris, Frank Finlay and the usual top- 
flight company perform to the hilt in this 


The Hit's Terence Stamp and 


Off-the-beaten-track 
visits to Spain, 
England and Sweden. 


Bancroft behind bars in Garbo. 


topical drama about life in Britain at the 
time of the Falklands crisis. As an unprin- 
cipled news editor from BBC Radio in hot 
pursuit of a woman (Charlie Dore) who 
won't have him, Pryce is the focal point of 
the action, making himself loathsome on a 
series of issues, both public and private. In 
fact, Ploughman's Lunch winds up at a 
‘Tory Party conference where Prime M 
ter Margaret Thatcher talks politics while 
the plots thicken. Between the lines of lan 
McEwan’s bitingly literate screenplay, 
director Richard Eyre depicts modern 
England as a place there'd be small reason 
to visit if one didn’t happen to live 
there. YY 


. 
British director Michael Apted, an 
eclectic film maker whose credits include 


Coal Miner's Daughter and Gorky Park, 
brings a warm sensibility to the scenes of 


suburban American family life in Firstborn 
(Paramount). The family, in this instance, 
means a divorced mom (Teri Garr) with 
two young sons (Christopher Collet and 
Corey Haim) who ultimately save her from 
a disastrous liaison with a live-in lover 
(Peter Weller) they have good reason to 
despise. Firstborn, after a promising start, 
tums sour with melodramatic violence, 
But Garr, stepped up to leading roles since 
Tootsie, gives her feisticst performance and 
young Collet, as her hypersensitive elder, 
is a fine teenaged actor you'll probably 
want to see again. ЖҰМ 
. 

Based on the sad but true story of a 
famous 19th Century Russian mathemati- 
cian who virtually pined her life away for 
love, A Hill on the Dark Side of the Moon 
(Crystal) is a beautifully made, beauti- 
fully played Swedish movie that drove me 
crazy with contradictions. As so often the 
case with romance, the beginning is 
great—two displaced geniuses whose des- 
tinies bring them together in Stockholm 
Gunilla Nyroos and Thommy Berggren 
portray the lovers, Sonya Kovalevsky and 
her fellow Russian scientist, Maxim 
Kovalevsky (no relation, their identical 
surnames a simple coincidence), who do 
everything they can to wreck a seemingly 
Sonya won't marry 
Max because she’s not sure he loves her, 
and Max won’t commit himself, and next 
thing you know, this forthright, emanci- 
pated woman is running a fever that takes 
a fatal turn. As Sonya's will to live ebbs, 
she becomes dramatically far less interest- 
ing. Thus, we learn, at long last, why 
Dumas didn't give us a Camille who had 
mastered calculus, ¥¥ 

. 

There is something glib and mechanical 

about the movie version of Mass Appeal 


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PLAYBOY 


42 


(Universal). On Broadway, Bill C. Davis’ 
hit play was a warm human comedy 
designed as a verbal fencing match 
between an old, semialcoholic priest and a 
frecthinking young seminarian. As por- 
trayed by Jack Lemmon (in a role origi- 
nated on Broadway by Milo O'Shea), 
Father Farley, the crowd-pleasing curate 
accused by his gadfly aide of practicing 
“song-and-dance theology,” is somewhat 
less drunken (lest we ollend?). Lemmon is 
also less than persuasive, with so much 
familiar shtick in his performance that he 
seems more a competent stand-up come- 
dian than a bona fide character. We've 
scen this fast-talking, bitter Lemmon a 
dozen times before, and nothing very new 
has been added. As the precocious semi- 
narian who admits to having experimented 
with homosexuality and other alternative 
lifestyles, Zeljko Ivanek is totally believa- 
blc if not quite so charismatic as his prede- 
cessors in the role onstage (among them 
Eric Roberts and Michael O'Keefe). 
Overall, Mass Appeal adds up to a provoc- 
ative, timely religious debate that loses a 
lot in translation from stage to screen. ¥¥ 
P 

The young, gun-crazy neo-Nazis in The 
Inheritors (Island Alive) cheerfully simu- 
late the shooting of Jews and chuckle over 
a lamp shade made of human skin. They 
also are told by their fascist mentors that 
"nobody was ever gassed at Auschwitz." 
All of which becomes part of a chilling pic- 
turc made by Austrian writer-producer- 
director Walter Bannert, who ingratiated 
himself with neo-Nazi groups to collect the 
fictionalized material set forth here. His 
two young protagonists, Thomas and 
Charly (well played by Nikolas Vogel and 
Roger Schauer), have unhappy home lives; 
that presumably explains why they are 
quick to learn the joys of terrorism as well 
as Hitlerism. The Inheritors is frightening, 
for sure, yet its arguments are weakened 
by hysterically high-pitched and simplistic 
overstatement. Seems to me that a film 
maker with something so important to say 
should be exceptionally careful not to send 
his message in a sleazy wrapper. ¥¥ 

. 


Another case of overkill occurs in A 
Question of Silence (Quartet), a powerful 
drama from Holland written and directed 
by Marlene Gorris. Feminist fanatics have 
bought it whole, perhaps because the 
theme is all-out revenge. Silence drama- 
tizes the case of three apparently ordinary 
women—a waitress, a successful executive 
secretary and a browbeaten housewife— 
who impulsively and withont premedita- 
tion set upon, murder and sexually 
mutilate the snide male proprietor of a 
boutique. The actresses (Nelly Frijda, 
Henriette Tol and Edda Barends) are 
extraordinary, portraying women pushed 
to the psychological danger point in a 
male-dominated world, each of their sto- 


Lemmon is Mass Appealing curate. 


Unusual outings for 
Jack Lemmon, Diane 
Keaton and Gary Busey. 


Busey as gruff, Bearish hero. 


ries brought out by a court psychiatrist 
(Cox Habbema) who finds her own com- 
placent marriage in jeopardy as she edges 
toward the conclusion that the trio of mur- 
deresses were sane at the scene of the 
crime. Does it follow that they are aveng- 
ing angels for their entire sex? Three other 


women, eyewitnesses who saw the brutal 
murder, refuse to come forth and testify 
against them. Question of Silence thus 
stacks the evidence as if to suggest that the 
extermination of any man might be jus 
able homicide, and the movic's excesses 
become outrageous when the three killers, 
in an unconvincing courtroom scene, have 
a hearty laughing jag about the charges 
against them. Despite crucial flaws, here's 
a movie virtually certain to provoke 
heated debate, raising valid questions 
about women's roles, then blowing them 
away in a barrage of one-dimensional 
man-hating propaganda. ¥¥ 
. 


The nitwit heroine of John le Carré’s The 
Little Drummer Girl (Warner), at least as 
portrayed on the screen by Diane Keaton, 
appears easily convertible to any side in 
the Middle East chaos if the macho fanatic 
attached to it is attractive enough. At first, 
she is a pro-Palestinian actress in London, 
soon recruited by an Israeli agent (Yorgo 
Voyagis), whom she learns to love, to set a 
wap for a top Palestinian terrorist (Sami 
Frey). Maybe the book, or at least the part 
of it published in rLavsor in 1983, made 
sense, but there are so many yawning 
chasms of credibility in the movie version 
directed by George Roy Hill that I felt 
bombarded by unanswered questions: 
Why? What? How? And, Are these guys 
trying to kid me? International intrigue 
mounted with first-class trimmings from a 
timely best seller inevitably generates 
some seeworthiness. This time, though, 
simple suspense and narrative tension 
are minimal until almost the end of the 
film, a pretty elementary drawback for 
a thriller. YY 

. 

Biographical movies appear to be the 
best bet for gravel-voiced Gary Busey. Not 
since he impersonated singer Buddy Holly 
onscreen has Busey been so impressive as 
he is in the title role of The Bear (Embassy), 
a generally conventional tribute to the 
late, legendary college football coach Paul 
“Bear” Bryant. An inspiration to youth 
and a well-scasoned winner who died in 
1983, one month after he coached his last 
triumphant team at the University of Ala- 
bama, Bryant was a softhearted tough guy 
with a great natural talent for creating 
champions—among them Joc Namath, 
portrayed briefly by Steve Greenstei 
promising but undisciplined undergradu- 
ate grid star. A great sports figure whose 
career had measurably more ups than 
downs is not quite the stulf of high drama, 
and director Richard Sarahan doesn't 
often catch the essential excitement of the 
game. Even so, ardent football fans ought 
to enjoy the scrimmage, the vintage film 
clips and Busey's gritty close-up portrait 
of a hero. WW 


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MOVIE SCORE CARD 


capsule close-ups of current films 
by bruce williamson 


The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai S-f 
filmflam. Peter Weller is Buckaroo, but 
John Lithgow's mad mad scientist 
steals the show. w 
All of Me Hilarious, a hit, and upgraded 
to launch my new-year resolution to be 
less stingy with Rabbits. wy 
Amadeus Also up a notch. So why split 
hares if Milos Forman’s flamboyant 
Mozart bio is not a total triumph? 
Flaws and all, enthralling. wy 
The Bear (See review) Busey calling the 
shots as famed grid coach. WA 
Body Rock (See review) Lorenzo Lamas 
imitating John Travolta. No way. Y 
Bolero Pure bull, but plenty of Bo. ¥¥ 
The Brother from Another Planet Black 
spaceman hits Big Apple. Far ош. YY 
Carmen Bizct’s opera, with Domingo 
and a sexpot soprano. wy 
Country Grass-roots drama with Jessica 
Lange and Sam Shepard just fine. ¥¥¥ 
Fear City Homicidal killer stalks strip- 
pers, including Melanie Griffith. УМУ 
Firstbom (See review) Divorced mom's 
smart kids undo wicked suitor. ЖМА 
The Flamingo Kid (Sec review) Call it 


Matt Dillon’s day in the sun. wy 
Garbo Talks (Sce review) While jerking 
tears, Bancroft gives her all. Ww 


A Hill on the Dark Side of the Moon (Sec 
review) Somber Swedish drama about 
a “liberated” lady dying for love. ¥¥ 
The Hit (See review) John Hurt on a 


contract to kill in scenic Spain. — YY 
The Inheritors (Sce review) Neo-Nazis up 
to their evil old tricks. E 


irreconcilable Differences A saucy but 
soft-centered comedy about a Holly- 
wood couple being sued for divorce by 


their kid wy 
The Little Drummer Girl (See review) The 
book must have been better. vv 


Mass Appeal (See review) Lemmon in 
the pulpit, from the Broadway play. ¥¥ 
Night of the Comet (See review) Spacy 
comedy about apocalypse іп L.A. ¥¥¥ 
Paris, Texas (See review) Waiting for 


Kinski and a grand finale. WA 
Places in the Heart Back to the carth with 
Sally Field and friends. WWA 


The Ploughmon's Lunch (See review) Tak- 
ing a dim view of England today. — YY 
A Question of Silence (Sce review) Man- 


hating women opt for murder. v 
A Soldier's Story Murder at an Army 
base, compelling. Wy, 


Stranger thon Paradise (Sce review) 
Young, fresh and freakishly funny. ¥¥¥ 
Teachers Nick Nolte, JoBeth Williams 
tell us why Johnny can't read. ¥¥¥ 
The Terminator Blade Runner meets 
Godzilla the Barbarian. m 


YYY% Don’t miss YY Worth a look 
YYY Good show ¥ Forget it 


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COMING ATTRACTIONS 


By JOHN BLUMENTHAL 


IDOL GOSSIP: Danny DeVito and Joe Piscopo 
will team up in MGM/UA’s Wise Guys, a 
$9,000,000 adventure comedy about a pair 
of minor gangsters who, unbeknown to 
each other, must bump each other off as 
punishment for mistakenly stealing from 
the Mob. Its to be directed by Robert 
(Oxford Blues) Boris. .. . Jacqueline Bisset 
and Christopher Reeve are the unlikely duo 
set to top-line CBS' three-hour movie 
Anna Karenina. (Trivia buffs will recall 
that Greta Garbo and Fredric March starred 
in МСМ” 1935 original.) . .. The movie 
version of Eleni, Nicholas Gege's gripping 
account of the Greek civil war's tragic 
effect on his home town and family, has 
begun filming in Greece, Spain and 
London. Director Peter Yates and 
screenwriter/playwright Steve Tesich (both 
of Breaking Away fame) have teamed up to 
make Eleni, along with a cast that thus far 
includes Kate Nelligan, John Malkovich and 
Linda Hunt. . . . Rodney Dangerfield returns 
to the big screen in Orion's Back to School, 
a comedy about an older guy who—you 
guessed it—goes back to college to see 
what he missed. 


. 

JAIL BAIT: Around the turn of the century, 
the prim-and-proper Victorian wife of a 
Pennsylvania prison warden fell in love 
with a somewhat flashy convict and helped 
him and his brother escape from her 
hubby’s jail. At the time, the story made 
headlines and gripped the imagination of 
the American people. Whether or not con- 
temporary imaginations will be gripped is 
a question that will be answered in Febru- 
ary, when MGM/UA's Mrs. Soffel opens 
in theaters nationwide. Directed by Gillian 
(My Brilliant Career) Armstrong, the flick 
stars Mel Gibson as convict Ed Biddle and 
Diane Keaton as the inimitable Mrs. S. 

° 

BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN: One would 
think that Mel Brooks had covered all the 
bases with his classic Western spoof, 
Blazing Saddles, but Paramount and 
writer/director Hugh (Police Academy) 
Wilson apparently beg to differ. Just wind- 
ing up filming in Spain is the Airplane!- 
style oater send-up Rustlers Rhapsody. 
Described alternately as “the story of the 
cleanest-living singing cowboy of all 
time” and as “Gene Autry meets The 
Good, the Bad and the Ugly,” the flick 
involves the clichéed sheepherders-versus- 
cattle-breeders dispute as its central con- 
flict (though I’m told it’s loosely plotted) 
and features lots of B-movie stereotypes 
with an Eighties twist. Tom Berenger plays 
clean-cut, croonin’ cow poke Rex 
O’Herlihan (who sides with the sheep- 
herders), Marilu Henner is the siren of the 
local saloon, Fernando Rey portrays the 


While 1984 proved to be the year for break-dancing movies—Breakin’, Body Rock, Beat 
Street—the forecast for 1985 dance films looks quite favorable for moviegoers. Those of you 
who enjoyed the movie Fame will want to look for Fast Forward (above). It's the story of sev- 
eral teenagers seeking fame in the Big Apple. And the folks at MGM, who brought us That's 
Entertainment, are making That's Dancing (that's Fred Astelre in The Band Wagon, below). 


power-crazy railroad tycoon and Andy 
Griffith is the rich but sexually befuddled 
Colonel Ticonderoga. There’s also a town 
drunk who longs to be somebody's side- 
kick and a virginal nymphomaniac daugh- 
ter of a cattle baron, Fine, but what are 
they going to do for a campfire scene? 
. 

PIMPLEDOM: Director Robert Altman's О.С. 
& Stiggs, originally scheduled for summer- 
of-1984 release then repositioned for a 
late-February '85 premiere, is in tempo- 
rary limbo. This may have something to 
do with the fact that it is most assuredly 
not a "summer youth movie," though it 


may have originally been intended to be. 
Based on a series of National Lampoon 
stories by NatLamp editors Tod Carroll and 
Ted Mann, Stiggs is actually a parody of 
teenage life in upper-middle-class subur- 
bia; it traces the summer exploits of two 
boys battling against the outmoded values 
of the adult world. Altman has called it the 
first “adult-exploitation picture." Two rel- 
ative unknowns— Daniel Jenkins and Neill 
Barry— star as the title characters, backed 
by such old hands as Paul Dooley, Melvin 
Ven Peebles and Tina (Gilligan's Island) 


Louise. 


45 


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By ASA BABER 


'OU'VE GOT TO fight Swanson,” the coach 
said. He was a short, tough Chicago Pole 
who had been a pro boxer himself. “You 
guys are two of the best in your weight 
class.” 

The year was 1950. I had just turned 14. 
The summer camp was a military one, and 
it took its boxing very seriously. We 
trained daily and fought weekly. We also 
marched in formation to meals and 
classes, hiked and paraded, canoed and 
competed. We wore uniforms, held rank, 
shouted orders, obeyed them. 

“Pm not going to fight him," I objected. 
It took some courage to say that. The box- 
ing coach held the rank of captain 
“Swanee’s my best friend.” 

That was true. I didn't have a lot of 
friends as a kid, but the ones I had I really 
cared about. 

I was something of a punk from Chi- 
cago's South Side. Dave was an all- 
American boy from Galesburg, Illinois. 
Evar Swanson, his father, had once played 
professional baseball with the Chicago 
White Sox. Evar was fast in his prime. He 
had been timed circling the bases in 13.2 
seconds in 1932, a record that still stands. 
The Swanson family ran a grocery store in 
Galesburg. 

Dave and I were both good athletes. I 
was leaner and faster; Dave was shorter 
and more powerful. Dave had an open dis- 
position, a friendly face and gentle humor. 
He was a perfect foil for my intensity and 
city wit. We got along famously, trusted 
each other and agreed to be tentmates for 
that summer of our 14th year. 

“Coach says we've got to box,” Dave 
said to me. 

“Yeah, he told me that, too.” 

“He says it’s an order.” 

“Right,” I nodded. 

We left the subject hanging in the air, 
but we were both uncomfortable. It was a 
double bind, something that men know a 
lot about. 

I never saw Swanee box that way before 
or after. He put his head down and wind- 
mill punched. I stepped aside and tapped 
him on the forehead. I won the fight on 
points, though Swance could have taken 
me out whenever he wanted to. 

Our friendship was based on the unspo- 
ken pledge that we would never fight. To 
the best of our ability, we upheld that 
pledge in the ring. But the situation con- 
fused us, and what we went through is 
symbolic of the mixed and mean signals 
young men receive from their culture. 

If it is all right for us to beat up our 
friends, what space of safety and peace is 
left for us? If the line between those whom 
we can hit and those whom we cannot is 
obliterated, what limits and governors 
remain in our thinking? 


PART TWO 


“If it is all right for 
us to beat up our friends, 
what space of safety and 
peace is left for us?” 


1 am going 10 say something here that 
could get me into trouble and could be 
misinterpreted, but it is the nub of male 
stress: To this day, I still fantasize about 
coldcocking someone who’s being threat- 
ening or obnoxious to me. I control myself, 
and I do not go around hitting people; but 
often, under pressure, I want to. If a car 
almost runs me over, if somebody screws 
me professionally, if the mockery and con- 
tempt I have to cat as a writer are served 
up in too big a dish, I do not want to talk 
about the situation, I just want to throw 
hands. 

The point is not that I am a walking 
time bomb who will soon strike out in all 
directions, I have chosen never to do that. 
The point is that my violent fantasies are 
very expensive to my system. 

Т do not think I am alone in this. I am 
describing the struggle of many males. 
Raised to explode, we eventually implode. 
We sit on our programed rage and our 
anger; we feel isolated and inhuman as we 
do; and, sooner or later, the raging river 
that runs through us carries us away. We 
sce our voluntary implosion as a service 
and sacrifice to our society and, given the 
alternative, it is. But ours is a hell of a 
choice, and it would be nice if we didn't 
have to make it. 

If I read his life correctly, Swanee suf- 


fered just as much as I did from the confu- 
sion we were put through. The only differ- 
ence between us is that once, he struck out 
at somebody and got caught at it. It was a 
mistake, one that limited his career, but I 
understand why he did what he did, and I 
know that he would take back his decision 
if he could, no matter how extenuating the 
circumstances. 

“I was young and zealous,” Dave said. 
“If I had it to do over again, I wouldn't do 
it, even if I thought I was following 
orders—which I did.” 

He was speaking of the incident in 1962 
that eventually came back to hurt him. A 
young lieutenant at the time, he had 
helped rough up a Korean who had been 
caught stealing from a U.S. Army base. 
Swanee was court-martialed for being 
involved in the physical punishment of 
that prisoner. Twenty-two years later, he 
found himself passed over twice for promo- 
tion to coloncl, in spite of an cutstanding 
combat record. The message was clear: 
One slip in a career is enough to end that 
career. Dave Swanson, man of action, had 
acted once too often. 

"I was something of a pawn in that 
Korean incident," Swanee said. “We had 
a new battle-group commander. He told 
us that the policies of the preceding group 
commander were in effect unless he 
changed them. Well, the former com- 
mander had told us to beat the Devil cut of 
those Korean ‘slicky boys’ when we caught 
them stealing. As a matter of fact, he said 
we should bring them in not standing. An 
enlisted man got an automatic promotion 
if he caught a thief, and it was expected 
that there’d be some rough stuff. 

“There were political pressures, too. 
Chung Hee Park, acting president of 
Korea at the time, wanted the U.S. Army 
to turn over to him all Servicemen charged 
with crimes against Koreans. The Army 
wasn’t about to relinquish its people to the 
Korean criminal-justice system, but it had 
to show that it took such charges seriously. 
1 got caught in the middle of all that. 

“I thought I was doing what I was sup- 
posed to do,” Swanee said, “but if I had it 
to do over again, I never would do it.” 

Ithas been a privilege knowing Lieuten- 
ant Colonel David Swanson. Personally, I 
think the Army has missed a bet. Swanee 
is an outstanding officer and a stand-up 
guy, a winner of the Silver Star, two 
Bronze Stars, the Purple Heart and 
numerous other awards. It is a waste to 
put him out to pasture. 

Then again, we men know a lot about 
waste. It figures, doesn't it? After all, we're 
programed for obsolescence. Ain’t that a 
shame? And won't it be something if, 
together, we reprogram ourselves? 

It’s time. 


47 


Mba | 


KENTUCKY STRAIGHT 


BOURBON WHISKEY 
4 


WOMEN 


By CYNTHIA HEIMEL 


Then the window blew open as of old, 
and Peter dropped on the floor. 

He was exactly the same as ever, and 
Wendy saw at once that he still had all 
his first teeth. 

He was a little boy, and she was 
grown up. She huddled by the fire not 
daring to move, helpless and guilty, a 
big woman. — "Peter Pan” 


HERE 1 AM, knee-deep in mortgage papers. 
There's a huge stack of financial state- 
ments by my left elbow, a medley of tax 
returns propping up my right. I am deeply 
absorbed, indifferent to the blaring televi- 
sion, the smell of burned toast and the 
resultant beeping of the smoke detector. 
Other members of the household can take 
care of such mundanities; I have a purpose. 

Only thing is, I keep bursting into tears. 

Not even dignified, Bette Davis- 
in-Now, Voyager tears. Mine are morc 
like Shirley Temple on drugs—loud, 
hiccuping, self-pitying rivulets. 

As suddenly as they start, they stop 
again, and I go back to scrutinizing inter- 
est rates. This behavior has been going on 
for days. My son keeps threatening to sum- 
mon the men in white to take me away. 

Let them come along, I say. Let them 
take me to a place called Sunnyside Acres, 
where nurses will wake me up in the morn- 
ing and put me to sleep at night, where the 
most exciting event of the day is basket 
weaving. Where 1 won't have to deal with 
the dread ambivalence about being a 
grownup. 

We've been hearing about the Peter Pan 
syndrome lately. Pm sure Phil Donahue 
has had a show covering same. The P.P.S. 
pertains to men—men who don’t want to 
grow up. Men who don’t want to take 
responsibility. Men afraid to commit 
themselves. Men who feel that any life that 
involves putting on a suit and tie and 
going into an office five days a week is a 
sham, a cheat, not what they were led to 
expect and not fair. 

But we girls also read Peter Pan. Or if we 
didn't, we saw the trashy, incredibly sexist 
Disney movie, which no doubt had J. M. 
Barrie turning and muttering in his grave. 
We read all about Peter and the lost boys 
and Captain Hook and, even though we 
were girls, we yearned to be like Peter— 
y and innocent and heartless and always 
ng adventures—but we were con- 
vinced, deep in our hearts, that we were 
doomed to be Wendy. 

Ponder Wendy for a moment: Peter took 
her to Never-Never Land to be a little 
mother for him and his lost boys. And 
Wendy did all sorts of typical mother 
things—sewing, cleaning, caring for the 
sick, getting tied to the mast of a pirate 
and needing to be rescued. She was 


THE WENDY 
SYNDROME 


“She was an irritating little sod, our 
dear Wendy; she couldn't even 
defend herself against Tinker Bell, a 
fairy a fraction of her size.” 


an irritating little sod, our dear Wendy; 
she couldn't even defend herself against 
Tinker Bell, a fairy a fraction of her size. 
Fear was forever beating in her heart— 
not, mind you, for herself but for Peter and 
John and Michael and all the others. 

Near the end of the book, Wendy even 
worries about her parents. How they must 
miss their children! And she drags all the 
lost boys and her brothers back with her to 
their mice, safe home in London. Only, 
Peter won't stay there. Wendy tries every 
trick in the book, but he just won't. So 
then she decides that maybe she should go 
back to Never-Never Land with Peter, 
because he does so need a mother. 

“So do you, my love,” her own mother 
tells her. Wendy stays. Except that Peter 
promises to come for her every year, so she 
can do his spring cleaning. And he does for 
a while, until he forgeıs all about her. 

Let's face it: Wendy is a wimp. Plagued 
by guilt. Haunted by convention. Can't 
even say boo to a fairy. Needs rescuing all 
the time. 

Deep inside every modern, assertive, 
contemporary woman, there’s a Wendy 
crying to get out. 

Here I am, successfully negotiating the 
purchase of a new house. I have earned 
every penny of the down payment by hon- 
est sweat and blood and fancy wordwork. 


An accomplishment to crow about. I 
should be flying. 

But theres Wendy pulling at my 
innards. I close my cyes and see her 
mournful, anxious face. “You shouldn't be 
doing this yourself,” she chides. “Some- 
body should be taking care of you.” 

But who, Wendy? Who is going to take 
care of me? Surely, you don't mean Peter, 
who still has his baby teeth? 

I search my apartment, looking for a 
potential savior, see a little boy doing his 
math homework and burst into tears. 

It’s sad business, letting go of these girl 
dreams. But—let’s face it—Wendy is not 
only a wimp, she is a masochist. Passively 
awaiting one's fate is not psychologically 
viable. 

І keep trying to tell Wendy about this. 
(A shard of Wendy consciousness pierces 
my soul and won’t be dislodged.) 


ME: Get lost, you silly slut! 

WENDY: You know you don't mean 
that, dear. You look a bit feverish. Let 
me feel your head 

me: I can look after myself! 

WENDY: No, you can't, dear. None of 
us can. It isn’t feminine. 


I often believe her. Being feminine, 1 am 
oft convinced, is looking after others— 
making sure they are fed, washed, have 
their shoes tied, their psyches soothed. 

But going out into the big world? Wres- 
Wing with monsters like bank managers? 
Me? 

Well, yes, me. I am on a mission. To 
grow up, with or without Peter. Whenever 
I feel the ambivalence setting in, I think 
about my mother, a Wendy to her teeth. 
Took care of everyone, got dinner on the 
table every night. Then, when she was 53, 
my father lefi her. Dad wears a gold chain 
and dates about seven women—very Peter 
Pan. Mom works as a secretary and can 
barely make ends meet. 

‘That is where pretending to be charac- 
ters in an overly adorable children’s book 
will get you. 

Гуе got this new system. ГИ hire an 
accountant to take care of the taxes. A 
bookkeeper to take care of the bills. An 
investment counselor to tell me where to 
put my money. A lawyer to negotiate real- 
estate contracts. But 1 can still scrutinize 
the interest rates myself, still let my сус 
stray to the financial pages of the newspa- 
per. I like understanding money. It's fun 
and, like any other kind of power, exciting. 
My advisors will all take care of me; I can 
stay a child. But I will pay them, so I will 
secretly be a grownup. Nobody need 
know. 

“Just be sure to feed them a nice, 
hot meal,” says Wendy 


49 


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AGAINST THE WIND 


By CRAIG VETTER 


“WHAT ABOUT a life in the mountains?" I ask 
myself sometimes. It used to be a strong 
fantasy of mine, when all my goddamn 
city doings got to be like juggling knives 
and eating fire. When the muscles between 
my shoulder blades felt like barrelmakers 
had tightened them, When I'd get up into 
the airless little room that is my brain so 
completely that it felt like I was never 
going to get out, that I was just going to 
die up there, like some rat in an attic. 
Then Fd think about making a stand 
somewhere I could let the animal run, 
make him work for supper, then let him go 
to sleep breathing pine and looking at the 
stars. These days, though, I know I was 
kidding myself about having what it takes 
to live that far out on the lonely edge of 
things. I might have had some of the obvi- 
ous things it takes—the physical equip- 
ment, maybe—but I don’t think I ever 
could have cultivated the invisible muscle, 
the emotional grit it takes to become really 
at home in the wilderness. 

A guy I know named Doug Robinson 
has it, and our conversations are the rea- 
son I know I don't. He lives on the ragged 
east slope of the Sierra, in a valley where 
the mountains stand 14,000 feet above vou 
on two sides. He sleeps in those mountains 
100 or 150 nights a year, out from under 
the phone net the rest of us suffer with, so 
if you want to run him down, you have to 
leaye messages in hollow trees, sort of: at 
some remote lodge or with friends of his in 
the little town of Bishop. Then, a few days 
or a few weeks later, he'll ski around Rock 
Lake, shovel a phone booth clean of snow, 
and when you ask him how it is up there in 
January, when all the animals of any good 
instinct are long since burrowed and sleep- 
ing, he'll tell you it's the most beautiful 
spot on earth. 

I got to know Robinson climbing rocks. 
He taught me to climb in the shadow of 
Yosemite's great walls, on novice routes 
like Glacier Point Apron and Royal 
Arches, neither of which was much chal- 
lenge to him. He'd spent years there in the 
Sixties and Seventies, scrambling up the 
slick granite faces all day, then hoboing 
around the climbers’ camps at night. He 
left his name in the local record books 
when he made the first no-hammer, no- 
piton ascent of Half Dome's northwest 
face; then he climbed in the Alps, and a 
few years ago, he carried ABC's television 
cameras up 22,700-foot Ama Dablam in 
the Himalayas. He's a fine coach and a 
fine climber, and for all his strength and 
elegance going up, the thing he counts as 
most valuable among his Alpine skills 
is his ability to downclimb over precipitous 
territory, to quit when it's time to do that. 
He says he's almost embarrassed at how 
often he misreads the rock and has to 


A LIFE IN THE 
MOUNTAINS 


"'| never wanted to be just some 
guy out here machoing around in a 
plaid shirt, chopping wood and 
conquering mountains.’” 


retreat. “I make mistakes in judgment at 
an alarming rate,” he told me, but he was 
probably overstating it. He has suffered 
only one serious fall in all his climbing 
career, and although it just as easily as not 
could have killed him, he caught himself. 
By a thumb. 

Robinson makes part of his living guid- 
ing climbers and cross-country skiers in 
the Sierra and the other part by writing for 
outdoor journals and climbing magazines. 
The combination of those two incomes 
would amount to real poverty most other 
places; but in the mountains, he says, it’s 
enough to give him the life of a gentleman 
pauper. In the fall, when he caches food 
along his winter ski routes, it's gourmet 
food; and in the summer, when he goes up 
into the high rocks to think or to write his 
poems or to read and take notes for a book 
he's writing on adrenaline, he does it to the 
music of groups like The Grateful Dead, 
which he listens to on the boom box he 
hauls along with his water and his lunch. 

"Nobody better complain about it, 
either," he'll tell you. ‘That is, unless they 
never play music in their living rooms.” 
During the mountain time I’ve spent with 
him, it has all seemed pretty ideal, a 
nearly perfect mix of sweat and thinking, 
and we've talked a lot about it. Once, 
when I asked him how he had gotten the 
job he had, he told me that back in high 


school, when he was reading Thoreau and 
Abbey and Nietzsche, he imagined a life 
that really balanced thought and feeling 
and action, 

limbing attracted me then because 
it’s so much more than a sport. You can’t 
pull it off without drawing heavily on all 
three of those parts of yourself. I never 
wanted to be just some guy out here 
machoing around in a plaid shirt, chopping 
wood and conquering mountains. Many 
times, when I'm climbing a wall, thoughts 
just come bubbling to the surface, and 1 
end up sitting on some ledge, writing— 
because at its best, when it’s all working 
together, the organizing gets done uncon- 
sciously and I just take the words down as 
they appear, like dictation.” 

When Robinson’s spiritual side kicks in, 
he talks about the pull he feels to stay 
longer each time in the high country, to 
become more and more intimate with the 
terrain. And when he really gets going, he 
likes to think of himself as moving toward 
the tradition of the ultimate mountaineers, 
a Seventh Century band of Zen lunatics 
who wandered the mountains of China, 
appearing and disappearing, happy fools 
who lived off the land, scratching their 
poems into the stalks of wild bamboo and 
generally keeping themselves clear of what 
Robinson calls “the habits of mind that 
pass for civilization." 

“So where's the rub?" ] asked him once. 
"Where's the bad in this life that looks so 
good from where I'm standing?" 

“Companionship,” he said. "Women. I 
need and love solitude more than most 
people, but I also need the companionship 
ofa good woman, and living the way I do, 
it’s very hard to work that out. This is a 
very romantic life and it naturally attracts 
women, but when the honeymoon’s over 
and reality sets in in the dead of winter 
and it’s a five-mile ski to town, things tend 
to come apart. Гуе been married and 
divorced four times and had several other 
serious relationships. I wouldn't care to 
blame all those breakups on my mountain 
life, but it doesn’t help.” 

1 think you have to admire the kind of 
spirit that can do that much downclimbing 
without abandoning the sport, and 
although I know Robinson has his dark 
moments up there in that thin air, the last 
letter I got from him was full of the kind of 
optimism that’s harder won than I have 
tools for. Winter was coming, and the 
Owens Valley was putting on an autumn 
spectacular, he said. He had a new girl- 
friend, was going to work on his book 
when the snow got deep and was promis- 
ing himself that next year, when he turned 
40, he was going back to Yosemite, train 
himself into serious shape, then go climb- 
ing with the young vagabonds who are 
pitching their tents where he pitched 
his all those years ago to see if he 
couldn't learn something from them 


51 


No one ever called Tony La Russa a sissy. 


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hair. Thats why La Russa uses Consort Hairspray. 
It leaves hair clean. Natural. Yet in control. 

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GROOMING GEAR FOR REAL GUYS. CONSORT. 


THE PLAYBOY ADVISOR 


WI, partner sometimes worries aloud 
that we make love too frequently. We have 
been together for nine years and previ- 
ously had been friends, keeping in inter- 
mittent to close touch (sans carnal 
knowledge) for five years before beginning 
our long, intimate and continuing relation- 
ship. During this time—seven ycars 
cohabitating and two married—we have 
made love an average of 520 times per 
year. We both have kept journals since 
undergraduate days, including this and 
other data of personal interest. The figures 
would be even higher, except that our 
careers keep us separated from two weeks 
to two months a year. 

At first, I was convinced that this sexual 
frequency was a fluke and Га revert to two 
or three times weekly after this new, fan- 
tastic affair had cooled. But it has per- 
sisted un ished and, in fact, becomes 
better. We both had a number of love 
alfairs before, including one or more live- 
in situations. I am more than two decades 
her senior; she is now 34. We make love at 
any hour, including oral, anal and conven- 
tional (mostly) sex, often in unlikely 
places. We have done it in the open; one of 
the most stimulating experiences was 
when we were taking shelter under a rock 
ledge in a severe thunderstorm, with light- 
flashing and hail pelting her cute 


rated for a week, we screwed seven times in 
опе day; and some two years later, follow- 
frequent arguments, we 
it cight times in 24 hours. None were 
wham-bams; all were complete and satis- 
fying. Some of our best sex has been dur- 
ing her periods, when she sometimes is 
remarkably turned on. 

Before this great love, I recall only aver- 
age frequency (based upon PLAYBOY'S sex- 
survey figures) and, usually, ho-hum 
partners. Is there such a thing as too much 
sex— we're both remarkably healthy and 
happy and widely envied—and, seco 
could a special partner make so much dil 
ference in one's sexual energy? Ah, 
heaven, I know thee well!—J. J. W., Phoe- 
nix, Arizona. 

There's no such thing as too much of a 
good thing. As long as you and your partner 
feel good, you can't possibly be overdoing it. 
Take pride in the fact that the two of you are 
so active and so far above “average.” Maybe 
she is a special lady. Maybe the act of keeping 
a journal raises the sexual temperature. The 
unexamined sex life is not worth living. 


For the past couple of winters, ту girl- 
friend and | have spent a week on various 
Caribbean islands, always staying at 
hotels or inns. Now we're getting a bit 
tired of crowded pools and high-powered 
waiters hustling low-powered | drinks. 
What about something with a bit more 


privacy and ficcdom?—R. 
Illinois. 

How does a villa on St. Lucia with a 
40-foot private pool strike you? Or, if you 
want to go with another couple, maybe you'd 
like a two-bedroom home on a Jamaican hill- 
side, complete with a four-poster bed, terraces, 
a pool, a cook, a maid and a gardener. It's 
possible to rent condominiums and villas (the 
former can be found in studio and one- 
bedroom configurations, while the latter tend 
10 run to two bedrooms and up) such as those 
on virtually any island in the Caribbean. In 
addition to the privacy a rental unit affords, 
it’s also possible to save money on one, espe- 
cially when two or more couples share a place. 
For example, the St. Lucia villa has two bed- 
rooms and costs $1125 per week in the 
winter. The Jamaican beauty, which is 
located in the woods nine miles outside 
Montego Bay, goes for $2200. Although 
there are many companies that list properties 
in the Caribbean (and all around the world, 
for that matter), three that are particularly 
worth noting are At Home Abroad, 405 East 
56th Street, 6H, New York, New York 10022 
(212-421-9165); Caribbean Home Rentals, 
Box 710, Palm Beach, Florida 33480 
(305-833-4454); and Villa Leisure, Box 
1096, Fairfield, Connecticut’ 06340 
(203-222-9611). 


W have a problem that I hope you will be 
able to help me with. [ am 18 years old 
and many girls find me attractive, but I 
have a real problem starting an initial con- 
versation with a girl Гуе just become 
attracted to. Let me describe a typical sit- 
uation to you, and I should say that it hap- 
pens quite often. Recently, I was eating 
breakfast with a friend in San Diego and 


me. I knew that she found me attractive, 
but I could think of no way to start a con- 
versation with her. (She wasn't waiting on 
our table.) Now, Pm the type of guy who 
enjoys a lasting relationship, not a bunch 
of one-night stands, so I want my conver- 
sation to be clean, not sleazy, if you know 
what I mean. Do you have any suggestions 
to help me with this problem?— 
C. J., Yuma, Arizona. 

Initiating conversation with a sex interest 
is only as difficult as you make it: Forget 
about snappy one-liners (7I suppose a blow 
job is out of the question?”) and concentrate 
on friendly small talk to get things going. 
Make a simple or, if you're up to it, clever 
remark about your immediate environment or 
an observation about your surroundings, and 
then wait for a reaction. Try to appear 
relaxed and al ease, and if you're incapable 
of anything else, at least give her a friendly 
smile or a sheepish grin. 


The built-in microprocessor in my cas- 
sette deck adjusts the machine to correct 
levels, including the bias level, for variou: 
tapes. Why, then, does it also have a sepa- 
rate manual bias adjustment, and is there 
ple way to use it? —L. L, Lansing, 


Bias in a tape deck prepares the tape to 
accept the recording signal. The general 
classes of tape require different bias settings, 
of course; bul even within the same generic 
class and among different samples of the same 
brand and class of tape, there may be sub- 
tle variations in the magnetic coating. If you 
are really fussy about your recordings, you 
сап use the manual bias adjustment to tweak, 
or fine-tune, the deck to account for those 
variations. One simple way to do that is to 
record some of the white noise between sta- 
tions on the FM dial. Compare the sound of 
that hash as it comes directly off the 
air with the way it sounds after you have 
taped some of it. If the recorded noise sounds 
less bright than the original noise, reduce the 
selling of the bias adjustment. If the recorded 
noise sounds brighter, raise the setting of the 
manual bias adjustment, If you can't hear 
any difference, forget it and leave well 
enough alone. 


П have a lover who is everything a woman 
could want—kind, sensitive, handsome, 
understanding, sexy and a great friend. 
We share a relationship that makes others 
seem pale in comparison. I do all I can to 
make him feel good, but there is a prob- 
lem. When I give him a blow job, he can- 
not come unless I let him help it along 
prior to his ejaculating. He can come in my 
mouth after he handles himself, but he 
can't come with only my touch. He had a 
traumatic experience in his carly teens 
when friends tried to vacuum his ре 


PLAYBOY 


54 


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as a joke. Could that have caused any 
long-lasting (it’s now 20 years later) psy- 
chological or physical damage? My self- 
confidence in my ability is now faltering, 
even though he assures me that I gi 
great head and do nothing wrong. 1 won- 
der if there is hing you might sug- 
gest that would improve my ability to 
stimulate him to ejaculation all by myself; 
or should I quit worrying about something 
that could be considered just a quirk?— 
Miss B. H., Albany, New York. 

As long as your lover is satisfied, we think 
you are worrying needlessly, Since he has 
assured you that there is nothing wrong with 
your technique, we can hardly give you any 
suggestions to improve it. You have so much 
going in this relationship, we think you 
should see your lovers “quirk” simply as par- 
ticipation he enjoys. 


"t some 


ion 


М, neighbor just bought а new diesel 
car. 1 think it's noisy and smoky, espe- 
cially when he starts it in the morning. He 
thinks it’s terrific. He says it gets great 
mileage, never needs a tune-up and should 
last forever. Are diesels really everything 
they're cracked up to be?—C. W., Cin- 
nati, Ohio. 

Diesel cars gained a lot of popularity dur 
ing and after the last gas shortage, because 
people got tired of waiting in line for gas. 
Now that gas is plentiful again and diesel 
fuel costs as much as unleaded gas, their 
appeal has diminished. That noise you hear— 
like the ball bearings m a spray-paint can— 
is combustion in the cylinders under such 
high pressure that the fuel self-ignites without 
the need for sparkplugs. The lack of 
sparkplugs and carburetor (diesel engines are 
fuel-injected) eliminates the need for periodic 
tune-ups. On the other hand, a diesel needs 
frequent oil changes, because the high com 
bustion pressure blows sool and crud past the 
pistons into the crankcase, where they goop up 
the oil. Mast recent and new diesels don't 
smoke once they're warmed up, but they all 
clatter. Diesels also aren't much for accel 
eration, though some are available with 
turbocharging to make them almost as quick 
as similar-sized gasoline engines. Optional 
diesel engines can be expensive and turbo- 
diesels are even more expensive; and the logic 
of paying several hundred dollars extra to 
save a few bucks a week on fuel escapes us. 
Most diesels are tough and durable, though 
one tank of bad fuel can clog up the injectors 
and make for costly repairs. In cold climates, 
diesels warm up slower than gas-driven cars 
and need a little more care to get them started 
on sub-zero days. Finally, diesel fuel can be 
hard to find in some areas. Diesels aren't for 
everyone, but if high fuel economy and 
extended range (distance between fill-ups) are 
important to you, you might give one some 
serious thought. Just don't buy it without 
trying it first, because you may find out you 
don't like it later. 


ve been seeing a wonderful woman for 
three months now, and we've become very 
involved emotionally. Our sex together 


ae 


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U.S Postal Service statement of ownership. management and 
‘elroulation. 1. Title of publication: PLAYBOY. Publication no. 
321478. 2. Date of filing: Soptember 20, 1884. 3. Frequency of 
lasus: Monthly. A. No, of issues published annually: 12: B. 
‘Annual aubsoription price: 822. 4 

of known office of publication: 
Chicago. Cook County, Ш. 80811. 5. Complete mailing 
address of the headquarters or gunera! business offices of the 
Publisher: 919 N. Michigan Ave. Chicago, Cook County. Ш. 
80911. 8. Namas and complete addrosees of publisher, editor. 
and managing editor: Publisher and Editor, Hugh M Hofner, 
8660 Вопли Biv., Los Angeles, Cali. 90088; Managing Edi- 
tor, Position open. 7. Owner: Playboy Enterprises, Ine.. 910 
N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, DI. 80611, Btockholders owning 
‘or holding one percent or more oftotal ammount of stock Hugh 
M. Hefner. 8500 Bunsat Blvd. Los Angeles, Саш. #0060: Code 
de Co. Box 222, Bowling Groen Btatlon, New York, N.Y. 
10004, Keay le Co. 100 B LaSalle Bt. Chicago, П 40603; 
FMI Corp. 82 Devonshire St., Boston, Mass, 02108; PEI- 
Offen of the Treasurer, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago. Ш. 
80611. 8. Known bondholders, mortgageet, and other socu- 
rity holders owning or holding ona percent or more of total 
‘amount of bonds, mortgages or other securities: Nove. 8. For 
‘completion by nonprofit organizations authorized to mall at 
special rates: Not applicable. 10. Extent and nature of olroula- 
on: Average по. copies each issue during preceding 12 
months: А. Total no. coples printed, 8,025,890; В. Paid otrou- 
Iation, (1) Sales through deniers and carriers, strast vendors 
‘and counter sales, 1,823,097, (2) Mall subscriptions, 
2,313,020: С. Total ра circulation, 4,248,117; D. Free distri- 
bution by mall, carrier or other mean, samples, complimen- 
tary, and other free coples, 181,100; E. Total distribution, 
4,207,217; F. Coplen not distributed, (1) Office use, left over, 
‘unaccounted, spoiled ater printing. 11.198. (2) Returna from. 
пема agente, 1,617,275; 0. Total, 8,020,800. Actual no. oop- 
den cf aingie issue published noarsst to fling date: A. Total no. 
‘copies printed, 6,174,587; B. Fald circulation, (1) Salen 
through dealers and carriera, street vendors and counter 
sales, 1,791,300, (2) Май subscriptions, 2,400,000; C. Total 
pale circulation, 4,200,300; D. Proa distribution by mall, car- 
ler or other means, samples, complimentary, and cther freo 
‘copies, 180.181; E. Total distribution, 4,400,611: F- Соріва 
not distributed, (1) Office use, laft over, unaccounted. spolied 
aner printing, 10.281, (2) Returns from newn agente, 
1,763,886; O. Total, 8,174,887, 11. I corüfy that the state- 
meste made by me above aro correct and completo. Richard E. 
South, Senior Vios President, Ciroulation Director. 


couldn't be better, for 1, who have had lit- 
erally hundreds of lovers, can remember 
none so prolific. But for the first time in all 
the years, I have a deep feeling for this 
woman—it's more than just a physical 
thing, and we've exchanged verbal expres- 
sions of love 

After our third or fourth date, she made 
it apparent to me that she had had a boy- 
friend for a year or so and wondered if it 
bothered me. At that point, it didn’t mat- 
ter to me, for as the newcomer, 1 felt that I 
was cheating him, if anything. What was 
meant to be a fling for her got out of hand, 
and our relationship escalated rapidly. 
After a couple of months of intimacy and 
emotional investment, the young lady 
broke it to me that she couldn't take the 
pressures of loving two men. Since she had 
not let on to her boyfriend about our aflair, 
though she had been completely open with 
me, she chose the path of least resistance 
and asked that we cool it for a while. 

I care about her deeply and don't want 
to lose her. She claims the same feelings for 
me in our less-frequent rendezvous. She 
has expressed a deep love for me, an 
excitement with our lovemaking unrivaled 
by any prior experience, but also a lack of 
interest in ending her other thing. 

What demands, if any, may I make on 
her to make a decision, and how soon? The 
line between having her and pushing so 
hard as to scare her back to him is so fine, 
yet I can’t handle the infrequency of our 
meetings and want to take destiny into my 
own hands. Help me, for I fear that for the 
first time in nearly 30 years, I may be in 
love.—A. S., Chicago, Ili 

We wish we could be encouraging, bul we 
suspect that you'll indefinitely, if not always, 
be playing second banana in this situation. If 
this woman felt the excitement for you that 
you feel for her, she would have little diffi- 
culty breaking things off with her current 
boyfriend. It appears that you're in the 
unenviable position of being the other man— 
and part of your appeal to this woman is that 
you are forbidden fruit. Keep in mind, too, 
that you've known each other only a little 
more than three monihs. She obviously feels 
more comfortable with the man she has known 
longer. It may all boil down to how patient 
you can be—and for how long. So, while we 
understand your strong feelings for her, 
we suggest that you do cool it for a while to 
give the appearance that you may be moving 
on to other things. Lf she really wants to hold 
on to you, she'll find a way. You have nothing 
to gain, as you realize, by trying to force the 
issue. Good luck. 


MI, boyfriend and 1 have a very happy 
and pleasurable sex life. 1 enjoy having sex 
with him, and I'm sure he feels the same 
way about me. The only problem we have 
is that he prevents me from touching cer- 
tain parts of his body, and I must touch 
him a certain way. I love to touch and kiss 
every part of his body. I told him that if I 
could, I would tie him up and just touch 
him, kiss him and lick him wherever I 


wanted to. It makes me feel so good when 
I lick his balls, but he objects to that, 
because he claims that my touch is too del- 
icate. When | squeeze his balls and lick his 
penis, it seems to turn me on even more. I 
really don’t know why licking and squeez- 
ing his balls turns me on so much, but it 
does; maybe it’s because his penis is so 
big, and it looks so good when it's hard. 

What I need to know is, should I stop 
trying to persuade him to let me lick and 
squeeze his balls, or should I keep 
trving?— Miss P. $., Indianapolis, Indiana. 

We always hate to see a romance break up, 
but if yours ever does, there are a few guys 
around here who would be more appreciative 
of you than your current beau. Tie the sucker 
up and be a bit less delicate. This is what is 
known as a compromise. Enjoy it. 


Gould swallowing semen during ejacu- 
lation be a cause of early miscarriag: 
Could the semen cross the placenta to the 
developing fetus? If so, would it be harm- 
ful to the baby? My husband and I have 
just lost a baby; I was seven weeks preg- 
nant. We have a wonderful sexual relation- 
ship in which we enjoy oral sex 
tremendously, About twice a weck, we 
perform it on each other, ending with my 
swallowing his ejaculate. I love doing this, 
but I have to wonder if it could have been 
a factor in losing the baby. To me, this is a 
pertinent question; I'm surprised Гуе 
never heard it discussed before. I could 
have asked my doctor, but he was rather 
vague about why I miscarried, so I'm ask- 
ing you instead. Of course, we went over 
the obvious reasons: improper diet, drug 
and/or alcohol abuse, genetic factors, ete. 
None of those seemed a possibility so they 
provided no answer. The doctor did tell 
me that there was no reason I couldn't get 
pregnant again and carry a healthy full- 
term baby. 

Another question I'd like to ask is 
“Could highly active sexual relations have 
also caused a miscarriage?” I have always 
heard that no amount of sexual intercourse 
can dislodge a healthy cgg from the uterus; 
but Га like to hear it from an expert.— 
Mrs. D. J., Dallas, Texas. 

We know of no evidence linking swallow- 
ing of semen to miscarriage. The two major 
reasons for miscarriage are defect in develop- 
ment and defect in implantation. And what 
you've heard about intercourses not being 
harmful during the first eight months of preg- 
nancy is correct. (Some doctors advise against 
intercourse in the final trimester; opinion ts 
divided.) Good luck in the future. 


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


Waputik Mountain. 


A rugged place for the holiday spirit to start. 


WINDSOR 


CANADA'S SMOOTHEST WHISKY. 


ALBERTA, CANADA 

I come back to this cabin 
every Christmas. 

When I wasa kid, we spent 
summers here. But we always 
came up once in the winter 
too, just before Christmas. 
Wed stay for a few days. Cook- 
ing. Singing. Telling stories. 
Celebrating Christmas in the 
traditional way. So now І always 
try to give my family the same 
wonderful experience. 

Sure it's cold. But there are 
ways of dealing with that. A 
fire of pine logs. An old patch- 
work quilt. A bottle of Windsor. 

Particularly the Windsor. It's 
made right here in Alberta 
from the water that melts off 
these very mountains. It has a 
taste so smooth that whenever 
I take a sip. no matter where I 
happen to be, I can always con- 
jure up images of Christmas 
on Waputik Mountain. 

Give Windsor this holiday. Call toll free 
to arrange delivery of gift box anywhere 


in the US.: 1-800-621-5151 (in Florida 
800-432-4136) old where prohibited 
an 


* 


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WINDSOR 


Supreme 


CANADIAN WHISKY — A BLEND » 80PROOF = IMPORTED AND BOTTLED BY THE WINDSDR DISTILLERY COMPANY. NEW YORK. NY © 1964 NATIONAL DISTILLERS PRDDUCTS CD 


57 


The perfect gift is more than a 
surprise; it hits the mark. If there's a 
driver on your list, vou can give 
ESCORT or PASSPORT with absolute 
confidence. Here's why: 


Head Of The Class 

Car and Driver magazine rated 
ESCORT number one in its most 
recent test, calling it “...clearly the 
leader in value, customer service 
and performance...” 

In fact, in the six years since 
its introduction, ESCORT has 
become the classic instrument of 
radar detection. Our policy of con- 
tinuous refinement has maintained 
its leading-edge performance. And 
the experts agree. 


New Partner 
PASSPORT is brand new. For 
the person on the move, switching 
between cars or using rentals in 


PASSPORT fits comfortably in a shirt pocket, 


Overwhelm Your 


With a gift of early radar warning, elegant design, 


distant cities, it provides ESCORT 
performance and features in a 
convenient miniaturized package. 
You can carry it in your pocket like, 
well, a passport. The m: 
experts haven't tried it vet, but we 
think they'll have to search as hard 
for the superlatives to describe it 
as we did for the technology to 
make it. The SMD (Surface Mounted 


you a precise indication of radar 
type and range. In PASSPORT, a bar 
graph of eight Hewlett-Packard 
LEDs replaces the meter. This 
allows the same thorough radar 
report in a pocket-size packa 


Attention To Detail 
The main point of a radar 
warning device is performance, but 


Volume Contra 


ESCORT 


Device) circuitry that made 
PASSPORT possible is simply light 
years ahead. 


st Class Performance 

When radar is out there, the 
superheterodyne circuitry in ESCORT 
and PASSPORT will find it: over hills, 
around curves, hidden in the 
bushes, anywhere. But that’s just 
half the story. 

Just as important is the unique 
way they give vou a full, easily 
understood report on the radar they 
find. ESCORT has led the way with 
its variable pulse audio warning, 
analog meter and amber alert lamp. 
These all work together to give 


Sigrid Strength Me 


КҮЛҮҮ Ат lamp 
a 
the perfect gift brings something 
more: pride of ownership. Both 
ESCORT and PASSPORT are finely 
crafted instruments that look right 


at home in a Porsche, Mercedes, 
or any car 


Both have precision aluminum 
housings of just the right heft, 
finished in glare-resistant black. 
Each has a volume control as silky 
as that of a fine stereo. Each has a 
power-on indicator and a switch 
to choose between city and high 
way operation. They even have 
photoelectric sensors to adjust 
brightness to the light level of the 
сагу interior. PASSPORT adds an 


Tune in “Talkback with Jerry Gahin America’s new weekly call in 
comedy tll she Sunday evenings on public radio stations 
Check local listings. 


Favorite Driver 


оюн 


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and precise craftsmanship-from an exclusive source 


PASSPORT is only 4" tall and 2%" wide. 


audio muting switch to temporarily 
defeat the audio during long radar 
encounters, 

Bur all this sophistication 
doesn't make them hard to use. Just 
install on dash top or clip to the 
sunvisor, and plug into your lighter. 
Our precision electronics take over 
from there. 


Apart From The Crowd 

We've always felt that users of 
precision electronics are entitled to 
deal with experts. That's why we 
sell direct from our factory only. 
There are no middlemen. When it 
comes to customer satisfaction, we 
take full responsibility 

And while our system of factory- 
direct sales was not designed 
specifically tor gift givers, it does 
offer some rather special benefits. 
For example, you needn't worry 
about buying a discontinued model 
still in a store's stock. Your gift will 
never be seen marked down in the 
discount chains. More importantly. 
giving either ESCORT or PASSPORT 
shows vou were concerned enough 


about quality to track down the 
only source. And there's one more 
advantage. 


Easy Shopping 

XCORT and PASSPORT let you 
do vour Christmas shopping by 
phone and avoid the retail hassle. 
No searching for parking. No stand- 
ing in lines. We're only a toll-free 
call and a parcel delivery away 

Most important of all, ESCORT 
and PASSPORT are guaranteed to 
please. Holidays or anytime, take 
the first thirty days as a tial. you're 


not absolutely satistied, return vour 
purchase and we'll promptly refund 
your money and your mailing 
costs. We also back ESCORT and 
PASSPORT with a full one-year 
limited warranty. 


d 


ESCORT and PASSPORT come complete 
wilb accessories 


Car and Driver called us the 

5 act” in radar detection. So 
order now; and let ESCORT or 
PASSPORT overwhelm your favorite 
driver. 


Order Today 


By Phone: Call us toll free. A 
member of our sales staff will be glad 
to answer any questions and take 
your order, (Please have your Visa or 
MasterCard at hand when you call). 


TOLL FREE 800-543-1608 
IN OHIO 800-582-2696 
(Phone M-F 8-8, Sat 9-5:30 EST) 
By Mail: We'll need to know your 
name and street address, daytime 
phone number, and how many 
PASSPORTS and ESCORTS you want. 
Please enclose a check, money order, 
or the card number and expiration 
date from your Visa or MasterCard. 
(Personal or company checks require 
18 days processing.) 


PASSPORT $295 ($16.23 tax in OH) 
(Available November 1, 1984) 
Pocket-Size Radar Protection 


RADAR WARNING RECEIVER. 
——— 


ESCORT $245 ($13.48 tax in OH) 
The Classic of Radar Warning 


Cincinnati Microwave 
Department 100-107 

One Microwave Plaza 
Cincinnati, Ohio 45296-0100 


Since the invention of the pho- 


4 CLIMATE 
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nograph player back in 1877, there 
have been a myriad of technical 
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hasn't changed a hit. 


Until now. 
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Today, while over 30 compa- 
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DEAR PLAYMATES 


Since the holiday season is a time when 
everyone has fantasies, we thought it 
would be appropriate to ask our Playmate 
advisors about theirs. After all, not every 
goody has to come wrapped up under the 
tree. 


The question for the month 


What do you have sexual fantasies 
about? 


Wu mean besides my dog, Spot? Just 
kidding, folks! Ready for a real one? David 
Lee Roth, the singer for Van Hale 
really caused a bit of a stir inside me 


recently. Um 
just sure the 
man is abso- 


lutely wild. Га 
like to go out 
and get nuts 
with him some- 
time. From his 
videos, he 
seems to be up 
for anything, 
and | must 
admit that 1 do 
get a few but- 
terflics wondering what he'd be like in per- 
son. Fm no groupie. I just like the idea of 
his energy and unpredictability. 


Harton (arsen 


MARLENE JANSSEN 
\ NOVEMBER 1982 
er, 


Due had sexual fantasies about people 1 
don’t know and about people I'm seeing. 1 
think they're healthy. A fantasy аһош a 
Um with 
would be imag- 
ining myself 
having sex with 
him, imagining 
the things he 
does that turn 
inê oii and the 
things I do that 
turn him on. In 
a long-term re- 
lationship, you 
ай keep the 
fantasies going 
by dressing up. dressing down, having sex- 
ual conversations with him to keep things 
fresh between you. Time together can 
deepen your fantasy life 


nn Y \ Uhar ko. 


LORRAINE MICHAELS 
APRIL 1981 


man 


MAS 1 get older, Im becoming more 
turned on to myself, and I've just started 
having fantasies. 1 like touching myself 
now. My fantasies about real men run the 
gamut from Hal Linden to Eric Dickerson, 
who plays for 
the L.A. Rams. 
Oh, yes, and 
Eddie Hatch. 
who's on As the 
World Turns. 
Гус never been 
with two men 
at the ame 
time, but I 
have fantasized 
about it. Two 
men who turn 
mc on, who arc 
sensitive and caring. I can see Hal Linden 
in this fantasy. | love his graying temples 
and his self-assured manner and the fact 
that he comes across as shy. | know people 
will say, "What, no hunks?” But the Mag- 
пит, PL types don't do it for me 


Ау? 


В don't know the people in my sex 
tasies. 1 create them for the fantasy 
Mostly, what's important is the situation 1 
create, not the people in it. For example, 
going to a par- 
ty and noticing 
someone across 
the who 
notices me, 
then moving 
together into 
another room 
in the house, 


AZIZI JOHARI 
JUNE 1975 


fan- 


room 


having sex and 
n 


exchang- 
ng any words 
at all, Из an 
image of a per- 
son, but never a specific person. 1 also 
have lots of fas s about my husband 
But what's important is the context—not 
so much who is there but what's happen- 
ing, attitude and 


Y MA 


TRACY VACCARO 
OCTOBER 1983 


Wa love to go camping with Tom Sellec 
We'd share a tent. Or we could go to Rio 
or Cancun or someplace special. Are you 
reading t 
fom? Just kid- 
ding. Ive hada 

tay Or twa 
about Nick 
Nolte and Burt 
Reynolds. I can 
be pretty direct 
about this stuff. 
IC 1 feel а cer- 
tain way, if I 
want some- 
thing or I don't 
want some- 
thing, 1 will say it. There is someone now 
whom 1 have fantasies about, and he 
knows who he is. But don’t let that stop 
you, ‘Tom 


Whilio Iglesias. He's so romantic, He's 
good-looking and! charming Amd scams 
very, very honest—in short, everything I 
want in a guy. 
In my fantasy, 
he's singing To 
All the Girls Гуе 
Loved Before. 
He comes down 
Irom the stage, 
picks me out, 
takes me in his 
arms and walks 
off with me. But 
in real life, Fm 
the type of per- 
son who wants 
10 know a man before I have sex with him. 
I want him to know me and like me whe 
he wakes up the next morning and the fan- 
läsy;part is over, 


SUSIE SCOTT 
MAY 1983 


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


61 


Hennessy. 


the civilized w 
Ло keep warm . . - 


Imported by Schietfelin & Со, New York. NY 80 Proof. © 1984 


Newport 


m т 
4 “Ёё 


SN 


Afterall, 
if smoking isn't a pleasure, 
why bother? 


MENTHOL KINGS. 


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


THE PLAYBOY FORUM 


a continuing dialog on contemporary is 


sues between playboy and us reader. 


PUNISHING POLLSTERS 

The ball game will be over by 
this can get into print, but here аге some 
thoughts on the upcoming election. 

Ever since Jimmy Carter conceded the 
White House on national television 
while registered voters in the Pacific time 
zone could still choose between having 
another beer and going to the polls, every 
election has generated new twists in the 
debate about the legitimacy of network 
newscasters’ prematurely predicting the 
ner. Personally, I find the entire issue 
absurd. Spokesmen for both sides of the 
argument have gencrated a lot more non- 
than insight. 1 would like to 
straighten this issue out here and right 
now. 

The electronic-media people have taken 
the position that it is their sacred duty to 
broadcast as much news and information 
as quickly as they can to as many people 
as possible. Accordingly, the network 
have gone so far as to interrupt regularly 
scheduled programing with the latest Elec- 
tion Day odds and forecasts. On the other 
side are the people who are offended. by 
those blinking check marks on the TV 
screen next to the names of leading candi- 
dates while the polls are still open but 
don't know what to do about it in a free 
society. 

While the television people have the 
First Amendment on their side, 1 think 
that their defense of the news value of exit 
polls is almost as ridiculous as the argu- 
ments of the people who would like to see 
such practices discontinued 

‘Television news, first and foremost, is 
entertainment, The hourly broadcasting of 
Election Day trends spotted by network 
statistical departments may provide mate- 
rial for some interesting, high-stakes tav- 
ern wagers but adds little or nothing to an 
understanding of voting behavior. Even 
though I find the whole thing silly, 1 don't 
object to it on any but aesthetic grounds. 
As far as I am concerned, the television 
people are free and should continue to be 
free to broadcast any nonslanderous jive 
that they like. 

What the proponents and opponents of 
Election Day odds making have ignored is 
the human potential for perversity. If, dur- 
ing a given Election Day, I found all the 
candidates so useless that 1 was going for 
extra beer, and I heard a report that the 
only candidate I found halfway credible 
was failing to capture votes, I might 
be inspired to rush out to the polls simply 
to conlound the experts. That, done system- 


the time 


sense 


atically, is what could humble the pun- 
dits and make democracy work. 
Jon Kraus 
Sacramento, California 
We like the suggestion of syndicated colum- 
nist Mike Royko (a champion of just such 
perversity) that every voter confronted by an 
exit pollster do the right thing and lie through 
his teeth. 


“Television news, 
first and foremost, 
is entertainment.” 


PRAYER IN SCHOOLS 

There have been essentially two recent 
schemes to enroll the Judaco-Christian 
God in public schools. The more objec- 
tionable approach would encourage teach- 
ers to turn their classes into hallelujah 
sessions, but the New Right discerned that 
even the Supreme Court might balk at that 
if future Reagan appointees were not yet in 
place. The marginally less objectionable 
approach would encourage students to 


organize revival meetings on school 
grounds between class is the bingo 
gambit: the Governments allowing re- 


ligion in schools the way it allows gam- 
bling in churches. Then it’s only a matter 
of time before we have Mob control of 
churches and God control of schools. 


I say keep both God and gambling in 
the churches, where the forces of good and 
evil can fight it out for themselves, and 
leave our public schools free to educate 
instead of brainwash. 


Werner Brownlow 
Anchorage, Alaska 


The Playboy Forum and its loyal corre- 
spondents have been doing a commend- 
able job of tracking the idiocies of the New 
Right lunatic fringe. However, I think that 
your enlightened discussions of religion in 
the public schools ignore the civil rights of 
heathens, agnostics and atheists. 

A lot of us fit those categories and 
believe that while Jesus and his Apostles 
would be a chart-topping name for a New 
Wave band and the Bible is damned good 
literature, any kind of Government- 
nctioned religious activity in the public 
schools misappropriates the tax money of 
those who reject the idea of any Supreme 
Being (whether He, She or It be male, 
female or genderless) and wish to have 
their children educated. with factual infor- 
mation and within а belief system that 
holds individuals—not devils or deitics— 
responsible for their actions. 

Rob O'Brien 
см York, New York 


Your editorial (The Indecent Crusade, 
bravñoy, October) on the Reverend Don- 
ald Wildmon and his National Federation 
for Decency is very timely. Wildmon was 
recently here in Jackson, mounting an 
attack on the 250 homes that subscribe to 
The Playboy Channel through ‘Torrence 
blevision, the only cable company in 
Mississippi that carries it. Allan Torrence 
stood his ground as to the rights of the 
individual to choose for himself. I applaud 
him. Wildmon, for the first time, fully 
exposed himself for what he is by means of 
a quote in the Jackson Clarion-Ledger that 
branded him a collectivist. He told a 
reporter: 


The argument always used is “You 
can't tell me what I read." . . . That 
is false. We are not a society of indi 
viduals, we are a society, People in 
communities have a right to deter- 
mine what that community's stand- 
ards should be. 


1 have no objection to anyone’s speaking 
out for or against any issuc. That is the 
essence of freedom, But Î don't want any- 
one to be able to force me or control me on 
the basis of his standards. Wildmon has 
opened a new and dangerous campaign 


PLAYBOY 


66 


whereby he will now attempt to engage 
church and other support to tell us what to 
read. 
(Name withheld by request) 
Brandon, Mississippi 


GETTING RELIGION 

1 agree 100 percent with Jim Lorraine's 
letter, “Moon Goes Down” (The Playboy 
Forum, September). Strange behavior is 
gaining ground as the Reverend Sun-My- 
ung Moon, Jerry Falwell and the Bhagwan 
Shree Rajneesh stake out their territories. 
Гуе had the pleasure of personally observ- 
ing a Moonie getting her brain functioning 
again. 

Pm writing this letter to caution you 
about the dangers of criticizing religion in 
America. Look at all the abortion clinics 
that are being fire-bombed. The atmos- 
phere is bad now, and I think things will 
get worse until the current wave of 
religious-political insanity is controlled or 
wears itself out. | hope we can continue to 
speak freely and have the freedom to 
doubt. And I hope that the religious right 
doesn't begin to attack your magazine 
with the zeal with which it's going about. 
the abortion issue! 

James Williamson 
Bellingham, Washington 


VIETNAM REVISITED 

I watched with awe the weck-by-week 
unfolding of Vieinam: A Television History 
on my local Public Broadcasting System 
station. Actually, it was the second time I 
had watched this series, and this time, I 
taped it for future reference. 

By the time most of us in the States 
became conscious of Vietnam, we were 
like people caught in the path of an out-of- 
control truck: It was too late to try to 
understand where it had come from. What 
I particularly ap- 


predate about N) 
tie broad. ГЫЛА 
casts is how 


much they have 
taught me about 
the origins and 
complexities ofa 
war that changed 
my life and the 
livesofmy whole Ў 
generation That 
is history that] mmc 
actually witnessed in the making. 

It seems to me that it usually takes dec- 
ades for the passions aroused by war to 
cool down enough to permit objective 
analysis. The first television documen- 


taries that came out after World War 


"Two— Viciory at Sea, for instance —seem 
embarrassingly one-sided today. But pro- 
ducers Bruce Palling and Martin Smith 
have managed to come up with an account 
that is remarkably evenhanded in its treat- 
ment of the issues that divided all of us not 
so long ago—and to a degree still do. 
Most TV documentaries don't deserve 


to be called history, hut Vietnam: A Televi- 
sion History has fully earned its title. It's 
also television at its best. 
Jack Orbach 
Niles, Hlinois 
If you read the small print at the bottom 
of the original posters, you would have 
seen that the Playboy Foundation contrib- 
uled to the WGBH Vietnam Project, which 
created the series. We, too, were most im- 
pressed with the final product. 


VIOLENCE AND PORNOGRAPHY 

1 was surprised to read in a New York 
Times article that new discoveries “are 
prompting psychologists to broaden their 
definition of pornography to include depic- 
tions of violence against women that have 
little or no overt sexual content.” 

For a moment, I wondered if that meant 
that Shakespeare's Othello and Shaw's 
Saint Joan—or The Perils of Pauline and 
King Kong, for that matter—were now to 
be classified as pornography. 

According to the Times, at a mecting of 
the American Psychological Association, 
Dr. Neil Malamuth reported that 30 per- 
cent of his male subjects had been sexually 
aroused by films of graphic violence 
against women, even though there was no 
sexual aspect to the violence, And Dr. Ed- 
ward Donnerstein said that after seeing 
films depicting subjection of women to 
bloody violence, both men and women 
tended to be more likely to judge rape to 
be the victim's fault. 

The article went on to observe that 
findings such as these have already been 
used in support of antipornography ordi- 
nances in several cities. Which is odd, 
when you think about it, because what is 
under scrutiny is not what could reasona- 
bly be called pornography. For ages, por- 
nography has meant the explicit depiction 
of sexual activity, and it has been taboo in 
the Western world since the fall of Rome. 
Violence and the depiction of violence, on 
the other hand, have been an accepted 
part of our public entertainment, in one 
way or another, for even longer. 

In recent years, a growing body of evi- 
dence has suggested that viewing portray- 
als of violence tends to make violence more 
attractive, or less repugnant, to people. 
Whether these laboratory studies prove 
anything about the real world is still open 
to question. They take place in highly arti- 
ficial settings, and the subjects usually are 
not sociopaths, psychopaths or certifiably 
violence-prone nuts but the sort of high- 
minded folks who volunteer for psycholog- 
ical experiments. 

Meanwhile, nobody has shown that 
garden-variety pornography has an unde- 
sirable effect on those who view it. Unlor- 
tunately, the distinction is likely to get lost 
because of the tendency of feminist and 
right-wing procensorship elements to blur 
the definition of pornography. Everything 
from jeans ads to nude photography to the 
bluest of blue movies is being called por- 


nographic. This talk of further broadening 
the definition to include portrayals of non- 
sexual violence against women will confuse 
the issue even more. 

It is important to hang on to а few facts: 
There is no evidence that pornography or 
depictions of violence actually provokes 


antisocial sex acts. Studies of rapists show 
that they have little or no exposure 10 por- 
nography. Dr. Gene G. Abel, at the same 


symposium, remarked, “Men who rape 
don't need pornography to stimulate their 
violent fantasies about they're 
obsessed by these fantasie: 

And material that is simply sexually 
, that has no component of vio- 
e, has not been shown to have any 
harmful effect. As Dr. Donnerstein told 
"he New York Times, “Straightforward 
pornography, movies like Debbie Does Dal- 
las, doesn't seem to have these effects on 
people's attitudes toward women.” 

I plan to make careful note of that sen- 
tence, because somehow I don’t expect to 
come across it in any of the literature pub- 
lished by Women Against Pornography. 

Robert Shea 
Glencoe, Illinois 


women; 


The enclosed article from the Fort 
Lauderdale Sun Sentinel reports the grow- 
ing concern among certain library patrons 
about the displaying of current issues of 
PLAYBOY on the library shelves. These 
patrons declare them to be pornographic 
materials. 

