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HOT DREAMS: WHAT YOUR SEXUAL FANTASIES MEAN 


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ENTERTAINMENT FOR MEN Me x 0) 
THE “WALTONS” GIRL, E. Uu 22 2 
JUDY NORTON-TAYLOR, ч Fil 
¿AN A/GROWN-UP 
" NUDE PICTORIAL 
/THE PLAYBOY 
INTERVIEW 
FIDEL CASTRO 
/ON REAGAN AND < 
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\ 
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— INGRID LYING 
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PLAY BILL 


THE вох of aromatic Romeo y Julie cribed 10 samay 
соон and complains of the “tortures” inflicted on the subject of 


this month's Playboy Interview (see photograph 


а cigars is 


п the introduc- 


tion). The signature is one Executive Editor Golson will treasure 
long after the cigars are gone: Fidel Castro. The Cuban premier's 
inscription, obviously written with tongue in check, contains a 
grain of truth nonetheless. Our distinguished team of interview- 
ers, North Carolina Central University associate professor of 
political science Dr. Jeffrey M. Elliot and California Democratic 
Congressman Mervyn M. Dymally, spent six hours each night inter- 
viewing Castro, in sessions that usually started at 11 ьм. and 
didn't end until four or five aM. Yet Castro would be at his desk 
in the presidential palace (where he works but doesn’t live) at 
nine AM. each day, “While we were there, 
no more than three hours of sleep a night. Yet. as the /nte 
progressed, he became stroi 
ant. For a man his age to have that kind of vitality after 23 years 
in office is extraordinary.” 
ligence seem actually to have increased since PL.wBOy first inter- 
viewed him, 18 years a Although in all 
previous interviews he had insisted that the questions be directed 
to Castro the revolutionary (he abhors the cult of personality) 
he decided, in this Intervie 
stro the man: what motivates him, his read- 


says Elliot, “he got 


iew 


ger, more animated, more exuber- 


Castro's tremendous energy and intel- 


so has his confidence 


, to answer Elliot and Dymally's 


questions about 
ing tastes, his criteria for selecting friends and his recreational 
passions, No doubt Castro's relationship with Dymally, a mem- 
ber of the House Committee on Foreign Affairs and the president 
of the Caribbean-American Research Institute, contributed to 
the relaxed Interview atmosphere. ‘The result is a conversation 


that Castro's admirers and detractors alike will find fascinating 
and revealing 

Revelation of a different sort is the topic discussed in David 
Black's article, Hot Secrets (illustrated by Pater Sato). Specifically 
what do your sexual fantasies reveal about your personality? You 
may have dreams about getting it on іп a phone booth filled with 
puréed bananas, but would you really do it, given the chance? If 
you, like us, have often asked yourself such questions, you'll find 
Black's article engrossing. A fantasy doesn't have to be about 
sex, of course. Sportswriter Roger Kahn's f 
and boys of all ages, was to be a member of a professional b 
ball team, Kahn got his wish, not as a player but as principal 
owner of a minor-league team, the Utica Blue Sox. In our 
excerpt from his forthcoming book Good Enough to Dream (to be 
published by Doubleday), Kahn describes his unforgettable 
summer as the George Steinbrenner of Class B baseball. Mark 
English had his good stuff when he painted the illustration, And 
speaking of good stuff, comedian Steven Wright seems to have 
some of the best around, funny-bone-wise, as West Coast Editor 
Stephen Randall reports in Skating on the Other Side of the Ice 

"To round out the issue, there are The Cloums (illustrated by 
Guy Billout), a deliciously creepy psychological thriller by Gardner 
Dozois, Jack Dann and Susan Casper; а 20 Questions interview with 
Ron Howard, by Contributing E and Pop Tops, a 
new concept in designing the apexes of office buildings that Dave 
Calver and Senior Staff Writer John Rezek hope catches on. LeRoy 
Neiman's Femlin caught on with pLaysoy 30 years ago this month; 


y, common to men 


itor David Rensi 


he and her creator celebrate with a dual appearance on this 
sue's Party Jokes page. Three cheers to Contributing Photogra- 
pher Richard Fegley for his pictorial hat trick, features on actresses 
Ingrid Boulting and Judy Norton-Taylor and on Miss August, Cher 
Butler. West Coast Photo Editor Marilyn Grabowski and styli: 
nifer Smith-Ashley collaborated on the first two. There you have it 
all—except, perhaps, for a good recipe for barbecued ribs. After 
all, a summer without ribs is hardly any summer at all. Rich Davis 
helps you out with his behind-the-grill investigation of those 
famous ribs they serve in Kansas City. May your August be tasty 


Jen- 


tés, 


ELLIOT 


BLACK 


ENGLISH 


CASPER, DOZOIS MILLOUT 


RENSIN 


CALVER 


PLAYBOY 


SEAGRAMS 
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а They say you can taste 
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They say it’s exceptional 
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“They also say its WWW 
improving it | 
your vocabulary WA 


1 


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Y 
Everything they say...is true. 
SEAGRAM'S. AMERICAS NUMBER ONE GIN. 


ISTILLED FROM GRAIN + 80 PROOF + SEAGRAM DISTILLERS CO. NEW YO! 


PLAYBOY. 


vol. 32, no. 8—august, 1985 CONTENTS FOR THE MEN'S ENTERTAINMENT MAGAZINE 
PLAYBILL 5 
DEAR PLAYBOY 13 
PLAYBOY AFTER HOURS 17 
SPORTS DAN JENKINS 37 
MEN ASA BABER 39 
WOMEN CYNTHIA HEIMEL 41 
AGAINST THE WIND CRAIG VETTER 43 io Savon 
THE PLAYBOY ADVISOR 47 
DEAR PLAYMATES. 49 
THE PLAYBOY FORUM 51 
PLAYBOY INTERVIEW: FIDEL CASTRO— candid conversation 57 
HOT SECRETS—article DAVID BLACK 72 
THE PUNCH IN JUDY—pictorial 77 Dream Lovers Р. 72 
THE CLOWNS- fiction. ... GARDNER DOZOIS, JACK DANN ond SUSAN CASPER 82 
LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE—fashion. HOLLIS WAYNE 84 
SKATING ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE ICE—personality STEPHEN RANDALL 88 
FAIR CHER—playboy's playmate of the month 90 
PLAYBOY'S PARTY JOKES—humor 104 
GOOD ENOUGH TO DREAM—memoir ROGER KAHN 106 
K.C. AT THE BAT—food RICH DAVIS 110 
POP TOPS—humor 112 
TWO BY FOUR—articles WILLIAM JEANES, BROCK YATES, 
BILL NEELY ond GARY WITZENBURG 114 
TO BED A THIEF—pictorial. 120 
20 QUESTIONS: RON HOWARD 132 
PLAYBOY ON THE SCENE 193 


COVER STORY 


First she appeared os our April 1984 cover girl, then Kathy Shower reigned 
as Miss May 1985, so this month's cover— produced by Associate Photo Editor 
Michael Ann Sullivan and shot by Contributing Photographer Stephen Wayda— 
makes Kothy a triple treat. Now for a shower of credits to Pat Tomlin- 
son's make-up, John Victor's hair styling, Perry/Hollister of Chicago's body 
suit, Phillip Cantrell's cuff bracelet and Flashy Trash of Chicago's earrings. 


Dynamite Duds P. 84 


PLAYBOY 


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To you, it’s just a flick of the Bic. 


PLAYBOY 


HUGH M. HEFNER 
editor and publisher 


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


EDITORIAL 

NONFICTION: JAMES MORGAN articles editor; ROB 
FLEDER senior editor; FICTION: ALICE K. TURNER 
editor; TERESA GROSCH associate editor; PLAYBOY 
GUIDES: MAURY Z LEVY editor; WEST COAST: 
STEFHEN RANDALL edifor; STAFF: GRETCHEN 
EDGREN, WILLIAM J. HELMER, PATRICIA PAPANGELIS 
(administration), DAVID STEVENS senior editors; 
ROBERT F. CARR, WALTER LOWE, JR, JAMES R- PETER 
SEN, JOHN REZEK senior staff writers; KEVIN COOK, 
BARBARA NELLIS, KATE NOLAN, SUSAN MARGOLIS. 
WINTER (new york) associate editors; MONA PLUMER 
assistant editor; MODERN LIVING: ED WALKER 
associate editor; JIM BARKER assistant editor; FASH- 
ION: HOLLIS WAYNE editor; HOLLY BINDERUP assist 
ant editor; CARTOONS: MICHELLE URRY editor; 
COPY: ARLENE BOURAS editor; JOYCE RUBIN assist- 
ant editor; NANCY BANKS, CAROLYN BROWNE, PHILLIP 
COOPER, JACKIE JOHNSON, MARCY MARCHI, MARY ZION 
researchers; CONTRIBUTING EDITORS: Asa 
BABER, STEPHEN BIRNBAUM (travel), JOHN BLUMEN. 
THAL, È JEAN CARROLL. LAURENCE GONZALES, LAW 
RENCE GROBEL, D. KEITH MANO, ANSON MOUNT, DAVID: 
RENSIN, RICHARD RHODES, JOHN SACK. TONY 
SCHWARTZ, DAVID SHEFF, DAVID STANDISH, BRUCE WIL 
LIAMSON (movies), GARY WITZENRURG 


ART 
KERIG POPE managing director; CHET SUSKI, LEN 
WILLIS senior directors; BRUCE HANSEN, THEO KOU 
VATSOS associate directors; KAREN GAERE, KAREN 
GUTOWSKY junior directors; JOSEPH PACZEK assist 
ant director; FRANK LINDNER, DANIEL REED, ANN 
SEIDL art assistants; SUSAN HOLMSTROM traffic coor- 
dinalor; BARBARA HOFFMAN administrative manager 


PHOTOGRAPHY 
MARILYN GRABOWSKI west coast editor; JEFF COMEN 
senior editor; LANDA KENNEY, JAMES LARSON, JANICE 
MOSES, MICHAEL ANN SULLIVAN associate editors; 
PATTY BEAUDET assistant editor; POMPEO POSAR sen. 
ior staff photographer; DAVID MECEY, KERRY MORRIS 
staff photographers; DAVID CHAN, RICHARD FEGLEY 
ARNY FREYTAG, RICHARD 1201, LARRY L. LOGAN, KEN 
MARCUS, STEPHEN WAYDA contributing photogra- 
phers; TRIA HERMSEN, ELYCE KAPOLAS, PATRICIA 
TOMLINSON stylists; JAMES WARD color lab supervi 
зот; ROBERT CHELIUS business manager 


PRODUCTION 

JOHN MASTRO director; MARIA MANDIS manager; 
ELFANORE WAGNER, JODY JURGETO, RICHARD 
QUARTAROLI, RITA JOHNSON assistants 


READER SERVICE 
CYNTHIA LACEY-SIKICH manager 


CIRCULATION 
RICHARD SMITH director; ALVIN WIEMOLD subscrip 
tion manager 


ADVERTISING 
CHARLES M. STENTIFORD director 


ADMINISTRATIVE 
J. P. TIM DOLMAN assistant publisher; MARCIA 
TERRONES rights ÉS permissions manager; EILEEN 
KENT contracts administrator 


PLAYBOY ENTERPRISES, INC. 
CHRISTIE HEFNER president 


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DEAR PLAYBOY 


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


GORGEOUS GEORGE 
Well done! May's Playboy Interview with 

Boy George is a true show of character 
from an individual who is a rarity in today's 
society of fast-paced money-hungrys and 
slow-paced “I want all I can get for noth- 
ings." David and Vicki Sheff have done a 
superb job of putting the expressive Boy 
George into print and presenting him in 
true form. Tell it like it is, George! 

Judith A. Peña 

New York, New York 


I am a conservative father who has 
always encouraged his children to develop 
their own tastes in music. My philosophy 
was sorely tested when Boy George made 
his infamous remark about Ar 
knowing a good “drag queen" when it sees 
one, Two of my children are big fans of his, 
and the other two also enjoy his music. I 
but I 
remembered how my parents refused to 
ban my music—Litile Richard, Elvis, 
Fats, Duane Eddy—and I bit my tongue. 
Alter reading your Interview with Boy 
George, I re: 


wanted to ban it from our hom 


he is onc hell ofa human 
being ak, not squirrel bait. I still 
don't care for his music, but it is a lot eas- 
ier to tolerate now that I know what kind 
of man he is, Thanks for the real story of a 
man called Boy 


ize 


Edward E. Arnold, Sr 
Minden, Louisiana 


I've never read a more boring Inter 
view. Who wants to hear about a guy who 
wears dresse: 


and make-up? If you want to 
interview a real rock star, go talk to David 
Lee Roth. 

Neil Owens 

Altoona, Pennsylvania 


When I heard that pLaysoy was inter- 
viewing Boy George, I thought, My God! 
Are they going to put him on the cover? I 
didn't think the world was quite ready for 
that. But after reading his Playboy Inter- 
view, 1 realized just how together, how 


self-aware this 2 
His basic messa 
proud of yourself and to accept other 
ple for what they are. And Jerry Falwell 
and other frightened people think that's 
subverting youth? Thanks to ptaynoy for 
another great Interview, and thanks to 


year-old phenomenon is 
e is to be yourself, to 


you, Boy George, for being you 
David Langton 
Redondo Beach, California 


AFTER THE FALL 

With fond and tragic memories I read 
David Butler's The Fall of Saigon (eLavnor 
May). Whatever the highest honor our 
State Department bestows, Kenneth 
Moorefield should be given first consid- 


eration. I spent a great deal of time with 


en in Vietnam during that period, trans- 
porting people to the staging areas for 
evacuation. As a former director at Father 
Edward Flanagan's Home for Boys 
(Boystown) in Nebraska, I went to Saigon 

à 


in response to a request from Sister M. 
Teresa of the Saigon's Children Orphan- 
age. She was afraid that when the new 
Communist government took over, chil- 
dren fathered by Americans would be 


killed or, at the very least, would be left to 
wander and beg in the streets. Sixty-two 
of Sister Maria Teresa's children did 
make it to America as a direct result of 
Moorefield’s unselfish efforts. Ken signed, 
validated and processed every affidavit 1 


presented to him for official approval. In 
the streets and in makeshift processing 
centers, he continued to operate under 
heavy rocket attack. He always made sure 
an orphaned child went to the head of the 
line, where he would affix the precious and 
beautiful seal of the United State: 


along 
with his signature—which allowed that 


child to exit. I was later able to round up 
the refugee children after their arrival in 
America for placement in various homes 
and child-care facilities. In the ten years 
that hav 
ber of the children Moorefield helped 
escape the fall of Saigon have gone on to 


passed since then, a good num- 


graduate (most with honors) from such 


New 


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PLAYBOY 


14 


leading educational institutions as Notre 
Dame, Harvard and USC. My periodic 
visits t 

fying to me. Ther 
grect me, is a young Vietnamese woman— 


my local bank are now most grati- 
always with a smile to 


now the bank manager—who was 15 years 
old when, on April 29, 1975, Ken and I 
placed her aboard a helicopter in that infa- 
mous courtyard to begin her 8000-mile 
journey across the Pacific to the U.S. That 
young girl was the last living member of a 
family of 12 that had perished in the 
never-ending Vietnam wars. As Saigon fell 
and we fled, Moorefield emerged to prove 
that even when the 
life is disintegrating, the real soul and 
spirit of Ame shining 
through. Those 62 children—now adults 


fabric of decent, moral 


come 


ca can 


scattered throughout America—are living 


testament to the high ideals Kenneth 


Moorefield represents 
Michael J. Casey 
Omaha, Nebraska 


VANITY, BETTER THAN FAIR 


As an administration-of-justice student, 
that 
served by your pictorial 
(eLavsoy, May). My compliments to pho- 


I must say justice was definitely 


Vanity Rare 
tographer Daniel Poulin for those exqui- 
site photos. After seeing Vanity in rare 
form, I had to run out to see her in The 
Last Dragon, and I wasn't disappointed. 
John Yuen 
San Jose, Califo 


Vanity is, without a doubt, the most sen- 


suous woman to appear in your magazir 


The only problem with her layout is its 
length—it should be at least another 20 
pages or so. 
Dave Goode 
Yonkers, New York 


BIG MAN ON CAMPUS 
Congratulations to James R 

icle Campus Sex and the 
Traveling Road Show 

Unfortunately, Petersen 


Petersen 
for his great 
Playboy Advisor's 
(pLavnoy, May) 

did not examine all facets of the college sex 
ene. If he had 
lot for a 


s he might have done a 


small science-and-engineering 
school, located at the base of the Rockies, 


where it is a dismissable offense to have sex 


in the dorms. Thank goodness the real 
world still exists outside such institutions! 
Scott Van Gorden 


Columbus, Mississippi 


Where do I get a subscription to Oriental 
Wet Snatch Quarterly, the € 
referred to in Petersen's Campus Sex 

M. Dunean 
Los Angeles, California 

Petersen, who recently bought a house, 
admits that Oriental Wet Snatch Quarterly 
is imaginary. However, if you make out a 
check for $1000 to the Oriental Wet Snatch 
Quarterly Foundation for Scientific Research 


azine 


otic ma 


and Regular Mortgage Payments, he says 
that he will send you something four times a 
year. Probably postcards from Bermuda 


SORRY, GUV 

Your May Playboy After Hours contains 
a sarcastic derogatory 
about our former Kentucky governor John 
Y. Brown, Jr., that I, as a native Kentucl 
ian, resent. You ignore the fact that Govei 
alth for 
four years very recently, in a businesslike 


and statement 


nor Brown served our commonw 


manner that was the envy of many other 
executives in similar positions throughout 
the country. It is, indeed, unfortunate that 
you belittle both Governor Brown and his 


wife in your uncalled-for and deplorable 
crack about “Mr. Phyllis George.” 
F. S. Crawford 
Ashland, Kentucky 
We apologize to Mr. George 


MULLIGAN STEW 

I've just finished Dan Jenkins’ Sports 
column (“Drives and Whispers" 
May Thanks for the 


laughs from one page of bullshit in years. 


in the 


issue. best belly 


For a 98-plus hacker and an Arnie fan, it 
really struck the old funny bone when Arn 
and Nicklaus “blazed in with 77s . . . and 


were only 22 shots off the pace." Keep up 


the good work, Jenkins: People who 
haven't duck-hooked or whiffed that damn 


Easter egg haven't lived 
Don Rose 
Big Creck, California 


SHOWER POWER 

Thank you for showering me with May 
Playmate Kathleen Ann Shower, who is, 
in my opinion, the number-one Playmate 
Kathy should be 


mous choice for Playmate of the Y 


the unani- 
ar. Her 
being from Ohio says a lot of good things 


of all time. 


about our state, 
Arnold Resnick 
Canton, Ohio 


I had heard of Frankie Goes to Holly- 
Kathy- 
Miss 
beauty and elegance are unreal 


until your 
May. Her 
Thanks 


wood, but never of 


breath-taking shots of 


for an unforgettable pictorial 
Robert King 
Jacksonville, Arkansas 


The 
are pushing 40! A 33-year-old Playmate 
(Cindy Brooks) is followed by a 32-year- 
old (Kathleen Ann May, 
Thank you. 


is still hope for those of us who 


Shower) in 


Kenneth G. Schott 
Metairie, Louisiana 


I have never been moved to write to you 
before, though I've enjoyed your magazine 
for the greater part of my life. Your recent 
shift to slightly older Playmates has really 
perked my interest. I am only 32 years old, 


but I have always preferred “mature” 
women. Twenty-year-olds look great, but 
the excitement of the experienced woman 
moves me more. Kathy Shower is the per- 
fect modern woman; she will be tough to 
surpass for Playmate of the Year. I'm a 
for life. 


Taylor 
alifornia 


Anthony 
Ventura, 


If the May issue doesn't mark the first 
time you have shown a Playmate with her 
children, it's the first time I've noticed. 
Congratulations on the logical extension 
of your depiction of women as real people. 
John Nichols 
Kansas City, Missouri 


KAREN FOR THE AILING 
I T try to verbalize what I feel as I gaze 
at Playmate of the Year Karen Velez on the 
cover of your May issue, I'll babble on and 
on. So I'll borrow a phrase from a beer 
commercial and say simply, "It doesn't 
get any better than this.” 
Justin Tyme 
Cedar Rapids, lowa 


Choosing Karen Velez as Playmate of 
the Year is a devastatingly accurate move. 
That mouth, those eyes and that body 
have combined to make me feel struck by 
light 


ng. My pulse has risen to 200 beats 
per minute and my legs have become so 
wobbly that I must constantly lie down. 
Maybe I 


maybe just another look at the ambrosial 


need medical attention—or 
Miss Velez! Now my side is beginning to 


hurt and my toes are starting to curl. One 


more pe 
hole to die. 


‚ please, before I crawl into a 


Richard Rebhun 
North Hollywood, California 
Will you crawl back out for this encore ey 
ful of our Playmate of the Year? And if you 


do, will we have six more weeks of summer? 


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


100s Box: 8 mg. "tar"; 0.7 mg. nicotine 
av. per cigarette by FTC Method. 


Diet Quiz*5 


Which has less calories and alcohol: 
1. O 5 0z. white wine? 
2. O 5 oz. Bacardi rum and OJ? 


(1 oz. Bacardi, 4 oz. orange juice) 


А 5-oz. serving of white wine 
contains 121 calories on average 
according to U.S. Dept. of Agri- 
culture data. And its alcohol 
content is about 124%. 


ES 80-proof Bacardi rum 
ind 4 02.0 has 


Еа. 
(JIGHED | 


©1985 BACARDI IMPORTS, INC., MIAMI, FL. RUM 80 PROOF 


BACARDI AND THE BAT DEVICE ARE REGISTERED TRADEMARKS OF BACARDI & COMPANY LIMITED. 


PLAYBOY AFTER HOURS 


SHORTS STORY 


After being stopped by a Royal Cana- 
dian Mounted Police officer when his car 


was seen weaving down the highway, an 
18-year-old tried to eat his undershorts 
believing that the cotton fabric would 
absorb the alcohol in his stomach before 
he had to undergo breath analysis. The 
plaintiff told the judge at his hearing that 
he had ripped the crotch out of his shorts 
and stuffed the fabric into his mouth. Stu- 
dents from a local high school, in court to 
view the wondrous workings of justice 


were removed during the testimony when 


it became difficult for them to retain their 
“People 
courtroom with tears in their eyes,” 
R.C.M.P. constable Peter McFarlane 
. 

Let's hope they bring it back to the 
glory it once knew. The “Neighbors” sec- 
tion of the Chicago Sun-Times headlined an 


composure were leaving the 


said 


article about urban development this way 
“MINORITIES RESTORING CITY BLIGHT.” 
. 