What 1 find even more interesting is a 
quote from Cecil Beach, the director of the 
county library system, who states. “We 
don't have any pornographic materials in 
the library. We don't even have a 
pornograph.” 

To your knowledge, is a pornograph 
standard issue in other library systems? If 
so, how do I apply for a library card? Or is 
the director referring to an audio-visual 
device more commonly found in motels 
that feature mirrored ceilings? 

1 would appreciate your looking into 
this pornograph issue and reporting back 
to your avid readers, some of whom are in 
the library. 


Alan J. We 
Fort Lauderdale, Florida 
Faced in recent years with accusations of 
respectability, we can only take a little per- 
verse pleasure at being labeled “porno 
graphic” by a "citizens group” about six of 
whose members had (according to your clip- 
bing) deluged the library with complaints. We 
do have a weirdo in the v.axuoy laboratories 
attempting to design a high-fidelity, stereo- 
phonic laser pornograph, but it's still on the 
drawing board. 


A group of religious protesters has pick- 
eted a local 7-Eleven convenience store 
because it sells rLaviov, Penthouse and 
other such magazines. Гуе written a letter 
to the editor of the Salishury Daily Times 
condemning this mindless action, citing 


FORUM NEWSFRONT 


what’s happening in the sexual and social arenas 


NICE TRY 
Lonnon—The producers of a satirical 
TV show have been reprimanded for 
allowing the scriptwriters lo run one epi- 
sode with an almost subliminal message. 
Although most viewers missed it, the mes- 
sage, flashed on the screen for a fraction 


of a second, read, SCRIPTWRITERS ARE 
INCREDIBLY GOOD IN BED. YOU FIND THEM IRRE 
SISTIBLE. YOU MUST GO OUT AND SLEEP WITH 
ONE NOW. A company spokesman said that 
such a stunt violates a broadcasting law 
designed to protect viewers from “flash- 
frame messages which can be absorbed 
subconsciously.” 


MARITAL RAPE 

Miami—In what prosecutors are call- 
ing a landmark decision in the first case of 
its kind, a 41-year-old man has been con 
victed of kidnaping and raping his wife 
while the couple were living together. A 
circuil-court judge, citing the “inter- 
spousal exceplion” for rape on the basis of 
English common law, had thrown out the 
original charges, which included sexual 
battery; but a state appeals court ruled 
that state law “proscribes a crime of vio- 
lence, not a crime of sex" and sent the case 
back for a second trial that led to the con 
viction, which could draw a penalty of up 
to life. Previous spousal-rape cases had 
involved women who had divorced their 
husbands or were separated at the time of 
the offenses. The first of those cases, tried 
in Oregon in 1978, led to an acquittal 


WILD RIDE 

SAN antONIO—A 25-year-old man who 
allegedly tried to rape his date was locked 
out of the car and driven to a police sta- 
tion, yelling and clinging to the hood. 
Officers heard the car arrive with its horn 
blaring, collared the hood ornament and 
charged him with sexual assault. 


RATS IN LOVE 

stanrorp—Researchers at Stanford. 
University say they have been swamped 
with requests lo participate in testing a 
purported aphrodisiac that has been 
found effective in lab animals. Only 40 of 
the 300 volunteers could be used in the 
study of yohimbine hydrochloride, which is 
produced from a tree growing in Camer 
von, in West Africa. Traditionally used as 
a folk medicine to bring down high fevers, 
the drug first came to wide attention when 
it was identified and described by German 
botanists around the turn of the century. 
Reports of its aphrodisiac properties 
appeared during the Twenties, and in 
recent laboratory tests, rats injected with 
the drug sought sexual encounters twice as 
often as those untreated. “The data sug- 
gest that yohimbine may be a true aphro- 
disiac,” said Dr. Julian M. Davidson, a 
professor of physiology at Stanford's medi- 
cal school. “Further research could lead to 
developments in pharmacologic treatment 
of sexual dysfunction,” he said, caution- 
ing that what turns rats on doesn't neces- 
sarily do the same for humans. 


CHICKEN TO GO 

DETROIT— Police would like to have a 
talk with a woman customer of a Kentucky 
Fried Chicken restaurant who shot and 
killed a would-be purse snatcher at the 
drive-in window, picked up her order and 
drove off. Witnesses said two men, one 
wielding a baseball bat, had tried to grab 
the purse off the front seat of her car. 
After asking an employee if her shot had 
hit the one who had reached in for the 
purse and had run off, fatally wounded, 
she paid $1.61 for two pieces of chicken 
and a biscuit and said she was going 
home, where she “had a bigger gun 


DOWN ON THE FARM 

SALT LAKE сіту Traditional Mormon 
teachings in Utah and widespread 
regional altitudes that encourage women 
to marry early and stay at home with their 
families are causing them poverty, guilt 
and despair, according to a state task 
force. Studies conducted by the group 
indicated that such a family-oriented 
value system leaves women ill equipped to 
deal with divorce or the death of a hus- 
band, and they lack the education and job 
shills needed to support themselves and 
their families. The Governor's Task Force 
on Integrating Women into the Workforce 
said that slightly more than half of Utah 
women work but earn salaries that are 
only slightly more than half of what men 
receive, and that one third of the families 
headed by women in 1983 lived below the 
poverty level, 


GAY GETS THE BOOT 

WASHINGTON, nc —The US. Circuit 
Court of Appeals has ruled that homosex- 
uals have no constitutionally protected 
right of privacy and that the Navy and. 
presumably, other branches of the Service, 
have the authority to dismiss anyone 
caught engaging in homosexual activity. 
The court stated that the U.S. Supreme 
Court “has listed as illustrative of the 
right of privacy such matters as activities 
relating lo marriage, procreation, contra- 
ception, family relationships and child 
rearing and education. It need hardly be 
said that none of these covers a right to 
homosexual conduct.” Then it went on 
“If the revolution in sexual mores . . is 
in fact ever to arrive, we think it must 
arrive through the moral choice of the peo- 
ple and their elected representatives, not 
through the judicial” process. The court 
conceded that the appellee, a 27-year-old 
pelty officer who had held а top-secret 
security clearance as a cryptographer, had 
an unblemished Service record and had 
had many citations of praise for his job 
performance before he was accused of 
engaging in homosexual acts with a 19- 
year-old seaman. 


ON THE TOWN 
CANHERRA—Australian foreign minis- 
ter Bill Hayden has officially asked U.S. 
Secretary of State George Shultz to do 
something about magazines circulating 
aboard U.S. Navy vessels suggesting that 


the girls in Australia’s port cities have Ihe 
hots for U.S. sailors. Calling the publica- 
tions “insensitive and offensive,” Hayden 
said they were one of the topics discussed 
at a conference of the ruling Labor Party 
when it considered whether or not visits to 
Australia by U.S. nuclear-powered war- 
ships should continue. 


67 


PLAYBOY 


my right as a free citizen of this country to 
buy what magazines I deem appropriate. 

In short, I protest these protesters. I do 
not condone pornography (and let me say 
that I do not feel р.лувоу is pornographic), 
but if one wants to view it, then one has 
that right. 

Men's magazines were the targets of this 
picketing, but such groups will next be 
after the public library to have books 
banned. 

Please do something about this. 

Jim Bulmer 
Salisbury, Maryland 

Public libraries all over the country 
already are under altack from such groups, 
and your letter to the local paper is domg 
something about it. 


GOD AND MAN IN BED 

Politics may make strange bedfellows, 
but the strangest ones Гуе ever heard of 
are President Ronald Reagan and Pope 
who seem to be sharing, if 
not the same sheets, at least the same con- 
tradictory ideas about sex and population. 
Neither Reagan nor the Pope thinks 
fucking is much good for you, but they 
agree that if you do engage in forbidden 
activities, then anything that results from 
the deed is both holy and subject to the full 
protection of the law and the loan office. In 


other words, they are against sex but also 
against birth control, especially when it 
involves abortion. 

The most unfortunate aspect of this 
locking-the-barn-door logic is the effect it 
is wreaking on efforts to control the 
world’s most real and apparent danger— 
overpopulation. With a total estimated 
citizenry of 4.8 billion, the world is already 
twice as crowded as it was in 1945, and 
most demographers believe the population 
will swell to between eight and ten billi 
in the next 50 years, with all but about 
seven percent ol that growth in the devel- 
oping nations 

Some countries, notably China, are bit- 
ing the bullet now with tough but realistic 
birth-control policies. Other countries are 
piddling along, but they piddle with fewer 
new babies when family-planning prac- 
tices, often funded by the developed 
nations, help out. The nation that helps 
the most—and should, given our lion's 
share of the multinational economy— 
is the U.S. This year, we chipped in about 
$240,000,000, says an official from the 
Agency for International Development. 

But Reagan and his right-wing Admin- 
istration want to cut off 
countries in which abortion is a part, even 
a minor part, of family planning. Ever so 
human, the Reaganites claim to uphold 


ll assistance to 


TASTELESS SNACK 
It has been suggested that it is no 
of 


longer possible to write parodie: 
American life because American life 
already a parody of itself. Any lingering 
doubts I may have had about that 
observation have been erased by one of 
the newest additions to American 
snackdom—the Baby Doe candy bar 

Ifyou haven't had the opportunity to 
be offered one of these chocolate- 
covercd-almond treats, let me prepare 
you. This tasty morsel, manufactured 
by а Midwestern 
candymaker, is 
being distributed 
by Right-to-Life 
groups as a fund- 
raising project. The 
candy bar's name comes from the cou 
cases involving the rights of parents to 
withhold special medical treatment for 
severely handicapped infants, who 
often are known only as Does. 
The candy costs anywhere upwards of 
55 cents per bar, proceeds going to the 
“pro-life” people, and the wrapper fea- 
tures a picture of a small child. 

I thought the Right-to-Lifers had 
pretty much exhausied their supply of 
absurdity with weak logic (abortion 
equals murder), legal grotesquerics 
(showing explicit films of abortions to 
legislators after lunch) and generally 
pea-brained demeanor, but the candy 
bar of the helplessly crippled sets 


entirely new symbolic frontiers for the 
abortion debate. 

What, I wonder, does one do if 
offered a Baby Doe bar in public? 
Should one bite into the tender mı 
section and swallow the figurative 
emtrails and tiny malfunctioning brain 
and upper extremities? Or swallow it 
all at once, the way Right-to-Lifers 
tend to digest irrational positions? 

No—both alternatives smack of the 
homicidal. The only thing to do with a 
Baby Doc bar is to 
pay whatever it 
costs to receive it, 
then put it in the 
refrigerator, where 
it can fulfill its glori 
ous existence next to the carrots, let- 
tuce and other vegetables. Each month, 
when you pay the electricity bill, say, 
for the next 20 years, you can know that 
somehow you are doing your bit for the 
life force. 

If, however, you give in to tempta- 
tion and carelessly eat the Baby Doc 
bar while watching the David 
Letterman show, you can take comfort 
in knowing that your digestive tract 
will render unto the Right-to-Life junk- 
food symbol exactly what your ration- 
ality routinely docs to their pseudo 
arguments, 


“life” by forcing poverty-stricken, unin- 
formed women to bear children they must 
later watch starve. 

While the Reaganites are cutting off 
population-control programs, the Pope is 
keeping up his efforts to discourage per- 
sonal birth-control techniques. The total 
ban on all birth control short of abstinence 
is getting maximum proselytizing by the 
so-called enlightened Pope of Poland. 
“Every matrimonial act must remain open 
to the transmission of life," the Pope said 
this summer. That means fucking, mar- 
ried or not. 

When the turn of the century comes 
around and we're all beating one another 
up for space to stand in and crumbs to eat, 
let’s all toast the wise and farsighted poli- 
cies of Mother Right and Mother Church, 
a couple of the biggest mothers of modern 
life. 


Bud McDermott 
Los Angeles, California 


The world will soon be up to its weary 
ass in alligators and children. Some people 
in Red China are offing their female 
infants to slow down the population prob- 
lem, but it may be too late. What anti- 
abortionists don't realize is that 
human-population growth has assumed 
the proportions of an epidemic and that 
by the усаг 2000, we'll all be living 
our own shit. We need an abortion pill, not 
legislation. 


Bill Loren 


Rockville, Maryland 


SEX AND VIOLENCE 

Although lots of unabashed PLAYBOY 
readers will readily admit that they look at 
every page of your pictorials before they 
read a single word of your fine articles and 
fiction, please believe me when I say that I 
pay attention to your magazine first and 
foremost for the writing. Really. I find that 
The Playboy Forum and Forum Newsfront's 
brief news items intelligently discuss or 
report difficult social issues in a more 
forthright manner than just about anyone 
else. 

I have always been pleased to see that 
although you publish photographs of 
naked ladies, you are avowed champions 
of the difference between sex and violence. 
I think you would agree that rape has 
nothing to do with sex and everything to 
do with violence. 1 therefore am curious to 
know what you think about the recent 
spate of criminal cases wherein unconsent- 
ing married women charge their husbands 
with rape 

Last fall, The New York Times described 
the conviction of a Florida man charged 
with one count of kidnaping his wife 
and two counts of sexual battery against 
her [sec Forum Newsfront]. According to 
the article, the crime had happened while 
the couple were still living together as hus- 
band and wife and the conviction therefore 
marked the first time a man had been con- 
victed of a sex crime while he was still 


aE 


Jast year, Annie Fitzpatrick gave her 
Uncle Gerald a 14/30. This year she's 
giving him a much more fitting gift. 


4 Ure Б. 
E °: |ы 
= A е = -— 
E E : vi The reward. 


married and sharing a domicile with the 
рїайийї. 

То my mind, the verdict signals to the 
lawmakers, the courts and everyone else 
that when a woman says no, the safest 
thing to figure is that she means it and that 
a marriage license is not a license to com- 
mit acts of violence 

‘Julie Petersen 
Milwaukee, Wisconsin 


I have noticed over the years that a 
woman occasionally wins in court when 
she charges a date with raping her after he 
takes her home from a movie and an 
expensive dinner. I also read an article in 
The New York Times last fall that said that 
a Florida man had been convicted of rap- 
ing his wife, which was the first time that 
such a judgment had been handed down 
Now, I am all for protecting the rights of 
women to abstain from having sex, but 
these court cases are starting to make me 
nervous. Christ! What do I do if I take a 
girl out and take her home and draw a 
bubble bath for the two of us and we have 
sex only if I agree to tie her hands to the 
towel rack, and then she decides to bring 
criminal charges against me? To my mind, 
I have accommodated her need to be 
forced into sex in violation of moral or psy- 
chological principles that stand in the way 
of her emotional or physical desires, so 
that she can escape a sense of responsibil- 
y for her actions. To a jury, I have com- 
mitted forcible rape. 


Afer giving this matter much thought, 1 
hope I have hit upon a solution: I will 
install video cameras throughout my 


house—in the bedroom and the bathroom 
and the living room and even in the 
kitchen—and keep them running during 
romantic interludes, so I will have water- 
tight evidence, in case I ever do get 
dragged into court on charges of raping a 
date, that 1 did nothing of the kind. Isn't 
that a fine idea? 
(Name withheld by request) 

, Florida 

A real dandy. If you get dragged into 
court, somebody's going to think you're kink- 
ier than your accuser. Maybe you should just 
get a signed and witnessed statement of con- 
sent from your date before you draw the 
bath—call it a sexual release. 


азо! 


BACK TO BULLETS 

1 want to address just one common 
argument of the champions of gun control 
“Handguns are designed to kill people.” 
Of course they are. And I hope no advocate 
of the right to bear arms denies it. (“Kill 
people? Shucks, I use mine to drive nails 
You mean this other end has a use, too?") 
ctually, the handgun was originally 
developed as a tool for shooting off locks, 
and an extensive television and movie 
campaign was launched to advertise that 
use. But consumers ing their right 
10 have the ability to shoot off locks found 
the guns somewhat less effective than 


erc 


depicted onscreen. Gunbearers were par- 
ticularly disappointed with how well door- 
knobs stood up to them in real life. 

OK. Enough of this silliness. Of course 
handguns are designed to kill people! All I 
want to do is remind vou that burglars, 
murderers, rapists and dictators are peo- 
ple, too. 


Fear Laissez 
Reno, Neva‘ 


avid B. Williscroft (The Playboy 
Forum, August) repeats one of the more 
popular myths about guns when he writes 
that handguns are “specifically designed 
to kill people.” If that were true, then 


FORUM FOLLIES 


Mark Elliot, a writer, radio reporter 
and broadcaster who lives in Ontario, 
sends us the following report. 

The notoriously bluenosed Ontario 
Board of Censors has found itself star- 
ring in a sexually explicit film that 
slipped past its scissors and into 
Toronto's Festival of ivals. It hap- 
pened like this: 

‘Two years ago, the censorship board 
banned a film called 1 Berlin-Harlem, 
by West German director Lothar 
Lambert, because of an oral-sex scene. 
Uu year, the irrepressible Lambert 
returned with a comic film containing 
similar sex sequences but starring the 
censorship board itself, Called Fraulein 
Berlin, it was routinely approved for 
screening on the basis of press releases, 
synopses, cast lists and outlines. The 
board didn't bother to view the scem- 
ingly innocuous film and, even ifit had, 
presumably could not have ruled on it 
objectively any more than a judge 
could fairly preside over his own mur- 
der trial. 

In Fräulein Berlin, a sex star goes to 
the Toronto film festival in hope of find- 
g a great director to take her away 
from the sex films that have been wast- 
i her talent. Instead. she finds that 
the Ontario Board of Censors has made 
her a notorious porn star 

“The hoax delighted local film Бий, 
and the censors can now be expected to 
carefully screen all Lambert films 
before giving them their imprimatur. 


handgun designers should have their e 
neering licenses revoked. Excluding s 
cides, which anti sons love te 
ndude in firearms sta ‚ Гус heard 
that only five to ten percent of those shot 


bya handgun in any gi as 
a result. 
The reason is that handgun design typi 


cally incorporates virtually every fc 
that reduces killing power in a 

short barrels, low-velocity ammu 
crude sights or none at all, the freque 
use of double-action firing modes and the 
absence of bracing devices. I mention the 


last three features because in order to kill 
something, the first thing you have to do is 
hit it. Most people are about as effective 
with a handgun as one of our local home- 
owners, who recently surprised a burglar 
in his mother’s kitchen and blazed away 
with his trusty .38 from a distance of four 
feet. Apart from being instantly trans- 
formed into a deaf albino with brown- 
colored jeans, the intruder was unscathed. 

But while handguns aren't very efficient 
at killing people, they are remarkably effi- 
cient at doing what they're really designed 
to do: stop close-range physical assaults. 
Most of the time a handgun comes into 
play, the assault is stopped without a 
shots being fired. Police studies show that 
in most cases, when a would-be assailant 
is confronted with a gun, he breaks olf his 
assault—and the gun displayed in the vast 
jority of these cases is a handgun. 
Handguns also stop assaults by inflicting 
wounds that disable an attacker long 
enough for his intended victim to escape, 
even if the attacker usually lives to mug or 
rape aga 

Lam not, of course, making light of the 
dangers of firearms or the seriousness of 
gunshot wounds. Even a medium-powered 
air rifle can be instantly lethal, and arm or 
leg wounds inflicted by the smallest of cali- 
bers can disable a person physically and 
emotionally for life. 

Nor am I touting a handgun, or any 
other gun, as a protective panacea. The 
best weapon for self-defense is plenty of 
distance, and the only sure way to survive 
violent encounters is to avoid them en- 
tirely. Unfortunately, those ideal options 
aren't always available in today’s society 
When they aren't, then, regardless of all 
the dangerous bullshit normally taught in 
a typical self-defense course, there is only 
one weapon that will put a small, weak 
person on a physical par with a larger, 
stronger assailant—who may also be 
armed. That weapon is a gun, and {Га per- 
son wishes to defend himself without kill- 
ing his attacker, the gun most likely to 
achieve this result is a handgun. 

With apologies to Williscroft, that’s 
what handguns are designed for. 

Joseph D. Williams 
dartown, Georgia 

Such differing philosophical treatments of 
the same subject always interest us, and now 
we ашай complaints from other gun people, 
who will cite (1) the man-killing power of 
various hand cannons or (2) the sporting 
purposes of handguns that are scoped for 
hunting or designed for serious target shoot- 
ing and simply wouldn't serve well as pocket 
pistols for your average liquor-store holdup. 


“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, Hlinois 60611. 


[y] 


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PLAYBOY INTERVIEW: G О [, [) [ E H AW N 


a candid conversation with america’s favorite comic actress about life as 
a daffy blonde, a tough lady, a devoted mother and a hollywood mogul 


Goldie Hawn is sitting at a table on the 
patio of The Frying Pan in Basalt, 20 miles 
from Aspen, talking with a friend about how 
much she likes living in Old Snowmass, 
where nobody bothers her or her kids. 

Bul then a woman politely interrupts and 
asks Goldie if she'll sign her matchbook, tell- 
ing her she dreamed the night before that 
Goldie invited her to her home in Los Angeles 
and they became fast friends. Goldie smiles 
and signs. Then the waitress comes over. 
“Goldie,” she says, “the girls at the bar would 
like to buy you a drink.” The notion tickles 
her. She's had drinks offered to her many 
times in the past but never by “the girls at the 
bar.” How very sweet, she says. But her man, 
Kurt Russell, is expecting her home soon. 
He's cooking fresh elk meat for dinner back at 
their log-cabin home. And Goldie certainly 
doesn't want to hurt his feelings by passing up 
a good elk steak. 

Goldie Hawn is 39 and is beginning to 
feel, oh, at least 25, She looks about that, too, 
with her large, clear blue eyes and incandes- 
cent smile. Her skin is smooth, her head 
small, and the muscles in her arms and legs 
show some definition from the aerobics and 
weight lifting she does each day. 

At 116 pounds and 5'6", she doesn't 
exactly look like one of the most powerful peo- 


“If a man decides to have a quickie, he can 
then go to the nearest washbasin and scrub it 
clean and make it all new again. Girls can't 
necessarily do that. They walk around know- 
ing things are going on in there.” 


ple in the movie business, but looks can be 
deceiving. Behind that Tweety Pie twinkle 
and Betty Boop giggle stands what could be 
described as the real incarnation of Super- 
girl. For Goldie is Hollywood's true girl of 
steel, capable of turning a studios fate 
around singlehandedly. And the people in 
Hollywood who are more concerned about the 
business than about the show are well aware 
of Goldie's strength. 

Ranked among the big four “bankable” 
female stars (along with Streisand, Fonda 
and Streep), Goldie earned her stripes with 
“Private Benjamin.” She was executive pro- 
ducer and star of that film, which has grossed 
$175,000,000 to date. She dropped her pro- 
ducing title in her film "Swing Shift,” and it 
flopped. But she's back again with “Proto- 
col,” a film she spent seven years trying to get 
off the ground. Her name is, once again, 
twice on the marquee, 

Yes, chain-smoking Goldie has come a long 
way from go-go dancing in cages in New Jer- 
sey dives. She has far exceeded her fondest 
dream—of being in a Broadway chorus line. 
People think it must have been easy, since she 
is a natural comedienne, but Goldie doesn't 
see it that way. She has never even thought 
she was funny. 

Born in Washington, D.C., on November 


“1 guess if America needs a sweetheart, Га fill 
the bill. It's nice, but it also is difficult, 
because when 1 feel aggressive and want to 
vent my anger, that image is so strong Um 
afraid people won't like me.” 


21, 1945, she grew up secure on а cul-de-sac 
street in Takoma Park, Maryland, knowing 
all her neighbors. Her father was a musician 
who was often on the road, playing at Wash- 
ington social affairs and in Las Vegas. Her 
mother had a head for business and managed 
a dancing school. From the time Goldie could 
walk, she danced, She still has the first check 
she ever earned as a professional—for $1.50, 
when she danced in “The Nutcracker” 
with the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo. She 
was ten years old. When the ballet was over, 
she wasn't sure when to take her bow—so she 
waited until the prima ballerina took hers 
and walked out onstage to join her. There 
was a delighted roar from the audience. 

When Goldie was graduated from high 
school, she began to teach jazz, tap and ballet 
at her mother's school. A year later, she got an 
offer to dance at the Texas pavilion of the 
New York World's Fair, and she never looked 
back. 

After doing the cancan at the World's Fair, 
she worked for a few years as a go-go dancer 
in and around New York; then she went to 
Puerto Rico to dance for a few months and 
then to Las Vegas to be in a chorus line. But 
the life was seedy, so she decided to go to Los 
Angeles, where she hoped to find a steady job 
dancing in the chorus of a TV show. She 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY LARRY L LOGAN 
“Daddy was down to earth. As a violinist, he 
once played for Dinah Shore after Га become 
well known, and she asked if he wanted to tell 
me anything. He said, ‘Tell her to put the but- 
ter back in the icebox, 


71 


PLAYBOY 


72 


landed a job after her first audition. It was 
for an Andy Griffith special, and a William 
Morris agent named Art Simon just hap- 
pened to catch her act. He signed her up and 
almost immediately got her a 26-week con- 
traci for a new TV show called “Good 
Morning, World.” 

It happened so fast for hey—suddenly she 
was an “actress,” something she never 
dreamed of being —that she had “something 
like" a nervous breakdown. But she went on 
with the show, and when producer George 
Schlatter saw her, he thought she just might 
work on his new show—"Rowan & Martin's 
Laugh-In." He said she had three shows lo 
prove herself, and Goldie proceeded to flub 
every line she was given. Schlatter told her 
not lo change a thing, and a star was born. 
Her manager got a film deal during her sec- 
ond year with “Laugh-In” for a picture called 
“Cactus Flower,” starrmg Walter Matthau, 
and a star was launched: Goldie won an 
Oscar for best supporting actress. 

A year later, she left TV and made films 
with Peter Sellers (“There's a Girl in My 
Soup"), Warren Beatty (“$" and “Sham- 
poo"), George Segal (“The Duchess and the 
Dirtwater Fox"), Chevy Chase (“Foul Play,” 
“Seems Like Old Times”) and Burt Reynolds 
(“Best Friends”). She starred in Steven Spiel- 
berg's directorial debut, “The Sugarland 
Express,” went to Moscow for five days 
lo research her part in “The Girl from 
Petrovka,” went ta Italy to make "Lovers and 
Liars,” with Giancarlo Giannini, and 
appeared in the film adaptation of the play 
“Butterflies Are Free.” 

In 1980 came “Private Benjamin.” Two 
writers approached her with the idea for a 
film about a Jewish princess who loses her 
husband on her wedding night and winds up 
enlisting in the Army. She liked the idea so 
much that she decided to produce it and, sud- 
denly, Goldie Hawn became a force to be 
reckoned with in Hollywood. 

During her first marnage, to dancer and 
director Gus Trikonis, Goldie struggled with 
the problem of her sudden rise and his strug- 
gling career. Their marriage lasted four 
years. Goldie then met Bill Hudson of the 
Hudson Brothers and they were married in 
1976. That marriage lasted three and a half 
years and produced two children—Olwer, 
now eight, and Kate, five and a half. For 
three years, Goldie raised her children as a 
single parent. Then, during the filming of 
“Swing Shift,” she met actor Kurt Russell 
and fell in love. They've been living together 
in homes near Aspen, the Pacific Palisades 
and Malibu for the past twa years. 

To find out more about this complex and 
disarming woman, PLAYBOY sent Contribut- 
ing Editor Lawrence Grobel (whose last 
“Interview” for us was with Joan Collins) to 
Colorado to talk with her. Grobel's report: 

“The flight from Denver into Aspen on 
Rocky Mountain Airways was bumpy but 
scenic, as the prop plane dipped sideways, 
giving us views of the snow-clad Rockies. 1 
was surprised to be making this trip, because 
Goldie Hawn had been reluctant for years lo 
grant anyone an in-depth interview. Now, 


with a new picture coming out and a new 
man in her life, she was apparently feeling 
secure and confident enough to talk. 

“Any preconceptions I might have had 
about interviewing a giggle-voiced daffy 
blonde were dispelled the moment I met her. 
Her voice is pitched lower than expected and 
her demeanor is friendly but thoughtful, even 
serious. 

“On the porch of her cabin, 1 noticed travel 
books on the Himatayas, where she and Kurt 
were planning to do some camping, with 
Sherpas as guides. When 1 told her I had 
spent three years in the Peace Corps in West 
Africa and had traveled through India and 
Nepal, her eyes widened—Goldie is a travel 
bug—and she began to ask so many ques- 
tions, I had to stop to remind her why I had 
come. 

“Over the next four days, we talked for four 
hours at a session on an elkskin-covered 
couch in her living room and at a nearby 
secluded restaurant. It's impossible not to like 
Goldie. She's as down to earth and unpreten- 
tious as it’s possible for someone in her posi- 
tion to be. She yells at her daughter to take a 
sewing needle out of her mouth, and when 
Kate doesn't listen, she screams, ‘How many 


“There are certain people who 
believe Goldie Hawn can 
do more than just comedy. 

But this is a business, 
and I’m a commodity.” 


times do I have to tell you something before 
you'll listen to me?’ Then, when Kate shows 
her the needlepoint she has done, Goldie 
melts, "You did that? All by yourself? That's 
terrific, honey" p 

“Her involvement with her children is 
total. Before another interview session at her 
Pacific Palisades home a week later, she told 
me to take my family along, because L.A. was 
having a heat wave and she thought my kids 
would be more comfortable in her pool while 
their daddy talked. So Kurt Russell enter- 
tained my wife and children by the pool as 
Goldie and 1 spent a few more hours talking 
in her living room. When we finished, she 
took me into the kitchen and insisted that 1 try 
her son, Oliver's, chocolate birthday cake. I 
grabbed a handful—somehow, you don’t feel 
the need to use forks and plates around 
Goldie—and told her it was delicious. Just 


like Goldie.” 


PLAYBOY: What do you think of being on 
the cover of rLavuoy? 
HAWN: ГЇЇ know when I see it. I figured, If 
you're going to do something, go all the 
way with it. As I posed, I kept asking 
f, What am I doing sitting in a cham- 
posing for the cover of 
псап, I'm an executive! How 


many other producers would do this? 

PLAYBOY: Alter the enormous success of 
Private Benjamin, the more recent Swing 
Shift flopped. One was a comedy, the 
other wasn't. Now you're back, produ 
and starring in Protocol. 1 
HAWN: The first half of it 
crectly changes tone and starts to be about 
something. I'm real proud of it, It’s about 
waitress who gets mised up in 


complicated Ar Et how thr ope 
decide to impress the President and effect 
better relations between this Arab state 
and the United States, because we want 
bases there. It’s kind of a sweet satire. 

PLAYBOY: But not a screwball comedy? 

HAWN: Well, there are certain people 
within our industry who believe that 
Goldie Hawn can do more than just com- 


na pem Bar- 
mmodity; Clint East- 
commodity. And they want that 
commodity to pay off. They want the three 
cherries. 

PLAYBOY: And what pays off the most in 
your case is 

HAWN: medy. Making people laugh. 
The minute that person, that Goldi 
Hawn on the screen, does something that 
doesn't make them giggle, they really 
don't want to see it. The question is, if you 
t to grow and stretch and do different 
things, how do you get there? Whats the 
route that you take? Because the truth of 
the matter is, when people see Goldie, they 
want to laugh 

PLAYBOY: Every generation has its sweet- 
heart. Do you think you may be America's 
Sweetheart today? 

HAWN: That's like what Dolly Parton said 
to me the first time we met. She came up 
and said, “You look like Poppin’ Fresh. I 
just want to poke you.” But it’s a tough 
question. I'm sort of damned if 1 say yes 
and damned if I say no. More damned if I 


say yes. I guess if America needs a sweet- 
heart, Га fill the bill. 


nt. It’s a nice 


is nice. But it also is difficult, 
because when I feel aggressive and angry 
and | want to vent my anger, then that 
nage is so strong that I'm people 
won't like me. They're going to think, Oh, 
God, she's a cooze. Isn't she awful! Isn't 
she demanding! It took a long time to be 
le to really speak my mind because of 
everyone's saying, "Oh, isn’t she cute, 
n't she sweet, t she nice.” 

PLAYBOY: Ir sounds as if you feel trapped in 
a pigeonhole. 

HAWN: Well, haven't 1 been pigeonholed? 
PLAYBOY: You were a while back, when you 
played the dumb blonde on Laugh-In. 
HAWN: I remember when women's lib 
started happening, this article came out 
that chopped me up for being this 
twit. I never looked at myself as a nitwit. 
T never looked at anything I did as vacant 
or dumb or bubble-headed. There was 


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PLAYBOY 


always a sensibility about what I did. 
Because someone has an optimistic out- 
look, because someone is hopeful, because 
someone likes to have fun, because some- 
one is trusting and open, does not neces- 
sarily mean that someone is stupid. 
PLAYBOY: Wasn't it a Newsweek critic who 
wrote that if you were a dumb blonde, 
Henry Kissinger was a dopey brunette? 
HAWN: It’s the other side of the totem pole. 
This person thinks I'm real smart; that 
person thinks I'm real stupid. I may really 
be somewhere in the middle. 

PLAYBOY: You became a force to be reck- 
опей with after Private Benjamin. How 
much difficulty is there in the movie indus- 
try for a woman—especially a comic 
actress—to be taken seriously? 

HAWN: It’s interesting: You always hear 
about girls’ being snots, but you never 
hear about the guys. They just haven't 
accepted the fact that we have a brain anda 
perspective and a point of view and some- 
thing to say, too, and that we should stand 
up and fight for it when we believe in it. It 
still amazes me. And it gets fatiguing after 
a while. We shouldn't stop fighting for our 
rights, but sometimes you just get so tired: 
tired of attitudes, tired of egos, tired of 
weaknesses. 

PLAYBOY: How much dancing do you have 
to do around Hollywood egos? 

HAWN: A lot. This is a business where peo- 
ple put themselves on show and every- 
body’s got the answer. It’s very rare to 
find people who can throw out their own 
idea for the sake of a better one— 
particularly people in omnipotent posi- 
tions. And because it's such a fragile 
business, people seem to be protecting 
their egos and their status all the time. 
There’s a lot of me, me, me in our busi- 
ness. There’s a lot of cheating to camera or 
not wanting to take a back seat to so-and- 
so. I feel that the back seat sometimes is 
nota bad place to be. Being number one is 
not necessarily the greatest achievement. I 
would rather be second or third best, 
because the idea of being on top leaves you 
nowhere to go. 

PLAYBOY: You're pretty close to the top 
right now. When you reach it, then what? 
HAWN: There have been times when Гуе 
thought I would like to join the Peace 
Corps. I wish that I were more educated. 
would like to be able to write. I wish that I 
were the kind of person who could stop for 
a minute and sit down and read. But 
there’s always something I feel that I have 
to do. I would like to be able to travel, 
just throw a dart at a map and go there. 
But I can't do it. I have children. I have 
work. I have a lot of obligations right now. 
I guess I'm reaching a point in my life 
where I don’t feel as inspired or as chal- 
lenged. My father was a great violinist 
who played until he was 72, and then he 
gave it up. I said, “Daddy, why are you 
doing this?” He said, “Because I've gotten 
as good as I can get in this, and I want to 
do something I don’t know how to do.” 
Keeping that challenge going all the time 


is what keeps your life exciting 

PLAYBOY: You dedicate Protocol to your 
father. Why? 

HAWN: Well, I did this movie because 1 
grew up in Washington and was aware of 
the social scene there—not the political 
scene—and Daddy always came back with 
the greatest stories. І remember once 
when he was playing with Arthur 
Rubinstein—this is a story that I probably 
shouldn't tell —and they were performing 
at a New Year's party with a lot of high- 
ranking Government people in attend- 
ance. Daddy had to pee really bad, but he 
couldn't get off the stage—so he went 
behind the curtain and peed into his glass. 
When the evening was coming to an end, 
he walked off to the toilet and people 
stopped to wish him a Happy New Year. 
He must have toasted five people with his 
glass of pee as he made his way to the 
bathroom! 

Daddy was very irreverent and very 
cynical. I also have a bit of the cynic in 
me. It gave us a great sense of joy and per- 
spective at home. I don't care what crown 
a guy wears, I don’t care if he's the Presi- 
dent of the United States—the one person 
I was ever speechless around was Fred 
Astaire, because that’s something I know 
about. And to me, he’s the greatest dancer 
who ever lived. He’s almost perfection. 
Anyway, you look at all these famous peo- 
ple and they’re just as frail as we are, you 
know? They walk around with the gowns 
and the jewels and the highfalutin masks— 
there's a part of me that just wants to say, 
“Hey, cut the shit. Why are we pretend- 
ing?” Daddy was like that. He was some- 
body who found great humor in the 
facade, in the pretense. He would cut 
through it with a knife. 

PLAYBOY: What about your mather? 

HAWN: A caring, loving Jewish mother. 
She ran a dancing school and we also had 
a watch shop. She had a green thumb for 
business. She worked all her life. A real 
businesswoman, the opposite of my father. 
He was an aesthete and would rearrange 
the shop so Mom would have to do it all 
over again from a commercial point of 
view. It was unbelievable what went on 
between them. 
PLAYBOY: Why 
Goldie? 

HAWN: | was named after the aunt who 
raised my mother. I never knew her, but 
Mom said, “One day I want you to put 
Aunt Goldie's name up in lights." Maybe 
that’s why I’m doing this. To pay her back. 
PLAYBOY: Do you think about your father 
often since his death two years ago? 

HAWN: I think about him at least once a 
day. I miss him. He's very alive in me. He 
was very proud of me, but he never 
praised me without reason. When I left 
home, he said, “Don't you believe for one 
minute that what you are doing is real, 
because it isn't. The reason those show- 
business people are so unhappy is that 
they live in a fantasy and they start believ- 
ing that they're as great as everybody tells 


id your mother name you 


them they are. Always keep your feet on 
the ground.” He once playcd for Dinah 
Shore in Washington after Га become well 
known, and she asked him if there was 
anything he wanted to tell me. He said, 
“Tell her to put the butter back in the ice- 
box.” He was a real down-to-earth person: 
“Put the butter back in the icebox, don't 
pick your nose in public and always 
remember who you are.” 

PLAYBOY: Your father was creative in other 
ways, too, wasn’t he? 

HAWN: He invented things—at least to his 
own satisfaction. He figured out how to get 
the smog out of Los Angeles: Drill a big 
hole in the San Bernardino Mountains, 
which would then suction it out. He set up 
a burglar system like a Rube Goldberg 
contraption in his apartment in Vegas— 
‘one thing was connected to the other, and 
so on. When you opened the door, out 
blasted the 1812 Overture, because my 
father, being a musician, felt this would 
just blow anybody out of the house and 
scare the shit out of them. He was very 
eccentric. He made a lamp out of his clari- 
net. He took the piano apart and put it 
back together again the right way. He had 
that kind of mind 

PLAYBOY: What kind of kids did you hang 
around with when you were growing up? 
HAWN: I started getting into a rough crowd 
in the seventh grade. I was skipping school 
some of the time, smoking and wearing, 
you know, three pairs of socks to hide my 
skinny ankles and six slips under my skirt 
to give me hips, putting a lot of make-up 
on, stuff like that. I thought I was too thin 
and not voluptuous enough, because all 
the girls looked better than I did. I 
remember going to the doctor when I was 
13 and saying, “I don't have any fat any- 
where.” And he said, “Goldie, all you 
need is skin over your bones, and as you 
get older, you'll be happy for that." I was 
never what I considered a very attractive 
girl. I developed very slowly. I watched 
the other girls’ breasts grow, and minc just 
were not happening, till one day, I was 
lying in bed and I was feeling there, 
because I just had a little rise. There were, 
like, two bumps underneath, and | 
thought I had tumors—1 was also a hypo- 
chondriac! І ran downstairs and ж: 
“Mommy, feel these. What is this 
scared.” And she said to my father, with a 
smile, “Goldie’s budding." Haven't bud- 
ded too much since then. 

PLAYBOY: Your sister, Patti, is eight years 
older than you. Were you the typical kid 
sister when she got old enough to date? 
HAWN: Oh, God, she had every reason to 
hate me, my sister. I thought Pati was 
just great. Га watch her comb her hair 
and get ready for dates. Га sit on her bed 
and watch her put perfume on. Then she'd 
go out and Га do the same thing and pre- 
tend that I was going out. Га use her per- 
fume, which would drive her completely 
crazy. One of her dates came to the front 
door with chocolates and I took them, said 
“Thank you” and went into the bathroom 


Pm 


4 
ES 
= 
і 
H 
H 
E 
+ 


PLAYBOY 


78 


and ate them. I used to imitate Patti in 
front of her boyfriends before she came 
down the steps. Now, do you want to kill 
this person or what? I'm sure she wanted 
to throw me out the window. 

PLAYBOY: How were your school grades? 
HAWN: Not very good. When I was in the 
second grade, we had to color the fruits in 
their right colors, but I colored them all 
yellow. The teacher said, "Don't you 
know that an apple is red and an orange is 
orange?" I said, “Yes, but 1 like yellow.” 
[Laughs] I was in the lowest reading group 
in that grade, the Purple Balls. 1 thought 
it had to be the best group, because I was 
the only one in it. Talk about optimism! 
PLAYBOY: Were you ever influenced by any- 
one when you were young? A movie star? 
HAWN: No. Oh, OK . . . only Elvis. He 
made me feel sexy when I was 12. I 
remember going fishing with Daddy, and 
he had his classical music on and I said, 
“TIH never like that rock т” roll: I love 
classical music.” And he said, “Good for 
you, kid.” A year later, I discovered Elvi 
Don't Be Cruel, Hound Dog. My God, sud- 
denly I felt like a real woman. Something 
happened to me—I got it. Daddy was 
completely out of his mind. His little girl 
began doing exactly what she'd said she'd 
never do. It was “Take that lipstick off" 
and “Your skirt’s too tight” and “Turn 
that radio down." Well, the ncatest thing 
happened finally. One , I went to 
dinner and my plate was turned over. 
Underneath it was a 45 of Get a Job. That 
was my dad's way of saying, “It's OK, 
kid." 

PLAYBOY: How did Elvis’ death affect you? 
HAWN: I wrote a рост when Elvis died. I 
was hurt, I was shocked. It was painful for 
me, because I saw what happened to him, 
ich is why I never wanted to be 
the first place. He was the person 
of my fears, and he abused himself so 
much. I wrote a poem about a sparrow: 
[From memory] 


wi 


The sparrow doesn't sing. 
Sorrow has clipped its wings. 
How lightly he was perched 
Upon the icy birch. 

A lover shot a dart 

Right through his tender heart. 
His stiffened body lies 

Beneath the sun-filled shies 

To make reminder of 

To care for those who love. 


It was my catharsis. It might be just the 
shittiest poem. It sounds like a child wrote 
it. But it's what I felt. 
PLAYBOY: Did you ever meet Elvis? 
HAWN: | met him once when | was on 
Laugh-In. I couldn't wait to meet him. He 
came over to me and mussed the top of my 
head and said, “Do you know what you 
look like?" And I was smiling away, think- 
ing he was about to say how great I was. 
And he said, “You look like a chicken 
that’s just been hatched.” [Laughs] 

Of course, there was the other side, too. 
1 was in Vegas once as a headliner—which 


is one of the things Га like to forget 
about—and I stayed in Elvis’ suite. He let 
only a few people stay up there, and I was 
one of the lucky ones. It was quite some- 
thing. He had shot just about every chan- 
delier in that place. There were a lot of 
bullet holes in the ceiling that they 
patched up, as well. 

PLAYBOY: What was the first stop on your 
way to headlining in Las Vegas? 

HAWN: When I got out of high school, 1 
thought I would dance. There weren't too 
many jobs in D.C., so I worked for the rec- 
reation department, teaching children. 
Then 1 had my own dancing school with 
about 50 students. I was 17 and was doing 
quite well. I had all the makings of a good 
ballerina, but at a very young age, I 
decided there was no money in it; it all 
seemed so limited because of time, income 
and sacrifice. So I switched to jazz danc- 
ing, which I had a lot more fun doing and 
got paid better for. 

PLAYBOY: Didn’t you tour in summer stock 
around that time? 

HAWN: Yes. Oh, God! [Rolls her eyes, 
Goldie style] That's when the most embar- 
rassing moment of my life happened. 
PLAYBOY: What was that? 

HAWN: I ресі onstage. [Giggles] 1 was in 
the chorus of Kiss Me Kate. We were in 
Springfield, Massachusetts, and one of the 
actors was playing a strong man. I was ina 
tutu, but the strong man couldn't find his 
loincloth at the last minute, so he showed 
up in a girl's leotard! I laughed so hard I 
peed down my legs. It was visible from the 
light booth, so you knew everyone had to 
be going, “God, what's happening to this 
girl?” I didn’t run off the stage, though; I 
stuck it through. 

PLAYBOY: By then you'd already left home 
to dance at the 1964 New York World's Fair. 
HAWN: I was a cancan girl at the Texas 
pavilion—the hardest work Гуе ever 
done. But it was $180 a week, and that was 
а lot of money 
PLAYBOY: Which lcd to the exciti 
of go-go dancing? 

HAWN: Right. 

PLAYBOY: Did you like the feeling of being 
able to turn men on? 

HAWN: Absolutely! I mean, God, if I don't 
feel I can turn a man on. . . . That's what 
makes the world go round. 

PLAYBOY: But that's not how you felt about 
;o dancing as time went on. 

I moved up to New York. I 
would go to scedy places in the New York 
arca on a Greyhound bus and dance on 
tables, with drunken men whipping out 
their hoo-has. One time, I fainted right on 
a table. It was the seediest bar, with a 
jukebox, and I was dancing on a threc- 
legged table. The guys were yelling, “Put 
another quarter in and make her dance.” 
Well, the guy who owned the place had 
gotten completely drunk, and the barmaid 
had hot pants and wanted to close the club 
and go next door. It was chaos. There was 
one guy there among all the truck drivers 
who had a suit on and he seemed so nice, 


ig world 


so different. As I was dancing, I was look- 
ing at him and rolling my eyes as if to say, 
“God, can you believe this?”—thinking he 
was with me. I turned my back, did a little 
shake and then turned around, looked 
down and he was . . . having himself a 
good time. That's when I fainted. 

PLAYBO! lasturbati 
HAWN: He was masturbating. I fell right 
off the table. I went to the barmaid and 
said, “I want my . | want to go 
home.” She said, 
the back, you'll never get it.” 


1 waited 
until two am and my go-go agent didn't 
come—I had a go-go agent; isn't that 


funny?—so I asked two truck drivers to 
drive me home. I rode to New York from 
New Jersey between two guys in a Mack 
truck. That's what I did to carn my li 


wasn’t a sleaze when you were a go-go 
dancer? 
HAWN: A few bartenders. Period. And 
almost Huntington Hartford, who was sit- 
ting at the bar when I was dancing in a 
cage. I was really into showbiz and sel 
myself, and 1 caught a glimpse of myscl 
the mirror as I was dancing in this cage 
and I completely freaked out—because 1 
was smiling and selling and nobody cared. 
I looked down and there was а guy who 
had pressed up against the cage, and it 
y disgusting: Hi: 
of shape. When I got out after my 
up, the owner came up to me 
“I'd like you to meet somebody at the bar, 
Huntington Hartford.” I didn't know who 
s and said, “I don't do that.” He 
hat's why you're hired.” I said, 
No, I was hired to be a go-go dancer at 
$97.50 a week; that's what Im paid to do. 
I don't mix at the bar." And he said, 
“You're fired." I said, Goody-goody. 
PLAYBOY: So you went back to New York? 
HAWN: I had an experience when I was 
brand-new in New York. I was going for a 
modeling job when a man picked me up on 
the street, saying, “You haye a very un- 
usual face.” If he had told me I was beau- 
tiful, E would have known he was full of 
shit and walked away. But he said the right 
ї nd he gave me a whole line of bull. 
, “AI Capp, the cartoonist, is cast- 
ing parts for the movie version of Li'l Abner 
and has a wonderful character called 
Tenderleif Ericsson, and you seem like the 
right girl for this. Have you ever acted 
?" And I said, “Yes, I did Romeo and 
I got into his Cadillac, thinking, 
is great! Га dri down 
Amsterdam Avenue in a brand-new 
Cadillac convertible; my mother and 
father will never believe this! He said to 
me, “You have to be very nice to Mr. 
Capp, because he can do a lot of good for 
you." 1 was really excited. 

Well, he primed me for this visit for 
about two wecks, telling me how I would 
earn all this money and become a big star. 
My initial thought was, God, ГИ be able 
to put wall-to-wall carpeting in my moth- 
er's house. So I learned my lines and went 


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PLAYBOY 


to this apartment, very nervous. The but- 
ler came in and said, “Mr. Capp would 
like you to pour the tea. He always likes 
his ladies to pour the tea.” I sat there wait- 
ing for Mr. Capp. And he thundered in 
with his wooden leg. He had great pres- 
ence. Very deep voice. “Goldie, I heard so 
much about you. I understand that you 
area very nice girl. You’re going to have to 
work very, very hard to get this part.” He 
was in his bathrobe. I said, “Mr. Capp, 
I'm a dancer and I know what it is to work 
hard.” He said, “Good. Now, would you 
stand up and start reading.” So I read 
very loud. He said, “Goldie, speak sofily 
for the cameras, because they can hear 
you.” I was sucked in. I believed this man 
really wanted to help me. Then he told me 
to go across the room and pretend his eyes 
were the camera and take the dangling 
orange beads that I had hanging from my 
neck and put them in my mouth and act 
like an imbecile. So, like a jackass, I took 
the beads and put them in my mouth and 
acted like an imbecile 

Then I started to get very nervous, 1 
smelled something coming. Не said, 
“Would you walk to the mirror and lift up 
your skirt, ‘cause | think you can play 
Daisy Mae.” I was very proud of my leg 
it wasn’t something 1 was shy of. So I lifted 
my skirt. He said, “Higher.” I went up an 
inch. He said, “Higher.” I went up 
another inch. It finally got to the point of 
no return and I said to myself, “That's it; 


it’s not going any higher.” He said, “Come 
and sit next to me —at which point he 
had completely exposed himself. And this 
thing was staring at me! 
I looked at it and started to shake. Then 
I threw the script down and did what any 
nice Jewish girl who was going to grow up 
and marry a dentist would do. | said, 
“Mr. Capp, I would never get a job this 
way.” He said, “Oh, I had all of them, all 
the movie stars. You'll never make it in this 
business. You don’t have anything; you're 
nothing.” He started to put me down and 
I cried, running out of his apartment. 
PLAYBOY: Nasty story. Was that the end? 
HAWN: Almost. The next year, almost to 
the month, this young, nice-looking Jewish 
man met me on the street and said, 
“Excuse me, I just have to stop you. You 
know, you have a very special look, and 
there’s a man by the name of Al Capp; do 
you know who he is?” I started to scream! 
I was on Eighth Avenue. I said, “You're 
nothing but pimps for this man! Get away 
from me!” He said, “No, please, I’m not, I 
want to send you a script.” I said, “Send 
me a script and send me a contract.” He 
said, “Please let me buy you a ham- 
burger.” I said, "OK." I mean, I got a 
lunch out of that, so that’s pragmatism. 
PLAYBOY: You were pretty badly exploited 
during that period of your life. 
HAWN: A woman is exploited all the time. 
My life those two years when I was trying 
to make it in New York as a dancer—the 


number of times that 1 was accosted, fol- 
lowed, lied to, manipulated, used—you 
couldn't make a movie out of it, because 
no onc would believe it. If 1 was too open, 
it was taken the wrong way. And when you 
work your way up as a dancer and you get 
a little bit successful, it doesn't matter; 
you're still being used in some way. And 
when you finally become successful, you're 
manipulated in other ways—people аге 
always figuring how they can use you, how 
to get close to you, what it can give them. 
The only guard against it is knowledge 
PLAYBOY: Does it still go on today? 

HAWN: I can’t stand the bullshit! I cant 
stomach it. I usually smell it. I went to a 
restaurant with someone I knew, thinking 
it was a nice family experience. ‘The next 
thing I knew, he was talking about a movie 
project. I said, 
thing. 1 think you're full of shit. I will not 
allow friendship in any way to buy my tal- 
ent, which is a commodity. You want to 
talk to me about business, you call me dur- 
ing business hours.” That's how I feel 
about it. I don’t like it. 

PLAYBOY: Is this America's Sweetheart 
talking? The girl with the golden giggle? 
HAWN: I went to an astrologer once. He 
said, “People think they know you. There 
are so many parts of you that no one will 
ever know you completely.” 

PLAYBOY: Do you believe in that stuff.— 
astrologers, psychics? 

HAWN: I've been interested in areas in life 


ct me tell you some 


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that are unexplainable. I was raised a Jew, 
but I went to Catholic and Presbyterian 
churches and studied Hinduism. All reli- 
gions have fascinated me. But the 
unknown is a fascinating field. I was 
touched by Shirley MacLaine's book [Out 
оп a Limb]. The topic is all iffy, and a lot of 
people think it’s kind of silly 

PLAYBOY: Have things happened to you? 
HAWN: Something happens to me when I 
get into an old house where I don’t feel 
good. 1 get lightheaded and dizzy. That's 
happened to me enough times to make me 
realize I'm feeling а kind of energy that is 
not good. This happened to me in a house 
that I almost bought. It was a beautiful 
house, but I heard this voice saying to me, 
“It's a tragic house, don't buy 
edy, tragedy." I asked a friend to 
out, and he did. He said, “There's a lot of 
tragedy that has gone on in that house. 
Two children drowned in the pool. 
invalid who lived there committed suicide, 
another owner lost all of his money. Eddie 
Fisher bought the house for Liz and they 
broke up.” Another time, I was in a hotel 
in Paris, staying in the Oscar Wilde suite. 
I was sitting with my sister and family, 
and we were having a glass of champagne 
and started to laugh about Oscar Wilde’s 
dying in that suite. We were being a little 
irreverent and—T'll be damned—the bot- 
tle, which was half full and sitting firmly 
on the table, went right over on the 
counter. I said, “Why are we doing this?” 


PLAYBOY: Have you ever visited a psychic? 
HAWN: When I was about 20, I went to a 
psvchic to find out what my romantic des- 
tiny was going to be. She opened the door 
and said, “Oh, my dear, you have stardom 
written all over your forehead. You're 
going to be a very big star.” I thought, 
Great, but what's going on with the guys 
in my life? I befriended her until she died. 
T even took care of her financially and got 
nurses for her. 

PLAYBOY: Returning to your early career, 
when you left New York to go to L.A., did 
you do it for the traditional reason—to 
become an actress? 

HAWN: No, I didn’t go to L.A. to be an 
actress. I ended up dancing in a chorus of 
alon play called Pal Joey in 
ing that was as much of 
L.A. as Га ever see. 

PLAYBOY: You never dreamed of Holly- 
wood? 

HAWN: No, never. If I ever dreamed of 
anything, it was to go onstage in New York 
as a chorus dancer. The idea of being a 
movie star was completely out of the ques- 
tion. So from Anaheim, I went to dance in 
Las Vegas, where I did four shows a night, 
go-go stuff in the lounge. It was really 
rough. All 1 really wanted was to get a 
steady job on something like The Jerry 
Lewis Show as a dancer. That would have 
been Utopia: Find a guy. get married, fin- 
ished. I thought of getting an act together 
and going on the road, and I called my 


dad from Vegas and asked him what 1 
should do. As a musician, he had bused 
and trucked 

“Goldie, 
about it.” ed, and 1 
decided to stop. I left Vegas at six AM, 
escaped to L.A., where I auditioned for an 
Andy Griffith special and got it. That's 
where Art Simon, an agent for William 
Morris, saw me. He thought I could do 
something else. He sent me up for a part in 
a show called Good Morning, World, and I 
had a 26-week guarantee as an actress. 
Suddenly, I was an actress. It was very 
bizarre. 

PLAYBOY: Was that when you suffered a 
mental collapse? 

HAWN: I can't really call it a nervous 
breakdown, but when I got the job on 
Good Morning, World, I went back to visit 
in New York. So much had happened to 
me, and it something Га feared. I 
didn't want it to affect my life, I didn't 
want it to change my personality, I didn't 
want to be any different from the way I was. 
But after getting this part and being pro- 
moted in this TV series, which nobody 
had yet seen, I was starting to feel strange, 
because there was a lot of fsimmes over 
nothing, as far as I was concerned. 

Yet, there I was at the Hilton, which 
was not a place I could ever have afforded 
to stay, a bottle of champagne on my table 
and autograph hounds who didn’t know 
me from Adam calling me up. I started to 


, 
ar 

A 56 
T4 


$ 


lose my sense of balance; I was in a new 
world. I went back to my old haunıs, tell- 
ing people the 
ent from them. I was trying very hard to 
hold on to who I was. My reality was not 
what | thought it was. It was changing. 
People's idea of me was changing. Then I 
went home to my family, and even they 
were impressed and excited. It was a dark 
area for me, a time of confusion. It was the 
most frightening thing that ever happened 
to me. I was unable to walk into a public 
place without throwing up. I had tremen- 
dous psychological symptoms. What was 
so scary was that I had no walls to touch. I 
was all on my own, I was just beginning, 
the rise to success had just started. 
PLAYBOY: That sounds similar to what hap- 
pened to Barbra Streisand, who always 
used to arrive late at parties in her honor 
and run to the bathroom to throw up. 
HAWN: Yes, it's very similar. However, 
Barbra was a much bigger star when she 
started out. She was huge. 

PLAYBOY: So you threw up less? 

HAWN: [Laughs] 1 did. I threw less up. But 
1 went down to 90 pounds, couldn't eat. 
When I got back to L.A. and continued 
with the TV show, I used to go home and 
make tea and sit by myself in this ugly 
round chair and ki T wouldn’t eat any 
inner. I was living alone. I started paint- 
y a little. It was a very introspective and 
very self-centered period of my life. 
PLAYBOY: So you entered analysis? 
HAWN: Yes. I did it for seven years. It wi 
a great learning process, very enlighten- 
ing. Even though to most people on the 
outside, my career seems to have come 
easy, I know how hard I worked. 
PLAYBOY: Do you think that because of the 
analysis, you have all those fears and 
uncertainties kicked? 

HAWN: No. I mean, God, sometimes I go 
up on the ski lift and I start to freak out 
and I don't know why. I'm afraid some- 
body’s gonna grab the bottom of my legs 
and pull me out. 

PLAYBOY: Still, your identity crisis notwith- 
standing, you became a household name 
оп Laugh-In. How did that happen? 
HAWN: George Schlatter came onto the set 
of Good Morning, World and saw me. And 
Billy Wilder called him and said, “You 
better get this girl, because she could be 
pretty great.” I met George and remember 
sitting in an enormous chair and thinking, 
What's so interesting about me? І mean, 
what can I offer you? I don't do shtick, I 
don't have a routine, I don't tell jokes, you 
don't want a professional dancer on your 
show. Nevertheless, he tried me out for 
three shows and gave me all this straight 
stuff to do. But when I read the cue cards, 
1 was so nervous | got mixed up and 
started to laugh, “Oh, please, could you 
start over again, please?" There was 
George in the booth, watching me and say- 
ing, "Not on your life! Keep going, Goldie.” 
And so I got more flustered and my char- 
acter grew out of that—an extension of my 


real reaction to my own frailties. 
PLAYBOY: How did the crew get you to 
laugh spontaneously? 
HAWN: I put everything out of my head. 
Also, I never looked at the script after the 
first reading, so 1 wouldn't know what my 
lines were going to be—and they'd change 
the cue cards pretty often. When that red 
light on the camera came on, | forgot 
everything I knew, including my name, 
and I was able to re-create this girl, week 
after weck. It was also tuning into that 
part of my personality that enjoys making 
a mistake. 
PLAYBOY: Lily Tomlin had to sue to get out 
of Laugh-In. How did you get out? 
HAWN: My manager was very intelligent. I 
was signed for three years on that show. 
During my second year, I went off and did 
the movie Cactus Flower and won this 
award and it was all a big deal. . . . 
PLAYBOY: An Oscar usually is. Did you feel 
you deserved it? 
HAWN: It was my first movie. I was up 
against some great performances. I was in 
London, making a picture with Peter Sell- 
ers. If vou want the truth, I was so sure 
that I wasn't going to win it that I went to 
bed that night in London forgetting that 
the Academy Awards were scheduled. I 
got a call at six am. "Goldie, you won!" 
“Won what?" “The Academy Award!” I 
immediately called my mother and we 
cried. So, yes, it was a big moment. How- 
ever, I went to work the next day. And my 
price did not rise on my next movie. 
PLAYBOY: How was Walter Matthau to 
work with in Cactus Flower? 
HAWN: He called me Goldala. To him, I 
was like a child. He was amazingly clean. I 
had a cold, and he came onto the set with a 
Lysol can and sprayed everything, includ- 
ing himself. God forbid that he should get 
sick. But he was fun to play with. 
PLAYBOY: And what about Peter Sellers in 
There's a Girl in My Soup? 
HAWN: I loved Peter very much. He was 
such a fine and delicate and, at times, neu- 
тойс spirit. It was like balancing a friend 
on the fine point of a needle, because he 
was thrown off balance by anything and 
everything. He also had one of the great 
comedy senses of all time, understanding 
what was funny. On this film, we had ter- 
rible problems with the director. 1 just 
crossed it off as a bad day at work. But the 
tensions revved Peter up to the point that 
he was unable to function. To me, a mo: 
is a movie and, Christ, Pm just thankful 
that I get to make my living this way. To 
him, it was more than that. He crossed 
into his work. He was a great master. 
Unfortunately, it mastered him. 
PLAYBOY: You've worked 
actors and directors since then. What are 
your favorite films? 
HAWN: Sugarland Express, Benjamin . 
and Shampoo, which I can't really call my 
film, but 1 learned a lot from Warren 
[Beatty]. E watched his dedication. He was 
very tough. Warren thinks not once, not 


with a lot of 


twice but three times before he does any- 
thing. 1 like people like that. He also does 
a lot of takes and I don't. There was a time 
when I did 50 takes and was completely 
drained afterward. 

PLAYBOY: You include The Sugarland 
Express, but didn’t some people consider 
that an unsuccessful comedy? 

HAWN: Certain people consider Sugarland 
Express a comedy. I never considered it a 
comedy—never, ever, ever. To me, that 
was the most dramatic piece Гуе ever 
done. I never ham it up. 1 always look for 
the reality within the character or a scene. 
Sugarland Express was a great artistic 
endeavor as well as a film that I had 
thought would be widely received. It was а 
great disappointment to me. 

PLAYBOY: That was Steven Spielberg's first 
film. Were you nervous about working 
with such a young, inexperienced director? 
HAWN: I wasn't nervous about him at all. 1 
was new, so I felt like we were just a bunch 
of kids down in Texas having a great time. 
And Steven was just great. He loved what 
he did; he was enthusiastic, and I trusted 
his vision. 

PLAYBOY: Could you foresee the kind of 
incredible success Spielberg would have? 
HAWN: No. Nor could most people. 
Steven's got a great mind, a great connec- 
tion with fantasy, with what pcople want 
to see. 

PLAYBOY: How many good directors of 
comedy are there today? 

HAWN: You see my right hand? Less than 
each finger, I swear. Woody is great. [Lets 
out deep breath] 

PLAYBOY: Is that why an actress such as 
Streisand resorts to directing herself, 
because she knows what's best for her? 
HAWN: Barbra is very right. The more 
directors you work with, the more you 
realize that a lot of them aren’t as good as 
you had thought they were. It’s not that I 
know everything or that Barbra knows 
everything; it’s just that after a while, you 
get so disappointed having to face the fact 
that you basically are stuck. As long as 
you're not directing the movie, there's not 
a whole lot you can do about it except 
scream and holler and get a bad reputa- 
tion, In the final analysis, once the movie 
is shot, you have only so much footage, 
and usually it's whatever the director has 
shot. If he didn't sce it, he didn't shoot it. 
PLAYBOY: Is that what happened with 
Swing Shift, h Jonathan Demme 
directed? 

HAWN: I felt that picture lacked humor. 
“The focus was not right. I couldn't follow 
anybody's story all that well. I didn’t 
know who to root for in that film. There 
were areas that | knew weren't working 
that I would talk to Jonathan about, but 
he was a little worried about the movie 
star's coming in and taking over, which I 
didn't want to do. In order to ease that 
tension, I was really laid back to make him 
feel more at ease and to give him the free- 
dom to create. 1 don’t think Jonathan's a 


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bad director; I just think this wasn’t the 
right piece for him. It should have been 
funnier. 

PLAYBOY: So the fault lies with him? 
HAWN: I have to blame the captain of the 
ship; yeah, I do. On the other hand, I just 
worked with Herb Ross on Protocol. He's 
the best actor's director Гуе ever worked 
with. He's very intelligent, and he allowed 
me freedom and also guided me. I never 
felt he was manipulative. It was so far the 
most fun I've ever had on a job. Howard 
Ziel was also a wonderful director for Pri- 
vale Benjamin. 

PLAYBOY: Since you were executive pro- 
ducer on Benjamin, how did the dynamics 


of producer Hawn's telling director Ziefl! 


how to handle actress Goldie work? 
HAWN: It’s a real schizophrenic experi- 
ence. It’s very, very difficult when you 
have those two hats to wear, because they 
are diametrically opposed. An actor is 
malleable. A director wants to feel he can 
mold his actors, point them in a direction, 
wind them up and fet them go. The pro- 
ducer is the one with the firm hand, who 
says, “No, don't turn left; turn right" — 
the one who basically says, “You're losing 
the line of the story here; this is not the 
movie that I bought, that I hired you to 
direct. Let’s keep our focus right; let's 
remember what the story’s about.” 
PLAYBOY: Will you direct yourself? 

HAWN: I do not want to give a year or 15 
months out of my life and my children's 
life and my man's life for a movie. Not 
now. I want to do it when I can have fun 
with it. So my answer is yes, 1 would love 
to direct a movie. And I’m going to wait 
until the children get older. 

PLAYBOY: So everything comes after your 
personal life, then? 

HAWN: Yes. I’m consumed with my home 
life, with my children, with Kurt, with my 
mother and my nephews. When it comes 
down to it, the most important thing to me 
is the amount of time and love that 1 can 
give to those people. So when I get a call 
about a breakfast for Gloria Steinem, I 
have to decide whether I want to have 
breakfast with my family. I feel I lose when 
1 don't have breakfast with my family. 
PLAYBOY: Do you want to talk about your 
two past marriages and what happened? 
HAWN: Who really cares? Who wants to 
open themselves up and explain why this 
or that didn’t work? Who even knows 
why? 

PLAYBOY: Counting Kurt Russell, have 
there been just three men in your life? 
HAWN: I would say that. I've been married 
twice before. I am, right now, experienc- 
ing something wonderful and I hope I 
always will be. The others are history. 
PLAYBOY: Do you think a man’s ego suffers 
when his wife is the breadwinner? 

HAWN: Some men cannot deal with that 
Literature, fairy tales, everything we've 
ever heard has been about how the man 
has gone out and built the house and 
Killed the cow and has done all that stuff to 


keep his family alive. That translates 
today as how much money he earns for his 
family. And when a gal comes along who 
gets more than he does, it's a problem for 
him; it’s an imbalance of power. 

PLAYBOY: That imbalance was evident 
when you paid your first husband, Gus 
"Irikonis, a $75,000 settlement to end your 
marriage. Do you think it was fair that you 
had to pay? 

HAWN: Experience in life brings wisdom, 
ideally—and forgiveness. When people 
split up, there are a lot of emotions on 
the table, and we do and say things that 
we're sorry for. One reason I hate the mar- 
riage system is that it’s a business—or it 
becomes one if it fails. J would never take 
money from a man if I were leaving him or 
he were leaving me. I'm not constructed 
that way. I'll reopen my dancing school if 
І have to. As long as I can pick up trash in 
the street and earn 50 cents an hour, Pm 
going to do it and work my way up from 
there. I don't like debts or handouts. So I 
don’t have any respect for men or women 
who take money from each other. Yet I 
have, in both marriages, ended up losing 
money. Twice burned. However, I can't 
walk around with a big chip on my shoul- 
der. I can only know what to do better the 
next time. 

PLAYBOY: Gus said you owed him an apol- 
оку, because you've said he asked for ali- 
mony and that's not what happened. 
HAWN: Well, I will publicly apologize: 
He's absolutely right; there was no ali- 
mony. 

PLAYBOY: Are you pessimistic about long- 
term relationships? 

HAWN: I haven't seen too many work. I 
like to think that I have one ahead of me. 
PLAYBOY: Do you worry about it? 

HAWN: Not anymore. When you love 
somebody, you look at him sometimes and 
think, God, I'd die if something ever hap- 
pened to you or if you left. I'd be devas- 
tated. And that's not such a bad fecling. 
One shouldn't be so afraid of that, because 
a lot of times, people don’t get involved 
with that kind of deep love because they're 
so afraid of losing it. So they lose it. At 
least they had it 

PLAYBOY: And right now 

HAWN: I just love Kurt so much. He is who 
he is, no matter what. He doesn't change 
his ideas to suit the company he's in. The 
guy doesn't have an ounce of bullshit in 
him. He's got his feet planted firmly on the 
ground, I like his value system. He's just 
about the best father God ever created 
And he's devoted, he's kind, he's got a 
magnificent sense of humor, he’s smart, 
he's talented and very levelheaded. I have 
trouble spending a lot of time with people 
who aren't as pragmatic as | am 

PLAYBOY: Will all this gush in print embar- 
rass him? 

HAWN: No, because I tell him every day 
why I love him, How awful it must be 
when you love somebody and you don't 
know why. 


EN AX 


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© 1984 Fuji Photo Film U.S А. inc., Magnetic Products Div., 350 Fifth Avenue. NY. NY 10118 


PLAYBOY 


In case уой havent bean 
introduced, CBK (its proper 
name is Graphite CBKiy) is 
the most powerful racquet 
in racquetball. 

That's why top pros like 
Dave Peck, Lynn Adams 
and Mike Yellen all play 
with it. And why it’s used 
by more top tournament 
players than all other 
racquets combined. 


PLAYBOY: How does Kurt feel about your 
producing as well as acting? 

HAWN: He says, “Hey, you're a great race 
horse. You don’t want to stay in a stall, 
Race, go, work your gifts, make it happen. 
Do the best you can do, make as much 
money as you can make, make the marks 
you want to make.” He’s all for it. 
PLAYBOY: And how do you assess his 
career? 

HAWN: I think Kurt is the only male star in 
his early 30s who personifies a man in the 
movie sense of the word—romantic, 
strong, smart. And he has an amazing ver- 
satility. He can be funny, scary, mysteri 
ous; he can make you cry. His range is 
vast. I think he has tremendous longevity. 
PLAYBOY: Do you ever get jealous when 
he's making a movie? 

HAWN: Of course. The two sides of it are, I 
want to be the most attractive thing in his 
life; but that's just insane, because there 
are a lot of beautiful women around and 
he's probably going to work with at least 
half of them. On the other hand, I know 
what we have. I know the fun we have. 
тдүзоү: Do your children want you to 
marry him? 
HAWN: pes 

PLAYBOY: Why don't you? 

HAWN: That's nobody's business. I mean, 
that's between us. We're sitting on the 
same couch. It’s just something that we 
choose not to do right now. 

PLAYBOY: Bave you thought of having a 


HAWN: We're p having one. We 
go back and forth. 

PLAYBOY: Would you drop out of the busi- 
ness if you had one, as you did when your 
first child was born? 

HAWN: I don't feel now that I have to. I’m 
in another stage of my life right now, 
where I want to do other things. So if I got 
pregnant, 1 might sit down and write a 
short story or finish my script. Or 1 might 
learn more about photography, which is a 
great passion of mine. I would use that 
time to grow. 

PLAYBOY: Are there any people you'd like 
to work with? 

HAWN: I'd like to work with Meryl Streep. 
With Jack Nicholson— I like the way Jack 
works. He does what he wants; he's a free- 
thinker. He's brave. Let's see. . . , Robert 
Redford. Redford and I actually tried to 
get something together and he got 
involved in something else and so did I. 
PLAYBOY: Whats the story behind your 
doing a picture with Streisand? 

ts being written. Where it's at 
now, we are sisters from different par- 
ents. It’s not clear enough for me to talk 
about i 
PLAYBOY: Will she direct and you produce? 
HAWN: No, I don't think either one of us 
needs those distractions. We have cnough 
distractions as it is. 

PLAYBOY: Is a good comedy more difficult. 
to pull off than a good drama? 

HAWN: Comedy is harder to do. lt's very 


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hard to make people laugh. It’s like a 
soufflé: If it gets overdone, the souflé 
crashes. That's how delicate comedy is. 
Comedy is like music. I remember work- 
ing with an actor who couldn’t get the 
scene, couldn’t get the timing. So I beat it 
out on my hands. It was like percussion, so 
he could understand the arch of the scene 
and the power that it had to have. It’s as if 
I hear the beats in my head. 