A male client at a British Columbia hair 
salon was taken to a hospital for treatment 
of head wounds after his 
dresser whacked him with a hair drier 
The hairdresser said she had become sus- 
him 
hands beneath the smock. The man had, 
in fact, been cleaning his glasses 

Й 

When the Rohm & Hass Company sent 
the IRS a $4,488,112.88 check for payroll 
taxes, the Service calculated that the pay- 


female hair- 


picious when she saw moving his 


ment was a dime short and tried to assess 
a penalty of $46,806.37. The 
assigned five accountants to the case and 
ntatives to the IRS center in 
an effort to clarify the matter. After five 
months, the penalty was dropped without 
explanation or apology 

. 

We're not going to touch this one: A 
Milan 
tioned off 90 works by Piero Manzoni, an 
artist who died in 1963. Among the works 


company 


sent repres 


auction house successfully auc- 


was a roll of paper in a tube, which went 


for $1200, and a cylinder containing a 
specimen of Manzoni's excrement, which 
went for $1400. 
E 
Spots for tots: The 


American-State 


Austin, Texas, 


n included this 


sonal: "6-yea 


like [sie] to 


old white male with herpes 
eet female with same 
. 

Two boys lost in heavy fog on a ledge in 
Bells Canyon, southeast of Salt Lake City 
followed the instructions in their survival 
guide but were still unable to light a signal 
s and a lot of matches, 

to light 
ok. The fire 


re rescued by 


fire. After two hou 


they gave up tryin twigs and 


instead torched th 


was 


spotted and the 
helicopter 


In Washington, D.C you can 
many lani 


hear 
sages. So, when two gentlemen 


emerging from a restaurant were asked by 
a panhandler for some spare change, one 
hat the best way to handle 


of them figurec 


the situation was to set up a language bar- 
rier, He responded in Spanish that he did 
not speak English 
ately repeated his request in Spanish. His 
target switched to German; so did the pan- 
handler. The 


The moocher immedi- 


man then changed to Rus- 
sian, a language the mendicant also knew 
1 gave up and walked 
ar received nothing 


The intended vict 
The Berlitz be 


for his efforts. 


away 


. 
On the South Side of Chi 


Ago, a coun- 
ed to 
attendant who apparently didn't realize 


terfeit $20 bill was pa ation 


that the Jackson whose face should have 
been on the bill—Andrew—had been 
replaced by another: Jesse. Police later 


opined that the paper was also of poor 
quality 

. 
Pointe Woods. 
15-year-old boy pulled 


Michigan, a 
45 automatic on 
“Would this 
make you take my braces off ? 


In Grosse 


his orthodontist and ask 
It would, 


the doctor allowed, and he started to work 


at just that. He also alerted an assistant in 
the office, who notified police 
. 
According to the headline in the Oconto 
County, Wisc 


sin, Reporter, “PANTY PE 


EASY TO CONTROL." And if you believe that 
there's this bridge in Brooklyn we hear is 
on the market 
. 

Hernandez Rodriguez, 19, a 
auto-burglary suspect, unwittingly broke 
into a North Hollywood guard-dog- 
training school and found himself facing 
the entire canine senior class. Police Ser- 
ant David Crockett said that the lead 
g the head of the class” and 
didn’t injure Rodriguez but simply held 
him until police arrived 


fleeing 


d dog was 


MOON OVER ATHENS 


Three young Americans were arrested 


by guards at the Acropolis just as they 
were about to drop trou and flash moon- 
aph 


beams for a pho! Charged with 


17 


18 


FUN FACTS FOR THE 


By now, everyone in the country has played some form of question-and-answer game 
that gauges our knowledge of the insignificant and the forgettable. And, frankly, we're 
all getting a little tired of it. Why bother testing one another on all this silly informa- 
tion? Why not just blab the information the way we used to do at cocktail parties? That's 
what Ed Bluestone thought, and here are some carefully selected little-known facts. 


‘Two percent of the United States is 
now quadrisexual. That means they'll 
do anything with anyone for a quarter. 

. 


A popular diet in Sweden involves 
eating whatever you want, as long as 
you eat meals with naked fat people. 

. 

John Donne said, “No man is an 
island, but Orson Welles comes close.” 
. 

William F. Buckley, Jr., was once 
operated on by a surgeon who left a 
tongue sandwich inside him. Ever since, 
Buckley's body has been attempting 
to reject his real tongue. 

LI 

"The Mongolian blowfish will blow a 

human male for $11. 


LI 
French boxer Marcel Cerdan used to 
suck on Edith Piaf's underpants be- 
tween rounds. 


. 
‘Thousands of bees were disappoint- 
ed and wanted refunds after seeing the 
movie The Sting. 
. 

There was nothing the Marquis de 
Sade enjoyed more than feeding tough 
steak to an infant, 

. 

The Soviet government has killed 
thousands of woodpeckers by painting 
bark on cement cylinders, 

. 

Sylvia Plath once attempted suicide 
by throwing herself into the window of 
a Hoffritz cutlery store. 

. 

Compulsive gamblers often disrupt 
Las Vegas A.A. meetings to bet people 
that they'll start drinking again. 

LI 

The last words of Joan Crawford 
were "I'd like to hit the children one 
last time.” 


. 
Dr. Arthur Foyer of Richmond, Vir- 
ginia, once treated a patient's broken 


neck by replacing it with a Slinky, The 
patient lived ten years in this condition 
and, according to Dr. Foyer, “only had 
to remember to keep his head back 
when he walked downstairs.” 


LI 

Dr. Norbert Papp, a gynecologist in 
Houston, Texas, plays Gene Autry 
records as his patients put their feet 
into the stirrups. 


. 

Noel Goward defined a truly sophis- 
ticated woman as one who drives with 
her legs crossed. 


LI 
According to the Journal of Bad Eti- 
quette, the best way to be offensive at a 
funeral is to take your dog to the ceme- 
tery and have him play dead. 
. 


"The last words of William Tell's son 
were “I don't know, Dad; an apple was 
one thing, but a grape?" 

. 


The reason rabbits have so many 
babies is that the size of their ears pre- 
vents them from giving head. 

LI 


Before the 1984 Olympics, Carl 
Lewis and Mary Decker raced at Aque- 
duct dressed as a horse, They came in 
third. 

LI 

Trish Jews divide their time between 
drinking cheerfully and feeling guilty 
about it. 


LI 

Forty percent of all dogs enrolled in 
obedience school develop masochistic 
streaks and later want to be tied up and 
whipped. 


LI 

The Hoover Dam was designed by a 
huge beaver. 

LI 

Ever since their city banned fire- 
works, the citizens of Bonkersville, 
Utah, celebrate the Fourth of July by 
turning out the lights and rolling 
around on wool blankets. 


public indecency were Californians Allen 
Herman and Joseph Freitas, both 21, and 
William Mullen, 22, of Hartford, Con- 
necticut. Sentenced to 75 days in prison 
each—just for adding three temporary 
cracks to the ancient landmark—they 
were allowed to buy off the time for $480 
cach, a common practice in Greece for 
minor offenses. 

Why Greeks, of all people, would get so 
upset over a few buns is a mystery. But as 
one guard said, “It was a disgusting action 
in such a sacred place as the Acropo- 
+ . I rushed to get their camera and 
the police.” 

Herman said he and his friends had 
intended to pull down their pants for a 
joke photo but never got their moons into 
daylight before being stopped. A photo 
was taken of the men fully clothed, but the 
three-judge panel that heard their case 
wouldn't allow it as evidence. Denied bail 
and held for five days before the trial, the 
Americans claimed that they had been 
"railroaded . . . and were made to look 
ridiculous by the Greek press.” 


cal 


б 

The Memphis Commercial Appeal chose 
to headline a crime story out of Chicago 
this way: “SUSPECT FINGERS HIMSELF.” 


HARD CHOICES 

Uh-oh. According to Nowydziennik, a 
Polish-language paper published in New 
York, Poland's supply of rubber is so low 
that condoms are being rationed. Men 
between 17 and 24 are allowed eight a 
month; men between 25 and 59 get four; 
men over 60 get one. So—do you go for 
one big Saturday night or spread them out 
over the month? 


SHAPE UP, DUMBO 


Indonesia plans to open two vocational 
schools near Lampong to rehabilitate 
rogue elephants that have been trampling 
farmers and terrorizing villages. Conser- 
vation officials say that 2000 problem 
pachyderms live in the shrinking Suma- 
tran wilderness. Many of them have ac- 
quired a taste for cultivated crops and 
make frequent shopping trips into the 
neighboring farmlands. 

“Elephants are very intelligent and can 
learn quickly," said Professor Rubini 
Atmawidjaja. "But it takes time. The 
young ones, under three years old, are the 
easiest to teach. The problem is how to 
catch them.” 

Rubini said the Indonesian parliament 
had appropriated $660,000 for the schools, 
which will have 20 experienced trainers 
and eight foreign elephants that would set 
good examples for the students. The 
schools will teach the elephants to haul 
logs for the lumber industry and to per- 
form tricks for circuses. 

. 

American Medical News noted with alarm, 

*SYPHILIS OUTBREAK HITS PENAL SYSTEM.” 


THE JORDACHE LOOK: 


20 


Having such o good time that you 99-cent Breathalyzer test, coli- 
couldn't resist showing your fellow brated to the Smith & Wesson one 
revelers just how to do the gator? the police use, will tell you if 
Are you beginning to think you you're legally drunk. If the gran- 
really ore the life of the party? If мез inside the tube turn darker 
you plan to drive home after- have someone call you a cab. OK, 
word, do yourself—and every- so you're a cob. No, but reol- 
body else—a favor. Be Sure, a ly, don't hord-porty without it. 


3 


Not everyone can be Baron 
Philippe, with a cellar full 
of his own  Cháteau 
Mouton-Rothschild. But 
two enterprising English- 
men, Robert Taylor and 
Michael Turner, are hoping 
to quench the thirst of those 
who want to own a piece of 
a vineyard. Their plan, 
called Vineshares, allows 
anyone with $18 to own a 
wine-producing grapevine 
at the Ducado del Montesol 
vineyard in southern Spain 
For that $18, proud owners 
are entitled to at least one 
bottle of red table wine 
every December for 15 
years—that works out to 
$1.20 a bottle, Dave Rootes, 
one of 30 English Vine- 
shares franchisees, assures 
us that “it’s not plonk 


EX. IVAN LENDL'S 
TENNIS 
SECRETS 
| YOU'RE czrcn. wity po vot 
| SPEAK POLISH WITH WOJTEK 
1 FIBAK? DO YOU EVER TELL 
L — HIM POLISH JOKES? 


I come from a city very close to the Polish border, so I 
heard Polish first watching Polish TV. Fibak doesn't like 
Polish jokes, but I tell him some anyway. But the one 
about the light bulb? We tell that about Czech policemen. 


HAVE YOU AND MARTINA NAVRATILOVA EVER CONSIDERED PLAYING 
MIXED DOUBLES TOGETHER? 

1 don't know Martina that well. I met her when she was 16 
and I was ball-boying for her at the Gzech championships 
Besides, 1 don't think there's much point in playing mixed 
doubles at all. Matter of fact, I don't think there's a point 
in playing doubles 


YOU'RE A NATIONAL HERO IN CZECHOSLOVAKIA. HOW DID YOUR 
SUPERIORS TREAT YOU WHEN YOU WERE IN THE ARMY? 

I had a very nice superior, [tennis pro] Tomas Smid. He 
treated me pretty well. All top athletes in Czechoslovakia 
go into the army. First you do your army training, and 
then you just go and do your sport. So I wasn’t really 


under any orders. 


WHAT PERCENT OF YOUR INCOME DO YOU HAVE TO GIVE TO THE 
CZECH GOVERNMENT? 
Twenty percent 


MILLIONS OF PLAYERS FANTASIZE ABOUT PLAYING TENNIS AS WELL 
AS YOU DO. DO YOU HAVE ANY FANTASIES? 

Yeah, When I retire, I will play tennis like theirs and I 
won't care if I win or lose. 


COFFEE-TABLE 
BOOK OF 
THE MONTH 


A kiss has been described as “a 
secret told to the mouth instead of 
the ear” and as “a contraction of 
the mouth due to an enlargement 
of the heart.” Danny Biederman 
paid 13 years of lip service to this 
mushy subject and then cleaned 
out his file cabinet. Even though it 
smacks of overkill, he collected his 
research in The Book of Kisses— 
quotes, cartoons and pictures. 
Once you get into it, you're not 
going to want to come up for air. 


WHAT A CARD 


During vacation season, you're 
likely to get all sorts of cards 
from strange people writing from 
even stranger places. Kevin Pope, 
an illustrator whose work you've 
seen in our pages, takes the voca- 
tion postcard one illogical step 
beyond. Even if you don’t go any- 
where surreal this summer, use 
these to catch up with friends. You 
may convince them that you have 
dropped off the face of the earth. 


Tt holds the record for farthest heavier-than-air thrown 
object—1046 feet, 11 inches. The secret to the Aerobie, 
designed by Stanford electrical-engineering lecturer Alan 
Adler, is the unusual aerodynamic stability created by its 
outer ridge. But that’s the boring part. The interesting 
part is that its easier to throw than other flying discs. So 
much so, even girls can do it if they want to have fun. 


HOW TO WINA 
WOMAN'S 
FORGIVENESS 


You have done something atro- 
nursing her 
wounds with the psychiatric 


cious. She is 


help of her five best friends 
while scissoring your face out 
of her photographs. Compan- 
been 
abruptly cut from your life 


ionship and sex have 


It's time to seek forgiveness, 
and you must use skill 

Do not attempt an apology 
over the phone. See her in per- 
son and go with your hands 
empty d 
will not remind her of Dag- 
wood slinking home to Blondie 
with a bouquet of daisies 

Manage to appear fiery yet 
exhausted, as if you've 
days without sleep and have 
endured many forms of bodily 


This looks since 


spent 


Grecos (09. — Crocs fios Godin Wein - 
po ara бш $ 
3 — 


THRASH COLLECTOR 


For those of you who still can’t get your fill of thrash (nee punk) 


music, check out issue number three of Country Jc 


monthly cas: 
tion fe: 
Thre 


and interviews by dij 


favorite? MDC's John 


Remain macho yet 
bruised. You are not a scared 
little boy running to momm 


walk purpose- 


Once inside 
fully to the living room and sit 
down on the sofa. She will fol- 
low automatically, but once 
get back up 
stride to the window and stand 
with your back to her, looking 
out c Make 
the curtains are open before 
you do this. Turn 
around and say, “1 hate myself 
for what I've done to you.” 

You may now return to the 
sofa and sit down, but only on 
the edge. Do not a 
to appear comfortat 


she sits down 


er the city sure 


slowly 


w yourself 
Rest- 


your 


lessness will indicate thi 
life is on hold until you have 
received her pardon. Say in a 
trembling self- 

‘1 can't believe I've 
It will impress 


voice with 


hatred, 


sunk so low 


ette “talking music magazine, 
ures such hard-core bands as Social Distortion 
t, Kraut, Die Kreuzen, Dicks, MDC 
Black Flag, Code of Honor, Aven 
Joni Hollar of Berkeley's KALX. Our 


Wayne Was a 


— 


{cDonald’s 
Tape Talk, This edi- 
Minor 
Suicidal Tendencies, 
ers—all with commentary 


Nazi is kinda catchy 


her that you have fallen from 
your own personal pedestal 


She may now feel an over- 


whelming instinct to mother 
and heal you. Hold her off and 
say, “I admire you above any 
one else and you are the last | 
person I'd ever want to hurt 
Now rise and head for the 
door. She'll begin to protest 
suggesting that you talk and 
analyze the State 
firmly that you are exhausted 
and to go 
sleep. Before you go, take her 
face in your hands, look deep 


situation 


need home and 


into her eyes and say, “I hope 
that you will learn to forgive 
Now get the hell out of 


into your car and out of 
rcighborhood 

jur phone will ring— 
quite possibly as you turn your 
door key 


MARGARET MCKINNEY 


21 


By BRUCE WILLIAMSON 


IT HAS THE SAME title as Shakespeare's clas- 
sic, but Henry IV (Orion Classics) is a rel 
tively modern drama about a madman 
who appears to believe he's an Ith 
Century German emperor. Luigi Piran- 
dello wrote the play in 1922, and Marco 
Bellocchio's freely adapted film version 
stars Marcello Mastroianni opposite ever- 
exquisite Claudia Cardinale, as the aristo- 
cratic beauty he loves and loses. That may 
be all you need to know about the plot, a 
typically Pirandellian conundrum debat- 
ing the nature of truth, madness, logic and 
reality. The consummate actor, 
Mastroianni exudes charisma even while 
he talks—and talks—reams of subtitled 
Italian. An arresting musical 
Astor Piazzolla backs up the lengthier pas- 
sages of a literate, ambitious, beautifully 
made movie, seemingly made for movie 
goers with endless patience, plus a Ph.D. 
in modern European drama. ¥¥ 
. 

Watch them take the money and run 
with Rombo: First Blood Part I (Tri-Star), a 
very good bad movie aptly described as an 
“explosive sequel” to First Blood. This 
time, Sylvester Stallone’s Rambo is off to 
postwar Vietnam, having been released 
from jail by U.S, military authorities on 
the pretext that they want him to loca 
American POWs still listed as missing in 
action, The mission’s real aim, of course, is 
top-secret dirty business that 
won't do. "I'm supposed to leave 'em 
there?" he asks. Fat chance. Before he's 
through, the Cong and Russian body 
count must be in the hundreds. This is 
mass-destruction stuff, with Stallone's 
body well oiled and his muscles so toned 
up that he looks as if he were competing in 
the Mr. Universe finals. His chief ally in 
the field is a Viet warrior maiden (Julia 
Nickson); back at the base camp, Richard 
Crenna and Charles Napier respectively 
represent good and evil American values. 

Although thoroughly preposterous, 
Rambo is lightning-fast, a hard-edged and 
handsome action drama cunningly crafted 
by director George P. Cosmatos. The 
yllabic screenplay is Stallone's own 
in collaboration with James Cameron, 
who also co-wrote and directed last year's 
mighty hit The Terminator. That ought 
to be a fair hint of the mayhem in 
store, ЖУМ 


a- 


screen 


score by 


е 


Rambo 


аз, 


. 

Last year’s so-called Places in the River 
Country trilogy may have exhausted the 
subject of hardship in the hinterlands. 
Writer Horton Foote's earnest, wooden 
1918 (Cinecom), based on his stage drama 
about life and death in a small Texas town 
stricken by an outbreak of influenza dur- 
ing World War One, looks anemic after the 


Latou Chardons, Claudia Cardinale humor Marcello Mastroianni in Henry IV. 


Henry IV with a 
difference; Sly Stallone 
scores again in Rambo. 


author's own Tender Mercies, winner of a 
1984 Oscar for Best Original Screenplay 
Flaccidly directed by Ken Harrison as if 
the dear, dead days of yesteryear 
1918 features 
Hallie Foote (the author's daughter) as the 
sensible married sister of young Matthew 
Broderick (currently Broadway's fair- 
haired boy in Neil Simon's Biloxi Blues) 
who's a dreamy innocent itching to get 
Over There and do battle with the Hun. Nei- 
ther the war nor the flu epidemic touches 
him, finally, and by the time the movie 
inches along to an anticlimax, audiences 
apt to feel altogether immunized, ¥¥ 
. 

A promising premise goes wildly wrong 
in The Coca-Cola Kid (Cinecom), which 
ought to be funny but seldom clicks. Yugo- 
slav director Dusan Makavejev, ordinarily 
an excitingly subversive film maker, seems 
out of sync here with Frank Moorhous 
raffish screenplay—a tongue-in-cheek 
travelog about a boy genius from Coca- 
Cola U.S.A 
things go better with Coke in a remote 
Australian town still addicted to a na- 
tive soft drink. While many of the jokes fall 
flat—as if someone had left a cap off— 
miscasting is the movie's major handicap, 
with Eric Roberts all ajitter in a title role 
made to order for Jack Lemmon in his hey- 
day. As the ditsy girl whose dad bottles the 
rival soda pop, Greta Scacchi is gorgeous, 
period; her foolish part doesn't allow her 


were 


being lived in slow motion, 


whose mission is to make 


Unless the awes 
back scenery whets your appetite, put this 
Kid on ice. Y 


to be much else 


эте out- 


. 

Made in England by singer-songwriter 
Ray Davies of The Kinks, Return to Water- 
loo (New Line) is an hourlong feature with 
umbilical ties to the world of music video. 
Davies himself appears as a busker singing 
the title tune, but he’s mainly impressive 
for an unusually assured directorial debut 
Both innovative and dreamlike, with virtu- 
ally no spoken dialog except for scraps of 
conversation to cue the music, Waterloo fol- 
lows a middle-class suburbanite identified 
only as The Traveler (Ken Colley) on a 
commuter-train journey that cuts, fades 
and dissolves into a free-form psychologi- 
cal trip. En route to his humdrum obliga- 
tions in town, the repressed hero meditates 
about childhood, death, punk hell-raisers, 
incest, infidelity—all punctuated by a 
recurring poster image of himself as a fugi- 
tive rapist. There’s nothing especially new 
in the notion of a social cipher on a hallu- 
cinatory high, but Davies catapults this 
Milquetoast through a cinematic phantas- 
magoria that's often riveting as well as 
rhythmic, ¥¥% 


. 

Guns loaded with paint pellets are the 
nondeadly weapons used by some Califor- 
nia college boys for a war game in Gotcha! 
(Universal), a comedy that initially threat- 
ens to be just another story of callow male 
virgins on the verge. Gotcha!, nimbly 
directed by Jeff Kanew, picks up style, 
speed and freshness when one of the horny 
undergrads (Anthony Edwards), on a 
summer trip to Paris, meets a mysterious 
beauty (Linda Fiorentino) who takes him 
first to bed, East Berlin. The 
games with guns soon become real in a 
mélange of international intrigue involving 


then to 


the K.G.B., the CIA and the hero’s irate 
parents back in L. 
tales of wild misadventure must be drug- 
related. Not quite first-class all the way, 
but nice going. УЖА 
. 

Yet another rite: 
about teenagers may not be what the 
world needs now, but the subject is deli- 
cately managed with intelligence and sen- 
sitivity by writer-director Zelda Barron in 
Secret Places (TLC), a look at angst as 
usual in a British girls’ school during 
World War Two. The talents to watch are 
Marie-Theres Relin (daughter of actress 
Maria Schell) and Tara Macgowran, 
respectively playing a German refugee stu- 
dent and her very best English friend 
They shine through the fog of déja vu and 
collective anxiety about breast develop- 
ment, boys and bombing raids, ¥¥¥% 

. 

Director Neil Jordan's English-made 
The Company of Wolves (Cannon) is a wick- 
edly witty and perverse adult fairy tale, 
adapted from a short story by Angela Car- 


, who are sure his 


of-passage movie 


ter. Industrious critics abroad have 
already found Wolves abristle with dark 
significance for the way it transmogrifies 
Little Red Ridinghood into 
erotic dream 
Rosaleen (S: 
cupied with sexuality, She also has an old 
granny (Angela Lansbury plays the part 
with droll, lip-licking relish), who appears 
to delight in describing the awful things 
that may befall a girl once a lad “has 
had his way with you.” Undeterred by 
Granny's admonition to make tracks “if 
you should meet a naked man in the 
woods," Rosaleen ultimately ventures into 
an ominous forest to encounter a lusty 


a collage of 
by a nubile heroine named 
ah Patterson), who's preoc- 


werewolf and other dangers she doesn't 
seem to mind. Although often meandering 
or merely arch, Wolves has hairy, top- 


notch special effects and generally looks as 
lush and handsome as a children's book 
illustrated by some depraved dropouts 
from Disney. Unless they're precocious 
as the very Devil, leave the children at 
home. YA 


. 

Margot Kidder plays a world-weary 
stripper who admits to having clocked 
“a lot of miles” before heading south 
of the border for a reunion with her es- 
tranged dad (Burt Lancaster). He's a dying 
old bank robber with bitter memories and 
buried loot. In Mexico, they meet a former 
exterminator, Ted Danson, who has given 
up killing bugs to eke out a livelihood 
showing old movies to campesinos. One 
way or another, these three eccentrics 
come to terms with their pasts in Little 
Treasure (Tri-Star), an oddly engaging 
romantic trifle by writer-director Alan 
Sharp. It’s the kind of movie I find myself 
enjoying against all odds. Lancaster's per- 
formance is over-the-edge ham in his most 


Visit our old time distillery anytime to show you how we make Jack Daniel's Whiskey 


A GOOD PLACE to learn about Jack Daniel’s 
Whiskey is on the courthouse bench in Lynchburg, 


Tennessee. 


It’s a subject our citizens are particularly fond of 
discussing. You see, this is the home of Jack 
Daniel’s Distillery. And here, in these Tennessee 
hills and hollows, is where 
Mr. Jack started making КОТ) 
whiskey in 1866. Our citizens 
will cell you how we've never 
changed his old-time methods. 
A sip, we believe, and you'll 


Lynehburg 
(Pop 34) 


know why we never will. Co 


CHARCOAL MELLOWED DROP BY DROP 23 


PLAYBOY 


flamboyant mode, a thespian trapeze act. 
Far more believable in a minor morality 
tale about whether or not a topless dancer 
should also go bottomless, Kidder is vital 
and arresting, as always, with Danson pro- 
viding effective counterpoint as her jealous 
paramour. Drenched in local color down 
Mexico way, Little Treasure is idiotic but 
casy to take if you lie back and just let it 
happen. ¥¥ 


. 

Already a substantial hit in England, 
Dance with a Stranger (Goldwyn) is a pretty 
safe bet to repeat its success over here. The 
lurid and colorful particulars of a cele- 
brated crime of passion are drawn from the 
real-life story of Ruth Ellis, the last woman 
to be executed for murder in Britain, back 
in 19. he was a comely but slightly vul- 
platinum blonde who managed a pri- 
ate London club where men about town 
could let themselves go with hard liquor 
and easy ladies. On screen, Ruth's down- 
fall begins with putting pleasure before 
business when she meets a gentrified 24- 
year-old wastrel named David Blakely, the 
race-car driver who beds, beats and 
betrays her but cannot throttle down the 
insatiable physical attraction that finally 
ends in murder. The movie ends right 
there, without dawdling over the details of 
Ruth's trial and speedy conviction. Direc- 
tor Mike Newell handles Stranger like a B 
movie recycled for feminist-minded audi- 
ences of the Eighties, And playwright 
Shelagh (A Taste of Honey) Delaney has 
furnished a screenplay filled with sly cut- 
ting edges of social criticism, blades honed 
for such prey as finishing school girls who 
“learn to cook and sew and fill in divorce 
papers.” This abrasive bundle from Brit- 
ain won't broaden your horizons à la Pas- 
sage to India or Gandhi, but it's a gut-level 
good show. 

What you get is a vivid portrait of post- 
war London on the seedy side, with the 
foreground dominated throughout by the 
stunning big-screen debut of Miranda 
Richardson, an actress who somehow 
manages to remind me of every knock- 
'em-dead golden girl from Lana Turner to 
Marilyn Monroe to Kathleen Turner. As 
her weakling lover, Rupert Everett lives up 
to his reputation as one of England's fast- 
est rising young stars. Together, they gen- 
erate the kind of stormy sexual fight to the 
finish that makes movies larger than life, 
while Ian Holm injects some emotional 
balance as the stolid older man who 
mostly adores Ruth from ringside. ЖҰЖ 

. 

In Hollywood, they say, nothing suc- 
ceeds like success. So why does it often 
happen that he who at first succeeds will 
try again with such dull tripe as Rustlers’ 
Rhapsody (Paramount)? Tell you why: 
Writer-director Hugh Wilson went from 
TV's WKRP in Cincinnati to directing 
Police Academy, one of the mammoth box- 
office hits of 1984. Presumably 
ward, he was allowed to dig into his trunk, 
dust off and direct Rustlers', a Western 


s a re- 


Holm, Richardson in Stranger. 


Keep an eye on Miranda 
Richardson, but forget 
a wild Western turkey. 


spoof that producers had wisely been 
ignoring for years, Tom Berenger stars as a 
vintage good guy/singing cowboy who 
projects no zing when he sings and raises 
only pale horselaughs when he tries to be 
funny. Everything Wilson and company 
try to do here, Mel Brooks did ten times 
better in Blazing Saddles. ¥ 
. 

Stick (Universal), directed by and star- 
ring Burt Reynolds, is a revisionist film 
version of nore Leonard's novel, re- 
shaped to suit Burt’s main-man p 
The result is that both Reynolds and the 
book lose something. What remains is a 
superstar vehicle, ego-driven for the most 
part, with a tendency to skid in the 
stretches. Candice Bergen, George Segal 
and Charles Durning work hard simulat- 
ing a sense of fun. Unfortunately, the fun is 
seldom contagious, ¥¥ 

P 

Catch Chuck Norris in Code of Silence 
(Orion), minimizing his mastery of mar- 
tial arts as a Chicago detective named 
a much nicer guy than Clint 
Eastwood's Dirty Harry but otherwise 
comparable in every way. Snappily 
directed by Andy Davis from a screenplay 
with welcome asides of sharp comic relie! 
Code has Norris involved with gang ven- 
dettas, drug deals, corrupt police and a 
young woman in jeopardy (Molly Hagan), 
As cop sagas go, this gutsy Donnybrook is 
up to standard and then some. Chuck's 
best line, to а latino thug: “If want your 
opinion, I'll beat it out of ya." ¥¥¥ 


rsona. 


MOVIE SCORE CARD 


capsule close-ups of current films 
by bruce williamson 


Camila Her illicit paramour is a priest 
in old Argentina. Very exotic.  ¥¥¥% 
Cat's Eye Three tangled tales from King; 
the first is best. WWA 
The Coca-Cola Kid (See review) Well 

uh, make mine a Pepsi. Y 
Code of Silence (Sce review) It's Chuck 
Norris, nudging Clint a little vw 
The Company of Wolves (Scc review) Gran- 
ny gets to the nitty-gritty. Wh 
Dance with a Stranger (See review) 
Crime & passion, served sizzling. ¥¥¥ 
Desperately Seeking Susan A hip comedy 
of mistaken identity ww 
Fletch As an amusing ace reporter, 
Chevy joins the chase. v 
George Stevens: A Filmmaker's Journey In 
tribute to dad, the son also rises, YYY 
Gotcha! (Sec review) Summer session of 
Basic Sex and Espionage Опе-А. ЖУМ 
Heartbreakers Fresh romantic comedy 


about life in L.A. yyy 
review) Ecco Mar- 

yy 

Ladyhawke Boy meets bird, wolf and 
wondrous medieval adventure. vx 


The Lift Computerized evil spirits take 
an elevator in this odd Dutch treat. ¥¥ 
Little Treasure (See review) Love walks 
in on a family reunion in Mexico. VV 
Lost in America C; country comedy, 
with Albert Brooks as guide. m 
Malibu Express Mindless fun in the sun, 
but you may enjoy the flesh tones. VV 
Marvin & Tige As a recluse who befriends 
a waif, Cassavetes gives his all. yy 
My New Partner Philippe Noiret grandly 
plays a detective on the take. yy 
1918 (See review) Way back when. ¥¥ 
A Private Function Hilarity about an 
English couple who kidnap a pig, with 


Smith and Palin. WWA 
Pumping Iron Il: The Women 
Schwarzenegger, move over. vu 


The Purple Rose of Cairo Woody Allen's 
fable about old-time movies. yyy 
Rambo: First Blood Part II (Sce review) Is 


it Superman? No, it’s Stallone. ¥¥% 
turn to Waterloo (Sec review) The 
Kinks’ composer turns to kino. ЖИ 


Rustlers’ Rhapsody (Scc review) Trite 
and almost entirely out of tune. ¥ 
Secret Admirer Teens reliving a romance 
a lot like Cyrano de Bergerac. WY 
Secret Places (Sec review) Schoolgirls 
coming of age in wartime Britain. УУУ 
Stick (See review) Reynolds rap. уу 
А Test of Love Moving, true Australian 
drama about a retarded child. WN 
A View to a Kill Roger Moore, back as 
Bond to save Silicon Valley, is ably 
abetted by Tanya Roberts, Grace Jones 
and special effects galore. wy 


¥¥¥¥ Don't miss 
¥¥¥ Good show 


¥¥ Worth a look 
¥ Forget it 


ees. iac PO Ben 


Winston: Saem, 


TD 


b 


Get a free pack plus 32 off 
a carton of Camel Lights or Filters 
with the attached coupons! | 


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


26 


COMING ATTRACTIONS 


By JOHN BLUMENTHAL 


IDOL GOSSIP: Nick Nolte, Bette Midler and Rich- 
ard Dreyfuss will star in Disney's Jerry 
Saved from Drowning, based on Jean 
Renoi's 1932 classic Boudu Saved from 
Drowning. Directed by Paul Mazursky, the 
film is about a transient (Nolte) who alters 
the lives of a Beverly Hills couple (Midler 
and Dreyfuss) Director Hugh Hudson 
has chosen Al Pacino, Donald Sutherland and 
Nastassja Kinski to top-line his $19,000,000 
Colonial epic, Revolution 1776 John 
Candy, Karen (Night Court) Austin and Rich- 
ard Crenna have been cast in Paramount's 
Summer Rental, a comedy in which Candy 
plays a harried air-traffic controller seek- 
ing peace and tranquillity but getting nei- 
ther in a beach house leased for the 
Peter Ustinov will reprise his 
role as Hercule Poirot in 5 
TV adaptation of Agatha Christie's 13 at 
Dinner, Faye Dunaway, playing dual roles, 
co-stars Robert Altman has been set to 
direct the screen version of Ernest Heming- 
way's Across the River and into the Trees 
starring Roy Scheider and Julie Christie. 
Chuck Norris’ next cinematic venture will be 
Invasion USA, in which CIA agent Matt 
Hunter foils a terrorist attack on the 
United States. Detective Joe Friday 
will return, this time to the big screen, in 
Universal's [ the old Dragnet series. 
Dan Aykroyd has written the script and will 
star as the hard-boiled cop 
. 

DYLAN THOMAS AT THE POLO LOUNGE? How's 
this for a line-up—Mel Brooks as executive 
producer of a movie based on a script by 


summer. 


* made-for- 


spoof ¢ 


Dylan Thomas and starring, among others, 
Twiggy? Although it's a little-known fact, 
Welsh poet Thomas penned a screenplay 
called The Doctor and the Devils back in 
1953, and now, 32 years after the option 
expired, Brooks's production company, 
Brooksfilms (which produced The Ele- 
phant Man), is filming it. Billed as a 
“Gothic thriller,” the flick is based on a 
true story about 19th Century grave 
robbers. British actor Timothy (Mistral's 


Daughter) Dalton plays Dr. Thomas Rock, 
an anatomist who doesn’t mind bending 
the rules of the Victorian medical estab- 
lishment. To further his research, he 
enlists the help of a pair of grave robbers 
who are more than willing to supply him 
with fresh corpses. As for Twiggy, she 
plays a prostitute who charms Dr. Rock’s 
lab assistant. Directed by Elephant Man 
cinematographer Freddie Francis, the film is 


slated for an October release. 
. 
JUNIOR GUMSHOES: The Breakfast Club's 
Judd Nelson and Ally Sheedy are teaming up 
again, this time in Paramount's Blue City, 


Jane Seymour proved in TV's East of Eden that nobody could top her sleek-slut impersonation. 
She's at it again in Head Office (above), Tri-Star's coming spoof of multinational corporate 
mischief, with fellow executives Judge (Beverly Hills Cop) Reinhold and Ron Frazier (right). 


a contemporary drama about a couple of 
young kids wl Nelson 
plays Billy Turner, a handsome 22-year- 
old who returns home after a few y 


solve a murder 


ars 
absence only to discover that his father has 
been murdered and that although nine 
months have passed, the case has not been 
solved. To make matters worse, his step- 
mother has inherited most of the estate 
and Pop's old business partner has moved 
in with her. Billy smells a rat and, with the 
aid of an old high school chum and his 
ferociously independent younger sister 
(Sheedy), he sets out to solve the murder 
and bring the killer to justice. In so doing, 
he uncovers layer after layer of corruption 
in his home town. Says director Michelle 
Manning (who coproduced The Breahfast 
Club): “Blue City is about the shattering of 
illusions. Billy left town a boy, perceiving 
his surroundings and the people he knew 
in a mythic way. When he returns, he is 
forced to let go of those illusions and see 
things very differently. In the process, he 
loses his naiveté, but never his passion.” 
Blue City is scheduled for 
October. 


release in 


. 
SPIES IN THE OINTMENT; A father and his son 
become involved in international espic 
nage in CBS Theatrical Films’ Target 
Gene Hackman plays Walter Lloyd, an ordi- 
nary kind of guy who manages a lumber- 
supply company in Dallas. Matt 
his son, Chris, a 20-year-old who wants to 
be a race-car driver. Their relatively quiet 
world is shattered when Mom (Gayle 
Hunnicutt) is kidnaped in Paris and father 
and son set out for Europe to find her. A 
shoot-out at Charles de Gaulle Airport 
puts the two on a dangerous trail that 


jon is 


leads through the streets of Paris to Ham- 
burg, Berlin and way points in East Ger- 
many, During their quest, father and son 
grow closer together and Chris discovers 
that his parent has a mysterious past that 
has finally caught up with him. Directed 
by Arthur (Bonnie and Clyde) Penn, Target 
will hit theaters this fall 
б 

DESIGNER GENES: The question is, Why has 
it taken Hollywood so long to come up 
with a disaster film revolving around the 
potentially calamitous effects of genetic 
engineering? After all, gene splicing has 
been around for quite a while and you'd 
think that, at the very least, Irwin Allen 
would have made a contribution by now 
Thus, 20th Century Fox’s Warning Sign, a 
horror story about biotechnology, is long 
overdue. Sam Waterston stars as the sheriff 
of a county in Utah where an agricultural 
gene-splicing plant is located; Kathl 
Quinlan plays his wife, a security guard at 
the plant. The company is supposedly 
working on something called Blue Har- 
vest, a project involving the growing of 
corn in salt water. But, of course, the sci- 
entists are really creating something a bit 
more sinister, though only a handful of 
people know what it is. One day alarm 
bells go off, computers flash the word 
BIOHAZARD and the plant is sealed, locking 
its employees inside and the frightened 
townspeople outside. As the film's pro- 
“When the 
Biohazard condition occurs, what happens 


ducer, Jim Bloom, puts it, 


to those inside is horrifying; and the reac- 
tion of the unafflicted and uninformed out- 
side is violent and frightening.” Warning 
Sign will be released in the fall 


For centuries, the finest beers in the world 
were brewed over direct fire. Stroh still 
brews this way. 


EVERY DAY WE SET THE BEER 
BUSINESS BACK 200 YEARS. 


In 1981, the Stroh Brewery 
Company bought ane of the worlds 
most modem and efficient brew- 
enes for $90 million. 

Then we spent $15 million 
to change it. 

The money went for a 
brand-new brewhouse where 
beer could be made by a cen- 
turies-old method called 
‚Fire-brewing. 

Tw hundred years ago, 
practically all beers were 
brewed over direct fire. 

But as American brewers 
tumed to steam heat to cut 
costs, fire-brewing died out. 

Then Julius Stroh visited 
the breweries of Europe. 

He found the best beers 
were still brewed over 


brewed—even though it cost more. 
We also brew Schaefer, Old 
Milwaukee, Schlitz, Schlitz 
Malt Liquor and other fine 
beers to the same uncom- 
promising standards of 


x quality, 
in a variety of 
d йуз. But itè the unique 


direct fire. They tasted Character of fire-brewed Stroh’ 

smoother, more and Stroh Light that has helped 

flavorful. us become Americas third-largest 
So, he decided, brewer. 

his family$ beer Sometimes, looking backwards is 


would be the best way to get ahead. 
fr A 
$ STROH 
© We haven't lost 
4 the family touch. 


Americal premier fire-brewed beers 
‘come from the copper kettles of Stroh. 


©1984 The Soroh Barse Company, Dove, MI 


PLAYBOY 


28 


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PROVOCATEUR 


331967 "Excellent — 
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332072 Top 10hits Neutron 
Dance—Pointer Sisters; The Ji 


333294 Led Zeppelinis 
Page and Bad Co's A Memory; 


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Еа A Greatest Hits wo.» 
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COLUMBIA RECORD plus shipping 
& TAPE CLUB NOW = “моде 
INVITES YOU ТО ТАКЕ 


PLUS THE GOLD BOX BONUS! 


if you join now and agree to buy 8 more selections (at regular Club prices) in the coming 3 years 


STEEN e PRINCE e CYNDI LAUPER e PHIL CO 
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© 1985 Columbia House 
Columbia Record £ Tape Club unl 


RO. Box 1130, Terre Haute, Indiana 47811 | 

Тат enclosing check or money order for $1.86 (which includes K: 

for my 11 selections, plus $1.85 for shipping and handling). Please 
ad Ley under the terms outined in | 


The tapes and records you order during 
your membership will be billed at regular Club 
Prices, which currently are $798 to $998— 
plus shipping and handing, (Multple-unit sets 

Double Selections 


as payment (пега e 
for your first 11 selections, plus $1.85 to cover 

shipping and handing) And if you also fil in 
the Bonus Box, youll get an extra album free. 


In exchange, you simply agree to buy 8 more 
tapes or records (at regular Club prices) in the 
next three years—and you may cancel mem- 
TEE 


How Clul four weeks (13 
times а year) youll receive the Clubs music 
magazine, which describes the Selection of 


the Month for each musical interest... plus 
hundreds of alternates from every field of 
music, In addition, up to six times a year you 
may receive offers of Special Selections, 
usually at a discount off regular Club prices. 
for a total of up to 19 buying opportunities. 

TD AS En ER 
Month or the Selection, you need do 
nothing—it will be shipped automatically. If 
you prefer an alternate selection, or none at 
all, fill in the response card always provided 
and mail it by the date specified, You will 
always have at least 10 days to make your 
decision. If you ever receive any Selection 
without having 10 days to decide, you may 
Tetum at our expense 


may be somewhat 
Nam An X You dación O conde eee 
member after completing your enroliment 
agreement, you'll be eligible for our money- 
‘saving bonus plan. 

10-Day Fre k well send details of the 
Club's operation with your introductory ship- 
ment. If you are not satisfied for any reason 
whatsoever, just return everything within 10 
days for a full refund and you will have no 
further obligation. So you risk absolutely 

thing by now! 


YOU may ано choose your frst sel ion m 
now—and well give it to you for at least 

off regular Club prices (only $2.99). Enclose 
payment now and you'll receive it with your 11 
introductory selections. This discount pur- 
chase reduces your membership obligation 
immediately—youll then be required to buy 
just 7 more selections (instead of 8)in the next 
three Just check the box in application 
and їйїп number you want. 


NOTE all applications are subject to review and Columbia 
House reserves the right to reject any application. 


a an. OT 


OCOUNTRY o 

Wie Nelson, Barbara Mantovani Orch, Frank no 8-1 
Малого Oak Rege Boys Sinatra, Johnny Mathis. DAZE no Bracks) 
OMe 

Du. 

(Pee Pini Frat Name — BLL 
Address. Apt. No. 
Cay. 

State. Zip. 

Do you have a telephone? (Check one) [J yes Оо 

Do you have a credn carar (Check one) Lives, DINO 

Offer not available in APO. Puerto Rica: write for 


Also send my first selection for at least 607 
U also ercioung addtional payment of $299 11 
(instead of B) at regular Club prices, 
inthe next three years. 


hen the slings and uncer! 

trying to make a living wı 
getting to me, | start dreaming of better 
ways to live. And out of so many so easily 
named, I generally come up with a sunny 
used-book store in a handsome old build- 
ing on the square of some forgotten small 
town, where, ideally, I would have no cus- 
tomers and would spend peaceful days 
among the books with just a fat, lazy cat as 
company—when I wasn't gone fishing, 
that is. 

I know this reveals the old coot in me 
rattling his cane for early release, but it 
also says something about how much I 
love Used-Book Stores. This, I am sure, is 
because the used-book stores of my Cleve- 
land youth were sort of racy, risqué, part of 
a little sin strip on East Ninth Street that 
has since been urban-renewed. Sure, I 
went downtown to those places to work on 
my Galaxy-magazine collection or to see if 
I could find a cheap Fredric Brown or Ray 
Bradbury or A. E. van Vogt paperback I 
hadn't read; but they also had these stacks 
of Swedish nudist magazines, at which I 
would sneak peeks, finding inside naked 
blonde people with smears for genitals 
playing volleyball. At the age of 12, I 
found the smears somehow all the more 
sinful. So for me, used-book stores have a 
happy lifelong association with sex; as 
with sex, I will atavistically seek them out, 
any time, anyplace, at the slightest provo- 
cation, because they are there. 