PLAYBOY: Be more specific. 

HAWN: OK, here’s an example of how you 
can destroy or create a moment by timing. 
When I kissed Armand Assante under the 
street lamp in Private Benjamin, he was 
telling me about himself and I was very 
hesitant about being with him. When he 
finally said, “And I’m Jewish,” they cut to 
my scream, to.my orgasm. Now, that is a 
funny cut. However, when it was first cut, 
it was not funny at all, because there was 
too much space between “I’m Jewish” and 
the orgasm. And those few millimeters of a 
second were the difference between 
whether it was funny or it wasn't. Because 
if you've got "I'm Jewish" . . . beat... 
beat... arrghh! or “I'm Jewish,” 
arrghh!—see, it has to come right on top of 
the line. That’s an exterior example of 
what goes on internally when you hear a 
scene. Another one was in Seems Like Old 
Times, which was all timing. With Neil 
Simon, you don’t want to miss a beat. 
When Chevy [Chasc], as my ex-husband, 
dressed as the butler, brought out the food 
and I suddenly recognized him, I had to 
hyperventilate. Well, how do you do that 
on the right beat to make it funny? How 
long does it take before you’ve taken too 
long? I’m still not happy with the way I 
did it; I think that I started too quickly. I 
should have waited. 

PLAYBOY: Do you always know when 
you've done it right? 

HAWN: Yes, because it’s like a good sym- 
phony. 105 just satisfying, and you feel it. 
If it isn’t, there's something that shrivels 
up inside you. 

PLAYBOY: Who makes you laugh? 

HAWN: Woody Allen. I don’t know him, 
but I like his films, because they're about 
something. I like to see what’s going on in 
his brain. Eddie Murphy can make me 
laugh. He has great physical comedy, a 
great sense of his body when he’s working. 
When I was young, Jerry Lewis made me 
laugh. I was once thrown out of the movies 
for laughing so hard at him. 

PLAYBOY: What about women? 

HAWN: Barbra Streisand makes me laugh. 
So can Joan Rivers. 

PLAYBOY: Have you ever done The Tonight 
Show with her? 

HAWN: No. I don't think it helps movies, so 
I don't do that show anymore. I haven't 
been on in years. But they haven't even 
extended the invitation. 

PLAYBOY: You worked with Burt Reynolds 
in Best Friends. Is he funny off the set? 
HAWN: That's what I found so attractive: 
He really is funny and he has a fantastic 


sense of humor, even about himself. 
PLAYBOY: Do you look forward to playing 
older character parts? 

HAWN: Not really. I look at myself on the 
screen now and say, “Oh, God, do you see 
that? Isn't it awful? Look at my chin; it’s 
just hanging there.” If 1 had a knife, I 
would go right up to the screen and cut it 
out. Of course, the person I’m sitting next 
to doesn’t even see it. 

PLAYBOY: You seem like a woman who will 
age gracefully. 

HAWN: I do have this quality that is very 
childlike, But how long can it last? How 
long can you be cule? My career is kind of 
an interesting happening: I perceive from 
people that they don’t really want that to 
change. So that sort of takes me out of the 
actress category, in a funny way, and puts 
me into the personality slot. 

PLAYBOY: Of the films you’ve done, which 
would you like to erase from the archives if 
you could? 

HAWN: Dollars [$]. I didn't like my charac- 
ter or what I did with her. It was just a 
totally unthought-out, unconscious per- 
formance. I remember one scene in which 
1 felt very manipulated. That was when I 
had to look at the money for the first time, 
in the safe-deposit box. The director said, 
“When you look at this money, I want it to 
be an orgasmic experience for you. You’ve 
never seen this amount of money before 
and I want it to be just like you're having 
an orgasm.” Well, I felt like I wanted to 
dig a hole as deep as I possibly could and 
get in it and maybe crawl out the other 
side, because it was as if I had all those 
people on the set there suddenly watching 
me have a private moment. If] were to do 
that scene today, I would say, “I'm sorry, 
I just won't.” But then, I didn't have 
the guts. 

PLAYBOY: You have a cute image, as you 
say, but do you consider yourself a sexy 
woman? 

HAWN: Yes, I consider myself a woman 
who enjoys her sexuality. 

PLAYBOY: Are there differences between a 
man’s and a woman’s sexuality? 

HAWN: By nature, men are more promiscu- 
ous. For them to go out and get laid 
docsn’t mean very much. And they can get 
it anywhere, between three minutes to a 
couple of hours. It has nothing to do with 
love. A woman is not as promiscuous; she 
is more discriminating. To me, sex is not 
something you just want to throw away or 
give it away to an empty experience or one 
where you feel yucky after it’s over and all 
you want to do is get out of there and pre- 
tend it never happened. Empty nights, 
empty encounters are damaging to the 
soul. Just because a man has something 
that sticks out doesn’t mean he's got to put 
it anywhere and everywhere. 

PLAYBOY: Is that the basic diflerence: that a 
man protrudes and a woman doesn't? 
HAWN: I'll probably get blasted by every 
feminist in the world, but the truth is that 
a woman receives the intrusion—or the 


welcome intrusion, however you want to 
phrase it. She docs open her doors for 
entrance if she so desires, and there is 
something very female about that. It's 
female, the way we put our arms around a 
person we love and the way we let him in. I 
just love to be able to do that. That's a 
great expression of my affection. 1 sound 
very old-fashioned; I really do. As I’m lis- 
tening to myself, Pm thinking, God, I 
can't believe this girl! 

PLAYBOY: What you're saying is that you 
like sex—and that’s not so old-fashioned. 
Women didn’t admit it so publicly in 


the past. 

HAWN: No. It’s a terrific and beautiful 
thing. 

PLAYBOY: What about the difference 
between men and women—where does it 
lead? 

HAWN: Well, if a man decides to have a 


quickie, he can then go to the nearest 
washbasin and scrub it clean and make it 
all new again. Girls can’t necessarily do 
that. They walk around knowing things 
are going on in there. Now, I'm not talking 
about venereal disease; but while I men- 
tion it, I’m glad I’m not on the market, so 
to speak, because it’s real scary now. Real 
scary. That's one of the most awful reali- 
ties. A lot of people have been indiscrimi- 
nately fucking, and this is sort of what 
happens. If you do too much of one thing, 
something eventually is going to come 
back and slap you in the face. Somebody's 
going to have to pay for it. Obviously, 
there's only one way to pass venereal dis- 
ease, and that’s by fucking. 
PLAYBOY: But you don't really buy that 
Jery Falwell type of thinking, do you, that 
V.D. is retribution for too much fucking? 
HAWN: No, but a lot of promiscuity can 
end in unsatisfactory sexual relationships. 
It makes you feel less good about yourself. 
If you start to layer yourself with things 
that you're not so proud of and start build- 
ing what we call armor, I think it’s more 
difficult to get to the source of your real 
feelings, emotionally and physically. 
Docs sex get better with age? 
Well, for boys it's not supposed to, 
is it? For girls, it usually gets better. 
PLAYBOY: Does Kurt know about this? 
HAWN: I feel like I’m being cross-examined 
here. It’s so great. You've got all your 
notes. It’s like giving a deposition. 
PLAYBOY: If we'd had longer to prepare, 
there'd be more research notes. 
HAWN: If Га had longer to think about it, 
I wouldn’t be here. 
PLAYBOY: Aw, come on. It hasn’t been that 
bad, has it? 
HAWN: Oddly enough, over these days, 
Гуе learned to trust you. You're just 
obliged to ask certain questions because 
this is rravsov. But you've been very 
respectful. 
PLAYBOY: Are there publications you dis- 
trust? 
HAWN: I would never speak to Penthouse. 
(concluded on page 108) 


REDEFINING 


SMART 


with information engulfing us, where do 
we draw the line between things ше'@ like 
to know and things we must know? 


article By WILLIAM F. BUCKLEY, JR. 


THIS YEAR, we subscribed to cable television, mostly because when 
cable television comes around, subscribe to it is one of the things 
with-it houscholds do, even as, 50 ycars ago, they would have 
subscribed eventually to larger encyclopedias, larger dictionar- 
ies; bought more magazines. 

But suddenly I realized the subscribing—to encyclopedias, 
dictionaries, magazines, newspapers, newsletters, book clubs, 
catalogs, still other cable networks, etc.—had to stop. Go to a 
large newsstand. Do you know there are more than 400 maga- 
zines devoted to computing alonc? More than 40,000 books pub- 
lished per year? More television played commercially in one year 
than movies produced since the industry began? And, through 
all this flood of information, occasionally you will want to take 
time to remind yourself that the sky is blue, the grass green, the 
waters pure (except for those Gary Hart talked about in a speech 
in which Ronald Reagan featured). 

Which brings us to the question at hand: How is it possible to 
keep up in today’s world? 

The answer is that it isn’t possible to “keep up,” not even ata 
rudimentary level. To which dismaying observation one reason- 
ably asks, “What do you mean by a rudimentary level?” To 
which Lanswer— why not?—People magazine. It is rudimentary, 
isn't it, to have a working knowledge of the stars and the starlets 
of the society we live in? 

Well, hear this. Last Christmas, my wife and I sailed in the 
Caribbean with a couple with whom we have for many years 
shared the season. Richard Clurman is my best-informed friend 
in the entire world. When serving as chief of correspondents for 
Time and Life, he cultivated and developed those habits that 
required that he know everything about everything going on. So 
he arrived, as usual, with his heavy rucksack of books and maga- 
zines. Among the latter, 1 remember offhand Scientific American, 
The Economist, The Atlantic, Harper's, The New Republic, The 
Nation, National Review, Esquire, Time, Newsweek, ғ.лувоу, Busi- 
ness Week, Foreign Affairs, and 1 am certain to have forgotten a 
supplementary dozen. He reads at a rate that would leave the 
ordinary computer puffing to keep up. After a day or two, he had 
gone through the magazines and started in on the books. 


One week later, in the Virgin Islands, I sauntered about an 
old colonial town in scarch of periodical matter, finding, at the 
drugstore, only People, for a copy of which I exchanged a dollar 
and a quarter. 

It was the year-end issue, and thumbing through it in the 
cockpit that night, sipping a planter’s punch, I came upon what 
is evidently a yearly feature, enumerating 16 persons who had 
committed renowned gaffes of onc type or other, 25 persons who 
had committed extraordinary feats of one kind or other. My eyes 
traveled down the list with progressive dismay in search of 2 
name I recognized. | did discover onc, finally, in cach category, 
and paused for a moment, taking a deep draft of rum to console 
myself over my confirmed deracination from my own culture. 

It struck me to recite the names I had just read to Richard 
Clurman. So I gave them out, one after another. He scored better 
than I did, recognizing three out of 41. (Neither one of us—this 
was December 1983—had ever heard the name Michael 
Jackson.) I am 59, Clurman a year older. Was this merely а 
generational gap? Is it that cach of us develops habits of mind, 
perhaps needing to do so for self-protection, winnowing the flood 
of information that comes at us so that certain phenomena 
become, for all that they are ubiquitous, for all intents and pur- 
poses imperceptible? 

Or was it sheer chance? Individual lacunae? But I told the 
story of going over the names of the featured galaxy of People to 
Henry Grunwald at a party a few months later, and he shrugged 
his shoulders. He is, after all, among other things the editor in 
chief of People, even as he is editor in chief of all the publications 
put out by Time, Inc. “I know what you mean,” Grunwald said. 
“When they tell me who they have scheduled for the cover of the 
next issue of People, half the time 1 never heard of him or her.” 

. 

Somcone once said that Erasmus (1466-1536) was the last 
man on earth about whom it could more or less safely be said 
that he knew everything there was to know. But even in the 16th 
Century, “everything” was defined as everything common to 
Western culture. Erasmus could hardly have known very much 
about cultures whose existence neither he nor anyone else in the 


ILLUSTRATION BY ROBERT GIUSTI 


PLAYBOY 


Western world had written about. What 
they meant to say was that Erasmus had 
probably read every book then existing in 
those Western languages in which books 
were then written. The library at the Uni- 
versity of Salamanca, founded in the 13th 
Century, still has, framed and hanging 
‚over the little arched doorway that leads 
into the room in which all of the books of 
one of the oldest universities in Europe 
were once housed, a papal bull of 
excommunication directed automatically 
at any scholar who left the room with one 
of those scarce, sacred volumes hidden in 
his vestments. Books copied out by hand 
can be very valuable. The tradition is not 
dead, thanks to the Russian samizdat, by 
which Soviet dissenters communicate with 
one another, even as early Christians com- 
municated by passing about tablets in the 
catacombs. Knowledge in those days, in 
the early years of movable type, was diffi- 
cult to come by. But then there was not so 
much of it as to overwhelm. In that rela- 
tively small room in Salamanca were 
housed all the books an Erasmus might be 
expected to read—granted that his mind 
was singular and his memory copious. So 
had been Thomas Aquinas’, a man mod- 
est except when laying down certitudes, 
who admitted, sheepishly one must sup- 
pose, that he had never come across a sin- 
gle page he had not completely and 
instantly understood. If, per impossibile, 
‘Thomas was required to linger a few days 
in purgatory for committing the sin of 
pride, I am certain that the torturers stood 
over him demanding that he render the 
meaning of the typical “documentation” 
(that is what they call instructions) of a 
modern computer. 

Never mind the exceptional intelligence. 
It is sufficient to meditate that in the 16th 
Century it was acknowledged as humanly 
possible to be familiar with all the facts 
and theories then discovered or developed; 
to read all the literature and poctry then 
set down. To know the library of Western 
thought. 

Move forward now 250 years and ask 
whether or not Benjamin Franklin could 
have been surprised by an eldritch scien- 
tific datum, an arcane mythological allu- 
sion, a recondite historical anecdote, an 
idiosyncratic philosophical proposition. 
Of course he could have been, even bear- 
ing in mind that Benjamin Franklin was 
a singular intelligence, eclectically edu- 
cated, and that he was surrounded, at the 
convention in Philadelphia, by men most 
of whom moved sure-footedly in the disci- 
plines then thought appropriate to the 
background of statesmen. The standards 
at Philadelphia were high; indeed, it has 
been opined that at no other deliberative 
assembly in history was there such a con- 
centration of learning and talent. 

But these are anomalies. We ask, and 
continue to do so, How much was there 


lying about to be learned? Two hundred 
and fifty years having passed since the last 
man died who “knew” everything, then by 
definition it follows that there were 
“things” Ben Franklin didn’t know. Per- 
haps we are circling the target. “Things.” 
What things? 
. 

It is said that twice as much “knowl- 
edge” was charted in 1980 as in 1970. How 
can one make an assertion of that kind? At 
a purely technical level, it isn't all that 
hard to conceive. Suppose, as an example, 
that every decade, the penetrating reach of 
a telescope doubles. In that case, you 
begin the decade knowing X about astro- 
nomic phenomena. At the end of the first 
decade, you know 2X; at the end of the 
second decade, 4X; and so on. 

It is so (the epistemologists tell us) pri- 
marily because computer science advances 
us (we fall back on ancient metaphors) at 
an astronomic rate. It was somewhere 
reported that when George Bernard Shaw 
was advised that the speed of light was 
equal to 186,000 miles per second, he 
greeted that finding as a madcap effron- 
tery—either that or a plain, bald lie. 

Such sullen resistance to the advance- 
ment of physical knowledge is behind us; 
indeed, it has left us blasé rather than 
awed. When we pick up the telephone and 
lackadaisically dial Hong Kong, we simply 
submit—to a kind of magic we never pre- 
sume to understand. The inquisitive 
minority among those who use such 
instruments for such purposes is mindful 
that something quite extraordinary is 
going on, triggered by rudimentary digital 
exertions by one finger of one hand, the 
result of which is to rouse a friend (he had 
better be a friend, considering that it’s 
midnight in Hong Kong) by ringing his 
telephone 8000 miles away: a process that 
combines a knowledge of "things"— 
things such as transistors, transmitters, 
radio beams, oscilloscopes, etc., etc., etc.— 
they will simply never understand and are 
unlikely to burden themselves with the 
challenge of attempting to understand. 

So it is that the knowledge explosion, as 
we have come to refer to it, is acquiescently 
and routinely accepted by both the 
thoughtful and the thoughtless, the grate- 
ful and the insouciant Every now and 
then one identifies a little cry of frustrated 
resentment. Ten years ago, I took to Ber- 
muda a selfeffacing boatwright in his 
mid-60s to give expert testimony in a law- 
suit. He was asked by the defendant's law- 
yer how he could presume to qualify as an 
expert in all that had to do with the 
construction of a seagoing boat— 
woodwork, electricity, engine, rigging, 
plumbing, sail. William Muzzio answered 
diffidently that, in fact, he knew as much 
as any of the specialists who worked for 
him who had mastered only the expertise 
in their separate fields. 


He then paused for a brief moment in 
the little, attentive courtroom. . . 

He did not, he corrected himself, 
know—himself—how to fabricate transis- 
tors for ships’ radio gear. Thus the some- 
time complete boatwright formally 
acknowledged the progressive relative 
finiteness even of his own very wide expert 
knowledge of all that used to be required 
to launch a seagoing yacht. Others 
acknowledge their progressive relative 
ignorance by the simpler expedient of pay- 
ing no attention to it whatever. 

Й 

Consider, in the light of our general con- 
cern about our increasing ignorance, the 
obsessive interest in the working habits of 
the President of the United States. It is 
widely acknowledged that Ronald Reagan 
devotes fewer hours to studying the data 
that flow into the Executive cockpit than 
his predecessor did. But two questions are 
begged by those who stress invidiously 
the comparison. The first is: Is this differ- 
ence reflected in the quality of Reagan’s 
performance as Chief Executive? And the 
second, How could his predecessor, Jimmy 
Carter, reasonably assume that he had 
mastered all the data conceivably relevant 
to the formulation of the most enlightened 
decision? How do we correlate—or do 
we?—knowledge and performance in 
nonscientific situations? — Unflattering 
things have been said about Carter's han- 
dling of the Presidency, but nobody ever 
accused him of dereliction at the home- 
work level. And then again, five Presidents 
back, John F. Kennedy was once over- 
heard to say that the Presidential work 
load was entirely tolerable. Notwithstand- 
ing this nonchalant evaluation of arguably 
the most taxing job in the world, Kennedy, 
as Chief Executive, had probably more 
full-time bards working to apotheosize 
him than any President since, oh, Abra- 
ham Lincoln. 

What are we to make of all this confu- 
sion on the matter of time devoted to the 
acquisition of knowledge? 

. 

So we move in on an intimation of the 
painless acclimation of our culture to an 
unspoken proposition: that every day, in 
every way, man knows more and more, 
while every day, in every way, individual 
men know less and less. The question 
arises whether we give in, by our behavior, 
to complacency, or acknowledge philo- 
sophically, even stoically, force majeure, 
much as we acknowledge biological aging 
and, eventually, death. There is, after all, 
nothing an epistemological reactionary 
can do to erase human knowledge. 
Buckminster Fuller remarked that it is 
impossible to learn less. Valiant efforts at 
Luddite nescience have been made, most 
notably by Pol Pot, who recently set 
out to kill everyone in Cambodia who 

(continued on page 222) 


| 


ET 


r 


“Why don’t we pop into the sack now, while it’s empty? 
We've got the rest of the evening to get acquainted.” 


97 


7 


AS 


ry / | 


mtv, eat your heart out 


YOU DONT NEED to go back to the Stones’ Get Yer Ya-Ya's Ош! 
to know that rock 'n’ roll has a lot to do with sex, A short 
list of typical titles: Push, Push in the Bush, Hung Upside 
Down, Mama Told Me Not to Come, Then Came You, Easy 
Comin’ Out (Hard Goin’ In), It's Your Thing, My Ding-a- 
Ling, Why Don't We Do It in the Road?, and, only for the 
lonely, Beat It, Whip It and You'll Never Get Cheated by Your 
Hand. A fast textual analysis reveals that rock "n" roll's 
most popular word is baby, followed by kiss, my, ya-ya, 
yeah, yeah and yeah. Remember the Crickets, Buddy 
Holly’s band? Waylon Jennings, who chirruped with them 
for a while, confirmed ever ear when he 
said, “Rock ’n’ roll meant fucking, originally. Which I 
don’t think is a bad idea.” (Better put that man in the 
Playboy Hall of Fame.) All of that was fine for Waylon and 
Willie and the boys, but the girls never seemed to get 
much of the action. There were feminine rockers even 
before Michael and the Boy. You had Little Eva, Diana 
Ross, Aretha, Tina and millions of -ellas and -ettes. Even 
Raisinettes, but they went stale in a hurry. On the kick-ass 
side, you had Grace Slick and Patti Smith and Chrissie 
Hynde. Linda Ronstadt actually won more platinum 
records than Elvis and The Who put together, but it was 
still a man’s, man’s world. Heavy-metallurgists, in partic- 
ular, had an ornery attitude—if she can't suck the strings 
off a slide guitar, what's she doing backstage? But the 
times, as somebody said, a-change. Now there are more 
girls in the guitarali than сусг before, and a few, inspired 
by pyromania or Jennifer Beals, are getting into heavy 
metal. All the women you'll find here have the two things 
rockers need, soul and sex appeal. We'll be focusing on the 
latter as personified by New Wave and old. Apollonia and 
Vanity. Stevie, Grace, Tina and even a few who aren't 
famous—yet. Consider it an attempt to fulfill a few rock- 
"n'-roll fantasies, in the spirit of rock’s original meaning 


That's no biker fontasy to your left. That's Apollonio Kotero, 24, 
Prince's leading lady. “The character Apollonio plays in Purple 
Roin parallels who she really is,” says o member of her band 
“She came to Minneapolis as o spunky kid who wanted to learn.” 
She sure learned to make the most of a teddy and garters 
(below, in a scene from the film). Former jingle singer Debra 
Raye (right) now fuses jazz ond rock with San Diego's Aria 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY KEN MARCUS 


Already the best pair of singing twins since the Doublemints, redheaded rockers Pam (left) and Paula Mattioli, 25, are at the center of a Florida 
phenomenon called Gypsy Queen. "I was into being Miss Natural and Pam was inta foxed-out hair with Iaads of make-up,” says Paula of their 
pre-Gypsy days. They settled on the Рот look and set about taking Florida by storm. Yau'll be hearing more about Gypsy Queen ond about Nat- 
айе Pace (abave right), of psychedelic рар Na Prisoners. Natalie, a copper miner's daughter and alumna of tedinopap's Cammunique, left her 
native Arizona for Hollywoad's New Wave scene. She sings, writes songs and plays keyboards for No Prisoners. Below: Bettina Koster, who grod- 
voted from a German girl group called Malaria (didn’t they da Chills and Fever?) ta ane with a mare humanitarian name, In the Service Of. 


lie 


Before Dale Bozzio (top left) became lead singer of Missing Persons, she was a Bunny in Boston. For a better look at Dale, see 
August 1982's The World of Playboy. Terri Nunn (center left), the only girl in Berlin—the band—is whot promo people call “an 
ultravisceral lead singer,” and Grace Jones (bottom left) is simply ultro everything. Then there's our own Miss November 1974, 
Bebe Buell (above right, properly ottired for Hollywood's Club Lingerie), who's been colled "the filet mignon of rock.” Once the 
flame of Todd Rundgren and Elvis Costello, Bebe now has her own hot band, The B-Sides. It’s time some smart A&R man signed 
Bebe and The B-Sides to a fat recording deal—their critically acclaimed independent work has been as fine as Bebe's fishnet. 


Mischief’s Becky LeBeau (left), who doesn't fancy men who are 
“into their bodies more than mine,” likes getting into hot water 
to relax and getting down on the floar to perform (inset). Take 
a lock at Freida Parton (above). The pose is Monroe's, but 
Freida shares name and endowment with her big sister 
Dolly. Below: Bass player Brinke Stevens and singer/songwriter 
Linnea Quigley of Linnea and the Skirts. They seldom perform 
sans skirts and shirts, but Skirt-chasing fans can hope. 


Stevie Nicks (top) braught gypsies ond 
witches out of the dark and onto the 
charts, Judi Dozier (above center), 
who won a beauty pageant singing 
People, ploys keys for Billy Idol on 
such songs as Flesh for Fantasy. 
Even at 5'2", Pat Benatar (above) is 
big on volume ond sex appeal. 


Unless you remember Erocktico or haunt 
Manhattan's underground scene, you may 
not recognize nouveou rocker Khari Paige 
(above). Catch her act once and you will. For 
ten years, Tina Turner (below) has been on 
her own; she hit number one again with 
What's Love Got to Do with It. Hans Küng can 
relax; Tina's praaf that soul is immortal. 


104 


New Wave shacker Pamela Stanebrook (above and center right) may not be os violent as The Plasmatics’ Eve af destruction, Wendy О. Williams (top 
right), but she's just as outrageous. “I love to drip on pianos,” says she with c sexy sneer. Woaf! Pamela lists her hair os “bleached” ond 
her hips as “none,” but her background is an the level—a fine-arts degree from Kent State, vocals in TV's Fame ond the pilot for Star 
Search, as well as singing in the Dudley Moare—Eddie Murphy movie Best Defense. Maybe you don't believe her line abaut pionos, but we're keeping 
a baby grand handy just in case. What’s Diana Rass (bottom right) doing an a punked-aut page like this? Locking good, don't you think? 


Daughter-of-a-preacher-man June Pointer (above) joined sisters Anita, 
Bonnie and Ruth to turn a Gospel-rooted sound into 
ranging from Toussaint's Yes We Can Can to Springste: . Bonnie has 
gone solo, but Ruth, Anita, and June (below) are harmonizing, and look- 
ing, better than ever in the Eighties. They're still great on vinyl, but don't 
miss their cabaret show—everyone needs a few Pointers now and then. 


Back at the Club Lingerie, we find the Splitters’ Dili- 
thium Cristil (above and below), whe sings and 
dances in the guises of Cleopatra, the Bride of Frank- 
enstein and Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. The Splitters 
do what might be called bijou rock, and Dilithi- 
um—a.k.a. Celena Allen—is the featured attraction. 


Я 


— 


um 


жулт» 
— 


Woman, thy name is Vanity (left). You've seen posters 
billing her as Miss Audio Visual 1984; you've seen her 
touring with Prince as the eponym of Vanity 6 (above) 
and reaching into his pants on the cover of Rolling 
Stone. Born in Niagara Falls, Vanity (D.D. Winters) 
took just 19 years to become Princess of the Minne- 
apolis sound. Perth-born Cheryl Rixon (below), 
trained as a gymnast, is fast becoming famous for her 
onstage gymnastics. Her plans? “Using my fee from 
narsor to have my back tattooed.” On the facing page, 
Cheryl shows why she's number one with a bullet. 


PLAYBOY 


108 


GOLDIE HAWN (continued from page 93) 


That's a difference between Jerry Falwell 
and me—he does interviews for Penthouse, 
1 do them for praysoy. [Falwell did not 
knowingly consent to an interview in Pent- 
house.] By the way, I have a lot of respect 
for the people in control at ptaysoy for 
staying clean of all that stuff with Vanessa 
Williams. That was dirty business. I don’t 
like Penthouse's scruples. 

PLAYBOY: Do any other magazines offend 
you? 

HAWN: People. The editors asked me if I 
would do a cover and I didn’t want to and 
they took a picture and used it anyway. 
For all the time I’ve given them in the 
past, that didn’t show good scruples. I 
mean, they’re going to use you anyway, so 
what's the point? 

PLAYBOY: We've seen you flare up. How 
easily do you get sentimental? 

HAWN: Very. I cry easily. 1 cry for happy 
things, for sad things, for things that have 
nothing to do with me. I cry because I can 
look at television and see horrible things 
that are going on and feel guilty because 
Im not doing anything about it. Or 
because I can’t do anything about it, you 
know? [Pauses] I say “You know” a lot. 
PLAYBOY: We know. 

HAWN: I know. [Giggles] It's so disconcert- 
ing. I've got to remember not to say “You 
know,” because when you read it, it inter- 
rupts the train of thought. You know? 
PLAYBOY: We know. 

HAWN: See. [Laughs] Oh . . . hang myself! 
PLAYBOY: Have you ever been into drugs? 
HAWN: I was exposed to drugs when I was 
in New York, but I've always been afraid 
of them. I didn’t like the way people 
behaved on them. I’m a doer. I like to 
wake up in the morning with the sun. I 
don’t like artificial stimulants. Sometimes 
I have a glass of wine; sometimes I get 
drunk, just like everybody else. But I don’t 
like drugs. They give a false sense of 
omnipotence. A lot of those drug experi- 
ences in the Sixties were group 
experiences—getting high together, drop- 
ping out together, living in communes 
together. I always maintained my singu- 
larity. 1 marched down my road, taking 
classes, working out, taking voice lessons, 
learning how to deliver a line. I always had 
a purpose—the road that most of my peers 
took was not my road. I was good at know- 
ing what I was good at. 

PLAYBOY: Did you know what you were 
bad at? 

HAWN: Math. In my little pinhead, math is 
something that Гуе never done well. I 
panic when I look at numbers. I also have 
a tendency to change words. 

PLAYBOY: You're dyslexic? 

HAWN: Dyslexic. My daughter has a little 
bit of that, too. It hasn't stopped my 
growth or my thinking process. But I 
always remember numbers backward, you 


know, You-know-you-know-you-know! 
PLAYBOY: Is there anything in your field of 
expertise—comedy—that you can't do? 
HAWN: Yes. I cannot deliver a joke. I can 
dance around it, I can sct it up, I can react 
to it—just don't give me the joke to tell. 
PLAYBOY: What about politics—are you 
involved? 

HAWN: I prefer to keep my political feel- 
ings to myself. Actors politicking, I don’t 
think we do our politicians good. Some- 
times we defeat them. 

PLAYBOY: How about issues such as the 
E.R.A.? 

HAWN: Equal rights is very important and 
pretty fundamental. 

PLAYBOY: How about abortion? Do women 
have the right to decide? 

HAWN: Absolutely. 

PLAYBOY: Do the Right-to-Lifers bother 
ou? 

HAWN: Very much. That's an infringement 


“I always maintained my 
singularity. The road most 
of my peers took was not my 

road. I was good at knowing 
what I was good at.” 


upon our rights as individuals, and that is 
not what our Constitution promises us. 
PLAYBOY: Prayer in school? 

HAWN: We never said prayer in school. I’m 
certainly religious in an eclectic way; I 
believe in a Higher Being. But you go to 
school to learn the A В C’s. Religion 
should be in the home. I’m not going 
to send my children to a school that has 
mandatory prayer. I don't think anything 
should be shoved down their throats. 
PLAYBOY: A while ago, you had dinner with 
Eileen Brennan, who played the tough 
captain in Benjamin. After the dinner, she 
was hit by a car right in front of you and 
you went into a deep depression. Can you 
talk about it? 

HAWN: It was the most frightening 
moment of my life. She is a woman whom 
I have really loved since Laugh-In days. 
We had a kinship that was unexplained. I 
felt something was not right about that 
evening and couldn't get her on the phone 
to cancel, because I had the wrong num- 
ber. I was an hour and a half late. I felt 
something bad was going to happen, like 
an accident. We had a beautiful dinner 
together, and when we walked out, I got 
into my car and she had to cross the street 
to get to hers. This car was going much too 
fast, the street lights were out, and it hap- 
pened. She fell on her face; she broke her 
legs. It’s just terrible to see a stranger hurt 
in any way, but when it’s somebody you 


love as much as I do her . . . it's the worst 
experience I’ve ever had. I just started 
turning in circles, saying, “Мо, no, no, 
please, no.” 

PLAYBOY: Did you think she’d been killed? 
HAWN: I was afraid. The ambulance came, 
and I stayed with her all night. To this 
day, when anybody is walking with me on 
the street, I hold their arm; I don’t want 
them to get away from me. But Eileen is a 
very special human being. She pulled 
through with a lot of strength and tenacity 
and belief. 

PLAYBOY: Chevy Chase used two words to 
describe you: endurance and resilience. 
Apt? 

HAWN: He came close. I'd add curious. 
PLAYBOY: What satisfies you? 

HAWN: Simple things, like having a day 
that’s been full and balanced, so that last 
30 minutes before we go to bed, I have the 
clarity of mind and spirit to look over the 
day and feel good about it; that I didn’t 
cram in too much, that I gave as much as I 
could give, that I was as honest as I could 
be to the people who mean something to 
me or whom I’m doing business with, that 
I gave time to my children. Then the 
whole sphere of my life makes me feel very 
satisfied. 

PLAYBOY: Is there any one moment that 
you can remember as being fully satisfy- 
ing, outside of those with your family? 
HAWN: [Pauses] Yes, but it has nothing to 
do with work. It was during a trip to 
Africa, when my friend and I ran into a 
group of six of the most beautiful African 
men I'd ever seen. They had on red robes, 
were carrying spears and were beautifully 
decorated. I exchanged jewelry with one of 
the men. They were Rendille tribesmen. 
When they asked us for a ride, we said yes 
and they crammed into the back of our 
Land Rover, all six of them on their 
haunches. And the minute the car started 
to pull out, they started to sing. And, 
oh... they sang... it was like musi 
from the spheres. Their harmonics, their 
intervals are different from ours. 1 tried to 
sing along with them and broke up laugh- 
ing and it was the most joyous moment—if 
1 could ever think of a moment when my 
soul felt it was in flight, that was it. We 
couldn’t talk, and the only communication 
was through music or laughter. And if you 
talk about humanity, how to break 
through bad feclings—humor and music 
must be the way. They bring out the best 
in the human spirit. 

PLAYBOY: You say you haven’t necessarily 
gotten the most fulfillment from your 
work. Then tell us one last thing: Would 
you put your own money into a Goldie 
Hawn movic? 

HAWN: I wouldn’t put my money into any- 
thing to do with the movies. 

PLAYBOY: You wouldn't? 

HAWN: There's no such thing as a sure bet. 
I mean . . . you know? 


NM 
pate 


“Well, so long kid—and remember: If you don’t use it, you lose it!” 


€ 


€ 


FATHERS, SONS, BLOOD 


its never been easy—but 
it's almost always worth the price 


NJULY 31, 1964, in Fort Lauderdale, 
Florida, I was sleeping late after 
writing all night when I heard ` 
my wife, Sally, scream above the'yam- ` 
mering of children’s voices. 1 didn't 
know what was wrong, but whatever it 
was, 1 knew instantly that it was bad. I 
sprinted down, the hallway, and before 
1 ever reached the front door, I had 
made out what the children, all talking 
atonce, were trying to say. 
“Patrick . 


» - get him out.” 

The only house in the neighborhood 
with a pool was two doors away. I 
didn’t break stride going through the 
front door and over the hedge onto the 2 
sidewalk. 

‘As I went through the open gate ot 
the high fence surrounding the pool, I 
saw my son face down in the water at 
the deep end, his blond hair wafting 
about his head the only movement. I 
got him out, pifiched his nose and put 
my mouth on his mouth. But from the 
first breath, it didn’t work. I thought he 
had swallowed pis tongue. I checked it 
and he had not, 

I struggled to breathe for him on the 
way to the emergency room. But the 
pulse in his carotid artery had stopped 
under my fingers long before we got 
there, and he was dead, That morning, 
at breakfast with his mother, he’d had 
cereal. The doctor told me that in the 
panic of drowning, he had thrown up 
and then sucked it back again. My 
effort to breathe for him had по! 
worked, nor could it have. His air pas- 
sages were blocked. In a little more 
than a month, September fourth, he 
would have been four years old. 

A man does not expect to be the 
orphan of his son. Standing by the 
open grave, returning to his room, tak- 
ing his clothes out of the closet and 


y, folding them 


into boxes, sorting 
through the stuff that was his, taking it 
„up from the place he last left it—all of 
this is the obligation of the son, not of 
the father. Not of the father, that is, 
unless some unnatural and unthinka- 
ble collaboration of circumstances and 
events takes the life of the son before 
that of the father. 

Patrick had never gotten out of the 
yard before; but that morning, some 
neighborhood children, most not much 
older than he, had come by and helped 
him out, and he had gone with them. 
The family that owned the poo(ólways 
kept the gate locked, but that day the 
gate was open. There, two doors away, 
somebody was always at home on Sat- 
urday, and certainly somebody was 
always at home when the gate was 
unlocked, but nobody. was at home 
when Patrick sat down on the cement 
lip of the pool, took off his shoes and 
socks and slipped into the water, think- 


ing, probably, that he was going wading, 
As 1 worked through Patrick's things / / 


after the funeral, I could hear Byron, 
my, other son, bubbling and gurgling 
across the hall. I quit with the Slinkys 
and the Dr. Seuss books and the stacks 
of wild crayon drawings and walked 
into Byron’s room, where he lay on his 
back watching a mobile of butterflies 
dancing over his head in the mild 


;breeze from. the open window. He 


would be one year old in less than a 
month, on August 24; and he жаза 
happy baby even when he had befouled 
himself, which he had managed to do 
only moments before I walked in. I 
unpinned his diaper and a ripe fog of 
baby shit floated up and hung about my 
face. I looked at his pristine little cock, 
standing at half-mast about as big as a 
peanut, and I thought of my own cock 
and of the vasectomy Fd had a month 
after his birth. _ 

“It’s just you and I now, Buckshot,” 


article 
By HARRY CREWS 


PLAYBOY 


112 


I said, “just the two of us.” 

I thought then and I think now that two 
children make up my fair share. Sally and 
I had reproduced ourselves and, in a 
world drowning in a population problem, 
that was all we were entitled to. If I had it 
to do all over again, I'd do it the same 
way. It is not something I ever argue 
about with anybody. It’s only what I 
believe; whatever other people believe is 
their own business. Fair share or not, 
though, I had lost half of the children I 
would ever have. And behind that fact 
came the inevitable questions. Who needs 
this kind of grief? Who needs the trouble 
that will surely come with the commit- 
ment to fatherhood? Isn’t a son at times 
disappointing and frustrating to the 
father? And isn't he at all times an cmo- 
tional and financial responsibility that 
could just as easily have been avoided? 
And the ultimate question: Is it worth it? 

I've had that final question answered 
time and again over the past 20 years, and 
the answer has always been yes, it is worth 
it. 

The answer has come in many forms, 
out of many circumstances. One of the 
answers was given to me a short time ago 
when I came in on a plane and Byron was 
there to meet me. I was dead tired from 
days of airports and motel rooms and taxi- 
cabs. 

When I walked up to him, I said, “Pd 
kiss you, son, but I don’t think I can reach 


ied, put his hand on my shoulder 
and said, “Hell, I'll bend down for an old 
man." 

‘And the baby, who was now in the first 
flower of manhood and 6'3" tall to boot, 
bent and kissed me. 

What affected me so much was not what 
he said or that he kissed me. Rather, it was 
the tone of his voice, a tone that can be 
used only between men who are equals in 
each other's eyes, who admire and respect 
each other. It was the voice of men who 
have been around a lot of blocks together, 
who have seen the good times and bad 
and, consequently, know the worst as well 
as the best about each other. Finally, it 
was the voice of love, the sort of love 
that asks nothing and gives everything, 
that will go to the wall with you or for you. 
In my experience, it is the voice hardest to 
find in the world, and when it is found at 
all, it is the voice of blood speaking to 
blood. 

. 

Blood, begetting it and spilling it. In 
those nightmare days following Patrick's 
death, I inevitably thought long and hard, 
usually against my will, about the circum- 
stances of his brief life and his death. 
Much ofit came as incriminations against 
myself. It is part of the price of parent- 
hood. And anybody who would keep you 
from the knowledge of that hard price is 


only lying, first to himself and then to you. 

The boy had developed a hideous stut- 
ter by the time he drowned. The great 
pain it had given me while he was alive 
was only compounded when he was dead. 
Somehow 1 must have caused it. I must 
have been too strict or too unresponsive or 
too unloving or. . . . The list went 
on—just the sort of low-rent guilt that we 
heap upon oursclves where blood is con- 
cerned. Being low-rent, though, doesn't 
keep guilt from being as real as an open 
wound. But in my case, it got worse, much 
worse. Part of me insisted that 1 had 
brought him to the place of his death. 

Sally and I had been married when I 
was 25 and a senior at the University of 
Florida. She was 18 and a sophomore. A 
year and a half later, when I was in gradu- 
ate school, she divorced me and took the 
baby to live in Dayton, Ohio. I'm not 
interested in assigning blame about who 
was at fault in the collapse of our mar- 
riage, but I do know that I was obsessed to 
the point of desperation with becoming a 
writer and, further, I lived with the convic- 
tion that I had gotten a late start toward 
that difficult goal. Nobody knew better 
than I how ignorant, ill read and un- 
accomplished I was, or how very long 
the road ahead of me was to the place Î 
wanted most to be in the world. Conse- 
quently, perhaps I was impatient, irritable 
and inattentive toward Sally as a young 
woman and mother. But nonc of that kept 
me from missing my son when he was 
gone, longing for him in much the same 
way I had longed for my father, who had 
died before I could ever know him. So out 
of love and longing for my son (selfish- 
ness?), 1 persuaded her to marry me again, 
come back to Florida and join her life with 
minc. 

And my efforts to have Sally come back 
to Florida haunted me in those first hard 
days following the death of my son. If I 
had not remarried her, if she had stayed in 
Dayton, Patrick could not have found his 
death in that swimming pool in Fort 
Lauderdale, could he? But the other side of 
that question was yet another. If I had not 
remarried Sally, I could never have known 
and loved my second son, Byron, could I? 
‘The crazed interrogation with myself went 
оп. Was there somehow a way to balance 
things there? Was there a way to trade off 
in my head and heart the life of one son for 
the life of another? Patently not. That was 
madness. But . . . ? Always another but. 

Enter my uncle Alton, who was as much 
a father to me as any man could ever have 
asked for. When he heard that my son had 
drowned, he walked out of his tobacco 
field in south Georgia and drove the 500 
miles to be with me. While neighbors and 
friends stood about in my house eating 
funeral food, Uncle Alton and I hunkered 
on our heels under a tree in the back yard, 
smoking. We'd walked out there together 


and, as 1'd seen him do all my life, Uncle 
Alton dropped onto his heels and started 
making random markings in the dirt with 
astick. And just as naturally as breathing, 
I talked to him about the questions that 
were about to take me around the bend of 
madness, questions that I had not talked 
about to anybody else before and have not 
told anybody since. It was a long telling, 
and he never once interrupted 

I finished by saying, “It feels like I'm 
going crazy.” 

His gray eyes watched me from under 
the brim of his black-felt hat. He had only 
two hats, one for the fields and one for 
funerals. He was hunkered there in the 
only suit of clothes he owned. He couldn’t 
afford this trip any more than he could 
afford to walk out of the field during the 
harvest of the only money crop he had on 
the farmed-out piece of south Georgia dirt 
he'd scratched a living out of for 40 years, 
any more than he could have afforded to 
give me a home when I was eight years 
old and had nowhere else to go. He needed 
another mouth to feed like he needed 
screwworms in his mules or cutworms in 
his tobacco. But he had taken me in and 
treated me the same way he treated The- 
ron and Don and Roger and Ed and 
Robert, his other boys. 

“You ain't gone go crazy, son,” he said. 

He had not responded until he had 
taken out a Camel cigarette and turned it 
in his hands, studying it, and then examin- 
ing a long kitchen match the same way 
before firing it against his thumbnail. He 
was nothing if not the most reticent and 
considered of men. 

"That's what it feels like,” I said. 
“Crazy.” 

“Well, crazy,” he said, acknowledging it 
and dismissing it at the same time. “What 
you gone do is the next thing.” 

“That's what the next thing feels like.” 

“] reckon it might. But it’s some of us 
that cain’t afford to go crazy. The next 
thing is lying in yonder in a crib. You ain’t 
gone give up on blood, are you, boy?” 

It was not a rhetorical question. He 
wanted an answer, and his steady eyes, 
webbed with veins from crying himself, 
held mine until I gave him one. 

“No, sir, I'm not.” 

He put his hand on my shoulder. “Then 
let's you and me go on back in the house 
and git something to ea 

“You feel like a drink of whiskey?” I 
said. 

“We can do that, too,” he said. “I'd be 
proud to have a drink with you.” 

“Good,” I said. 

The two of us went into the back room 
where I worked and sat down with two 
whiskeys. As we drank, both of us heard 
the sudden furious crying of Byron from 
somewhere in the house. Funerals and 
death be damned; the baby was hungry. 

(continued on page 238) 


THE SANTA 


rest ye merry, gentlemen procrastinators. playboy once again comes up with 
a sleighful of last-minute yuletide goodies 


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350 finely machined parts and duplicates the original right down to the last nut 
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it is something worth getting lathered up over—o Memphis-inspired Plexiglas- 
razor and natural-bristle-shaving-brush set that comes with o Gillette Atra blade 
buttokes спу twin-blode cartridge, from Correspondence, New York, $48 the set. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY DON AZUMA 


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more than 200 color photos, text by yachting outhorities, from 
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а tolking tronslator, converts English into other languages with correct 
‘accents, from Sir Soles, Jockson Heights, New York, $279. Below: The 
1-through-9 Roy Cosmetics for men ore on easy-to-use foce treotment 
mode from naturol ingredients, with vitomins, by LS, Cosmetics, $140. 


Below: Something sexy for your smokes-—a handmode rosewood-ond- 
ontique-ivory cigor case that's cedor-lined, $75, ond a matching cigo- 
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WHOLESOME BLUES 


article By LARRY L. KING 


Woke up this morning Go get a sack of health foods LITTLE MYSTERY reposes in why old soaks such as myself have 
All alone in bed. So we can celebrate! given up liquor, dope and determined tracking of the wily 
MER: cli note fron babys woollybugger: We had to. Our livers collapsed, our innards 
WE Sohal Sad: I've got them wholesome blues. grew ulcers, our hangovers commenced overlapping: and 
“г i Nobody's drinking hard booze. extracting excessive taxes in painful recovery. Nose candy 
олла rn The kids are hardly screwing; А id апа poki i i 

Forty'miles tod р ly ing; making us paranoid and poking holes in our sniffers, we 

y vd They're bad-mouthing drug abuse. passed the spoon to a mew generation. As for not 
Poured out your liquor Théy ain't worth killing; womanizing—well, besides narrow-minded wives and the 
"And. threw your dope away. They all can go to hell. ıhreat of herpes, AIDS and other-forms of genital roulette, 
Congratulate me: Га just as soon to pal around there comes a time when one's breath shortens and one's 
I'm going cel-i-bate!” With ol’ Jerry Falwell. . „© hair falls out; young stuffistarts calling you “sir” or “Pops” 


one man’s lament over the new asceticism—or, why give up everything but sit-ups . . . 


even when you wear your sexiest smile, best toupee and 
widest belt girdle. Like aging athletes, we’ve lost a vital 
step; like old soldiers, we fade away. 

But as we gum our morning milk toast or sip our bedtime 
Ovaltine, we at least have the satisfaction of knowing that 
from F.D.R. through Jimmy Carter, we indiscriminately 
broke bottle seals, bar stools, heads, chemical vials, hearts, 
marriage vows and even the occasional maidenhead. What 
memories are today’s alleged young hellions gonna carry 
with them to the twilight zone, huh? 

We're raising a bunch of health nuts and Puritan moral- 
ists out there. Goddamned ascetics and Spartans. Censors 
who won't tolerate cigar smoke even when emitted from 
others. Sippers of white wine, mineral water, carrot juice 
and worse. Bodybuilders and road runners. My generation 
ran only when something howling and hairy was gaining on 
us—or to beat the curfew at our favorite bar. 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY MARTIN HOFFMAN 


І ask you young whippersnappers: What good is all that 
compulsive running, weight lifting or other noxious forms 
of exercise if all those tanned, muscled, healthy, perfect 
bodies ain’t put to the uses of fun and sin? What you gonna 
do, pose for statues? Where’s the fun in jogging along free- 
ways, inhaling carbon-monoxide fumes, when you could be 
toking refreshing essence of boo smoke or clearing your 
nasal passages with peppy powders? 

Another thing: Every young to semiyoung woman in the 
goddamn world wants to have a nestful of babies. Dr. Edwin 
Shrake, the noted Texas midnight philosopher and sociolo- 
gist, knows why: “It’s the fault of those damned Cabbage 
Patch dolls; somehow they’ve perverted healthy instincts, 
causing young stuff to prefer the nursery to the snugglery. 
You meet a woman in a bar these days—assuming you can 
find one—and it won't be ten minutes until she'll be pining 
over her cranberry juice and fig bar for adorable twins. But 


- - - when it’s such fun to sit back and get down? 


PLAYBOY 


I get the notion they'd prefer having 
babies without getting personally involved 
їп а lot of sweaty sex.” 

Right on, doctor! A few years ago, 
Germaine Greer was writing books telling 
everybody to hump an ape if one was 
handy; now she’s writing books celebrat- 
ing sexual abstinence—even suggesting 
that if you're backed against the wall and 
somehow can’t get out of screwing, then 
you at least ought to insist on coitus 
interruptus. Damn that woman! She'd take 
the fun out of a gang bang. 

What's wrong with all you young and 
older fogies? What's going on out there? 
Hell, we helped start you a sexual revolu- 
tion and brought in dope from all conti- 
nents and lowered the drinking age and 
invented fern bars so you’d be able to mix 
and mingle and do what comes naturally. 
And look how you've paid us back, you 
Puritanical little nerds. Where did we go 
wrong? How did we fail you? 

Used to be you could turn to those “рег- 
sonal” ads or “in search of” columns in 
stroke mags and find a little something to 
whet your interest, Like this: 


Eat me free! Ravishing young blonde 
(who will change hair color should 
you wish) has a come-hither look she 
truly means. Great legs, huge boobs, 
soft-but-firm body, constant case of 
The Hots! Love giving great head! 
Voyeurism OK! Light bondage and 
flogging OK if you promise to hurt me 
gently! Group gropes OK! Will talk 
dirty in your ear! Will pose for filthy 
pictures! I enjoy fireside romps in the 
raw, sucking toes, emptying and 
cleaning ashtrays, mopping up your 
vomit, laughing at your jokes, sharing 
good books and lazing abed until 
kicked out to cook your breakfast! 
Request occasional outing to movie or 
play of your choice unless it is too 
much trouble. Great little listener 
who speaks only when spoken to! Do 
ironing and windows. Will chauffeur 
if asked (have own uniforms). Not 
picky about age, religion, color or 
married men. Discreet. Come share 
my bed, my wine, my dope! No 
strings! Will work two jobs if neces- 
sary! Hurry! Call Honeybunch this 
instant! Please! 


Those ads appeared in such profusion 
that I passed many of them by with yawns, 
even when my wife was out of town, if I 
didn’t find their tone respectful enough. 
But nowadays—my God, nowadays, a man 
turning to those same ads will be lucky 
to find one as warm and inviting as this: 


Get off your ass! Run with me! Serious- 
minded modernist woman with small 
mustache, who hasn't smiled since 
°71, challenges you to run 30 miles 
before breakfast of cold asparagus 
tips and lukewarm scawced tea. Light 


bar bells and wind sprints before 
lunch of dried watermelon rind. 
Afternoons reserved for heavy weight 
lifting, shadowboxing, treadmill exer- 
cises; karate, other combat arts five 
nights each week. No dinners or 
snacks! No fatties, smokers, dopers, 
drinkers, marrieds, Capricorns or 
anyone older than 23! Prefer Chris- 
tian Scientist, though may consider 
sincere Buddhist. I enjoy week-old 
corn mush, cold showers, mad dogs, 
castor-oil enemas, chanting, sniffing 
used sneakers and sweat shirts. Look- 
ing for marriage, nine testtube 
babies and weekends to myself for 
participation in killer marathons and 
feminist political action. Send photo, 
biceps and pectoral measurements, 
dated cardiograph report signed by 
three physicians, certified time in 
40-yard dash and $614.77 to pay for 
this ad (no checks!). Essential you 
have private gym with whirlpool, run- 
ning track, latest Nautilus machines 
and basketball court. Must be on 
Upper East Side, equal distance 
between Central Park and East River. 
You row. Must be vegetarian, Liber- 
tarian, humorless and Scorpio. Abso- 
lutely no fucking!!! Send application, 
with supporting documents, to 
Butchbaby, c/o Steel Mamas, Inc. 


This foolish wholesome kick has 
reached epidemic proportions coast to 
coast. Seventeen thousand certified idiots 
huffed and puffed over the course of the 
most recent New York City Marathon. In 
California, where they’re supposed to be 
laid back and where once you could get 
arrested just for taking walks—such mani- 
festation of craziness being obvious on its 
face—they’re taking off their gold chains 
so they won't be weighed down when they 
run. That fellow playing J. R. Ewing on 
Dallas looks a little pudgy, for which I’ve 
always admired him, but they tell me he 
carries around a little portable fan to blow 
your smoke back in your face should you 
approach him with anything other than 
chili sauce burning in your mouth. Film 
stars Jamie Lee Curtis, Linda Evans and 
John Travolta—to name but a few of the 
many—are into heavy sweat and light rab- 
bit food. Jane Fonda’s quit worrying about 
starving kids and is starving herself. What 
the hell good does it do them people to be 
rich and famous? Goddamn monks. 

In Boston, sure, they've been turning 
"em out in droves to run marathon dis- 
tances for years. | can almost understand 
that, the whole of New England's recrea- 
tional opportunities being limited to eating 
codfish and shoveling snow. But good 
God, man, in California and New York? 
Where nothing ever closcs? Where you can 
get a drink, a massage or better in your 
hotel room and a giant-sized pizza with 
double cheese and pepperoni around the 
clock? Insane. They're not only running 


themselves to death these days but danc- 
ing themselves to skeletons in Jazzercise 
classes—whole families bumping and 
grinding and sweating their kiddies’ little 
balls and twats off. How come that don’t 
qualify as child abuse? Laid-back Califor- 
nia, my ass! Fun City, New York, indced! 
Next, they'll be painting scarlet A's on 
everybody's foreheads and holding witch- 
craft trials. 
. 

My friends are going crazy. 

They're throwing running fits, 

Run till their brains get hazy 

And their minds are blown to bits. 

1 got them wholesome blues. 

Been consulting my Muse, 

Trying to make some sense of it. 

1 think Гое found some clues. . . . 


Right here in the nation’s capital, near 
my home in Washington, is a green and 
lovely big bucolic patch called Rock Creek 
Park. It’s got little creeks fit to bathe a 
hangover in and protective bushes to crawl 
under and sleep one off away from prying 
eyes. You think that's how people use it? 
Naw. I tool through Rock Creck Park in 
an air-conditioned cocoon, chain smoking 
and comfortably shifting my girth, and I 
see the woods working with runners no 
matter the hour—runners of all ages, 
sizes, shapes, colors, sexes. Occasionally, a 
familiar face is spotted: CBS-TV corre- 
spondent Fred Graham, near about as old 
as 1 am, red-faced and perspiring before 
sunup, once grunted alongside my car in 
running gear, and though I waved and 
honked and shouted friendly insults at ol” 
Fred, he seemed oblivious to everything 
except putting one foot ahead of the other. 
Periodically, a robber or a rapist jumps 
from concealment to work mischief against 
unwary joggers, but such dangers seem- 
le to discourage determined 
Young women run hitched to 
evil-looking dogs, with sizable rocks in 
their hands or in protective scowling 
bunches. Hell, I'm more afraid of those 
grim Spartans than I am of the criminals. 

The thing Гус most noticed is that 
nobody slogging through Rock Creek Park 
seems the slightest bit happy. Ain't no joy 
in Mudville. Expressions register pain, 
struggle, catatonia, fatigue, sorrow, even 
anger; the nearest thing to “normal” is a 
blank stoicism. Now, yowd think that 
among all those born-again physical cult- 
ists, you'd uncover the occasional stray 
grin, right? Nope. If they’re so damn 
happy, why ain't they jumping up and 
down? I mean, you talk to one of those 
health freaks and they'll carry on with a 
bunch of lyrical, mystic shit like they just 
saw Jesus sitting beside the running path 
picking a golden electric banjo. (They 
sound, indced, like pcople used to sound 
who'd discovered God while on LSD.) If 
it’s all that uplifting and joyous, how come 

(continued on puge 225) 


“My parents have an open marriage—nonexploitative, 
nonmanipulative, and they believe in Santa Claus.” 


121 


122 


YOU MUST 
REMEMBER 


IHl 


he lies between ilsa’s silky thighs and wonders 
what it will cost him 


fai» By ROBERT COOVER 555: 


apartment. Black-leader dark, heavy and abstract, silent but for a faint 
hoarse crackle like a voiceless plaint and brief as sleep. Then Rick opens the 
door and the light from the hall scissors in like a bellboy to open up space, 
deposit surfaces (there is a figure in the room), harbinger event (it is Ilsa). 
Rick follows, too preoccupied to notice: His café is closed, people have been 
shot, he has troubles. But then, with a stroke, he lights a small lamp (such a 
glow! The shadows retreat, everything retreats: Where are the walls?), and 
there she is, facing him, holding open thc drapery at the far window like the 
front of a nightgown, the light flickering upon her white but determined face 
like static. Rick pauses for a moment in astonishment, Ilsa lets the drapery 
and its implications drop, takes a step forward into the strangely fretted light, 
her eyes searching his. 

“How did you get in?" he asks, though this is probably not the question 
on his mind. 

“The stairs from the street.” 

This answer seems to please him. He knows how vulnerable he is; after 
all, it’s the way he lives—his doors areopen, his head is (continued on page 200) 


ILLUSTRATION BY JEFF GOLD 


THE i < 
SPIRIT 
OF ’85 


attire 


By HOLLIS WAYNE 


four of the world’s 
leading fashion 
designers preview 
their spring 

lines for playboy 


GIORGIO ARMANI 


Armani's preference for 
clean, comfortable lines is 
apparent lin his textured 
cotton slub sports jacket 
with lower, wider notched 
lapels, about $360, light- 
gray-striped cotton dress 
shirt, $54, light-gray- 
cotton pants with single 
inverted pleats, $114, 
black-silk twill tie, $38. 


ovavs best designers 
Д know that clothes 
don’t make the man, 


they reveal him. Yves Saint 
Laurent, Giorgio Armani, 
Willi Smith and Perry 
Ellis—the men who make 
the clothes—think spring 
1985 will be a season of 
casual elegance, best exem- 
plified by what Armani 
calls “clean lines and com- 
fortable dressing.” The out- 
fits previewed reflect each 
designer’s brand of haute 
haberdashery. Expect oth- 
er designers to follow suit 
as the new season unfolds, 
but don’t count on seeing 
anything to surpass the 
gentility on display here. 
“The important thing is 
taste,” says Saint Laurent. 
“It doesn’t make any differ- 
ence where the clothes are 
made; it is simply whether 
or not you like the spirit.” 


PERRY ELLIS 

Ellis" colorfulicollection for 
spring includes a jewel- 
tone homespun cotton 
pullover sweater. with 
graphic design, $255, 
royal-blue-cotton knit 
sport shirt with crew-ned 
$38, and . plum/black: 
“cotton, pleid- pants fea 
turing double pleats, $145. 
Suede bucks are optional. 


YVES SAINT LAURENT 


For spirit & la Saint Lau- 
rent, try this nylon light- 
weight “trench,” about 
$150, houndstooth safari 
jacket with patch pockets 
and drawstring waist, 
$85, white-cotton sweater 
vest, $125, blue-cotton 
seersucker short-sleeved 
shirt, $55, gray striped 
linen pants, $135. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY WILLIAM COUPON 


HAVE A FRIEND here in Mississippi, a flam- 

boyant and intrepid soul in his early 30s, 

who was recently devastated because his 

girl and his dog ran away in the same 
week—separately and, we surmise, from 
different motives. Their names were 
Christie and Augie. “I loved them both!” 
he cried out in a grievous agony that 
began with the twin disappearances last 
spring and continued into the summer. 
“The same damned week—and the guilt I 
have to wrestle with over missing my dog 
more!” My friend has taken to his heart 
the words from Synge’s Deirdre of the Sor- 
rows: “It’s lonesome you'll be this night 
and tomorrow night and long nights 
after.” He wanders now barefooted in the 
perfumed and spectral Dixie dark. Soon, 1 
am sure, he will move away. (And he did, 
last Saturday, as 1 knew he would, to the 
Upper West Side of New York City, with 
$300 and without a job in sight.) 

I honor the women’s revolution and 
count a number of its pre-eminent advo- 
cates as my friends, How I have argued 
and agreed with them in the Eastern 
salons, and loved them for their ardor! 
“You're really with us," one of them once 
whispered to me on the balcony of an 
apartment on Central Park West as the 
lights of the great city came on. So do I 
incite them now when I unabashedly con- 
fess that I, like my heartbroken friend, am 
a woman-and-dog man? That women and 
dogs have been—inseparably—at the core 
of my existence? That I comprehend per- 
haps more than any other American male 
those ineffable qualities that fine women 


and fine dogs share: warmth, kindness, 
friendship, intelligence, independence, 
courage, self-confidence, loyalty, fun, mis- 
chief, love? That a man without a woman 
and a dog is an incomplete being, slightly 
askew and off center? That in this vale of 
sadness, I have been at my happiest when 
I have had, at the same time, a distin- 
guished woman and a distinguished dog? 
That the death of one’s beloved dog is like 
the end of one’s romantic love? 

We may not like it, but in these times a 
man, in truth, lives several lives in the 
course of a lifetime. The way we move 
about the American earth, dwelling in 
one locale for a few years and then setting 
down our space modules somewhere else 
to try again, has something to do with 
this; but I also think this ambivalence of 
the fixed commitments relates to the tran- 
sience of sexual love in our most cata- 
strophic epoch. Loving a particular girl in 
our generation encompasses its own reali- 
ties, moods, feelings, habitudes, people, 
landscapes, places, and then—overnight, 
it often seems—many of these things are 
vanished with her. Over the years, our 
anger and hurt give way to tenderness. Yet 
our fives become like the shattered frag- 
ments of an old and cherished figurine. 
One man I know in New England, a fellow 
writer who is sometimes too graphic for his 
own well-being, calls this peculiar disloca- 
tion of the spirit “the muff tax.” 

Some years ago, I asked a beautiful girl 
to marry me. I loved her very much, per- 
haps more than I ever loved a girl. Our 
tensions were real, but so, I thought, was 


THE 
WOMEN 
AND 
DOGS 
INMY 
LIFE 


aman just isn’t complete 
without companions 


memoir By WILLE MORRIS 


LLUSTRATON BY DAVE CALVER 


PLAYBOY 


our attachment. We were children of our 
day, but I was dizzy in her arms. I 
believed our affection would triumph over 
the grave. It was Christmas—an appro- 
priate time, I thought, to try marriage 
again. “You can cure human beings of 
almost anything except marrying,” 
Faulkner said. We were with fine friends 
and children. It was snowing on eastern 
Long Island, and the frozen branches 
crackled in the wind. Sinatra’s The Second 
Time Around, as 1 recall, alternated on the 
stereo with The Nutcracker. The girl and I 
had been together a long while, too, but 
she left me the following month for a tele- 
vision fellow (not the repairman but a 
scriptwriter). 

I did not think I would survive. Misery 
encompassed me. I could not bear to leave 
my house to go to the drugstore. I stopped 
reading The New York Times (and never 
reacquired the habit, I am proud to say). I 
stared, trancelike, out the window. I read 
The End of the Affair, by Graham Greene, 
and contemplated Catholicism. I could 
not drink bourbon—always an ominous 
sign—nor could I sleep at night. I would 
get out of bed two dozen times in the inter- 
minable dark to fetch a drink of water; I 
had to be doing something. I thought my 
suffering terminal. When 1 finally ven- 
tured outside, I saw her in feverish mirage 
wherever I went. I prayed for surcease. 
The lines from Léon Bloy taunted m 
“Man has places in his heart which do not 
yet exist, and into them enters suffering in 
order that they may have existence.” 

It was Pete who saw me through. 

That was nearly a decade ago, but those 
moments returned last year to stalk me in 
horrendous déjà vu when Pete, less my dog 
than my brother, 14 years old, died of old 
age. He was a splendid black Labrador, 
the dog of my middle years. A man and a 
dog will become inseparable; one will 
spend more time with his dog than with 
his wife, children, friends. Pete slept under 
my worktable, awakened me every morn- 
ing with his cold wet nose, trekked the 
woods with me, loved our friends and suf- 
fered our fools, traveled with me times 
without number to New York and back. 
Just as she had been my life's love, he was 
my life's friend. As he lay in our front 
room, dying, I put his head in my lap and 
told him I loved him. He opened his eyes 
and weakly wagged his tail. Then he got 
up and struggled out the door, found a pri- 
vate place on the lawn and died. We buried 
him in a sullen rainstorm on a hill, not far 
from 1. О. C. Lamar and the Faulkners, 
and recited a few lines from the 1928 Epis- 
copal Book of Common Prayer. 

Once more, I could not leave the house, 
stared out the window, watched the di 
ing leaves, fetched water in the night. 
When I finally managed to go outdoors, to 
the courthouse square or the lovely groves 
of the Ole Miss campus or the woods 


130 behind the football stadium or the Sardis 


lakes he and I had once wandered, I saw 
him coming toward me, eyes bright and 
tender, wagging his tail in the old familiar 
circle. The death of Pete was like the end of 
the affair. 

. 

“I have often thought of the final cause 
of dogs’ having such short lives,” Sir 
Walter Scott wrote, “for if we suller so 
much in losing a dog after an acquaintance 
of ten or 12 years, what would it be if they 
were to live double that time?” 

Sir Walter must have known much 
about women, too, in the context of his 
day, despite his rhetorical flourishes (his 
old-lace chivalry as arcane, no doubt, to 
the Upper East Side or the summer 
Hamptons in 1984 as Woody Allen’s Man- 
hattan would have been to him and his set 
on the time-drenched moors). He must 
have had an excruciating regard for them— 
their moods, felicities, securities. The 
question he poses is relevant, leading me 
to another, most saddening, confession: 
that the dogs in my life, taken one on one 
in their separate tenures and longevities, 
have more or less outlasted the women. 

Much of this has surely been of my own 
doing, for I am a 20th Century American 
man, neither better nor worse than most 
men of my day, whether I write words or 
not. I have sometimes had a propensity to 
love extremely pretty girls who have loved 
me back but not for any inordinate length 
of time, a problem I have never had with 
dogs. Women, in other words, have loved 
me deeply, but dogs have loved me longer 

Still, has this not been a common haz- 
ard for many of the dog-loving American 
men among my contemporaries, those of 
us in our 30s and 40s who were caught in 
the very inception of the sexual revolution? 
The structures and inhibitions were swept 
away, and this involved not merely the 
radical deterioration of marriage (when 
was the last time anyone perused the sta- 
tistics on divorce among this generation in 
America?) but something more subtle and 
basic. In other times, not so distant, peo- 
ple were locked in by all the social con- 
tracts of sexual affection, and although this 
did not make anything any better, incur- 
ring the most singular hypocrisies, before 
our eyes the rhythms and expectations of 
love entered a whole uncharted terrain. 
In middle age, obsessed with some sparse 
hope of continuity in our mortal adven- 
ture, I have pondered dogs and women 
with a more acute and reminiscent eye. 

Perplexed, as always, by the writing 
man's own lonely admissions, cir- 
cumlocutions, trepidations that his 
insights here may be less universal than 
frivolous—a paranoiac saddled to a 
mastodon?—in a spirit of casual inquiry, I 
took these considerations to the generation 
just behind mine. One recent evening, I 
gathered a cadre of bright young \ 
sippi males, scions of a complex and 
inward society not exactly beloved by 


some but one that—and we do not need 
W. J. Cash to remind us—has always 
placed women and dogs on pedestals. We 
convened at an all-night coffeehouse near 
the Ole Miss campus called The Hoka, 
after a resourceful Chickasaw princess, a 
boondocks avant-garde institution pre- 
sided over by a Jewish intellectual named 
Ron Shapiro and his black dog King Boy. 
Disregard, if you will, the fact that the 
young Ole Miss men had just returned 
from hunting with their dogs in the Talla- 
hatchic swamp bottoms. Here are some of 
their comments: 


You can develop the same attach- 
ment to both, but most of the dogs 
I've known have been more loyal. 
Short of Dobermans, how many dogs 
have turned on you? 


The dogs here are interested in loy- 
alty and food. Thegirls are interested 
in loyalty and money. 


It's really hard these days to com- 
bine the affection of a wonderful 
woman and a wonderful dog—one of 
them is bound to get jealous. 


The best thing is to have a girl who 
cares for your dog. That way, when 
she gets mad and threatens to leave— 
they leave you quicker and quicker 
nowadays—she’ll think twice be- 
cause of your dog. If possible, it’s also 
not all that bad an idea to get a little 
female puppy and name her after 
your girl. She may be suspicious of 
boys, but how can she be suspicious 
of a little dog who has her name? 
She'll lump the two of you together 
and stay longer. But just be damned 
sure you love the girl before you get 
the puppy. 


1 just saw Woody Allen on the 
cable out of Memphis. Crazy! I have 
the hots for the big Hemingway girl. 
She was a foot taller than Woody. 
Why did he let her go? Didn't he 
know he loved her? She was about 17 
and he was 42—what’s wrong with 
that? Га watched Diane Keaton in 
The Godfather. She's a doll, but they 
all were messed up. All of them kept 
quoting their head shrinks. Every- 
body was afraid оГ bugs—mos- 
quitocs, mostly. None of them liked 
to drive cars, Woody Allen is a funny 
little guy. I really like him a lot. But 
he probably never had a dog. 


When Pm feeling down and out, 
Yellow Jane II makes me feel it’s not 
so bad after all. She’s sweet and con- 
siderate and knows I’m sad. Louise 
tells me Pm all screwed up and starts 


hanging out with the damned 
SAEs. 
I love Deborah Ann more than 1 
(continued on page 250) 


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Гу husband, of course, will want a den. 


THE JOYS 
OF 
SUCCESS 


getting there may be 
half the fun—but being 
there isn’t half bad 


compiled by JEAN PENN 


Ок, зо YOU WORKED late at the office 
again last night. Or you feel as 
if your entire life is on hold 
while you finish your M.B.A. 
You’re tired, you’re cranky and 
you're wondering, Why am I 
doing this? 

For many of us, it’s never been 
enough simply to get by. Some- 
where in our formative years, we 
latched onto the concept of suc- 
cess. Whether or not it appealed 
to us, we usually accepted the 
fact that all the world respects a 
success; and besides, it’s the suc- 
cessful guy who has the big bank 
account, the two (or more) vaca- 
tion homes, the fast cars and who 
almost always gets the girl. And 
that’s the point of success, right? 

Well, maybe. The rewards of 
success mean different things to 
different people at different 
stages of life. So with that in 
mind, we approached an eclectic 
group of people who have 
reached the top of their fields and 
asked them to tell us what it is 
they most enjoy about their suc- 
cess. Freedom from worry? Live- 
in help? Early retirement? A 
spare Porsche to drive when the 
Mercedes is in the shop? 

Their answers, a wonderful 
mix of materialism and philoso- 
phy, may surprise you—as well 

as make those late nights at the 
office seem more worth while. 


TOM BROKAW, 44 (anchor 
man, NBC Nightly News): Luxury 
makes me uncomfortable. That's 
not to say I haven’t enjoyed the 
fruits of success, but I found that 
once I could afford everything I 
wanted, my tastes still didn’t 
change that much. I didn’t want 
! the ostentatious саг or the French 
| villa in the countryside. My 

tastes remained fundamentally 
_ the same. For instance, after the 
Democratic Convention in San 


AMERICAN IN PARIS 


can joan bennett, a girl from a small town in the midwest, 
find happiness in the city of light? are you kidding? 