I confess all this to show that my enthu- 
siasm for The Collector's Guide to Antiquar- 
ian Bookstores (Macmillan) is not that of a 
mere dabbler. I get a nice little buzz just 
flipping through it. 

The Collector's Guide lists by state and 
Canadian province more than 1000 of the 
best used-book stores and dealers in North 
America. The book is both thorough and, 
well, readable, containing short entries 
about the history of each store and its 
owner(s), plus detailed breakdowns of 
cach one's strengths, specialties, number 
of volumes, and so on. 

Some of the best of the best: 

New York City—Strand Bookstore: 
‘This lower-Broadway spot is probably the 
best used-book store in the country, 
combining lots of books (an estimated 
2,000,000 volumes) in scores of categories 
and at reasonable prices. Especially good 
for cheap reviewers’ copies of current 
hardbacks. 

Manchester, Vermont—Johnny Apple- 
seed Bookshop: The postcard New 
England-village setting and 19th Century 
building don't hurt, and there are still 
25-cent bargains to be found there. The 
rest of the prices are also more humane 
than most these days, The emphasis is on 
sporting books. 

Austin, Texas —The Jenkins Company: 
Another browser's dream, 20,000 square 


Some guys from whom you 
would buy used books; 
McMurtry's new Western. 


Bury me not in Lonesome Dove. 


feet of books, especially strong on Ameri- 
cana (and Texana, in particular), as well 
as on books by and about women. 

Jackson, Mississippi—Nouveau Rare 
Books: This is the one for 20th Century 
first editions, whether signed, limited or 
regular trade. Not only does it have Jim 
Harrison and Tom McGuane on its 
shelves, it counts both authors as mail- 
‚order customers. 

Tucson, Arizona—Book Stop: It’s all 
nooks and crannies, the way a proper 
used-book store should be, and it gets an A 
for attitude—the prices are good, the 
books are kept in spiffy shape and order 
(even the dread science-fiction paperbacks 


are alphabetized and treated with respect) 
and browsing with an ice-cream cone from 
the shop next door is permitted. 

The only one of my favorite used-book 
stores that's missing from The Collector's 
Guide is Hollywood Book City in Holly- 
wood, occupying three large storefronts on 
Hollywood Boulevard, with new, used and 
rare books—and with Two Guys from 
Italy just down the street for a pizza slice 
afterward. 

Where the book finally falls down is in 
the areas of science fiction and comic 
books, revealing the usual prejudice 
against my kind of trash. The excellent 
nce Fiction Shop in Greenwich 
ge is there, as is Toronto's Bakka, a 
Пу exciting shop with both vintage 
al and nearly everything on the 
current market, But many others are 
missing—among them, Clint’s Books in 
Kansas City, a one-stop fantasy store; 
Fantastic Worlds, a chain of four spe: 
shops in the Fort Worth/Dallas area: 
for comics, such dusty gems as Larry's 
Comic Book Store in Chicago, strongest on 
comics from 1960 on but with stock going 
all the way back to the Thirties, a shop 
described by a devoted customer as “look- 
ing like that closet you throw all your 
favorite old shit into, somewhere between 
your attic and a slum." What higher 
praise? — DAVID STANDISH 


. 

Do yourself a favor. Take a tour of 
America, circa 1800, with Uncle William, 
an expert botanist, and his young, naive 
nephew Sammy. These two innocents, the 
stars of James Howard Kunstler's ener- 
getic novel An Embarrassment of Riches 
(Dial), are commissioned by President 
Thomas Jefferson to find the North Ameri- 
can giant ground sloth, Their eventful 
quest takes them into the wilds of Amer- 
ica, where they encounter charlatans, 
thieves, savages and pirates. Their story is 
a grand adventure and a wonderful com- 
edy. Don't miss it. 

. 

Lonesome Dove, a pale little excuse for 
a town in south Texas chaparral flats, is 
home to rattlers, horned toads and a cou- 
ple of old Texas Rangers named Augustus 
McRae and W. F. Call—hard men in a 
rapidly softening 19th Century America. 
It is also the starting point for a cattle 
drive from the Rio Grande all the way to 
Canada and for Larry McMurtry's epic 
novel of the dying West, Lonesome Dove 
(Simon & Schuster). McMurtry's cow- 
boys, Indians and womenfolk live close to 
the land but even closer to death, a patient 
adversary that tracks the trackers from 
Texas to Montana, from cradle to 
unmarked grave. McMurtry is a crack 
shot with dialog, a superb campfire yarn 
spinner, but it is the way his tight-lipped 


men and women push on in death's 
shadow that makes Lonesome Dove some- 
thing close to a great novel 

fr . 

If you want to understand how the 
opposite sex got to be that way, pick up 
Female Difficulties (Bantam), by E. Jean 
Carroll. She is one of our favorite writers, a 
ntributing Editor to rLayBOY and a one- 
time Miss Cheerleader U.S.A. This is 
a collection of pie 
rodeo queens, frigid women, smut stars 
and other modern girls. The reader gets to 
go camping with Fran Lebowitz, eat rasp- 
berries with Dr. Ruth Westheimer and 
attend a meeting of The Good-Looking 
People Network, an organization for those 
who have problems because they are too 
attractive. When E. Jean listens, people 
talk—often to their own regret 

. 

Mike Halsey gets into a fray at the local 
deli, feels frustrated, so, of course, heads 
for Japan. Guys are permitted to act 
this way in Bruce Jay Friedman's head. 
His new novel, Tokyo Woes (Donald I 
e), follows Mike as he meets new pals 
Bill Atenabe (his host in Japan, whom 
he meets on the plane going over), Pop- 
pa Kobe (Bill's father) and “Happy” 
Mirimoto, a failed kamikaze pilot. Mike 
gets a job, visits Bill's club and meets 
women of the Pleasure Quarter. He even 
goes on birthday boy Poppa Kobe's Peep- 
ing Tom tour. Friedman is in fine, subdued 
fettle as his Lonely Guy explores the land 
of the shoguns. You'll laugh until you spit 
up rice cakes 


es about sorority sisters, 


BOOK BAG 


All Fall Down (Random House), by Gary 
Sick: President Jimmy Carter did not 
question the State Department's sanguine 
views about the shah’s stability until it 
was too late; Ambassador William H. Sul- 
livan “was not faithfully representing U.S 
policy”; our intelligence people had few 
contacts at the grass-roots level of the 
country; and Iran fell down, taking Ameri- 
1 hostages along for the ride. The best 
book to date about the Iranian crisis, writ- 
ten by the man who was the principal 
White House aide at the time 

The Leather Throne (Dream Garden Press, 
1199 lola Avenue, Salt Lake City, Utah 
84104), by Owen Ulph: This novel cap- 
tures the poetry of the modern cowboy so 
well that its author may be on his way to 
re-establishing the Western as a respected 
form. Reading The Leather Throne is like 
feeling genuine cowhide in a vinyl world. 

War Cries over Avenue C (Donald I. Fine), 
by Jerome Charyn: We've followed 
Charyn's wildly imaginative novels for 
years; now it's your turn. War Cries takes 
you to Manhattan's Lower East Side, 
where Saigon Sarah, the tiger lady of Ave- 
nue C, operates out of a Talmud Torah 
turned fortress. You won't forget her any 
time soon. 


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Opinionated (clockwise from left): Young, George, Marsh, Garbarini, Christgau. 


T: Butthole Surfers / . . . Another Man's Sac 
(Touch and Go): Like Vladimir Horo- 
witz, The Butthole Surfers are virtuosos. 
Unlike Horowitz, they specialize in the 
domain of cheap special effects, free- 
associating over lots of drone and throb 
punctuated by strange noises. It used to 
be that you could understand a lot of 
what lyricist Gibby Haynes was free- 
associating, and that was the band’s main 
appeal, because the most amazing stuff 
falls out of that boy’s mouth. Now record- 
ing technique has improved to the point 
where you can’t understand him most 
of the time—dementia unsullied by 
verbalization—and guitarist Paul Leary 
has developed a highly original style min- 
gling psychedelic groove and feedback 
with a dash of thrash. The drum section, 
King and his sister Teresa (no last name), 
consists of floor toms and cymbals and is 
guaranteed to induce undulations in your 
orgones, In concert, the Buttholes have 
always delivered on their name, and now 
they're preserved for the ages 

Venom / Possessed (Combat): I saw these 
metalists play recently, and singer Cronos 
kept saying stuff like "Here's a cut from 
our first album.” Afterward, a fan asked, 
“Where was Satan?” If you wanted your 
soul repossessed, it was a real bring-down. 
Gronos must have figured that since all the 
lyrics concerned his serving Satan (“I 
drink the vomit of the priests”), he needed 
bal 

The point of me 


nce. 
of course, not bal- 
ance or even s thing new. It is to 
touch archetypes. The astute listener will 
ask himself, “Do I feel like a manly man 
after listening to this?” Or, in the case of 
Possessed, "Do I feel like hell?” (Yes.) 
Every cut sounds like a failed (from God’s 
point of view) exorcism at the Indianapo- 
lis 500. Not for those who find evil depress- 


ing, but the fair-minded will credit Venom 
for executing a dive of its own selection. 
Howard Jones / Dream into Action (Elck- 
tra): Whether his songs are told in 
the first, second or third person, Jones 
writes in aphorisms, little rules of life that 


This month we bring you our 
expanded record buyer's. guide, star- 
ring a newly assembled team of 
acclaimed critics. Here's the line-up. 


Robert Christgau has been grading 
pop music—for Esquire, Newsday, 
Creem and The Village Voice (where 
he is a senior editor)—since 1974. 

Vic Garbarini, the former editor of 
Musician, won a Grammy nomination 
for his recorded interview with Paul 
McCartney in 1981. 

Nelson George has just completed a 
history of Motown Records due out 
next year and writes for several publi- 
cations. 

Dave Marsh has written several criti- 
cally acclaimed books on pop music, 
including Fortunate Son, an anthology 
of his magazine writing from 1969 to 
1984. 

Charles M. Young is currently recover- 
ing from researching his book on Amer- 
ican punk, which is due out next 
spring. 


he keeps tuning up in hope of finding 
something that works. You get the impres- 
sion that if he had no talent (which he 
does) for programing pop melodies into 
his synthesizers, he'd be Dr. Joyce Broth- 
ers, writing books titled How to Get Every 
thing You Want out of Life. Inane 
generalities can help one through difficult 
times, and when they are sung sweetly 
over danceable and unthreatening arrange- 
ments, they have a particular appeal for 


teenaged girls afraid of their own individu- 
ality. But for aphorisms to work as lyrics, 
they must have an original twist and/or be 
strongly grounded in character, Jones has 
no gift for epigram at this stage of his life, 
and the only strong character on the 
record is his mother, whom he loves but 
wishes would stop laying aphorisms on 
him. Next time you have this problem, 
Howard, take my advice: Before turning to 
Leo Buscaglia, drink vomit with Venom. 

— CHARLES M. YOUN 


. 

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers / Southern 
Accents (MCA): Five years ago, when 
Petty’s mainstream rock was flanked by 
fading singer-songwriters and insurgent 
New Wave fluff, Damn the Torpedoes 
seemed bolder and tougher than it had a 
mind to be. Today, in a scene domin 
by mainstream American rockers of 
lar stripe, Petty's limitations are in 
able. He remains a shallow songwriter: 
Southern Accents wants to say something 
about displaced Rebel rockers, but what? 
If anything bails him out, it’s the Heart- 
breakers, at least when the band is used 
right. But while guitarist Mike Campbell 
was off with Don Henley writing a great 
song, The Boys of Summer, Petty was con- 
cocting mock psychedelia and soft soul 
with Dave Stewart of the Eurythmics. The 
result is music that collapses against its 
own lack of a center 

Run-D.M.C. / King of Rock (Profile): Rap 
stripped dance music down to its skel- 
eton—boastful voices over nothing but the 
beat, A good gimmick but in the long run 
a dead end unless the music could be 
reinflated, which has been the task of 
every rap hit since grand master Melle 
Mel's White Lines (Don't) Don't Do It. Run- 
D.M.C.'s answer is a merger with the most 
elemental white rock style, heavy metal, 
adding simple, muscularly distorted guitar 
to the blend. The immediate result wa 
Rock Box, last year’s most convulsive sin- 
gle. King of Rock dabbles with reggae and 
some ferocious scratching, but mostly it 
picks up where Rock Box left off. Thes 
songs are scathingly angry and waspishly 
funny (particularly the complaints about 
"stardom") and, as а result, King of Rock 
sustains its themes better than any other 
album of early 1985. Bridging the gap 
between Iron Maiden and Kurtis Blow is 
like trying to jump-start a car across the 
Grand Canyon, which only makes pulling 
off the feat that much more impressive. 

Greatest Beats (Tommy Boy): Looking 
for a way to get into the new electronic 
nce music (hip-hop, to initiates)? Help 
is at hand. This two-disc sampler isn't 
quite definitive, but it does contain the 
most inventive hits the genre has pro- 
duced, Planet Rock and Looking for the Per- 
fect Beat, both by Afrika Bambaataa and 
Soulsonic Force. Any form that encom- 
passes both the Smurfs and Malcolm X 


(who, I trust, would have loved Keith 
LeBlanc’s presentation of him in No Sell 
Out) has got to be reckoned with. There 
are no deeper grooves on this planet, so if 


you can't work up a sweat with this album 
better have somebody check your pulse 
DAVE MARSH 
. 

Hüsker Dü/New Day Rising (SST) 
Although only neophytes dare try to dis- 
tinguish one brutally fast hard-core song 
from the next, the tracks that rise from the 
rush are enough to make normal fans hold 
on to their hopes for second-generation 
punk. After a debut album aptly titled 
Land Speed Record, Hüsker Dü's Metal 
Circus and Zen Arcade proved Bob Mould 
to be not only a world-class noise guitarist 
but a sporadically melodic songwriter who 
thinks for himself as well. The band’s lat- 
est is hard-core that any old Clash (and 
maybe Byrds) fan can hum. Such Mould 
songs as I Apologize and Celebrated Summer 
reject adolescent rage without settling for 
cheap acceptance, and drummer Grant 
Hart pays tuneful tribute to two identifi- 
ably human women. Yet if you turn the 
album up loud enough to clear the dust 
anti-audiophile mix, you'll 
still be accused of violating your lease 


balls out of the 


Otherwise, what would be the point? 

ina and the Waves (Capitol): Nobody 
1 heard 1983's Walking on Sunshine 
or 1984's 2—import albums, check "em 
out—could understand why no U.S. label 
Katrina and the Waves h 
inst the Pretenders. Songwrite 
guitarist Kimberley Rew has an u 
knack for up-to-the-minute  Sixties-style 


was bac ad 


to head а 


errin 


hooks and writes rock-outsider lyrics that 
never get obtrusively specific; singer- 
guitarist Katrina Leskanich has a voice so 
big and enthusiastic she could make Barry 
Manilow’s songs sound like Holland- 
Dozier-Holland. Commercially speaking, 
what more could you want? So now, Capitol 


has boosted the sound (drum t 


cks, espe 
cially) on ten of the Waves’ songs, which I 
suppose will help sales, but the songs don't 
need it. Just deciding which ten to redo 
must have driven everybody crazy—but it's 
ody did 

Duke Ellington and His Orchestra Featuring 
Paul Gonsalves (Fantasy): As part of rock 


about time somel 


n" roll’s first generation, I've never been 


comfortable with the big bands my fave 
music displaced. Duke Ellington is Ameri- 
ca's greatest composer, but I don’t listen 
much more to him than to Beethoven. 
Because I treasure spontaneity, my tastes 
in jazz run to bebop—and to albums like 
this one. Cut in one four-hour 1962 session 
that caught the leader without any new 
material and went unreleased until now, 
Ellington 
cluding at least two (Caravan and Take the 
“A” Train) almost any 


these eight standards—ii 


American adult 
showcase the work of 
tenor saxophonist Gonsalves. It goes with- 


will recognize 


out saying that Gonsalves shows more 


sonic and harmonic imagination than such 


R&B contemporaries (and heroes of my 
youth) as Lee Allen and Sam “The Man" 
Taylor. The beauty is that he's not above 

outhonking them as well 
ROBERT CHRISTGAL 

. 

Luther Vandross / The Night I Fell in Love 
Epic): What Sam Cooke was to the early 
а Al Green to the early Seven- 
ties, Luther Vandross is to right now. He is 


Sixties a 


simply the pre-eminent male vocalist of his 
a. When Daryl Hall claimed to be the 
best singer around today, he obviously 
hadn't yet heard Vandross work through 
the swirling melodies of Stevie Wonder's 
Creepin’ or caress the words of Brenda 
Russell's classic love song If Only for One 
Night or, finally, glide over the Marvin 
Gayc-inspired groove of the title cut 


e 


In fact, all four songs on side one com- 
municate a Cool passion, a quiet yearning 
that make them superb make-out music 
Vandross’ previous three platinum albums 
were marred by lapses in song selection 
and an air of self-conscious virtuosity, with 
Vandross using long, meandering songs to 
show off his instrument. On Night, he 
shows fidelity to the melody, pouring his 
energy into conveying the emotion of the 
music and not into flashing his technique 
The result is a romantic masterpiece on a 
par with Gaye's Let's Get It On and 
Smokey Robinson's A Quiet Storm. 

Alexander O'Neal (Tabu): O'Neal, to his 
pivotal role in the 
recent history of pop music. In 1981, he 
left a little-known Minneapolis band, 
Flyte Tyme (later to become Prince's The 
Time), and the drummer was made front 
man. Four years and three hit albums 
later, The Time has disbanded and that 
drummer, a humorous fellow named Mor- 
ris Day, is a minor folk hero. O'Neal? Well, 
after licking his wounds around the Twin 
Cities, he has finally gotten a shot at the 
big time, thanks to the hot production 
1 of ex-Time members Jimmy Jam 
and Terry Lewis, who are also Prince rene- 


chagrin, has played 


gades 

Predictably, much of the album is in the 
slick funk style Jam and Lewis have suc 
cessfully used for Thelma Houston, Cheryl 
Lynn and others. The surprise here is how 
well O'Neal sings such mellow, mid- 
tempo tunes as A Broken Heart Can Mend 
and If You Were Here Tonight. Like George 
Benson and Shalamar’s Howard Hewett, 
O'Neal possesses a flexible, upscale sound. 
Prince may not have liked his chops, but 


chances are, you will 
Lee Morgan / The Rajah (Blue N 
late Lee Morgan was a stron, 


): The 
soulful 
trumpeter best known for The Sidewinder 
a funky, muscular instrumental that in 


1964 enjoyed a long run on the pop chart 


Like those of his contemporaries Kenny 
Dorham (of the original Jazz Messengers 
and Donald Byrd, Morgan's style mixed 
the harmonic innovations of bebop with a 
grittier feeling that in the late Fifties was 
labeled hard pop. This unreleased 1966 
session, issued as part of Manhattan 


THE 


ORIGINAL 
BLOODY MARY 


Fernand Petiot, a bartender 
in Paris, France, invented the 
Bloody Mary in 1922. And, 
when he came to New York 
several years later, his drink be- 
came the rage of the fun-loving 
people of that,era. Happily for 
us, TABASCO” sauce was a part 
of this exciting recipe. 

Now we, the TABASCO sauce 
people, de The Rebirth” 
of the true Mary in its 


lood 
finest form. TABASCO Blood: 
Mary Mix. Taste for yourself. 
would have made Petiot proi 


C1565. TABASCO is a registered 


CHOPSTICKS AND HOT LICKS DEPARTMENT: We hear that The Rolling Stones are working with a 
Chinese official who is arranging for them to become the second Western rock group to 
play the People's Republic of China. The Chinese are probably impressed with such 
Stones songs as Beast of Burden and You Can't Always Get What You Want, The 
unnamed official was quoted as saying that even though China doesn't always agree with 
or admire Western customs, groups can play there if they're "healthy." Hear that, Keith? 


| 


OW FAR IS FAR ENOUGH? NRBQ, a band 

known for its—well—satiric look 
at the culture, is doing it again: It's 
exploding Cabbage Patch dolls in con- 
cert. When asked what happens to all 
the destroyed dolls, guitarist Al Ander- 
son said, “These are the first bbage 
Patch dolls to receive death certificates. 
We're opening a cemetery for them. If 
anyone has a dead Cabbage Patch doll 
(accidental or not), send it, along with 
$15, to Box 311, Saugerties, New York 
12477. We'll issue a death certificate 
and give it a decent burial, complete 
with headstone.” And you thought 
things were weird already. 

REELING AND ROCKING: The story of the 
Brill Building in New York, where such 
Sixties songwriters as Carole King and 
Neil Diamond first turned out hits, is 
being made into a movie ‚ Ray 
Manzarek says he has signed an agrec- 
ment with concert promoter Bill Gra- 
ham, among others, to bring the life of 
Jim Morrison to the screen at last, “It 
will be ramatic re-creation of the life 
and times of The Doors,” says Manzarek, 
adding, “John Travolta is a good guy but 
not right to play Jim Morrison." 
Huey Lewis and the News arc writing and 
recording two songs for the new Steven 
Spielberg film, Back to the Future... . 
The Eurogliders have provided the music 
for the Australian movie Fast Talking, 
which deals with a 15-year-old delin- 
quent who insists that the world con- 
form to his standards. . . . Talking Heads 
are recording the sound track to their 
next film, True Stories, which David 
Byrne will direct. 

NEWSBREAKS: Other Talking Heads 
news: Chris Frantz and Tina Weymouth are 
working on a third Tom Tom Club al- 


bum.... Elton John and Bernie Taupin 
are in London collaborating on a 
musical. . . . Dave Marsh's rag, Rock & 
Roll Confidential, recommends Danny 
Fields's Rock Video as the best rock mag- 
azine on the newsstands today. When 
one respected rock writer has good 
words about another, we feel safe in 
passing the info along to you. If you 
can't find Rock Video at your local 
7-Eleven, try going direct: Comics 
World Corporation, 475 Park ve- 
nue South, New York, New York 
10016. . . . Hear “N Aid, the coalition of 
heavy-metal groups working to aid 
African famine relief, will coordinate 
its effort through U.S.A. for Africa. Ronnie 
Dio wrote the lyrics for and arranged 
the Hear 'N Aid song, Stars, and will 
produce and record it along with mem- 
bers of Quiet Riot, Judos Priest, Scorpions, 
Iron Maiden, Night Ranger, Black Sabbath 
and Spinal Tap, among others. The B 
side will be the instrumental version of 
the song, so that fans can guess who's 
playing guitar solos. . . . Diana Ross has 
asked John Taylor of Duran Duran to write 
some songs for her... . If you're in 
Toronto this summer and want to make 
a video, there's a company called Cre- 
ate A Video that will let you do it for 
$35. For that price, you get a recording 
with instrumental backing and a video 
cassette of yourself doing the song. . . . 
Finally, since we always like to leave 
you with a fast chuckle, here it na 
Marie she has written a song 
inspired by Jonis Joplin called / Just 
Made Love to 25,000 People and I'm 
Going Home Alone. Our question is, 
How will she keep the beat? Well, it’s 
only rock 'n' roll, right? 