OAN BENNETT stops in front of an art gallery in Chicago. In the window are several prints by 

Erté. The women are sophisticated, elegant, glamorous, creative. The lines are flowing, 

graceful. Our Miss January reflects, “You have to wonder what kind of man he is to create 
Something like that. I love to look at women, and his women are special. Ill buy that for my 
apartment when I get an apartment.” There is something about Miss January that reminds 
one of Erté’s women. She was raised in Glen Ellyn, a small town in the flatland outside 
Chicago. She is tough (“I can sing, dance and box. I hate a man who treats women as inferi- 
ors, who takes advantage. ГЇЇ stand up and rip his lip off, just pop "іт up the nose"). She is a 
street fighter. She entered a bikini contest at Mother’s, a Chicago club, to earn money to put 
together a portfolio of photographs. John Casablancas, the head of Elite models, saw her and 
offered her a job. The next thing she knew, she was flying to France and Germany, with the 
beginning of a career as an international model. And that's where the comparison to Erté's 
women comes in. It’s as though she belongs in Paris. “Glen Ellyn was always the same. I 
thought there should be more to life than traditional sex, going to college, finding a rich hus- 
band and ending up in the driver's seat of a station wagon—waking up to the sounds 


We often ask Playmates to supply ideas for their picture stories. A surprising number have 
suggested that we do the photo session in Paris. We're talking romance. Joan wrote, “I 
have great friends there and lots of memories. No other city has so much charm and 
beautiful architecture.” Turn the page for a look at her memories, magic in the making. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY RICHARD FEGLEY 


“e 
Pe. = 
* . 
و‎ 


“I never unpack my suitcase,” says Joan. 
“Everything is folded and ready to go. Last year, 
I traveled all over Europe. It seemed as if every 
few weeks I had to deal with a new apartment, 
new friends, new language, new money. I tend 
to avoid Americans overseas. I try to speak the 
language. I miss having deep conversations, but 
I get by.” Below and right, she asks gendarmes 
for directions and shops for souvenir sketches. 


of kids playing with their Big Wheels every 
morning. I didn’t want to let life go past.” 
Less than a year after high school, Joan 
found herself looking for work in the cities 
of Europe. Every day, the agency would 
give her a list of “go-sees,” photographers 
who were looking for models, and off she 
would go. She polished up her high school 
French (her mother is a French teacher) 
and waded in. “There I was, wearing my 
seven-dollar Michael Jackson watch, 
showing up for fashion shootings.” She 
talks of the isolation, the adventure, the 
sudden passions that life overseas can lead 
to: “I was in a bus station, looking for 
something to read. The only books in 
English were by Roald Dahl. He's fantas- 
tic. It was like climbing onto an island of 
English. This trip, I discovered George 
Orwell. I know that he's good, that he's 
good even in the classroom, but I always 
remember books by where I read them 
After the pLavaov shooting, I took a room 
in the Hötel Le Montana, in St.-Germain- 
des-Pres, above the Café de Flore. Every 
morning, the sun floods through these 
ceiling-to-floor windows. I would order a 
room-service breakfast and read. I could 
hear the musicians who played at the 
café.” Joan can talk with equal excitement 


БУК, 


Joan and Abigail Wolcott, another model (left), spend the day visiting 
photographers. “I love go-sees,” says Joan. “You get to the most interest- 
ing parts of the city, places tourists never go. It’s a bit of adventure.” 


It's not likely that tourists end up in the offices of French Vogue or at the 
cháteau of a marquis. Above, Joan goes over her book with Vogue art 
director Paul Wagner and head booker Daphné de Saint-Marceaux. 
Below, she models the 1985 haute couture winter collection of designer 
Louis Féraud outside the Chateau de Montgeoffroy, in Anjou, France. 


“I grew up in a small town in 
the Midwest—the kind of place 
where you spent a week talking 
about how wild the weekend 
was. I like to have something 
new lo do every night. I work 
out, see films, Theater, friends. 
like to argue. I like intensü 


independent and rest- 
less. I don’t like to stay in one 
place. I love to watch people, 
but I don't want to get to know 
them. I like to party with people, 
but I don’t want to become at- 
tached to, or dependent on, any 
one or anything. That's all. 


about weckends in the country and the 
escape after a difficult shooting. She has an 
ear for sounds. “I spent a weekend at this 
spot that wasn’t even on the map. It was a 
real break not to have to put on make-up 
every morning, especially when mornings 
began with a five-o'clock rooster crowing. 
I spent the days lying in the sun, listening 
to classical music and mooing cows. It’s a 
nice combination.” She laughs when she 
recalls her early social encounters. “There 
was a guy in Munich whose idea of a first 
date was going to a nude beach. I got to 
watch him play Frisbee with his dog. Very 
funny. The next day, 1 was sunburned in 
places you wouldn’t believe.” Being on the 
move makes romance difficult. "I met a 
fairly well-known man, and then an 
assignment made me leave in the middle of 
my feelings for him. You can't conduct a 


Maybe it was the Paris light. Maybe it was the 

model. Contributing Photographer Richard. 

was enthusiastic about the shooting. “ 
r has a range of expression that’s fantastic. She 

has a look that draws you right into the picture.” 


relationship looking at each other's pictures in maga- 
zines.” Not that she will settle down any time soon. “PI 
be his guest for dinner. He can wash the dishes the next 
morning." For the time being, Joan is committed to her 
career, shuttling between Chicago and Europe. Where 
will it end? рглувоу Contributing Photographer Richard 
Fegley thought that Joan had more potential as an actress 
than any Playmate he’s shot in recent years. Alas, Miss 
Bennett’s ideas for the future don’t seem to include Holly- 
wood, unless they plan on making a Rocky V with a female 
lead and filming it in Paris. Joan recalls some of her early 
career plans. “Well, I took up weight lifting when I was 
17, and everything was up north and firm. It was fun sce- 
ing results. I read a fascinating book on nutrition by Jane 
Brody. Perhaps I'll go to college and study nutrition and 
physical education. Maybe ГЇ go to college in Paris. . . .” 
Notice how Paris keeps coming up in the conversation? 
This is one girl who won't stay down on the farm. 


“In high school, I was voted the senior most likely to be 
a р.лувох centerfold. People said it could be a bad idea, 
but what if I turned 30 and regretted not doing 
u? That would be tragic. So, Glenbard West, class 
of 82, you'll be glad to know I didn’t let you down.” 


E 
$. 


PLAYMATE DATA SHEET 


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SECRET FANTASY LO GEAR ect MS ОТО БОДО 


PLAYBOY’S PARTY JOKES 


re movie on the 
Shall we 


There's a great old Victor Ma 
Late Show,” the girl told her boyfriend. * 
watch и?” 

“By all means, baby 
about alter Гуе had a pr 


* he replied, "but how 
Mature ejaculation. 


When a foolhardy chap who was found in a 
cocktail lounge with a top Mobsters girl was 
also found to have a packet of condoms in his 
pocket, he was dumped into the ha ighted 
down with rubber cement. 


Singles-bar line: “I don't actually have a sail- 
boat, but I enjoy being blown ashore 


A proper elderly English couple visiting Aus- 
tralia decided to hire a car to take a look at the 
outback. “We know it's rough country, but it’s 
safe and decem, isn’t it?" the husband inquired 
of the rentalagency manager. Upon being 
assured that it was, the couple drove off. 

Later that day, they returned, upset and 
angry. “You said it was decent country,” the 
Englishwoman upbraided the rental agent, “but 
we hadn't driven too far when we saw a man in 
field copulating with a kanga 
“And not too long alter that.” complained 
her husband, "a one-legged aborigine lean 
against a tree by the side of the road grinningly 
waved at us with one hand while he brazenly 
masturbated himself with the other! 
responded the Aussie, 
wouldn't expect a poor bugger like that, with 
only one leg, to catch a "roo, would you?" 


Our Unabashed Dictionary defines North Pole 
as an Eskimo's erection. 


Said a cocksman named Quick with a snigger. 
As his pecker grew bigger and bigger: 
“U 1 slipped т your slit 
With ту tip on your clit, 
Га describe that as Quick on the trigga 


My husband never has time for sex with me,” 
the woman complained to the marital counselor. 
“He's a Nobel Prize winner, and he's away a lot 
making trips to some special kind of bank." 


wdical case. During a 
lminton tournament at a nudist camp, the 
ct of a viciously smashed shuttlecock effec- 
tively neutered one of the male players. A publi- 
cation devoted to sports medicine published an 
rticle about the freak accident. И was appropri- 
ately titled “Two Stones Killed by One Bird.” 


Maybe you've heard about the swishy spy whose 
mission was to gain the confidence of certain gay 
officials on the other side. He was subsequently 
decorated by his government for having given 
AIDS and discomfort to his ei 


The classics have quite a mystique 
For gay Oxford dons like McPeek, 
Whose love for a hero 
From Athens—young Spiro— 
Involves boning up in his Greek 


My mother,” the 
trist with soi 
you know 

“There is no reason for you to feel ashamed,” 
said the shrink, “about her running a mom-and- 
pops business.” 


young lady told the psychia- 
tion. “isa... well 


A young couple were engaged in a highly vocal 
discussion at one end of the bar. 
But it’s less filling,” insisted the girl 
"But you must admit it tastes great," coun- 
tered the young man 

“Less filling! 


ter drinker shook his head at 
the bartender. “Can you imagine, remarked, 
Е of опе of 


bout a beer?” responded the barman, who 
had just moved from the area of the a 


about is oral sex.” 


Heard a funny one lately? Send и on a post- 
card, please, to Party Jokes Editor, WBOY, 
Playboy Bldg., 919 N. Michigan Ave.. Chicago. 
Hl. 60611. $50 will be paid to the contributor 
whose card is selected. Jokes cannot be returned. 


9 Le >. A | wi | 2 
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DÁ - * fi ^ = 5 


149 


w, if you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen!” 


“Winslou 


FREAKS 
AND THE AMERICAN 
IDEAL OF MANHOOD 


© BE ANDROGYNOUS, Webster's informs us, is to have both male and 

female characteristics. This means that there is a man in every 

woman and a woman in every man. Sometimes this is recognized 

only when the chips are, brutally, down—when there is no 

longer any way to avoid this recognition. But love between a man 

and a woman, or love between any two human beings, would not be possi- 

ble we not have available to us the spiritual resources of both sexes. 

To be androgynous does not imply both male and female sexual equip- 

ment, which is the state, uncommon, of the hermaphrodite. However, the 

existence of the hermaphrodite reveals, in intimidating exaggeration, the 

truth concerning every human being—which is why the hermaphrodite is 

called a freak. The human being does not, in general, enjoy being intimi- 
dated by what he/she finds in the mirror. 

The hermaphrodite, therefore, may make his/her living in side shows or 

brothels, whereas the merely androgynous are running banks or filling sta~ 

tions or maternity wards, churches, armies or countries. 


ILLUSTRATION BY OENNIS MUKAI 


the shortest distance 
to sexual identity 
isn’t always a straight line 


essay By JAMES BALDWIN 


The last time you had a drink, whether you were alone or with another, 
you were having a drink with an androgynous human being; and this is 
true for the last time you broke bread or, as I have tried to suggest, the last 
time you made love. 

There seems to be a vast amount of confusion in the Western world con- 
cerning these matters, but love and sexual activity are not synonymous: 
Only by becoming inhuman can the human being pretend that they are. 
The mare is not obliged to love the stallion, nor is the bull required to love 
the cow. They are doing what comes naturally. 

But this by no means sums up the state or the possibilities of the human 
being in whom the awakening of desire fuels imagination and in whom 
imagination fuels desire. In other words, it is not possible for the human 
being to be as simple as a stallion or a mare, because the human imagina- 
tion is perpetually required to examine, control and redefine reality, of 
which we must assume ourselves to be the center and the key. Nature and 
revelation are perpetually challenging each (conlinued оп page 192) 


20 QUESTIONS: DIANE LANE 


the actress we’ve watched grow up onscreen discusses 
sex, good advice and the men’s room at the hard rock cafe 


t was easy for America to fall in love with 

actress Diane Lane when, at the age of 13, 
she made her screen debut opposite Laurence 
Olivier in “A Little Romance.” Both the 
infatuation and Diane have since grown, as 
she has filled out more mature teenage roles in 
such films as “The Outsiders,” “Rumble 
Fish,” “Six Pack” and the sartorially memo- 
rable “Streets of Fire.” Now she co-stars with 
Richard Gere in Francis Coppola's contro- 
versial “The Cotton Club.” Contributing 
Editor David Rensin met with Lane in New 
York. Says Rensin, “There are 19-year-olds 
and there are 19-year-olds. Diane Lane is 
definitely both.” 


1. 


PLAYBOY: What did you want to be when 
you grew up? 

Laxe: When I was eight, I drew a picture of 
myself as I aspired to be. I was wearing a 
sexy, floor-length gown with a slit and spa- 
ghetti straps. I had a great figure, and I 
was standing on a pedestal. I had a glass 
in my hand and I was making a toast. Peo- 
ple were throwing flowers; there were roses 
all over the floor. I pictured myself still 
young and good-looking by the time I was 
successful. I wanted to think that by the 
time I had arrived, I wouldn't need a face 
lift. Of course, when I drew the picture, I 
didn't even have bee stings for breasts. But 
I was already asking my mom, “Can you 
see what I'm going to look like when I'm 
older?” I felt like the ugly duckling—who 
would one day become the swan. 


2. 


PLAYBOY: Are you surprised by the way 
your looks have changed? 

LAXE: I am relieved to look the way I do 
now. The flesh does hang well off my 
bones. And I don’t exercise. I haven’t yet 
reached that point where I'm saying, “If I 
could only suck in my thighs, Pd be 
happy.” You can suck in your stomach but 
not your thighs. But I also know that 
pretty soon I'm going to have to earn it 
and work on it so that my ass stays where 
it is. I don’t want to have it drop when I 
hit 22. 


ES 


PLAYBOY: You were on the cover of Time 
when you were 14 years old. How did that 
change your life? 

Lave: I didn't know I was going to be on 
the cover until the day the issue came out. 
I hit the subway that morning and saw my 
face. I freaked. The newspaper guy was 
having a hoot, though, handing magazines 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY E. J. САМР 


over to my mom and me— piles of them. 
Actually, being on the cover impressed 
me. 1 wondered, What did I do right? It 
must be in the stars. Thank God it hap- 
pened, because no one had ever heard of 
me before. I thought they’d use Tatum 
O'Neal or Jodie Foster or a montage of 
faces. But when [ saw my face there, it sort 
of brought Time down to my level. I 
thought, Gee. Me and President Carter. 


4 


PLAYBOY: You worked with Laurence 
Olivier in A Little Romance, the film that 
put you on the Time cover. What did you 
learn from the experience? 

Laxe: I knew that I had to keep working. 
You don’t just do a film with Olivier and 
not follow it up. Besides, everyone was 
saying, “Boy, you have this amazing 
career in front of you. How promising.” 
Working with Olivier also did something 
for my self-image, I'd seen Hamlet on PBS 
late at night when I was 11. My dad said, 
“Stay up and watch it. It’s very impor- 
tant.” And I’m glad I did. So, later, to be 
able to sit in a room and have a conversa- 
tion with Olivier was unbelievable. 


5. 


PLaveov: If you could, what man would 
you like to trade places with for one day? 
LAXE: Obviously, the guy I was involved 
with. Га want to know what he thought of 
me. You know, think of making love to 
another body from the other perspective. 
You could guarantee an orgasm. The 
beginning and the end of sex are in your 
hands. [Pauses] Hmm. Who would I pick? 
Not my dad. Not any actor Га worked 
with. Maybe Coppola. [Laughs] I'd do it 
because I want to know all his dark 
secrets. He's got such a wide-scope life. He 
produces films, finances them, is a great 
chef, has a great wile, family and home, a 
vineyard. He knows how to do everything. 
Га like to know what it feels like to have 
had all those achievements. 


6. 


PLAYBOY: Much was written about the not- 
so-bel |-the-scenes struggles during the 
filming of The Cotton Club, which Coppola 
directed. What did the press miss? 
Laxe: Suck it out of me with a syringe! OK. 
There was a real feeling of alienation for 
everybody, which was surprising. [t was 
such a rich film that I thought it would 
require a similar richness from those 
involved. I never got the feeling that I was 
connected to what was going on—and it 


wasn’t just me. Of course, it didn't help 
that you didn’t know what was going to 
happen in the next five minutes. Neither 
did the publicity. It made everyone step 
back and lapse into his own perspective 
while we were making the film. 

In my role, I wanted very much to 
be—it sounds strange—momma. I want- 
ed to be nurturing to the environment in 
any way I could and not leave my charac- 
ter [Vera Cicero] behind. I usually don’t 
work that way, staying with the character 
all day. But I wanted to be nurturing—to 
Francis, to Richard [Gere], even to people 
in the hallways; to make an effort to give 
something, even if it was vulgar humor. 
This film was particularly thick. 


7. 


PLAYBOY: You were acting at the age of 
seven in classic stage tragedies, whose pro- 
tagonists usually have one tragic flaw. 
What's yours? 

LAXE: Shall I run through a list? A recur- 
ring theme—though it's not written in 
stonc—is that I have such high expecta- 
tions of other people that I'm perpetually 
disappointed. Also, one day, alter I've 
lived a full life as an attractive woman, 
ГЇЇ arrive at a place where I may not be 
what I once was in terms of my ability to 
attract someone / want—though 1 hope to 
get it all taken care of before I get there. I 
guess I consider it tragic that I'm going to 
age like everyone else. There's something 
going on now in my looks that I want to 
preserve. 


8. 


rLavñoy: Do you prefer garter belts or 
panty hose? 

Laxe: It depends on the person for whom 1 
disrobe. 


3j 


rLwBOY: What's the best advice you've 
ever gotten about men from a man? 

Laxe; My dad has said a lot of things to 
me. We're very tight. In fact, I’ve said a lot 
of things to him about women. But I 
remember the time I didn't know how to 
break up with my boyfriend and I asked 
Francis Coppola for advice. He had a 
daughter who was going to be my age any 
minute, and I figured it would be good 
practice for him. Besides, he is very pater- 
nal with me, and we talk a lot about real 
life. He said, "Let him off the hook. Let 
him think that you're a bad person—if 
that’s what he (continued on page 276) 


153 


154 


CE 


detective mora was taking r&r in puerto rico—and 
it was turning into a goddamn busman’s holiday 


fci», By ELMORE LEONARD 


ISIDRO LOVED this guy Teddy. He was Mr. Tourist, every taxi driv- 
er's dream. The kind who not only wants to see everything in the 
guidebook, he wants the same driver every day, because he trusts 
him and believes whatever the driver tells him. Like he wants the 
driver to approve of him. 

This Teddy bought souvenirs he sent to his mother in New Jer- 
sey. He wrote postcards and sent them to a guy in Florida, an 
address with a lot of numbers. He sat in the front seat of the taxi, 
saying, “Whats that? Whats that?” His camera ready. Isidro 
would tell him, that’s La Perla. Yes, people live down there in 
those little houses. . . . That's San Cristóbal, that’s Fortaleza, 
Plaza de Colón. . . . 

“What's that? With the bars on the windows?” 

“Tha' was the old jail of the city, call’ La Princesa. But now the 
jail is in Bayamön.” Isidro had to stop so Teddy could take pic- 
tures of the entrance, like it was a historical place. 

“That used to be the jail, *ey?” 

He always said that, not “hey”; he said, “ey.” He was inter- 
ested in everything he saw. “The policia drive black-and-whites, 
"ey? Most towns in the States, I think our policía drive black-and- 
whites, too.” He took pictures along the narrow streets of Old 
San Juan. He took pictures of the Caribe Hilton and pictures of 
the liquor store that was in a building down the street. Strange? A 
liquor store. He took pictures of the old Normandie Hotel, 
nearby, that once looked like a ship but was closed now, decay- 
ing. A block from this hotel was the Escambrön public beach. As 
soon as the tourist saw it, it became his favorite place in San Juan. 

It wasn't a tourist place. Isidro said, “You want the most beau- 
tiful beach, we go to Isla Verde.” No, he liked this one. OK. 
Isidro believed it was because of the young girls in their bathing 
suits. The tourist would fix a long lens to his camera and pho- 
tograph the girls discreetly, without (continued on page 180) 


ILLUSTRATION BY JIM BUCKELS 


PLAYBOY’S 
BLOOPERS, 
BONERS AND 
F"K-UPS 


join the playmates 
for a trip down 
memory lane—but 
look out for 
banana peels 


Above, 1981 Playmate of the Year Terri Welles knows she's 
number one. Miss October 1976, Hope Olson (inset), smiles; 
Patti McGuire (November '76) tires (below right); ond (be- 
low) Gig Gongel (Jonvory '80) bites Kym Herrin (Morch 81). 


FTER Warren Beatty, John Derek 
and Hef, the eLaveoy photogra- 
pher is probably the most envied 

man alive. He wakes up, kisses 
whomever, packs his aluminum suitcase 
and heads for the studio, where this 
month’s Playmate is busy undressing, fig- 
uring out how best to impress him in her 
birthday suit. There may be a shortage of 
family doctors and bomb defusers, but 
we could start an employment agency 
with the guys who send letters every 
month—sheepish grins between the 
lines—saying, “Hey, you wouldn't hap- 
pen to need another shootist, would you?” 
We wish we could hire them all, but there 
are only so many cameras in America 
That’s why we are presenting the collec- 
tion of goofs you see here—to prove the 
life of a mavsor photographer isn't all 
glamor and gratification. Though it is, 
we'll have to admit, almost always fun. 


Miss Februory 1973, Cyndi Wood) snatches о 
little cotton candy. we, Januory ‘82 Ploymote Kimberly McArthur 
does the curly shuffle in kneepads—she'll be posing on her knees. 
Below, current Playmate Joon Bennett and o lucky locol window wosher. 


Below: The cat with Missy Cleveland (April 79) gove up eight lives for 
this. Farther below: Cathy St. George (August ‘B2) and Suzi Schott 
(August ‘84) mug for our Jopanese edition, which con't show pubic hair. 


Except for Miss May 1982, Kym 
Malin (left), who gat puckish, not 
tuckered, the girls will tell you 
thot our photographers’ exper- 
tise left them all ogope. To the 
right—o veiled look from our 
December 1981 Playmate, 
Patricio Forinelli. Sleepwalking 
clockwise from Potti, you'll find 
Marlene Jonssen (November 82), 
linda Rhys Vaughn (April ‘82), 
Kym Herrin, Potricia MeCloin 
(May 76) ond Cathy St. George. 
And these are just о few exam- 
ples of the excitement that rages 
through our photo sessions. 


All thase wha can name the lady to our immedi- 
ate right without reading farther, repart to aur 
offices for yaur lie-detector test. It toak sa long 
far us to match that floral pattern to the match- 
less Sheila Mullen that now we're the ones 
hiding our heads. Lack up the rest af Sheila in 
our May 1977 issue—yov'll be amazed that 
the woman ever wanted ta caver her upper 
half. One of aur mast striking Playmates ever 
is the 5'10" Shannon Tweed (far ri 

graceful, dignified Canadian, “Bass' 

became our Playmate af the Month in Navem- 
ber 1981, then reigned as 1982's Playmate of 
the Year. “I really had always wanted to be a 
Playmate,“ she tald a rLarsor writer at the time. 
"Every girl's fantasy is to become the mast 
beautiful, desired woman in the warld.” 


Phallic Object Department: At the upper left, 
we have Miss January 1976, Daina House, 
innacently rewing up a candle for on ele- 
gant crystal-and-tobleclath shot. Funny thing, 
thaugh— when she started, it was a birthday 
candle. Above, оп exciting but exhausting new 
way ta raw your boat gently down the stream, 
compliments af Miss February 1975, Laura 
Misch. Laurc's was one of our more expensive 
Playmate layauts, since she and the crew spent 
sa much fime going around in circles. The Wan- 
ders of Farmula 409 Department: Making a 
clean breast af Cathy Larmauth at the upper 
right, Miss January 1968, Cannie Kreski (see 
Cathy's right breast), ond a photo assistant 
(see Cathy’s left) help Miss June 1981 put up a 
gaod front (see bath). This is the anly shot in 
this whole pictarial that was a setup. In real 
life, Cathy’s pristine. All the Playmates are 
perfect, in fact, and the evidence is all over 
these pages. Not ane has ever suffered fram 
fatigue, exhibitionism ar even waxy build-up. 


That’s Miss May 1984, Patty Duffek, at the upper left, testing for a role in Attack of the Killer Oranges. 
Abave, July 1982 Playmate Lynda Wiesmeier keeps a watch on the rind and lets the seeds fall 
where they may, while the aforementioned Miss Malin (left) takes advantage af the lift pravided by 
her fovorite stroight-backed chair. We told yau it was cold, Kym. At the lower left, Daina Hause 
returns. Playmates seldom use obscene gestures; Daina was probably just pointing out a bird. 


With a smirk ond gesture à la hubby Jimmy 
Connors, Patti McGuire (left) gets Mr. Bubble 
started. Below, Miss June 197B, Gail Stanton, 
shaws her warm feeling for our photographer, 
wha had trouble focusing on the jab at hand. 


Even Splash fans know that Daryl Hannch has 
nothing on Shannon Tweed (above). Shannon, 
that Atlantis-deco set cost olmost as much as 
your Porsche. And you spit on it. Still, we can't 


look crasswise at such a pretty face (inset) 
Now we've come full circle, from nose-picking 
ta eye-crossing, ta meet Ashley Cox, Miss Decem- 
ber 1977. Yov've naticed the sign, of course. 
In this pictorial, nothing turned out right. 


162 


ONE FOR HIS 
LORDSHIP, AND 
ONE FOR 
THE ROAD! 


his lordship set out to prove that 
you can take it with you. and the 
locals didn’t like it one bit 


fiction By RAY BRADBURY 


SOMEONE'S BORN, and it may take the best 
part of a day for the news to ferment, per- 
colate or otherwise circumnavigate the 
Irish meadows to the nearest town and the 
dearest pub, which is Heeber Finn’s. 

But let someone die and a whole sym- 
phonic band lifts in the fields and hills. 
The grand ta-ta slams across the country 
to ricochet off the pub slates and shake the 
drinkers to calamitous cries for more. 

So it was this hot summer day. The pub 
was no sooner opened, aired and mobbed 
than Finn, at the door, saw a dust Aurry 
up the road. 

“That's Doone,” muttered Finn. 

Doone was the local anthem sprinter, 
fast at getting out of cinemas ahead of the 
damned national tune and swift at bring- 
ing news. 

“And the news is bad,” murmured 
Finn, “it’s that fast he's running!” 

На!” cried Doone, as he leaped across 
the sill. “It’s done, and he's dead!” 

The mob at the bar turned. 

Doone enjoyed his moment of triumph, 
making them wait. 

“Ah, God, here's a drink. Maybe that'll 
make you talk!” 

Finn shoved a glass into Doone’s wait- 
ing paw. Doone wet his whistle and 
arranged the facts. 

“Himself,” he gasped at last. “Lord 
Kilgotten. Dead. And not an hour past!” 

“АҺ, God,” said one and all quietly. 
“Bless the old man. A sweet nature. A 
dear chap.” 

For Lord Kilgotten had wandered their 
fields, pastures, barns and this bar all the 
years of their lives. His departure was like 
the Normans’ rowing back to France or 
the damned Brits’ pulling out of Bombay. 

“A fine man,” said Finn, drinking to the 
memory, “even though he did spend two 
weeks a year in London.” 

“How old was he?” asked Brannigan. 
“Eighty-five? Eighty-eight? We thought we 
might have buried him long since.” 

“Men like that,” said Doone, “God has 


ILLUSTRATION BY CHARLES BRAGG 


PLAYBOY 


164 


to hit with an ax to scare them off the 
place. Paris, now; we thought that might 
have slain him, years past, but no. Drink; 
that should have drowned him, but he 
swam for the shore, no, no. It was that 
teeny bolt of lightning in the field's midst, 
an hour ago, and him under the tree pick- 
ing strawberries with his nineteen-year-old 
secretary lady.” 

“Jesus,” said Finn. “There’s no straw- 
berries this time of year. It was her hit him 
with a bolt of fever. Burned to a crisp!” 

That fired off а 21-gun salute of laughs 
that hushed itself down when they consid- 
ered the subject and when more townfolk 
arrived to bless Himself. 

“I wonder,” mused Heeber Finn at last, 
in a voice that would make the Valhalla 
gods sit still at table and not scratch, “I 
wonder. What’s to become of all that 
wine? The wine, that is, that Lord 
Kilgotten has stashed in barrels and bins, 
by the quarts and the tuns, by the scores 
and precious thousands in his cellars and 
attics and, who knows, under his bed.” 

“Aye,” said everyone, stunned, sud- 
denly remembering. “Aye. Sure. What?” 

“It has been left, no doubt, to some 
damn Yank drift-about cousin or nephew, 
corrupted by Rome, driven mad by Paris, 
who'll jet in tomorrow, who'll seize and 
drink, grab and run, and Kilcock and us 
left beggared and buggered on the road 
behind!” said Doone, all in one breath. 

“Aye.” Their voices, like muffled dark 
velvet drums, marched toward the night. 
“Aye.” 

“There are no relatives!” said Finn. “No 
dumb Yank nephews or dim-wit nieces 
falling out of gondolas in Venice but swim- 
ming this way. I have made it my business 
to know.” 

Finn waited. It was his moment now. 
All stared. All leaned to hear his mighty 
proclamation. 

“Why not, I been thinking, if Kilgotten, 
by God, left all ten thousand bottles of 
Burgundy and Bordeaux to the citizens of 
the loveliest town in Eire? To us!” 

There was an antic uproar of comment 
on this, cut across when the front-door 
flaps burst wide and Finn’s wife, who 
rarely visited the sty, stepped in, glared 
around and snapped: 

“Funeral’s in an hour!” 

“An hour?” cried Finn. “Why, he’s only 
just cold” 

“Noon’s the time,” said the wife, grow- 
ing taller the more she looked at this 
dreadful tribe. “The doc and the priest 
have just come from the Place. Quick 
funerals was His Lordship's will. "Uncivi- 
lized! said Father Kelly, ‘and no hole 
dug!" 

“ “But there is!" said the doc. ‘Hanrahan 
was supposed to die yesterday but took on 
a fit of mean and survived the night. I 
treated and treated him, but the man per- 
sists! Meanwhile, there's his hole, unfilled. 
Kilgotten can have it, dirt and headstone.’ 


AlP's invited. Move your bums!” 

The double-swing doors whiffled shut. 
‘The mystic woman was gone. 

“A funeral!” cried Doone, prepared to 
sprint. 

“No!” Finn beamed. “Get out. Pub's 
closed. A wake!” 


E 

“Even Christ,” gasped Doone, mopping 
the sweat from his brow, “wouldn't climb 
down off the cross to walk on a day like 
this.” 

“The heat,” said Mulligan, “is intolera- 
ble.” 

Coats off, they trudged up the hill, past 
the Kilgotten gatehouse, to encounter the 
town priest, Father Padraic Kelly, doing 
the same. He had all but his collar off and 
was beet-faced in the bargain. 

“It’s hell's own day," he agreed, “none 
of us will keep!” 

“Why all the rush?” said Finn, match- 
ing бегу stride for stride with the holy 
man. “1 smell a rat. What's up?” 

“Aye,” said the priest. “There was a 
secret codicil in the will. a 

“I knew it!” said Finn. 

“What?” asked the crowd, fermenting 
close behind in the sun. 

“It would have caused a riot if it got 
out” was all Father Kelly would say, his 
eyes on the graveyard gates. “You'll find 
out at the penultimate moment.” 

“Is that the moment before or the 
moment after the end, Father?” asked 
Doone innocently. 

“Ah, you're so dumb you're pitiful,” 
sighed the priest. “Get your ass through 
that gate. Don't fall in the hole!” 

Doone did just that. The others fol- 
lowed, their faces assuming a darker tone 
as they passed through. The sun, as if to 
observe this, moved behind a cloud, and a 
sweet breeze came up for some moment of 
relief. 

“There's the hole.” The priest nodded. 
“Line up on both sides of the path, for 
God's sake, and fix your ties, if you have 
one, and check your flies, above all. Let's 
run a nice show for Kilgotten, and here he 
comes!” 

And here, indeed, came Lord Kilgotten, 
in a box carried on the planks of one of his 
farm wagons, a simple, good soul, to be 
sure, and behind that wagon, a procession 
of other vehicles, cars, trucks that 
stretched half down the hill in the now 
once-more-piercing light. 

“What a procession 

“I never seen the like!” cried Doone. 

“Shut up,” said the priest politely. 

“Му God,” said Finn. “Do you see the 
coffin?” 

“We see, Finn, we see!” gasped all. 

For the coffin, trundling by, was beauti- 
fully wrought, finely nailed together with 
silver and gold nails; but the special 
strange wood of it? Plankings from wine 
crates, staves from boxes that had sailed 
from France only to collide and sink in 


cried Finn. 


Lord Kilgotten’s cellars! 

A storm of exhalations swept the men 
from Finn’s Pub. They toppled on their 
heels. They seized one another’s elbows. 

“You know the words, Finn,” whispered 
Doone. “Tell us the names!” 

Finn eyed the coffin made of vintage 
shipping crates and at last exhaled: 

“Pull out my tongue and jump on it. 
Look! There’s Chateau Lafite-Rothschild, 
Nineteen seventy. Cháteauneuf-du-Pape, 
‘Sixty-eight! Upside down, that label, Le 
Corton! Downside up: La Lagune! What 
style, my God, what class! I wouldn't so 
much mind being buried in burned-stamp- 
labeled wood like that myself!” 

“I wonder,” mused Doone, “сап he read 
the labels from inside?” 

“Put a sock in it,” muttered the priest, 
“here comes the rest!” 

If the body in the box was not enough to 
pull clouds over the sun, this second 
arrival caused an even greater ripple of 
uneasiness to oil the sweating men. 

“It was as if,” Doone recalled later, 
“someone had slipped, fallen in the grave, 
broken an ankle and spoiled the afternoon 
for everyone!” 

For the last part of the procession was a 
series of cars and trucks ramshackle- 
loaded with French-vineyard crates and, 
finally, a great old brewery wagon from 
early Guinness days, drawn by a team of 
proud white horses draped in black and 
sweating with the surprise they drew 
behind. 

“I will be damned," said Finn. “Lord 
Kilgotten's brought his own wake with 
him!” 

“Hurrah!” was the cry. “What a dear 
soul!” 

“He must've known the day would 
ignite a nun or kindle a priest, and our 
tongues on our chests!” 

“Gangway! Let it pass!” 

The men stood aside as all the wagons, 
carrying strange labels from southern 
France and northern Italy, making tidal 
sounds of bulked liquids, lumbered into 
the churchyard. 

“Someday,” whispered Doone, “we 
must raise a statue to Kilgotten, a philoso- 
pher of friends!” 

“Pull up your socks,” said the priest. 
“It's too soon to tell. For here comes some- 
thing worse than an undertaker!” 

“What could be worse?” 

With the last of the wine wagons drawn 
up about the grave, a single man strode up 
the road, hat on, coat buttoned, cuffs prop- 
erly shot, shoes polished against all rea- 
son, mustache waxed and cool, unmelted, 
a prim case like a lady’s purse tucked 
under his clenched arm and about him an 
air of the icehouse, a thing fresh born from 
a snowy vault, with a tongue like an icicle, 
astare like a frozen pond. 

“Jesus,” said Finn. 

“Ivs a lawyer!” said Doone. 

(continued on page 262) 


“Now you know why I like my martinis shaken and not stirred.” 


165 


a tribute 


кот since Alberto Vargas has an artist so captured the sensuous in lines 
so simple as did Patrick Nagel, who died last February at the age of 38. 
Every piece he created showed the same love of women. Every image 
had an unmistakable edge that took it out of the arena of minor illustra- 
tion into the eternal. Nagel influenced a generation of illustrators 


Pat Nagel was o loyal friend and a valued member of the russor family. As one 
staffer recalls, “He was taller and nicer than you had imagined him ta be, a gen- 
Не genius. He did what he did because he loved it.” We miss him. We miss his art. 


agel's illustrations first appeared 
In rıarsor in 1974. His drawings of elegant, erotic women originally 
graced the pages of Playboy After Hours but soon appeared in The Playboy 
Advisor, The Playboy Forum and as accompaniments to major pieces of fic- 
tion and nonfiction as well. He created a look for the Eighties, one that com- 
bined the free-and-easy openness of West Coast design with the classical 
style of art deco. The images were oddly cropped, as in some Japanese 
prints. The figures were sophisticoted, simple, stark and ultimately seductive. 


ublic reaction to Nagel’s work 
was immediate. His career was in the ascendant. He was fast becoming a 
superstar. His work had been exhibited in galleries from coast to coast. 
Prints hung in The Louvre, the White House and the Smithsonian. He had 
done work for other magazines (Harper's, Architectural Digest, Palm Springs 
Life). He had done portraits of such famous women as Joan Collins. Shortly 
before he died, we asked him to create a special portfolio of erotic-fantasy 
images. We present them here as a final gift to our readers. Thanks, Pat. 


WHERE THE 
GIRLS ARE TODAY 


ever wished you had a “cliff notes” to women’s colleges? now, thanks to playboy, you do 


compiled by SETH RACHLIN and GEORGE VAN HOOMISSEN 


man graduated from college without having made 

at least one road trip. Back then, there were more 

than 200 girls’ schools around the country, and col- 
lege men used their precious weekends to visit them all—to 
chart unknown courses, visit new locales and return 
relaxed, invigorated and full of stories. 

"Then something happened. Men got lazy or distracted. 
Girls’ schools became “women’s institutions.” Road trips, 
once a way of life, became a rarity. Many of you, we'll 
wager, have never been to a girls’ school. God knows what 
you’re doing instead. 

But you’re not the only one who has suffered from the 
decline of road tripping. Girls’ schools have felt it as well. 
Many have closed or gone coed. Where they still exist, their 
students wistfully recall the days when men showed up in 
packs for the weekend. They miss the time when a 
Saturday-night fire drill would find scores of men outside a 
dorm wearing nothing but boxer shorts and sheepish looks. 

It’s not too late, though. Sure, things have changed. All 
the road tripping in the world won't get rid of the guys now 


I N THE old days (you know, the late Fifties), hardly a 


172 at Skidmore. But you can do your part to make the women at 


those schools happier just by paying them a visit. 

There's a girls” school out there for everybody. We know— 
we visited most of them (purely for research, of course) 
when we wrote our book Where the Girls Are Today. We are 
happy to report that we met such a diversity of women that 
we're sure any red-blooded male can find a girl who meets 
his fancy. Whether you’re looking for a prodigy who speaks 
12 languages or for a future horse trainer, you’ll find her. 
And whatever you’re looking for, remember the one thing 
all the women at these schools have in common: They want 
to meet men. That’s where you come in. 

‘The accompanying chart will make road tripping as easy 
as getting into the car and paying the tolls. At PLAYBOY’S 
request, we rated schools across the country on everything 
from locale and visiting hours to the girls’ friendliness and 
your competition. Then, at the bottom of each column, we 
gave the school an over-all score. This single digit repre- 
sents many man-hours of devoted and selfless research: A 4 
is a place we’d like to roll up to late some Friday night; 3 
holds promise; 2’s, well, company; and a 1 means take 
books along. Of course, your luck may vary. But whatever 
happens, we know you'll give it the old college try. 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY DAVE CALVER 


PLAYBOY’S GUIDE TO GIRLS 


Tony Bennett Ж Beneath their Suspieious 
didn't leave his | en . | Are they (“Why would 
heart in San DE ihe fre Smi friendly? 1s the | any guy come 
Francisco for зигота you find out for | Pope Catholic? | here?")but 
nothing. yourself. adventurous 
Mostly at USC Regular school " 
Casual, upbeat | and UCLA, with nes ers and pri ES 
parties are an occasional | Gon coffee- vate parties in "he Boll ct on? 
quite frequent. | lame mixerat | ouse/pub. upper-class campus acon 


MSM 


i: 


apartments. 


MOUNT SAINT COLLEGE OF 
$ ALVERNO COLLEGE OF LAKE ERIE 
MILLS COLLEGE | MARY'S COLLEGE БАНН SAINT MARY COLLEGE 
Oaktand, COLLEGE Milwaukee, CATHERINE Omaha, Painesville, 
California Les Ассы Wisconsin raul: Nebraska Ohio 
787 students шога. 1000 students 400 students 
900 students poo studente 2300 students 
Ч They're out for 
A 7 what their bro- 2 Е 
canrignty нә nursing, man- To prepare for a = Careers in 
called "the ing, physical chure calls "a = 
|. | agement and Christian life in P dire. | equestrian 
Stanford of all | therapy, busi- thousand differ- | Sauestr j 
therapy busi | Sundry other a modern world | Ont experiences / 
women's col- sand n 
leges" every year.' 
Id-tashioned 
Girls from al Catholic girls | Girls from Catholic Minne- | Catholic girls 
overthecoun- | whose free- Milwaukee and | sota girls who | just tike the 
try who wanta | wheeling Se the vicinity aont чөнүн. mothers and ing instruction, 
Smithlike edu- jornia style is | who are not they stray from | their mothers! Бена 
cation, Califor- | temperedby | ready for the the Pope's eier cores rein 
asta strict parents | real world dicta ees mit adorent 
OP shorts, Often looks a Ponytail and 
Varnes, behind her to |The nurse's uni. | Shyandabit | freckles—the 
Lacoste shirt, see if her par- form isa desd en wholesome slung comfort- 
Nike shoes ents or teachers | giveaway. Pe Midwestern girl | ably over her 
with footies are watching next door shoulder 


Horses are fun 
but no replace- 
ment for men. 


Keep your eyes 
open for the 
monthly on- 
campus band 
parties. 


Hold still so the 
girls can ogle 


Be slow and 
patient. These 


Talk about how 
much you love 


Look as if you 


Subtly scope 
out the action 


A convertible z kids and can eat lots of while pretend- | 
Hd girls are casity | wait to have Wonder bread. to read the 
k E: В your own. Racing Form. 
“How do you “Look, ar: “Have you had | ,, 
feel about pre- | caught, “It won't hurt. I hats you your exper eyes rie 
Сатана pens © ет position on eee Western or 
sex? for everyt ios year?" nglish? E" 
Ifyou call afew | Has four legs. 
Bleeding-heart «MER Tom. Nearby Saint male nursing There are also 
koras: Cony use anducıa | Milwaukee Thomas 3 students com- ¡ccasional vis- 
roua ts, 8 Баса School of Engi- Cora pn petition, you its from Case 
fad = E a neering and Eum er needourreme- | Western 
Hae сат. ле U of Wisconsin ЕЕС I road-t Reserve engi- 
E ping course. neers. 
Fairly strict, Applaud the > 
Н пете || but some, coffeehouse ee, 7738 Very liberal for 
haven't been пке о вее јизї | tates pag | Wsnowknown | enforced and (rod 
told about them. | сап до. they are. as Saint Kate unforgiving zm 
Guys OK in Visiting hours Male visitors 
dorms till nine | Соу out by are getting can stay only 
are available. pm. Take а tent, | 1°90 more relaxed. three days. 
You'll have big. | Adrycampus | Drinking age: 19 | Restrictions Only tor Com- 
ger things on even when it tor Wisconsinites, | recently munion and 
your mind. rains 21 for outsiders | abolished specialdances | of drinking. 
ae 
valle os Mom's Saloon, | The Park Avenue Omaha bars: Big Chuck's, 
Oldest diie abar near cam- | night clul Ine club the Oz) Ta Oki Greek, | ¡the placa to ba; 
school on the t and Plum's 
West Cont pus, attractsa | Milwaukee isan | wewnesdoys | Clancye'sand | is the campus 
large crowd. Alverno hot spot. | "cones El Hombre pub. 
7 з 2 2 s 2 2 


=- CHOOLS from coast to coast, your best bets for continuing education 


BRENAU 
COLLEGE 
Gainesville, 
Georgia 

800 students 


CONVERSE 
COLLEGE 
Spartanburg, 
South Carolina 
800 students 


HOLLINS 
COLLEGE 
Holtins, Virginia 
870 students 


MIDWAY 
COLLEGE 
Midway, 
Kentucky 
330 students 


iss 
UNIVERSITY 
FOR WOMEN 
Columbus, 
Mississippi 

1331 students 


SWEET BRIAR 
COLLEGE 
Sweet Briar, 
Virginia 

700 students 


To lean To study liberal Э To develop 
thing andhave, | arts, education | To get a good To pursue nut ne por | ina manner 
agoodtime | ormusicbe- education, ing or equine School with. | befitting the 
white doing it tween parties Southern style studies Se Шеге ы 

} Georgians Extremely 
whose laid- Southern girls Amixof South. | Dowmhome social Southern | ү, 
back attitude who would erners, foreign Pe women, many sehen 
belies the ster- | rather drink Students, even | are were am ofwhomwere | ciety e 
туре ШО, beer than tea afew Yankees | геге меге апу or wanted to be у 

lebutantes 
Looks lik. Listen fora Look for packs 
basic belle, | Textbook in cute Southern | pue standsout | ofioud,talka. | Look for pearls, 
with a few holes | опе hand, beer | accentspeak- | iow folks tive women skirts and effu- 
i in the other ing French to —on | who are sive cuteness. 
in her jeans A 
her friends. Е close friends. 

In the words of One of them x 

| " Most girls here Nice to people 
عا‎ Nobody likes ontana sure nola have more best | they know. To 

‘Y'all come and = Christmas „ it’s real 
drinking alone. А friends than others, it 
S some- card. Need we friendly. you have teeth. depends. 
time.’ say more? T 2 
The sororities | Wednesdays Lots 14 social clubs. | Huge blowouts 
have nonalco- and Thursdays | oncampus. Severalhave |in the gym once 
holic mixers. are pub nights. | Check out the parking lot | parties or a month. Pub 
Beer blowouts | Friday апа Sat. | Friday nights at | of the Belle dances every — | happy hour Fri- 
in nearby parks | urday dances the pub. Wisdom dorm. | weekend. day nights 
y P: Y 


Be real friendly, 


Take a Frisbee 


Look as if you 


Look asif your 


Speak with a 
drawl and con- 


The nearest 

i trats are а ful 
hour away. 
What a pity. 


College used to 
be 
Now that it's 
coed, things 


aren't into the 
Southern social 
scene to keep 


Townies don't 
get the hint 
that they're not 
Welcome here. 


are there to 
serve and pro- 
tect, but they're 


Pretend уои" " deb. It doesn't 
like the Shel during the don't know your В fess to owning 
Answer Man. afternoon. from France: way around. ا‎ a phan 
= two. 
sit r. Pretend. 
“This parking- | “So youjust 
a “Ouestiasalle | totbusinessis | metme.What | ant loge 
ul de bain?" fun. How about | difference does | TING 21 my 
а drive-in?" that make?" 
Guys froma The all-male 
Nearby Wolford | Enough g nearby air base 


colleges— 
Hampden-Sydney 


= you happy. critically 
мерси understaffed. 
Certain things 
The weekends Я Southern hos. | Yourealiyhave | gre done; oth. | With so much 
on You can't trans, pitality is the eare WIR: ers are simply etiquette, who 
fer here- wins the Ken- ü 
Thursdays. only rule. SEES not. Use your needs rules? 
E judgment. 
н Out by mid 237hour visi ing ЧП Men don't spend | Visiting hours 
Саре night. Every si tation beats Be een 


in rooms past 


ver hasa | attackdogs at | midnighton k 
nine pm. Sorry. | уюын. Lore Mere inmostcases. | weekends. 
Converse is a WO UAE Age TB Tor beer |. з 
nons EN ES er 
on campus anyone's stand: | Seems to care. | dorms iue 
Such Roanoke) d A ec. ETEEN I|Thetweet 
The Downtowner | тһе New Wave | Barsas Max, Lexington club | рер poncing ar | Briar campus is 
io is the bar in and Boban called the Cir- ce 3400 acres— 
are popular town. She Coltan pat cus Disco B Da. = lenty of room 
Pars. are also worth | 545 Di onnie an en 
checking out. Clyde's 
3 4 4 2 2 4 


PLAYBOY’S GUIDE TO GIRLS 


BRYN MAWR CEDAR CREST | GOUCHER MARYMOUNT MOUNT ROSEMONT 
COLLEGE COLLEGE COLLEGE COLLEGE VERNON COLLEGE 
Bryn Mawr, Allentown, Towson, Tarrytown, COLLEGE Rosemont, 
Pennsylvania Pennsylvania Maryland New York Washington, D.C. | Pennsylvania 
1164 students 1132 students 540 students 850 students 500 students 600 students 
2 Career-oriented i i To study art 
To learnin an To live well, Social pres- Hi 
atmosphere ا‎ Шә take it easy hard-core tige—what does | MStoryina 
are a "prep- i pleasant, 
that’s uncor- = and get good prebusiness anybody go to 
rupted by men lo grades education college for? какас US 
success” phere 
Hard-core intel- | Highly moti р 
lectuals who vated women, Suburb: = Catholic girls Daughters of a Catholic girls 
study hard and cesser wig а | Who паме wide variety of | from moneyed 
consider them- EHE San accepted the foreign and East Coast 
selves “cussed | chairperson of E modern world domestic VIPs | families 
individualists" | Merrill Lynch | 
T She'll let Business suit, She'll be wear- Shehas Bar- Attractive, 
н нета! The Wall ing Calvi ron's G.M.A.T. Look for the well dressed, 
I be SECURE Street Journal, new fal or L.S.A.T. upturned usually in 
peser] briefcase, run- the day it hits prep book noses, tenniswear or 
p ning shoes the stores. always at hand. sports clothes 
FP 
Don't expect an The girls are (түзү Just when you Rosemonters 
open-arms always eager pats duras thought all New | They simply feel the need to 
to add new ar Yorkers were don't have compensate for 
closed fist is names to their | белди hostile and tobe. their neighbor 
more like it. Rolodex. DES cold... Bryn Mawr. 
= Frequent cam- 
Dorm parties Н ө Sunny after- 
every week- About once a peus partes Кс cr noon parties оп 
support the Sunday-after- é 
end. Nightly ‚month, in the make-up and noon pari the green; mix- 
coffeehouse student center ын patar ers the best bet 
B perfume each weekend E 
soirees Е К in winter 
industries. 
Pay with an Discreetiy men- " 
Visit near- ee АтЕх Gold tion the mul рчс о 
by Rosemont ر‎ Card and tell ness school national pelea a 
College. Бозо cutive | hershe'sreally | admissions corporation a 
5 3 not fat. counselor. eur dad TUR. lop down. 
“If 'm really “Iknowacozy | “I'm looking for | "There's more Ure 
> lace reminds 
nice, do you little board agirlto share to life than ES E “How about a 
promise you room where we | myfame an grades and "rete set of tennis?" 
won'thurtme?" | can be alone." wealth." board scores!” estate whore: 
grew up. 
Guys from i You пат Villanova, a 
Nearby Johns | Road-tripping , 
Surprisingly Kabine Hopkins med- rugby teams бәете пуу, peatbyicced 
ee Lafayette, E BE E UVA, the junior | school, thor- 
el Muhlenberg ne Glmasphese Senator from oughly enjoys 
and Allentown ЮП. Га ыы А. some Midwest- | its close ties 
colleges P ern state with Rosemont, 
Progressive Mount Vernon 
Rules would e Oaddy's curfew | andtolerant—a | girls have no Men are not 
sult thei ا‎ was enough. Be | rarity among need for rules. | allowed to stay 
individuality." | aissent serious! They're above | overnight. 
= such things. 
As we said, it's | Reservations ТЕ Бат A waiting list 
{+ iuys can sta ii 
not far from usually lem ee аз тозе for choice Sympathetic 
i 2 "m police 
Rosemont. required E rooms E 
Folks indulge— cr 
It’s there. But The 21-year-old | паноу can Carousers sin Not “legal,” but 
getting drunkis | drinking lawis afford the well accommo- БА he aged ee than a lew 
ү p er can: 
for kids. usually ignored. | calories. dated : Peene aed 
The student т f Smokey Joe's in 
tr centeris actu- аке your Try the barsin | The Third University City 
Hepburnwent | aly a popular spurs. Goucher | thearea'smalis. | Edition in is very popular 
7 чо Бгүп М. hangout. It's has stables and | New York Georgetown is Thursday, Friday 
* | worth checking | riding rings. is also near. apopularclub. | and Saturday 
3 out. nights. 
ING 3 4 3 3 3 


SCHOOLS from coast to coast, your best bets for continuing education 


VELLS PINE MANOR SMITH WELLESLEY WHEATON 

¡OLLEGE HOLYOKE COLLEGE COLLEGE COLLEGE COLLEGE 

\urora, South Hadley, Chestnut Northampton, Wellesley, Norton, 

lew York Massachusetts | Massachusetts | Massachusetts | Massachusetts | Massachusetts 

130 students 1850 students 530 students 2600 students 2200 students 1200 students 
To get a very Tolearnto A liberal-arts 

о study hi broad liberal It's a nice make as many To get the best program that 

Horner arts education | place, andit's allusions to education a leaves time for 

ee that bends over | real close to Bertolt Brecht women's cok the more impor- 

|o xe ani? backward tobe | Boston. as possible in lege can offer tant things in 

traditional one sentence one's life 


A potpourri of 
Smart women wealthy New 

Girls who really from all over England prep. 
the country; a 


Vell-bred East- 


"mers. Lots of Wealthy, East- 


would rather Dynamic, intel- | tn the words of 


ern types from ligent women 


¡rep school have gone to cross section the brochure, 
veterans Smith Goer) som ait ever these are 
“Women at 
Their Best.” 
they take thei Her day pack is | Look fora m" | The diversity of | МП 55е | sitting under a 
ield-hockey permanently Беш is k the student m g! ee > tree, smoking 
iticks to after- attached toher | Pook snd New body here Penguin a and reading A 
toon tea. shoulder. ene makes it hard. | fon’ Separate Peace 


these girls Most of the Lots of femi They rarely use 

lon't just want B They don't call | nists and les- the blue panic | Haven't met a 
tou to visit, At smith Lucky | itPine Mattress | bians. But it's buttons that disappointed 
hey want you at Smith. Lucky | for nothing. mighty cold in call campus visitor yet 

о come back. "үө December. security. 


Student-center 
parties Thurs- Weekend paı 
days and Satur- | ties in the di 


Student center 
has frequent 
concerts. 


'airly frequent 
the student 
:enter, Also try 


Thursday 
nights in the 
pub; weekends 


Bounteous 
dorm parties 


¡ome Cornel Always a dorm every weekend | days, elsewhere | ing hall 
rats. party At Fridays 
Low key. Recall 2: Pretend you're 
mona the Smith say- | Look like an Запа Әта | aHarvardiaw | wear some- 
peut c ing “Holyoke to | investment E nrc student. It'll thing with your 
ngatteas. Bad жен banker. party Tor CI family crest. 
ittrue, what | “Come to Bos. | “dofter to Den 
‘Have you read they say about | ton for a frat play Frisbee “1 don't go te ee 
rica Jong?" Holyoke at party... and instead, but I MIT, honest. seus 
Smith?" breakfast forgot mine.” ee: 


Halfway 

It's the women | GUYS from eae between 
„ots of guys themselves are rich, quick | With other men Boston and 
iver from the who do the aa forthe shower | Boston. Nota | Providence, 
Jig Red competing re in the morning big Чем. Wheaton 

к hand. 

Women need The gate guard | Parties with 
felts һә rites: are! istesty, butno | guestlists тау | Men must be “Selt-imposed.” 
Bl approval for rules once escorted in and | In other words, 
EIE, Кром, men to stay you're out of dorms. nonexistent 

Gr over. oncampus. 

Spacious Coed bath- Modern quad peu 
forms offer a rooms. 50/50 dorms are quite | gles; double ERT oom ends So mies 
riche to al singles/suites | comfortable. occupancy FC ram 
30-cent drafts Beer with proof Take an 1.0. Loosely Flows freely on Strict оп 1.0. 

of age (you that says enforced drink- (20 years) at 
wwailable to alt have tobe 20) | you're 20. ing age of 20 parties 


Mount Holyoke, | Pine Manor is in The coffee Wheaton, the 
Jutside nearby founded in The Preppy shop inthe stu- | ultimate New 
thaca, try a 1837, claims to Handbook, so ES dent center is England cam- 
sar called the be the oldest you know Ler iE open 24 hours a | pus, has a 
North Forty. women's it's got tobe кт day for tate- 

college. cool. | гате: night road trips. 


* 4 4 4 4 


“For a workaholic, you seem to be having a good time.” 


178 


THAT WAS THE YEAR THAT WAS 


3 


humor By TOM KOCH 


Michael's tour made quite a stir, 
But something deep inside us 
Balked at making wealthier 

А guy who's rich as Midas. 


A nation staggered from the blows— 
No pity or relief 

As Clara bombed us senseless with 
Her bellow, "Where's the beef?” 


The L.A. games were really great 
For shouting “U.S.A.!” 

We'll do as well in '88 

If Ivan stays away. 


Mondale named a running mate, 
His chances to enhance. 
Chauvinists just looked at Fritz 
And said, “Who wears the pants?” 


‘The jury for De Lorean 

Reviewed his choice of fates. 

And ruled that he’d be better making 
Cars than license plates. 


When Burford sought the comeback trail 
Opponents cried, “No chance!” 

So back to pasture Annie went 

(She'll share it with Bert Lance). 


Star Trek Ш: The Search for Spock 
Shook up the Milky Way. 

Now they're making Star Trek IV: 
The Search for Kirk's Toupee. 


Six months from wedding day to birth 
Was Caroline's creation. 

It seems a princess can repeal 

The laws that rule gestation. 


Though Johnny Carson's marriage woes John McEnroe toned down his act 
May leave his wallet flat, As tennis brat unbearable. 

‘The monologs he’s gained from them Now Lendl reigns as king of boors. 
Work out as tit for tat. All hail Ivan the Terrible! 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY BILL UTTERBACK 


tongue-in-cheek remembrances of sundry personalities and events that made news in 1984 


With Farrakhan in Jackson’s camp, 
One wondered who was boss. 

Was Louis Jesse's new guru 

Or just his albatross? 


Once, to hear her scream and kvetch, 
Our sex lives we forsook. 

But now it seems Joan Rivers has 
Become a babbling brook. 


McCartney, nabbed for smuggling pot, 
Drew just a yawn or two. 

It seemed to most that Paul should face 
A charge of déjà vu. 


In A we rolled the dice 

And learned our rights, to boot: 
The rights to life and liberty 
And Trivial Pursuit. 


Grace Jones and Annie Lennox led 
A wave of rhythm blenders 

о zoomed to fame primarily 
As benders of their genders. 


The dollar boomed, while overseas, 
Most money values sank. 

The pound was light, the mark grew faint, 
But mostly shrank the franc. 


The ratings made a new taboo 
Of blood and severed bones. 
But kids were still addicted to 
Their Indiana Jones. 


For half a mil did Nixon give 
His life a second look, 
Concluding. as he had before. 
That he is not a crook. 


Attention must be paid, we know, 
То Hoffman's Salesman's death, 
But we kept seeing Dustin 

Ina long red-thequined dreth. 


Ms. Bombeck wrote that raising kids 
Cen surely be the pits. 

Still, motherhood's the mother lode 
As Erm lives by her wits. 


ОГ Ron, that card, he made us laugh 
About his nuclear joke. 

Perhaps he'll give the button, too, 

A playful li 


Fuzzy wasn't fussy, was he? 
Fuzzy'd drink awhile. 
Fuzzy, buzzy, gulped and won the 
Open bya smile. 


‘There she was, our beauty queen. 
What cad could e’er demean her? 

‘The guy who sold the photos of 

Her Junior Miss demeanor. US 


PLAYBOY 


180 


COVE y page 154 


“He wanted to offer Teddy the pleasure of a woman 
without presenting it as a business transaction.” 


calling attention to himself. Isidro loved 
this guy. 

He kept his money—listen to this, 
Isidro told his wife—in a money belt made 
of blue cloth beneath his shirt. He would 
take money out of it only in the taxi, next 
to me, Isidro said. He goes into a shop and 
buys something for his mother, he returns 
to the taxi before he puts the change in his 
money belt. He trusts me, Isidro said. 
Isidro had lived in New York City nine 
years in a basement and was relieved to be 
back. His wife, who had never left Puerto 
Rico, didn’t say anything. 

The third day at the beach, the tourist 
went swimming. It was easy to find him in 
the ocean, the sun reflecting on the dark 
glasses he always wore. He splashed out 
there, cupping his hands and hitting the 
water. Man, he was whitc—holding his 
arms as though to protect himself or trying 
to hide his body as he came out of the 
water in his red trunks. It was interesting 
to see a body this white, to see veins 
clearly and the shape of bones. Isidro, 
originally from Loiza, where they made 
West African masks, was Negro and showed 
no trace of Taino or Hispanic blood. 

“It was when he came for his towel,” 
Isidro told his wife, “I saw the name on his 
arm, here.” He touched the curve of his 
arm below his right shoulder. “You know 
what name is on there? MR. MAGIC. It's 
black, black letters with a faint outline that 
I think was red at one time but now is pink 
and almost not there. My Mr. M 

His wife said, “Ве careful of him.” 

Isidro said, “He’s my prize. Look what 
he gives me,” and showed his wife several 
$20 bills. 

He didn't tell her everything; it was dif- 
ficult to talk with the washing machine 
and the television in the same room, and 
she didn’t seem interested. But that night, 
his wife said again, “Be careful of him.” 

. 

There were whores on Calle de la Tanca 
in Old San Juan, different places for any- 
one to notice. In Condado, the whores 
stood in front of La Concha, another 
empty hotel that had closed. But none had 
approached Teddy, because Isidro was 
with him, taking care of him, and the 
whores knew Isidro in his black Chevrolet 
taxi, He believed, from the way Teddy 
looked at the whores displaying them- 
selves, that his tourist desired one but was 
timid about saying it. So Isidro didn’t roll 
his eyes and ask, “How would you like 
some of that, 'ey?" He wanted to offer him 
the pleasure of a woman without present- 
ing it as a business transaction. He cared 


for his tourist, 

On that third day at the beach, he 
began to see a way he might do it. 

With his tourist wandering about taking 
pictures, Isidro had time to look at the 
girls and study them. They seemed to him 
girls who were lazy and yet restless, mov- 
ing idly even as they moved to the music of 
their radios. They seemed to be looking 
not for something to do but for something 
to happen, to entertain them. 

One in particular he believed he recog- 
nized and he searched his mind for a 
name. A girl who had come out of the 
Caribe Hilton late one night, tired, going 
home to Calle del Parque. She had given 
him her name and telephone number, say- 
ing, “But only men who stay at the Hilton, 
the Condado Beach, the DuPont Plaza and 
the Holiday Inn.” 

Lightbrown hair with that dark-gold 
skin, and what a body. It was her hair that 
helped him recognize her, the way it hung. 
down and nearly covered one of her eyes. 
She held the hair back with the tips of her 
fingers, like peeking out of a curtain, when 
she looked at somebody closely. As she did 
talking to the man with the cane. 

Iris Ruiz 

That was her name. He had phoned sev- 
eral times with customers but never 
reached her. Iris Ruiz. 

Talking to the man with the cane. 

He remembered now she had been with 
him yesterday and the day before. The 
man in the same aluminum chair, reading 
a book, the cane hooked to the back of the 
chair. The girl, Iris, kneeling in the sand to 
talk to him, earnest in what she was say- 
ing. The man looking up from his book to 
nod, to say something, a few words, 
though most of the time he seemed to read 
his book as he listened. 

His skin was dark from the sun. His hair 
and his beard, not cared for, though not 
unattractive, were dark enough for him to 
be Puerto Rican. An artist, perhaps, an 
actor, someone from the Institute of Cul- 
ture, a member of the party for independ- 
ence. But this was only his look, his type. 
Isidro knew, without having to hear him 
speak, the man was from the States. 

The man pushed up on the arms of his 
chair to rise. He was slender, a lean body 
in tan trousers that had been cut off to 
make shorts. No, he wasn’t Puerto Rican. 
The girl, Iris, took his arm, to be close 
rather than to support him. He limped 
somewhat, using the cane, favoring his 
right leg, but seemed near the end of his 
injury, whatever it was. He wasn’t a crip- 
ple. Something in the hip, Isidro believed. 


Sure, he was OK; he played with the cane 
more than he used it. He liked that cane. 
They approached a vendor who was sell- 
ing pineapples. 

Isidro waited a few moments, enjoying 
the sight of the girl’s buttocks as they 
walked past him, before following them to 
the cart, where the vendor was trimming a 
pineapple with quick strokes, handing 
them slices. Isidro saw the girl's eyes as 
she glanced at him and away, indifferent, 
without a sign of recognition. He heard the 
man—who wasn't Puerto Rican, it was 
proved now—say quietly: 

“People up there, you know what they 
do?” 

The girl, Iris, said, “Here we go again.” 

“They work their ass off all year.” The 
guy with the beard ate pineapple as he 
spoke, in no hurry. “Save their money so 
they can come down here for a week, take 
their clothes off. Now they have to hurry to 
get tan, so they can go back home and look 
healthy for a few days.” 

Iris said, “Vincent, I was born with a 
tan, I got a tan wherever I go. Wha’s that? 
I want to be where people are, where they 
doing things, not where they go to for a 
week.” They were walking away, Iris say- 
ing, “Miami Beach is OK, tha’s where you 
work. I think I like Miami Beach fine.” 

Isidro followed them to the edge of the 
sand. 

“But you never tell me nothing, what 
you think. Listen, I got an offer right now, 
Vincent. A man I know owns a hotel, two 
hotels, wants me to go to the States and 
work for him. Wear nice clothes, be with 
people in business——" 

"Doing what?" 

“Oh, now you want to know things.” 
The tourist was coming back with 
camera. Isidro walked over to the ta: 

wait, ready to smile. 

Before returning to the DuPont Plaza, 
they stopped at the Fast Foto place on 
Ashford Avenuc—perfect—where the 
tourist left his rolls of film overnight. Per- 
fect, because now they drove past La 
Concha, where a couple of afternoon 
whores who could be college girls in shiny 
pants, blonde hair like gringas, stood by 
the street. 

“Oh, my,” Isidro said. “Is OK to look 
at them, but if a man wish to have a 
woman, he has to be careful, Know the 
Ones are safe so you can avoid disease.” 

The tourist said, “I imagine you know 
some, ‘ey? Being a cabdriver.” 

“All kinds,” Isidro said. 

“I don’t go for hookers,” the tourist 
said. “I don't want any part of em.” 

“No, of course not. These girls you pay 
and then you do it. There are other girls, 
you don’t pay them, but you leave a gift.” 

“What kind of gift?” 

“Well, you could leave money, is OK.” 

“Then what's the difference?” 

“One is payment,” Isidro said. “The 

(continued on page 264) 


to 


PLAYBOYS PLAYMAIE 
REVIEW 


a roundup of the past delightful dozen 


IF YOU ARE one of those connoisseurs who recall 
each year of centerfolds as a vintner recalls his vin- 
tages, we think you will agree that this was a very 
good year. If you’ve forgotten just how good it was, 
this roundup of the 1984 Playmates will remind 
you. Not only does it have bite and edge, it has, in 
the jargon of winetasters, both body and depth. 
We recommend that you sip—ah, read—slowly. 


E 


Miss April 


Lesa Ann Pedriana 
(left) has started her 
own firm of make-up 
artists and bought a 
new car since appear- 
ing in pLavsoy last April. 
She has also purchased 
two ferrets, named Fink 
and Taxi, and plans to 
train them for the mov- 
ies. How many casting 
calls are there for fer- 
rets, Lesa? “Not many, 
but when one comes 
up, I'll definitely have 
the best-trained fer- 
rets in Hollywood." 


Miss November 


You may have seen Ro- 
berta Vasquez (right) on 
the TV series People Do 
the Craziest Things, 
walking up to strangers 
in the men's-underwear 
section of a department 
store and requesting 
that they try on a pair of 
shorts she had suppos- 
edly bought for her 
"boyfriend." Not sur- 
prisingly, not a single 
man refused to comply. 
Never underestimate the 
power of a Playmate. 


Miss February 


Since her centerfold 
appearance last year, 
Justine Greiner (left) 
has visited Hawaii, 
where she tried scuba 
diving for the first time. 
“It was kind of scary 
getting the hang of the 
breathing techniques," 
she reported. Justine 
still works at a large 
retail store in Beverly 
Hills (sorry, we can't 
tel! you which one) and 
hopes to become a 
buyer in a few years. 


Miss August 


Suzi Schott tells us she has been “busier than ever in my life” 
making promotional appearances for PLAyBov. She has also posed 
for a retailer of exercise equipment (making the equipment 
look very good, by the way). She's taking acting classes and, 
says the ex-secretary, she’s “never going back” to a typewriter. 


Miss September 


im Evenson posed for pLavsoy’s September issue, she’s had 
a role in the third Porky’s movie, Porky’s Revenge. (She plays a 
Swedish exchange student who drives Pee Wee crazy.) She has also 
started body building: “I’ve lost a few pounds and my body's 
getting better and better.” Stretches the imagination, doesn't it? 


Miss October 


When we caught up 
with fast-moving Debi 
Johnson (right), she 
had just returned from 
a week-long trip to Cal- 
рагу and was on her way 
to Houston, where she 
and Miss January 1982, 
Kimberly McArthur, 
were scheduled to 
judges in the Great Amel 
ican Strip-Off. Says Debi, 
“Being a Playmate 
is more fun than 1 
expected, and my expec- 
tations were sky-high.” 


Miss March 


Dona Speir (left) spent 
last summer in Europe, 
but now she’s back in 
the States, taking a 
course in floral design 
(she wants to open her 
own flower shop). She 
appeared in last Octo- 
ber's Cosmopolitan and 
had a part in a Matt 
Houston TV-series epi- 
sode. She also bought 
herself a new Porsche 
but confesses that 
roller skates are still 
her favorite wheels. 


Miss June 


Tricia Lange (right) has 
appeared in segments 
of TV's Mike Hammer 
and Blue Thunder. She 
also has a part in a new 
movie, Johnny Danger- 
ously, starring Michael 
Keaton. She's the 
poster girl for Bohemia 
Beer ("1 get all the free 
beer | want") and, as if 
that weren't enough 
success, she has a 
new boyfriend, Carlos 
Cavazo, [i 

the band Quiet Riot. 


Miss December 


At the time we reached Karen Velez (above), she had just been 
released from the hospital after an emergency appendectomy but 
expected to be up and around soon. Before that, she had been busy 
making promotional appearances for PLavBov in Canada and Con- 
necticut—" love Hartford." We're sure Hartford loves Karen. 


Miss July 


Liz Stewart (above) has a new West Hollywood apartment, which 
doubles as her photo studio. She assisted (and interpreted for) 
PLAYBOY Associate Staff Photographer Kerry Morris on assignment to 
photograph our Mexican edition's first native-born Playmate, 
Elizabeth Aguilar. As you'll recall, Liz speaks fluent Spanish. 


Miss January 


Our 30th Anniversary 
sweetheart, Penny Bak- 
er (left), has moved to 
California, is studying 
acting and has already 
appeared in an episode 
of TV's Benson. She 
guested on Family Feud 
and has appeared in 
commercials for Honda 
and Ford, too. She’s 
also enrolled at UCLA, 
where she's taking 
classes in government 
and philosophy. Her 
life's a Plato cherries. 


Miss May 


Patty Duffek (right) 
still—believe it or not— 
fills in part time at Pio- 
neer Chicken Take-Out 
in Phoenix, where she 
was working when we 
discovered her. “Cus- 
tomers come in and 
say, ‘Are you really 
that Playmate?'" she 
reports, which explains 
why business is boom- 
ing. Patty plans to re- 
turn to college next fall 
to get a degree in bus- 
iness administration. 


PLAYBOY 


FREAKS (continued from page 151) 


“The American ideal, then, of sexuality appears to be 
rooted in the American ideal of masculinity.” 


other; this relentless tension is one of the 
keys to human history and to what is 
known as the human condition. 

Now, 1 can speak only of the Western 
world and must rely on my own experi- 
єпсє, but the simple truth of this universal 
duality, this perpetual possibility of com- 
munion and completion, seems so alarm- 
ing that I have watched it lead to addiction, 
despair, death and madness. Nowhere 
have I seen this panic more vividly than in 
my country and in my generation. 

The American idea of sexuality appears 
to be rooted in the American idea of mas- 
culinity. Idea may not be the precise word, 
for the idea of one’s sexuality can only with 
great violence be divorced or distanced 
from the idea of the self. Yet something 
resembling this rupture has certainly 
occurred (and is occurring) in American 
life, and violence has been the American 
daily bread since we have heard of Amer- 
ica. This violence, furthermore, is not 
merely literal and actual but appears to be 
admired and lusted after, and the key to 
the American imagination. 

All countries or groups make of their tri- 
als a legend or, as in the case of Europe, a 
dubious romance called “history.” But no 
other country has ever made so successful 
and glamorous a romance out of genocide 
and slavery; therefore, perhaps the word I 
am searching for is not idea but ideal. 

The American ideal, then, of sexuality 
appears to be rooted in the American ideal 
of masculinity. This ideal has created cow- 
boys and Indians, good guys and bad 
guys, punks and studs, tough guys and 
softies, butch and faggot, black and white. 
It is an ideal so paralytically infantile that 
it is virtually forbidden—as an unpatriotic 
act—that the American boy evolve into 
the complexity of manhood. 

The exigencies created by the triumph 
of the Industrial Revolution—or, in other 
terms, the rise of Europe to global 
dominance—had, among many mighty 
effects, that of commercializing the roles of 
men and women. Men became the propa- 
gators, or perpetrators, of property, and 
women became the means by which that 
property was protected and handed down. 
One may say that this was nothing more 
than the ancient and universal division of 
labor—women nurtured the tribe, men 
battled for it—but the concept of property 
had undergone a change. This change was 
vast and deep and sinister. 

For the first time in human history, a 
man was reduced not merely to a thing but 
to a thing the value of which was deter- 


mined, absolutely, by that thing’s com- 
mercial value. That this pragmatic 
principle dictated the slaughter of the 
native American, the enslavement of the 
black and the monumental rape of 
Africa—to say nothing of creating the 
wealth of the Western world—no one, I 
suppose, will now attempt to deny. 