— BARBARA NELLIS 


Records’ revival of the legendary jazz label 
Blue Note, showcases his warm tone. Mor- 
gan strolls casually through such composi- 
tions as Davisamba and Is That So with 
the relaxed support of saxophonist Hank 
Mobley, pianist Cedar Walton, bassist 
Paul Chambers and drummer Billy 
Higgins. The lengthy A Pilgrim's Funny 
Farm gives Morgan plenty of room to 
interact with Higgins’ and Chambers’ 
rhythms. But the real beauty is the ballad 
What Now My Love, as Morgan, with the 
tenderness of a great singer, fondles this 
lovely melody. — NELSON GEORGE 


SHORT CUTS 


Cosmetic Featuring Jamaalodeen Tacuma / 
So Tranquilizin' (Gramavision): Tacuma, an 
Ornette Coleman protégé, deserves his 
reputation as the Jimi Hendrix of electric 
bassists, but here his prodigious talents 
are wasted. You don't need a Ph.D. in funk 
to play dance music. 

L. Shankar / Song for Everyone (ECM): 
Shankar, a classical Indian musician, 
deserves his reputation as the Jimi 
Hendrix of electric violinists, but here his 
prodigious talents are wasted. You don't 
need a Ph.D. in south Indian music to play 
pseudo jazz. 

Nina Hagen / Іп Ekstasy (Columbia): 
Maybe, just maybe, if somebody held 
down all the members of Missing Persons 
and Berlin and fed them some very bad 
drugs, we just might be lucky enough to 
get another album as energetically loony 
as this. Hagen's exuberant synth and gui- 
tar rock simultaneously celebrates. and 
sends up her own German heritage, reli- 
gion, communism, rock trendies, what- 
ever. OK, she often takes the self-parody 
shtick too far. But, hell, at least you can 
dance to it. 

Graham Parker and the Shot / Steady 
Nerves (Elektra): This restores much of the 
edge missing in Parker's recent work. Still, 
I'm uneasy. Intensity he's got; but all this 
squeezing doesn't produce many sparks. 

Suzanne Vega (A&M); Got an urban 
contemporary folkie here who says her 
music is more “confrontational than 
." We're talkin’ Joni Mitchell by 
way of Lou Reed; middlebrow Laurie 
Anderson. Fine. So why'd she hire a bunch 
of ersatz mystics from Windham Hill to 
douse her flame in some aural hot tub? 
Yuppies and angst don't mix. 

The Hooters / Nervous Night (Columbia): 
This Philly bar band gravitates to the pop 
end of the Springsteen/Petty axis. (Its 
members helped Cyndi Lauper write Time 
After Time.) The result is some sparkling 
Lite rock that's heavy on hooks if not terri- 
bly profound. 

Paul Young /The Secret of Association 
(Columbia): The Brits tout this young 
fella as the trendiest of their new crop of 
soul stylists. Problem is, soul ain't about 
style—it’s about character and feeling. 
Young's beauty seems only skin-deep. 


Vic GARBARINI 


THERE ARE PLACES ON EARTH WHERE NO LIFE EXISTS 
EXCEPT SMALL COLONIES OF ISUZUS. 


In some of the farthest comers of the earth, you'll find the 
only form of transportation is an Isuzu. Or a donkey. 

Take the small colony of Isuzus you see here, Clockwise, 
you'll see our new Spacecab,” standard bed pickup, Trooper 
II, longbed pickup and another Trooper II. Five versions of 
high adventure powered this year by an all new 2.3-liter gas 
engine. (An optional turbo-diesel engine is available for the 
pickups and the Trooper 11.**) 

The Trooper Il is a go anywhere, do anything, four-wheel 


Then there's our Spacecab. In its cab, there's room for up 
to four people, with the optional jumpseats. Plus, there’s extra 
storage space for your equipment, with a built-in tonneau 
cover for security. There's even a sunroof standard on the LS 
model. 

And now our most popular Isuzus. Our longbed and 
standard bed. No other truck in its class has a larger bed than 
our longbed; it also has the largest standard fuel tank in the 
field. And our standard bed just won the stock mini-pickup 
class in the toughest off-road race in the world—the Baja 


lon fuel tank, you can leave civilization and go up to 613 
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SPORTS 


I hasn't made much difference—the 
streets are still swarming with joggers, 
as far as I but August 
fifth marks the one-year anniversary of my 
favorite incident in all of sports: that mo- 
ment when G. Andersen-Scheiss, 
the lady marathoner, stumbled into the 
Los Angeles Coliseum at the Olympics 
and did her imitation of every dopchead I 
ever knew in Austin, Texas, when Austin 
made Berkeley look like Swan Lake 

I'll always be grateful to television for 


an determine- 


briela 


letting me watch her take that lap, wob 
bling, creeping, staggering, hips out of 
joint, a finger occasionally pointing at her 
nose ("Where's my vial?”) and then at her 
head ("Where's my brain?") and just in 
general making it look like aimless running 
through the neighborhoods and streets of 


our nation is the most wonderful experi- 
ence you can have 

As a devout antijogger, I chuckled q 
etly as I sat comfortably at home, smok- 
ing, drinking, overeating 

My wife came into the room and said, 
“What 

Look 
vision set 

“My God!” she said, horrified. 
is ie” 

‘A loon trying to finish the women's 
marathon.” 

"She's going to die 

“Yes!” E cackled 

My wife stared at Gabriela on TV 
back at me. "You're sic 

"No, she is," I said. 

1 lit a cigarette between bites of a trip 
decker meat-loaf sandwich. Light bread, 
heavy mayo, plenty of salt and pepper 

This is great," I said as Gabriela hob- 
bled hope every jogger in 
America is watching. By the time she gets 
to the backstretch, fitness jerks of all 
ages will be burning their sneakers. The 
streets will belong to the people again.” 

This is terrible," my wife said. "Why is 
ABG showing this? 

“Public service, 
any ice cream?” 

A couple of times, it looked as if 
Gabriela wouldn't make it. 
ot yet" I hollered at the TV. 
"Throw up first, then Fall!” 

But Gabriela Andersen-Scheiss trudged 
forward—a dead-game kid, as the 
At that point, I called a friend in Austin. 

Are you watching?" I said when he 
answered 

“I think I was with her last night,” he 


re you laughing at?" 


I said, pointing to the tele- 


“What 


then 


k," she said 


onward. 


I said. “Have we got 


say 


By DAN JENKINS 


RUNNING 
COMMENTARY 


laughed. “How'd she get to L.A.? 
We were both taping it. For this, I would 


have erased Casablanca 
“It looks like she's going to make it to 


the finish," I commented. 


said my friend. 
“The bartender promised her Louie would 
lly good shit." 

and my wife 
understand anyone 


“Yeah, you know why 


be there with some rea 

We hung up 
couldn't 
hard at this spectacle, especially someone 
rting to look like a 


said she 
laughing so 


whose waist was s 


bean receiving station. 


“You'll 
to get a taxi without having to 
watch out for thundering herds. You can 
shop without getting trampled by stock- 
brokers in warm-ups and earphones.” 

c Andersen-Scheiss finished the 
race and was stretchered away. Announc- 
ers spoke of courage, bravery, the sporting 
heart, the competitive instinct 

“Talk shouted 
“Eight million people just threw their jog- 
ging shorts into the wastebasket 

But I was wrong. Nut fucks still run and 
jog, cluttering up the landscape. You can't 
play golf, tennis or bowl down Fifth Ave- 
nue, but you can jog. You can't smoke in 


You don't understand," I said 
be able 


about the news!” I 


most seats on airplanes, but you can put 
on shorts and a headband and sling body 
odor on anybody vou want to, all in the 
name of fitness. 

Joggers need their own stadium. Some- 


place where they can be out of the sight of 
smokers and drinkers, also have 
rights. A place where they can be together, 
tromping and gasping in their pointless 
journeys and celebrating their agonizing 
achievements by cating crisp vegetables 
and sipping their tasty club sodas and 
limes. Somewhere in the Australian out- 
back would be my ideal choice, but failing 
that, I suggest Eugene, Oregon, the run- 
ning capital of the world. All Eugene 
needs is a dome and they could sell tickets 
You could sit there in comfort, lighting up, 

tch nonsmoking vegetarians drop 


who 


and w 


like flies from heart failure, 


Of course, Gabriela wasn't the only lady 
worth remembering from last summer's 
games. It was an Olympiad that encour- 
aged millions of people to go out and get a 
household pet, a Mary Lou Retton. Ove 
night, people traded in their Labrador 
retrievers for teenaged gymnasts. People 
t have daughters adopted them, 

think for a time Bloomingdale's might 
have even been selling them. 

"I'm sorry, sir, we're all out of Mary 
Lous, but there's a cute little Commie you 
might enjoy." 

"Does the balance beam come with it?” 
"No, I'm afraid that’s extra.” 

“Sounds too expensive. Tell you what, 
just sell me a pair of tights and Ull go 
home and hop around on my carpet.” 

To be honest, I became a big fan of 
Mary Lou Retton's. She could do every- 
thing my Siamese cat could do, and today, 
as I speak, I hope Mary Lou is making 
millions endorsing Kitty Litter 

Unhappily, there was a sad moment for 
all of Mary Lou's admirers when she blew 
the gold medal in the vault, her best event, 
on August filth, only hours after Gabriela 
came listing into the 

I have a journalist friend, Mike Lupica, 
who was on the scene and may have taken 
it harder than anyone. Ë 
written so many columns about Mary Lou 
that one more rave would have gotten him 
arrested for child molesting. 

Mary Lou had won the all-round gold 
and had become America’s darling before 
she was outscored in the vault. I was still 
watching it on TV when the tragedy 
occurred, and less than ten minutes later, 
my phone rang. Lupica was calling from 
the Pauley Pavilion 

"Here's my lead,” Mike said 
he Gabriclacd,” I dictated 


Vo," he LEGI 


who didn 


liseum. 


rlier, he had 


37 


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MEN 


Y ou're in your 30s, a professional man 
with an accelerating career. You're 
married. You have a couple of young chil- 
dren and a life that appears to be success- 
ful. You own your own home—well, the 
bank owns it, but your name is on 
the door—and the patterns of your daily 
life are meaningful to you. On weekends, 
you barbecue in the back yard, talk with 
your neighbors, watch baseball on TV, 
take the kids to the park, trim the hedge 
and cut the lawn, Home is often where 
your heart is. 

"That is especially true when you think 
about your children. You love them with- 
out reservation. You know that love had 
never been defined in your life until your 
ids came along. They upped life's ante. 

But deep in your heart, you know there 
is a fault line down the center of your 
being. You dress well, you behave ma 
turely at work, you put on a good pose, but 
you know you're flawed. Your restlessness 
goads you. “Is this all there is to life?" you 
yourself, “Am I stuck in this rut for- 
ever?" You feel guilty that you can ask 
such a question. “Be happy, you dumb 
bastard," you scold yourself, "or you'll 
ruin more lives than your own." 

You hate to admit it, but you and your 
wife have grown bored with cach other. 
The fault line trembles, the earthquake 
occurs. Maybe you crack first, maybe she 
does, but whatever it is—infidelity, emo- 
tional cruelty, financial. madness—the 
marriage falls apart like a doll left out in 
the rain. You are thrown onto a roller 
coaster of emotions, and as the depositions 
and court calls and lawyers’ fees sweep 
over you, there are moments you'd rather 
be dead than put your children through 
the pain of divorce. I can't live h my 
wife and I can't live without my kids, you 
think. The double bind tears at you. 

One of your biggest decisions will be 
whether or not to conduct an all-out cus- 
tody fight. This much you should know: If 
your children are young and if your wife 
wants them, the odds are heavily in her 
favor that she will get them. How heavily? 
We're talking something like 95 times out 
of 100. The courts are reluctant to take 
young children away from their mothers. 
It’s called the tender-years doctrine. Most 
'orced fathers have heard of it. 

Like a wounded bear, you sit in court 
and watch the judge award custody of the 
children to your ex-wife, You get visitation 
rights: a weekend or two a month, a few 
weeks in the summer, special holidays 


By ASA BABER 


appear to be a toy that can be played with. 
Dates will be changed, appointments bro- 
ken, last-minute crises invented. Put up 
with as much as you can and, if necessary, 
go back to court to settle her hash and 
reclaim your rights. But don't give up and 
don't avoid seeing your children. Even 
with the most cooperative ex-wife in the 
world, vi. ion will still be a chore. Your 
children will be adjusting to their new 
lives, and it’s probable that they'll test 
your patience. What they are really testing 
is whether or not you still love them. You 
prove that by being with them whenever 
you can, It’s mple as that, 

3. Don't talk about the divorce. During 
visitation, as you and your children try to 
get to know one another again, it will be 
tempting to focus on the divorce as the 
favorite topic of conversation. Don't do 


CUSTODY IS A 
STATE OF MIND 


sometimes, “Visitation rights?” you ask 
yourself. “These are my kids, too. How 
can I be told I'm just a visitor?" But a visi- 
tor is what you are under the law, and a 
paying visitor at that. Child support has 
been demanded of you, possibly alimony, 
certainly a change in financial status. 

Most men who've been through it will 
tell you that nothing hurts like the loss of 
child custody. The state steps in and takes 
your children away from you. It is, some- 
how, a very totalitarian moment. 

What follows is some advice about how 
to handle that situation. Believe it or not, 
there’s life after custody loss. With plan- 
ning and effort, you can stay in touch with 
your children. Custody, you will learn, is 
much more a state of mind than a condi- 
tion of the law. Your kids intuitively know 
that. They are waiting to see whether or 
not you know it, too. 

Five rules for the divorced father: 

1. Always pay child support. It is not easy 
to send money to an ex-wife who just got 
the gold mine when you got the shaft. But 
both legally and psychologically, it is self- 
defeating to skip out on your child-support 
payments. Skipping out deprives your 
children of certain necessities. It tarnishes 
your case in future custody action, Worst 
hurts you in your own eyes. 

2. Fulfill visitation rights. If your ex-wife 
is vengeful, this will be a difficult chore. 
She will do her best to make visitation 


it—not even when the kids ask about it 
"The question “Why did you and Mommy 
get divorced?" is answered by “There 
were a lot of reasons, but they don't affect 
you and me. I never divorced you guys 
and I never will." That's what your chil- 
dren really want to know. If your 
ex-wife has filled them with her side of 
the story, your children will sometimes 
sound like Munchkins for the Prosecu- 
tion, but it's your job not to go into a 
detailed defense. 

4. Don't overindulge your children. This 
means that when your three-year-old 
points at a red Mercedes and says, 
“Daddy, me want!" you don't buy it, Not 
even if the kid cries. Not even if his mother 
bought a blue one as she cleaned out your 
joint checking account. Kids have a won- 
derful and greedy sense of the world, and 
they will prod you for all they can get. But 
secretly, they want you to have limits, 
Because that's how they learn limits. 

5. Like it or not, you're a role model, so try 
to be a good one. Imitation is more than 
flattery—it's the essence of learning. Your 
actions and lifestyle and values will be 
observed and absorbed by your children, 
so it's your job to set the example. Kick 
yourself in the butt and clean up your life 
and stand tall for your kids as a man who 
has lived through divorce and come out in 
good shape. Who knows? Your kids may 
even come back to live with you one day. 
Mine did. A solid remarriage helped. So 
did the understanding that no judge, 
court, ex-wife or force could separate me 
from my two sons. I never gave up custody: 
in my head. And my reward for that 
was total. 


E > 


Find a diamond thats as magical as it was 
to find each other. 


sound like a lot at first. But any- 
сое who kaws the value of qual: 
ity, knows it pays to go 
bot you ch MER After all, the one thing 
So take your time. Seeajew- that will symbolize your love 
eler. Learn about the 4@sthat de- every day of your lives. 
Као става. 


And send for very- 
thing Youd Love to Know... pec 


Is 2 months' salary too much to spend 
for something that lasts forever? 


WOMEN 


keep looking at him, at the clegant 

curve of his jaw, the luxurious curling 
of his black lashes framing sea-foam eyes, 
the sensuous yet chiseled mouth, the per- 
fect teeth, the flawless cheekbones, the 
long, lean body. And it keeps occurring to 
me that Í am a nitwit. Any girl who could 
even consider giving up this man has to be 
а fool. 

“Honey,” said my friend Loretta, look- 
ing at his picture, “this is not a man who 
should be cast into the cold without a lot of 
major forethought.” 

Makes you think about beauty. I don't, 
normally. The man I was in love with 
before Mr, Stunning bore a close resem- 
blance to a poached egg. My husband had 
a nose like a banana. My son only acciden- 
tally happens to resemble a Greek god. 

When Mr. Adorable moved in with me 
two years ago, I was fairly innocent. 

“He's really quite cute,” I said to my 
friends. “In fact, my first thought upon 
seeing him was, Fuck off, you arrogant 
asshole; you're probably gay anyway, and 
even if you're not gay, you've got to be 
conceited and spoiled, being so handsome. 
Naturally, I didn’t voice that sentiment 
aloud.” 

“Naturally not,” all my friends said 
“When can we get a look at this Adonis?” 

They looked. They touched. Some of 
them said, “Oh, my God, let me know if 
you ever get sick of him! 

Others said, “Are you sure he’s not 
gay?” One actually went so far as to make 
a pass at him and is, needless to say, no 
longer my friend. 

I was living, I discovered, with a sex 
object. People started treating me differ- 
ently with my delicious bauble of a 
man hanging from my arm. Headwaiters 
snapped to attention. The dry cleaner 
started remembering me. Acquaintances 
had a new, wary gleam in their eyes—a 
gleam that, if it could speak, would say, 
“We respect you more now, but don't 
begin to think we like you any better.” 

Having Mr. Magnificent at my side, I 
came to notice, was better than wearing a 
$150,000 lynx cape. It was as if I owned 
the Hope diamond. 

Mr. Alluring, however, was not having 
such a good time. Somehow, it rankled 
when co-workers sidled up and asked, sotto 
voce, “Where did you find him?” Some- 
times they even called him “it,” as in “It’s 
very beautiful; how big is its dick?” 

"How can they talk about me that way? 
Makes me feel like a prize show dog,” 


By CYNTHIA HEIMEL 


LOOKING AT 
MR. GOODFACE 


Mr. Pretty would grumble—though there 
were also times when I would watch him 
become plantlike, soaking up attention as 
if it were life-giving moisture, his leaves 
turning sleek and green and his blos- 
soms just dying to be cross-fertilized. He 
basked, he preened, he glowed. These 
were the moments when I ached to stick 
my fingers into his eyes—even though, if I 
were he, I would have done the same. 

Beauty is a brilliant attention getter, but 
it is also a notorious scam. 

I'm kind of cute myself. Awful thighs, 
teeth you could drive a Harley-Davidson 
through, but not unpleasant. Not in Mr. 
Captivating's class, of course, but on a 
good day I can look rather fetching. 

To achieve “rather fetching,” I reall 
have to work. I must blow-dry my hair 
(red-tinted to enhance my complexion) 
with my head hanging upside down. I 
must pluck each stray eyebrow hair. I 
must encase my legs in shiny, black, ankle- 
enhancing stockings. I must choose my 
clothes with the cunning of a military 
strategist to avoid appearing top-heavy, 
bottom-heavy or pinheaded. 

Sometimes I rebel and let my eyebrows 
grow bushy and wear the same pair of 
baggy jeans and the same frayed sweat 
shirt for two weeks running, until I resem- 
ble nothing so much as a middle-aged 
Scottish woman who breeds Pekingese 
dogs. But I always snap back eventually. 


The need to become a sex object over- 
takes me. 

I want men to notice me. I want them to 
admire my chic appearance. I want them 
to desire me. My feeling has always been 
that men are singularly attracted by physi- 
cal appearance, that an ugly but interest- 
ing man will do far better than an ugly but 
interesting woman. Because men have 
hair-trigger eyes. They can be aroused by 
the purely visual. They can bring them- 
selves to orgasm by simply looking at a 
photograph of a naked girl (see center- 
fold). Women, trust me, can’t do this. The 
most blatant, in my experience, are 
men, Here is a sample conversa 
between me and my friend Harry, 
looking for a new fellow: 

ME: Why don't you call Dave for a date? 

HARRY: Dave's a brunet! I like blonds. 

ме: How about Stuart? 

HARRY; Stuart's old! He must be 35. And 
he's taller than I am. 

ме: But so are you 35. And so what if 
he's taller? 

MARK: need someone small and soft 
and cute and young. Someone bunnylike. 

ME: Why, that's , . , that’s . . . sexist! 


n 
who's 


HARRY: No, it's not; it's lookist. I'm a con- 
firmed lookist. 
Me: But you're being so objectifying! 


You're the predator, the subject, and for 
sex you want а... a thing. You haven't 
once mentioned personality. 

HARRY: That's the way men are. 

Yes, that’s the way men are, but my 
experience with Mr. Exquisite is evidence 
women are. Every- 
ng is wrong, we haven't been getting 
along for months, but I am loath to let Mr, 

autiful out of my sight. 

Which leads me to the conclusion, as 
hing does these days, that 
tion is wending its way inexorably 
toward disaster. We are living in a cynical 
time, without values, without hope. We 
worship form without content; Victoria 
Principal means a lot to us; Jane Fonda 
tells us to go for the burn. 

It’s not that we are a civilization of 
morons but that we are all feeling progres- 
ely more helpless and insecure. Some- 
thing attractive by our sides or in our beds 
makes us feel worth while, almost as if we 
had money in the bank. 

This whole train of thought has made 
me despondent. I think I'll leave this 
empty, glittering life of mine behind. 
Maybe move to Scotland. Breed dogs 
or something. 


4l 


PLAYBOY 


REFRESHING SURPRISE. 