But this principle also raped and 
starved Ireland, for example, as well as 
Latin America, and it controlled the pens 
of the men who signed the Declaration of 
Independence—a document more clearly 
commercial than moral. This is how, and 
why, the American Constitution was able 
to define the slave as three fifths of a man, 
from which legal and commercial defini- 
tion it legally followed that a black man 
“had no rights a white man was bound to 
respect.” 

Ancient maps of the world—when the 
world was flat—inform us, concerning 
that void where America was waiting to be 
discovered, HERE BE DRAGONS. Dragons may 
not have been here then, but they are cer- 
tainly here now, breathing fire, belching 
smoke; or, to be less literary and Biblical 
about it, attempting to intimidate the 
mores, morals and morality of this particu- 
lar and peculiar time and place. Nor, since 
this country is the issue of the entire globe 
and is also the most powerful nation cur- 
rently to be found on it, are we speaking 
only of this time and place. And it can be 
said that the monumental struggles being 
waged in our time and not only in this 
place resemble, in awesome ways, the 
ancient struggle between those who 
insisted that the world was flat and those 
who apprehended that it was round. 

Of course, I cannot possibly imagine 
what it can be like to have both male and 
female sexual equipment. That's a load of 
family jewels to be hauling about, and it 
stems to me that it must make choice 
incessant or impossible—or, in terms 
unavailable to me, unnecessary. Yet, not to 
be frivolous concerning what I know I 
cannot—or, more probably, dare not— 
imagine, I hazard that the physically 
androgynous state must create an all-but- 
intolerable loncliness, since we all exist, 
after all, and crucially, in the eye of the 
beholder. We all react to and, to whatever 
extent, become what that eye sees. This 
judgment begins in the eyes of one’s par- 
ents (the crucial, the definitive, the all- 
but-everlasting judgment), and so we 
move, in the vast and claustrophobic gal- 
lery of Others, on up or down the line, to 


the eye of one’s enemy or one’s friend or 
one’s lover. 

It is virtually impossible to trust one’s 
human value without the collaboration or 
corroboration of that eye—which is to say 
that no one can live without it. One can, of 
course, instruct that eye as to what to see, 
but this effort, which is nothing less than 
ruthless intimidation, wounding and 
exhausting: While it can keep humil 
at bay, it confirms the fact that humil 
tion is the central danger of one’s life. And 
since one cannot risk love without risking 
humiliation, love becomes impossible. 

. 

I hit the streets when I was about six or 
seven, like most black kids ol my genera- 
tion, running errands, doing odd jobs. 
This was in the black world—my turf— 
which means that I felt protected. 1 think 
that I really was, though poverty is pov- 
erty and we were, if 1 may say so, among 
the truly needy, in spite of the tins of 
corned beef we got from home relief every 
week, along with prunes. (Catsup had not 
yet become a vegetable; indeed, 1 don’t 
think we had ever heard of it.) My mother 
fried corned beef, she boiled it, she baked 
it, she put potatoes in it, she put rice in it, 
she disguised it in corn bread, she boiled it 
in soup(!), she wrapped it in cloth, she 
beat it with a hammer, she banged it 
against the wall, she threw it onto the ceil- 
ing. Finally, she gave up, for nothing could 
make us cat it anymore, and the tins 
reproachfully piled up on the shelf above 
the bathtub—along with the prunes, 
which we also couldn’t eat anymore. 
While I won't speak for my brothers and 
sisters, 1 can't bear corned-beef hash or 
prunes even today. 

Poverty. I remember one afternoon 
when someone dropped a dime in front of 
the subway station at 125th Street and 
Lenox Avenue and I and a man of about 
40 both scrambled for it. The man won, 
giving me a cheerful goodbye as he saun- 
tered down the subway steps. 1 was bit- 
terly disappointed, a dime being a dime, 
but I laughed, too. 

The truly needy. Once, my father gave 
me a dime—the last dime in the house, 
though I didn't know that—to go to the 
store for kerosene for the stove, and I fell 
on the icy streets and dropped the dime 
and lost it, My father beat me with an iron 
cord from the kitchen to the back room 
and back again, until I lay, half-conscious, 
оп my belly on the floor. 

Yet—strange though it is to realize this, 
looking back—I never felt threatened in 
those years, when I was growing up in 
Harlem, my home town. I think this may 
be because it was familiar; the white pco- 
ple who lived there then were as poor as 
we, and there was no TV sctting our tecth 
оп edge with exhortations to buy what we 
could never hope to afford. 

(continued on page 256) 


“But Mr. Fullerton, how will you be able to give 
dictation if I’m sitting on your face?” 


To send a gift of Courvoisier call: 1-800-238-4373. Void where prohibited by law. 


„and to all, the greatcognae. © 


COURVOISIER 
SONO 


196 


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DOCTOR KINKY, You RE ZU BUT 1 HAVE To ADMIT OS 
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TH’ ONLY Ме BUNS 
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HOSE UP ' T' FIFTY AN 
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THET'S TH’ FIRST 
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SENTLEMANIS 
ORGAN REECITIN’ 
POETRY. 


197 


198 


WITH. 
IMMER: 


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Twas THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS, 
A NIGHT FILLED WITH MOANS... 


Р TEN NAKED WOMEN 


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BAD GIRLS-NOT GOOD- BUT OUR HEROES DON'T MIND, 


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= KISSIN... LOVE MAKES, 
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HELLO, ACME EMPLOYMENT 
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HIRE A FRENCH AD PAIR 
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PLAYBOY 


200 


REMEMBER THIS (continued from page 122) 


“РИ make it easier for you.’ He walks toward her. 


“Со ahead and shoot. You'll be doing me a favor. 


ووو 


bare, his tuxedo jacket is snowy white— 
that’s not important. What matters is that 
by such a reply, a kind of destiny is being 
fulfilled. Sam has a song about it. “I told 
you this morning you’d come around,” he 
says, curling his lips as if to advertise his 
appetite for punishment, “but this is a lit- 
Че ahead of schedule.” She faces him 
squarely, broad-shouldered and narrow- 
hipped, a sash around her waist like a gun 
belt, something shiny in her tensed left 
hand. He raises both of his own, as if to 
show they are empty: “Well, won't you sit 
down?” 

His offer, whether in mockery or no, 
releases her. Her shoulders dip in relief, 
her breasts, she sweeps forward (it is only 
a small purse she is carrying: a tooth- 
brush, perhaps, cosmetics, her hotel key), 
her face softening: “Richard!” He starts 
back in alarm, hands moving to his hips. 
“I had to see you!” 

“So you use Richard again!” His snarl- 
ing retreat throws up a barrier between 
them, She stops. He pushes his hands into 
his pockets as though to reach for the right 
riposte: *We're back in Paris!” 

That probably wasn't it. Their song 
seems to be leaking into the room from 
somewhere out in the night, or perhaps it 
has been there all the time—Sam maybe, 
down in the darkened bar, sending out soft 
percussive warnings in the manner of his 
African race: “Think twice, boss. Hearts 
fulla passion, you Cn rely. Jealousy, boss, 
an’ hate. Le’s go fishin’, Sam.” 

“Please?” she begs, staring at him 
intently, but he remains unmoved: 

“Your unexpected visit isn’t connected, 
by any chance, with the letters of transit?” 
He ducks his head, his upper lip swelling 
with bitterness and hurt. “It seems as long 
as І have those letters, I'll never be lonely.” 

Yet, necdless to say, he will always be 
lonely—in fact, this is the confession 
(“You can ask any price you want,” she is 
saying) only half concealed in his muttered 
subjoinder: Rick Blaine is a loner, born 
and bred. Pity him. There is this lingering, 
almost primal image of him sitting alone at 
a chessboard in his white tuxedo, smoking 
contemplatively in the midst of a raucous, 
conniving crowd, a crowd he has himself 
assembled about him: He taps a pawn, 
moves a white knight, fondles a tall black 
queen while a sardonic smile plays on his 
lips. He sccms to be toying, sel 
mockingly, with Fate itself, as disinter- 
ested in Rick Blaine (never mind that he 
says—as he does now, turning away from 
her—that “I'm the only cause I'm inter- 
ested in ”) as in the rest of the world— 
it’s all shit, so who cares? 

Ilsa is staring off into space, a space that 


а moment ago Rick filled. She seems to be 
thinking something out. The negotiations 
are going badly; perhaps it is this she is 
worried about. He has just refused her 
offer of “any price,” ignored her ultima- 
tum (“You must gif me those letters!”), 
sneered at her husband’s heroism and 
scoffed at the very cause that first brought 
them together in Paris. How could he do 
that? And now he has abruptly turned his 
back on her (does he think it was just sex? 
What has happened to him since then?) 
and walked away toward the balcony door, 
meaning, apparently, to turn her out. She 
takes a deep breath, presses her lips 
together and, clutching her tiny purse with 
both hands, whcels about to pursue him: 
“Richard!” This has worked before, it 
works again; he turns to face her new 
approach: “We lulled each other 
once. . . .” Her voice catches in her throat, 
tears come to her eyes. She is beautiful 
‘there in the slatted shadows, her hair loos- 
ening around her ears, eyes glittering, 
throat bare and vulnerable in the open 
V-neck of her rufficd blouse. She's a good 
dresser. Even that little purse she 
squeezes: so like the other one, so lovely, 
hidden away. She shakes her head 
slightly in wistful appeal: “If those days 
meant . . . anything at all to you. . . ." 

“I wouldn't bring up Paris if I were 
you,” he says stonily. “It’s poor salesman- 
ship.” 

She gasps (she didn’t bring it up: Is he a 
madman?), tosses her head back: “Please! 
Please listen to me!” She closes her eyes, 
her lower lip pushed forward as though 
bruised. “If you knew what really hap- 
pened; if you only knew the truth!” 

He stands over this display, as impas- 
sive as a Moorish executioner (That's it! 
He's turning into one of these bloody 
Arabs, she thinks). “I wouldn't believe 
you, no matter what you told mc,” he says. 
In Ethiopia, after an attempt on the life of 
an Italian officer, he saw 1600 Ethiopians 
get rounded up one night and shot in 
reprisal. Many were friends of his—or cli- 
ents, anyway. But somehow her deceit is 
worse. “You'd say anything now to get 
what you want.” Again he turns his back 
on her, strides away. 

She stares at him in shocked silence, as 
though all that had happened 18 months 
ago in Paris were flashing suddenly before 
her eyes, now made ugly by some terrible 
revelation. An exaggerated gasp escapes 
her like the breaking of wind: His head 
snaps up and he turns sharply to the right. 
She chases him, dogging his heels. “You 
want to feel sorry for yourself, don't you?" 
she cries and, surprised (he was just reach- 
ing for something on an ornamental table; 


the humidor, perhaps), he turns back to 
her. “With so much at stake, all you can 
think off is your own fecling,” she rails. 
Her lips are drawn back, her breathing 
labored, her eyes watering in anger and 
frustration. “One woman has hurt you, 
and you take your reffenge on the rest off. 
the world!” She is choking; she can hardly 
speak. Her accent scems to have gotten 
worse. “You’re a coward und veakling 
und” 

She gasps. What is she saying? He 
watches her as though faintly amused. 
“No. Oh, Richard, I’m sorry!” Tears are 
flowing in earnest now: She’s gone too far! 
This is the expression on her face. She's in 
a corner, struggling to get out. “I’m sorry, 
but you- * She wipes the tears from her 
cheek and calls once again on her hus- 
band, that great and courageous man they 
both admire, whom the whole world 
admires: “You are our last hope! If you 
don’t help us, Victor Laszlo will die in 
Casablanca!” 

“What of it?” he says. He has been wait- 
ing for this opportunity. He plays with it 
now, stretching it out. He turns, reaches 
for a cigarette, his head haloed in the light 
from an arched doorway. “I’m gonna die 
in Casablanca. It's a good spot for it.” 
This line is meant to be amusing, but Ilsa 
reacts with horror. Her eyes widen. She 
catches her breath, turns away. He lights 
up, pleased with himself, takes a practiced 
drag, blows smoke. “Now,” he says, turn- 
ing toward her, “il you” 

He pulls up short, squints: She has 
drawn a revolver on him. So much for 
toothbrushes and hotel keys. “All right. I 
tried to reason with you. I tried effrything. 
Now I want those letters.” Distantly, a 
melodic line suggests a fight for love and 
glory, an ironic case of do or die. “Get 
them for me.” 

“I don't have to.” He touches his jacket. 
“I got "em right here.” 

“Put them on the table.” 

He smiles and shakes head. “No.” 
Smoke curls up from the cigarette he is 
holding at his side, like the steam that 
enveloped the five-o'clock train to 
Marseilles. Her eyes fill with tears. Even 
as she presses on (“For the last 
time . . . P’), she knows that no is final. 
There is, behind his ironic smile, a pro- 
found sadness, the fatalistic survivor's 
wistful acknowledgment that, in the end, 
the fundamental things apply. Time, going 
by, leaves nothing behind, not even 
moments like this. “If Laszlo and the 
cause mean so much to you,” he says, 
taunting her with her own uncertainties, 
“you won't stop at anything. . . .” 

He seems almost to recede. The ciga- 
rette disappears, the smoke. His sorrow 
gives way to something not unlike cager- 
ness. “All right, I'll make it easier for 
you,” he says and walks toward her. “Go 
ahead and shoot. You'll be doing me a 
favor.” 

She seems taken aback, her eyes damp, 

(continued on page 241) 


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o f 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


PREVIEW 


E stor sending us those silly sil- 
ns. While you're at it, you 
can keep the belly dancers with the 
ing telegrams and the dogs on roller 
skates. The same goes for Carlton the 
clown and Marvin the magician. 

Something has happened to parties over 
the past few years, something not so won- 
derful. The business of entertaining has 
become just that—a big business. Just 
look in the Yellow Pages. You can now 
quite easily rent home disco lights and for- 
tunctellers, break dancers and hot-dog 
vendors, In fact, you can rent just about 
anything now—anything but imagination. 

Let this not be scen as harking back to 
the “good old days," where clouded mem- 
ories far outstrip reality, It would seem 
pushy now to find fabulously fond memo- 
s of the tie-dyed Six- 
ties and the screaming Seventies, To many 
of us, fun back then was sitting around a 
Lava-Lite with a bow! of onion dip, a bag 
of Ruflles with ridges and a big bottle of 
Boone's Farm apple wine. 

There were, though, two fast rules that 
we learned from those early days of enter- 
tail 


L Never play more th: 
Las album a night; and 
2. Keep it simple. 
Somchow, right about the time that we 
traded our T-shirts for sports jackets, part 
two seemed to get away from some of us. 
Maybe it happened when we started to 
make a few dollars. Perhaps our preten- 
sions grew with our incomes. Some of us 
just felt the need to go crazy and rent 
clowns. No party would be done until we'd 
outdone the one before, And, we must 
admit, the media were partly to blame for 
this. Many magazines felt obliged, come 
holiday time, to give you a complete guide 
to borrowed belly dancers and to tell you 


n one Shangri- 


PLAYBOY GUIDE COVER PHOTOGRAPHY 
ВУ RICHARO FEGLEY 


which gourmet shops sold the hippest, 
most obscure brand of caviar. 

Well, we're here to make up for all that. 

Look, were certainly not saying you 
shouldn't cat fancy caviar if you enjoy i 
The point is, don't buy it just because you 
think it’s the thing to do. That seems 
ple enough. And thats the focus of this 
Guide. 
We think you'll find our party scenes 
nd our ideas for e shingly 
traditional, We think it's time to take away 
all the bogus tinsel and once again revel in 
the simple values and virtues of life The 
thought is that successful entertaining is 
not a function of a particular gimmick or 
of how much you spend. It's just a matter 
of having fun in an unpretentious way— 
the simple pleasures. 

You know—not being concerned with 
who “should be” at your party but sur- 
rounding yourself with good friends. 10% 
flying in the face of music videos and gath- 
ering around an old jukebox and danc- 
ing to slow songs. It’s making your own 
cream sundaes instead of having 
caterer come in with plates of chocolate- 
mousse cake swimming in raspberry 
sauce. It’s drinking champagne because 
you still like the feel of the bubbles. It’s not 
trying to impress anyone 


ic 


just being com- 


fortable with who you are and what you've 
become. 

Clearly, being yourself is the best way to 
feel at ease. And when you're relaxed, 
your guests will feel at home and the party 
will reflect it. That's truc whether you're 
entertaining your small circle of close 
friends or the whole gang trom the office. 

Our studies show us that you, our typi- 
cal reader, entertain at home on the aver- 
age of 17 times a year. And with that sort 
of lust for the good life, you can't afford to 
be anything but relaxed. 

To help you focus more clearly, we went 
out and bought a lot of champagne, dusted 
olf the oldies, invited some friends over 
and threw ourselves a real holiday bash. 
Ah, what we won't do for research! 

In addition to our morc visual tips, we 
‚offer the written advice of food-and-drink 
expert Emanuel Greenberg, who'll tell you 
how to be the perfect host, and humorist 
P. J. O'Rourke, who'll tell you how to be 
the almost perfect guest. And now, let's 
get this party going. Cheers! 


Maury levy 


Editor, Playboy Guides 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


CHEERS! 


a holiday handbook of 


entertaining ideas 


THECHAMPAGNESIn the bucket, Dick Clark's 
in Times Square, and that can mean only 
one thing—we've made it through another 
year. That's reason enough for us to cele- 
brate. And if you don’t mind a little con- 
fetti in your hair, we'd like you to join us. 

We've gone a bit elegant this year, but 
it’s a rather simple elegance. To properly 
carry off а party at home, you want the 
mix of the guests and the good times to set 
the mood. We decided to dress our party 
up a notch. You may want to try that for a 
change. Just for the pure fun of it, wear 
your most dazzling attire. No need to deck 
the halls. This way, the people create the 
sparkle 

We've also brought out some of our bet- 
ter serving pieces for food and drink. But 
we've made sure to kecp the menu simple 
While we feature punch and champagne. 
you'll want to keep some serious bottles 
around for your two-fisted frien 
Foodwise, caviar and crudités are fine, but 
we'd rather hold out for a decadent des- 
sert. Our main course is fun for every- 
one—do-it-yourself sundaes. First we 
make the ice cream; then we build the 
frigid feast. But that means cooperation 
You have to shar 

We've also kept the entertainment basic 
No need to renta chamber ensemble when 
some memorable sing-alongs around the 
piano will do. If you don’t have the ivo- 
ries to tickle, don't despair. A properly 
programmed tape can easily carry the eve- 
ning 

And while the good times roll, why not 
seize the moment? You remember how 
much fun it was to watch old home mov- 
ies. Well, thanks to the new one-piece 

amcorders, video has become just as easy 
to use, with results that are instant. All the 
more reason to make this one a party to 
remember. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY RICHARD FEGLEY AND DON AZUMA 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


A gentleman's bor, not unlike his clathes and his car, is often seen os a mirror of his personal style. 
His drinks shauld be mixed with соге and presented with panache. Our elegantly equipped bor 

cludes, fram left to right, swag-design crystal decanter from Tiffany's, $195; two lecd-crystol 
cagnec srifters with etched design, $95, and a matching square decanter in heavy-weight crystal, 
$230, all fram Mark Cross; a three-piece bor-taal set with a 22-kt.-gold-ploted bottle-ond-con 
арепег, с cheese-ond-fruit knife and ice tangs set an a hand-polished marble bose, by Georges 
Briard Designs, Inc., $25. For sparkling service, Boccorat champagne glosses, $70 each, and а 
Vol St. Lambert crystal champagne bucket, $600, both from Tiffany's; ond о crystal punch-bawl 
set, by Riekes, $100. For this party, champagne ond potent punches best copture holiday cheer. 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


It's time for dessert, ond we've brought out all the trimmings. At left, the Krups Espresso Plus 
espresso/cappuccino moker in brushed stainless steel, $400, provides the brew for china espresso 
cups, from Tiffony's, $33 for set of four. To indulge o sweet tooth, we've set up Simac's Il Gelataio 
800 homemode-ice-cream mochine, $250. And for sumptuous serving, a hand-blown crystol 
bowl, by Minex, $17, and rippled-glass dessert dishes, $2.50 each, both from Crote and Barrel, 
Chicago; and for the reol scoop. a china-ond-bross ice-cream server, from Top Brass, Chicago, 
$12. Below: Once fortified, the gang gathers oround the piano for a holiday sing-along. 
Bottom: To copture some lasting impressions of the holiday festivities, our hosts have put a 
charge in their Zenith Video Movie, $1499, о low-light comero thot does double duty as о VCR. 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


It’s long past the midnight hour, and 
the celebration is starting to wind down 
Тез a time to be together with that special 
someone. It’s a time for quiet reflection, a 
time for romance. The mood is easily 
helped along by the music. As you 
unwind, it’s time to put the Def Leppard 
albums back into thcir sleeves and to bring 
the pace of this party, not to mention the 
decibel level, lower and slower. 

Its all a matter of getting the right 
background music going. The best way is 
to preprogram a tape. The last thing you'll 
feel like doing as the party nears an end is 
getting up every three minutes to change a 
record. Put together your own play list of 
favorites, songs that allow you to embrace 
a special moment and cach other. There 
are the obvious ones (Yesterday, the 
Beatles), the newer ones (We've Got 
Tonight, Bob Seger) and, maybe best of all, 
the old ones (In the Still of the Night, The 
Five Satins; Tears on My Pillow, Little 
Anthony and the Imperials; Tonite, Tonite, 
The Mello-Kings; Ten Commandments of 
Love, the Moonglows). And if you're play 
ing host, the end of the play list may just 
be the beginning of your own playtime. We 
shouldn’t have to give you any hints about 
that. Just leave a tender moment alone. 


MEN'S FASHION FROM STUART CHICAGO 


mi 
Se кой 
БА 

ty, Paci 


" 
IMPORTED ВҮВ-Р SPIRITS LID. LOUISVILLE, KY. u 
CANADIAN WHISKY CA BLEND, 80 PROOF © 1984 " “о AT GARIBALDI LAKE CANADA LIGHT, SMOOTH, MELLOW. 


Ы * ‘ 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


POWERFUL PUNCHES 


all the trimmings to make your bash a real knockout 


By EMANUEL and MADELINE GREENBERG 


HOLIDAY TIME—and it's your turn to play 
host. Tough brcak? By mo means! You 
can have as much fun as anybody else if 
you play it right. It does take careful plan- 
ning, with almost everything done ahead 
and a minimum of last-minute chores. The 
idea is for the festivities to virtually run 


themselves—under your watchful eve, of 
course. Suggestions that follow are a blue- 
print for 


relaxed hostmanship, with 
ility to allow for your own 
spontaneous touches. 


DETAILED DETAILS 


Even with sparkling company and sen- 
sational refreshments, a party can founder 
on such mundane matters as who answi 
the door, where coats are stashed and how 
the ongoing cleanup of empty glasses, used 
plates and ashtrays is handled. If you 
don’t have hired help, what are friends for? 
Enlist a few dependable buddies and 
divide the duties. The important thing is 
now who docs what when and who 
relieves whom. It's not a bad idea to keep 
a list. Portable coatracks (available from 
party-rental outfiis—check the Yellow 
Pages), placed in a corner away from the 
action, are useful; they beat tossing things 
onto the bed or jamming them into hall 
closets. If you don't have a large table, 
consider a board set on sawhorses and cov- 
ered with a colorful cloth. You can have 
the bar paraphernalia at one end, while 
the rest of the surface can be used for food, 
plates, cutlery and napkins. Depending on 
the size of your crowd and the available 
space, you may want two tables—one 
for food, one for beverages. It makes for 
better circulation and amiable encounters 


NO-FUSS FOOD 


Tyro partygivers are often caught up in 
the Jewish-mother syndrome—a compul- 
sion to put out one of everything in the 
world. It may seem the generous thing to 
do; but, in fact, it’s a trap. The amount of 
passing, refilling, agony of choice 
hostly hovering that it entails promotes 
confusion rather than hilarity. It's more 
sensible to provide a smaller assortment of 
substantial fare that guests can deal with 
comfortably—and that takes little replen- 
hing or rearranging as the evening wears 
on. Start with easy finger food—crudités, 
toasted almonds, roasted  chick-pcas, 
olives, pickled baby corn—and forget the 
drippy dips. Then move on to the main 
event. Offerings may include such entice- 
ments as whole ripe brie, a large wedge of 


fontina or a chunk of goat cheese, a hand- 
some terrine of paté, a side of smoked 
salmon or a salmon trout presliced and re- 


formed on its skin, a whole roast fillet of 


beef or a glazed baked ham—each bone- 
less and easy to slice. Complementary 
dishes, too, should be easy to handle, par- 
ticularly when plates have to rest on laps 
rather than tables. 

This kind of buffet can be done fairly 
simply at home, but if yowd rather not get 
that involved, everything is available from 
charcuteries, good delis or caterers. Just 
remember to place your order early and 
have it delivered in sufficient time. 


THE HOLIDAY BAR 


Serve your guests a welcoming drink as 
soon as they arrive. We suggest a holiday 
punch. Nothing symbolizes warmth and 
friendliness like a bottomless punch 
bowl-—and nothing does as much to sim- 
plify the bar setup. Punch in one form or 
another eliminates the need for mixing 
drinks one at a time and encourages peo- 
ple to help themselves. 

For ultrahospitality, stock a selection of 
standard spirits and compatible mixers. 
That will mollify the hard-liners who 
ist on their martini, shot over rocks or 
other personal favorites. 


en 


NCH 


on WITH P 
In the past, many have considered 
punches wishy-washy brews encountered 
at office parties and proms. Old sterco- 
types fall hard. Punches can be lusty, sat- 
isfying drinks—if they re made with good 
sense and style. Think of them simply as 
cocktails prepared in quantity and you'll 
be on the right track. The tips and res 
given below will guarantee punch with 
snap, savor and bracing impact. 

* Punch bowls don’t have to be fancy sil- 
ver or crystal jobs. Large mixing bowls or 
even big pots make serviccable substitutes, 
For a festive look, cover the outside with 
foil and decorate with holiday greenery. 

+ Punches should be prepared in ad- 
vance, so that the basic ingredients have a 
chance to "marry" and mellow, as well as 
chill. However, add carbonated bev- 
erages at the last minute, in order to pre- 
serve their effervescence. 

* Punch should be presented cold. After 
you've mixed the punch base, keep it 
refrigerated until ready to serve 

* A block of icc in the punch bowl is 
preferable to cubes, since it melts more 
slowly. That not only keeps the beverage 


es 


cold but also retards dilution. You can 
make ice blocks by freezing water in half- 
gallon milk cartons or loaf baking pans. 

* While fresh lemon or lime juice adds 
perceptible zest, other juices may he frozen 
aned, as long as they're good quality 

* When using fruit garnishes. spoon a 
bit of the fruit into cach portion 


or ci 


APPLE KNOCKERS PUNCH 
(25 servings) 


1 bottle (750 ml.) vodka 

1 quart apple j 

Juice of 1 large lemon 

У cup superfine sugar (or to taste) 

1 liter ginger ale, chilled 

1 lemon, cut in thin slices 

Combine vodka, apple and lemon 
juices. Add sugar and stir until dissolved: 
chill. At serving time, stir again and pour 
over ice block in punch bowl. Add chilled 
ginger ale; stir briefly. Float lemon sl 


єз. 


LOU BULLE SLUGGER 
(20-25 servings) 


1 half-size bottle (500 ml.) bourbon 
+ ozs. Southern Comtort 
1 can (6 ozs.) frozen-orange-jui 
centrate, half thawed 
1 can (6 ozs.) frozen-lemonade concen- 
trate. half thawed 
% cup water 
¡ce of 2 large lemons 
“Titer Seven-Up, chilled 
Half slices orange, lemon slices 
Combine bourbon, Southern Comfort, 
concentrates, nd lemon juice. Stir 
well; chill. At serving time, stir again and 
pour over ice block in punch bowl. Add 
chilled Seven-Up; stir briefly. Float orange 
ind lemon slices. 


гс con- 


water 


CAYMAN ISLANDS PETCHER PUNCH 
(20-25 servings) 


1 boule (750 ml.) light rum 

Large can (46 ozs.) tropical-Iruit punch 
Juice of 1 large lemon 

1 pint strawber 


es 
+ tablespoons superi 
Combine rum, tropical fruit punch and 
lemon juice. Stir well; chill, Wash and hull 
berries: sprinkle with sugar to taste and 
y time. empty а tray 
cubes into chilled 
2-quart. pitcher punch. mixture and 
pour half into pitcher; garnish with half 
the berries. When pitcher is depleted, 
repeat—using fresh ice cubes, 


of hard-frozen ice 


ROMAN PUNCH 
(20-25 servings) 


1 bottle (750 ml.) gin 
207 

1 quart 
iter leme 

Hall slices orange 


(concluded om page 220) 


rice cocktail 


215 


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PLAYBOY GUIDE 


PARTY MANNERS 


how to be the proper guest 


By P. J. O'ROURKE 


TO WAVE good manners at a party, you must 
understand what parties are all about. 
People do not give parties so their friends 
will have fun. [f that were what they 
wanted, they'd just send some women and 
champagne over to your house in a taxi 
and be done with it. Parties are given for 
other reasons. 'T'he three principal motives 
are to get noticed and talked about, to 
climb the social ladder and to repay debts 
of hospitality. Good etiquette requires that 
you help your host achieve those objectives. 

Repaying debts of hospitality is the most 
difficult thing to help with. You could kick 
in some money to help finance the bash, 
but that might seem pushy. Actually, 
there’s not a whole lot of subtle stuff you 
can do to make sure your host won’t have 
any more annoying debts of hospitality to 
pay in the future. Of course, you could 
always run a garden hose in the window 
and spray all the guests with freezing 
water. Poisoning the hors d'oeuvres is also 
a nice touch. 

Helping your host climb the social lad- 
der is easier and more fun. Go to the party 
late, dressed in black and wearing a mask. 
Grab your host around the neck and hold 
a pistol to his head. Yell, "I'm kidnaping 
‘Tom to finance the revolution!” That 
should establish the fact that your host 
is wealthy and someone to be reckoned 
with—assuming you release him alive. 

Do not take food or liquor to the party. 
This is rude. It will make the other guests 
think the host is broke. Instead, take 
nylons, a garter belt and a lacy bra with 
padding in the cups and say, “Hey, ‘Tom, 
you left a change of clothes over at my 
house.” Important people usually have 
sexual quirks. 

If your host has celebrities at his party, 
this, too, will show he’s important. Every- 
one knows movie stars aren't as attractive 
in person as they are on the screen. Put a 
ball gown on your Irish setter and tell 
everyone it's Sigourney Weaver. 

Another way to boost your host's status 
is with terrible drugs. Cool and hip-type 
people have lots of terrible drugs around 


all the time, at least according to the Bob 
Woodward book about John Belushi. 
Show how cool and hip your host is by 
calling the police. They'll raid the party 
and all the guests will be impressed. Also 
arrested. And this will definitely get your 
host noticed and talked about. 

In fact, getting a host noticed and talked 
about is where you, as a guest, can excel. 
‘The important thing is to make sure it's a 
good party. Good parties are always 
crowded, and there’s lots of sex and at 
least one good fight. It's hard to have a 
good party these days, since guests аге all 
behaving themselves and taking good care 
of their bodies, because they read that Bob 
Woodward book about John Belushi. Put 
grain alcohol in the white wine. 

People are more comfortable smashed. 


And etiquette is the art of making people 
comfortable, the art of making others feel 
at home. Try making your host feel at 
home by helping him get the party going. 

Be a good mixer, introduce yourself and 
start some lively conversations. Try these 
lines on the people you meet: 

"I didn't know Tupperware made 
sports coats.” 

“Want а job doing lawns?” 

“I think I porked your wife once.” Now 
drop an ice cube down a décolletage 

To really get the party going, however, 
you're going to have to do more than mix 
rum drinks in somebody's pocket and cat 
canapés out of the dog dish. To be sure the 
party’s crowded, run off 500 or 600 copies 
of the invitation on your office copier and 
leave stacks at the bus station, Then 


217 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


218 


run around the party i 
wear, hugging men and 
sweetie. If you're a woman, this may get 
some sexual activity going. If you aren't, it 
will get you punched. Just as well. Every 
good party needs someone passed out on 
the floor. 

Be sure to turn the sterco up as loud as it 
will go. This makes for a festive atmos- 
phere and keeps shit-faced guests happy, 
because they can’t hear the rude things 
they're saying to one another. Also, it will 
bring the police in case you forgot to call 
them. Put on hits from the Fifties and Six- 
Чез for people under 30. Use New Wave 
and break-dance-rap cuts for guests pre- 
tending to be that age. Put more grain 
alcohol in the wine if people won't dance. 

Be careful, however, about your own 


your under- 


alcohol consumption. If you really don't 
mind the cigarette butts in the beer bottle, 
you've probably had enough. Too much 
alcohol can cut down on sexual perform- 
ance. And your sexual performance is an 
important aspect of good party manners. 
"This is because male party guests always 
have a good time when they're with 
women who have sex appeal. You should 
show just how much sex appcal those wom- 
en have by making a pass at anyonc 
in a skirt, other than the Irish setter. The 
best place to do this is on a pile of coats in 
the guest room. But wait until the young 
women are in the state of mind to be most 
receptive to your advances. When they’ve 
passed out is usually good. 

There is something about a pile of coats 
in a guest room that makes women wild, 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY KEVIN POPE 


especially if there's a soft, flufly fur coat on 
top of the pile. Maybe it's women's love of 
danger. More likely it's their love of 
clothes. Go ahead, tell her the fur coat is a 
gift from you. 

The bathroom is another good place for 
sex. Indeed, a party’s not really happening 
unless there's a lot of sex action in the 
bathroom. Drug action, too. Get the ball 
rolling by locking yourself in the bathroom 
and maki moaning noises, Then lock 
yourself in the bathroom again and make 
ng sounds. Or you can lock other peo- 
ple in the bathroom. Ifyou lock 30 or 40 of 
them in there for three hours, they'll prob- 
ably start to moan and sniff on their own 

If the party's still not hopping, start 
some party games. You'll have to be clever 
about it, It’s hard to get guests to play 
party games. Most people think they're 
too sophisticated for such things. Organiz- 
ing a game of indoor polo with women as 
ponies, for instance, can be very difficult 
Pretend you've lost a contact lens in the 
shag carpet. While everyone's down on 
hands and knees, jump on some girl's 
back, use a fireplace poker as a mallet and 
yell "Giddyap," or whatever it is polo 
players yell. Any outdoor activity is always 
hilarious when attempted in the house. 
Fox hunting, for example. It's amazi 
how many places a fox can hide in an aver- 
age home. The best party games, though, 
involve people's taking their clothes off 
Strip Trivial Pursuit usually works. 

It's easiest to get games like this going if 
you can put the guests into a mood that's 
playful and childlike. People will feel much 
more childlike if you can arrange to have 
ging parents arrive just when 
the guests all have their clothes off. Grab 
Tom's mother, throw her onto a pile of 
coats in the guest room and shout, “It’s 
Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands and Pm 
her secret lover!" This increase your 
host’s social standing and will probably 
get the party talked about. 

If even this fails and you just can't think 
of anything to make the party a wonderful, 
pleasant event, try doing what I'm so often 
asked to do at parties—leave, 


\ 


Unique in all the world 
is the magic that love 
inspires. 


Korbel Champagne... 
lovingly created by the 
methode champenoise for 
more than one hundred 
years. 


F. Korbel 8 Bros., Guerneville, Sonoma " 
, 4 County, CA * Producers of fine California б 
e^ ld Champagnes. 


l ججح جج‎ 
Vemm, wh — n u on А 


PLAYBOY GUIDE 


PUNCHES 


Combine gin, Campari and cranberry- 
juice cocktail. Stir well; chill, At serving 
time, stir again and pour over ice block in 
punch bowl. Add chilled lemon soda: stir 
briefly. Float orange slices 


VERON GOLD 
(30 servings) 


1 bottle (750 ml.) Ca 
. apricot liqueur 
1 quart grapefruit juic 
% cup swectened li 
1 can (16 ozs.) apri 
1 liter club soda, 
Combine wh 


apricot liqueur, 
grapefruit and lime juices. Drain apricot 
halves; refrigerate fruit. Add apricot syrup 
to whisky mixture; stir and chill. At serv- 
time, stir and pour over ice block in 
punch bowl. Add chilled club soda: stir 
briefly. Garnish with apricot halves. 


COUNTRY EGGNOG 
(20 servings) 

6 eggs, separated 

% cup sugar 

12 ozs. brandy 

+ ozs. dark rum 

2 cups milk 

cups heavy cream 

Ground allspice 

In large bowl, beat egg yolks with Y 


ar until light yellow and very 

owly add brandy and rum, stir- 
ring. Stir in milk and cream. Chill very 
well. Shortly before serving, beat egg 


whites until foamy; 


very gradually 


stiff, Gently fold beaten egg whites into 
cgg-yolk ture. Dust lightly with allspi 


NORTHERN BLAZER 
(10 servings) 


piece stick cinnamon 

2 teaspoons whole cloves 

з teaspoon cardamom seeds, crushed 

Peel of Ys orang 

Ye cup r 

1% cups water 

1 boule (750 ml.) dry red wine 

У, cup superfine sugar (or to taste) 

В ozs, vodka 

Combine cloves, cardamom 

eds, orange peel and raisins with water 

in small saucepan. Heat to a boil; simmer 
low heat Y hou n the liquid 

o 2-10-2Y-quarı enameled or flame 


cin 


non. 


t glass pot. Add wine and sugars 
at, stirring until sugar dissolves and 
wine is hot but not boiling. Remove from 


so that 


heat. Gently pour on vod! 
оп top; ignite with long- 
When flames have burned o 
a punch cups. 


(continued from page 215) 


IRISH HOLIDAY PUNCH 
(20-25 servings) 


1 bottle (750 ml.) Irish whiskey 


3 cups pineapple ju 

3 cups orange juic 

Ye cup fresh lime juic 

lean (13% ozs.) 

syrup 

Y сар supe 
Combine whiskey and juices. 

pineapple chunks and retri 


pine: 


Add 
ar to whiskey 


ixture; stir until sugar dissolves. Chill 
At serving time, stir and pour ove 
block in punch bowl. Garnish with pine- 
apple chunks 


COLONIAL RUM PUNCH 
(20-25 servings) 


Y cup sugar 

I cup water 

1 bottle (750 ml.) gold rum 

2 cups strong tea 

Juice of 1 large lemon 

1 iter ginger ale, chilled 

green grapes, halved 


ing sugar and water to boil: simmer 5 
until syrupy. Cool. Combine 
sugar syrup and lemon juice. Stir 


ill. At serving time, stir again and 
over ice block in punch bowl. Add 
briefly. Garnish 


pou 
chilled ginger 


ale; stir 


FRENCH COFFEE PUNCH 
(30-35 servings) 

1 bottle (750 mL) cognac 

1 oz. amaretto 

3 pints freshly brewed strong coffee 

Y cup superfine sı (or to taste) 


cream, softened 
maretto and coffee 
nd si il dissolved. Sur in 
half-and-half; chill very well. 
time, empty ice cream into chilled pu 
bowl and break up with large spoon. 
cognac-collee die 
punch cups, including a litte ice cream 
cach portion. 


1 quart vanilla 
Combine cognac, 
add sugar 


SPICED CHAMPAGNE PUNCH 
(15—18 servings) 

Ys cup sugar 

Y cup water 

nder seeds 

non stick 


Peel оГ 

4.025. kirsch 

2 bottles brut champagne or sparkl 
wine, chilled 

1 lemon, thinly sliced 


Bring sugar and water to boil in small 
pan; simmer 5 minutes. Remove from heat 
and add coriander seeds, cinnamon stick 
and peels. Let stand at least + hours. At 
ng time, strain spiced syrup over ice 
k in punch bowl. Add kirsch; stir well 
Slowly add ch: rkling wine 
stir briefly. С 

The two punches that follow are legend- 
ary. They date back 10 the early days of 
the Republic and demonstrate that our 
ors liked their drink bold and lusty 


ne or Spi 


anc 


FISH HOUSE PUNCH 
(50-35 servings) 
1 cup supe 
2 cups wate 
1 cup lemon juice 
1 bottle (750 ml.) gold rum 
1 bottle (750 ml.) Califo: 
1 bottle (750 ml.) p 
1 liter club soda, chilled 
Combine sugar, water and lemon juice, 
stirring well until sugar dissolves. Add 
rum, brandy and liqueur. Stir well; chill at 
least 24 hours. At serving time, stir again 
and pour over ice block in punch bowl. 
Add chilled club soda; stir briefly 


ARTILLERY PUNCH 
(35—40 servings) 


1 bottle (750 ml.) bourbon 

Ye bottle (375 ml.) dark rum 

B ozs. cognac 

2 ozs. Benedictine 

1 bottle dry red wine 

1 quart strong black tea 

2 cups orange j 

1 cup lemon juice 

1 teaspoon bitters 

% cup superfine sugar (or to taste) 

Peel of | lemon, cut in thin strips 

Combine spirits, wine, tea, juices and 
bitters; stir well, Add superfine sugar, st 
з until dissolved. Chill at least 24 
hours. At serving ti and pour 
about halt of quantity over ice block in 
punch bowl. Garnish with lemon ресі 
Serve over ice. Refill bowl with remaining 
punch as needed 


HOLIDAY TONIC 
(20 servings) 


1 bottle (750 ml.) gin or vodka 
1 oz. orange liqueur 

1 can (6 ozs.) frozen-le 
e, partly thawed 
1 liter tonic water, chill 
1 cucumber, thinly sliced 

or vodka, orange liqueu 
de concentrate. Stir well; chill. 
At serving time, nd pour over ice 
block in punch. bowl. Add chilled tonic 
rnish with cucumber 


onade concen- 


car stereo 
backwards. 


Why should you? 


My car stereo dealer told me if you want clean, 
clear accurate sound— choose your speakers 
first. Because if the speakers can't handle 
it. you won't hear it. No matter what kind of 
sound your receiver pulls in. 


Then he told me: Jensen? 


If you want to hear it ine way they played it, 
choose Jensen speakers first. Jensen invented 
car speakers in the first place. And they're 
aleader today. Simply because they know 
how to deliver the goods. 


Naturally | got a Jensen receiver to go 
with my Jensen speakers. Great team. 
designed to play best together Makes sense. 
Makes great sound, too. | want to hear 
it all. With Jensen, I do. 


JENSEN 


When you want it all. 


PLAYBOY 


REDEFINING SMART 


(continued from page 96) 


“We cannot hope to read . . . one one-hundredth of 


the books published in America alone every year.” 


was literate—save, presumably, those in 
his circle who needed to read his instruc- 
tions to kill everyone else who could read 
his instructions. He was stoppcd, finally, 
after he had killed somewhere between 
one quarter and one third (the estimates 
vary) ofall Cambodians. But poor Pol Pot, 
all he ultimately accomplished was the 
premature death of millions of people and 
a testimonial dinner in his honor by Com- 
munist China. 

Given, then, that we cannot hope to 
read, however much time we give over to 
the effort, one one-hundredth of the books 
published in America alone every year, 
nor read one periodical out of every 100 
published, and all of this to say nothing of 


catching up with those masterpieces writ- 
ten yesterday that silt up into public recog- 
nition, some of them 10, 20, even 50 years 
after first published, how can we hope to 
get about with any sense of—self- 
satisfaction isn't quite the right word, 
because self-satisfaction is not something 
we ought ever to strive after—rather, well: 
Composure is probably as good a word for 
it as comes readily to mind? 
. 

Nothing I have ventured until now is, I 
think, controversial. Is it controversial to 
bridge over to the final point; namely, that 
inhabitants of a common culture need to 
have a common vocabulary, the word 
vocabulary here used in the most formal 


“My daddy can't come and play with you today and 
I'm supposed to keep an eye on you.” 


sense as the 
communication? 

It is probably not a culturally disquali- 
fying civic delinquency, or even civic 
abnegation, to come late, say six months 
ог even a year late, to the recognition of 
Who is Michael Jackson? and What 
exactly is it that makes him, after two 
hours at a studio, create something the 
price of which Picasso would not have 
dared to ask after 20 hours’ work at his 
easel? But I do think it hovers on civic 
disqualification not to know what is 
meant, even if the formulation is unfamil- 
iar, when someone says, “Even Homer 
nodded." 

Now, any time anybody comes up with 
something everybody ought to know on 
the refined side of, say, The world is round, 
not flat, or, A day comprises 24 hours, you 
will encounter an argument over whether 
knowledge of that particular datum is 
really necessary to integration as a mem- 
ber of a culture. So that what I just said 
about Homer's nodding will be objected to 
by some as not intrinsic to a “common 
vocabulary" in the same way that, let us 
say, it is intrinsic to know the answer to the 
question What was Hitler's holocaust? 
Subgroups within a culture will always 
feel that a knowledge of certain “things” — 
even of certain forms, certain recitations— 
is indispensable to a common knowledge 
and that without them, intercourse (social 
intercourse, I suppose 1 should specify, 
writing for PLAYBOY) is not possible. These 
“things” go by various names and are of 
varying degrees of contemporary interest 
For instance, there is “consciousness 
enhancement” as regards, oh, black stud- 
ies, or malnutrition, or Reagan’s favorit- 
ism toward the rich. But these are, I think, 
faddist in any large historical perspective 
Not so much more remote “things,” such 
as Homer's nodding. 

With the rise of democracy and the 
ascendancy of myth-breaking science, the 
need arose to acknowledge man’s fallibil- 
ity, preferably in a way that also acknowl- 
edged man's vanity. This was the period 
during which a belief in the divine right of 
kings began to wither on the overburdened 
wings of certitude. So that it became com- 
mon in the 17th Century, the lexicogra- 
phers tell us, to reflect that if it—i.c., 
human fallibility—could strike out at 
Homer, the morc so could it overtake us. 
Homer was the symbol for the poct univer- 
sally regarded as unerring (the divine 
Homer); yet objectivity raises its obdurate 
voice to point to errors (mostly factual 
inconsistencies) committed by the pre- 
sumptively unerring. Only just before the 
beginning of the Christian era, Horace 
had written that “even Homer sometimes 
nods.” And as recently as 1900, Samuel 
Butler spotted a picture of a ship in the 
Odyssey with the rudder at the front. 

And so an entire complexion of social 
understanding unfolds before us: so that 
by recalling that even Homer nodded, we 


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REDEFINING SMARTS 


a pragmatist’s guide lo surviving the information age 
£ Si 


By BARBARA NELLIS ano KATE NOLAN 


Not that knowledge is 


"ta good thing, but do you ever get the feeling that you 


know too much? Granted, there is a clear and present need to remember certain 
things—birth control, your automatic-bank-teller code number, how to keep cat- 
sup from staining (use club soda). But you can rest assured that you'll never get a 
table in a good restaurant by knowing the speed of sound or how to find the hypot- 
enuse ofa right triangle. The trick in the info-packed Eighties is to keep your mind 
unsullied by useless information. It’s time to strip your personal data base down to 
bare essentials and discard all the rest. Trust us: You can forget about Julio 
Iglesias, Morgan Fairchild and Andy Gibb. On the other hand, you really should 
remember to floss and to fasten your seat belt, and never forget that a straight 


flush beats four aces. 
You get the picture— 


end, we've assembled lists of things you real 
afford to forget. Now all you have to do i: 


REMEMBER 


Six of the Ten Commandments, 

Girls Just Want to Have Fun 

Moe, Curly and Larry 

“Ве prepared” 

California girls 

Lean Cuisi 

The Heimlich mancuver 

Joc DiMaggio 

Pearl Harbor 

Who shot J.F.K. 

Miami Steve 

Bart Conner 

Tax-deductible meals 

Momma 

Foreplay 

Wood-Stein 

Jerry's kids 

It takes a lot to laugh 

The Honeymooners 

Darlene Love 

Ted Koppel 

60 Minutes 

The Bill of Rights 

Murphy's law 

April 15 

Never give а 

Money talks 

A conservative is a liberal who was 
mugged last night 

Speak softly and carry a big stick 

Herpes is forever 

Kevin McReynolds 

The only sure thing about luck is that it 
will change 

Boys will be boys 

The truth hurts 

A mind is a terrible thing to waste 

A dollar invested for a year in 11 per- 
cent municipal bonds is 11% 
cents earned 

Carl Lewi: 

I before E except alter С 

Never trust anybody who makes lists 


ucker an even break 


"s time to dress our bra 


for success. Toward this noble 
should remember and those you can 
h list is which. 


remember wi 


FORGET 


The four others 

I Am Woman 

Moonics, Preppies and Yuppies 

“Moderation in all things" 

Valley girls 

Cuisinart 

The Scarsdale diet 

Mr. Coffee 

The way to San Jose 

Who shot J.R. 

John Denver 

Chuck Connors 

‘The free lunch 

Ma Bell 

Forever 

Woodstock 

Jerry's movies 

Tt takes a train to cry 

Love Connection 

Mike Love 

David Eisenhower 

The One Minute Manager 

Buffalo Bill 

Robert's Rules of Order 

December 31 

Suffer fools gladly 

Bullshit walks 

Freedom’s just another word for noth- 
ing left to lose 

Dollar diplomacy 

A kiss is still a kiss 

Chicken MeNuggets 

Opportunity knocks but once 


Boy George 

National Enquirer 

David Hartman 

A penny saved is a penny carned 


Everybody loves a winner 
Age before beauty 
The David Wallechinsky family 


are reminded of the vulnerable perform- 
ance of lesser human beings—indeed, of 
all human beings. And if we acknowledge 
our weakne then we inherit insight 
into such terms as “government by laws, 
not by men”; of such propositions as that 
“nobody is above the law”; and of such 
ative things as checks and balances; 
ights, even, into the dark side, and 
black potential, of human nature. 

In the age of the knowledge explosion, 
the struggle, by this reckoning, should 
be not so much to increase our knowledge 
(though that is commendable even if we 
recognize, fatalistically, that we fall für- 
ther behind every day) as to isolate those 
things that no data that have been discov- 
ered have ever persuasively challenged 
and—here we approach an act of faith— 
no data will ever plausibly challenge. 
These are known, sometimes, as the "eter- 
nal v ics." A secular version of one of 
these verities is that no one has the right to 
ive another man of his rights. Let the 
discussion proceed over exactly what that 
man's rights are but not over the question 
of whether or not he has rights. But in 
order to carry on that discussion intelligi- 
bly, we need to share that common vo- 
cabulary that reaches out and folds 
protectively into a common social bosom 
those common verities. If, next Monday, 
all Americans were to suffer an amnestic 
stroke, forgetting everything we had ever 
known, what is it that would be required 
before we reassembled—if ever—around 
such propositions as are asseverated in the 
Declaration of Independence and in 
Lincoln's Gettysburg Address 

Western culture is merely a beachhead 
in space, Whittaker Chambers reminds us. 
That insight is what distinguishes today 
the Renaissance man. He is not the man 
who, with aplomb, can fault the Béarnaise 
sauce at Maxim's before attending a con- 
cert at which he detects a musical sole- 
cism, returning to write an imperishable 
sonnet before preparing a lecturc on civics 
will enthrall an audito- 
rium. No: The Renaissance man is, I 
think, someone who bows his head before 
the great unthreatened truths and, while 
admitting and even encouraging all 
advances in science, nevertheless knows 
enough to know that the computer does 
not now exist, nor ever shall, that has the 
power to repeal the basic formulas of ci 
lization, “We know,” Edmund Burke 
wrote, “that we have made no discoveries; 
and we think that no discoveries are to be 
made, in morality—nor many in the great 
principles of government, nor in the ideas 
of liberty, which were understood long 
before we were born, altogether as well as 
they will be after the grave has heaped its 
mold upon our presumption, and the 
silent tomb shall have imposed 
our pert loquacity.” 


s law on 


Spend the extra few dollars. 
Its Christmas, isn’t it? 


Eve 


л 


^. 


one who has to work on Christmas 


M 


deserves a lot more than milk and cookies. 


An 


WHOLESOME BLUES 


(continued from page 120) 


“How come they all run around looking like they’ve 
Just finished drinking an alum milk shake?” 


they all run around looking like they've 
just finished drinking an alum milk shake? 

Explanations have been offered by the 
learned, though they will not please the 
more dogged road runners. Dr. Kenneth 
E. Callen of Oregon Health Sciences Uni 
versity, writing in Psychosomatics, the jou 
nal of the Academy of Psychosomatic 
Medicine, estimated that as many as one 
quarter of the persistents may be as crazy 
as peach-orchard hogs. Well, he put it 
a hule different said they may be 
“neurotically attached” to their grim slog- 
ging. Means the same thing, don't it? Psy- 
chiatrist Alayne Yates of the University 
Arizona Health Sciences Genter, wri 
in the New England Journal of Medicine, 
observes that most “obligatory runners” — 
those who pound out 40 or more miles per 
weck—started running relatively late in 
life, generally feel unfulfilled in their pro- 
fessional or personal lives and use running 
to bring meaning to their existence. Adds 
Dr. Yates: “The runners in our sample 
shared many of the qualities of the 
anorectic patient; they were generally self- 
effacing, hard-working high achievers from 
affluent families who were uncomfortable 
with anger and who characteristically 
inhibited the direct expression of affect 
[mood]. Their singular commitment to 
running occurred at a time of heightened 
anxiety, depression and identity dif 
fusion.” When such road freaks can’t run 
because of illness or injury, they become 
“depressed, angry and frustrated.” Tell 
me them people ain't tilted. 

One who fit Yates’s pattern—notes 
Washington neurologist Richard M. 
Restak, writing in The Washington Post— 
was the late Jim Fixx (author of The Com- 
plete Book of Running), who last summer 
was called to Jesus at the age of 52 while 
wearing track shoes. Then there's mara- 
thon runner Alberto Salazar, proud of 
doing 106 miles weekly on a fractured foot 
he got pounding pavements, who once ran 
himself into heatstroke, a 108-degree body 
temperature and the joy of being packed in 
ice, Nothing should be packed in ice but 
champagne. 

Гуе got friends, I'm ashamed to say, 
who've been caught up in this goddamn 
wholesome bunko. Mo Sussman, 40, 
owner of Joe and Mo’s restaurant in down 
town Washington, is a formerly chubby 
fellow who once would have a drink with 
you at the slightest provocation; it 
wouldn't surprise me to learn that Mo 
maybe once toked or snorted. Now, appar- 
ently, his ambition is to have a belly like a 
washboard. Last summer, Mo came to my 
house, kicked aside the ‘Twinkie wrappers 
and Big Mac cartons and tried to persuade 
me to sign up for some foolish torture 


called The Sergeant’s Program. 

Mo quoted the sergeant's literature: 
**No Jacuzzi, no juice bar, no aerobics, no 
dancing and no women. Just you, the soil, 
the sky, the sun and the sergeant. No 
money back. If you wimp out, tough 
luck." Mo told me the sergeant would 
make me a new man. | said I'd rather he 
made me a vodka martini. Mo's eyes 
shined in describing how, for only $285, the 
sergeant’s buddies could know the pleas- 
ures of running to exhaustion, jumping tall 
obstacles, crawling through mud, fighting 
hand to hand and maybe swimming in 
handcuffs. No doubt in my mind: Mo 
Sussman today is a very sick man. Slim- 
mer, maybe. But sick, sick, sick. (Still, Mo 
offered the only rational explanation I've 
heard for such excesses: “I'm dating a 24- 
year-old woman. You want I should die in 
the saddle?”) 

Then there's Jim Collins, 32, an ex- 
bartender who now manages a Capitol 
Hill watering hole and eatery called 
Timberlake's. Used to be you'd walk into 
Timberlake's and Jim would twist your 
arm until you drank a quart of Scotch 
without coming up for air; now he delivers 
temperance lectures. A ycar ago, Jim was 
pleasingly plump at 222 pounds and 
would happily volunteer tales of his latest 
g debaucheries. Now he weighs 
154 pounds; his cheeks sink in like a fash- 
ion model's who's sucking on a lollipop. 
All he'll talk about is the bad habits he's 
conquered, though—in the words of Mark 
‘Twain—the most he can expect of it is 
good health, Who wanis eternal life if you 
gotta spend it pounding bricks? 

Collins cl s he's not one of those com- 
pulsive “obligatory” runners, in that he 
runs "only" a dozen miles per week. Hell- 
fire, that amounts to only 624 miles per 
year; itd take the boy a decade to run 
coast to coast and back. 1 don't know why 
I bother mentioning him. Maybe it's 
because his dict is... well, interesting. 
His bag is eating a high-fiber, low-fat diet 
and gulping a Japanese compound made 
of fibers and gelatin that looks like picces 
of hay trapped in pale Jell-O. Once а week, 
he has his blood pressure and gastric 
juices checked and gets an E.K.G. to be 
sure his heart ain't bust a strut, When not 
jogging, he exercises on Nautilus machines 
or skips rope or improvises: You can be 
talking to him and suddenly he'll jump 
up and touch his toes until he makes wit- 
nesses dizzy. Maybe it helps him work up 
an appetite for that Japanese shit he eats. 

Why, Jim? Why? 

“I guess it started because heart disease 
runs in my family and a friend died of a 
stroke at the age of 30. But really, my true 
motivation isn't life extension. I just 


wanted to look better, feel better. It's great 
to feel confident and proud. Гус got nine 
friends on the same program. We swear by 
й. We get cranky if something interferes 
and makes us late for workouts. You can 
solve a lot of mental problems while you're 
running or exercising. You go to bed with a 
clear mind, sleep well and wake up ready 
to go get “em!” 

Go get what, Jim? 

“Well... you know. . 

Naw, Jim. I don't. I sure as hell don’t. 

. 

I've got them wholesome blues. 

Nobody's wearing tattoos. 

Bar fighting passed from fashion 

Once I'd paid my bloody dues. 

The kids feel guilty, 

They didn't fight in Nam, 

So now they won't fight nowhere. 

They ain't worth a linker's damn. . . . 


Jim Collins and Mo Sussman provided 
the names of a few young crazies as proud 
of their bust measurements as Dolly 
Parton is of hers, though none of them 
officially is a girl. Given deep artistic 
insights, I have boiled them down to a 
composite figure, about 30 years old, 
known as Whippersnapper. Old Soak is, of 
course, myself. The interview was held in a 
fem bar over harmless juices and weird 
food and near a set of mirrors so 
Whippersnapper could admire the way he 
has improved on God's handiwork. 

OLD soak: Why this compulsive сісап- 
living kick? 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: Well, there’s a certain 
pride in being able to say “No!” 

OLD soak: Im not too familiar with that 
particular thrill. 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: See, there's this good 
fecling you get in looking at your image 
and saying, “I made a conscious decision 
rather than acting on impulse.” [Old Soak 
stares at him as if he might be a Martian] It's 
a form of discipline, understand? 

OLD soak: You want discipline, why 
you in the Marines? 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: No, no, no! It's differ- 
ent! I mean, so you sleep with four or five 
or even six girls a week. In the end, what 
does that amount to? 

OLD soak: Га say it amounted to about 
2000 board feet of fresh nookie a year. 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: So what? Where's the 
fun in waking up every day with someone 
you'd rather not be with? 

OLpsoak: I thought you said you weren't 
married. 

WHIPPERSNAPFER: Be serious! I mean, you 
can get your head so fucked up with one- 
night stands. Once, I picked up this 
woman with a violin—no shit, now, 
picked her up in a bar—and she fiddled 
between fucks! Fiddled! 

OLD soak: You don’t like music? 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: What's that got to do 
with anything? I mean, do you call hit- 
and-miss encounters happiness? 

OLD SOAK: Sounds better than abstinence 


PLAYBOY 


and a granola bar. 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: You miss the point! The 
fiddling woman was making a statement! 
She was saying, “On my scale of life, man, 
you don't mean as much as a B-flat!” I un- 
derstood that! 1 felt the same about her. 

oLD soak: How was she on the skin flute? 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: Look, if you're not seri- 
ous about this interview, I could be out 
running! [Whippersnapper takes a hefty belt 
of prune juice and angrily devours a handful 
of sunflower seed] 

OLD soak: Go check your flat belly in the 
mirror. Maybe it'll improve your mood 
[Whippersnapper does so, smiles at his reflec- 
tion and is becalmed] 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: You want to talk about 
the new celibacy? 

OLD soak: No, but I'm afraid you do. 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: Actually, the new celi- 
bacy was started by young women. 
They're more thoughtful than men. Most 
of us—most of the guys—who've rejected 
meaningless one-nighters, well, we got into 
celibacy by knowing strong women who'd 
made that decision earlier and led us to it. 

ош soak: Ah-hah! The gals cut you off, 
so rather than resort to rape— 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: That is not what I 
mean. I mean the women taught us higher 
values! Face it, indiscriminate screwing 
just isn't fun much of the time. 

or soak: Who says? 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: A lot of us who've 
thought it through! There's the pressure of. 
performance and the unnaturalness of 
attempting the world's most intimate act 
with а stranger! Now, think about thal 

OLD soak: There are days when I think of 
little else. 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: Look, if you're not 100 
percent into sex with a given partner, then 
vou're better off not performing. What's 
the good of pumping away if your mind or 
heart isn't in it? 

OLD soak: Your problem may be one of 
indifferent concentration. 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: [Sighing] We're on dil- 
ferent wave lengths. 

OLD soak: Don't ask to trade, 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: It’s more a matter of 
character and substance than of physi- 
cal . . . rutting. 

ош 


OK. Let's momentarily 
assume that sport fucking is somehow 
debilitating; how does that tie in with giv- 
ing up dope and booze? 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: It’s obvious. If my mind 
isn’t wasted by drugs or clouded by drink, 
then I'm less likely to be victimized by the 
old pattern of indiscriminate sex. 

OLD soas: Yeah, it'd sure be terrible to 
trip and fall in a pussy patch. 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: Go ahead. Have your 
fun. I expect that of your generation. You 
old guys just wanted to be able to make 
your macho brags: “I screwed X or Y or Z 
women this week.” That bullshit isn't 
important to us. 

OLD SOAK: What 
PERSNAPPER: Settling down. Getting 
а. Having children. 


> 


OLD SOAK: Shades of the Fifties! 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: [Sadly] 1 just wish I 
didn’t have herpes. 

OLD soak: [Truly astonished] You catch it 
off a toilet seat? 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: [Musing] Thinking 
back, I guess we used to drink, dope and 
screw around because of the bomb and liv- 
ing in a poisoned world. 

OLD SOAK: [Impatient and pissed) Oh, 
Jesus Christ on a stick horse, boy: You 
couldn't float that lame excuse at a meet- 
ing of Alcoholics Anonymous! 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: No, now, there's some 
truth in it. I grew up secing the ecology 
befouled—couldn't fish or swim in the 
Potomac River or parts of Chesapeake 
Bay—and knowing that every two-bit dic- 
tator had the capability to release the 
bomb. They laughed at Jimmy Carter 
when he said his little daughter, Amy, 
worried about nuclear proliferation. But I 
bet she truly did! 

OLD soak: So if you run 80 miles a week 
and refuse to sport fuck, the rivers will 
clear up? Qaddafi will reject the bomb? 
Amy Carter will be able to sleep at night? 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: Scoff if you wish. But in 
retrospect, I believe some of our debauch- 
cries were reactions against our parents— 
acts of rebellion against authority. 

OLD sOAK: Jesus! Now the fault lies in 
Mommy and Da-da's toilet training! 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: Pm talking about their 
hypocrisy and the guilt trips they put on 
us. Our parents told us, “Don't smoke 
grass; it’s bad for you!” Then we'd see 
them stupid drunk. Or they'd tell us Viet- 
nam was a noble battle for freedom, and 
after a while, we came to see that plainly 
wasn’t true. Or they’d tell us racial 
gration would never work—but we soon 
saw that, given the chance, it could. So we 
decided if they were wrong about so many 
important things—and hypocritical, 
even—then they were shitting us about 
other things. 

OLD soak: You've spanked your parents 
for hypocrisy, now how about the guilt 
they put on you? 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: Well, it was a version of 
thar old ploy “Eat everything on your 
plate, because there are starving children 
in China.” Like, they stressed all the 
rough stuff they'd been through—the 
Depression, World War Two, Korea—and 
we felt guilty because, by comparison, 
we'd had it so easy. So maybe we dealt 
with our stresses by dissipating guilt 
through pleasure principles. Maybe, you 
know, our conduct also was a rebellion 
against society. The law said we could be 
drafted at 18 and sent to war to kill or be 
killed—but we couldn't vote or buy a 
drink legally. 

OLD soak: Is it remotely possible you 
kids whooped it up just because it might 
have been fun and because its in the 
nature, and tradition, of the young to sow 
a few wild oats? 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: I don't think so. I 
believe there’s a psychological reason for 


every action any rational human takes. 
See, I think what my generation is into is 
so far removed from your experiences and 
conditioning that you can't possibly under- 
stand. But try for a moment. [Thinks 
deeply, furrowing brow to so signify] If you 
run far enough—if you push through the 
pain and keep going—there's this . . . this 
glowing feeling. It’s a state so pure, you 
can almost see God. It's so peaceful and, 
and, well, it's almost like looking at your 
surroundings through pink gauze. It's a 
much purer high than I ever got from any 
dope or liquor. It’s . . . well, you perceive 
things in flashes of light. Off and on. Of 
and on. Like that. You feel not dizzy, 
exactly, but, but . . . something close to it. 
Lightheaded in a good way. Warm and 
toasty. It's beautiful once you've pushed 
ast the pain. If you haven't experienced 
it, there’s no way you'll be able to compre- 
hend it or put a name on it, but —— 

орволк: Hypoxia. 

WHIPPERSNAPPER: What? 

ош soak: When you feel that way, your 


brain aint getting enough oxygen, 
dummy! 
. 
O Lord, please deliver 


This wretched soul from woe, 

Living ın a time, it seems, 

When don't nobody know 

The joys of drifting, 

Just kicking up their heels, 

While laughing through how magical 
A pure old stone high feels. 


I've got them wholesome blues. 
Think I may blow a fuse. 

New Puritans are cheering 
That my side is gonna lose. 

1 hate to hear it: 

Those most discordant sounds 
Of joggers on the footpaths 
And preachers on their rounds. 


I've got them wholesome blues. 
Somebody please bring me news 
That I've just had a bad dream 

And they've outlawed running shoes. 
Let fools stand gazing 

Into the looking glass; 

ГА rather be a-grazing 

On some lovely perfumed lass. 


Tue got them wholesome blues, 
And now that you know my views, 
Just ring me up if you don't mind 
Old tales of dope and booze. 

I've got them ho-ho, 

Hey-let’s-go 

Do-ugly 

Ho-vo-ole-sum blues! 


[The Old Soak, having gathered weighty 
evidence, now dutifully rises in the court of 
public opinion to ийет, as follows: 

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I rise 
not to ask your condemnation of these 
foolish defendants for excessive runni 
faddish dieting or abstaining from sex as 
unnatural as those acts may be. 

‘There are persons who, for one reason 
or another, choose to shape themselves 


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PLAYBOY 


into nerds. They have that 
they manifest their nerdity by voting 
straight Republican, wearing Argyle socks 
or compulsively exercising while starving 
themselves. Perhaps evolution in its mys- 
terious way meant some people to be nerds 
and so they are helpless in their genes to 
avoid it. These I pity but do not censure. 

But it is my duty—and yours—to find 
practitioners of the so-called New Puritan- 
ism guilty of the worst forms of verbal 
quackery and of preaching heretical 
bullshit. They are not what they claim to 
be, which ranges from mystics to idealists 
to victims. 

They are, first of all, nothing morc 
grand than faddists. Copycats. Every time 
one nerd sees another nerd in running 
shoes, he falls in behind him and slavishly 
imitates him. Despite their high-minded 
rhetoric as to motivation, these people are 
largely keeping up with the Joneses. 
Remember Hula-Hoops and goldfish 


swallowing? This, too, shall р; 

Many of these malcontent shin-splinters 
and stalk caters would have you believe 
that wicked old Society or mean old 
Mommy and Da-da somehow so scared 
and scarred them that they were unavoida- 
bly driven to outrageous acts of self-denial. 
What a crock of pure unadulterated 
bullshit, ladies and gentlemen! What a 
whimpering, whining, wimpy farce of a 
tale! Now, I do not dispute—for we have 
the testimony of head shrinks to support 
it—that many of these foolish faddists are 
a bit bonkers and may be attempting to 
fice their own inadequacies in track shoes. 
I submit, however, that they n't blame 
Society or Mommy and Da-da and expect 
us not to laugh. Listen: These are pam- 
pered, affluent little Yuppie pricks for the 
most part—coddled and ass-wiped from 
the cradle, given sports cars and credit 
cards before they left prep school! They've 
had it better, softer, easier than any other 


generation of Americans, should you go all 
the way back to the Mayflower. I say if 
they can't stand prosperity, fuck ‘em! 

These cold, self-centered little fish swim 
in their own private seas largely for the 
opportunity to sce themselves reflected in 
the water. Aye, there's the rub: narcissism. 
These preeners and fops worship a god 
who, according to Greck mythology, 
caused the death of his girlfriend, Echo, by 
spurning her and then fell in love with his 
own image in the water; he spent his days 
pining away for himself until he died. I 
suspect nine tenths of these so-called New 
Puritans close themselves in their bed- 
roams to kiss mirrors! 

And in sweating or starving their pre- 
cious images into more desirable shapes 
and conditions, guess what they've done. 
"They've burned such energies, they have 
nothing left over to give to others. Don't 
believe them, ladies and gentlemen, when 
they prattle of the new celibacy's being 
founded on superiority, morality or a new 
itivity. That is pure horseshit. That 
is a cover-up to rank with Watergate. 
The... ruth... is... this: They're too 
tired and drained of juices to get it up! 
That's their problem, jurors, that and no 
other! And so they attempt to excuse their 
flaccid peckers or juiceless holes by pro- 
fessing the attainment of a moral ground 
so high—get this!—that it will not permit 
ing a roll in the sack with willing, con- 
senting, loving strangers. Why, there a 
Texas stockyards not half as rich in 
bullshit as that cheap cop-out! 

1 shan't excessively dwell on the strange 
diets favored by the shin-splint crowd. 
Ancient tribes feasted on grubworms and 
fecal matter, so 1 suppose the so-called 
New Puritans will survive hay-and-gelatin 
compounds made in Japan. I do worry, 
yes, about the futures of those who raise 
beef, hogs, sheep and chickens for con- 
sumption in a society where many some 
how prefer cating roots and bee pollen. 
And I foresee the day when we raise gen- 
erations of children who grow up looking 
like Hollywood's notion of pale, popeyed, 
cadaverous aliens from outer space. Merci- 
fully, before such comes to pass, the 
worms will be eating me—which is more 
than ] can expect from your average 
Yuppie girl. 

As to those who cry, 1 
ets, that God or better is to be found by 
“pushing through the pain,” I wish them 
the full ecstasy ofa swift kick to the gonads 
and time then to rethink their philosophy. 
I refuse to waste more words on ignora- 
muses too dumb to know the difference 
between hallucinations dimly scen and 
hypoxia visibly experienced, who prefer 
stewing in their own sweat rather than the 
perfumed juices of others. 

The prosecution rests—prone and 
supine. Preferably with a glass of wine, a 
double bacon cheeseburger and a st 
blonde in his hands. 


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PLAYBOY 


230 


JOYS OF SUCCESS „н page 133) 


“You have to have a dream in front of you, but 
when you get it, you push up to the next plateau.” 


my family and 1 went backpacking in 
Montana, and to me that seemed the per- 
fect vacation. 

The possession I enjoy most is our small 
house in the countryside of northwest Con- 
necticut. It’s not at all grandiose, just 
comfortable. It’s someplace [ will live 
someday. Incidentally, we're buildi 
tennis court up there, and Гус learned 
that no matter how much money you 
spend on the tennis court, it doesn't 
improve your backhand. 

Success, if you look at it from a mone- 
tary point of view, does buy freedom. It 
means not having to be worried about 
making ends mect every month. Interest- 
ingly, that worry is something 1 still 
haven't been able to escape. 1 grew up in 
modest circumstances. My mother still 
watches how she spends her money. One 
of my friends says, “Тот will never stop 
looking over his shoulder.” 

One thing I wanted to buy all my life 
was a Porsche. I never did. To me, it still 
seems like a lot of money for a car. Instead, 
I drive a 1977 Chevy pickup truck with 
one broken door. 

One of the ironies of success is that 
when you work so hard to achieve a cer- 
tain professional status and happiness, you 
have to make sacrifices, often financial, 
along the way. Then, when you finally 
reach a point where you can afford to buy 
what you want, people want to give you 
stuff, The more you have, the more people 
want to give you. It seems unfair. Where 
were they when you needed them? 

I've always had an enormous curiosity 
about things and a propensity for enjoying 
the sharing of information with others. 
From the time I was a kid, I was alway 
the town crier. Because this profession 
is so rewarding in an cmotional and intel- 
lectual way, I couldn’t get enough of it. It 
sure beats working. The best reward of my 
career is having a built-in excuse to be 
wherever the action is. 