AGAINST THE WIND 


I here's a sort of low moan that goes 
up periodically from the English 


departments at colleges and universities 
across the country over the fact that most 
students, even the good ones, can’t write a 
lick—not a love letter or a suicide note, 
much less an essay or a term paper. It’s 
nothing new, but according to the teachers 
who have to read this crap for a living, the 
further we get into the computer era the 
worse it’s becoming. So at places like Har- 
vard and Yale and Brown, they're holding 
faculty conferences to hash the problem 
through; they're designing bonehead writ- 
ing courses and setting up special peer- 
group tutoring programs in an all-out, 
last-ditch effort to ensure that their gradu- 
ates will at least be able to fill out applica- 
tions for day labor without embarrassing 
themselves, 

They haven't gone so far as to suggest 
that a student be required to write, say, 
one short coherent paragraph in order to 
graduate, but there are signs that they're 
getting a little desperate. For one thing, 
they're hiring more and more writers, and 
I don't mean just the cocktail-party lions 
of big fiction, either. They're actually 
cleaning out the mop closets to make of- 
fice space for journalists and other free- 
lance grubs who have spent most of their 
careers below decks, sweating and wiping 
the greasy pipes in the engine room of the 
profession. 

Somehow, I haven't been asked. I am 
qualified, though: at it almost 20 years 
with nothing to show except a world- 
class alcohol/tobacco habit, debt that fol- 
lows me like a huge pet rat and a small, 
used Olivetti with a leatherette case. Cre- 
dentials, in other words. And I know some 
things about writing that others are not 
likely to tell you; ugly things. I think I 
could cram most of them into the first lec- 
ture, which, given the size of the problem, 
would probably have to be held in a fairly 
large room. If I did it right, though— 
if I were honest with my students—I 
think we could most likely hold the second 
class in a Datsun and get everybody in 
comfortably. 

So picture me now, walking across the 
quad in my uniform—torn bathrobe, bolo 
tie, blown-out L. L. Bean boating mocs— 
smelling like a ripe field of Cannabis, mak- 
ing little Italian hand signals to the 
Jordache and Galvin coeds, then gripping 
the lectern and looking out into the small 


By CRAIG VETTER 


BONEHEAD 
WRITING 


bay of faces that are waiting for me to 
teach them about writing. 

“Good morning, children, and brace 
yourselves. This is Writing One-A. I 
wanted to subtitle it ‘Writing for those 
who still sign their name with an X,' but 
the administration said, ‘No, these kids 
aren't stupid or uneducated, just writing- 
impaired.’ I love that. Makes you sound 
like Helen Keller at the pump, waiting for 
a miracle. It's not entirely your fault, 
though; I know that. There isn’t one in a 
thousand teachers who knows the first 
damn thing about writing. All your lives, 
they've been reducing it to widgets and 
screws, clauses and semicolons for you, till 
what you think you're working with is a 
dainty sort of parlor art, something like 
embroidery. 

“The truth is that writing is a blood 
sport, a walk in the garden of agony every 
time out, which is why those who are any 
good at it look older than their contempo- 
raries, snap at children on the street, live 
alone. Like me. 

“So you can pretty much forget the 
polite approach to writing in here. What 
I'm going to show you this semester is that 
you don’t have what it takes to write well. 
You never did and you never will. In fact, 
you probably ought to think of this class as 
one of those wilderness-survival courses 
that are popular these days. Except that 
instead of taking you out in a happy little 


group and encouraging you to face trouble 
and danger as a team, I want you to imag- 
ine that you’re going to be hustled into 
deep woods at midnight, trussed up, 
beaten senseless and left to die. If you do 
make it back to camp, we'll give you a nice 
T-shirt that says, 1 SURVIVED THE DOWNWARD 
BOUND SCHOOL OF WRITING, you'll be re- 
beaten, then dragged to a less benign part 
of the forest. 

“And if you think that metaphor exag- 
gerates what's ahead of you, take a look at 
this, Don't turn away, you wormy little 
cowards. This is your enemy: a perfectly 
empty sheet of paper. Nothing will ever 
happen here except what you make hap- 
pen. If you are stupid, what happens will 
be like a signed confession of that fact. If 
you are unfunny, a humorless patch of 
words will grow here. If you lack imagina- 
tion, your reader will know you immedi- 
ately and forever as the slug you are. Or let 
me put it to you this way—and you may 
want to tattoo this somewhere on your 
bodies—nLANK PAPER 15 GOD'S WAY OF TELLING 
US THAT IT'S NOT SO EASY TO BE GOD. 

“But I’m not here to give you just the 
good news this morning, so let’s get right 
to the ugliest of today's ironies. I’m steal- 
ing your money. I couldn't teach you how 
to write if I wanted to, if you wanted me to. 
Everybody who ever learned this wretched 
craft taught himself, and he did it despite 
the lettered fools who got into the process 
here and there, because writing is not, 
first, the gathering up and stringing 
together of words. Writing is thinking, 
which means that every time you sit down 
to it, you get another chance to find out 
just how perceptive you aren't. To come up 
with one simple, interesting or funny 
thought on anything is the hardest, dirtiest 
shoveling any of us ever has to do, and no 
one can teach you how to do it. 

“There is one trick I can give you, how- 
ever; a way for you to seem smarter and 
more clever than you really are. All you 
have to do is spend 40 or 50 hours working 
up an idea, a sentence, that looks when 
you've written it as if it took 90 seconds to 
make, You don't have to tell anyone how 
long you were alone in your own weak 
mind, floundering and whining—that it 
took you eight full days to write a dopey 
little 900-word column, 

“But—and this is what Га like you to 
ask yourselves before our next mecting— 
why in hell would anybody want to gg 
learn to do that?” 


43 


You need a lot of truck. A truck that 
carries everything from tools and ma- 
terials to a cab full of help. A truck that 
hauls everything but a heavy price. 

You need a Toyota Standard Bed. 

No standard small truck comes 
with more power. The 24 liter engine 
in the Standard Bed churns out 103 
horsepower. Enough torque to move 
1400 Ibs.** of whatever you're carrying 
with no problem. 

This truck is built to work hard. But 

=% you don't 


йй 105. have to work 
PAYLOAD 22." 


important 
features like fully transistorized ignition, 


vented, power assisted front disc 


brakes, power assisted 
steering, and 
tough, de- 
de, pendable 
full box- 
frame con- 
struction. 
All standard 
equipment 
бп this truck. 

If youre hoping the Standard Bed han- 
dies passengers as well as it handles 
cargo, you've come to the right truck. 
Seating in the spacious cab allows 
plenty of leg and headroom for three. 

And if you consider yourself tough 
on your vehicle, consider this: Toyota 
owners reported the lowest incidence 


TOYOTA'S 1985 STANDARD BED. 


CARRIES EVERYTHING EXCEPT 


OH WHAT A FEEUNG! 


of repairs for any small truck—imported 
or domestic.*** 

Toyota Standard Bed. Own one and 
you'll be carrying everything you ever 
wanted. Everything except a big 
monthly payment. 


^w 


Calendar your 1984, Ward 


#1 SELLING SMALLTRUCK IN AMERICA: 


A BIG PRICE! 


в. 


w 


THE PLAYBOY ADVISOR 


M wife and I are working on our third 
year of a beautiful marriage. There's only 
one problem: She does not give me head 
unless I ask her to, and then sometimes 
she refuses. Before we were married, she 
initiated oral sex as if it were something 
she craved, but now it's a forgotten urge, 
no matter how desirable I make my body 
smell, taste and feel. I’ve asked her several 
times if it’s just me, or did she not like to 
give head to her previous lovers? She told 
me that she usually gave head the first few 
times to impress her lovers but soon quit 
on them, too, How do I get her to really 
like it? Half of the turn-on is having your 
lover do her thing of her own volition.— 
C. D., Seattle, Washington 

You've got to put an idea into her head. 
Tell her what you told us: that enthusiasm 
and spontaneity are incredible turn-ons. 
When she does perform head, be vocal in your 
appreciation. Thrash about. Pull the hair 
from your head, Maybe she will get excited by 
a sense of power. Tell her what works, when 
it works. Maybe she will get turned on by 
her own expertise. Tell her that the process 
of impressing a partner doesn't end with re- 
citing the wedding vows. The purpose of mak- 
ing love is to give each other pleasure, It 
makes sense to give each other the form of 
pleasure each enjoys. 


Within the next few months, I'm going 
to have to break down and buy a new car, 
but I dread the thought of trudging 
around looking and fending off avaricious 
salesmen. Any tips on streamlining the 
process?—G, N., Washington, D.C. 
Would you cut corners shopping for a 
house? Think about it. A new car is the sec- 
ond biggest investment most people make, and 
making payments on an expensive mistake for 
several years is not our idea of fun. Car shop- 
ping can be fun, however, if you approach it 
with the right attitude and method. First, 
leave yourself plenty of time; don't put it off 
until your old sled dies and leaves you desper- 
ate, Second, do your homework: Buy some 
magazines and buyers’ guides, clip ads and 
articles on cars that interest you, read up, 
take notes. Seek advice from knowledgeable 
friends and relatives. Decide what kind of car 
you want. (Don't laugh. A lot of people walk 
in thinking sports car and drive home in a 
wagon.) Think about the accessories you want 
on it and how much you're willing to spend. 
Make a list of likely makes and dealers who 
sell them, plus several copies of a check list of 
options and features. Nothing settles down a 
pushy salesperson faster than a prospect who's 
prepared. Third, set aside a few hours and go 
shopping. Take a good look at each potential 
candidate, inside and out. Ask questions. 
Collect information, prices and literature. 
Make it clear that you're a serious buyer but 


not buying today. Don't bother test-driving on 
the first visit, and don't take your checkbook. 
That way, you'll be less likely to make an 
impulse buy. Fourth, go home and digest 
what you've learned. minate models 
that don't have the features you want, don't 
fit your needs, image or lifestyle or are out of 
your financial reach, Fifth, armed with your 
shortened list and check lists, go back for test 
drives—which should be conducted as you 
normally drive and on the types of roads you 
normally travel. (If a test-drive request is 
refused, take your business elsewhere. No 
drive, no sale.) Adjust the seat and steering, 
put on the seat belt, check out the features, try 
all the controls. Make sure your stuff will fit 
in the trunk and your likely passengers in the 
back seat, Sixth, go home, go over your notes, 
check lists and literature and think on it 
again, Seventh, hurry back and buy the one 
you can't resist. And rest assured that you've 
made the right choice. 


Bam 49 years old and average in about 
every way. My wife and I had a fairly good 
sex life until about four years ago. I loved 
to perform cunnilingus and other special 
things on her, though she would never do 
the same to me. Then she lost all interest 
in sex. If I grabbed a breast, it hurt; if I 
touched her anywhere else, she was sore. 
Finally, I gave up. About two years ago, 
while I was having a drink in a club, a 
fairly good-looking lady came in and sat 
next to me. I had noticed her around town 
before but had never spoken with her, We 
had a few drinks and were carrying on 
small talk when she began to tell me how 
sexually frustrated she was. After many 
drinks and a long talk, we agreed to a 
meeting at a motel in a town some miles 


away. Before we went to our room, she told 
me she had had only one climax in her life. 
After she and I engaged in extensive fore- 
play, I performed cunnilingus on her. She 
had one of the most shattering climaxes I 
had ever witnessed. Her first words were, 
“All these years, I have been missing 
this!” That day, we had four straight hours 
of the most stimulating sex either of us had 
ever had. She sucked and stimulated my 
nipples so that it felt almost as good as a 
climax. She performed fellatio on me sev- 
eral times. We both had so many climaxes 
we were exhausted. We have been meeting 
at least twice a month since then. Now she 
wants to meet weekly and to have her 
tubes tied, as she had to have an abortion 
her husband does not know about. She 
thinks that I can pose as her husband to 
sign the papers to have this done. I say no. 
Impossible. What do you say?—K. D., 
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania 

We say no. Impossible. If she wants the 
operation, she will find a doctor who will per- 
form it without involving another person, 
Consciously or not, she may be asking you for 
more of a commitment than you may be pre- 
pared to make. 


n, Ohio, area, where 
r/restaurant called T.G.LF., 
that serves an ice-cream drink 
called Strawberry Shortcake. I have also 
had this drink at the Brown Derby in Day- 
ton and in Golumbus. I would like to know 
how to make it and whether or not the in- 
gredients are readily available.—L. R. F., 
New Carlisle, OI 

A representative of the Fridays restaurant 
in Dayton was gracious enough to supply us 
with the ingredients of its Strawberry Short- 
cake drink, However, you will have to experi- 
ment to find the proportions that most closely 
approximate your taste experience. In a 
blender, combine vanilla extract, vanilla ice 
cream, amaretto, frozen strawberries and 
crushed ice. Bon appétit! 


Û live in the Dayu 
there is a b 


Bom my wife and 1 are 36 years old and 
surgically sterile. (We already have two 
children.) For the past three or four years, 
we'd been having group sex with a couple 
we know, who are in their early 40s, and I 
loved it. By group sex, I mean that the 
four of us would swap partners for oral and 
sexual intercourse. Sometimes the ladies 
would get each other off while we watched. 
But for the past six months or so, there's 
been nothing happening. I talked with the 
wives about it, and it seems they both sud- 
denly got religiously moral. I’m sure I can 
change my wife's morals. Recently, we met 
a younger couple (25 to 30 years old). 
The man is about my build, but his 
wife is something else: a real beauty, 


47 


PLAYBOY 


48 


approximately five feet tall, long dark hair, 
excellent figure, though somewhat small 
in the breasts. The first time I saw her, I 
wanted to screw her. We plan to invite 
them over for supper sometime in the near 
future. How would you suggest I tell them 
I'd like to have a get-together with 
them—a sexual one? I was thinking about 
asking the husband privately if he'd be 
interested and have him check with his 
wife and then get back to me. What do 
you think? Should I tell him we're both 
sterile so there’s no need to worry about 
accidents? We'll be waiting for your 
reply.—R. Z., Hamilton, Michigan. 

Since you've successfully established these 
relationships in the past, why don’t you repeat 
whatever worked for you before? Wasn't there 
a clue from the earlier couple that helped 
things along? Inviting your new acquaint- 
ances over for dinner and drinks would be a 
reasonable place to start, but you may want to 
spend several evenings getting to know one 
another better before making inquiries, By 
then, you may have gained insight into their 
levels of interest, While you're at it, you might 
inquire further as to your wife's true feelings 
about swinging, 


am thinking of adding something to my 
stereo system to get a little more perform- 
ance from it. Everyone I ask, though, tells 
me to add something different: a graphic 
equalizer, a dynamic-range expander, an 
image enhancer, a time-delay ambience 
device and who knows what else. I am not 
about to convert my living room into a 
recording studio, and I have neither the 
budget nor the inclination to get involved 
with so many different kinds of accessories. 
Of the various devices available, which 
one will most improve my stereo sound?— 
P. N., Oakland, California. 

The graphic equalizer. The other units can 
titillate your stereo perception in varying 
degrees and for limited periods of time, and 
their effectiveness varies with the program 
material. A graphic equalizer can introduce 
into a stereo system a lasting and meaningful 
improvement that will prove effective on all 
program material. It is, to begin with, the 
only sure way to match your speakers to your 
listening room. It does so by tailoring the 
response by individual bands of frequencies 
that you can adjust upward or downward to 
account for such acoustic anomalies as stand- 
ing waves, hot spots, dead spots, and so on. It 
can correct discrepancies in source material, 
pickups and amplifiers. It also allows you to 
sharpen the aural focus, when desired, on 
specific tonal elements of a musical program. 
Conventional tone controls cannot come near 
to performing those chores. 

There's one hitch, however. Because of its 
enormous capability, an equalizer can easily 
be misadjusted so that it ends up being a costly 
toy rather than a useful audio tool. No one 
denies your right to play with an adult toy, 
but to get the most benefit acoustically from 
an equalizer, you should set its numerous 


controls by some yardstick. The best at this 
state of the art is a real-time analyzer 
(R.T.A.) used in conjunction with a pink- 
noise generator. The R.T.A. shows at a 
glance the complete system response; the pink- 
noise generator provides accurate test tones 
Jor making the measurements. Still accurate 
but less handy than the R.T.A. would be a 
sound-level meter; least accurate in this 
regard is your own hearing. As for test tones, 
you can get them from a test record, but the 
generator is more reliable. 

Combination units that provide the equal- 
izer with the R.T.A. and the pink-noise gen- 
erator in one handy format are beginning to 
come onto the market—prices hover near the 
$1000 mark. Lower-priced equalizers also 
can be bought, of course, but you then have to 
obtain the measuring and signal-test devices 
separately. 


Í have some questions that have been per- 
plexing me for quite some time. Why is it 
that whenever I watch a simulated rape 
take place on television or in a movie, I get 
an erection? Does this reaction indicate 
that I am a potential rapist and should 
have my head examined, or does it occur 
in every normal and healthy male? (Am I, 
indeed, normal?) Similarly, I would also 
like to know if women experience some 
form of excitement while watching a man 
get sexually molested by women or other 
men.—M. D., Newark, New Jersey. 

Many people are aroused by things they see 
or fantasize about, but that does not mean 
they wish to live out or experience those fanta- 
sies. (See “Hot Secrets” on page 72.) A recent 
study suggests that a sizable minority of men 
are aroused by images of forcible sex. Perhaps 
the concept of female submission appeals to 
you. Many women are turned on by the rape 
scenes in romantic fiction. They can identify 
with the image of helplessness or the notion 
that the heroine is so attractive that she drives 
a man to break the law in order to satisfy his 
lust. Whatever, we are dealing with fantasy, 
not behavior. Power is one element of sex, 
There are others, Unless this is the only way 
you are aroused, you don't have a problem. 
Rape fantasies are normal for both sexes, The 
reality is something different. It is an act of 
violence, not sex. 


Tam 30 years old, and for the past three 
years, I have been dating a woman who is 
39. Prior to the start of our relationship, 
she was married to a man who for years 
abused her emotionally as well as physi- 
cally. Having repeatedly been told by her 
former husband that she was sexually 
inadequate, she was extremely unsure of 
her ability to please a man, especially in 
the bedroom. My impression of her has 
been just the opposite: Sexually, she is 
very loving and enthusiastic. I have re- 
assured her in every way I can just how 
great sex is with her, and slowly she 
has regained much of her confidence, 


Twice in the past year, during oral sex, I 
have failed to reach orgasm after more 
than 30 to 40 minutes of stimulation, 
though I have maintained an erection. On 
both occasions, I had had at least two 
orgasms in the previous hour. Neverthe- 
less, she has become very upset and feels 
that perhaps her ex-husband was right. I 
have patiently tried to explain that my 
penis is less sensitive after a couple of 
orgasms and that this in no way indicates 
that she is at fault. I have also stressed that 
most men require varying amounts of 
stimulation at different times, and most 
(myself included) worry more about com- 
ing too quickly. In spite of my assurances, 
she has at times felt like a failure. I am at a 
loss as to how to convince this woman that 
these incidents are in no way indicative of 
any inadequacy on her part, and I would 
appreciate any advice you could give 
me.—S. T., Dallas, Texas. 

We think you've taken the right track. A 
man doesn't have to reach orgasm every time 
he has an erection, Turning sex into a test 
will quickly take the fun out of it. Be patient, 
and hand out a lot of hugs. Affection is as 
good a cure for insecurity as incredible sex. 


Н... are some questions of interest to 
millions of young men. Is masturbation 
dangerous for the human body? Can it 
damage the brain or heart? Can I mastur- 
bate daily or weekly? What is your opinion 
about masturbation for boys aged 15 to 18 
and men aged 25 to 452—G, P., New York, 
New York. 

Masturbation is a perfectly normal func- 
tion at all ages. It is nature's way of teaching 
eye-hand coordination. No accurate statistics 
are available, of course, but it’s been esti- 
mated that 90 to 95 percent of all men and 
perhaps 85 percent or more of all women 
masturbate or have done so. There is no evi- 
dence that masturbation is dangerous to a 
normal and healthy person. As for frequency, 
that depends on the individual. For many 
men, daily—or twice daily—masturbation 
puts no real strain on the body, while others 
may feel far less need or desire. As long as you 
don't experience discomfort and your normal 
sexual functioning with a partner doesn't 
suffer, chances are your rate isn't excessive. If 
there is a danger to masturbation, it's that it 
tends to condition a man to ejaculate quickly, 
which can cause problems when he's with a 
woman and wants to prolong her pleasure. 
Otherwise, most taboos and fears about the 
subject simply aren't valid. 


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, 


DEAR PLAYMATES 


The question for the month: 


Under what circumstances would 
you be receptive to a stranger’s pass? 


V need to be introduced. I'm not old 
enough to go into bars and there aren't 
that many bars where I'd be interested in 
meeting anyone. Everyone would come up 
and try to get lucky. Working with some- 
one would be a 
good way to Р 
meet. But the 
best way is to 
have a friend 
who knows me 
say, “I have 
this great per- 
son for you to 
meet. You'll 
like him.” Then 
well go to 
dinner or out 
dancing in a 
group. Sometimes I meet guys at the gro- 
cery store. I collect their phone numbers. I 
don't give mine out. My favorite section of 
the market is where they sell the yogurt- 
covered almonds. In the back, by the fruits 
and nuts—really! 