Гуе never said, “If I get here or there, 
Т be successful.” I don't think I perceive 
success as many people do. Too often, suc- 
cess is measured by dollars and cents or by 
a title, My brother works for the telephone 
company in Orange County, California. 1 
think he is successful. He has the life he 
wants and he does his job well. 

Sometimes, when I read about how suc- 
cessful I'm supposed to be, it seems like 
they're talking about a third person. I'm 
still treated as less than immortal by my 
children, and I've never surrounded my- 
self with the trappings of success. Also, I 
think journalism has a kind of bluc-coll; 
mentality about it. In other worlds, a man 
who had accumulated a lot might be 


ways 


called mister and be deferred to. In jour- 
nalism, it's just as likely that one of your 
confederates may address you with, “Hey, 
Bozo." 


D 
MITCHELSON, 56 
(famed divorce and Bi 
recently bought a castle—an actual cas- 
de—right here in Los Angeles. It's above 
Sunsct Boulevard and was built in. 1920. 
It's a Normandy-style castle on two and a 
hall acres. Um restoring it to its former 
beauty—I just love to restore things, and I 
adore antiques. There's a feeling of being 
back in the Old World when Pm working 
on my castle, and I like that. In fact, much 
of the pleasure comes fiom doing the 
work—maybe building a moat aro 
and a few other things- 
tion of living there. It's a lot of fun, 
though Ud be the first to admit that it’s 
quite indulgent. It's not necessary to a 
happy life, but it gives me a lot of pleasure, 
Actually, Гус done three homes 
already—the last one, I worked on for 19 
years. It was an A-frame built out over a 
in. You'd go down a spiral stair- 
se and look through the pool, sort of like 
a James Bond movie. The swimming pool 
was in front of the house. 1 remember 
every morning as I dashed out, running 
past the swimming pool on the way to the 
airport or court or the office, ГА 
myself, "My goodness, I’m rushing out the 
door and not really enjoying this place 
You sce, the anticipation is much different 
from the reality, And I think that's the 
same with any goals we set. You have to 
have a dream out in front of you, but when 
you get it, you push up to the next plateau. 
Т think that's indigenous to our nature as 
human beings. I know it’s cer 
my character. 

I have a Rolls-Royce and a 1969 Mer- 
cedes with the license plate ramos on it. 
My wife gave me the plate, and it’s a fun 
thing for me. I drive both cars. This is 
actually my fourth Rolls-Royce and, yes, I 
always had wanted onc. They're really 
great cars, and there's something m 
about driving them when they work, 
though often they're in the shop. Perhaps 
we never get over our status symbols, but I 
do like the car better for wh 
the fact that it may be a status symbol. 

also collect art. Гус been a strong 
Impressionist collector for about М years. I 
also collect Napoleonic memorabilia. But 
my favorite work of art is Botticelli's Birth 
of Venus up there [he points to his office ceil- 
ing, where there's a circular glass reproduc- 
tion of that work]. Of course, the real one is 
in Florence, but I like the symbol. There's 
a legend that the model died when she 


MARVIN M 


t it is than for 


ainly part of 


was 26 and managed to be the girlfriend of 
Botticelli and Michelangelo at the same 
time. For me, she's the symbol of beautiful 
women, and I have her around in dillerent 


places. 
What have I always wanted that I still 
don’t have? Well, among other things, Га 


love to be a symphony conductor. 1 have a 
whirlpool bath built herc in my office, At 
night, after a whirlpool bath, 1 come out 
here, open the curtains, which gives me a 
view of the entire city, and turn on the 
stereo and conduct a full symphony 

. 

WALLY AMOS, 48 (former theatrical 
agent; creator and owner ol Famous Amos 
Chocolate Chip Cookies): Im not a 
status-oriented person and I'm really not 
into material things. However, there was a 
time, back when | was in show business 
and wearing fancy suits, when I was 
obsessed with having a Rolls-Royce. As a 
joke, a friend gave me a toy Rolls, but 
that’s as close as I got to actually owning 
one. Now I drive a Ford Bronco. Prior to 
that, I had a VW convertible, I switched 
because 1 was tired of driving a small car. 
Tm a tall guy, and 1 wanted to ride high. 

It wasn't until after I had lost all my 
desire for material things that I got to the 
place I am now. I didn't start my cookie 
store to make a million, 1 just wanted to 
make a living. The reason I decided to 
open the store was to have fun, to make the 
cookies the way I thought they should be 
made. I didn’t open the store to put myself 
in a pressure situation. 1 just wanted to be 
happy 

For a long time, I was happy as an 
agent. Then things began to change. | was 
constantly coordinating other people's 
lives while mine was going to hell. I real- 
ized 1 could be doing the same thing in ten 
years and still not get anywhere, so I 
began to think of alternative ways of mak- 
ing a living. 

Most people equate success with mate- 
rial possessions and making a lot of 
1 thought that way myself once. 
But when I started the cookie business, 
that was out of my mind; 1 achieved suc- 
cess by giving up the idea of becoming a 
success. 

Of course, success 


diflerent for every- 
body. My mother felt a great sense of 
accomplishment from her work. She 
was—and is—a proud lady and was in 
demand as a domestic. I don't know that 
she wanted fancy cars. When 1 was a 
youngster growing up in ‘Tallahassee, we 
never had a lot of material things, but I 
didn't long for them. I always had what I 
needed—nice clothes and enough food. 
My parents never talked about wishing 
that we had this or that. 
Today. one of my biggest fecli 
cess, something that I really enjoy, 
working in the back yard. The house | 
hav ^ 
had never worked in a yard before 
never realized how important dirt was. I 
(continued on page 232) 


te 


now is the first I've 


BERNARD ap EBENE 


ALL THESE SIXFOOT WITH HANDS AS BIG AS HIDE AND 
> WOMEN, HUEY- he AS LOUD AS MAE AD A 
po STRIDE AS LONG AS MINE. 


AD DRINK AS MUCH AND OHO WE WALK. ANP IN BED, (TS LIKE POING IT WITH 
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PLAYBOY 


could happily spend all day watering and 
weeding. When I moved in, everything in 
the yard was wild. I cut and pruned it all 
myself—1 wanted every new leaf to be 
mine. And they were. What could make 
you feel more successful than that? 

When my shirt and hat and packaging 
material were accepted for the Smith- 
sonian Institution’s Business Americana 
collection, I thought it was a great honor. 
We were the first black business to be 
accepted, But certainly I didn’t look at 
that as a confirmation of my success. 

Our belief system is backward, because 
we want other people to verify us, to con- 
firm our worth. But the individual has to 
confirm his own worth. I wasn’t a failure 
for 39 years before 1 started my cookie 
business. I have value just because | am. 

. 

AMY HECKERLING, 32 (motion- 
picture director of Fast Times at Ridgemont 
High, Johnny Dangerously and the upcom- 
g National Lampoon's Vacation in 
Europe): The one thing I had to rush out 
and get as soon as I could afford one was a 
video recorder. I had to have it to tape all 
those old movies. And then 1 never 
watched them. Still, it's one of the best 
rewards I could get, one of my most valued 
possessions. I know I'm really committed 
to a guy when I take my VCR over to his 
place. 

I make a Jot more money now than I did 
as an assistant editor, and it seems like 
even more when you're a kid from the 
Bronx. I get things in small steps. I drove 
my Datsun into the ground for ten years 
Now I'm driving a four-year-old Volvo 
that I bought used. To me, that seemed 
like enough of a step up. Im not ready for 
a new car. I live in а two-bedroom apart- 
ment. I just don't want to feel too success- 
ful all at once. It would confuse me. 

I know a lot of people to whom posses- 
sions are a big deal. When I was younger, 
І was afraid that if 1 started wanting 
things, my energies would go into the 
wrong places and I'd end up too depressed 
or envious of what other people had. I 
always went out of my way to avoid record 
stores or department stores or anyplace 
that sold things I wanted. Now people are 
always saying, “Why don't you get a better 
car?” Гуе spent so long avoiding posses- 
sions that I just want to tell them to leave 
me atone. 

The people around me in Hollywood 
аге not into what I'm into. I like lying 
around with my boyfriend and cat, watch- 
ing TV. But people here seem to really en- 
joy their cars. Cars are status symbols 
everywhere, but in Hollywood they're 
especially prevalent. Offices also seem to 
be very important. I had a boyfriend who 
was very much into art-deco things. His 
office was gorgeous and very, very tasteful, 
and he thought a great deal about it. So do 
other guys in the busin 

When Fast Times at Ridgemont High was 
showing, I went into a theater a couple of 


232 Weeks after it had been out. 1 could tell 


that the people in the audience were all 
repeaters, because they were talking with 
the film. Seeing all those kids talking along 
with my movie, knowing that they had 
seen it more than once, was an incredible 
high. I wish I could bottle that feeling and 
have it for times when I need it. 

What do I want now? A baby. That's 
something you can't buy, though money 
helps. I also have always wanted a build- 
ing in New York—an old brownstone kept 
in good order. New York is where I’m 
from, and I'm miserable being away. I fig- 
ure that if I owned a little piece of real 
estate, it would give me the feeling of 
still being a New Yorker. Га like a bi- 
coastal 1 

As for vacations, Гус always felt that 1 
should be doing something at all times. T 
had never realized the importance of tak- 
ing time off to clear out your head. I 
always wanted to go to Europe, but 1 was 
either working or, if I wasn't working, I 
didn't have enough money. So the first 
time I saw Europe was when I was on a 
two-week whirlwind tour scouting loca- 
tions for Vacation in Europe. In order to get 
there, I had to have a purpose. 

My needs are not great. To me, it’s lux- 
ury enough not to have to worry abou 
money. It’s nice knowing I can go to New 
York when I want to. For a long time, I 
couldn't afford the plane ticket. 

. 

ROCKY H. AOKI, 46 (founder and 
chairman of Benihana of Tokyo, Inc.; 
champion balloonist and powerboat 
racer): People tend to measure success 
with money, possessions and power. Гуе 
made a certain amount of money, so I'm 
considered successful. But success is a 
journey. If you stop satisfying yourself, 
that’s the end of life. You've got to keep 
trying to achieve. For me, making money 
is not the only success. [t's also personal 
freedom and the ability to say “To hell 
with what other people think.” Success 
means being able to do anything I want, 
and that includes making world and 
national records. I want to make history. 

When f made a world record in balloon- 
ing, 1 was quite happy, but for only a short 
period of time. If you're a professional ad- 
venturist, you have to look for new 
challenges. 

As far as possessions go, I always think 
about their resale value. When I buy a car, 
I want to make sure I will make money 
when I sell it. When I buy a house—and 
the one I am in now is my seventh—I 
think about how much money ГЇЇ make 
when I sell. I'm like a used-car s 
anything I buy I want to sell. 

Success and possessions are different 
things, and possessions mean nothing to 
me now. I have a good friend, the chair- 
man of a big chemical company, who 
leases everything. Why? Because there are 
fewer headaches. I agree with him. E don't 
want to own so many houses, because it 
just means more headaches. I'm changing 
from a house to a condo, a place where I 


lesman— 


can lock one small door. I have a big house 
in Miami, and all that means is that I have 
to worry about the two guys who work 
there, about cutting the grass, about fixing 
the garage doors and about the cars. Ow 
ing a lot of things is one way for me to 
make myself very miserable. 1 want to go 
back to renting and leasing everything. 

When dreams become reality, they often 
end up as nightmares. I 30 cars, which 
was my dream. But in reality, 30 cars are a 
nightmare—you just can't keep them 
without moving the engines. That meant 
someone would have to start them up regu- 
larly, and that became a nightmare. Гуе 
been racing for nine years and once had 
seven boats. They, too, became a night- 
mare, so I simply donated them all and 
became much happier once they were gone. 

They look at me as a hero in Japan. 
Although many corporations have come 
here and become successful, few individual 
Japanese have. I'm paid $30,000 to speak 
before groups in Japan. In Japan, the sym- 
bols of success are pretty much the same as 
they are here. Money is very big, but your 
family is also very important. They say, 
“Sure, Rocky Aoki is making money, but he 
was a taxi driver and a factory worker 20 
years ago.” 


E 

RICK MEARS, 33 (two-time winner of 
the Indianapolis 500): I had never 
planned to drive Indy cars. For me, racing 
a hobby, what I enjoyed doing. I was 
going 10 work construction for my dad. I 
worked during the weck to make money 
for the weekend. I did what I enjoyed 
most, and so I gave it 110 percent. 

It’s nice to make a living at racing. It 
would be nice to make enough to be able 
to say that I was comfortable and could 
take care of myself, but I'm not there yet, 
and I don't know if I ever will be. I'm very 
fortunate to have what I do have. I don't 
feel any different than when I got out of 
high school. People change more toward 
you than you change—they tend to put 
you on a pedestal, and I've had trouble 
with that. 

When 1 started racing, building cars 
with my brother and dad, I was strug- 
gling, really struggling. It was a strain to 
make ends meet. I was divorced about a 
year and a half ago, but 1 remember that 
my ex-wife once wanted to buy а bathing 
suit and we couldn't айога it. She went 
over to my dad's and washed dump trucks 
to cam enough money to buy it. We 
counted every dollar. Still, I have always 
had a good life. My dad made a comfort- 
able living, but we were not rich by any 
means. I worked, was married and had 
two kids, and we really had to watch it. 
But just about the time the bills stacked up 
and I started to get nervous about where 
the money would come from, Pd luck out 
and win a race just in the nick of time to 
pull ut of the hole. 

Of course, I love cars. I have a Ferrari, 
but still there are other cars Га like to 
have that I don't have. 1 like antique 


A 
an ounce of Kahl а id 
nchanting; Because only 
urs, compliments of the house, 
PO. Box 230, Los Angeles, С 
aidstone Wine & Spirits Inc., Los Angeles, С 


PLAYBOY 


234 


cars—Packards and Mercedes especially. 
I'd love to buy one, but you've got to plan 
for the future and keep your head screwed 
on straight. The Ferrari was my gift to 
myself for winning the Indy in 1979. It’s 
foolish. It’s not foolish. I felt like I earned 
it, and I enjoy it very much. 

Still, if I buy a new car, I get sick to my 
jomach, whether or not I can afford it. 
Гуе always wanted cars, but I never let 
myself want something I can’t afford. The 
Ferrari was very impractical. It’s a nice 
car, but I don't get to drive it a lot. 1 think 
about selling it from time to time, but then 
Т wash it and think, Nah, I don't want to 
sell this. I have eight cars, including pace 
cars from Indy and two cars from winning 
the championship in two years. Some | 
keep at my house, some at my brother's 
house and some at my dad's. 

The nicest financial reward is simply 
not having to watch every penny—being 
able to buy something on the spur of the 
moment without worrying that it will 
break me, like going fishing and being able 
to buy a new pole and tackle or getting 
the right gun for a hunting trip. I wouldn’t 
have been able to do those things before. 

There’s no one possession that makes 
mc feel as if Pye made it. It doesn't matter 
how much money you make, there's never 
enough to do what you want. You can buy 
a 40-foot boat, but there's always some 
guy who is going to pass you in a 60-footer. 
Ifyou work your way up to a 60-footer, a 
guy will go by with a 100-footer. There's 
always something bigger and better. 

. 

JOE SEDELMAIER, 51 (director of 
TV commercials; creator of Wendy's 
“Where's the beef?” campaign and Fed- 
eral Express’ fast-talking executive): Suc- 
cess is getting your kicks. Everything 
works out in averages. We don’t always 
win, but as long as your average is up there 
and you get your kicks somehow, that's 
great. For me, it's that amazing feeling I 
get secing something happen, something 
suddenly take life, something I have cre- 
ated. It’s like magic. 

T can remember when I was about 12 
years old. [had saved cnough money on my 
paper route and got together enough 
money with my friends to buy an eight- 
millimeter camera. I pulled it all together, 
created, shot and edited a little fantasy. 
Making it happen was its own reward— 
the high you get from doing it is the best 
thing that comes out of work. The interest- 
ing thing is that the high never gets any 
better. The tremendous high I got as a kid 
with that film is the same high I get today. 
My work may be better, but the feeling is 
the same. And it’s important to have those 
moments. 

I couldn't be one of those guys who 
don’t get creative kicks out of their work 
nd, instead, do water colors on the week- 
ends to make up for it. So many people in 


the advertising business don't like what 
they do, but they say, "I'm making so 
much money, I'm going to keep doing 
what I’m doing.” I think it’s a carry-over 
of the old Puritan work ethic that says you 
can’t enjoy life, that the enjoyment has to 
be replaced with weekend water colors. 1 
don't have weckend water colors. For me, 
the big rewards are those special mo- 
ments—and that’s all there is. That’s all 
1 can hope for. 

One of the best things about success is 
control, Now | have more control than I 
ever did. Artistic control is the best thing 1 
could have possibly earned 

I like to read, to swim, to be with my 
family. I enjoy going to the theater, the 
symphony, eating good food, wearing nice 
clothes. All those material rewards are sort 
of nice, but they're just the dessert. 1 
couldn't enjoy them if 1 didn't get my kicks 
out of what I do. I never longed for bi; 
cars or any of that stuff. There was a time 
when I was working for a big corporation 
and earning a lot of money, but I was very 
unhappy. Once you don't get those cre- 
ative kicks anymore, you're dead. And 
when you do get them—when you create a 
character, sce it come to life and watch 
people react—that's fantastic. 1 don't 
even call that work. 

. 

ORE VIDAL, 59 (author): Success is 
an exertion of power over others and, obvi- 
ously, over yourself, too. So at what point 
does that register? I'd say with me it regis- 
tered only once. Power for me is power 
over an audience, particularly a physical 
audience. When Nixon beat McGovern, 
only Massachusetts voted for McGovern. I 
was giving the Ford Hall Forum Lectures 
in Boston, opening the series. There must 
have been about 1200 people in Jordan 
Hall, which is a huge old place. And I took 
questions and gave answers, droning on 
and on. Then somebody said, “Why do 
you think it is that Massachusetts is the 
y state in the Union that voted for 
McGovern against Nixon?” 

I said, “Well, I could flatter you and I 
could tell you that Boston is the Athens of 
America" —1 got a bit of applause for that 
local reference—‘“but Pm not going to 
flatter you. I'll tell you the truth. Since the 
beginning of the republic, Massachusetts 
has been the most corrupt state in the 
Union, and you know a crook when you 
see one.” Well, the house fell apart. That's 
success. That is power. 

Success also means being number one i 
your field. But a writer never knows that. 
Nor does an actor. In politics, it’s easy. If 
you enter a room and they play Hail to the 
Chief—that's how you know you've made 
it in Washington, D.C. Otherwise, you're 
rricr around there. 

Politicians who are not Presidents don’t 
feel successful —particularly the powerfi 
ones. There are some who just settle b; 
and ultimately accept the fact that as far as 


they're going to get is being chairman of 
the House Ways and Means Committee- 
Although they have certain power, I'd say 
last one of them wat 


ed 10 go into 


lent is as much an accident as any- 
ig else. 

Гус never felt particularly successful 
about anything. I don't think successful 
people ever think they're successful. Fai 
ures probably tend to feel they're more 
successful than successful people do. 

Although I own homes in Ravello, Italy, 
and Los Angeles, Гуе never wanted to 
own a house, I've always liked the idea of 
living in one room and moving whenever I 
felt like it. I have to have houses, because I 
have books. Without books, I can't do the 
work that I do. So I get a place in which to 
put the books, and I may just as well get a 
place in a landscape that I like. 

Гуе never liked automobiles. 1 don't 
even own a car. Sometimes Hl rent onc. 
Гуе never wanted to own anything 

I can't talk about many successful peo- 
ple. I know some, but I don't ask them 
questions. ‘They tend not to be very intro- 
Let me tell you something that 
isracli wrote that might apply to this. In 
Endymion, one of the characters says, “Sen- 
sible men are all of the same religion.” 

“And pray, what is that?” asks another 
character. 

“Sensible men never tell,” came the 
reply. 


. 

KATHLEEN TURNER, 27 (actress, 
Body Heat, Romancing the Stone): For me, 
the reward of success is not money but the 
relief from the pressure to take every job. 
For an actress, the only right you really 
have is to say no. | think success is great 
freedom of choice and the ability to say no 
without fear. I recently got married, and I 
think success played a large part in that 
decision. I think Гуе reached a certain 
level of self-confidence and feel diflerent 
about myself. A couple of years ago, all my 
attention was focused on proving things to 
myself and to others. At that point, you 
don’t have the confidence to make a com- 
mitment like marriage. You have to get 
that out of the wa . I couldn't have 
gotten mai and I think my husband 
feels the same way—until reaching that 

irmation 

a lot to me. Вис 
there is one possession that makes me feel 
that I've made it. Last June, I bought a 
1970 Mercedes-Benz 280SL. 105 a little 
; the rounded one 
у € they made the one that 
looks like an elephant. When I ride around 
with the top down and people look at me, I 
say to myself, “I bet they think I'm a 
movie star." It makes me feel . . 
hadn't had a car in eight years. This is my 
big splurge. 

The first time 1 felt suc 
in the past year. 1 finally beca 
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happened when people started approach- 
ing me with projects without my having to 
go after them. Actually, that started a cou- 
ple of years ago, but then people had a set 
idea of what I could do, and that idea was 
defined by the glamorous role [ played in 
Body Heat. Y have three scripts now—one 
is about a cabdriver; another is about a 
lawyer and mother of two kids. 

T think success is great. I meet people 
who feel guilty or are apologetic about it, 
but that doesn't make sense, because 
everything you work for is aimed toward 
that. ОГ course, for an actor, success is 
never a given. After you prove yourself in 
опе part, you go on to another. You're con- 
stantly proving yourself. 

. 

ALLEN H. NEUHARTH, 60 (ch: 
man and chief executive officer of Gannett 
Company, Inc., publisher of 120 newspa- 
pers, including USA Today): For me, the 
greatest reward is being able to sit at a 
window on the world and then tell the 
world what you see through that window. 
I'm still basically a newsperson who hap- 
pened to get into general management. 
Sitting at the window and getting to pa 
the picture is how I get my kicks. Doing 
that, and sceing it in print, is a bigger high 
than reading a profit-and-loss statement 
But if those statements weren't good, I 
would have to concentrate more on them. 

I think success for individuals in what- 
ever field they are in is having their 
achievements match their abilities and 
ambition. When I was editor of my high 
school paper, I had the same feeling of 
success. There were only 100 people in my 
gh school, but I was the guy who 


what was on and what kind of pic- 
ture to paint. The same thing was true of. 
college. 


To me, the rewards are not just finan- 
cial. The pleasure comes out of participat- 
ing in figuring out what makes the world 
i that information. Pm 
reasonably well rewarded financially, but 
I would da it for a hell of a lot less money if. 
necessary 

I don't mean to belittle the material 
rewards of success. I enjoy the good life, as 
1 think most people do. It’s nice to be able 
to wear what you want, go where you 
want, eat what you want— without worry- 
ing about the money. But Гус never had 
as an objective the idea of accumulating 
any great wealth. Tm not wealthy; Tm 
well to do. If I had concentrated as hard 
on making money for myself as I had on 


professional successes, | would be a hell of. 


a lot richer. But it wouldn't have been as 


much fun. 


. 

MICHAEL GRAVES, 50 (award- 
winning architect; professor at Princeton 

iversity): Architectural success is 
defined differently in the academic and 
commercial worlds, and often there is very 
little crossover. In the academic world, 
there are people with strong theories who 
are published and are well known. Then 


there are architects who have great com- 
mercial buildings that sometimes may not 
be looked at by students of architecture 
with admiration or even any great interest. 
I followed the model of trying to teach and 
practice simultaneously, but I wasn’t very 
successful in my carly years in getting 
many buildings. When you're young, you 
are offered small commissions by your 
neighbors. I became known as the cubist- 
kitchen king—pictures of some of my 
kitchens were even published. Many aca- 
demics never build and are very happy. 
However, teaching in itself is very gratify- 
ing. I taught for 21 years. I still do. It 
keeps up my critical skills. 
There are architects whose greatest g 
is sull to build the tallest building in 
a. Nothing interests me less. To me, 
the creative high comes from making the 
initial drawing and then sceing the build- 
ing. | had seen my municipal-services 
building in Portland, Oregon, through 
various stages of completion. One day it 
had been a skeleton, and a few s had 
passed before I went back. It was like no 
other day of my life. It was really extraor- 
dinary. I loved the building. I looked 
across the strect from it and saw an ordi- 
пагу steel-and-glass building. I thought 


that the architect of that building couldn't 


I did. How 


possibly have felt the way 
could the workmen be int 
structing repeated floor 
pattern? I liked my building. Not only 
that, I thought it had a kind of potency 
that had impact. 

As for material rewards, it’s awfully nice 
being out of debt after you've been in debt 
for 15 years. I'm rather frugal, and I still 
can't айога to finish my house. But my 
children are in college, and they need 
money. You can't imagine how nice it is to 
write a check for the education of your kids 
or to send your daughter to Florence. It's 
an extraordinary kind of thing for me. 

In a material sense, one of my great pas- 
sions is looking at, designing and buying 
furniture. I bought a Biedermeier chair a 
few years ago. | never sit in it—it's 
uncomfortable—but I like it very much 

D 

PAIGE RENSE, 50 (editor in chief of 
Architectural Digest and Bon Appétit): My 
weekend house in Montecito, near Santi 
Barbara, which I got about a year ago, 
ectest reward. Of all my possessions, 
ives me the most pleasure. It's a very 
imple little house. When Em in town, I go 
up there every weekend, and I'm going on 
a two-week vacation there soon. I didn’t 
have a decorator. It 
had some country things put i 
itis. 

To me, luxu very little to do with 
acquisitions. 1 inner freedom. At 
some point over the past few years, 1 
began to feel a certain inner frecdom— 
and as a result, l'm not as driven any- 
more. Now I actively seck simplicity in 
every arca of my life, When you're driven 
your eye is always fixed on the next thing. 


My eye is now firmly on the present 

What 1 enjoy most is peace. I no longer 
yearn to travel; in fact, I find it very 
cult. For me, the perfect luxury trip 
be one without a single appointment. In 
the past, I enjoyed working while I trav- 
eled, because it meant that I wasn't a 
spectator. Now I'm perfectly content to be 
a spectator. 


. 

PAUL SHAFFER, 35 (bandleader on 
Late Night with David Letterman): For me, 
the best reward for what suecess I have is 
getting to play with performers I have idol- 
ized since I was a kid. I remember in р; 
ticular when James Brown was on the 
Letterman show. It was a huge thrill for 
me and everyone in the band. So was play- 
ing with Ellie Greenwich, who wrote a lot 
of my favorite songs when I was a Kid, or 
Darlene Love, lead singer for Bob B. Soxs 

nd The Blue Jeans. She sang lead on The 
Crystals’ He's a Rebel, 

The highs come from playing with 
someone else when there's a musical fecl- 
ing and concentration between you. 1 
don't play alone much, but it can happen 
then, too. It takes a lot of concentration to 
create that feeling and hit that groove. 
That concentration used to be easier wher 
I was a kid; maybe then I didn’t have so 
many worldly cares. Now it takes more to 
blot out the outside and strive for that 
high. If you get that high while you're cre- 
ng music, ideally, people will get the 
same high when they listen. To me, it’s all 
about hitting that groove. Otherwise, 
what would I be doing here? 

1 haven't been all that materialistic, 
because Гуе been striving so hard to hit 
that groove and to work and learn from 
people I respect. 1 don't really own any- 
thing, to tell you the truth. I don't eve! 
live that differently from the way I did 
when I started out. I've never had time to 
get a bigger place or fix up anything. 
When I get home at night, I just fall into 
bed. I've been too busy working to enjoy 
material posses: 

It's nice to be able to get any equipment 

need. I have a video-tape machine. I 
needed a synthesizer, and it felt good to be 
able to buy it without worrying. It's nice 
to travel, if I get time off. But I don’t travel 
extravagantly. My 
lovely pool with a bar beside it. I don't 
worry much about where it i: 

Nobody feels successful all the time, 
especially in show business. A hit today 
passé tomorrow. It’s great to be working 

n New York, but you always have to be 
ready to go play the lounge 
Inn. I've always loved playing the pi 
Even when I was putting my time in at 
lounges in Canada. I was enjoying myself 
almost as much as I am now. 

Is there anything I've always wanted 
that I don’t have? Î check the Playmate 
Data Sheet every month, 
haven't made FAVORIT 
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PLAYBOY 


238 


FATHERS, SONS 


(continued from page 112) 


“Did we come to by God hunt or did we come to 
hunt? ... That was something men said to other men.” 


Uncle Alton lifted his glass toward the 
sound of the angry, healthy squalling, a 
brief smile touching his face, and said, 
“There it is. There it is right there.” 

And so it is. Part of the way I am 
bonded to my son is made up of the way I 
will always be bonded to Uncle Alton, 
dead now these many years, dead before 
Byron could ever know him. But no great 
matter. Blood is our only permanent his- 
tory, and blood history does not admit of 
ion. Or so some of us believe. 

. 

picked up a magazine not long ago in 
which a man was writing about his chil- 
dren. In the very beginning of the piece, 
he said, “The storms of childhood and 
adolescence had faded into the past.” He 
would be the poorer for it if that were true. 
But it is not true, not for him or for any 
father. The storms don't fade into the past, 
nor do all the moments that are beautiful 
and full of happiness, the moments that 
quicken our hearts with pride. In early 
July of the summer Byron would turn 12, 
we were sitting on the top of Springer 
Mountain in Georgia. It was raining and 
we were scaked and exhausted to the bone, 
having made the long steep climb of the 
approach to the Appalachian Trail, which 
winds its way across the Eastern United 
States and finally ends on Mount 
Katahdin in Maine. Between us, embed- 
ded in the boulder on which we were sit- 
ting, was the metal image of a young hiker. 

Byron put his hand on the stone and 
said, “Well, we made it to the beginning.” 

And so we had, but a hell of a beginning 
it had been. It hadn't stopped raining all 
day as we'd climbed steadily over broken 
rock. He was carrying a 20-pound pack 
and mine weighed 45, both probably too 
heavy, but we'd decided to pack enough 
with us so that we could hike for as long as 
we wanted to without getting out of the 
mountains to restock our supplies. I had 
put him in the lead to set the pace. 

“Remember, we're not in a hurry,” I 
called after we'd been going awhile. “This 
is not a goddamn contest.” 

I was forced to say it because he'd taken 
off over the brutally uneven trail like a 
young goat. He'd looked back at me for 
only an instant and kept climbing. 

‘Then, as the mud and rock made the 
footing more and more unsure, I said, 
“You think we ought to find a place to wait 
out this rain?” 

He stopped and turned for just an 
instant to look at me. “Did we come to by 
God hike or did we come to hike: 

He was smiling, but he'd said it with 
just the finest edge of contempt, which is 


the way you are supposed to say it, and I 
scrambled to follow him, my heart lifting. 
Byron had heard me ask him much the 
same thing many times before, because if 
you change a couple of words 
will serve in any number of circumstances 
And now, in great high spirits, he was 
ing it back to me. I would not be surprised 
if someday he gave it to his own son. 

The question had come down to him 
through my own mouth from Uncle Alton. 
When he would be in the woods with me 
and his other sons hunting on a freezing 
November morning and one of us sa 
i about being cold or otherwise 
uncomfortable, he'd say, "Did we come to 
by God hunt or did we come to hunt?” 
And the other boys and I would feel imme- 
¡ely better, because that was something 
men said to other men. It was a way a man 
had of reminding other men who they 
were. We had been spoken to as equals, 

All of that is what I was thinking while 
we sat there in a misting rain on a boulder 
with the metal image ofa hiker in it signal- 
ing the official beginning of the Appa- 
lachian Trail atop Springer Mountain. But 
it was not what he was thinking. 

“Dad, you remember about the time 
with the P 

‘The time about the rain? Hell, son, we 
been in the rain a lot together." I was wet 
and my fect hurt. I wanted to get the tent 
up and start a fire. 

He cut his eyes toward me. Drops of 
rain hung on the ends of his finc lashes. He 
was suddenly very serious. What in the 
hell was coming down here? What was 
coming down was the past that is never 
past and, in this case, the past against 
which I had no defense except my own 
failed heart. 

“We weren't in it together," he said. 
“You made me stand in it. Stand in it for a 
long time.” 

Yes, I had done that, but I had not 
thought about it in years. It's just not the 
sort of thing a man would want to think 
about. Byron’s mother had gone North for 
a while and left me to take care of him. He 
was then seven years old and just starting 
in the second grade. [ had told him that 
day to be home at six o'clock and we 
would go out to dinner. Truthfully, we'd 
been out to eat every night since Sally had 
been gone, because washing dishes is right 
up at the top of the list of things I won't 
do. It had started misting rain at midday 
and had not stopped. Byron had not 
appeared at six, nor was he there at 6:45. 
That was back when I was bad to go to the 
bottle, and while I wasn't drunk, I wasn't 
sober, either. Lay it on the whiskey. A man 


will snatch at any straw to save himself 
from the respon ty of an ignoble 
action. When he did come home at 7:15, I 
asked him where he'd been. 

“At Joe's," he said. But I had known 
that. I reminded him of when we had said 
we were going to dinner. But he had 
known that. 

"It was ra y he said. 

I said, "Let's go out and look at it.” 

We went out into the carport and 
watched the warm spring rain. 

And you thought the rain would hurt 
you if you walked home in 

“Its raining, Dad," he said, exas- 
perated now. 

“ГИ tell you what," I said. "You go out 
there and stand in it and we'll see how bad. 
it hurts you.” 

He walked out into the rain and stood 
looking at me. “How long do I have to 
stand here?” 

“Only until we see if it hurts you. Don't 
worry, ГЇЇ tell you when you are about to 
get hurt.” 

1 went back inside. So far, pretty shitty, 
but it gets worse. When I went back 
inside, I sat down in a recliner, meaning to 
stay there only a minute. But I hadn't 
reckoned with the liquor and the rain on 
the roof. I woke with a start and looked at 
my watch. It was a quarter of nine. I went 
outside and there the boy stood, his blond 
hair plastered and every thread on him 
soaked. He didn’t look at all sad or forlorn; 
what he did look was severely pissed. 

“Come on in,” I said. And 
“Where do you want to eat?” 

“I don't think I want to eat.” 

“How do you feel?” I asked. 

He glared at me. “Well, I'm not hurt.” 

We sat there on the top of Springer 
Mountain and looked at each other with 
the rain falling around us. I'd forgotten 
entirely about my feet and the tent and the 
fire. My throat felt like it was closing up 
and I had to speak to keep breathing. 

“I wanted to apologize, but I had done 
such a sorrv-assed thing that I couldn't 
bring myself to do it. But at the time, it 
didn't seem like it'd do any good.” 

Tt probably wouldn't have,” he 
“Then.” 

“Well, I'm sorry. I was wrong. I should 
have said so, but. . . ." I'd run out of 
words. 

He said, “I know. And I was only down 
the block. Гуе thought about it. I could 
have called. But, shit, I was only a little 
kid.” 

1 loved that. 1 loved how he said he was 
only a little kid. “What were you thinking 
while you were out there? I mean, you had 
plenty of time to think.” 

He shook his head and laughed as 
though he couldn't believe the memory of 
his thinking himself. “I never thought but 
one thing.” 

“What was that?” 

“1 thought, That drunk fucker thinks 
I'm going to call and ask him to come in 
out of the rain . . . but I’m not.” Then he 


then: 


id. 


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240 


laughed like it was the funniest thing in the 
world, and 1 laughed, too. 

That was the first time I knew he was 
the kind of guy who could be put out on 
the street naked and he'd survive. The kid 
had grit in his craw. I thought it then and 
I think it now. But more than that, there 
on the mountain, the boy and I had been 
privileged to share a moment of grace that 
we could never have shared if I had not 
fucked up so badly all those years ago and 
if he had not had the kind of heart he has 
But that moment is the privilege of blood. 

. 

Sons grow up, though. God knows they 
do in a New York heartbeat. Byron grew 
up running with me. By the time he w: 
teenager, we had a four-mile course full of 
hills laid out. But the very worst of the 
hills was the last one. On the four miles, 
we jogged and talked, nothing serious; but 
at the bottom of that last, long hill, we'd 
always turn to shout at cach other, “Balls! 
Who's got 'em?" And then we'd sprint and 
thought | 
But the day came at the 


" 


I always won. Somehow, 1 


always would 


beginning of his 14th year when he beat 
me by 20 yards. I shook his hand, but I 


was pissed. I don’t like to lose at anything. 
But then, neither does he. And we always 
understanding between 
never, to my knowledge, spoken—that 
neither of us, whether playing handball or 


had the us— 


whatever, gave the other anything. If you 


wanted the point, you had to win it. As we 
cooled out walking, I began to feel better 
and then proud of him. But the only thing 
I said was, “There's al 


‘ays tomorrow." 

He patted my back, a little too kindly, a 
little too softly, I thought, and said, “Sure, 
Dad, there’s always tomorrow.” 

I never beat him on the hill again. But I 
still had the gymnasium. Lungs and speed 
may go, but strength stays. Well, it stays 
for a while. And I don't even have to tell 
you, do I?, that the day came when he was 
stronger on the bench and at the rack than 
I was. Strange feeling for a father. No, not 
strange; sad. Part of me wanted him to 


grow into manhood, but another part of 


me had a hard time accepting it. Maybe, 
in my private heart, PII never be entirely 
able to accept it. If live to be 70, he'll still 
be my boy at 40. 1 know; mushy, isn’t it? 1 
don’t even like it myself. But I don't have 
to like it; all I have to do is live with it 
And out of the fecling of the father for 
the son comes the desire to save him from 
pain, knowing full well that it is impossi- 
ble. But that in no way diminishes the 
desire. You want to save him from the 
obvious things, like broken legs or lac- 


erated flesh; but more than that, you are at 
some trouble to see that he is not hurt by 
life. I am talking here about education 
Maybe Pm particularly sensitive 
that beca 


about 


¢ nobody in the history of my 


family cver went to college except me, and 


1 had to join the Marine Corps during the 
Korean War so I could get the GI Bill to 
do that. So imagine how I felt six months 
ago when I walked hy Byron’s apartment 
and, as we were talking, he told me that he 
was quitting the university after being 
there two 

“What are you going to do, son?” 

“Play guitar,” he said 

The guitar has been his passion for 
years. It is not unusual for him to practice 
six hours a day for weeks running. And to 
give him his due, he is a righteous picker. 
But if he just continued in the university, 
he would. . . . But you probably know the 
kinds of things I tried to tell him. Father 
things. But he wasn’t having any oí 

Finally, in exasperation. I said a dumb 
fatherly thing: “Byron, do you know how 
many boys there are in this country with 
guitars who think they're going to make a 
living picking?” 

He only smiled and asked, “Dad, when 
you were my age, how many boys do you 
think there were in this 
owned typewriters who thought they were 
going to make a living writing?” 

There it is. The father has his dream 
The son has his. And a dream is un- 


ears. 


who 


country 


answerable. All you can do for a man with 
a dream is wish him well 


“Do well, son,” f said 


“Pil try,” he said. 


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REMEMBER THIS 


(continued from page 200) 


“He watches her full breasts sway above him; it’s all 
happening so fast, he'd like to slow it down.” 


her lips swollen and parted. Light licks at 
her face. He gazes steadily at her from his 
superior moral position, smoke drifting up 
from his hand once more, his white tuxedo 
pressed against the revolver barrel. Her 
eyes close as the gun lowers, and she gasps 
his name: “Richard!” It is like an invoca- 
tion. Or a profession of faith. “I tried to 
stay away,” she sighs. She opens her eyes, 
peers up at him in abject surrender. A tear 
moves slowly down her cheek toward the 
corner of her mouth, like secret writing. 
“I thought I would пейт see you 
again . . . that you were out off my 
. .. 7% She blinks, cries out faintly— 
“Ol and (he seems moved at last, his 
mask of disdain falling away like perspira- 
tion) turns away, her head wrenched to 
one side as though in pain. 

Stricken with concern, or what looks 
like concern, he steps up behind her, 
clasping her breasts with both hands, nuz- 
g in her hair. “The day you left 
Paris..." she sobs, though she seems 
unsure of herself. One of his hands is 
already down between her legs, the other 
inside her blouse, pulling a breast out of its 
brassiere cup. "If you only knew . . . what 
L..." He is moaning, licking at one ear, 
the hand between her legs nearly lifting 
her off the floor, his pelvis bumping at her 
buttocks. “Is this . . . right?” she gasps. 

“1—1 don't know!” he groans, massag- 
ing her breast, the nipple between two fin- 
gers. “I can't think!” 

"But... you must think!” she cries, 
squirming Her hips, Tears are streaming 
down her cheeks now. “For . . . for. - 

“What?” he gasps, tearing her blouse 
open, pulling on her breast as though to 
it over her shoulder where he might 
Or eat it: He seems ravenous sud- 


. I can't remember!” she sobs. 
She reaches behind to jerk at his fly (what 
else is she to do, for the love of Jesus?), 
then rips away her sash, unfastens her 
skirt, her fingers trembling. 

“Holy shit!” he wheczes, pushing his 
hand inside her girdle as her skirt falls. 
His cheeks, too, аге wet with tears. “Ilsa!” 

“Richard!” 

They fall to the floor, grabbing and 
pulling at each other’s clothing. He's try- 
ing to get her bra off, which is tangled up 
now with her blouse; she’s struggling with 
his belt, yanking at his black pants, 
wrenching them open. Buttons fly, straps 
pop; there's the soft, unfocused rip of silk, 
the jingle of buckles and falling coins, 
grunts, gasps, whimpers of desire. He 
strips the tangled skein of underthings 
away (all these straps and stays—how 


does she get in and out of this crazy clas- 
tic?); she works his pants down past his 
bucking hips, fumbles with his shoes. 
“Your elbow!” 


She pulls his pants and boxer shorts off, 
crawls round and (he strokes her shimmer- 
ing buttocks, swept by the light from the 
airport tower, watching her full breasts 
sway above him; it’s all happening so fast, 
he'd like to slow it down, repeat some of 
the better bits—that view of her rippling 
haunches on her hands and knees just 
now, for example: like a 22, his lucky 
number—but there’s a great urgency on 
them, they can't wait) straddles him, eas- 
ing him into her like a train being guided 
into a station. “I luff you, Richard!” she 
declares breathlessly, though she seems to 
be speaking, сус» squeezed shut and 
breasts heaving, not to him but to the ceil- 
ing, if there is one up there. His eyes, too, 
are closed now, his hands gripping her soft 
hips, pulling her down, his breath coming 
in short, anguished snorts, his face puffy 
and damp with tears. There is, as always, 
something deeply wounded and vulnera- 
ble about the expression on his battered 
face, framed there against his Persian 
carpet: Rick Blaine, a man annealed by 
loneliness and betrayal, but flawed— 
hopelessly, it seems—by hope itself. He is, 
the tragic sense, a true revolutionary: 
His gaping mouth bespcaks this, the spit- 
tle in the corners of his lips, his eyes, open 
now and staring into some infinite distance 
not unlike the future, his knitted brow. He 
heaves upward, impaling her to the very 
core: "Oh, Gott!” she screams, her back 
arching, mouth agape as though to com- 
mence La Marseillaise. 

Now, for a moment, they pause, feeling 
themselves thus conjoined, his organ luxu- 
riating in the warm tub of her vagina, her 
enflamed womb closing around his pulsing 
penis like a mother embracing a lost child. 
“If you only knew . . ." she seems to say, 
though perhaps she has said this before 
and only now it can be heard. He fondles 
her breasts; she rips his shirt open, strokes 
his chest, leans forward to kiss his lips, his 
nipples. This is not Victor inside her, with 
his long, thin rapier, all too rare in its 
embarrassed this is not Yvonne, 
with her cunning professional muscles, her 
hollow airy hole. This is love in all its 
clammy mystery, the ultimate connection, 
the squishy rub of truth, flesh as a self- 
consuming message. This is necessity, as 
in woman needs man and man must have 
his mate. Even their identities seem to be 
dissolving; they have to whisper each oth- 
er's names from time to time as though in 


recitative struggle against some ultimate 
enchantment from which there may be no 
return, Then, slowly, she begins to wriggle 
her hips above him, he to meet her gentle 
undulations with counterthrusts of his 
own. They hug each other close, panting, 
her breasts smashed against him, moving 
only from the waist down. She slides her 
thighs between his and squeezes his penis 
between them, as though to conceal it 
there, an underground member on the 
run, wounded but unbowed. He lifts his 
stockinged feet and plants them behind 
her knees as though in stirrups, her but- 
tocks above pinching and opening, pinch- 
ing and opening like a suction pump. And 
it is true about her vaunted radiance: She 
scems almost to glow from within, her flex- 
ing cheeks haloed in their own dazzling 
luster. 

“It feels so good, Richard! In there. . . . 
I've been so—ah!—so lonely!” 
“Yeah, me, too, kid. Ngh! Don’t talk!” 

She slips her thighs back over his and 
draws them up beside his waist like a child 
curling around her Teddy bear, knees 
against his ribs, her fanny gently bobbing 
on its pike like a mind caressing a cher- 
ished memory. He lies there passively for 
a moment, stretched out, eyes closed, 
accepting this warm rhythmical ablution 
as one might accept a nanny’s teasing 
bath, a mother’s care (a care, he's often 
said, де him), in all its delicious 
innocence—or seemingly so: In fact, his 
whole body is faintly atremble, as though, 
with great difficulty, shedding the last of 
its pride and bitterness, its isolate neutral- 
ity. Then, slowly, his own hips begin to 
rock convulsively under hers, his knees to 
rise in involuntary surrender. She tongues 
his car, her buttocks thumping more vigor- 
ously now, kisses his throat, his nose, his 
scarred lip, then rears up, arching her 
back, tossing her head back (her hair is 
looser now, wilder; a flush has crept into 
the distinctive pallor of her cheeks and 
throat, and what was before a fierce deter- 
mination is now raw intensity, what vul- 
nerability now a slack-jawed abandon), 
plunging him in more deeply than ever, his 
own buttocks bouncing up off the floor as 
though trying to take off like the next flight 
to Lisbon—“Gott in Himmel, this is fonn!” 
she cries. She reaches behind her back to 
clutch his testicles, he clasps her hand in 
both of his, his thighs spread, she falls for- 
ward, they roll over, he’s pounding away 
now from above (he lacks her famous radi- 
ance; if anything, his buttocks seem to 
suck in light, drawing a nostalgic murki 
ness around them like night fog, signaling 
a fundamental distance between them, 
and an irresistible attraction), she’s claw- 
ing at his back under the white jacket, at 
his hips, his thighs, her voracious nether 
mouth leaping up at him from below and 
sliding back, over and over, like a frantic 
greased-pole climber. Faster and faster 
they slap their bodies together, submitting 
to this fierce rhythm as though to simplify 
themselves, emitting grunts and whinnies 


241 


PLAYBOY 


and helpless little farts, no longer Rick 
Blaine and Ilsa Lund but some nameless 
conjunction somewhere between them, 
time, space, being itself getting redefined 
by the rapidly narrowing focus of their 
incandescent passion; then, suddenly, 
Rick rears back, his face seeming to puff 
out like a gourd, Ilsa cries out and kicks 
upward, crossing her ankles over Rick’ 


s 
clenched buttocks; for a moment they 
seem almost to float, suspended, unloosed 
from the earth’s gravity, and then— 
whumpf!—they hit the floor again, their 
bodies continuing to hammer together, 
though less regularly, plunging, twitching, 
prolonging this exclamatory dialog, draw- 
ing it out even as the intensity diminishes, 
even as it becomes more a declaration 
than a demand, more an inquiry than a 
declaration. Ilsa’s feet uncross, slide 
slowly to the floor. *Fooff . . . Gott!” They 
lie there, cheek to check, clutching each 
other tightly, gasping for breath, their 
thighs quivering with the last involuntary 
spasms, the echoey reverberations, deep in 
their loins, of pleasure's fading blasts. 

“Jesus,” Rick wheezes, “I’ve been sav- 
ing that one for a goddamn year and a 
half” 

“It was the best fokk I ever have had,” 
Ilsa replies with a tremulous sigh and 
kisses his ear, runs her fingers in his hair. 
He starts to roll off her, but she clasps him 
closely: “Мо... wait!” A deeper, thicker 
pleasure, not so ecstatic yet somehow more 
moving, seems to well up from far inside 
her to embrace the swollen visitor snug- 
gled moisdy in her womb, once a familiar 
friend, a comrade loved and trusted, now 
almost a stranger, like one resurrected 
from the dead. 

“Ah!” he gasps. God, it’s almost like 
she's milking it! Then she lets go, sur- 
rounding him spongily with a 
warm, wet, pulsating gratitude. “Ah. 

He lies there between Ilsa's damp, 1 
thighs, feeling his weight thicken, his mind 
soften and spread. His will drains away as 
if it were some kind of morbid affection, 
lethargy overtaking him like an invading 
army. Even his jaw goes slack, his fingers 
(three sprawl idly on a dark-tipped breast) 
limp. He wears his snowy-white tuxedo 
jacket still, his shiny black socks, which, 
together with the parentheses of Ilsa's 
white thighs, make his melancholy 
buttocks— beaten in childhood, lashed at 
sea, run lean in union skirmishes, sun- 
burned in Ethiopia and shot at in Spain— 
look gloomier than ever, swarthy and 
self-pitying, agape now with a kind of 
heroic sadness. A violent tenderness. 
These buttocks are, it could be said, what 
the pose of isolation looks like at its best: 
proud, bitter, mournful and, as the prefect 
of police might have put it, tremendously 
attractive. Although his penis has slipped 
out of its vaginal pocket to lie limply like a 
fat little toe against her slowly pursing lips, 
she clasps him close still, clinging to some- 
thing she cannot quite define, something 


242 like a spacious dream of freedom, or a. 


monastery garden, or the discovery of elec- 
tricity. “Do you have a gramophone on, 
Richard?" 

"What?" Her question has startled him. 
His haunches snap shut, his head rears up; 
snorting, he seems to be reaching for the 
letters of transit. “Ah . . . no. He 
relaxes again, letting his weight fall back, 
though sliding one thigh over hers now, 
stretching his arms out as though to 
unkink them, turning his face away. His 
scrotum bulges up on her thigh like an 
emblem of his inner serenity and generos- 
ity, all too often concealed, much as an 
authentic decency might shine through a 
mask of cynicism and despair. He takes a 
deep breath. (A kiss is still a kiss is what 
the music is insinuating. A sigh. . . .) 
“That's probably Sam. . . .” 

She sighs (and so forth), gazing up at 
the ceiling above her, patterned with over- 
lapping circles of light from the room’s 
lamps and swept periodically by the 
wheeling airport beacon, coming and 
going impatiently yet reli: bly, like desire 
itself. “He hates me, I thin] 

"Sam? No, he's a pal. What 1 think, he 
thinks." 

"When we came into the bar last night, 
he started playing Luff for Sale. Effryone 
turned and looked at me." 

“It wasn't the song, sweetheart, it was 
the way you two were dressed. Nobody in 
Casablanca- a 

“Then he tried to chase me away. He 
said I was bad luck to you.” She can still 
see the way he rolled his white eyes at her, 
like some kind of crazy voodoo zombie. 

Richard grunts ambiguously. “Maybe 
you should stop calling him ‘Boy.’ " 

Was that it? "But in all the 
moffies——” Well, a translation problem, 
probably, a difficulty she has known often 
in her life. Language can sometimes be as 
stiff as a board. Like what's under her 
now. She loves Richard’s relaxed weight 
on her, the beat of his heart next to her 
breast, the soft, lumpy pouch of his geni- 
tals squashed against her thigh, but the 
floor scems to be hardening under her like 
some kind of stern Calvinist rebuke, and 
there is a disagreeable airy stickiness 
between her legs now that he has slid away 


from there. “Do you haf a bidet, 
Richard?” 

“Sure, kid." He slides to one side with a 
lazy grunt, rolls over. He's thinking 


vaguely about the pleasure he’s just had, 
what it's likely to cost him (he doesn't 
care), and wondering where he'll find the 
strength to get up off his ass and go look 
for a cigarette. He stretches his shirttail 
down and wipes his crotch with it, nods 
back over the top of his head. “In there.” 

She is sitting up, peering between her 
spread legs. “I am afraid we haff stained 
your nice carpet, Richard.” 

“What of it? Put it down as a gesture to 
love. Want a drink?” 

“Yes, that would be good.” She Ісапѕ 
over and kisses him, her face still flushed 
and eyes damp but smiling now, then 


stands and gathers up an armload of tan- 
gled clothing. "Do I smell something 
burning?” 

“What?” He rears up. “My goddamn 
cigarette! I musta dropped it on the 
couch!” He crawls over, brushes at it: It's. 
gone out, but there's a big hole there now, 
dark-edged, like ringworm. “Shit” He 
staggers to his feet, stumbles over to the 
humidor to light up a fresh smoke. Noth- 
ing’s ever free, he thinks, feeling a bit light- 
headed. “What's your poison, kid?” 

“I haff downstairs been drinking 
Cointreau,” she calls out over the running 
water in the next room. He pours himself a 
large whiskey, tosses it down neat (light, 
sliding by, catches his furrowed brow as he 
tips his head back: What is wrong?), pours 
another, finds a decanter of Grand 
Marnier. She won't know the difference. 
In Paris, she confused champagne with 
sparkling cider, ordered a Pommard think- 
ing she was getting a rosé, drank gin 
because she couldn't taste it. He fits the 
half-burned cigarette between his lips, 
tucks a spare over his ear, then carries the 
drinks into the bathroom. She sits, strad- 
dling the bidet, churning water up 
between her legs like the wake of a pleas- 
ure boat. The beacon doesn’t reach in 
here: It's as though he's stepped out of its 
line of sight, but that doesn’t make him 
feel easier (something is nagging at him, 
has been for some time now). He holds the 
drink to her mouth for her, and she sips, 
looking mischievously up at him, one wet 
hand braced momentarily on his hipbone. 
Even in Paris, she seemed to think drink- 
ing was naughtier than sex. Which made 
her on occasion something of a souse. She 
tips her chin, and he sets her drink down 
on the sink. “I wish I didn't luff you so 
much,” she says casually, licking her lips, 
and commences to work up a lather 
between her legs with a bar of soap. 

“Listen, what did you mean,” he asks 
around the cigarette (this is it, or part of it: 
He glances back over his shoulder appre- 
hensively, as though to find some answer 
to his question staring him in the face—or 
what, from the rear, is passing for his 
face), “when you said, ‘Is this right? ” 

“When?” 

“A while ago, when I grabbed your, you 
know- 

“Oh, I don’t know, darling. Yust a 
strange feeling; I don't exactly remem- 
ber.” She spreads the suds up her smooth 
belly and down the insides of her thighs, 
runs the soap up under her behind. “Like 
things were happening too fast or some- 
thing.” 

He takes a contemplative drag on the 
cigarette, flips the butt into the toilet. 
“Yeah, that's it.” Smoke curls out of his 
nostrils like balloons of speech in a comic 
strip. “All this seems strange somehow. 
Like something that shouldn't have. = 

“Well, I am a married woman, 
Richard.” 

“I don't mean that.” But maybe he does 
mean that. She’s rinsing now, her breasts 


flopping gaily above her splashings; 
it’s hard to keep his mind on things. But 
he’s not only been pronging some other 
guy’s wife, this is the wife of Victor Laszlo 
of the International Underground, one of 
his goddamn heroes. One of the world’s. 
Does that matter? He shoves his free hand 
into a jacket pocket, having no other, 
tosses back the drink. “Anyway,” he 
wheezes, “from what you tell me, you were 
married already when we met in Paris, so 
that’s not- 3 

“Come here, Richard," Ilsa interrupts 
with gentle but firm Teutonic insistence. 
Komm! hier. His back straightens, his eyes 
narrow, and for a moment the old Rick 
Blaine returns, the lonely American war- 
rior, incorruptible, melancholy, master of 
his own fate, beholden to no one—but 
then she reaches forward and, like destiny, 
takes a hand. “Don't try to escape,” she 
murmurs, pulling him up to the bidet 
between her knees, “you will neffer suc- 
cced.” 

She continues to hold him with one 
hand (he is growing there, stretching and 
filling in her hand with soft, warm pulsa- 
tions, and more than anything else that 
has happencd to her since she came to 
Casablanca, more even than Sam's song, it 
is this sensation that takes her back to 
their days in Paris: Wherever they went, 
from the circus to the movies, from excur- 
sion boats to dance halls, it swelled in her 
hand, just like this) while soaping him up 
with the other. “Why are you circumcised, 
Richard?” she asks as the engorged head 
(when it flushes, it seems to flush blue) 
pushes out between her thumb and index 
finger. There was something he alwavs 
said in Paris when it poked up at her like 
that. She peers wistfully at it, smiling to 
herself. 

“My old man was a sawbones,” he says 
and takes a deep breath. He sets his empty 
glass down, reaches for the spare fag. It 
seems to have vanished. “He thought it 
was hygienic.” 

“Fictor still has his. Of course, in 
Europe it is often important not to be mis- 
taken for a Chew.” She takes up the fra- 
grant bar of soap (black market, the best; 
Ferrari gets it for him) and buffs the shaft 
with it, then thumbs the head with her 
sudsy hands as though, gently, trying to 
uncap it. The day he met her, she opened 
his pants and jerked him off in his top- 
down convertible right under the Arc de 
Triomphe, then, almost without transition, 
or soit seemed to him, blew him spectacu- 
larly in the Bois de Boulogne. He remem- 
bers every detail or, anyway, the best 
parts. And it was never—ever—any bet- 
ter than that. Until tonight. 

She rinses the soap away, pours the rest 
of the Grand Marnier (she thinks, 
Cointreau) over his gleaming organ like a 
sort of libation, working the excess around 
as though lightly basting it (he thinks, 
Priming it). A faint, sad smile seems to be 
playing at the corners of her lips. “Say it 
once, Richard. . . .” 


а?” She's smiling sweetly, but is 
that a tear in her eye? 

“For old times’ sake. Say it. . 

“Ah.” Yes, he’d forgotten. He’s out of 
practice. He grunts, runs his hand down 
her damp check and behind her ear. 
"Here's lookin’ at you, kid. 2 

She puckers her lips and kisses the tip, 
smiling cross-eyed at it, then, opening her 
mouth wide, takes it in, all of it at once. 
“Oh, Christ!” he groans, feeling himself 
awash in the thick, muscular foam of her 
saliva. “I'm crazy about you, baby!” 

“Mmmm!” she moans. He has said that 
to her before, more than once, no doubt 
(she wraps her arms around his hips under 
the jacket and hugs him close), but the 
time she is thinking about was at the 
ema one afternoon in Paris. They had 
gone to see an American detective movie 
that was popular at the time, but there 
was a newsreel on before showing the 
recent Nazi conquests of Copenhagen, 
Oslo, Luxembourg, Amsterdam and Brus- 
sels. The Fall of Five Capitals, it was called. 


And the scenes from Oslo, though A 
showing the storm troopers goose-stepping 
through the storied streets of her child- 
hood filled her with such terror and nos- 
talgia (something inside her was 
screaming, “Who am 12”) that she reached 
impulsively for Richard’s hand, grabbing 
what Victor called “the old fellow” 
instead. She started to pull her hand back, 
but he held it there, and the next thing she 
knew she had her head in his lap, weeping 
and sucking as though at her dead moth- 
er's breast, the terrible roar of the German 
blitzkrieg pounding in her ears, Richard 
kneading her nape as her father used to do 
before he died (and as Richard is doing 
now, his buttocks knotted up under her 
arms, his penis fluttering in her mouth like 
a frightened bird), the Frenchmen in the 
theater shouting out obscenities, her own 
heart pounding like cannon fire. “God! 
I'm crazy about you, baby!” Richard 
whinnied as he came (now, as his knees 
buckle against hers and her mouth fills 
with the shockingly familiar unfamiliarity 


Be 


"You're gonna be happy to learn your husband's 
annual overnight disappearances have a perfectly 
innocent explanation, Mrs. Claus.” 


PLAYBOY 


244 


of his spurting seed, it is just a desperate 
“Oh, fuck! Don’t let go!”), and when she 
sat up, teary-eyed and drooling and gasp- 
ing for breath (it is not all that easy to 
breathe now as he clasps her face close to 
his hairy belly, whimpering gratefully, his 
body sagging, her mouth filling), what she 
saw on the screen were happy Germans 
celebrating their victories, taking spring- 
time strolls through overflowing flower 
and vegetable markets, going to the thea- 
ter to see translations of Shakespeare, 
snapping photographs of their children. 
“Oh, Gott,” she sniffed then (now she 
swallows, sucks and swallows, as though 
to draw out from this almost impalpable 
essence some vast structure of recollec- 
tion), “it's too much!” 

Whereupon the man behind them 
leaned over and said, “Then try mine, 
mademoiselle. As you can see, it is not so 
grand as your Nazi friend’s; but here 
France, we grow men, mot pricks!” 
Richard’s French was terrible, but it was 
good enough to understand “your Nazi 
friend’s”—he hadn't even put his penis 
back into his pants (now it slides greasily 
past her chin, flops down her chest, his 
buttocks in her hugging arms going as soft 
as butter, like a delicious half-grasped 
memory losing its clear outlines, melting 
into mere sensation) but just leaped up 
and took a swing at the Frenchman. With 
that, the cinema broke into an uproar, 
with everybody calling everyone else a 
Fascist or a whore. They were thrown out 
of the theater, of course; the police put 
Richard on their black list as an exhibi- 
tionist, and they never did get to see the 
detective movie. Ah, well, they could 
laugh about it then. . . 

He sits now on the front lip of the bidet, 
his knees knuckled under hers, shirttails in 
the water, his check fallen on her broad 
shoulder, arms loosely around her, feeling 
wonderfully unwound, as mellow as an old 
tune (which is still there somewhere, 
moonlight and love songs, same old 
story—maybc it's coming up through the 
pipes), needing only a smoke to make 
things perfect. The onc he had stuck over 
his ear is floating in the scummy pool 
beneath them, he sces. Ilsa idly splashes 
his drooping organ as though christening 
it. Only one answer, she once said, pecling 
off that lovely satin gown of hers like a 
French letter, will take care of all our 
questions, and she was right. As always. 
He’s the one who’s made a balls-up of 
things, with his complicated moral poses 
and insufferable pride—a diseased roman- 
tic, Louis once called him, and he didn't 
know the half of it. She's the only realist 
town; he’s got to start paying attention. 
Even now, she’s making sense: “My rump 
is getting dumb, Richard. Dry me off and 
let’s go back in the other room.” 

But when he tries to stand, his knees feel 
like tooth paste, and he has to sit aga 
Right back in the bidet, as it turns out, 
dipping his ass like doughnuts in tea. She 
smiles understandingly, drapes a bath 


towel around her shoulders, pokes through 
the medicine cabinet until she finds a jar of 
Yvonne’s cold cream, then takes him by 
the elbow. “Come on, hard. You can de 
it; yust lean on me.” Which reminds him 
(his mind, at least, is still working; more or 
less) of a night in Spain, halfway up (or 
down) Suicide Hill in the Jarama Valley. a 
night he thought was to be his last, when 
he had said that to someone or someone 
had said it to him. God, what if he'd got it 
shot off there? And missed this? An expres- 
sion compounded of hope and anguish, 
skepticism and awe, crosses his weary face 
(38 at Christmas, if Strasser is right—oh, 
mother of God, it is going by!), picked up 
by the wheeling airport beacon. She 
removes his dripping jacket, his shirt as 
well, and towels his behind before letting 
him collapse onto the couch, then crosses 
to the ornamental table for a cigarette 
from the humidor. She wears the towel like 
a cape, its nubbly texture contrasting sub- 
uy with the soft glow of her throat and 
breasts, the sleek, wet gleam of her belly. 
She is, as always, a kind of walking light 
show, no less spectacular from the rear as 
she, turns back now toward the sofa, her 
haunches under the towel glittering as 
though sequined 

She fits two cigarettes in her lips, lights 
them both (there's a bit of fumbling with 
the lighter; she’s not very mechanical) 
and, gazing soulfully down at Rick, passes 
him one of them. He grins. “Hey, where'd 
you learn that, kid?" She shrugs 
enigmatically, hands him the towel and 
steps up between his knees. As he rubs her 
breasts, her belly, her thighs with the 
towel, the cigarette dangling from hi 
she gazes around at the chalky, rough- 
plastered walls of his apartment, the 
Moorish furniture, with its filigrees and 
inlaid patterns, the little bits of erotic art 
(there is a statue of a camel on the side- 
board that looks like a man's wet penis on 
legs, and a strange nude statuette that 
might be a boy or a girl or something in 
between), the alabaster lamps and the pot- 
ted plants, those slatted wooden blinds, so 
exotic to her northern eyes: He has style, 
she thinks, rubbing cold cream into her 
neck and shoulder with her free hand; he 
always did have. . . . 

She lifis one leg for him to dry and then 
the other, gasping inwardly (outwardly, 
she chokes and wheezes, having inhaled 
the cigarette by mistake: He stubs out his 
own with a sympathetic grin, takes what is 
left of hers) when he rubs the towel briskly 
between them; then she turns and bends 
over, bracing herself on the coffee table. 
Rick, the towel in his hands, pauses a 
moment, gazing thoughtfully through the 
drifting cigarette haze at these luminous 
buttocks, finding something almost other- 
worldly about them, like archways to 
heaven or an image of eternity. Has he 
seen them like this earlier tonight? Maybe; 
he can't remember. Certainly, now he's 
able to savor the sight, no longer crazed by 
rut They are, quite literally, a dream 


come true: He has whacked off so often 
during the past year and a half to their 
memory that it almost feels more appro- 
priate to touch himself rather than this 
present manifestation. As he reaches 
toward them with the towel, he seems to 
be crossing some strange threshold, as 
though passing from one medium into 
another. He senses the supple buoyancy of 
them bouncing back against his hand as he 
wipes them; yet, though flesh, they remain 
somehow immaterial, untouchable even 
when touched, objects whose very pres- 
ence is a kind of absence. If Rick Blaine 
were to believe in angels, Ilsa's transcend- 
ent bottom is what they would look like. 

“Is this how you, uh, imagined things 
turning out tonight” he asks around the 
butt, smoke curling out of his nose like 
thoughts reek. Her cheeks seem to pop 
alight like his CAFÉ AMERICAIN sign each 
time the airport beacon swecps past, shift- 
ing slightly like a sequence of film frames 
Time itself may be like that, he knows: not 
а ceaseless flow but a rapid series of elec- 
trical leaps across tiny gaps between dis- 
continuous bits. It’s what he likes to call 
link-and-claw theory of time, though of 
course the theory is not his. . 

“Well, it may not be perfect, Richard, 


but it is better than if I haf shot you, isn't 
ig 


“No, I meant. . . 7” Well, let it be. She's 
right; it beats eating a goddamn bullet. 
In fact, it beats anything he can imagine 
Hc douses his cigarette in the wet towel, 
tosses it aside, wraps his arms around her 
thighs and pulls her buttocks (he is still 
thinking about time as a pulsing sequence 
of film frames and not so much about the 
frames, their useless dated content, as 
about the gaps between: infinitesimally 
small when looked at two-dimensionally, 
yet in their third dimension as deep and 
mysterious as the cosmos) toward his face, 
pressing against them like a child trying to 
see through a foggy window. He kisses and 
nibbles at each fresh-washed cheek (and 
what if one were to slip between two of 
those frames, he wonders?), runs his 
tongue into (where would he be then?) her 
anus, kneading the flesh on her pubic knoll 
between his ers all the while like little 
lumps of stiff taffy. She raises one knee up 
onto the cushions, then the other, lowering 
her elbows to the floor (Oh! she thinks, as 
the blood rushes in two directions at once, 
spreading into her head and sex as though 
filling empty frames, her heart the gap 
between: What a strange, dizzying dream 
thus lifting to his contemplative 
what looks like a clinging sea 
anemone between her t 
woolly pod, a chinchilla, an open 
purse, a split fr not the appear- 
ance of it that moves him (except to the 
invention of thesc fanciful catalogs), it is 
the smell. It is this that catapults him sud- 
denly and wholly back to Paris, a Paris 
he'd lost until this moment (she is not in 
Paris; she is in some vast, dimensionless 
region she associates with childhood, a 


The blessings of nature, 
and a dash of divine inspiration. 


The exquisite Italian liqueur created from wild nuts, berries and herbs. 


u: © 


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


PLAYBOY 


246 


nighttime glow in her midsummer room, 
feather bedding between her legs) but now 
has back again. Now and for all time. As 
he runs his tongue up and down the 
spongy groove, pinching the lips tenderly 
between his tongue and stiff upper lip (an 
old war wound), feeling it engorge, pul- 
sate, almost pucker up to kiss him back, he 
seems to see—as though it were fading in 
оп the blank screen of her gently rolling 
bottom—that night at her apartment in 
Paris when she first asked him to “kiss me, 
Richard, here. My other mouth wants to 
luff you, too. . . .” He'd never done that 
before. He had been all over the world, 
had fought in wars, battled cops, been 
jailed and tortured, hid ош in 
whorchouses, parachuted out of airplanes, 
had eaten and drunk just about every- 
thing, had been blown off the decks of 
ships, killed more men than he’d like to 
count and had banged every kind and 
color of woman on earth, but he had never 
tasted one of these things before. Other 
women had sucked him off, of course, 
before Ilsa nearly caused him to wreck his 
car that day in the Bois de Boulogne, but 
he had always thought of that as a service 
due him, something he'd paid for, in 
effect—he was the man, after all. But 
reciprocation, sucking back—well, that 
always struck him as vaguely queer, some- 
thing guys, manly guys, anyway, didn't 
do. That night, though, he'd had a lot of 
champagne and he was—this was the sim- 
ple truth, and it was an experience as ex- 
otic to Rick Blaine as the taste of a cunt— 
madly in love. He had been an unhappy 
misfit all his life, at best a romantic drifter, 
at worst and in the eyes of most a sleazy 
gunrunner and chickenshit mercenary 
(though God knows he’d hoped for more), 
a whoremonger and brawler and miserable 
gutter drunk—nothing like Ilsa Lund had 
ever happened to him, and he could 
hardly believe it was happening to him 
that night. His immediate reaction—he 
admits this, sucking greedily at it now (she 
is galloping her father’s horse through the 
woods of the north, canopy-dark and 
sunlight-blinding at the same time, push- 
ing the beast beneath her, racing toward 
what she believed to be God’s truth, flush- 
ing through her from the saddle up as eter- 
nity might when the saints were called), 
while watching himself on the cinescreen 
of her billowing behind kneel to it that first 
time like an atheist falling squeamishly 
into conversion—was not instant rapture. 
No, like olives, home-brew and Arab cook- 
ing, it took a little getting used to. But she 
taught him how to stroke the vulva with 
his tongue, where to find the nun’s cap 
(“my little sister,” she called it, which 
struck him as odd) and how to draw it out, 
how to use his fingers, nose, chin, even his 
hair and ears, and the more he practiced 
for her sake, the more he liked it for his 
own, her pleasure (he could see it: It 
bloomed right under his nose, filling his 
grimy life with colors he'd never even 
thought of before!) augmenting his, until 


he found his appetite for it almost insatia- 
ble. God, the boys on the block back in 
New York would laugh their asses off to see 
how far he'd fallen! And although he has 
tried others since, it is still the only one he 
really likes. Yvonne’s is terrible, bitter and 
pomaded (she seems to sense this, gets no 
pleasure from it at all, often turns fidgety 
and mean when he goes down on her, even 
had a kind of biting, scratching fit once: 
“Don' you lak to fuck?” she'd screamed), 
which is the main reason he's lost interest 
in her. That and her hairy legs. 

His screen is shrinking (her knees have 
climbed to his shoulders, scrunching her 
hips into little bumps and bringing her 
shoulder blades into view, down near the 
floor, where she is gasping and whimper- 
ing and sucking the carpet), but his vision 
of the past is expanding, as though her 
pumping cheeks were a chubby bellows, 
opening and closing, opening and closing, 
inflating his memories. Indeed, he no 
longer needs a screen for them, for it is not 
this or that conquest that he recalls now, 
this or that event, not what she wore or 
what she said, what he said, but something 
more profound than that, something 
experienced in the way that a blind man 
sees or a paralytic touches. Texture returns 
to him, ambience, impressions of radiance, 
of coalescence, the foamy taste of the inef- 
fable on his tongue, the downy nap of 
timelessness, the tooth of now. All this he 
finds in llsa's juicy bouncing cunt—and 
more: love's pungent illusions of 
consubstantiation and infinitude (oh, he 
knows what he lost that day in the rain in 
the Gare de Lyons!), the bittersweet fall 
into actuality, space’s secret folds wherein 
опе might lose one’s ego, one’s desperate 
sense of isolation, Paris rediscovered here 
as pure aura, effervescent and allusive, La 
Belle Aurore as immanence’s theater, 
sacred show place— 

Oh, hell, he thinks, as Ilsa's pounding 
hips drive him to his back on the couch, 
her thighs slapping against his ears (as she 
rises, her blood in rip tide against her 
mounting excitement, the airport beacon 
touching her in its passing like bursts of 
inspiration, she thinks, Childhood is a 
place apart, needing the adult world to 
exist at all: Without Victor, there could be 
no Rick!—and then she cannot think at 
all), La Belle Aurore! She broke his 
goddamn heart at La Belle Aurore. “Kiss 
me,” she had said, holding herself with both 
hands as though to keep the pain from 
spilling out down there, “опс last time,” 
and he did, for her; Henri didn’t care, 
merde alors, the Germans were coming, 
anyway, and the other patrons thought it 
was just part of the entertainment; only 
Sam was offended and went off to the john 
till it was over. And then she left him. For- 
ever. Or anyway until she turned up here a 
night ago with Laszlo. God, he remembers 
everything about that day in La Belle 
Aurore, what she was wearing, what the 
Germans were wearing, what Henri was 
wearing. It was not an casy day to forget. 


The Germans were at the very edge of the 
city, they were bombing the bejesus out of 
the place and everything was literally fall- 
ing down around their cars (she’s smother- 
ing him now with her bucking arse, her 
scissoring thighs: He heaves her over onto 
her back and pushes his arms between her 
thighs to spread them), they'd had to 
crawl over rubble and dead bodies, push 
through barricades, just to reach the 
damned café. No chance to get out by c 
he was lucky there was enough left in his 
F.Y. fund to buy them all train tickets. 
And then the betrayal: “I can’ find her, 
Mr. Richard. She checked outa de hotel. 
But dis note come jus’ after you lef!” 

Oh, shit, even now it makes him cry. 
cannot go with you or ever see you again.” 
In perfect Palmer-method handwriting, as 
though to exult in her power over him. He 
ed poor Sam’s ass up and down that 
train all the way to Marseilles, convinced 
it was somehow his fault. Even a hex, 
maybe; that day, he could have believed 
anything. Now, with her hips bouncing 
frantically up against his mouth, her bush 
grown to an astonishing size, the lips out 
and flapping like flags, the trench between 
them awash in a fragrant ooze like oily air, 
he lifts his head and asks, “Why weren’t 
you honest with me? Why did you keep 
your marriage a secret?” 

“Oh, Gott, Richard! Not now!” 

She's right, it doesn't seem the right 
moment for it; but then nothing has 
seemed right since she turned up in this 
Godforsaken town—it’s almost as though 
two completely different places, two com- 
pletely different times, are being forced to 
mesh, to intersect where no intersection is 
possible, causing a kind of warp in the uni- 
verse. In his own private universe, any- 
way. He gazes down on this lost love, this 
faithless wife, this trusting child, her own 
hands between her legs now, her hips still 
jerking out of control (“Please, Richard!” 
she is begging softly through clenched 
teeth, tears in her eyes), thinking, It’s still 
a story without an ending. But more than 
that: The beginning and the middle bits 
aren't all there, either. Her face is drained 
as though all the blood has rushed away to 
other parts, but her throat between the 
heaving white breasts is almost literally 
alight with its vivid blush. He touches it, 
strokes the soft bubbles to either side, 
watching the dark little nipples rise like 
patriots—and suddenly the answer to all 
his questions seems (yet another one, that 
is; answers, in thc end, arc casy) to suggest 
itself. “Listen, kid, would it be all right 
if I——" 

“Oh, yes!—yes!—but hurry!” 

He finds the cold cream (at last! He is so 
slow!), lathers it on and slips into her 
cleavage, his knees over her shoulders like 
a yoke. She guides his head back into that 
tropical explosion between her legs, then 
dasps her arms around his hips, already 
beginning to thump at her chest like a 
resuscitator, popping little gasps from her 
throat. She tries to concentrate on his 


bouncing buttocks, but they communicate 
to her such a touching blend of cynicism 
and honesty, weariness and generosity, 
that they nearly break her heart, making 
her more lightheaded than ever. The dark 
little hole between them bobs like a lonely 
survivor in a tragically divided world. It is 
he! “Oh, Gott!” she whimpers. And she! 
The tension between her legs is almost 
unbearable. “I can't fight it anymore!” 
Everything starts to come apart. She feels 
herself falling as though through some rift 
in the universe (she cannot wait for him, 
and anyway, where she is going he cannot 
follow), out of time and matter into some 
wondrous radiance, the wheeling beacon 
flashing across her stricken vision now like 
intermittent star bursts, the music swell- 
ing, everything swelling, her eyes bursting, 
cars popping, teeth ringing in their 
sockets—"Oh, Richard! Oh, fokk! 7 luff 
you so much!” 

He plunges his face deep into Ilsa's 
ambrosial pudding, lapping at its sweet 
sweat, feeling her loins snap and convulse 
violently around him, knowing that with a 
little inducement she can spasm like this 
for minutes on end, and meanwhile pump- 
ing away between her breasts now like a 
madman, no longer obliged to hold back, 
seeking purely his own pleasure. This 
pleasure is tempered only by (and maybe 
enhanced by, as well) his pity for her hus- 
band, that heroic son of a bitch. God, Vic- 
tor Laszlo is almost a father figure to him, 
really. And while Laszlo is off at the 
underground meeting in the Caverne du 
Roi, no doubt getting his saintly ass shot to 
shit, here he is—Rick Blaine, the Yankee 
smart-aleck and general jerk-ofT—safely 
closeted off in his rooms over the town 
saloon, tit-fucking the hero's wife, his cal- 
lous nose up her own royal grotto like an 
advance scout for a squad of storm troop- 
ers, It’s not fair, goddamn it, he thinks, 
and laughs at this even as he comes, 
squirting jism down her sleek belly and 
under his own, his head locked in her 
clamped thighs, her arms hugging him 
tightly as though to squeeze the juices out 

He is lying completely still, his face 
between Ilsa's flaccid thighs, knees over 
her shoulders, arms around her lower 
body, which sprawls loosely now beneath 
him. He can feel her hands resting lightly 
on his hips, her warm breath against his 
leg. He doesn’t remember when they 
stopped moving. Maybe he's been sleep- 
ing. Has he dreamed it all? No, he shifts 
slightly and feels the spill of semen, pooled 
gummily between their conjoined navels. 
His movement wakes Ilsa: She snorts 
faintly, sighs, kisses the inside of his leg, 
strokes one buttock idly. “That soap 
smells nice,” she murmurs. “I bet су 
girl in Casablanca wishes to half a bath 
here.” 

Yeah, well, I run it as a kind of public 
service,” he grunts, chewing the words 
around a strand or two of pubic hair. He’s 
always told Louis—and anyone else who 
wanted to know—that he sticks his neck 


out for nobody. But in the end, shit, he 
thinks, I stick it out for everybody. "I'm 
y а civic-minded guy.” 

ynic-minded, morc like, she thinks but 
keeps the thought to herself. She cannot 
risk offending him, not just now. She is still 
returning from wherever it is orgasm has 
taken her, and it has been an experience so 
profound and powerful, yet so remote from 
its immediate causc—his muscular tongue 
at the other end of this morosely puckered 
hole in front of her nose—that it has left 
her feeling very insecure, unsure of who or 
what she is, or even where. She knows, of 
course, that her role as the well-dressed 
wife of a courageous underground leader is 
just pretense, that beneath this charade 
she is certainly someone—or something— 
else. Richard's lover, for example. Or a lit- 
Че orphan girl who had lost her mother, 
father and adoptive aunt, all before she'd 
even started menstruating—that's who 
she often is, or feels like she is, especially at 
moments like this. But if her life as Victor 
Laszlo’s wife is not real, are these others 
any more so? Is she one person, several— 
or no one at all? What was that thought 
she'd had about childhood? She lies there, 
hugging Richard's hairy cheeks (are they 
Richard's? Are they cheeks?), her pale face 
framed by his spraddled legs, trying to 
puzzle it all out. Since the moment she 
arrived in Casablanca, she and Richard 
have been trying to tell each other stories; 
not very funny stories, as Richard has 
remarked, but maybe not very true ones, 
either. Maybe memory itself is a kind of 
trick, something that turns illusion into 
reality and makes the real world vanish 


before everyone's eyes like magic. One can 
certainly sink away there and miss every- 
thing, she knows. Hasn’t Victor, the wise 
one, often warned her of that? But Victor 
is a hero. Maybe the real world is too 
much for most people. Maybe making up 
stories is a way to keep them all from going 
insane. A tear forms in the comer of one 
eye. She blinks (and what are these 
unlikely configurations called Paris and 
Casablanca, where in all the universe is 
she, and what is “where”?) and the tear 
trickles into the hollow between cheekbone 
and nose, then bends its course toward the 
middle of her cheek. There is a line in their 
song (yes, it is still there, tinkling away 
somewhere like mice in the walls: Is some- 
one trying to drive her crazy?) that goes, 
“This day and age we're living in gives 
cause for apprehension / With speed and 
new invention and things like third dimen- 
sion. . . .” She always thought that was a 
stupid mistake of the lyricist, but now she 
is not so sure. For the real mystery—she 
sees this now, or feels it, rather—is not 
the fourth dimension, as she'd always sup- 
posed (the tear stops halfway down her 
cheek, begins to fade), or the third, either, 
for that matter . . . but the first. 

“You never finished answering my ques- 
in. 5.5 

There is a pause. Perhaps she is day- 
dreaming, “What question, Richard?” 

“A while ago. In the bathroom. 
He, too, has been mulling over recent 
events, wondering not only about the 
events themselves (wondrous in their own 
right, of course: He's not enjoyed multiple 


“Please, Mr. Fergusen! You can keep those last- 
minute suggestions to yourself!” 


247 


PLAYBOY 


248 


orgasms like this since he hauled his 
broken-down black-listed ass out of Paris a 
year and a half ago, and that’s just for 
starters) but also about their recentness: 
When did they really happen? Is happen 
the right word, or were they more like 
fleeting conjunctions with the absolute, 
that other Other, boundless and immuta- 
ble as number? And, if so, what now is 
when? How much time has elapsed, for 
example, since he opened the door and 
found her in this room? Has any time 
elapsed? "I asked you what you meant 
when you said, “Is this right?" * 

“Oh, Richard, I don't know what's 
right any longer.” She lifts one thigh in 
front of his face as though to erase his dark 
imaginings. He strokes it, thinking, Well, 
what the hell; it probably doesn't amount 
to a hill of beans, anyway. “Do you think I 
can haff another drink now?” 

“Sure, kid. Why not?" He sits up beside 
her, shakes the butt out of the damp towel, 
wipes his belly off, hands the towel to her. 
“More of the same?” 

“Champagne would be nice, if it is pos- 
sible. It always makes me think off 
Paris... and you..." 

“You got it, sweetheart.” He pushes 
himself to his feet and thumps across the 
room, pausing at the humidor to light up a 
fresh smoke. “If there’s any left. Your old 
man’s been going through my stock like 
Vichy water.” Not for the first time, he has 
the impression of being watched. Laszlo? 
Who knows, maybe the underground 
meeting was just a ruse; it certainly 
seemed like a dumb thing to do on the face 
of it, especially with Strasser in town. 
There’s a bottle of champagne in his ice- 
box, OK, but no ice. He touches the bot- 
tle: not cold but cool enough. It occurs to 
him the son of a bitch may be out on the 
balcony right now, taking it all in, he and 
all his goddamn underground. Europeans 
can be pretty screwy, especially these rich 
stiffs with titles. As he carries the cham- 
pagne and glasses over to the coffee table, 
the cigarette like a dart between his lips, 
his bare ass feels suddenly both hot and 
chilly at the same time. “Does your hus- 
band ever get violent?” he asks around the 
smoke and snaps the metal clamp off 
the champagne bottle, takes a grip on the 
cork. 

“No. He has killed some people, but he 
is not violent.” She is drying her tummy 
off, smiling thoughtfully. The light from 
the airport beacon, wheeling past, picks 
up a varnishlike glaze still between her 
breasts, a tooth’s wet twinkle in her open 
mouth, an unwonted shine on her nose. 
The cork pops, champagne spews out over 
the tabletop, some of it getting into the 
glasses. This seems to suggest somehow a 
revelation. Or another memory. The tune, 
as though released, rides up once more 
around them. “Gott, Richard,” she sighs. 
“That music is getting on my nerfs!” 

“Yeah, I know.” It’s almost as bad in its 


way as the German blitzkrieg hammering 
in around their romance іп Paris— 
sometimes it seemed to get right between 
their embraces. Gave him a goddamn 
headache, Now the music is doing much 
the same thing, even trying to tell them 
when to kiss and when not to. He can 
stand it, though, he thinks, tucking the cig- 
arette back between his lips, if she can. He 
picks up the two champagne glasses, offers 
her one. “Forget it, kid. Drown it out with 
this.” He raises his glass. “Uh, here’s 
lookin’ ——"* 

She gulps it down absently, not waiting 
for his toast. “And that light from the air- 
port,” she goes on, batting at it as it passes 
as though to shoo it away, “how can you 
effer sleep here?” 

“Nobody’s supposed to sleep well in 
Casablanca,” he replies with a worldly 
grimace. It’s his best expression, he 
knows, but she isn’t paying any attention. 
He stubs out the cigarette, refills her glass, 
blowing a melancholy whiff of smoke over 
it. “Hey, kid, һеге'з——” 

“No, wait!” she insists, her ear cocked. 
“Бе” 

“Is what?” Ah, well, forget the fancy 
stuff. He drinks off the champagne in his 
glass, reaches down for a refill. 

“Time. Is it going by? Like the song is 
saying?” 

He looks up, startled. “That's funny; I 
was just m 

“What time do you haff, Richard?” 

He sets the bottle down, glances at his 
empty wrist. "I dunno. My watch must 
have got torn off when ме..." 

“Mine is gone, too." 

They stare at each other a moment, 
Rick scowling slightly in the old style, 
Ilsa's lips parted as though saying “story” 
or "glory." Then the airport beacon 
sweeps past like a prompter and Rick, 
blinking, says, "Wait a minute—there's a 
clock down in the bar!” He strides pur- 
posefully over to the door in his stocking 
feet, pauses, one hand on the knob, takes a 
deep breath. “ГИ be right back," he 
announces, then opens the door and (she 
seems about to call out to him) steps out 
onto the landing. He steps right back in 
again. He pushes the door closed, leans 
against it, his face ashen. "They're all 
down there," he says. 

"What? Who's down there?” 


"Carl, Sam, Abdul, that Norwe- 
gian” 
“Fictor?” 
“Yes, everybody! Strasser, those 


goddamn Bulgarians, Sacha, Louis —" 

“Yffonne?” 

Why the hell did she ask about Yvonne? 
“I said everybody! They're just standing 
down there! Like they're waiting for some- 
thing! But . . . for what?” He can't seem 
to stop his goddamn voice from squeaking. 
He wants to remain cool and ironically 
detached, cynical, even, because he knows 
it’s expected of him, not least of all by him- 


self, but he's still shaken by what he’s seen 
down in the bar. Of course, it might help if 
he had his pants on. At least he'd have 
some pockets to shove his hands into. For 
some reason, Ilsa is staring at his crotch, 
as though the real horror of it all were to 
be found there. Or maybe she’s trying to 
see through to the silent crowd below. 
“It's, I dunno, like the place has sprung a 
goddamn leak or something!” 

She crosses her hands to her shoulders, 
pinching her elbows in, hugging her 
breasts. She seems to have gone fiat- 
footed, her feet splayed, her bottom, lost 
somewhat in the slatted shadows, droop- 
ing, her spine bent. “A leak?” she asks 
meaninglessly in her soft Scandinavian 
accent. She looks like a swimmer out of 
water in chilled air. Richard, slumping 
against the far door, stares at her as 
though at a total stranger. Or perhaps a 
mirror. He seems older somehow, tired, 
his chest sunken and belly out, legs bowed, 
his genitals shriveled up between them like 
dried fruit. It is not a beautiful sight. OF 
course, Richard is not a beautiful man. He 
is short and bad-tempered and rather 
smashed up. Victor calls him riffrafl. He 
says Richard makes him feel greasy. And it 
is true, there is something common about 
him. Around Victor, she always feels crisp 
and white, but around Richard like a 
sweating pig. So how did she get mixed up 
with him in the first place? Well, she was 
lonely, she had nothing, not even hope, 
and he had seemed so happy when she 
took hold of his penis. As Victor has often 
said, each of us has a destiny, for good or 
for evil, and her destiny was Richard. Now 
that destiny seems confirmed—or sealed — 
by all those people downstairs. “They are 
not waiting for anything,” she says as the 
realization comes to her. It is over. 

Richard grunts in reply. He probably 
hasn’t heard her. She feels a terrible sense 
of loss. He shuffles in his black socks over 
to the humidor. "Shit, even the fags are 
gone,” he mutters gloomily. “Why'd you 
have to come to Casablanca, anyway, 
goddamn it? There are other places. . . .” 
The airport beacon, sliding by, picks up 
an expression of intense concentration on 
his haggard face. She knows he is trying to 
understand what cannot be understood, to 
resolve what has no resolution. Americans 
are like that. In Paris, he was always won- 
dering how it was they kept getting from 
one place to another so quickly. “It’s like 
everything is all speeded up,” he would 
gasp, reaching deliriously between her legs 
as her apartment welled up around them. 
Now he is probably wondering why there 
seems to be no place to go and why time 
suddenly is just about all they have. He is 
an innocent man, after all—this is proba- 
bly his first affair. 

“I would not haff come if I had 
known. . . .” She releases her shoulders, 
picks up her ruffed blouse (the buttons are 
gone), pulls it on like a wrap. As the 


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beacon wheels by, the room seems to 
expand with light, as though it were 
breathing. “Do you seemy skirt? It was here, 
but—is it getting dark or something?" 

mean, of all the gin joints in all the 
towns in all the. . ...” He pauses, looks up. 
“What did you say?” 

“1 said, is it d 

“Yeah, I know. . . .” 

They gaze about uneasily. “It seems 
like effry time that light goes past. . . .” 

“Yeah. . . .” He stares at her, slumped 
there at the foot of the couch, working her 
garter belt like rosary beads, looking like 
somebody had just pulled her plug. “The 
world always welcome lovers,” the 
music is suggesting, not so much in mock- 
ery as in sorrow. He’s thinking of all those 
people downstairs, so hushed, so motion- 
less: It's almost how he feels inside. Like 
something dying. Or something dead 
revealed. Oh, shit. Has this happened 
before? Ilsa seems almost wraithlike in the 
pale, staticky light, as though she were 
wearing her own ghost on her skin. And 
which is it he’s been in love with? he won- 
ders. He sees she is trembling, and a tear 
slides down the side of her nose, or seems 
to, it’s hard to tell. He feels like he's going 
blind. “Listen. Maybe if we started 
overs ce 

“Tm too tired, Richard. .. .” 

“No, I mean, go back to where you 
came in, see—the letters of transit and all 
that. Maybe we made some kinda mistake, 
I dunno, like when I put my hands on your 
jugs or something, and if —" 

“A mistake? You think putting your 
hands on my yugs was a mistake?” 

“Don’t get offended, sweetheart, I only 
meant. 

“Maybe my bringing my yugs here 
tonight was a mistake! Maybe my not 
shooting the trigger was a mistake!” 

“Come on, don’t get your tail in an 
uproar, goddamn it! Pm just trying 
© ^ 

“Oh, what a fool I was to fall. . . to 
APS 

“Jesus, Ilsa, are you crying? Ilsa?” He 
sighs irritably. He is never going to under- 
stand women. Her head is bowed as 
though in resignation: Опе has seen her 
like this often when Laszlo is near. She 
seems to be staring at the empty button- 
holes in her blouse. Maybe she’s stupider 
than he thought. When the dimming light 


swings past, tcars glint in the comers of 


her eyes, little points of light in the gather- 
ing shadows on her face. “Hey, dry up, 
kid! All I want you to do is go over there 
by the curtains where you were when 
و‎ 

“Can I tell you а... story, Richard?” 

“Not now, Ilsa! Christ! The lights 
almost gone and——” 

“Anyway, it wouldn't work.” 

“What” 

“Trying to do it all again. It wouldn't 
work. It wouldn't be the same. I won't 


even haff my girdle on.” 

“That doesn’t matter. Who's gonna 
know? Come on, we can at least > 

“No, Richard. It is impossible. You are 
different, I am different. You haf cold 
cream on your penis: 2 

“But—" 

“My make-up is gone; there are stains 
on the carpet. And I would need the 
pistol—how could we effer find it in the 
dark? No, it's useless, Richard. Belief me. 
Time goes by." 

“But maybe that’s just it. . 

"Or what about your tsigarette? Eh? 
Can you imagine going through that with- 
out your tsigarette? Richard? I am laugh- 
ing! Where are you, Richard?" 

“Take it easy, I'm over here. By the bal- 
cony. Just lemme think.” 

“Efen the airport light has stopped.” 

“Yeah. I can't see a fucking thing out 
there." 

“Well, you always said 
wow finish . . . maybe. . . .” 

“What?” 

“What?” 

“What did you say?” 

“I said, maybe this is 
what we always wanted, 
come true... .” 

“Speak up, kid. It’s getting hard to hear 
you..." 

“I said, when we are fokking- 

"Nah, that won't do any good, sweet- 
heart, I know that now. We gotta get back 
in the goddamn world somehow. If we 
don't, we'll regret it. Maybe not —" 

“What . . . ? We'll forget it?” 

“No, I said ——" 

“What?” 

“Never mii 

“Forget what, Richard?” 

“I said I think I shoulda gone fishing 
with Sam when I had the chance.” 

“T can’t seem to hear you. ы 


you wanted а 


. you know, 
Like a dream 


“No, wait a minute! Maybe you're 
right! Maybe going back isn’t the right 
idea. . 

“Richard?” 

“Instead, maybe 
ahead. 

“Richard, Tam afraid... .” 

“Yeah, like you could sit there on the 
couch, see, we’ve been fucking, that’s all 
right, now we’re having some cham- 
pagne. . 

"T think I am already forgetting. . 

“And you can tell me that story you've 
been wanting to tell—are you listening? A 
good story, that may do it—anything that 
moves! And meanwhile, lemme think, Ill, 
let's sec, ГЇЇ sit down; no, ГЇЇ sort of lean 
here in the doorway and—oof!—shit! I 
think they moved it!” 

“Richard?” 

“Who the hell rearranged 
grunt!—goddamn geography?” 

“Richard, it’s a crazy world. . . .” 

“Ah, here! This feels like it. Something 
like it. Now, what was 1 Fiet You're 
telling a story, so, uh, I'll say. 

“But wherever you are. 

“And then- Yeah, that’s good. It's 
almost like I’m remembering this. You've 
stopped, sec, but I want you to go on; I 
want you to keep spilling what’s on your 
mind, I’m filling in all the Ыз. ++ 

“Whatever happens 

“So I say: And then? с mon, kid, can 
you hear me? Remember all those people 
downstairs! They’re depending on us! Just 
think it—if you think it, you'll do it! And 
then?” 

“I want you to know. . . - 

“And then? Ilsa? Oh, shit, Ilsa? Where 
are you? And then?” 

“I luff you. . . 

“And then? Ilsa? And then?” 


we gotta think 


the— 


“You'd better talk to that new girl, Henderson.” 


249 


PLAYBOY 


WOMEN AND DOGS 


(continued from page 130) 


“A beloved girl and an honored dog stand together 
for me in brief, affectionate frieze.” 


love Shadow— well, in different ways. 
They're a lot alike—both are great. 
But Shadow takes mc for what | 
am. That may not be much, but it’s 
enough for Shadow. 


And this lyrical demurrer: 


You can't make love to а dog 
Women are softer and gentler and 
don’t move around as much and don’t 
have hair all over their bodies. 


After considerable rhetoric and self 
flagellation, my confreres provided me 
with little more than this pristine cate- 
chism. I turn back now to the repository of 
memory. 

> 

From infancy through puberty to young 
manhood and adulthood, I have seldom 
been without dogs. They have assuaged 
adolescence, softened grief, lightened 
ennui, shared the grown man’s nights of 
despair. Most of them have been inelucta- 
bly associated at certain points in time, as 
the Nixon men would have said, with the 
women I have cared for, so that down the 
great misty concourse of memory, a 
beloved girl and an honored dog stand 
together for me there on the horizon of old 
time in brief, affectionate frieze, punctuat- 
ing the mysterious odyssey with a remem- 


brance of care and love. 
The dogs were bird dogs at firsi— Tony, 
Sam and Jimbo—whose moist tongue- 


lickings and warm silhouettes were as real 
to my childhood as the shapes of trees or 
the smells of the delta woods. Then a suc- 
cession of brilliant English smooth-haired 
fox terriers, hunters and comrades— 
especially Old Skip—in my boyhood and 
teenage years. And a vagabond dog in 
Oxford, England, named Henry. And then 
the eminent black Labradors of man- 
hood—Ichabod Н. Crane and my noble, 
unforgettable Pete. As for the women, at 
first they were Southern, then English, 
then Northern WASP or Jewish, then 
Southern again (for one somehow returns 
full circle sooner or later). 

As I jotted down some of these thoughts 
on an index card not too long ago, a most 
curious recognition struck me, nearly mys- 
tical in its sweep. These words are in front 
of me now, leaping out at me in existential 
benediction: 


Dogs I have truly loved: 7 
Girls I have truly loved: 7 


These affections were disparate, of course, 
and diflered in their degree, but is the sym- 
metry not impressive? It is that very sym- 
metry, in fact, that compels me to recall 
several unaffected scenes of my girls and 
dogs together. They often filled me with 
rage and anguish in the years we spent 
together, my seven best girls—for what is 
sexual love if not a blend of the suffering 
and joy all of us must experience as we 


“To sum up, let me put it this way: If it’s your 
goal to experience the ultimate marriage between man 


and machine, we provide the machine. 


imperceptibly approach the grave?—but 
as they recede into the past, the sharpness, 
too, fades, and 1 am with them again in 
the youthful mind's eye; 1 remember their 
own special poignance and tenderness and 
passion, just as 1 do the individual nobili- 
ties of my seven best dogs. 
. 

The first girl I ever loved, ifone will for- 
give me one’s original momentary dream, 
was named Barbara, and she was a girl 
then; her last name was Stanwyck. 1 was 
12 years old, and my loyal bird dogs must 
have noticed something stirring 

I fell deeply in love with Barbara 
Stanwyck in the old Paramount Theater 
on Capitol Strect in Jackson, Mississippi, 
in Double Indemnity, Who was this magical 
girl? As I sat there alone in the cool dark- 
ness, waiting for life to envelop me, there 
was something in her lovely, chiseled face, 
the slouching incline of her body, the way 
she not so much walked as glided across 
her landscapes that choked my prepu- 
bescent heart and fueled my iridescent 
dreams. Long before 1 knew anything of 
the specific ecstasies or their remotest pos- 
sibilities, her beauty suffused my waking 
hours, an apparition created for my small- 
town fantasies. 

No, not even fantasies. Rather, my poor 
boyish quiverings were connected in a 
kind of tender innocence to the tentative 
flesh of an evanescent pre 
my crucible, icon and diadem. Just as I 
had once written to Gene Autry 
Rogers, I wrote a letter to her in Holly- 
wood, and three weeks later, waiting for 
me in the mailbox, was а big envelope 
with a glossy black-and-white photograph 
of her sitting on some secret veranda of the 
Western littoral in an evening dress. (Nei- 
ther Gene Autry nor Roy Rogers had pre- 
viously replied, though someone out there 
had sent me a picture of Autry's horse.) 

T took the photograph into the back 
yard and sat down in the shade of a pecan 
tree. Soon I was joined, as I had known 1 
would be, by Tony, Sam and Jimbo. They 
nuzzled me with their noses and looked at 
the picture with me. I pretended Barbara 
was there with us, sipping a drink and 
smoking a cigarette as she olten did in her 
movies. I wished very much for her to be 
under the pecan tree with my dogs and to 
tell me how much she liked them, and I 
would inform her there of their habits, 
eccentricities and predilections. Soon one 
of them began licking me on the cheek. In 
the forenoon's heat of that long-ago Mis- 
sissippi summer, 1 closed my eyes. Miss 
Stanwyck sure could kiss 

. 

I move in time. All the effervescent girls 
of our high school days adored Old Skip, 
and none more so than Katie Culpepper, 
my first beloved flesh-and-blood girl. 
Katic and Old Skip had much in common; 
1 believe they sensed this. Every morning, 
Old Skip walked with me down the broad 
boulevard of the town toward school. Five 
blocks away, Katie would be waiting for us 


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PLAYBOY 


252 


оп the steps of her house. In honored rit- 
ual, she and Old Skip would embrace; 
then he would reluctantly turn away and 
return home as Katie and I strolled the 
last two blocks to school. 

She baked him apple pics and fed him 
chocolate cookies. No other girl ever cared 
for a dog of mine as my Katie did for Old 
Skip. They would be together when I was 
away from them, at football or baseball 
practice, and they would be waiting for 
me, the emotions of us three so curiously 
intertwined, so that Katie and Old Skip 
were the most precious living creatures to 
me of those years. And who else could ever 
have a girl as beautiful as Katie and a dog 
ike Old Skip? She admired the way he 
played football with us and how he could 
drive a car with his paws if you operated 
the accelerator for him. She never forgot 
the day he attacked a copperhead slither- 
ing ominously across the lawn toward us. 

Old Skip was a fool, too, for Katie. She 
was a longlegged majorette, swcet and 
cheery and lush and, like Old Skip, a 
fount of the greatest loyalty and fun. 
Katie . . . who would go anywhere and do 
anything: sit with Old Skip and me on her 
front porch and watch the cars go by, or 
drive the back roads with us on smoky 
afternoons, or dance close to the words of 
Jo Stafford with her fingers casually on the 
lobe of my ear when Old Skip was not 
around, or explain to me why she was a 
connoisseur of Dr Peppers in the scratched 
bottles with 10,2 & 4 on them, or study with 
me on school evenings as Old Skip slept 
with his head in her lap. Katie... my 
straight-C scholar of deep embraces and 
warm kisses and the easiest, richest, most 
bitterswect pleasure of my whole life, 
touching me now in the middle-aged mem- 
ory of it. 

I recall that golden Indian summer and 
the fine throbs of love. Leaves of a dozen 
colors drifted down out of the trees in those 
sad, horny delta days. They were burying 
the Korcan dead in Yazoo. We remember 
what we wish to remember: Katie and I 
are standing on the side lawn of her house 
under an ancient water chestnut. It is the 
afternoon before our ball game against 
Belzoni, and she has been showing me her 
baton-twirling tricks, acquired at the Ole 
Miss baton-twirling clinic. She is still 
tanned from the summer sun, her blonde 
hair is bobbed at the back and her green 
eyes twinkle in mirth. I lean across and 
kiss her gently on the lips, and she kisses 
me in return. We stand in a light, amiable 
embrace; her cheek brushes mine. Oh, 
sweet agony of the loins! I gaze down from 
the summit of a quarter of a century, all 
the accumulated losses and guilts and 
shames, the loves come and gone, and 
death, ravenous death, and Katie herself 
long dead, buried under a mimosa on a 
hill in our cemetery. | summon that 
instant standing in the shade of the water 
chestnut with her, for suddenly Old Skip 
has emerged from an evergreen shrub and 


bounds toward us in playful solicitude. 
Old Skip, I understand now, had been 
watching us and approved. What do you 
do alter Katie and Old Skip? 

. 


In England, after the years, the girl was 
Chicken and the dog, Henry—Chicken, a 
statuesque egghead from one of the 
Cinque Ports who was studying philoso- 
phy, politics and economics and who light- 
ened the Dickensian fogs; Henry, a 
rust-colored vagabond from the nearby 
pub who took up with me in my rooms in 
the college. These were frigid quarters 
near a copious Oxford quadrangle and 
only a few yards from the Ith Century 
city wall. A boys’ choir sang madrigals 
each afternoon from the chapel across the 
way, with its memorials to the dead of the 
Chicken and I commin- 
gled in affection in dark, cold indoor places 
with the door shut on Henry. 

Her nickname derived from an eccentric 
great-aunt who had married an Australian 
game hunter; his, from either Henry VII 
or VIEL Chicken and Henry and I would 
sit close to the fire on the bleak wintry 
days, eating buttered crumpets and listen- 
ing to the medieval echoes in the misty 
rain. And on an afternoon of my first and 
most incomparable English spring, there 
were Chicken and Henry poised forever in 
silhouette for me on the banks of the Isis as 
the chimes of the ancient fortress town 
rang out in the distance: she in a flowing 
white dress and a blue-and-white straw 
hat, he wading gingerly in the placid 
waters—the two of them turning in the 
same moment to look for me as I tarried in 
a secret, bosky glade to absorb them there 
together. 

And then my wife, Celia, and the first of 
the black Labs, Ichabod H. Crane, in the 
best years of my marriage. We had found 
him in a kennel overlooking the Hudson 
River in Washington Irving country. We 
had an old farmhouse sitting on a hill 70 
miles north of Manhattan, and I loved to 
watch him in his youthful peregrinations 
in the Yankee woodlands. There was a 
Christmas there: snow on the ground, and 
the sounds of the caroling, and the reflec- 
tions of the holiday lights on the frosty- 
white terrain. I had just put up the 
Christmas tree, 12 feet high, in the den 
with its cathedral ceiling, and my young 
son and Ichabod Н. Crane and I sat relax- 
ing on a sofa. Suddenly, the tree fell over 
and landed on the three of us; we were 
trapped irrevocably in its prodigious 
branches, and Ichabod H. Crane 
an ungodly howl. My wife came 
the kitchen as swiftly as possible and 
pulled us one by one, by hand or paw, to 
freedom, Ichabod the first to be so liber- 
ated. Celia, my lovely, brilliant, brave 
Texas girl: 1 loved you so much then! 

d so my roster continues across the 
andmarks of the past, Ichabod H. Grane 
kidnaped by me and joining me on eastern 
Long Island in time for Muriel, my gra- 


cious and lithesome Jewish beauty. I 
called her the Sardine Princess for her 
inheritance, Lord forgive me, and cher- 
ished her for her extraordinary passion 
and care, adored her at times beyond 
measure and took her to the games at 
Madison Square Garden, gave her a color 
TV on her birthday, drove long U.S. dis- 
tances with her, arbitrated among the vi 
lent émigrés of Europe in her house in her 
behalf and whispered to her my deepest 
love. Ichabod and I were nothing if not 
children of American divorce, and how 
d this inimitably lovely girl was to 
Ichabod and me! She had courage, also, 
and once went with us to the South in the 
civil rights years. Did Ichabod perceive 
the electricity of that time between North- 
ern Jewish women and Southern men? 
This, too, is subject for substantial dis- 
course. Or was he content to belong to an 
authentic intellectual salon? God bless 
Ichabod: He had an iced-over pond to 
slide on, an ocean to swim in, children to 
play with, quarrelsome Eastern Europeans 
and dyspeptic Parisians to growl at, penni- 
less Irish poets to assuage, and he was the 
first and last of my honored dogs to take 
commands in fluent French. 
. 

The years passed, and I come again to 
Pete, the finest of them all. He and I had 
not been together always; rather, we 
sought each other out, two lonely bachelor 
hearts. I was drawn to him the moment I 
saw him, some four ycars after the death of 
Ichabod H. Crane—a wonderfully hand- 
some black Lab, perhaps three years old, 
who spent much of his time with the fel- 
lows in the service station in our village on 
Long Island. 

He had brown eyes, floppy ears and a 
shining ebony coat. As the semiofficial 
mayor of the town, known to all as “Your 
Honor,” he patrolled its streets and its 
beaches and its schools and its whole 
back-yard world of gardens and orchards 
and barns. He pushed open the doors to 
the bars with his nose and sat with his 
friends the potato farmers as they drank 
their morning boilermakers. He belonged 
to no man. Since I was no stranger to dogs, 
I sensed he was looking me over. When- 
ever I drove into the station for gas, he 
would get into my car. As we rode across 
the lush fields and sand dunes, he would 
sit there quietly, looking as if he were 
reflecting on me. Soon he started visiting 
me at my house, cach visit longer than the 
onc before. 

One day, however, he did not leave. “Go 
back, Pete,” I said. “They expect you.” 
He refused to go. It was a moment of rare 
consequence, for we were inseparable from 
that moment to the end. 

He was a creature of endless kindness, 
imagination and good cheer. 1 was forever 
impressed bı profound intelligence, 
and to the most remarkable degree he 
comprehended words, unspoken fears, 
joys and desires. Between us we had our 


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PLAYBOY 


254 


own private language. I never once 
doubted that he was protective of my— 
his brother's—interests. When I met 
Barbara, the dazzling celebrity beauty, in 
the most intense and reckless of the affairs, 
I could tell he was pondering her as 
intensely as he had once investigated me. 
At her best, this intrepid and sparkling girl 
was our friend and comrade, loyal and 
orgasmic, gencrous and dear, any moment 
touched for her with fellowship and pleas- 
ure, and her laughter rings out for me yet, 
as I suspect it did for Pete. I neglected to 
know then how much she chose to be on 
her own, but when she wished not to be, 
she was incomparable. Pete gave his heart 
to her, I see now, for her mischief and 
adventure, and for her expert biscuits, 
stews and lemon chickens. 

He was especially partial to Annie, 
when that time came, and held her, I 
believe, in much the same regard that Old 
Skip had held Katie Culpepper in the far- 
away years. Annie was a lovely blonde 
from the South; just as Pete was the kind- 
est and gentlest of my dogs, so was Annie 
of my girls. She was considerably younger 
than Pete and I (these words must not 
sound incongruous), but this gentle dis- 
parity was no problem for Pete, for his eyes 
lit up with joy whenever he saw her. Annie 
was tall and full-breasted, a Vanderbilt 
girl, a Phi Beta Kappa, no less, passionate, 
as an earlier generation might have said of 
her, and I knew that and so, I think, did 
Pete; I never told him this, but she was the 
easiest and warmest since Katie, and the 
most appreciative, and she unfailingly 
gave us her comradeship and love and did 
not expect too much in return, except 
maybe a little comradeship and love, too. 

She was a reporter for the paper, and 
there she was, thrust suddenly into a Long 
Island winter. As in the song, we fell in 
love because it was cold outside. The three 
of us huddled together in her first winter- 


time there. On good days, she and Pete 
and I would get into my car and drive the 
roads of eastern Long Island, Montauk to 
Riverhead, Sag Harbor to Bridge- 
hampton—take the ferries to Shelter 
Island and the North Fork, tarrying in 
the antique stores, lunching on lobster 
(Pete liked the claws most of all) in the 
outdoor fish places, later stopping along 
the way by an inlet to watch the gulls and 
the play of the frosty sunlight on the water 
or to let Pete wander the deserted beach. 

She would say, “You're not too old, and 
I'm not too young.” But she was the mar- 
rving age, and she wanted babies. The 
affection we had was never destroyed; it 
was the dwindling of circumstance. How 
does one give up Annie? Only through 
loneliness and fear, fear of old loves lost 
and of love renewed—only those things, 
that's all. The last departure came on a 
wind-swept October noon of the kind we 
had known. We stood on the porch of my 
house in the village and embraced. *Oh— 
you!” she said. She lingered for the briefest 
moment, a Tennessee girl with snow in her 
hair. As she walked to her car, Pete fol- 
lowed her. I watched as she leaned down 
and hugged him. Then she, too, was gone. 
When Pete returned, he seemed to say, 
“Look what you've done now, you old 
fool.” 

. 

Not too long ago, I decided to return to 
live in Mississippi. I felt guilty for taking 
Pete, a Yankee dog if ever there was one, 
from his home ground. But tell me: Had I 
a choice? Had he? The car was loaded and 
I was ready to depart, for I had made my 
own painful farewells. Pete ruminated for 
the briefest instant, then jumped inside. 
He adjusted to Dixie. He ate catfish and 
ham hocks, and I think I discerned a hint 
of y'all" in his bark. 

Once, Pete and I found ourselves in the 
Civil War battlefield of Shiloh, just across 


Y BAGGAGE ¥ 


the Tennessee line, with our friend Shelby 
Foote, the writer. Shelby comprehended 
this ground better than any other living 
man, and he was touched by it anew on 
this day. It happened to be the 120th anni- 
versary of that fierce and tragic confronta- 
tion, and on this matchless morning of 
April, the mementos of death and suffering 
lay all about us. We watched bemused as 
Pete waded in the Bloody Pond. 

Shelby, who cared for dogs as much as 
1, had recently purchased another pair of 
custom-made boots from a Memphis man 
whom he had patronized over many years. 
Shelby pointed to his boots and said, “My 
bootmaker asked me, ‘Mr. Foote, is this 
your last pair of boots?” " We gazed out at 
Pete again in the Bloody Pond. “Is Pete 
your last dog?” he asked. 

Last dog? Last love? 

Pete is now gone from me, but I remem- 
ber how he wandered the serene and beau- 
tiful Ole Miss campus, its woods and 
cul-de-sacs and athletic fields, in his drift- 
less and trusting random. Those illustri- 
ous white and black beauties, the Ole Miss 
coeds, grew to love him, too, and even 
began taking him to their classes. 

One day, from afar, as I walked alone, I 
sighted him in the Grove with my favorite 
coed ofall, a most secret and innocent love 
but, after all the years, love nonetheless— 
one of the slender, willowy lovelies for 
whom Mississippi had always been justly 
famous, a graceful, down-home girl of 
laughter and caring who could recite 
Keats, Baudelaire and the infield-fly rule. 
She and Pete were sitting alone together 
under an oak tree as if in earnest conversa- 
tion; her arm was casually draped around 
his neck, and in the dappled sunlight he 
was looking up at her. The years, in a 
rush, dissolved for me. She could have 
been the daughter of Katie Culpepper. 


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2 


55 


PLAYBOY 


FREAKS ш 


“As for sexual roles, these were created by the imag- 
ination and limited only by one’s stamina.” 


On the other hand, I was cert 
unbelievably unhappy and pathologically 
shy, but that, I felt, was nobody's fault but 
mine. My father kept me in short pants 
longer than he should have, and I had 
been told, and I believed, that I was ugly. 
This meant that the idea of myself as a sex- 
ual possibility, or target, as a creature 
capable of inciting desire or capable of 
desire, had never entered my mind. And it 
entered my mind, finally, by means of the 
rent made in my short boy-scout pants by 
a man who had lured me into a hallway, 
saying that he wanted to send me to the 
store. That was the very last time I agreed 
to run an errand for any stranger. 

Yet I was, in peculiar truth, a very lucky 
boy. Shortly after I turned 16, a Harlem 
racketeer, a man of about 38, fell in 
love with me, and I will be grateful to that 
man until the day I die. I showed him 
all my poetry, because I had no one 
else in Harlem to show it to, and even 
now, I sometimes wonder what on 
earth his friends could have been think- 
ing, confronted with stingy-brimmed, 
mustachioed, razor-toting Poppa and 
skinny, popeyed Me when he walked me 
(rarely) into various shady joints, I drink- 
ing ginger ale, he drinking brandy. I think 
I was supposed to be his nephew, some 
nonsense like that, though he was Spanish 
and Irish, with curly black hair. But I 
knew that he was showing me off and 
wanted his friends to be happy for him— 
which, indeed, if the way they treated me 
can be taken as a barometer, they were. 
They seemed to feel that this was his 
business—that he would be in trouble if it 
became their business. 

And though I loved him, too—in my 
way, a boy's way—I was mightily tor- 
mented, for I was still a child evangelist, 
which everybody knew, Lord. My soul 
looks back and wonders. 

For what this really means is that all of 
the American categories of male and 
female, straight or not, black or white, 
were shattered, thank heaven, very early in 
my life. Not without anguish, certainly; 
but once you have discerned the meaning 
of a label, it may seem to define you for 
others, but it does not have the power to 
define you to yourself. 

This prepared me for my life downtown, 
where I quickly discovered that my exist- 
ence was the punch line of a dirty joke. 

The condition that is now called gay 
was then called queer. The operative word 
was faggot and, later, pussy, but those epi- 
thets really had nothing to do with the 


256 question of sexual preference: You were 


being told simply that you had no balls. 

Т certainly had no desire to harm any- 
one, nor did I understand how anyone 
could look at me and suppose me phy 
cally capable of causing any harm. But 
boys and men chased me, saying I was a 
danger to their sisters. ] was thrown out of 
cafeterias and rooming houses because I 
was “bad” for the neighborhood 

The cops watched all this with a smile, 
never making the faintest motion to pro- 
tect me or to disperse my attackers; in fact, 
1 was even more afraid of the cops than I 
was of the populace. 

By the time I was 19, I was working in 
the Garment Center. I was getting on very 
badly at home and delayed going home 
after work as long as possible. At the end 
of the workday, I would wander east, to 
the 42nd Street Library. Sometimes, I 
would sit in Bryant Park—but I discov- 
ered that I could not sit there long. I fled, 
to the movies, and so discovered 42nd 
Street. Today that street is exactly what it 
was when I was an adolescent: It has sim- 
ply become more blatant. 

There were no X-rated movies then, but 
there were, so to speak, X-rated audiences. 
For example, I went in complete innocence 
to the Apollo, on 42nd Street, because for- 
eign films were shown there—The Lower 
Depths, Childhood of Maxim Gorky, La Bite 
Humaine—and I walked out as untouched 
(by human hands) as I had been when I 
walked in. There were the stores, mainly 
оп Sixth Avenue, that sold “girlie” maga- 
zines. These magazines were usually to be 
found at the back of the store, and I don't 
so much remember them as 1 remember 
the silent men who stood there. They 
stood, it seemed, for hours, with the maga- 
zines in their hands and a kind of miasma 
in their eyes. There were all kinds of men, 
mostly young and, in those days, almost 
exclusively white. Also, for what it’s 
worth, they were heterosexual, since the 
images they studied, 
those of women. 

Actually, I guess I hit 42nd Street twice 
and have very nearly blotted the first time 
out. I was not at the mercy of the street the 
first time, for, though I may have dreaded 
going home, I hadn't left home yet. Then, 
1 spent a lot of time in the library, and I 
stole odds and ends out of Woolworth's— 
with no compunction at all, due to the way 
they treated us in lem. When 1 went to 
the movies, I imagine that a combination 
of innocence and terror prevented me from 
too clearly apprehending the action taking 
place in the darkness of the Apollo— 


crotch level, were 


though I understood it well enough to 
rem; standing a great deal of ıhe time. 
This cunning stratagem failed when, one 
afternoon, the young boy I was standing 
behind put his hand behind him and 
grabbed my cock at the very same moment 
that a young boy came up behind me and 
put his cock against my hand: Ignobly 
enough, I fled, though I doubt that I was 
missed. The men in the men's room fright- 
ened me, so I moved in and out as quickly 
as possible, and I also dimly felt, I remem- 
ber, that I didn't want to “fool around” 
and so risk hurting the feclings of my 
uptown friend. 

But if I was paralyzed by guilt and ter- 
ror, I cannot be judged or judge myself too 
harshly, for 1 remember the faces of the 
men. These men, so far from being or 
resembling faggots, looked and sounded 
like the vigilantes who banded together on 
weekends to beat faggots up. (And I was 
around long enough, suffered enough and 
learned enough to be forced to realize that 
this was very often true. | might not have 
learned this if I had been a white boy; but 
sometimes a white man will tell a black 
boy anything, everything, weeping briny 
tears. He knows that the black boy can 
never betray him, for no one will believe 
testimony.) 

These men looked like cops, football 
players, soldiers, sailors, Marines or bank 
presidents, admen, boxers, construction 
workers; they had wives, mistresses and 
children. I sometimes saw them in other 
settings—in, as it were, the daytime. 
Sometimes they spoke to me, sometimes 
not, for anguish has many days and styles. 
But I had first seen them in the men's 
room, sometimes on their knees, pecring 
up into the stalls, or standing at the urinal 
themselves, staring at another 
man, stroking, and with this miasma in 
their eyes. Sometimes, eventually, inevita- 
bly, I would find myself in bed with onc of 
these men, a despairing and dreadful con- 
junction, since their need was as relentless 
as quicksand and as impersonal, and sex- 
ual rumor concerning blacks had preceded 
me. As for sexual roles, these were created 
by the imagination and limited only by 
one's stamina. 

At bottom, what I had learned was that 
the male desire for a male roams every- 
where, avid, desperate, unimaginably 
lonely, culminating often in drugs, picty, 
madness or death. It was also dreadfully 
like watching myself at the end of a long, 
slow-moving line: Soon I would be next. 
All of this was very frightening. It was 
lonely and impersonal and demeaning. I 
could not believe—after all, I was only 
19—that I could have been driven to the 
lonesome place where these men and I met 
each other so soon, to stay. 

. 

The American idea of masculinity: 
There are few things under heaven more 
cult to understand or, when I was 


PLAYBOY 


258 


younger, to forgive. 

During the Second World War (the first 
one having failed to make the world safe 
for democracy) and some time after the 
Civil War (which had failed, unaccounta- 
bly, to liberate the slave), life for niggers 
was fairly rough in Greenwich Village. 
There were only about three of us, if I 
remember correctly, when I first hit those 
streets, and I was the youngest, the most 
visible and the most vulnerable. 

On every street corner, I was called a 
faggot. This meant that I was despised, 
and, however horrible this is, it is clear. 
What was not clear at that time of my life 
was what motivated the men and boys 
who mocked and chased me; for, if they 
found me when they were alone, they 
spoke to me very differently—frightening 
me, I must say, into a stunned and speech- 
less paralysis. For when they were alone, 
they spoke very gently and wanted me to 
take them home and make love. (They 
could not take me home; they lived with 
their families.) The bafflement and the 
pain this caused in me remain beyond 
description. I was far too terrified to be 
able to accept their propositions, which 
could only result, it seemed to me, in mak- 
ing myself a candidate for gang rape. At 
the same time, I was moved by their lone- 
liness, their halting, nearly speechless 
need. But I not understand it. 

One evening, for example, I was stand- 
ing at the bottom of the steps to the 
Waverly Place subway station, saying 
goodbye to some friends who were about 
to take the subway. A gang of boys stood 
at the top of the steps and cried, in high, 
feminine voices, “Is this where the fags 
meet?” 

Well. This meant that I certainly could 
not go back upstairs but would have to 
take the subway with my friends and get 
off at another station and maneuver my 
way home. But one of the gang saw me 
and, without missing a beat or saying a 
word to his friends, called my name and 
came down the steps, throwing one arm 
around me and asking where Га been. He 
had let me know, some time before, that he 
wanted me to take him home—but I was 
rprised that he could be so open before 
friends, who for their part seemed to 
find nothing astonishing in this encounter 
and disappeared, probably in search of 
other faggots. 

The boys who are left of that time and 
place are all my age or older. But many of 
them are dead, and I remember how some 
of them died—some in the streets, some in 
the Army, some on the needle, some 
Many years later, we managed, without 
ever becoming friends—it was too late for 
that—to be friendly with one another. 
One of these men and I had a very brief, 
intense affair shortly before he died. He 
was on drugs and knew that he could not 
live long. “What a waste,” he said, and he 
was right. 

One of them said, “My God, Jimmy, 


you were moving so fast in those years, you 
never stopped to talk to me.” 

I said, “That's right, baby; I didn't stop 
because [ didn't want you to think that I 
was trying to seduce you.” 


“Man,” he said, indescribably, “why 
didn’t you?” 
But the que not yet gay—world was 


an even more intimidating area of this hall 
of mirrors. I knew that I was in the hall 
and present at this company—but the 
mirrors threw back only brief and dis- 
torted fragments of myself. 

In the first place, as 1 have said, there 
were very few black people in the Village 
in those years, and of that handful, I was 
decidedly the most improbable. Perhaps, 
as they say in the theater, I was a hard 
type to cast; yet I was eager, vulnerable 
and lonely. I was terribly shy, but boys are 
shy. I am saying slit I don't think I 
felt absolutely, irresicciably grotesque— 
nothing that a frieudiy wave of the wand 
couldn’t alter—but I was miserable. I 
moved through that world very quickly; I 
have described it as “my season in hell,” 
for I was never able to make my peace 
with it. 

It wasn’t only that I didn’t wish to seem 
or sound like a woman, for it was this 
detail that most harshly first struck my eye 
and ear. I am sure that I was afraid that I 
already seemed and sounded too much 
like a woman. In my childhood, at least 
until my adolescence, my playmates had 
called me a sissy. It seemed to me that 
many of the people I met were making fun 
of women, and 1 didn’t see why. Г certainly 
needed all the friends I could get, male or 
female, and women had nothing to do with 
whatever my trouble might prove to be. 

At the same time, I had already been 
sexually involved with a couple of white 
women in the Village. There were virtu- 
ally no black women there when I hit 
those streets, and none who needed or 
could have afforded to risk herself with an 
odd, raggedy-assed black boy who clearly 
had no future. (The first black girl I met 
who dug me I fell in love with, lived with 
and almost married. But 1 met her, though 
I was only 22, many light-years too late.) 

The white girls I had known or been 
involved with—different categories—had 
paralyzed me, because I simply did not 
know what, apart from my sex, they 
ted. Sometimes it was great, some- 
times it was just moaning and groan- 
ing; but, ultimately, I found myself at 
the mercy of a double fear. The fear 
of the world was bearable until it ci 
tered the bedroom. But it sometimes 
entered the bedroom by means of the 
motives of the girl, who intended to civilize 

you into becoming an appendage or who 
had found a black boy to sleep with 
because she wanted to humiliate her 
ents. Not an easy scene to play, in any 
case, since it can bring out the worst in 
both parties, and more than one white girl 


had already made me know that her color 
was more powerful than my dick. 

Which had nothing to do with how I 
found myself in the gay world. T would 
have found myself there anyway, but per- 
haps the very last thing this black boy 
needed were clouds of imitation white 
women and speculations concerning the 
size of his organ: speculations sometimes 
accompanied by an attempt at the la 
on of hands. “Ooo! Look at him! He’s 
cute—he doesn't like you to touch him 
there!” 

In short, I was black in that world, and 
1 was used that way, and by people who 
truly meant me no harm. 

And they could not have meant me any 
harm, because they did not see me. There 
were exceptions, of course, for I also met 
some beautiful people. Yet even today, it 
seems to me (possibly because 1 am black) 
very dangerous to model one’s opposition 
to the arbitrary definition, the imposed 
ordeal, merely on the example supplied by 
one's oppressor. 

The object of one’s hatred is never, alas, 
conveniently outside but is seated in one’s 
lap, stirring in one’s bowels and dictat- 
ing the beat of one’s heart. And if one does 
not know this, one risks becoming an 
imitation—and, therefore, a continua- 
tion—of principles one imagines oneself to 
despise. 

I, inany case, had endured far too much 
debasement willingly to debase myself. 1 
had absolutely no fantasies about making 
love to the last cop or hoodlum who had 
beaten the shit out of me. I did not find it 
amusing, in any way whatever, to act out 
the role of the darky. 

So I moved on out of there. 

In fact, I found a friend—more accu- 
rately, a friend found me—an Italian, 
about five years older than I, who helped 
my morale greatly in those years. 1 was 
told that he had threatened to kill anyone 
who touched me. 1 don't know about that, 
but people stopped beating me up. Our 
relationship never seemed to worry him or 
his friends or his women. 

My situation in the Village stabilized 
itself to the extent that I began working as 
a waiter in a black West Indian restaurant, 
‘The Calypso, on MacDougal Street. ‘This 
led, by no means incidentally, to the 
desegregation of the San Remo, an Italian 
bar and restaurant on the corner of 
MacDougal and Bleecker. Every time 1 
entered the San Remo, they threw me out. 
L had to pass it all the time on my way to 
id from work, which is, no doubt, why 
the lt rankled. 

1 had won the Saxton 
was айп 


lowship, which 
stered by Harper & Brothers, 
and 1 knew Frank S. MacGregor, the pres- 
ident of Harper's. One night, when he 
asked me where we should have dinner, I 
suggested, spontaneously, the San Remo 
We entered, and they seated us and we 
were served. I went back to MacGregor's 


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259 


PLAYBOY 


house for a drink and then went straight 
back to the San Remo, sitting on a bar 
stool in the window. The San Remo thus be- 
gan to attract a varied clientele, indeed— 
so much so that Allen Ginsberg and com- 
pany arrived there the year I left New York 
for Paris. 

As for the people who ran and worked at 
the San Remo, they never bothered me 
again. Indeed, the Italian community 
never bothered me again—or rarely and, 
as it were, by accident. But the Village 
was full of white tourists, and one night, 
when a mob gathered before the San 
Remo, demanding that I come out, the 
owners closed the joint and turned the 
lights out and we sat in the back room, in 
the dark, for a couple of hours, until they 
judged it safe to drive me home. 

This was a strange, great and bewilder- 
ing time in my life. Once I was in the San 
Remo, for example, I was in, and anybody 
who messed with me was out—that was all 
there was to it, and it happened more than 
once. And no one seemed to remember a 
time when I had not been there. 

I could not quite get it together, but it 
seemed to me that I was no longer black 
for them and they had ceased to be white 
for me, for they sometimes introduced me 
to their families with every appearance of 
affection and pride and exhibited not the 
rernotest interest in whatever my sexual 
prodivities chanced to be. 

They had fought me very hard to pre- 
vent this moment, but perhaps we were all 
much relieved to have got beyond the 
obscenity of color. 

Matters were equally bewildering, 
though in a different way, at The Calypso. 
All kinds of people came into our joint—I 
am now referring to white people—and 
опе of their most vivid aspects, for me, was 
the cruelty of their alienation. They 
appeared to have no antecedents nor any 
real connections. 

“Do you really like your mother?” some- 
one asked me, seeming to be astounded, 
totally disbelieving the possi 

I was astounded by the question. Cer- 
tainly, my mother and I did not agree 
about everything, and I knew that she was 
very worried about the dangers of the life I 
lived, but that was normal, since I was a 
boy and she was a woman. Of course she 
was worried about me: She was my mother. 
But she knew I wasn’t crazy and that I 
would certainly never do anything, delib- 
erately, to hurt her. Or my tribe, my 
brothers and sisters, who were probably 
worried about me, too. 

My family was a part of my life. I could 
not imagine life without them, might never 
have been able to reconcile myself to life 
without them. And certainly onc of the 
reasons I was breaking my ass in the Vil- 
lage had to do with my need to try to move 
us out of our dangerous situation. I was 
perfectly aware of the odds—my father 
had made that very clear—but he had also 


given me my assignment. “Do you really 
like your mother?" did not cause me to 
wonder about my mother or myself but 
about the person asking the question. 

And perhaps because of such questions, 
I was not even remotely tempted by the 
possibilities of psychiatry or psychoanaly- 
sis. For one thing, there were too many 
schools—Freud, Horney, Jung, Reich (to 
suggest merely the tip of that iceberg)— 
and, for another, it seemed to me that any- 
one who thought seriously that I had any 
desire to be "adjusted" to this society had 
to be ill; too ill, certainly, as time was to 
prove, to be trusted. 

I sensed, then—without being able to 
articulate it—that this dependence on a 
formula for safety, for that is what it was, 
signaled a desperate moral abdication. 
People went to the shrink in order to find 
justification for the empty lives they led 
and the meaningless work they did. Many 
turned, helplessly, hopefully, to Wilhelm 
Reich and perished in orgone boxes 

. 

I seem to have strayed a long way from 
our subject, but our subject is social and 
historical—and continuous. The people 
who leaped into orgone boxes in search of 
the perfect orgasm were later to turn to 
acid. The people so dependent on psychi- 
atric formulas were unable to give their 
children any sense of right or wrong— 
indeed, this sense was in themselves so 
fragile that during the McCarthy era, 
more than one shrink made a lot of money 
by convincing his patients, or clients, that 
their psychic health demanded that they 
inform on their friends. (Some of these 
people, after their surrender, attempted to 
absolve themselves in the civil rights 
movement.) 

What happened to the children, there- 
fore, is not even remotely astonishing. The 
flower children—who became the Weath- 
er Underground, the Symbionese Libera- 
tion Army, the Manson Family—are 
creatures from this howling inner space. 

I am not certain, therefore, that the 
present sexual revolution is either sexual 
or a revolution. It strikes me as a reaction 
to the spiritual famine of American life. 
The present androgynous "craze"—to 
underestimate it—strikes me as an at- 
tempt to be honest concerning one’s 
nature, and it is instructive, I think, to 
note that there is virtually no emphasis on 
overt sexual activity. There is nothing 
more boring, anyway, than sexual activity 
as an end in itself, and a great many pco- 
ple who came out of the closet should 
reconsider. 

Such figures as Boy George do not di 
turb me nearly so much as do those relent- 
lessly hetero (sexual?) keepers of the keys 
and seals, those who know what the world 
needs in the way of order and who are 
ready and willing to supply that order. 

This rage for order can result in chaos, 
and in this country, chaos connects with 


color. During the height of my involve- 
ment in the civil rights movement, for 
example, I was subjected to hate mail of a 
terrifying precision. Volumes concerning 
what my sisters, to say nothing of my 
mother, were capable of doing; to say 
nothing of my brothers; to say nothing of 
the monumental size of my organ and what 
1 did with it. Someone described, in 
utterly riveting detail, a scene he swore he 
had witnessed (1 think it was a he—such 
mail is rarely signed) on the steps of 
houses in Baltimore of niggers fucking 
their dogs. 

At the same time, I was also on the 
mailing list of one of the more elegant of 
the K.K.K. societies, and I still have some 
of that mail in my files. Someone, of 
course, eventually realized that the orga 
zation should not be sending that mail to 
this particular citizen, and it stopped 
coming—but not before 1 had had time to 
be struck by the similarity of tone between 
the hate mail and the mail of the society, 
and not before the society had informed 
me, by means of a parody of an Audubon 
Society postcard, what it felt and expected 
me to feel concerning a certain “Red- 
breasted” Martin Luther King, Jr. 

The Michael Jackson cacophony is fas- 
cinating in that it is not about Jackson at 
all. I hope he has the good sense to know it 
and the good fortune to snatch his life out 
of the jaws of a carnivorous success. He 
will not swiftly be forgiven for having 
turned so many tables, for he damn sure 
grabbed the brass ring, and the man who 
broke the bank at Monte Carlo has noth- 
ing on Michael. All that noise is about 
America, as the dishonest custodian of 
black life and wealth; and blacks, espe- 
cially males, in America; and the burning, 
buried American guilt; and sex and sexual 
roles and sexual panic; money, success and 
despair—to all of which may now be 
added the bitter need to find a head on 
which to place the crown of Miss America. 

E 

Freaks are called freaks and are treated 
as they are treated—in the main, 
abominably—because they are human 
beings who cause to echo, deep within us, 
our most profound terrors and desires. 

Mest of us, however, do not appcar to 
be freaks—though we are rarely what we 
appear to be. We are, for the most part, 
visibly male or female, our social roles 
defined by our sexual equipment. 

But we are all androgynous, not only 
because we arc all born of a woman 
impregnated by the seed of a man but 
because cach of us, helplessly and forever, 
contains the other—male in female, 
female in male, white in black and black in 
white. We are a part of cach other. Many 
of my countrymen appear to find this fact 
exceedingly inconvenient and even unfair, 
and so, very often, do I. But none of us 
can do anything about it. 


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261 


PLAYBOY 


ONE FOR HIS LORDSHIP 


(continued from page 164) 


“With a smile of satisfaction, the lawyer poured the 
wine, glug by glug, down into the grave.” 


All stood aside. 

The lawyer, for that is what he was, 
strode past like Moses as the Red Sea 
obeyed, or King Louis on a stroll, or the 
haughtiest tart on Piccadilly: Choose one. 

“It’s Kilgotten's law,” hissed Muldoon. 
“I seen him stalking Dublin like the apoc- 
alypse. With a lie for a name: Clement! 
Half-ass Irish, full-ass Briton, The worst!” 

“What, can be worse than death?” 
someone whispered. 

“We,” murmured the priest, “shall soon 
see.” 

“Gentlemen!” 

A voice called. The mob turned. 

Lawyer Clement, at the rim of the grave, 
took the prim bricfcase from under his 
arm, opened it and drew forth a symboled 
and ribboned document, the beauty of 
which bugged the сус and rammed and 
sank the heart. 

“Before the obsequies,” he said, “before 
Father Kelly orates, I have a message, this 


codicil to Lord Kilgotten’s will, which I 
shall read aloud.” 

"ID bet it's the Eleventh Command- 
ment,” murmured the priest, eyes down. 

“What would the Eleventh Command- 
ment be?” asked Doone, scowling. 

“Why not ‘Thou shalt shut up and lis- 
ten’?” said the priest. “Sst!” 

For the lawyer was reading from his rib- 
boned document and his voice floated on 
the hot summer wind, like this: 

“ ‘And whereas my wines are the fin- 
est — ” 

“They are that!” said Finn. 

“ ‘And whereas the greatest labels from 
across the world fill my cellars, and 
whereas the people of this town, Kilcock, 
do not appreciate such things but prefer 
the—er—hard stufi ——' ” 

“Who says?" cried Doone. 

“Back in your ditch,” warned the priest, 
sotto voce. 

< do hereby proclaim and pronounce,” 


“I have a lawyer, but he's busy today, defending 
someone more important.” 


read the lawyer, with a great smarmy 
smirk of satisfaction, * ‘that contrary to 
the adage, a man can, indeed, take it with 
him. And I so order, write and sign this 
codicil to my last will and testament in 
what might well be the final month of my 
life.’ Signed, ‘William, Lord Kilgotten.” 
Last month, on the seventh.” 

The lawyer stopped, folded the paper 
and stood, eyes shut, waiting for the thun- 
derclap that would follow the lightning 
bolt. 

“Does that mean,” asked Doone, winc- 
ing, “that the lord intends to—" 

Someone pulled a cork out of a bottle. 

It was like a fusillade that shot all the 
men in their tracks. 

It was only, of course, the good lawyer 
Clement, at the rim of the damned grave, 
corkscrewing and yanking open the plug 
from a bottle of La Vieille Ferme *73! 

“Is this the wake, then?” Doone laughed 
nervously. 

“It is not," mourned the priest. 

With a smile of summer satisfaction, 
Clement, the lawyer, poured the wine, 
glug by glug, down into the grave, over the 
wine-crate box in which Lord Kilgotten’s 
thirsty bones were hid. 

“Hold on!” 

“He's gone mad!" 

“Grab the bottle!” 

“No! 

There was a vast explosion, like that 
from the throat of a crowd that has just 
seen its soccer champion slain mid-field! 

“Wait! My God!” 

“Quick! Run get the lord 

“Dumb,” muttered Finn. “His Lord- 
ship’s in that box, and his wine is in the 
grave!” 

Stunned by this unbelievable calamity, 
the mob could only stare as the last of the 
first bottle cascaded into the holy earth. 

Glement handed the bottle to Doone 
and uncorked a second. 

“Now, wait just one moment!” cried the 
voice of the Day of Judgment. 

And it was, of course, Father Kelly, who 
came forth, bringing his higher law with. 

“Do you mean to say,” cried the priest, 
his cheeks blazing, his eyes smoldering 
with bright sun, “you are going to dis- 
pense all that stuff in Kilgotten’s pit? 

“That,” said the lawyer, “is my intent.” 

He began to pour the second stuff. But 
the priest still-armed him to tilt the wine 
back. 

“And do you mean for us to just stand 
and watch your blasphemy?” 

“At a wake, yes, that would be the 
polite thing to do.” The lawyer moved to 
pour again. 

“Just hold it right there!” The priest 
stared around, up, down, at his friends 
from the pub, at Finn, their spiritual 
leader, at the sky, where God hid, at the 
earth, where Kilgotten lay playing mum’s 
the word, and at last at lawyer Clement 
and his damned ribboned codicil. 
“Beware, man, you are provoking civil 
strife!” 


“Yah!” cried the crowd, atilt on the air, 
fists at their sides, grinding and un 
grinding invisible rocks. 

“What year is this wine?” Ignoring 
them, Clement calmly eyed the label in hi 
hands. “Le Corton. Nineteen seventy. The 
best wine in the finest year. Excellent.” He 
stepped free of the priest and let it spill. 
lo something!” shouted Doone. “Have 
you no curse handy?” 

“Priests do not curse,” said Father 
Kelly. “But, Finn, Doone, Hannahan, 
Burke. Jump! Knock heads.” 

The priest marched off, and the men 
rushed alter to knock their heads in a bent- 
down and a great whisper with the 
father. In the midst of the conference, the 
priest stood up to see what Clement was 
doing. The lawyer was on his third bottle. 

“Quick!” cried Doone. He'll waste the 
loi" 

A fourth cork popped, to another outery 
from Finn's team, the Thirsty Warriors, as 
they would later dub themselves. 

"Finn," the priest was heard to say, 
deep in the heads together, “you're a 
genius 

“1 am!" agreed Finn, and the huddle 
broke and the priest hustled back to the 
grave. 

“Would you mind, sir," he said, grab- 
bing the bottle from the lawyer, “reading, 
one last time, that damned codicil?” 

"Pleasure." And it was. The lawver's 
smile flashed as he fluttered the ribbons 
and snapped the will. 

“That contrary to the adage, a man 
can, indeed, take it with him. 

Hc finished and folded the paper and 
tried another smile, which worked to his 
own satisfaction, at least. He reached for 
the bottle confiscated by the priest. 

“Hold on.” Father Kelly stepped back. 
He gave a look to the crowd, who waited 
on each fine word. “Let me ask you a ques- 
tion, Mr. Lawyer, sir. Does it anywhere 
say there just how the wine is to get into 
the grave?” 

“Into the grave is into the grave,” 
the lawyer. 

“As long as it finally gets there, that’s the 
important thing, do we agree?” asked the 
priest, with a strange smile, 

“I can pour it over my shoulder or toss 
it in the air,” said the lawyer. “As long as 
it lights to either side or atop the coffin 
when it comes down, all's well.” 

"Good!" exclaimed the priest. “Men! 
One squad here. One battalion over there. 
Line up! Doone!” 

“Sir?” 

“Spread the rations. Jump!” 

“Sir!” Doone jumped. 

To a great uproar of men bustling and 
g up. 
+" said the lawyer, “am going to find 
the police!” 

“Which is me,” said a man at the far 
side of the mob. “Officer Bannion. Your 
complaint?” 


said 


Stunned, lawyer Clement could only 
blink and at last, in a squashed voice, 
bleat, “I’m leavii 

“You'll not mak 
said Doone cheeril 

“I,” said the 
But 

“But?” inquired Father Kelly, as the 
corks were pulled and the corkscrew 
flashed brightly along thc line. 

“You go against the letter of the law! 
„” explained the priest calmly, “we 
but shift the punctuation, cross new Ts, 
dot new I's.” 
Tenshun!” 
readiness. 

On both sides of the grave, the men 
ted, each with a full bottle of vintage 


past the gate alive,” 


lawyer, "am staying 


cried Finn, for all was in 


w 


Chäteau Lafite-Rothschild or Le Corton 
ог chianti. 
“Do we drink it all?” asked Doone. 


hut your gab,” observed the priest. 
He eyed the sky. “Oh, Lord.” The men 
bowed their heads and grabbed off their 
caps. “Lord, for what we are about to 
receive, make us truly thankful. And thank 
you, Lord, for the genius of Heeber Finn, 
who thought of this 

“Aye,” said all gently. 

“Т was nothin’, id Finn, blushing. 
nd bless this wine, which may 
cumnavigate along the way but finally 
wind up where it should be going. And if 


today and tonight won't do, and all the 
stuff not drunk, bless us as we return cach 
night until the deed is done and the soul 
of the wine’s at rest.” 

"Ah, you do speak dear," 
Doone. 

“Sh!” hissed all 

"And in the spirit of this time, Lord, 
should we not ask our good lawyer friend, 
Clement, in the fullness of his heart, to join 
with us?” 

Someone slipped a bottle of the best into 
the lawyer's hands. He seized it lest it 
should break. 

“And finally, Lord, bless the old Lord 
Kilgotten, whose years of saving up now 
help us in this hour of putting away 
Amen.” 

“Amen,” said all. 

“Tenshun!” cried Finn. 

The men stiffened and lifted their bot- 
tles. 

“Опе for His Lordship,” said the priest. 

“Апа,” added Finn, “one for the road!” 

‘There was a dear sound of drinking and, 
years later, Doone remembered, a glad 
sound of laughter from the box in the 
grave. 

“Its all right,” said the priest in amaze- 
ment. 

“Yes.” The lawyer nodded, having 
heard. “It's all right.” 


murmured 


“Damn it, Crenshaw, I'm broad-minded, but mistletoe 
in the men’s room is a bit much.” 


PLAYBOY 


264 


GLITZ (continued from page 180) 


“Wherever Teddy went on that beach, he must have 
been taking pictures of her through his long lens.” 


other is for her to buy her own gift. Save 
the man the trouble.” 