, 


NNY BAKER 
JANUARY 1984 


| don’t hang out in bars, but I do get 
approached a lot in the grocery store 
Strangers will come up to me, start talk- 
ing, want to know my name and stalk me 
patiently for a 
couple of aisles. 
Usually, they 
go for the kill in 
the vegetable 
section. The 
market is an 
erotic stomping 
ground. I can 
go in looking 
like I died or 
looking like a 
million and I 
get hit on just 
the same. Sometimes 


Um 
ognized—once by a really well-known 
photographer who walked up to me and 
said, “Aren't you Lorraine Michaels?” 1 
got a photo session out of that encounter. 


even rec- 


ko 


LORRAINE MICHAELS 
APRIL 1981 


M reet most comfortable when a stranger 
approaches me when I'm out with my girl- 
friends. Safety in numbers, you know, If 
I'm out with my friends, I’m usually hav- 
ing a great time and I'm in a good mood, 
so I'm open to people just walking up 
to me. I don't 
really like be- 
ing approached 
when Im by 
myself, shop- 
ping or walking 
along the 
street. That 
makes me feel 
apprehensive 
My favorite ap- 
proach is the 
one I least ex- 
pect, like stand- 
ing in line for popcorn at the movies, I'll 
take a man's phone number, but I'll never 
give him mine until I've had a chance to 
get to know him. I learned this through 
experience. Especially since becoming a 
Playmate, I have to be a lot more private 
about my number so I won't be sorry. 


extet 


LIZ STEWART 
JULY 1984 


Probably in a restaurant. After I've sat 
there for an hour or so and have had a 
drink, I've had enough time to look at a 
guy across the room and make eye contact 
That is probably the easiest and most 
comfortable way for a guy to come up and 
introduce. him- 
self to me. Bars 
are out, and so 
are supermar- 
kets. Sushi bars 
are good: 
they're very 
friendly and 1 
like to feed 
everyone. You 
know how it 
goes: “Here, 
have you tried 
this?” or."Have 
a piece of mine.” I once met a gorgeous 
young ballet dancer in a restaurant. We're 
still friends. Another good time to meet 
men is when I'm working out. There are 
always cute guys with great bodies in my 
ballet classes, 


TRACY VA 


3 CARO 
OCTOBE! 


R 1983 


Don't come on to me in a bar or a night 
club, In those places, I'm usually with my 
girlfriends or a date, and I'm not inter- 
ested in the meat-market atmosphere, any- 
way. I like the unexpected meeting, at the 
market or shop- 

ping. It takes a 
lot of courage 
for a man to 
approach a 
woman he 
doesn't know, 
and I give men 
a lot of credit 
lor doing that 
in a nice way. I 
met a really 
nice guy at the 
market once 
We bumped into each other over the corn 
flakes, He didn't try to look down my 
blouse when he said hello. He was just 
friendly. I could tell he wasn't the type to 
try to jump me in the parking lot 


фы. ouo 


ROBERTA VASQUEZ 
NOVEMBER 1984 


Dor bother me in a restaurant when 
I'm with my friends and I have a mouthful 
of food. I hate that. A club is all right, 
because it has a 
built-in social 
atmosphere 
and I'm 
feeling any 
pressure there. 
If someone 
comes up to me 
in a club and I 
don't want to 
talk to him, I 
can get lost in 
the crowd. Or 
I can say, 
“Thanks but no thanks,” and drift off. If 1 
do want to talk, I can stop for a while. The 
grocery store's no good. Usually I've got 
my sweats on and have pulled my hair 
back in a ponytail. Nobody would want to 
talk to me when I looked like that. 


: ^w dit 


KIMBERLY MCARTHUR 
JANUARY 1982 


not 


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


49 


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THE PLAYBOY FORUM 


a continuing dialog on contemporary issues between playboy and its readers 


MOTHER WATCHERS 

Although Timothy R. Higgins has some 
good ideas (“Mandatory Motherhood,” 
The Playboy Forum, May), I don’t think he 
goes far enough. 

If the U.S, were to make it a law that 
every female should have intercourse with 
as many males as possible to ensure that 
every possible child be born, the U.S, 
should also pass a law protecting those 
children. So I propose a second law to go 
along with the one that he proposes: 
Require every female to go in for monthly 
pregnancy tests. That way, if one does 
become pregnant, it will be in the record 
and any attempt to stop that child from 
being born would then be murder. In fact, 
a lawyer should be assigned to the unborn 
infant the minute it is discovered, to pro- 
tect its rights—and a second person to 
watch the mother’s diet, making sure she 
stays away from junk food and doesn’t 
smoke, drink or use drugs. 

Such laws would have many side bene- 
fits. Imagine all the jobs that would be 
created by monthly testing, not to mention 
all the lawyers and mother watchers who 
would be required. That should drop the 
unemployment rate and decrease welfare, 
which would go a long way (along with 
increased revenue) to decreasing the 
national deficit. Then President Reagan 
can cut our taxes even more. 

Anthony Caggiano 
Rochester, New York 


An excellent letter, Higgins, but for pro- 
lifers to really move forward with a loud 
bang-bang, their noise should be heard in 
Africa and China. I submit the following 
addition to the subject 

In Africa, they have the right idea, and 
we should follow their example of freedom 
of life in bed, or on the couch, or in the 
kitchen. The natives now know that when 
they get too carried away, pro-lifers 
set up more relief organizations, thus put- 
ting thousands of unemployed adults to 
work producing computerized letters and 
licking stamps. However, they should con- 
sider a United Way type of fund just for 
Africa. This way, all begs could be put in 
‘one ask it. 

The smart politicians in China should 
consult Jerry Falwell at once about their 
population-control program. He'll smile 
and tell them that pro-lifers in the U.S. are 
making rules for all nations of the world 
now and that a control program is illegal. 
He will also explain that his way is not 
only best but a whole lot more fun, and 
when food/clothing/shelter become a 


problem, not to worry, because U.S. pro- 
lifers will simply start lots of urgent fund 
drives, with national TV spots. 

Citizens of China and Africa should rec- 
ognize the rights of human sperm and eggs 
by showing proper concern and respect. 

Dallas Croom 
Asheboro, North Carolina 

We must report a generally negative reader 
response to Higgins’ proposal that women be 
compelled by law to have sexual intercourse 
constantly on the ground that failure to do so 
would be denying life to the unborn. 


"The natives now know that 
when they get too carried 
away, pro-lifers will set up 
more relief organizations." 


DADDY TAX 

As you may know, one of the 1984 tax- 
reform changes takes effect in 1985. 

Beginning in 1985, the income-tax 
exemption for a child of divorced parents 
will automatically go to the custodial par- 
ent. The only exceptions occur if either the 
exemption was specifically given to a 
noncustodial parent in a court order effec- 
tive prior to December 31, 1984, or the 
custodial parent signs a waiver for the 
exemption. 

There has been very little publicity 


regarding this change and its ramifica- 
tions. No one knows what attitude insur- 
ance companies will take regarding 
medical coverage for these children, who 
will no longer be dependents of the 
noncustodial parent. If affected peo- 
ple don’t learn about this law until tax 
time next year, they may wind up owing 
the Government quite a bit of money. 

I feel that this law is very unjust and am 
trying, through Fathers for Equal Rights, 
to see it overturned. 

I hope you inform your readers about 
this change. The more publicity it re- 
ceives, the more likely it is that something 
can be done to correct the inequities of 
the law. 

Bill Coleman 
Westland, Michigan 


LIBERAL BIAS 

In reading a recent Playboy Forum, I 
became more convinced than ever of the 
truth of the aphorism "Freedom of the 
press belongs to him who owns one." Does 
PLAYBOY have an editorial policy favoring 
liberal letters, vaguely balanced by a few 
semicoherent letters from Neanderthal 


The First Amendment provides for free- 
dom of speech in clear and unequivocal 
language—the freer, the better. While you 
are under no equal-time requirements, a 
journal purporting to present political and 
social analysis does itself harm to the 
extent it precludes, a priori, entire seg- 
ments of opinions. This is not true, of 
course, if you are a journal of propaganda 
and not of rational debate. 

Ralph W. Anderson 
Seattle, Washington 

Why is it that when we do get a thoughtful, 
articulate, well-written letter of disagree- 
ment, it has to weigh in at more than 800 
words? Here we can excerpt Anderson's com- 
ments on one issue that bothers us, too, and 
can respond only that the preponderance of 
“liberal” letters in “The Playboy Forum” 
probably reflects the fact that our readers tend 
to be liberal on social issues. Sometimes we 
even hold a letter that supports our editorial 
position on some subject in the hope that we 
will receive others disputing it. Be assured 
that we consider letters from dissenters, when 
we hear from them (and when they are not too 
long-winded), the best way to keep the 
“Forum” interesting. 


MORE OR LESS 
In his letter in the April Playboy Forum 
attempting to show that conservatives seek 


51 


PLAYBOY 


52 


more rather than less Government regula- 
tion, George Maeda proceeds from false 
assumptions. Even if we accept his agenda 
(one selected to prove his point), his prop- 
osition fails; Maeda confuses regulation 
with prohibitions. Conservatives don't 
want abortion, prostitution and marijuana 
regulated; they want them outlawed. 
Would he say that the state “regulates” 
armed robbery? 

Maeda also contends that conservatives 
seek more regulation of adult entertain- 
ment, while liberals seek less. Here his 
lack of precision renders this view almost 
meaningless. I have no objection to men's 
magazines, but Jerry Falwell and many 
members of some feminist organizations 
may, Which is the conservative and which 
is the liberal? 

Contrary to Maeda’s concluding state- 
ment, one need not be a simpleton nor a 
libertarian to adhere to a general principle 
of Government noninvolvement; one need 
only hold the well-founded and abun- 
dantly proved view that Government reg- 
ulation more often than not results in 
expensive mismanagement and waste. 

Clayton Le Sage 
New Berlin, Wisconsin 


BELTS OR BAGS 
I see that the safety Nazis’ latest ploy to 
save us all is laws requiring the use of seat 
belts in cars. Even as a regular belt user, 1 
resent this sort of creeping Big Brotherism. 
If I want to take my chances, that should 
be my right. 
Ham Mederer 
Carbondale, Illinois 


New Jersey was the second state in the 
nation to pass a mandatory-seat-belt-use 
law, which took effect on March first, and 
Illinois is wrestling with one now. As a 
writer to the trade, who therefore must 
remain anonymous, I suggest that your 
readers inform themselves on the politics 
of this issue, which are not what they 
seem. 

New Jersey's legislators went out of 
their way to make that state’s law weak 
and essentially unenforceable. They lim- 
ited the fine to $20 (below the $25 mini- 
mum specified by the U.S. Department of 
Transportation) and added that motorists 
could not be stopped for noncompliance. 
The only way you can be ticketed for not 
using belts is by being pulled over for some 
other offense. 

The legislators purposely weakened this 
law, I understand, at the urging of lobby- 
ists from certain insurance companies and 
safety organizations. Why? Because they 
didn’t want to let auto makers weasel out 
of the Federal passive-restraint rule requir- 
ing air bags or automatic belts in all cars 
by 1989. 

Apparently, these insurance companies 
and safety advocates are so concerned 
about the public’s safety that they’re will- 
ing to sacrifice thousands of citizens 


(whom a stronger belt law might save) in 
the short term in order to prove that belt 
laws won't work. That way, they figure, 
they'll get mandatory air bags in the long 
run. 

As a former auto engineer, I know for a 
fact that air bags are not the simple, inex- 
pensive, foolproof safety panacea that 
their champions would have us believe 
they are. Without buckled belts, in fact, 
they're not very effective in the most dan- 
gerous types of accidents. 

It should be understood that the 
optional air bag (like those offered by 
Mercedes-Benz) would provide additional 
protection over and above that afforded by 
standard three-point belts. But we are cur- 
rently witnessing a conspiracy to trade the 
very effective and well-proved belts for a 
complex, expensive and probably less 
effective system that will be mandated on 
the failure of belt-use laws. 


BUCKLING UNDER 


Three of the letters on this page raise 
interesting points concerning seat belts 
and air bags, but anything mandatory, 
like anything forbidden, always gives us 
pause. Seat-belt-use laws are no excep- 
tion. Certainly, the use of belts would save 
thousands of lives and prevent thousands 
of serious injuries, but whether or not the 
government should require them as a 
matter of law is a question that poses prob- 
lems for a magazine that espouses libertar- 
ian principles. You can bet that we took 
this problem straight to Doctor Naismith, 
our consulting philosopher, who writes 
as follows: 

If your reader is correct and the 
mandatory-seat-belt laws are, in fact, 
calculated to fail so that we end up with 
mandatory air bags anyhow, we have 
governmental coercion either way you 
look at it, This lets us invoke what I 
call the Doctrine of Lesser Evils, mean- 
ing we go with the seat-belt laws and 
just make sure they're enforceable. 

If you think about it, air bags are 
bullshit: They afford only an instant's 
protection in only a front-end col- 
lision—and one that may go on hap- 
pening long after the air bag has sagged 
like an old man’s scrotum. They could 
turn little rear-enders into big stack- 
ups, as any freeway driver might guess; 
and they would reduce seat-belt use 
even more. 

Those safety boys probably wouldn't 
have come up with air bags in the first 
place if brick-wall crashes hadn't been 
so easy to photograph and do calcula- 
tions on. Tell “em to use some common 
sense and come back when their bags 
can protect people in tail-gaters, side- 
ons, roll-overs and the combinations of 
those that make up most bad wrecks. 


I suggest that PLAYBOY readers find out 
where their insurance companies stand on 
air bags and how much of their premium 
money is being spent for lobbying to defeat 
effective belt laws. Then let them place 
their future policies accordingly. 

(Name withheld by request) 
Belle Mead, New Jersey 


As I’m sure many PLAYBOY readers have 
noticed, the personal rights of freethink- 
ing, self-determining individuals have 
been under increasing assault by the Rev- 
erend Ronald Reagan and his omniscient 
supporters. It's wonderful how they're get- 
ting Big Government off the people’s 
backs. One recent case in point is their 
call—blackmail—for mandatory state 
seat-belt laws. As they so righteously point 
out, if you, in a burst of negligent hedon- 
ism, fail to buckle up before smashing into 
something, it is society that subsidizes 
your needless and excessive medical ex- 
penses by way of the miracle of insurance. 

This rationale lends itself handily to 
a variety of related social issues. For 
instance, why does the government let citi- 
zens build houses on fragile coastal sites 
when the inlanders will be paying for the 
reconstruction after mother nature inevita- 
bly wipes them out? Why let consenting 
adults consume alcohol and Federally sub- 
sidized tobacco when medical science tells 
us they are health- and life-threatening 
toxins? How many needless medical bills 
can be linked to their use? And mandatory 
motorcycle helmets? Irrelevant: The mere 
act of riding a motorcycle substantially 
increases one's risk of injury. For society's 
sake, take the motorcycles offthe road! Man- 
datory helmets in automobiles would prob- 
ably save even more insurance dollars. 

Statistics also indicate that obesity 
impairs health and reduces our life span. 
When will Congress wake up and legislate 
diets for the portly so the thin are not 
financially penalized? Food confiscated 
from the overweight could be sent abroad 
to prolong lives instead of shortening 
them, And what about sun tanning? Solar 
radiation causes irreversible, carcinogenic 
damage to the skin. Why should the pale 
help pay down the road so sun worshipers 
can look healthy now? I could go on, but 
it's high time these critical issues were 
summarily regulated by our duly elected 
pscudo representatives. We armchair phi- 
losophers have plenty of other matters to 
worry about. 

Steven Cothrel 
Wooster, Ohio 

At the same time, we hate to see people put 
through the inconvenience of a windshield. 
Check out the box at left. 


HIGHWAY ROBBERY 

In response to the letter “Nukes on 
Wheels” (The Playboy Forum, March), I 
have to ask the author: How many poten- 
tial terrorists are driving those same high- 
ways with you? If these trucks are marked 


FORUM NEWSFRONT 


what's happening in the sexual and social arenas 


YOUNG LOVE 
MIAMI BEACH—Local police and state 
prosecutors are blaming one another for 
overreacting in the arrests of a 12-year- 
old boy and his ten-year-old girlfriend for 
going home after school and having sex 
with each other. The flap started when the 


girl confessed to her interrogative mother 
that the hickey on her neck had been 
incurred during lovemaking at the boy's 
home. He was picked up and charged with 
sexual battery and she with lewd and las- 
civious behavior, That consensual sex 
between the two grade-schoolers would 
result in serious criminal charges threw 
the community into an uproar and even- 


tually led to dismissal of the cases. 


NOT HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER 

BALLINGER, TEXAS—A state district 
judge has denied a prisoner's request for a 
court order forbidding the man's wife to 
have sex with anyone else, especially his 
brother, while he serves his seven-year 
term for burglary. Explaining that 
the legislature had not given him a 
large enough staff to police the behavior of 
the wife and the brother, who the in- 
mate claimed were living together, the 
judge said such an order would be 
unenforceable. 


DAMAGED GOODS 

BRADENTON, FLORIDA— Lawyers for both 
sides have settled for an undisclosed 
amount in a suit alleging that the plain- 
tiff's girlfriend bit off part of his tongue, 
chewed it, “laughed at him and said that 
no other woman would now want him but 
the defendant.” Court records quote her as 
saying that she and her boyfriend, a 
38-year-old building contractor, were 
“engaged in mutual combat with respect 


to our tongues” and that he had "purpose- 
fully placed his tongue” in her mouth and 
therefore “assumed risk,” a legal point 
that now remains undecided in the 
absence of a trial. 


LOCKED IN THE CLOSET 

WASHINGTON, DC—By a vole of six to 
two, the U.S. Supreme Court has rejected 
the appeal of a Yellow Springs, Ohio, high 
school vocational-guidance counselor who 
was fired after revealing to colleagues that 
she was bisexual. The decision let stand an 
appellate ruling that acknowledgment of 
an unpopular sexual preference can be 
used as basis for dismissal without violat- 
ing a person's constitutional rights to 
equal protection and free speech. 


TENDER TRAP 

LEXINGTON, KENTUCKY—The Fayette 
County prosecutor has refused to press 
charges against Lexington police for the 
dubious tactic of using a 14-year-old boy 
as a decoy in a crackdown on street prosti- 
tution. Investigators reportedly listened as 
the youngster performed oral sex on an 
attorney and later used the tapes to con- 
vict the man of sodomy and of having 
“unlawful transactions” with a minor, 
Responding to criticism of the police, the 
prosecutor insisted that undercover offi- 
cers had committed no crime and that “as 
far as I'm concerned, the matter is 
closed.” 


PROBATION VIOLATION 

DADE CITY, FLORIDA—A 22-year-old 
woman has been sentenced to three years 
in prison for defying a circuit-court 
judge's order not to have any more chil- 
dren for 15 years after her son died of 
neglect. She had received probation after 
pleading guilty to murder and child abuse 
in that case in 1982 and was found to 
have violated the terms of her probation by 
moving out of state to bear another child 
in 1983. 


NEW RAPE TEST 
Three medical researchers at the Uni- 
versity of California report the develop- 
ment of a new and more accurate test to 
verify the presence of semen and therefore 
the occurrence of sexual intercourse in 
cases where rape is alleged. Writing in 
The New England Journal of Medicine, 
Dr. Howard Graves of the university's 
School of Public Health says that he and 
two colleagues have found a protein 
called p30 that is unique to semen and 
therefore reduces the number of false- 
negative or inconclusive results that occur 

with present testing methods. 


SEX IN THE DARK 

American teenagers become pregnant, 
give birth and have abortions much more 
often than do adolescents in other indus- 
trialized countries, according to a study 
released by The Alan Guttmacher Insti- 
tute and reported in its journal, Family 
Planning Perspectives. The authors of 
the study found that the lowest rates of 
teenage pregnancy were in countries that 
had liberal attitudes toward sex but easily 
accessible contraceptive services and com- 
prehensive programs in sex education, 


DELAYED REACTION 

MiAMI—Police are looking for a 
woman who shot her husband in 1959, 
causing him to die 26 years later. At the 
time of the shooting, the man underwent 
surgery that saved his life, and he declined 
to press charges against his wife, from 
whom he was later divorced. Now the 
Dade County chief deputy medical exam- 
iner has declared that his death, in 1985, 
was caused by scar tissue from the opera- 
tion and that “this type of complication is 
a reasonable and foreseeable consequence 
of gunshot wounds in the abdomen.” 
Authorities said that prosecution of the 
woman was not likely at this late date but 
that the case could not be closed without 
their going through a few formalities. 


SHE WHO LAUGHS LAST 

ALTON, ILLINOIS—A woman who died in 
1983 bequeathed her dresses and accesso- 
ries, but nothing else from her $82,000 
estate, to her transvestite ex-husband. The 


woman's attorney said that the rest of the 
estate went to her children and grandchil- 
dren and that the clothing bequest was her 
“last laugh.” 


PLAYBOY 


54 


to show that they contain radioactive 
material, what’s to stop some crazy bas- 
tards from using the helpful information 
from Nukewatch to organize an ambush 
on an overpass and blow the hell out of 
one of them? 

I agree that this is a very delicate situa- 
tion, but let's face reality: This is the 
nuclear age, and this material will be 
shipped. Is it not safer to have these vehi- 
cles unmarked than to put a bull's-eye on 
them? 

Considering the amount being shipped, 
I believe the Department of Energy has 
done everything possible to eliminate 
human error. 1-85 is still intact, even 


I have not been to the Black Wall in 
Washington, but I am told, by articles 
and photographs, that there are sizable 
contingents of men who lurk and liter- 
ally live there at the monument. I have 
seen pictures of them in worn fatigues, 
touching the wall, leaning into it as 
though somewhere in their fingers they 
might bring the life back to a name 
blasted into the 
rock. Apparently, 
there are flowers 
left continuously, 
men sitting under 
the stars, through 
wind and rain, 
seemingly lost in 
the silence created 
by this black V in 
the earth. 


For some un- 
known but com- 
pelling reason, the 
V sticks in my 
mind like ап 
arrow. I am drawn 


to it and repelled 
at the same time. I 
remember in the Fifties, I stood at the 
Marine Corps War Memorial, even 
had a large postcard of it in my room. I 
thought then that the country meant 
what I saw in the muscles of those men 
trying to shove the colors into the sky. 

Tonight, at the V, I am certain men 
sit or mill around. Some touch the wall, 
speaking in low tones, and if the 
strength of pure emotion could bring 
men back from the dead, they soon 
would all be standing there, by the 
thousands, funneling into the wide 
mouth of the V at the first light of 
morning. 

But all that is a dream. Men don't 
come back from the dead. I know there 
are names on the wall I would 
recognize—boys who were late for 
class or who carried frogs to school, 


though a couple of shipments passed over 
it just last year. 

If you or Nukewatch has a better way to 
get this material from here to there, Pm 
sure the Department of Energy would be 
happy to listen. 

Supply new ideas, not nightmares. 

Jim Perkins 
arlotte, North Carolina 


PRAYER IN SCHOOL 
I was surprised and delighted to se 
letter ("Prayers and Pagans”) in the April 
Forum addressing not only mandatory 
school prayer but also paganism 
Lam both the father of a beautiful four- 


THE BLACK WALL 


By Michael Delp 


football players, poor kids who didn't 
have the money to slip into college, 
boys who made a choice for their coun- 
try. No, Lam not moved by guilt but by 
the wish, though that is not a strong 
enough word, that all of us might carry 
the image of the wall in our heads and 
do honor to the dead each day by seck- 
ing out the very peace that rests in each 
one of us. What the 
dark V must remind 
us of cach day is 
that the posturings 
of Presidents 
swing the national 
fist into the belly of 
virtually any small 
country—inviting 


can 


one more Black 
Wall 
I am reminded 


now that they fought 
for peace and that 
Benjamin Franklin 
once wrote that 
“there never was a 
good war or a bad 
peace” and that 
right now, we are sending arms and 
men all over the world in the name of 
peace and that our President wants to 
move war into the heavens and it all is 
moving closer. So I sense the feeling of 
a man who sits alone at night, huddled 
into the intersection of two long black 
pieces of stone, and how he must dream 
to the roar of some 50,000 men speak- 
ing from the grave, each voice distinct, 
a brother, son, father. 