The tourist said, “What about, you 
know of any thataren’t hookers but like to, 
you know, do it?” 

“Let me see,” Isidro said. “A girl who's 
very pretty? Has light skin, nice perfume?” 

The tourist said, **"Ey, sounds good 
But don't bother.” 

“Please, is no trouble.” 

The tourist said, “No, see, I'm not 
gonna need you no more. I know my way 
around now. I'm gonna renta саг.” 

Isidro’s wife was no help. He asked her 
how this could happen to him, losing his 
prize, his dream tourist. His wife told him 
to pray to Saint Barbara, thank her for 
sending him away, this Mr. Magic. 

The next morning, Isidro said, “An idea 
came to me. I believe I can talk to him and 
make him see he needs me.” His wife 
didn't say anything. But as he drove away 
in his black Chevrolet taxi that had tray- 
eled 170,000 miles and always returned to 
this home, he saw her standing in the door- 
way with their four children, watching him 
leave. Something she had never done. 

. 

Here was the plan. Pick up the tourist's 
prints at the Fast Foto place, deliver them 
to him and refuse to accept payment. A 
risk, but look at it as an investment. No, 
please, it’s my gift for the pleasure of driv- 
ing you and for your generosity. Some- 
thing like that. Then. . . . It’s too bad you 
haven’t been out on the island, have the 
pleasure of the drive to Luquillo. Ог... 
What a fine day to go to El Yunque, the 
rain forest, Or Utuado to see the pottery. 

The goddamn prints cost him more 
than $27. 

He sat in his taxi outside the Fast Foto, 
still thinking, getting the words in his 
mind. He opened one of the envelopes of 
prints, not curious but to be doing some- 
thing. They were pietures the tourist had 
taken of the beach during the past three 
days. Twenty-four prints—Isidro began to 
go through them—all in beautiful color. 

Less than halfway through, he stopped 
and started over, already feeling an excite- 
ment. He looked at the first prints again 
quickly before continuing, wanting to be 
sure the subject of nearly all these pictures 
was the same and not there by accident. 
Isidro felt himself becoming inspired but 
nervous and laughed out loud. He calmed 
down looking at pictures from the second 
envelope, taken in the Old City. Fortaleza, 
Casa del Callejón, those places. . . . 

But in the third envelope, he was back 
at the beach of Escambrón. Here was an 
ice-cream vendor; here was a man display- 
ing jewelry on a straw mat. Girls, yes, pic- 


tures of girls and a number of shots that 
were so bright they showed almost noth- 
ing. But of the 42 prints in the two env 
lopes of beach pictures, 20—count them— 
were of Iris Ruiz. It seemed more than 
that, one after another, so many views of 
her in different poses. Wherever the tourist 
went on that beach, he must have been 
watching Iris, taking pictures of her 
through his long lens. 

Iris talking to the man with the cane, 
Vincent. Gesturing, posing. Iris lying next 
to him on a towel. Standing behind him, 
her hands in his hair as he to read his 
book. Kissing him. Walking with him. 

Oh, man. Isidro saw those pictures and 
had the best idea of his life. He drove to 
Iris Ruiz’ house on Calle del Parque and 
knocked on the door to her upstairs flat. 

. 

“You believe it?" Isidro said to Teddy. 
“She saw you at the beach and would like 
to meet you.” The two of them standing in 
front of Walgreen's, tourists walking past 
them, Isidro's own tourist adjusting his 
sunglasses as he glanced at the taxi, shy. 

“How'd you run into her?” 

“At the photo place. It was lucky, uh? 
She recognize’ me because of you. I tol” 
her, sure, I know him. I think he would 
like to meet you also.” 

“What'd she say exactly: 

“Ask me if I drive for the photographer. 
I say, sure. Maybe he like to take your pi 
ture.” Isidro took a chance, a liberty, and 
winked at the tourist. “I think she can be 
free this evening. She lives at number five 
two Calle del Parque. Is close by your 
hotel.” 

The tourist opened one of the envelopes, 
looked at the prints for a moment and 
said, “Let’s go for a ride.” 

P 

Isidro had his tourist again and felt so 
good that he could admit, “I pick up the 
pictures to give you so I could speak to you 
again and hope to be of service.” The tour- 
ist seemed content, gazing out at the coun- 
tryside from the highway as they drove 
toward Carolina. “There is so much to see 
out on the island," Isidro said. “All this 
use’ to be sugar cane here. Now, look, 
use’-car places. Way over there, apartment 
buildings.” 

The tourist would look out his side win- 
dow, turn his head slowly and Isidro 
would see his sunglasses, his serious 
expression. Interested but not amazed 
at anything today. Not asking, “What's 
that? What's that?” Instead, he said: 

“Why'd you think I wanted to meet 
her?” 

“Well, she’s a nice girl, very nice- 
looking, I believe educated. . . . We can go 


to Loiza, my home, where I was born. If 
you like to buy a famous vejigante mask for 
your mother.” The tourist didn't say any- 
thing. “Or we can go to El Yunque. You 
hear of it? The rain forest on the mountain, 
very beautiful. . . .” 

Let's go up there,” the tourist said, 
and Isidro relaxed; he had his tourist for at 
least the rest of the day and could show 
him the sights, show him some excitement 
on the way up there, some expert driving. 

Blowing his horn, leaning on it through 
blind mountain curves, climbing through 
dark caverns of tabonuco trees 1000 years 
old, gunning it past the diesel noise of tour 
buses—everybody going to EI Yunque, 
the show place of the island. Look, what 
forests were like before n were born. 
Where frogs live in trees and flower plants 
grow on the branches. The tourist didn't 
raise his camera. 

“You don’t want pictures?” 

“T can get postcards of this.” 

Not in a good mood. He didn’t want to 
go into the Rain Forest Restaurant, he 
wasn't hungry today. At the Visitor Cen- 
ter, he said, "Let's get away from these 
goddamn buses.” Isidro removed a barrier 
where the road was closed because of a 
landslide. It was slippery in places but no 
trouble to get through. Nobody working to 
clear the mud. This was more like it, not 
running into people everywhere. A jungle 
the clouds. The tourist said, “Lers get 
ош and walk." OK—once Isidro found a 
place to put the taxi, off the road deep into 
a side trail, in case a Park Service guy 
came along. Park Service guys liked to be 
important, 

The tourist led them along a footpath, 
following a sign that said EL 
They left it behind, following side trails, 
and came to an open place that ended, fell 
away hundreds of feet to the sight of clouds 
like fog over the treetops below. Beautiful. 
Tt gave Isidro the feeling he could dive off 
and land down there in that soft green 
sponge. Now he saw the tourist bring his 
camera case in front of him and open it, 
take out the camera and hang it from his 
neck. The tourist looked out at the view, 
then at Isidro, then stepped away from the 
edge, raising his camera. 

“Smile.” 

Isidro posed, nothing behind h 
clouds, trying hard to smile. He bel 
was the first picture the tourist had taken 
of 


“You want me to take one of you?” 

“No, stay there.” The tourist snapped 
another picture and said, “Tell me what 
you're up to. 

Isidro said, “Please?” 

Something was wrong. It was in the 
tourist’s expression. Not a serious one but 
not a nice one, either. He wasn't happy, he 
wasn't angry, he wasn’t anything. The 
tourist took off his sunglasses and slipped 
them into his pocket as he said, “They ask 
you a lot of questions about me?” 

It was as though a disguise was 
removed and Isidro was sceing him for thc 


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first time, secing the man's eyes as tiny 
nail points holding him, telling him he had 
made a m ke, failed to observe some- 
thing. For a moment, his wife was in his 
mind, his wife speaking to him with the 
sounds of the washing machine and the 
television. He was confused, and it made 
him angry. 

“Who? Nobody ask me anything." 

"No? They didn't pay you?" 

“Mister, I don't know what you talking 
about.” The only thing he knew for sure, 
the man was no longer his priz 

“Tell me the truth. Say the girl 
approached you?" 

"Yes, she want to mect you." 

“Со on." 

“1 said OK. Sec, I thought you like her, 
a lot.” 

“You did, ‘ey? Why?" 

“Man, all the pictures you took of her.” 
He watched the tourist stare at him, then 
begin to smile, then shake his head back 
and forth and heard the tourist say: 

“Oh, shit. You looked at the prints you 
picked up this morning. Didn't you?" 

Isidro nodded. Why not? The tourist 
didn't seem angry now. “But I didn’ hurt 
them, I jus? look at them." 

‘The tourist said, “Jesus, you thought I 
liked Iris, so you were gonna fix me up. All 
this was your idea.” 

Isidro said, “Is up to you. It doesn’ 
matter.” 

The tourist was still smiling, just a little 
He said, “You dumb fuck, I wasn’t taking 
pictures of her.” 

Isidro saw the tourist's hand go into the 
camera case and come out holding a gun, 
an automatic pistol, a big heavy one. The 


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tourist—what was (his?—he would have 
film and suntan lotion in there, not a pi 
tol. If there was something wrong with 
him, if he was abnormal—it was OK to be 
abnormal, sure, act crazy for fun, wear 
masks . . . when it made sense to act crazy, 
want to scare people. This trying to scare 
him made no sense. . . 

And he yelled at the tourist, “But she's 
in the pictures!” 

The tourist said, 
her.” 

Isidro paused, still not understanding, 
then saw it, what was going to happen, 
and yelled out again, “¡Momento!” 

The tourist shot him in the head, almost 
between the cyes. He listened to the echo 
and shot him again, on the ground, before 
rolling him over the edge of the mud bluff, 
into the clouds. 


o's the guy with 


. 

The restaurant called El Cidreño offered 
Creole cooking and was popular with the 
criminal-allairs investigators who worked 
out of Puerto Rico police headquarters on 
Roosevelt Avenue, Hato Rey 

They would come in here or look over 
from their tables and see the bearded guy 
with Lorendo Paz and make the guy as an 
informer. Look at him. The hair, the work 


shirt they gave him in Bayamón. Caught 
in a drug bust and fell out of a window— 
the reason for the cane—and after a 
month in the hole, willing to make a plea 
deal. Except that Lorendo Paz, always 
properly attired, wearing the cream- 
colored suit today, would touch his napkin 
to his trimmed mustache, take the napkin 
away and be smiling, talking to the guy 
like they were good friends. So then the 
cops who came into El Gidreño or looked 
over from their tables would think, Sure, 
the guy was a narc, DEA, and had to dress 
like that, the junkie shirt with the jeans 
and rubber sandals. But if he was un- 
dercover or he was an informer, what was 
he doing out in the open talking to 
criminal-affairs investigator? Finally, a 
cop known for his determination got up 
from his chicken and plantains, went over 
to the table where Lorendo sat with the 
bearded guy and said, “Lorendo, I need to 
talk to you later today.” 

Lorendo said, “Of course,” and then 
said, “Oh, I want you to meet Vincent 
Mora. With the Miami Beach police, 
detective bureau. We know each other a 
long time, since the FBI school. Yes, 
Vincent hass been. here, almost two 
months, on a medical leave. A robber shot 
him in the hip.” 

Oh. 

After that, the investigators would look 
over and wonder if the bearded guy, 
Vincent, was any good and wonder what 
he was talking about to Lorendo so 
intently 

He was talking about Iris Ruiz 

Lorendo made his face look tired, with- 
out effort, and told Vincent he was making 
a career of Iris Ruiz because he needed 
something to do that was important to him 
and concerned a person's life, not because 
Iris was a special case. There were a thou- 
sand [ris Ruizes in San Juan. 

Vincent narrowed his eyes at him. 

And Lorendo raised Iris’ rating. All 
right, there was no one like her. OK? Fan- 
tastic girl. Her looks could stop your 
breathing. She had style, class, personality 
and she made sure a doctor looked up her 
week, without fail 

cent shook his head. 

And Lorendo said, “What you're doing 
we've both seen, how many times? The 
cop who has a feeling for a whore. 
He wants to be her savior, change her, 
make her like she used to be, uh? Before 
she found out that little fuzzy thing she sits 
оп can make her money.” 

“That's not nice,” Vincent sa 

“Oh, is that so? What is it attracts you 
to her, her mind? Her intelligence?” 

“1 don't happened,” 
Vincent said. “Ever since I got shot, Гус 
been horny.” 

“Its your age. How old are you, forty?” 

Vincent said yes and then said, “Forty- 


eve 


know what 


one.” 
‘Sure, 


s your age. Maybe getting 


shot, too. You see you aren't going to live 

forever, you don’t want to miss anything.” 
“Maybe. . . . You ever been shot? 

Jo, Гус been lucky." 


xb ri MM HAVE A QUESTION 
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ried again. It's what people do, they get agarose change. mesed issue. mis- 
married. But not to Iris. That's never spelled name or whatever. 
entered my mind.” Аз soon as your letter is re- 

“Good. There's hope for you.” ceived (clearly stating the problem), 

“You know what she has for breakfast? a representative will see that 
Toast and a Cok you get a prompt answer. Be- 

“You need to go back to work,” Lorendo Sen а ш to nen us 
said. “You think she has a problem. You're problem thoroughly, it will usually 
the one with the problem. You nice to a DET a cien Here 
girl like that, give her what she wants, oh, 
everything’s finc. You don't give in to her, label (on the wrapper PLAYBOY 
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“She whines, she breaks things. . ..” SERVIGE en 

Vincent,” Lorendo said, amazed, “this PLAYBOY provides you with full 


little girl, she's leading you around by your n 
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“She quit." 
“Oh, you believe that?” 


Vincent paid the check. Lorendo, wait- ру» وو‎ 
ing for him outside, was talking with the EVIEW '85 SUIT YOURSELF 
investigator who had approached their | А 
table. The investigator nodded to Vincent ORDER ANY TOP + ANY BOTTOM © ANY STYLE • ANY SIZE ® ANY PRINT • ANY SOLID 
as he came out, looking at his rattan cane, 
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“Vincent, my associate was asking, he 
would like to know what happened to the 
man who shot you.” 

“He died on the way to the hospital,” 
Vincent said, looking directly at Lorendo's 
associate, straight-faced. “I think he lost 
his will to live.” 


Calle del Parque, number 52, upstairs 
‘Teddy knocked on the door and knocked 
and knocked until it opened a few inches 


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bullshit. You could tell them anything. 

He palmed the € note as she closed the 
door to release the chain, and that was 
that. It was dim and quiet inside, the way 
he liked it, with just faint sounds out on 
the street. It smelled a little of incense or 
perfume. She held her silky green robe 
closed, then relaxed, yawning, and let the 
robe slip open before pulling it together 
again, though not in any hurry. She was 
wearing litle white panties under there, 
no bra. He sat down in a sticky plastic 
ir without waiting to be asked. Shit, he 
s in now. Reaching into the camera 
case, he almost began to recite his Interna- 
tional Surveys routine. (“If I might ask 
what your husband docs. . . . He's at work, 
is he?”) Fool around for a minute, make 
sure they were alone. One time, a big hairy 
son of a bitch had come walking out of the 
bedroom in his und: 

She was yawning again, ha 
her face. He liked that sleepy 


changing 
look. She 


stretched, arching her back. The robe 
came open to give him a pe 


k at a brown 
nipple, a big one. He liked that, too. 
"How's your boyfriend?” 


“My boyfrien’, who's that?” 

“Guy you're with at the beach every 
day.” 

"He's not even a 
more." 

"Guess | was wrong. I met him one 
time. His name Vincent Mora?” 

“Yes, Vincent.” 

“He live here with you?” 

“Man, are you crazy?” 
thought you two were pretty tight.” 

“What happen’ to the money you had i 
your hand?” 

* Teddy showed her the C note. 
“Right here. Yeah, I thought you and 
Vincent might be living together.” 

Iris said, “No way, José.” 

‘Teddy grinned. “That's cute. ... Let me 
ask you, Vincent lives—I was told he lives 
over by the Hilton on that street п 
to i? In the Carmen Apartments? That's 
what they said at his office when 1 called 
there.” 

“Yes, the Carmen Apartments.” 

“Is that the place there’s a liquor store 
in it? D didn't see a sign or nothing; I 
wasn’t sure.” 


rien” of mine no 


“Nature abhors a virgin, Miss McCartney!” 


“Yes, in the downstairs.” She kept look- 
ing at his $100 bill 

“Handy to the beach,” Teddy s: 
glanced around the room. “You 
alone, "ey? 

“Till I move to the States. I can't wait. 

“You bring guys here?” 

She began to frown now and looked 
mad. Got up on the wrong side of the bed, 
his mom used to 

“What do you ask me questions for?” 

Teddy folded the $100 bill between his 
thumb and two fingers, then folded it 
in into a tight square. He said, 
Catch” and threw it at her. 

Iris let go of her robe and caught it, 
g good reflexes for a crabby 
She had probably had money given 10 her 
in some interesting ways. He watched her 
slip the C note into the band of her pant- 
ies. She said, “1 be back" and walked out 
of the room. 

Teddy waited a few moments and fol- 
lowed her into a little hall, then left a few 
feet to the bedroom, He ched her from 
the doorway, her back to him, taking the 
money out of her panties and slipping it 
into the top drawer of her dresser. There 
were clothes on the floor. The bed was a 
mess, the sheet all tangled up. But it was a 
bed, and there she was next 10 it. 

So easy. 

Iris turned, ra 


id. He 


ус here 


ising her eyes to Teddy, 


not at all surprised to see him. “Will you 
escuse me so | can go to bed 

Should he whip it ou 

No, too easy. 

The best part, always, was secing that 


shit-scared gleam of terror in their eyes, 
the woman realizing this wasn't any sur- 
vey of current trends, what housewives 
liked or didn 

This one was different. Now that he hes- 
itated and thought about it, this one was a 
survey. Find out exactly where the guy 
lived. Now he knew. Now, if he watched 
himself, didn’t get carried away, he could 
fool around with this girl. Play with the 
cop’s girl. See what it was like 

Iris said, “I hope you don't think you 
сап give me money and go to bed with 
me.” 

Teddy said, “No wa 


‚ José,” grinning. 
Pm gonna go to bed with you, 
sweetheart, then leave you a present, a gift. 


Ifyou know what mean.” 
Iris said, “Because you adore me.” 
“Not only that,” Teddy said, “ill be 


“With a woman, 
away.” 


Vincent looked at himself in th 
room mirror. Moved closer, picked up the 
scissors and snipped at his beard, attempt- 
ng to weed the thin streaks of gray, aware 


of himself in the silence, look, getting 
older. He uld have to shave off the 
beard to get rid of the gray. But he liked 
the beard, so keeping it was a compromise. 
Living here would be the same thing, if he 
decided to stay, He didn’t know what he 
wanted. If he quit the police and stayed, 
would it be because the guy shot him or 
because he shot the guy? 

His hip hurt as he hobbled out on his 
cane through the courtyard of the Carmen 
Apartments that was like a small parking 
lot for the liquor store. People parked on 
the sidewalk in San Juan: they parked 
everywhere. 

A guy in a straw hat and sunglasses was 
studying a map spread open on the roof of 
his car. The guy looked up and said, 
“Excuse me?” As though he wasn't sure if 
he should be excused or not. 

Vincent recognized him from the beach: 
the tourist who came in the black Chevy 
cab and took pictur 

“I think Pm lost 

Vincent thought of saying to him, “No, 

уоште not.” His cop mind telling him the 
tourist had been waiting for him. Which 
could mean the tourist had followed him 
or knew beforehand where he lived. The 
tourist didn't act lost. He didn't have the 
proper lost expression, helpless or 
annoyed. The tourist was grinning, the 
i “Look what a nice guy Lam.” 
cent thought, Bullshit; the guy 
was trying too hard. Guys like that made 
him nervous. 
“I came over from Condado Beach,” 
ist said. “The traffic across the 
bridge was going both ways. Now it's one 
way and Г can't tell how to get back.” 

The guy had come up with a good one. 
Maybe he was all right. Vincen id he'd 
show him and got into the car. Then was 
sorry. The guy was a terrible driver. 
Vincent would feel the guy looking at him, 
see the rear ends of cars lighting up in the 
1 have to brace against the dash 
as the guy h A 

The to aid, “The P-R.s sure play 
their radios loud. You notice?” He sai 
“They can't drive for shit." He said, 
think Гус сеп you someplace. I know I 
saw you on the beach; | mean before 
that.” 

Vincent waited. 

“W: ami?” 

Vincent said, “I don't know. It might've 
been.” 

“That's where you're from, * 

“Miami Beach.” 

The tourist took his 
Huh?” 

Vincent glanced at him to make sure he 
had the guy in his mind, then looked back 
at the trafic. “If we've met before, tel 
about it.” 

**] understand you got shot.” 

Vincent didn't like this guy at all, the 
nothing and 
„ his unhurried 


. “You're a cop. 


listened to the 


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PLAYBOY 


delivery, the words rehearsed. 

“I bet it hurts to get shot, "ey?" The 
tourist wearing sunglasses and a straw hat, 
props, with the sun gone for the day, be- 
id them somewhere. The tourist said, 
“You don't have no idea who I am, do you?” 

Vincent would be willing to make a 
guess now, in a general area, and bet 
money on it. But he said, “I'm afraid not. 
Help me out.” 

“Tt was seven and a half years ago.” 

“What was?” 

“When we met.” 

“Take a left at the next light. It goes 
straight through to Ashford, if you want 
the beach.” 

“We first met, | didn't get a good look at 
you,” the tourist said. “But after that, I 
had time.” He paused, making the turn, 
before he said, “Four days in a row.” 

“Dade County Court," Vincent said. 

“That your guess?” 

Vincent said, “You can let me off at the 
corner, there'll be fine. I appreciate the 
ride.” 

The tourist kept going. He said, “Do I 
make you nervous?” 

Vincent said, “Your driving does. 
Jesus.” 

The light at Ashford was red and the 
tourist stopped on the left side of the onc- 
way street, so Vincent would have to get 
out in the traffic. The tourist said, “I'm 
gonna let you think about it, Vince. Till 
we see each other again.” He took oll his 
straw hat and sunglasses, giving Vincent 
опе more chance to make him. 

Vincent got his left leg out of the car 
before pushing himself up to stand in the 
street, The light changed. Horns went off 
close behind him. He hunched over in the 
doorway, his back to the noise. “You know 
why E don't recognize you?” 

“Why?” the tourist said. 

“Because all of you shifty ex-con 
assholes look alike,” Vincent said. He 
slammed the door, limped around behind 
the car and into Walgreen’s drugstore. 

. 

Vincent reversed the charge on his call 
to Buck Torres, Miami Beach police. 
Torres came on with “Whats the matter? 
Is anything wrong?” Vincent asked him 
how it was going and Torres said, “Same 
old thing, trying to stay ahead of the 
assholes.” They talked for a minute, 
Vincent watching the traffic, the young 
Puerto Rican guys in their cars, turning 
onto Ashford to make a slow loop through 
the Condado tourist section, playing their 
radios. Vincent said: 

“What I need, check with Hertz for me. 
4 out who's driving a white Datsun, 
P.R. license number twenty Baker two 
eighty, and where he told them he's stay- 
ig. OK? Now close your eyes and look at 
a male Caucasian, mid-thirties, five nine, a 
hundred and forty, dishwater straight 
hair, long thin nose, mole under his right 
cheekbone. Creepy guy, we sent him up 


270 about seven and a half years ago.” 


Torres said, “I don’t sec anybody 

“Get the name from Hertz and run it, 
OK? I think he was released 
couple of weeks; I 

“He just got out," Torres said, “how'd 
he get a credit card?” 

“1 don't know,” Vincent said, “but he's 
driving a rental. If he stole the 1.D., all the 
better. Comes to Puerto Rico and does five 
to ten. But Pd have to canvass all the 
hotels to find him, wouldn't I? And my leg 
hurts." M reg 

“You saw him and you think you know 
him, or what?" 

"He knows me," Vincent said. "He 
knows where I live, he knows 1 was 
shot. I think Im the reason he's here. 
Because I fucked up his life.” 
ure, it’s your fault, Vincent.” 

Сап you do it now, call me right 
back?” 

Torres said, “You miss work, 
is that i?” 

When he came back on, Torres said, 
“Vincent? Teddy Magyk. 

Vincent said, “Sure, that’s who it is, 
Teddy," sounding relieved. “It's funny, 
that name went through my mind, Teddy 
Magyk, but I didn't recognize him. I don't 
know wl 

“He drew a ten-to-twenty, first-degree 
sexual battery, but got early release.” 

“Woman was seventy years old, beat 
her up,” Vincent said, remembering 
‘Teddy very clearly now—pulling him out 
of bed when he made the collar and want- 
ing to shove him out the hotel window, 
through the window. 
first fall, he did two years in 
le, state of New Jersey. Also а 
rape,” Torres said. “You know, he don't 
look like mu his pieture. Man, that's 
the worst kind, the sneaky ones.” 

"Well, I'm not gonna walk backward 
the rest of my life,” Vincent said, "worry 
about some freak wants to get even. Hc 
doesn't make his move soon, IIl have to 
make one." 


incent— 


. 
Vincent drank beer as he майса for 
Lorendo Paz, getting hungry, deciding 
he'd have the asopao de pollo, sort of a 
chicken stew with rice. He could taste it 
already. With the beer and fresh crusty 
bread and hard butter. Jesus. Lorendo 
came in and sat down, worn out, his 
cream-colored suit smudged with 
You've got a tough one, uh?” 
“Guy is dead a couple weeks or more.” 
Lorendo touched his forehead. “One in 
here." He touched his temple, the left side. 
“Another one here, to make sure.” 
Two weeks out there?” 
At least. They been insects and things, 
animals, eating him, plants growing on 
him. His face isn't much left. A week ago, 
they found a taxi out there, but we don’t 
know if it belongs to the guy. He didn’t 
have a wallet, any 1.D. on him.” 
“How about 


“We got to talk to them, sec who they 
looking for.” 

“If he's the cabdriver, maybe there's a 
record, where he picked up his fare. 

“Pm going to see about that, too, 
Vincent.” 

“Who found him?” 

Some hikers, by luck. He wasn't ne: 
trail. This guy, whoever it was, shot him 
and then pushed him off a place, you 
know, where you go see the view. So we 
still looking for the wallet out there. 
Meanwhile, they do a post on him at the 
medical center, look for a bullet. We get 
some prints of the guy and sce if they 
match prints in the taxi. Then where are 
we, uh?" 

“Just getting started,” Vincent said. 
“What's different about this one?” 

“They all different,” Lorendo said, 
"aren't they? Once you see how they came 
to happen, the reason. Maybe this one is 
robbery. But we don't know the same per- 
son shot him took his wallet, do we?” 

Vincent said, “You asking for an opin- 
ion?" 

Lorendo shrugged. “You want to give it, 
sure. This point, | listen to everybody 
Smiling a litle. 

Vincent said, “You feel like buying 
lunch today? Is that why we're here?” 

“Well, it’s my turn,” Lorendo said. He 
looked off to find a waiter and said, “There 
is something else,” still looking of. “I 
received a phone call this morning. . . .” 

Vincent watched Lorendo straighten 
and glance at him, only a glance, taking 
something from his inside coat pocket—a 
folded sheet from a legal pad—opening it 
now as though he did 

Vincent cased upright, wary. “Oh, shit. 
Iris, uh? You pick her up?” 

“We found her——” 

“What'd she do, solicit a сор?” 

“She didn't do nothing, Vincent. She 
died.” 


t want to. 


А 

Vincent was alone with Iris. 

A girl they said was Iris. 

He would begin to go over in his mind 
what the police had and what they didn’t, 
the holes in the case, and he would see Iris 
falling through dark space, alone. He 
could see her eyes and then see the ground 
coming up as she would see it, alone, try- 
ing to hold back, But he couldn't sec her 
going off the balcony alone. Someone had 
been with her. 
were traces of semen in her 


They weren't sure if she had been 
assaulted, sexually or physically. Blood, 
fingerna suc samples of vital 
organs had been sent to the medical cen- 
ter. They'd wait for the report, learn the 
apparent cause of death before trying to 
determine the nature of the girl's death. 
Homicide, suicide. . . . 

“Or she could have been on some- 
i Lorendo had said. “Acid, angel 


thi 


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PLAYBOY 


dust. Maybe she thought she could fly. If 
we find out she was already dead, tha's dif- 
ferent. But if it was hitting the ground 
killed her, well, then we have to think it 
could have been an accident.” 

Vincent saw Iris on a balcony. He saw 
her falling. . . . 

A young woman wearing a 
entered the parlor, her gaze holdi 
casket. 

Late 20s. Dark hair pulled back. Pale 
skin, delicate features cleanly defined. No 
make-up, not bothering on this rainy day 
to make herself more attractive. Still, as he 
2 glamor shot of 
the same girl and a name with it. хом 
APPEARING IN THE SULTAN'S LOUNGE, LINDA 
MOON. Then saw her in a soft blue spot that 
diffused her clean features, but it was this 
girl. It had to be. He watched her stop 
short of the casket. 

“Why did you have it opened?” 

“I wanted to see her," Vincent said. 
“Make sure it was Iris, not somebody else. 

“It’s Iris.” She said, “I don't know if I 
can look at her again” but moved almost 
cautiously toward the casket to stare into it 
without moving. “God, whoever did her 
make-up—" 

‘Ought to be arrested,” Vincent said. 

The girl he knew was Linda Moon 
looked over at him, taking her time now. 
She said, “You're Iris’ friend. Е came in, I 
didn’t recognize you.” She turned away, 
walked over to the empty rows of folding 
chairs, hands in the pockets of her rain- 
coat, and sat down before looking at him 
again. “Where! 

“I forgot it,” Vincent said. 

He sat down with a chair between them, 
the girl staring at the casket again, She 
said, “Isn't that pathetic? Last seen in this 
life in a genuine wood-veneer-plastic box.” 

Vincent studied her face in profile, dark 
hair tied back, giving him a good look at 
her features, hollow cheeks, delicate nose, 
long, dark lashes—a girl who knew things 
about him, knew Iris well enough to pay 
for her funeral. 

He said, “You are Linda Moon.” Want- 
ing to be absolutely sure but sounding like 
a lawyer or a court clerk. 

She said, “1 didn't make too big an 
impression, huh? You should sce my act 
now. I wear an orange outfit, with ruffles.” 
Very dry. Staring at the casket. 

He said, “You 
and then Sunny, 

She turned to look at him 

“Then you Where're the Clowns.” 

“Send in the Clowns. Weren't too broken 
up, uh, alter Iris left?” 

“You want me to tell you about Iris and 
me? ICH take about two minutes 

“But you're here,” Linda id. She 
turned back to the casket. "It's pathetic, 
the whole thing. The little party girl—she 
gets two people at her wake." 

Vincent waited, aware of the silence, 
before he said, 


aincoat 
on the 


watched her, cent saw 


a weather set, Stormy 


inda? What was she 


de 


ing in that apartment?” 

She said, “Who knows?” 
moment, she looked at him aga 
“] have to go." 


After a 
п and said, 


. 

Teddy, behind the wheel of the Da 
watched them come out of the fü 
home. Jesus, he could slip the car into 
gear, creep it toward them in the dark, 
ime it, get almost there and pop the lights 
on as the cop started across the street. 
Shoot him going by. 


ly. Неа have to 
have his gun out, the window open on the 
nger side. Heshould've thought of 
it sooner. Except what if the cop had a gun 
on him and had time to shoot back. . 

No, it seemed like a good idea, and it 
was a good place, dark and lonely. But it 
wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to see 
the cop's eyes just before and wanted the 
cop to see his. Hi. Remember me? 

. 

Vincent walked past the open-air front 
of the restaurant, along the boxed hedge. 
He spotted Teddy right away. Teddy wear- 
ing a red knit shirt, in there among the 
hanging plants and grcen-oilcloth-covered 
tables. Тош with camera case, head 
lowered, ordering a late breakfast from the 
place-mat menu. When Vincent entered 
the restaurant later, Teddy was eating 
pancakes with one hand, holding onto his 
plastic glass of e with the other. 
Vincent wasn't sure if he could watch him: 
Teddy cutting a big wedge out of the stack, 
shoving it into his wide-open mouth, then 
taking a sip of the Coke before he began to 
chew. Vincent sat down at the table for 
four across the aisle. 

Teddy, hunched over his plate, turned 
is head to look past his shoulder. ** "Ey, 
we gotta stop meeting like this.” 

Was he honestly off the wall or pretend- 
ing to be? Playing the nerd. Eyes with a 
watery glaze this morning. Hung over? 
Maybe. He didn't seem on guard or the 
least concerned. Vincent could be some- 
опе from back home. . . . An old pal think- 
ing how simple it would be to reach into 
the back of his pants beneath his jacket, 
pull out the old Smith and put him away. 
One shot. There, Tell the waitress, "Let's 
see, I think ГЇЇ have the eggs over easy 

“What're you following me for? It won't 
do you no good.” 

"I'm not following you 

“What've you been doing all morning? I 
saw you go by here” 

“You used to follow me,” Vincent said, 
“take pictures. . , . What were the pictures 
for? You mind if I ask you?” 

“What've you got, a wire on you?" 

"Em curious, that's all.” 

“Why'd I take pictures? ГИ tell you,” 
‘Teddy said, his mouth full. He paused to 
take a drink of Coke, work his tongue 


around in his mouth. “I wanted to look at 
your face.” 
"Why?" 


“See how you look at people.” Teddy 
squared around to face Vincent directly. 
ec if you look at them the same way you 
look at me." 

“How do 1 look at you? 1 don't under- 
stand what you mean." 

“Tough shit. That's all I'm saying on 
that particular subject at this time. It may 
come up again, but we don't know for sure 
or when, .. ." 

“It doesn't matter," Vincent said. “E 
don't think you're the one did Iris, any- 
wa 


Yeah? Why по?” 

“I think it was some other creep. You're 
not the only creep in the world, Ted. There 
could be millions.” 

Teddy said, “Is that right?” Face draw 
tight as he picked up his camera case from 
the table and came over. “You think it was 
some creep, ey?” He pulled the chair out 
across from Vincent and sat down, the 
camera case in his lap now, looking right 
at Vincent, Vincent lying back, w: 
Vincent very happy with the way it was 
going. “I hear she did a double back 
olf that balcony," Teddy said. “1 hear it 
wasn't a bad dive, but she only scored an 
eight point five, You know why? She didn't 
keep her feet together.” 
cent had to t a moment. He 
picked up his glass of water and took a sip. 
He had to let himself ease back down. 

“I understand she didn't scream,” 
Vincent said. “1 wonder why.” 

Teddy shrugged his shoulders, staring at 
Vincent. “Maybe she was dead or close to 
it. Can't you figure things ош? Speculate 
on it? Hell, Гт the one oughta be the dick. 
DIL tell you something, though. You can 
keep surveillance. I don't want any parts 
of surveillance work. Other than following 
some stove-up cripple walks with a cane." 
Teddy grinned. “That's different.” 

“You're a weird fucking guy, Teddy. 
I've never met anybody like you before 
my life.” 

“You better believe it,” Teddy said and 
ned. “You're finding out the hard way 

don't call me Mr. Magic for noth- 


Who's they? I never heard anybody 
call you that. 

“Guys. 

“What guys? Guys at Raiford? All the 
winners? I wouldn't call doing time 
exactly a та; 

“I got along fine. 

And came out with some great ideas.” 

Teddy squinted at him. “I can see that 
look aga € it is. Like you 
think you ing." Teddy, grin 
ning his smirky grin, raised and lowered 
his eyebrows, twice. He said. “Have a nice 
day,” got up and walked off. 

Jesus Christ, Vincent thought, fe 
strangely self-conscious, as though people 
at the other tables were staring at hi 
ng him with Teddy. 
the freak, cross 


associ: 
Look 


ng the street 


now in shorts, wearing white shorts, cam- 
cra case hanging, the freak rai 
hand with a flat palm toward approach 
traffic, the fre ing straight ahe 


[eddy onstage, showing off. Some- 
thing a kid in junior high might do. Look. 
Moving off with a jaunty stride, on the 
other side of the strect now, h a bounce 
that seemed to lift him up on his toes. 


This isn't what you do, Vincent 
thought. Play games with weird kids. You 
can't do it. You have to get out 


. 

Vincent didn't mention Miami Beach, 
that it was time for him to go home, past 
time; he would set it aside for a while, 
They were together now, closer because 
they had been apart. Vincent and Linda 
sat in the sun at Escambrón beneath that 
clean sky and talked about things as they 
thought of them, Teddy already out of the 
way as a topic, done to death. 

“I can't play with him anymore.” 

“Good. But it makes you mad.” 

“More than that.” 

“You have to forget about him.” 

He was trying. They watched the sleck 
young bodies in skimpy, stringy bathing 
suits, the vendors cooking. selling, the 
families on blankets, and looked out at the 
low barrier of rock 100 yards offshore and 
imagined it, squinting, a rusting ship's 
hull, a long brown submarine. . . . / Anda 
Datsun behind them. Parked back 
shade of Australian pines. He didn't imag- 
с the car, it was there, and felt someone 
inside it watching them—trying to forget 
Teddy but feeling his presence. 


. 

Teddy got up during the night to go to 
the bathroom, “Go potty,” his mom called 
it; woman her age. Tub a lard trying to be 
cute. He had actually been inside her and 
almost killed her, she said, coming out at 
birth. Well, excuuuse me. It could still be 
arranged. She's sleeping; hold a pillow 
over her face so as not to have to look at 
her. Lay on top of it till she finally quit 
bucking and breathing and he would never 
have to hear her say ser mom" or 
"Buddy go potty” again. He shouldn't 
think things like that. He said to the bath- 
room mirror, "Would you do that to your 
mom?" Then had to grin at himself, turn- 
ing his head to look at the grin from differ- 
ent angles. 


Hi, yourself." 

"Haven't L scen you someplace before?” 

“Now you do, now you don't." 

“Wait.” 

He stared at himself in silence, not grin- 

ng now. 

“When you gonna do it?” 

“What? 

“You know wha 

He stared at himself in silence, 

“Tomorrow. Didn't I tell you? 
. 


atched them from across the street, 


Vincent and his girlfriend were out of 


their car, walking away arm in 
arm. Wasn't that sweet? They stopped like 
they were going to go into the liquor store. 
Nope, decided not to, kept going and went 
into the apartment entrance. 

"Teddy slid down some cat so he 
could look up at their balcony now, second 
directly above the liquor store. He 
waited for lights to come on. . . . There. 

“Now make yourselves a couple of 
drinks,” ‘Teddy said. He told them they 
ty from all that sight-scein 
told them to get comfortable and bring 
their drinks out onto the balcony, get some 
fresh air. Sitting down or stan 
didn't matter to him. Or whether he 
looked in the cop's eyes or not. The hell 
with it, Teddy had made up his mind he 
was going to get it done. Soon as th 
appeared—walk out into the street like he 
was crossing, stop, aim his .38 up there 
and give "em each three rounds, Vincent 


first and foremost, Vincent more than 
three if it was necessary. 
could go up there and kill all different 
ways. Have some 

It looked like only one light was on up 
there. What were they doing? Teddy sai 
“Еу, you can screw her any time. С 
on out on the balcony." He waited. Shit 

A figure appeared, moving the cu 
aside. 


blis from a water 
fall in place as she 


Linda sipped C 
glass, let the curtai 
heard Vincent. 

“Its all yours." 

Vincent stood in the living room, but- 
ing his shirt. 

“You have great legs.” 

“So do you.” 

She held up the glass. “We could use 
some more of thi: 

“It's on the list. You think of anything 
else?” 

“Bread?” 

“We've got the rolls. Empanadillas for 
appetizers, a mixed salad, alcapurrias, 
what else? Piononos. Wine, coffee: Vll ger 


[7 


DAMES 


"I didn't think this was what you meant when you said 
you see other guys.” 


273 


PLAYBOY 


274 


some booze. ..." 
“Vincent? Am I going to have to learn 
to cook Puerto Rican?” 
“You'll love it. 
He was going out as 
not an answer.” 
The door clos 


she said, “That's 


. 

Teddy had six rounds in the revolver, 
six more in his right-hand pants pocket 
and six in the left. If he couldn't do the job 
with—what'd that make?—18 shots, he 
oughtn't to be here. The gun was so sh 
he'd have to keep it in his pants till he was 
out in the street, no cars com The girl 
had appeared up there, looking cute in her 
shorty outfit. But no Vincent. Shit. Teddy 
said, "Come on, Vincent, you son of a 
bitch,” lowered his gaze to the street and, 


Jesus Christ, there he was, coming along 


the side of the building past the cars, com- 
ing out of darkness to the liquor store. 
Look at him, right there across the street. 
Going in for a six-pack or something. In 
his shirt sleeves. No place to hide a gun, no 
way. Teddy wiped his palms on his pants. 
He picked up the .38 from the scat 

Walk over there like he had 
folded. Get behind a car by the building. 
Wait. Get him coming out of the store. 

B 

Linda was pinning up her hair, the 
shower running, when she thought of it 
and said, “Cheese” to the bathroom mir- 
ror, caught her own smile and was out of 
there, slipping on the wrap as she hurried 
through the living room to the balcony, to 
catch Vincent before he got inside he 
store—tell him to get cheese and crackers 
and potato chips, gringo snacks to go with 
the empanadillas—and looked over the rail 
straight down. Too late; missed him. 

She looked up to sce Teddy in the mid- 
dle of the street. 

Even before the car passed and he con- 
tinued across and she recognized him, she 
knew it was Teddy coming. Teddy с 
trating on the liquor store, cautious, kcep- 
ing beyond the edge of light on the 
pavement, walking in a peculiar way. Peo- 
ple didn’t walk with their arms folded. She 
saw his arms unfold as it was in her mind 
and saw the glint of bright metal and 
wanted to call out—gripping the balcony 
rail as hard as she could. Yell for help, yell 
at Teddy, yell at Vincent the moment he 
came out—and it could be a moment too 
late. She saw the gun in Teddy's hand, 
Teddy moving toward the cars parked in 
the courtyard. Linda let go of the rail, 
aware that she had to run but remain 
calm, hurry without losing her head and 
doing something dumb. 

Vincent's gun was on the dresser. 

It was heavy and her hand was wet. 
There were catches and strange little 
knobs, numbers and names etched in the 
metal. She had seen someone in a movie, 
in а hundred movies, slide the top part of 
the barrel back, and she did it and jumped 


meen- 


as a cartridge ejected and the slide clicked 
into place. Vincent would keep the safety on. 
The catch, she hoped to God, by her thumb 
as she gripped the gun. Push it up. 

. 
cent saw it coming and thought, Not 


Vi 
again. 


Carrying the groceries reminded him of 


that other time. That other time, he 
thought he might have seen the guy before, 
in a holding cell. This time, he knew the 
guy quite well and knew the guy was not 
going to tell him to drop the groceries and 
hand over his wallet, This guy’s only 
intention was to shoot him dead. What 
had he learned that other time that might 
help him now? Absolutely nothing. This 
time he had learned, never go to the store 
without your gun. But even if he had it 
‘Teddy said, “Well, well, well,” coming 
out of the dark to smirk at him, holding the 
bright-metal piece low. elbow tight against 
his 


Vincent looked him in the eye, trying for 
an expression that would show honest sur- 
prise. What’s going on? What is this? He 
didn't want to look threatening. He didn’t 
want ‘Teddy to take anything the wrong 
way and all of a sudden empty the gun 
He wanted to reason with Teddy, at least 
try. The trouble was, Vincent had to con- 
centrate so hard on appearing harmless, 
surprised—while hiding the fact he was 
scared to death—he couldn't think of any- 
thing to say. Drop it, motherfucker, or ГЇ 
blow your fucking head off came to mind. It 
was a good line but not one that would 
work here. Blow his head off with what? 

Teddy said, “I want to be looking in 
your eyes as I pull the trigger.” 

“Why, Ted?” 

“Tm not Ted, Pm Teddy.” 

Shit. “OK. Would you tell me—see, I 
don't understand—why you want to do 
that?” 

“You don’t know what I feel or anything 
about me. You think you do.” 

“1 give you that impression?” 

“Cut the bullshit. Time you busted me 
eight years ago, | could tell. Like you 
thought you could sce inside me. Well, you 
can't. 

No, Га be the first to admit that. I 
think what we have h 
standing. . . .” Jesus Christ, did they. 

Vincent was about to stumble on, think 
of something, anything, when he saw a fig- 
ure in white, beyond Teddy's right shoul- 
der, run from the building entrance to the 
cars parked in the courtyard, and hc said, 
“What we should do is clear it up." 

“What else you gonna say, | got a 
fucking gun aimed at your gut?” 

The figure was beyond Teddy's left 
shoulder now, among the cars, coming out 
toward them. Linda, Jesus, in her skimpy 
white robe. 

“You don't want to be in the positi 
get brought up for murder—you know, 
that's pretty serious and find out you 


e is a misunder- 


were wrong. 1 don't mean wrong, | mean 
you misinterpreted, made an honest m 
take of what you thought Ц was thi 

Hearing himself but s inda 
holding his police gun out in front of her i 
both hands, sneaking up hunched over, 
maybe 20 feet away and closing in. Teddy 

saying, “Bullshit!” repeating it with 
feeling, with everything he had, work 
himself up. ‘Teddy saying, “Look at me! 
Look me in the eye, goddamn it!" Vincent 
wanted to. He raised his eyebrow: 
stretch his eyes open wide, felt like an 
and didn’t care, wanting with all heart 
to tell Linda about the safety at the back 
end of the slide on a Smith & Wesson 
Model 39 parabellum. If it was on and she 
tried to fire and Teddy heard her. 
Wait. Or if it was off and she did fire a 
copper-jacketed ninc-millimeter round right 
at Teddy, right in front of him. 

Teddy was saying, "Open ‘em wide! 
Come on, wider!” Showing the whites of 
his own wild eyes, ‘Teddy at the edge 

As Linda stretched both arms all the 
way out, braced herself and fired. 

And Vincent closed and opened hi 
eyes, saw her juggle the gun and drop i 
Teddy slammed into him and Teddy's gun 
went off between them into the grocery 
ack of bottles, went olf again and went off 
the bottles gone now as Vincent 
tried to grab hold of Teddy clinging to him 
and put him down, step on his gun. But 
something was wrong. Shit, he ku 
it was. It wasn’t pain, not yet; it was his 
strength going. He had been shot some- 
where, and the rug-burn pain would come 
once his adrenaline had drained off. He 
had learned that the other time. He had to 
find Teddy's gun hand right now, Teddy 
holding on like dead weight. He got hold of 
Teddy's arm and took a step and threw 
him as hard as he could, but it wasn’t 
enough. Teddy reeled off, staggering, but 
stayed on his feet. Vincent started after 
him and his legs lost their purpose, 
wouldn’t work. It was Vincent who went 
down and had to crawl in the dark toward 
Linda’s white bare feet on the pavement— 
where his gun was supposed to be and 
wasn't— Linda saying something, mad or 
urgent. He couldn’t tell or stop to look up 
at her and listen, not now, or explain what 
he had in mind. But she knew. She came 
down to him on her knecs, holding the 
Smith, and put it in his hand, grip into the 
palm. She knew. He turned with onc hand 
on the ground, gun extended in the other, 
and put it on ‘Teddy. Vincent paused to 
say, “Drop it.” Gave him that op! 

Teddy looked wobbly, drunk, weaving 
as he aimed the bright-mctal piece right at 
them, at one or the other, from less than 20 
feet. So Vincent shot him. Put one dead 
center through Teddy's solar plexus and 
killed the poor wimp who thought he was 
magic and couldn’t be scared. 


El 


w what 


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276 


DIANE LANE rron pe 135 


“We spent a long time minding our Ps and Qs when 
our hormones were wreaking havoc with our bodies.” 


needs—so he can feel like he's leaving you.” 

Sce, everybody had told me that rela- 
tionship wouldn't work, but 1 didn't want 
to hear it. But people kept saying, "You 
don't know what love is. Please. I've had 
three divorces and 12 children, What the 
hell is love, anyway?” They were trying to 
piss on my fire. I figured, Hey, Im 19. 
Give me a fucking break. I want to be in 
love! I had never had a boyfriend before. 1 
wanted to be a girlfriend: that whole pic- 
ture of the young couple walking, holding 
hands, at sunset on the beach. I thought 
we were going to be that rare high school 
couple who make it all the way through, in 
spite of the odds against us. But he 
thought I was changing—getting overly 
sophisticated—and I hated the idea. It 
scared the hell out of me. And then there 
was the whole celibacy bi 
separated—we spenta long period watch- 
ing our Ps and Qs ata time when our hor- 
mones were wreaking havoc on our 
adolescent bodies. And he also had to go 
and experience his own challenges, with- 


when we were 


out 


di 


comparing them with mine. We 
led to ignore the situation for a while, 
was like ] was wa T 
to arrive. And that wasn't fair for him. 

It was never a matter of dump or be 
dumped. Francis just meant that it would 
be best if my boyfriend felt like he w 
doing the right thing by leaving. 


10. 


тлуноу: Now that you're unattached, 
what kind of man has a chance with you? 
And do you still want that picture of love 
you described? 
LANE: Oh, boy—a shameful lot. [Laughs] Y 
don't have a list of qualifications that 1 
check when I meet someone. That's prob- 
ably my problem. 1 would like to be more 
discriminating about certain things. The 
bedroom isn’t where the screening process 
should take place. But mainly, I want 
someone who has had a lot of experience. 
I already had what I was talking about 
before. Now it’s time for something else. 
It’s just another season. I'm not saying I 


“Well-l-l, no wonder you're having problems with 
your vision, you've got a twinkle in your eye.” 


ryone wants one. 
But I just don’t have time for one now. 
Maybe next week I'll make the time. 


: Where do you spend Christmas? 
LANE: At my best friend's house, usually, 
she has a family. My dad will go 
over there with me sometimes. It will 
probably hurt my parents’ feelings to read 
this, but I like to be at a home. I go to 
other people's houses because [ assume 
there should be a lot of people around to 
give the sensation that Christmas is really 
there. It's hard to acknowledge Christmas 
with only two people in the room. 


12. 


playboy: Who is your best friend and why? 
LANE: Robin has been my best friend since 
kindergarten. She's like my living diary. 
But I wonder if I can call her my best 
friend any more. 1 don't know whats 
going on with her. She went to Mexico to 
marry this, oh, guy, and I think it’s an 
unbelievable mistake. And she can read 
about it in piaywoy, because I haven't had 
the nerve to tell her in real life. Plus, she 
turned punk rock on me. That's fine. I can 
appreciate it, but when we hang out 
together, you would not believe that we 
even knew each other. Still, we went 
through everything together. She was the 
only friend 1 had. My other friends didn't 
know, because I didn’t really rely on them 
for anything except being there occasion- 
ally when I was lucky enough to get them 
on the phone or had a free minute to talk 
to them. But Robin I really counted on. 


13. 


м.лувоу: What do you do when there's 
nothing to do? 
taxe: Think about things. Sometimes I get 
depressed—a lot, sometimes—thaugh 
more in the past, fortunately. I have plenty 
of things to occupy me now. But I get 
dragged down by not being active, not 
feeling like Fm useful, feeling like I'm get- 
ting behind where people think I should 
be, when I should bc making every 
moment, you know, acti 
On the other hand, 
to just sit down and w. 
amazed at how easily 1 sli 
ployment. I enjoy it very much. I'd been 
working straight through until The Cotton 
Club; then I took off. Um not a workaholic 
at all. I should really be reading a book for 
school instead of watching some rock star 
shake his ass on MTV. 


14. 


real easy for me 


TLAYBOY: Speaking of rock stars, would you 
care to comment on that photo of you in 
Rolling Stone's "Random Notes” and the 
caption that placed you in the men’s room 
with John Taylor of Duran Duran at the 


opening of New York's Hard Rock C. 
LANE: Oh, please. Oh, boy. Um sure h 
fiancée loved that. I met the guy that 
night. Some people were locking for him 
upstairs. I was going to the bathroom, 
and—I don't really remember what hap- 
pened. If you recall, in the picture, I was 
practically cross-eyed. But that’s OK. 
Who cares? I was not in the bathroom 
with him. I was just going, “John, John. 
and he wasn’t hearing me, so I walked 
over to the men’s room and stuck my head 
in and spoke to him. But you never know 
who's walking around there. My only con- 
cern later was being identified with that 
crowd of girls who circulate with, and are 
hung up on, rock musicians—the rock-"n'- 
roll-slut syndrome. Гус gone through the 
period when whenever one walked into the 
room, Га freak. My father was very intol- 
erant of me during that phase of my devel- 
opment. He couldn't understand. He 
thought I should have more dignity than 
to get Hushed in the face when a rock star 
was around. He said, “Diane, don’t you 
know you are just as important as he is?” 
Important, schmortant. [t didn't matter to 
me at the time, because your idols are your 
idols. I mean, you wouldn't believe whose 
picture I had on my wall when I was 
12—and I'm not going to tell you, either. 
Now I agree with my father. 


15. 


клувоу: What can money buy and what 
do you spend yours on? 

LANE: It can buy time and places and 
sometimes people—though I 
want anyone I could buy. I spend it on 
trying to make myself and other people 
happy. I buy pants, shoes, garish nail pol- 
ish to wear only once. 1 may not need 
something, but 1 want it, and I have the 
money, so why the hell shouldn't I? I also 
try to purchase culture—like art—to learn 
through seeing, because Гуе always felt 
there's not going to be enough time to 
acquire it through experience. 


16. 


wouldn't 


тлувоу: Do young people still think a lot 
about death? 

LANE: I have had this bizarre thought that 
mine will not be a simple, normal death. 
For a while, I thought that after my kids 
had grown up, a UFO would descend and 
relie 


¢ me of this existence—just take me 
Can you imagine? Later, when I 
was 12, I went to see Close Encounters of 
the Third Kind and 1 was standing up in 
the theater, yelling and crying 
Take me!” My friends were holding me 
down, saying, “You're embarrassing us. 
Sit down.” But my girlfriend was crying, 
too. We were very moved. We wanted to go 
out on that spaceship. I've never actually 
seen a UFO, but I've always thought 
they'd show themselves to me. I always 
thought 1 was important in that sense. 1 


away 


thought 1 had some kind of connection 
with those UFO people. I mean, I'm 
mocking it now, but it was a very serious 
thing that I respected at the time. 


17. 


PLWBOY: Your parents were divorced 13 
days after you were born, and you've since 
lived with one or the other. Any advice for 
single parents? 

LANE: Respect your child’s intelligence and 
don't try to hide lots of stuff about yourself 
from your kid. You're not going to be able 
to, anyway. 


18. 


praveov: What gift have you always want- 
ed to give your father? 

Laxe: The home that he wants; someplace 
he'd be happy in and that would be more 
“him” than these cubicles he lives in in 
Manhatian. He wants to develop a green 
thumb—and he's good at it. He's got four- 
foot grapefruit trees in his apartment. 


19. 


тмлувоу: Here's the socially redeeming 
part of the interview. This is your chance 
to speak out to someone or about any sub- 
ject. You're оп 

Lave: Oh, great, on three seconds’ notice! 
Hmm. Well, not in order of priority, but I 


was thinking of this last night. If I had a 
wish, or wishes, one of them would be to 
be able to make love to any man I wanted 
to and be able to erase it from his pompous 
memory. And that would be all I'd need 
to make me a little happier. The man 
wouldn't know what happen “How did 
I get into this room? What happened to 
my clothes?" "Bye; see you on the subway. 
I don't want to have to deal with the after- 
effects of his having tainted me or had me 
or however he saw it, or I might fear he 
saw it. The whole conquest aspect of sex is 
something I wouldn't have to deal with 
then. Of course, Гуе been told by some 
guys who are just friends that I'm a bit ofa 
conquestor myself. 

Can I have another shot? I'm concerned 
about the use of the ocean as our toilet 
bowl. I think everything in this hotel room 
will probably be at the bottom of the 
ocean before Um dead, and it’s a damn 
shame. The one thing that should reach 
beyond international politics is the way we 
dispose of our crap. It makes me angry. 


20. 


PLAYBOY: What are you looking forward to? 
LANE: Га like to get past this age where 
people don’t yet expect me to be a respon- 
sible person. 


“It looks like we're only going to need one 


horn, thank you. 


1984 BAW T Co. 


Surprising rich А -бее. 
Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined P 8 ness, yet 99% tar-free 
That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health. 


p GETS ANNIE A 96, PSA a SPEAR 
CARRIER IN THE OPER, 


LIKE MUCH, BUT 
WHEN SHE OPENS 


I STILL DON'T KNOW WHAT IM DOING IN AN 
EN SOLLY... АМР THE TENOR MAKES ME 
NERVOUS. ans CORPS, BAAD 


EL MEIN APPLET 
STRUDEL... 


MAESTRO! 'ATSA NO VOICE 
I ADMIT THAT IS FALLING ON ME! SHE'SA 
THE DIVA IS HEAVY. V. TOO FAT! TMA WO FLAT! 
| vou MUST NOT SHE'S GONNA MAKEA ME A 
THINK OF HER AS SOPRANO! I QUIT! 
А BODY. THINK CIAO! 
OFHERASA 


BUT, SIGNOR PATATOOTI, WE OPEN TONIGHT! WAIT! I HAVE 
AN IDEA! WHAT IF WE USE THE DIVA'S VOICE AND HIDE 
HER BODY OFFSTAGE 7 THAT WAY, WE CAN SUBSTITUTE 
ANY BODY WE WANT, AND THE SUBSTITUTE BODY CAN 

3 LIP SYNC THE DIVA'S WORDS. 


P^ къ 
| voted) GF а 
aa одоо 


е LISTEN то THAT 
Eb Howoroyan! "e AUDIENCE! THEY'RE 
BEI MIR BIST DU SCHOEN! GOING WILD? 
BEI MIR BIST DU EIN. 


I'LL SHOW 


CLAP! THEM WHO THE 
свег ine: REAL PRIMA 
ь CLAP! A 


CURTAIN CALLS 
ARE MINE! 
THOSE BOUQUETS, 


Ne 


5 (SHE'S 
! CACALLAS! 
NO, 1 
4 WELLA CALL, 
. HER! _ 


де 
TOSAN NOTH- N 
д ING OF YOUR. 

s UPPER REGISTERS! 


281 


UL VERSER ENGELHARD 


HABITAT 
PORSCHE: THERE IS NO EQUAL 


Porsche in the garage may be quite Continental, but 
one in the living room means you're talking land's- 
speed language. Yes, Ferdinand Alexander Porsche 
does have other interests besides aerodynamics 
and horsepower, and his Antropovarius chair is a whole dif- 
ferent trip. Most of its vertebrae can be custom-altered for 


comfort—and the chair itself is a surprise package of seating 
angles from upright to a full-lounge position. So if you've had 
a tough day, go home and slip into something more com- 
fortable. With custom-colored leather mated to space-age 
structuring, the Antropovarius chair is a rocket ride down 
the highway of great furniture design. Sloopy, hang on! 


Climb aboard Porsche's latest 
innovation—the Antropovari- 
us chair—provided you've 
got the price of a ticket to 
ride: $5400. Made of leath- 
er-covered steel sheets, it's 
the hottest seat in town. 
Right Adjustable vertebrae 
make for a chair that's built 
for comfort—and speed, 
from Intema Designs, Chi- 
cago. (The helmet is a 
Porsche Design CP-3 mod- 

el, from Racecrafters In- 
ternational, Canoga Park, 
California, $139.95.) 


GEAR 
SMALL WONDERS 


yellow-polka-dot transistor put a cap on the Tube Age, 
good things have been coming in smaller and smaller 
packages. Now, using silicon chips and liquid-crystal 
displays, engineers can pack yesterday's ICBMs into today's 
thimbles; soon high tech's high priests will have figured out 
how many angels can dance on the head of a pin-sized radio. 


Si 1948, when that first itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny 


In case you've been looking only at the big picture, you 
should know that we've entered the age of miniaturization. 
Small wonder small's so big these days—you may need an 
electron microscope to watch The Big Sleep tomorrow, only 
to be awakened in the morning by a clock-radio/coffee 
maker you're wearing around your neck. Why the big fuss? 
Because now, more than ever, little things can mean a lot. 


All products pictured below are life-size. From far left to right: The FlashCard, a solar-powered credit-card-size calculator, by Canon U.S.A., 
$16. Panasonic’s rechargeable RF-H25 FM/AM/FM stereo personal radio is only 5/32” thick and plays for about five hours between charges, 
$99.95. S a two-inch screen fits into the corner of a suitcase or a jacket pocket, $550. The spies have it—a Minox EC 
camera with automatic exposure, by E. Leitz, $222. Toshiba's KT-AS10 AM/FM personal stereo/cassette player is almost the same size as the 
cassette it plays, $149.95. Uniden's supersneaky RD 95 radar delector comes in two pieces—an antenna that's hidden behind your grille and а 
pint-sized control unit, pictured, that clips to your visor, $219.95. The RP-30, a supe: FM, by Toshiba, $49.95. Dial-It II pocket dialer 
remembers up to 100 numbers and dials them automatically; it is also a calculator, a clock, an alarm and more, by Dictograph, $69.95. 


DAVE JONDANO 


GOLD DIGGERS OF 1985 


For those of you who go into cinematic with- 
drawal when such golden oldies as Gold Diggers of 
1933, They Drive by Night and Passage to Marseille 
aren't scheduled on the Late Show, there's relief 
coming from Key Video of Jolla, 
it has just released, in VHS and Beta 
flicks from the Thi “orties and Fifties— 
luding those mentioned above. Priced around 
560, they'll look nice on the shelf next to your 
autographed picture of Vera Hruba Ralston. 


SOMETHING TO TOY WITH 


ago, the Home sweet 
home.” Today, according to Network Marketing, 
P.O. Box 26732, Lakewood, Colorado 80220, 

i's “He who dies with the most toys wins 

And to prove the point, Network Marketing has 
created an 8" x 10” brass-and-walnut-hnished 
plaque (S21, postpaid) that we're sure all readers 
of vi viov will want to hang on the wall— 
overlooking their 9: 
Recaro se; 


mily motte was 


IS Porsches with the custom 


Mindi 


POTPOURRI 


pric 


The Lovin’ Spe 
you'll be humming that. 100, instead of the denim blues after you 
try Stretch 'N Fit. a * 
bles you to stretch the waistband of cotton jeans and cords 14 to 20 
percent, depending on how many times you've previously washed 
them. If that’s impossible to believe. here's more good news: The 


for a bottle 


38.50 sent to Stretch "N 
Box 6900, South Laguna, California 92677. Wonders never c 


THE HOME STRETCH 


nful used to sing Do You Believe in Magic? and 


mi 


cle" product in a pump bottle that ena- 


which holds about 40 applications—is only 
t, 30100 Town Center Drive “0,7 P.O. 


CALLING 
ALL GOURMETS 


Most pro football linebackers. 


we know eat raw meat off a 
plate on the floor. But tell 
that to Mel Owens, number 
58 of the Los Angeles Rams, 
and he'll have you in a 
culinary seri 
ing the subtle 
ing. Owens is the president of 
mputer Marketing Inter- 
national, and what he mar- 
kets is free dining advice 
that’s available to anyone 
who calls his Restaurant 
Referral Hotline (800-LETS- 
EAT), whose operators pro- 
vide information on the best 
places to eat in major cities 
throughout the U S. Specifics 


on various categories, includ- 
ing price, entertainment 
and type of cuisine, are just 


a few of the gourmandial 
arcas Owens’ service can 
clue you in on, Sorry, restau- 
rants stalled by topless 
waitresses aren't one of th 
but next time you're in 
Denver and want tandoori 
chic try him 


CHIP OFF THE 
COMPUTER BLOCK 


The Computer Museum may be a “non- 
profit, public institution chronicling the 
evolution of information processing,” but 
The Computer Museum Store, at the 
same address—300 Congress Street, Bos- 
ton 02210—stocks just about every item 
your technomind could desire, from 
Peter Laurie's The Joy of Computers 
($19.95) to a chocolate microchip ($5.95) 
The store has a catalog. Byte 


FREEZE FROM DOWN UNDER 


From the land of Foster's lager come Fro- 
zen Moments, common domestic objects 
frozen in time (actually, resin and plas- 
ter) by Australian artist Geoflrey Rose 
Surprised Cereal, Wet Paint and Esca-paste, 
shown here, go for $100 each from Rose's 
Stateside rep, Aspen Enterprises, P.O. 
Box 419, Aspen, Colorado 81612. There 
are about a dozen more to choose from. 
Claes Oldenburg, eat your heart out. 


ADDING T TO DESTINY 


Here you are with the midwinter 
blues, and everybody at the 
health club is roostering about 
where he went on his Christmas 
vacation, in T-shirts with the 
names of Barbados, Rio and 
other fun sun spots emblazoned 
across the chest. Ah, but there is 
a Santa Claus, V nia, as a 
company called Cheap Trips, 
Box 31104, Bethesda, Maryland 
20814, stocks a variety of men's 
and women's T-shirts with sta- 
tus stop-offs from Acapulco to 
Zurich printed on them. One 
dollar gets you a catalog 

that contains info on colors, 
styles and prices ($9.50 to 
$10.50, plus postage). How 
could you travel cheaper? 


THE WILD BUNCH 


To inspire all you armchair 
Charles Atlases to build a bet- 
ter body, Matrix One, a fitness 
complex in California, has just 
released its first calendar 
($8.95, postpaid, sent to 
Stoller Productions, P.O. Box 
691323, Los Angeles, Califor- 
nia 90069), and guess what's 
waiting for you each month? 
Faceless females —beautiful 
and well built—power curling, 
pumping iron and doing other 
strenuous exercises. You'll just 
have to imagine what lies 
above all those potent perfect 
pecs. Or, for $28, you can have 
an eye-catching 24" x 36" 
poster of the same leggy line- 
up for over your bed. Sweet 
dreams, Hercules. 


HANGING TOUGH 
No, Dead Clients Don't Pay isn't 
the name of a finance course in a 
school for morticians; it's the 
tide of “The Bodyguard's Man- 
ual,” a 112-page softcover, by 
‘Thompson, that’s must 
reading for ex-Secret Service 
agents, Forcign Legion- 
and wild-eyed Walter 
Mittys who have always wanted 
to come on like Clint Eastwood 
or Charles Bronson. Paladin 
Press, P.O. Box 1307, Boulder, 
Colorado 80306, is the pub- 
lisher, and for $13 (postage 
included), you can learn such 
useful facts as how to look (or 
not look) like a bodyguard and 
what type of bow-wow makes 
the best attack dog. Tough. 


Ana One, Ana Two 

If you saw John Derek's epic Bolero, starring that perfect ten, 
you will immediately recognize Bo's co-star, ANA OBRE- 
GON. To see her again, you'll have to wait for her next movie. 


But take a Jong look at Ana anyway. She's worth waiting for. 


— — — GRAPEVINE 


Prima Donna 

Ghostbuster DAN AYKROYD and his very real lady, actress DONNA 
DIXON, were spotted twisting the night away after the first MTV Awards 
last fall. Danny was co-host of the extravaganza with the Divine Miss M. We 
think Donna's outfit is pretty extravagant, too. 


One Sings, 
the Other 
Doesn't 


HERBIE HANCOCK 
(right) boogies with 
one of his favorite 
mechanical ladies, 
while DAVID LEE 
ROTH (below) gets 
some feedback from 
ace guitarist EDDIE 
VAN HALEN. All had a 
very successful 1984, 
with hit records and 
Grammy awards. So 
expect more of that 
rock-n-roll music, any i 
old way they choose it. 2 


Bra Zeal 


The Mother of us ай 
was not Eve, FRANK 
ZAPPA is back on the 
road—not as a com- 
poser of classical 
pieces, nor as a sym- 
phony conductor, nor 
even as the father of 
Moon Unit. With a re- 
grouped Mothers of 
Invention, Frank has 
been touring with The 
Dead. Here he is with 
a trophy. 


Debbie Does Dallas 

Not that Debbie, you guys! This Debbie is 
DEBORAH SHELTON and a former Miss 
U.S.A. She's currently on Dallas, playing 
Mandy, who just happens to be J.R's latest 
fling. Now she’s our celebrity-in-the-making 
breast of the month. That's fame, right? 


Music to 
Soothe These 
Savage Breasts 
Singer MATTHEW ASH- 
MAN, formerly of Bow 
Wow Wow and currently of 
Chiefs of Relief, takes the 
band's number-one fan, 
KAREN KELLY, for a ride, 
Said Matthew about Karen, 
“1 think if she were in the 
band and not the audience, 
it might make life a bit dif- 
ficult.” Said Karen, “It’s a 
pity I can't sing” 


Bodice Heat 
This terrific-looking woman is MADONNA, 


whom you know from her hit single and 
video Borderline. 1f they left you wanting 
more, look for her first movie, Desperately 
Seeking Susan, with Rosanna Arquette. 


290 


NEXT MONTH 


DISTANT REPLAY 


^ 


A 


TEXAS BELES ‘SUTURE, PLEASE 


“DISTANT REPLAY"—FROM THE VANTAGE POINT OF 
MIDDLE AGE, THE EX-PACKER GREAT (AND AUTHOR 
OF INSTANT REPLAY) LOOKS AT WHAT THE YEARS 
HAVE DONE TO HIS LIFE AND THOSE OF HIS ЕХ- 
TEAMMATES— BY JERRY KRAMER AND DICK SCHAAP 


"EASY IN THE ISLANDS" —NOTHING I$, NOT EVEN 
MAKING FUNERAL ARRANGEMENTS FOR DEAR OLD 
MOM. A SUBTROPICAL TALE BY BOB SHACOCHIS 


“EXCAVATIONS: THE DRAMA OF OPEN-HEART 
SURGERY"—UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL IN THE 
OPERATING ROOM WITH THE COUNTRY'S TOP CARDIO- 
VASCULAR SURGEONS—BY WAYNE FIELDS 


"THE GIRLS OF TEXAS"—IN THE LONE-STAR STATE, 
THEY CLAIM THEIR WOMEN ARE PRETTIER THAN 
ANYBODY'S. MAKE UP YOUR OWN MIND 


"THE FINE ART OF COCKSURETY"—ALI USED TO HAVE. 
IT; SO DID CHURCHILL. SOME GUYS CAN WALK THE 
TIGHTROPE BETWEEN CONFIDENCE AND ARRO- 
GANCE, AND WHEN IT WORKS, IT'S DEFINITELY AN ACT 
WORTH WATCHING —BY GARY A. TAUBES 


“THE YEAR IN SEX"—OUR ANNUAL ROUNDUP OF THE 
GOOD, THE BAD AND THE FAINTLY RIDICULOUS 


PLUS: FREDERIK POHL'S SHORT-SHORT STORY OF 
ALIENS AT THE END OF THE WORLD, “THE SAVED"; 
EMANUEL GREENBERG'S POINTERS ON AFTER- 
DINNER DRINKING, “THE POWER SNIFTER"; ADVICE TO 
TAKE YOU FROM OPENING LINE TO PUT-AWAY IN “THE 
DATE: MOVES FOR THE MODERN WORLD,” BY D. KEITH 
MANO, PETE DEXTER, P. J, O'ROURKE AND OTHERS; 
AND A SLAM-BANG “20 QUESTIONS” WITH CONTRO- 
VERSIAL MOVIEMAKER BRIAN DE PALMA 


COMING IN THE MONTHS AHEAD: NEWS-MAKING PLAYBOY INTERVIEWS WITH WAYNE GRETZKY, KRIS 
KRISTOFFERSON, JOHN HUSTON AND BOY GEORGE; RIVETING FICTION BY GEORGE V. HIGGINS AND DONALD E. 
WESTLAKE; AN EXPLORATION OF “SEXUAL FANTASIES” BY DAVID BLACK; ADVICE FROM ONETIME LONELY GUY 


BRUCE JAY FRIEDMAN ON “HOW TO LIVE WITH ANOTHER PERSON’ 


AVID HALBERSTAM'S PORTRAIT OF THAT 


RARE MODERN ATHLETE, “THE AMATEUR”; LITTLE ANNIE FANNY; AND, OF COURSE, MUCH, MUCH MORE 


The Spirit of America 


Across the land, as families gather, a spirit of 
brotherhood and good will unites the nation. Old Grand-Dad 
toasts that tradition of fellowship and warmth with America's 

native whiskey: Kentucky Bourbon. It's the Bourbon 
we still make much as we did 100 years ago. 
It’s the spirit of America. 


Fora 19"x26" print of Bringing Home The Tree, send a check 
or money order for $4.95 to Spirit of America offer, P.O. Box 183B, | 
Carle Place, N.Y. 11514. 


Old Grand-Dad 


xtc Sat Boston Wider B6 Pref ОМ Grand Dad Dia Ca, Farr, KY © 1984 


| Come up fo Kool 


Kool SEE © coolness | 
for the most refreshing sensation Insmöking. | 


Asensation beyond the ordinary. 


Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined O 1904 BAWT Co. 
That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health. Mids Kings, mg. “tar”, 0.8 mg. nicotine; iter Kings, 17 mg. "tar", 
1.1 mg. nicotine av. per cigarette, ЕТС Report Mar. '84.