And I am reminded that the V 
moves down into the earth or rises from 
it, depending on how you look at it. 


Michael Delp is director of creative 
writing at the Interlochen Arts Academy 
in Michigan. The illustration is a poster 
designed by Sidney Smith and available 
from The Idea Factory, Alexandria, Vir- 
ginia 22305. 


year-old daughter and a pagan priest. As a 
priest, I have studied the medieval witch- 
hunts, and it is scary to see how much they 
resemble the tactics of the New Right. The 
issue of mandatory school prayer in a 
country whose Constitution. guarantees 
freedom of religion must be very much like 
what our pagan forebears faced as the gen- 
try to whom they had sworn their fealty 
insisted that they accept Christianity, 
eventually killing those who would not 
comply, all in Christ’s name. 

My one consolation is that it's not just 
us this time, or even the Buddhists, Hin- 
dus and other religious people who aren’t 
thrilled with the idea of their children's 
being forced to pray to a God they don't 
believe in. 


I read recently that a Moral 
Majority leader, the Reverend Dr. Bailey 


Smith, stated, “God Almighty does not 
hear the prayer of a Jew." A mighty man, 
the Reverend Smith, to know what God 
Almighty hears. 

That the Moral Majority is neither, and 
that we of the nonmoral rest of the world 
might have effectively opposed such issue: 
as mandatory school prayer, may someday 
become as moot a point as religious free- 
dom was for the 9,000,000 who died at the 
hands of Christ’s medieval representatives. 

(Name withheld by request) 
Staten Island, New York 


I became appalled after reading “Pray- 
ers and Pagans” in the April Playboy 
Forum. The letter writer is an ideal exam- 
ple of a double-minded person, at one 
point disclaiming any intention of criticiz 
ing the Christian faith, yet by the end o 
the letter condemning the faith by suggest- 
ing that Christians keep to themselves. 

One of the foremost reasons behind the 
Administration’s pushing for prayer in 
school is to prevent alienation from our 
Creators Word. Alienation from God 
inevitably will lead to more shallow- 
minded, selfish attitudes such as those pre- 
sented to us by the pagan. We definitely 
need prayers back in the classroom! 

Markus D'Angelo 
Sacramento, California 

Or, judging by your letter, Logic 101 in 

our churches 


AIDS AND JUSTICE 

On a recent telecast of The 700 Club, 
Pat Robertson gleefully announced that 
100 percent of all male homosexuals in 
America will have contracted AIDS by 
1987 and will be dead by 1990. Also on 
the show was a phony psychologist who 
denounced male homosexuals as evil, bad 
and nasty perverts; he went on to state 
that any male homosexual who contracts 
AIDS must be made to feel a terrible 
amount of fear, guilt and shame. 

Out of what filthy hole do these bigots 
crawl? A few years ago, a handful of rich, 
white heterosexuals contracted a mys- 
terious disease and died at a hotel in 


Philadelphia. Immediately, a crash pro- 
gram was begun, giving top priority to 
finding the cause of, and the cure for, 
Legionnaires’ disease within a very short 
time. 

But AIDS, first detected in 1978, has 
killed thousands of men, women and chil- 
dren. Yet, because it was first noticed in 
gay males, this mysterious disease has 
been ignored. Sure, a few drug companies 
are looking at it, but there is no real 
effort—most certainly not the kind of 
crash program, given top priority, that we 
need—to find the cause or the cure. So 
thousands of men, women and children — 
regardless of their sexual orientation— 
continue to contract AIDS and continue to 
die, Don’t they deserve our help, rather 
than shame and guilt? 

Henry H. Smith 
Mexico, Missouri 

We've never thought that guilt and shame 
were good prescriptions for any disease, be it 
AIDS, herpes or the common cold. But don't 
be too hard on those preachers who confuse 
medicine and moralizing—after all, they're 
not well people. 


SMART 15 DUMB? 

As the controversy continues over 
whether or not to ban beer and wine com- 
mercials from radio and TV, it seems to 
me that this is one of the rare circum- 
stances where liberals and conservatives 
agree: A merchant selling a legal product 
should have the right to advertise that 
product. Both sides disagree with SMART 
(Stop Marketing Alcohol on Radio and 
Television), which favors a ban of all such 
commercials. 

But if we ban alcohol advertisements, 
why not ban commercials for cars? After 
all, when driven recklessly, they are a 
menace to society. If we lay the blame on 
the alcohol industry, why not also lay it at 
the doorstep of the people who manufac- 
ture and advertise automobiles? 

Not only is such an idea unfair, it won't 
work. The fact is that sales of cigarettes, 
cocaine and marijuana flourish in this 
country even though those substances are 
not advertised on radio and TV. 

I'm glad that both sides agree that tak- 
ing any commercials off the air threatens 
our basic freedoms, freedoms that built 
this country. 


Wilma Jean Goettel 
Las Vegas, Nevada 


Part of the new ad hoc Prohibition, 
which often goes under the guise of anti- 
drunk-driving campaigns, is to restrict not 
the sale of alcohol but the merchandising 
of it, as befits the age of advertising. In 
Texas, as in some other states, it is now 
illegal for bars to sell two-for-one drinks 
during happy hour or any other hour. The 
theory is that getting two drinks for the 
price of a single encourages people to sit 
around and get drunk before the ice 
melts. 

Maybe, but bars are still free to mix 


doubles (and, presumably, triples) for the 
price of singles or to get around the 
Unhappy Hour Rule in various other 
ways. People don’t drink because they get 
cheaper drinks; they drink because they 


PAY AS YOU PLAY 


WASHINGTON, D.C—April 1, 1987—In 
an early-morning Rose Garden news 
conference, President Reagan and 
Defense Secretary Caspar W. 
Weinberger today announced the sale 
to Home Box Office, Inc., ofall present 
and future rights to broadcast footage 
of the so-called Star Wars space-based 
defense systems. 

The contract grants HBO exclusive 
permission to broadcast missile-killer- 
test footage and, in the event of war, 
actual combat footage relayed from the 
front lines by noncombatant TV satel- 
lites. In return, HBO will contribute to 
the Defense Department 49 percent of 
all Star Wars subscriber revenue, 
which Pentagon officials estimate 
could run as high as $87 billion the 
first year. “At last we have an oppor- 
tunity to implement a completely self- 
financing military program, and have 
a little fun while we're at it,” rejoiced a 
high-ranking member of the Reagan 
Administration. 

As he signed the historic document, 
President Reagan said, “This union of 
a strong American defense with the 
entrepreneurial spirit of the private 
sector represents the fulfillment of our 
free-market principles. What's good 
for HBO is good for America.” 

Defense Secretary Weinbergeradded, 
“We need bigger weapons, better weap- 
ons and more weapons to fuel the econ- 
omy and eliminate the national debt.” 

HBO released a statement saying, 
“The mock battles the Pentagon plans 
to test the satellite-killing lasers are 
really the ultimate video game, and we 
are investigating the possibilities of us- 
ing 1-900 numbers to let viewers par- 
ticipate from the comfort of their own 
living rooms."  —AURIE KALMANSON 


want to, and they pay whatever it costs. 
Banning two-for-ones just passes along 
higher costs to the consumer, who is 
already paying a 100-300 percent markup. 
If the ban reduces highway carnage later 
and can be proved to do so, I'll eat a jar of 
pickled onions. Two jars. 

Hud Whittenberg 

Dallas, Texas 

Bars are also free to serve half-price 

drinks, if that’s what it takes to draw custom- 
ers. We've always thought that the two-for- 
one policy took unfair advantage of the 
American bar patron's reluctance to waste 
liquor when there are millions of people in 
the world sober. 


GIVE THE BOY ANA 

As a second-year law student at Boston 
College, I have taken a class in communi- 
cations law. The task of writing a major 
thesis exploring the subjects of obscenity 
and sexism fell to me in the early days of 
this semester. A copy of that essay is 
enclosed for several reasons, upon which I 
will elucidate at this time. 

1. I know that you will enjoy the work so 
much that you will want to commence se- 
rialization and publication immediately 
upon issuing a sizable check to the humble 
author, To that end, I have already 
shopped around for a suitable bike on 
which to further demonstrate sheer confi- 
dence by pulling wheelies at 85 mph inside 
video arcades (see Gary A. Taubes’ The 
Fine Art of Cocksurety, PLAYBOY, February). 

2. I must orally present this material in 
class, and I am confident that you will 
want to respond to it in print or by mail. 

3. I defended, justified and quoted from 
PLAYBOY and included three PLAYBOY articles 
in an appendix (my gratitude for the bene- 
fit of your wisdom may be assumed). 

4. I boldly intimated that Hugh Hefner 
may actually be furthering the continued 
existence of our species through the dedi- 
cated publication of his magazine and 
other works, and I know he will want to 
avail himself of the infallible logic upon 
which that conclusion is based (see my 
interpretation of Desmond Morris’ views 
as espoused in The Naked Ape). 

5. PLAYBOY' Legal Department will 
likely want to use several of the original 
insights and interpretations developed in 
the essay. 

At the very least, I feel sure that you will 
find a few chuckles and te-hees and at least 
one guffaw amid the otherwise serious 
legal analysis and will want to demon- 
strate your appreciation in the form of a 
complimentary renewal of my sub- 
scription, which recently lapsed owing to 
the severe financial burdens of a legal 
education compounded by an inability to 
solicit adequate funds from various 
financial-aid sources or to attain gainful 
employment (read: broke and lazy). 

Kerry Barnsley 
Boston, Massachusetts 

We probably will not commence serializa- 
tion immediately, so you'd better hold off on 
the bike; and while we can't give you a free 
subscription without setting a troublesome 
precedent, we can certainly give you an A for 
content, style and research. Maybe it will be 
reward enough that you are the first scholar! 
writer to have his covering letter published 
and his fine paper regrettably rejected (for 
length and the usual complicated editorial 
reasons) in “The Playboy Forum.” 


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


THE IMPORTED VODKA 
WITHOUT THE IMPORTED PRICE 


99 


has mouthfeel? 


“Mouthfeel” is a deli- What it doesn’t have is an 
cious sensation that fills = imported price. It costs 
the mouth with a smooth, EZ about the same as the lead- 
rich, velvety texture. (One Z^ ing domestic. So say good- 
sip and you'll know what bye to your domestic vodka 
we mean by *mouthfeel.") and move up to the import 


Seagram’s Imported Vodka has it. without the imported price. 


Seagram's = 


PLAYBOY INTERVIEW: F | D EL CASTRO 


a candid conversation about reagan, revolution, dictators, drugs, debt and 
personal life with cuba’s communist leader—and washington’s nemesis 


Few world leaders, living or dead, have 
occupied history's center stage as long as 
Fidel Castro, the Cuban caudillo, whose 
words and deeds have irritated or enraged 
seven American Presidents and whose Revo- 
lution, in 1959, electrified the world, The 
political history of the years since is well 
known, so we thought we'd use this space to 
tell you just how this extraordinary “Inter- 
view" came about. 

For the past two decades, with rare excep- 
tions, the 58-year-old Castro has kept the 
press at arm's length. (One exception was 
PLAYBOY'S own first “Interview” with him, in 
1967, in which he discussed the early days of 
the Revolution and the 1962 missile crisis.) 
But times change, and Castro clearly believes 
that the time has come to launch a new dialog 
with the American public. And herein lies the 
rub; Although Castro's talkativeness is leg- 
endary, after sifting through the transcripts 
of the most extensive interview Castro has 
granted, it is difficult to imagine anyone 
engaging in a true back-and-forth dialog 
with him. It isn't that he doesn't listen to other 
viewpoints—he does and, though dogmatic 
about his political beliefs, he seems genuinely 
curious about everything—but that his 
answers are long and repetitive, complicating 
the usual process of editing the spoken word 
for the printed page. Those film clips of his 


rars ago, the worst things were said 
in the U.S. about China, Now even Reagan 
has visited the Great Wall. Why? Now there 
are two types of Communists—the good and 
the bad, We are the bad Communists.” 


five-hour speeches to stadiums full of people 
are not exaggerated: Even in a less formal 
interview setting, answers are ten, 15, 20 
minutes long, and follow-ups become aca- 
demic. He waves away interruptions as his 
answers pile on one another. So we want to 
let our readers know that even though this 
"Interview" with Castro may well be the most 
faithfully rendered ever, it has undergone 
extensive cutting as well as interruptions to 
break up the text. 

The questioners themselves are an unusual 
team, since the interviews were conducted by 
free-lance writer and political-science profes- 
sor Dr. Jeffrey M. Elliot and U.S, Representa- 
tive Mervyn M. Dymally (who also holds a 
Ph.D.), a member of the House Committee on 
Foreign Affairs and the president of the 
Caribbean-American Research Institute. 
Because of these credentials, and because of 
the tradition of PLAYBOY'S “Interviews,” Cas- 
tro sat for what he called the longest and most 
far-reaching interview ever with a North 
American journalist, Ten days after Elliot 
and Dymally returned, Kirby Jones, an expert 
on Cuba and a co-author of a 1975 book on 
Castro published by Playboy Press, raised sev- 
eral additional topics with the Cuban leader 
that were incorporated into the “ 
Jones was in Havana to assist with the film- 
ing of a documentary for Public Broadcast- 


interview.” 


“When Cortes and Pizarro and the conquis- 
tadors reached this continent, they treated the 
Indians in the same manner that the U.S 
treats Latin America—including bartering 
trinkets for gold. I notice it, I feel it.” 


ing CorporationWNET, produced by Carol 
Polakoff and Suzanne Bauman and directed 
by Jim Burroughs, to be aired on PBS this 
fall. 

The intense interest that Castro took in the 
PLAYBOY project may be unusual in scope, but 
reporters agree that he is no less committed 
when he engages in other enterprises, bring- 
ing his considerable charm and energy to 
bear on anything he gets caught up in. This is 
part of the enigma of the man, of course: The 
leader who can passionately talk about his 
Marxist beliefs, scathingly criticize U.S, soci- 
ety and rationalize away Soviet aggression 
can also admit, as he does in this " 
that he missed the funeral of Soviet leader 
Chernenko because—in so many words—he 
had pulled two all-nighters in a row. 

All-night sessions were also on the minds of 
Dr. Elliot and Representative Dymally upon 
their return to the U.S., when they filed this 
report: 

"Few interviews could have been as bumpy 
in the making as our eight-day marathon with 
Fidel Castro, It's no wonder that a Sixties 
documentary about a film crew's frustration 
over a promised-but-not-delivered interview 
with him was titled ‘Waiting for Fidel.’ Cas- 
tro's acquiescence lo our request for an inter- 
view was preceded by two earlier meetings with 
Dymally. In June 1984, Dymally accompanied 


interview,” 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY GIANFRANCO GORGONI 


“The Reagan Administration wants to exter- 
minate every last revolutionary. It's as if they 
want to teach an unforgettable lesson so that 
no one else in Central or Latin America will 
ever again think of rebelling." 


57 


PLAYBOY 


the Reverend Jesse Jackson—then a presiden- 
tial candidate—to Cuba. As a result of his 
meeting with them, Castro offered to release 
27 Cuban political prisoners and 22 Ameri- 
cans who had been arrested for illegally cross- 
ing into Cuban waters or for engaging in 
drug trafficking. In December 1984, 
Dymally again traveled to Cuba, that time on 
a humanitarian mission on behalf of two 
constituents in order to help reunite their 
families. It was on that trip that Dymally pro- 
posed an in-depth interview, to which Castro 
agreed, Dymally then proposed a March 21 
date, to which Castro also agreed. 

“That was the last simple thing that hap- 
pened. On the appointed day, Elliot, 
Dymally, technician Kenneth Orduna (the 
Congressman's chief of staff) and photogra- 
pher Gianfranco Gorgoni met in Miami and 
flew to Havana in a twin-engine Cessna. 

“Upon landing, we were met by two 
guards, protocol officer Armando Amieba 
and Alfredo Ramirez, the minister of exterior 
relations. We were offered lime daiquiris 
while our papers were processed. We had been 
instructed by Cuban officials not to arrive 
prior to 10:30 хм. After that, we assumed 
that we would go directly to the Presidential 
Palace for the interview. Our plan was to 
spend three days in Cuba. 

“Upon arriving at the hotel, we were told 
to wait in our suite and that we would receive 
a call when the president was ready. We 
assumed, with wondrous optimism, that 
we would receive an early call and then begin 
the interview. Ten hours later, sitting in our 
hotel rooms, we had yet to receive the call. We 
finally were told that the interview would 
begin the next day. Here is a kind of journal 
of what happened next: 

“Saturday. We awaken at seven AM, 
expecting an early call. After all, we're sched- 
uled to leave Havana on Sunday evening. 
We hover again by the telephone, waiting 
anxiously for the call, Afraid to leave the 
hotel, for fear we'll miss the call. At 11 AM, 
Amieba informs us that the session will not 
begin until after one вм. and that they have 
scheduled a tour of old Havana. After sight- 
seeing in the company of Havana mayor 
Oscar Fernandez Mell—a comrade and close 
friend of Ché Guevara's—we eagerly return 
to the hotel in anticipation of the call. Again, 
we шай. At seven vw, Ramirez appears. He 
informs us that the president will see us later 
that evening but not for the interview: It will 
be a get-acquainted session. Ramirez says a 
driver will come for us at eight ex. We're 
skeptical and start a betting pool as to what 
hour the driver will actually arrive. The tele- 
phone rings at 11 рм. Castro is ready! 

"We are sped to the Presidential Palace. As 
we enter, we are met by an armed guard. He 
stops us and clears us for entry. The door 
opens and there is Fidel Castro. 

"He is a tall man, lean and fit, dressed in 
his usual military garb, boots highly polished. 
His eyes are piercing. He greets us warmly 
and asks us to be seated. Through an inter- 
preter (this session and the entire ‘Interview’ 
are conducted in Spanish), he raises a series 
of questions about the project. We respond. 


He listens attentively. Following our presen- 
tation, Castro rises, then sits and proceeds to 
lecture us for nearly an hour on the shortcom- 
ings of the media, chiding U.S. journalists by 
name for their lack of knowledge and integ- 
rity. Calming down, he asks us to explain the 
project again. We do. Half an hour later, 
Castro rises, waves his hands and tells us that 
he will do the interview—but on Sunday, the 
next day. We leave the Presidential Palace at 
four am, buoyant and confident. 

"Sunday. After a few hours’ sleep, we 
arise, eat breakfast and are met by Amieba. 
We are informed that the interview will not 
begin until late afternoon; would we like to 
explore Havana a bit more? Yes. An hour 
later, we are driven back to the hotel. We are 


After exhaustive conversations, Fidel Castro 
took a box of cigars (above) from his desk and 
inscribed it to parsor. The message reads, “To 
[Executive Editor] Barry Golson with thanks in 
advance for the publication of the interview. | 
declare amnesty for [interviewers] Dymally 
and Elliot after the pressures, tortures and 
abuses they have submitted me to these days. 
| wish success to oll of you—and for myself, 
a little peace. Fidel Castro, Havana, Cuba.“ 


told that Ramírez would like us to meet him by 
the pool. We arrive shortly before he does. 
Ramirez then tells us that the president has 
been up most of the night, that he is extremely 
tired but that he hopes to see us late in the 
afternoon or the early evening. We politely 
stress the time pressures weighing on us: For 
one thing, Dymally must be in Washington on 
Tuesday to vote on the MX missile. We return 
to our suite and begin yet another wait. The 
betting pool grows larger. Hours pass—and 
no call. We begin to worry. Dymally has to fly 
out on Tuesday morning. 

“Monday. We eat breakfast early. The food 
is becoming monotonous—we dine every day 
in one of two hotel restaurants, so we won't be 
far from our phones. We are anxious and 
nervous. We stay that way all day. This is the 
low point of the trip. At seven em, Dr. José 
Miyar (referred to as Chomy), Castro's closest 
advisor, arrives. He is accompanied by 
Ramirez and interpreter Juanita Ortega. 
They offer their apologies on behalf of the 
president, informing us that he has been 


extremely busy—that he worked through the 
morning. However, they assure us that he 
will see us later that evening—but only for 
photo session. He is too tired to do the inter- 
view. Finally, the call comes at 11 вм. and 
we are sped to the Presidential Palace, 

"We are escorted into Castro's office. He is 
talkative and begins yet another long dis- 
course, which meanders to the origin of his 
beard. He tells us that while they were in the 
Sierra Maestra Mountains, he and his com- 
rades took to growing beards because there 
was little need or time to shave, then kept 
them as practical symbols: If Batista's forces 
had tried to infiltrate, they would not have 
had time to grow beards and would have been 
spotted. Castro then calculates, to the 
minute—with pen and paper—how much 
time was saved by their not shaving. 

“The formal ‘Interview’ begins and our 
spirits are high. But after that first session, 
Dymally makes his plane trip to Washington 
and gets to cast his vote just in time—against 
the MX—and returns the next day to more 
delays. By now, the pool of one-dollar bets has 
grown to a size that would probably get us 
expelled from Cuba. 

“Thursday, The ‘Interview’ resumes, and 
this time we keep our momentum. One night, 
we tape from ten тм. until four AM, with a 
tired Castro reviving as the hours pass. 
Armed with his favorite Cuban cigar, a 
Cohiba, and a glass of Chivas Regal, he 
speaks in a precise, didactic manner, treating 
each question as if it were the only one. He 
struggles not to be misunderstood and builds 
his responses brick by brick by brick. When 
the session ends, Castro is exhausted—and 
50 are we. 

"Friday. We sleep until ten am. Although 
we have made Herculean progress, we're not 
finished. Castro wants to get to all our ques- 
tions, regardless of the time it takes. It has 
been eight days. We wait for the call. Just 11 
hours later, the phone rings. Castro is atten- 
tive, effervescent. We tape until four AM— 
another seven hours. At last, we are finished. 
Twenty-five hours on tape. We express our 
appreciation; he expresses his. As we depart, 
he extends his hand, withdraws it and tells us 
that he has thought of one additional point he 
wishes to make—so it's back to the table, 
where Castro adds an afterthought to an ear- 
lier answer. Despite the hour, he appears 
energized and poised. We are wrecks. Our 
charter flight is scheduled to leave within the 
hour. This time, we say farewell—for real— 
and return to our separate worlds,” 


PLAYBOY: People know Fidel Castro the 
public figure, but few know the man. We'll 
be taking up many issues, but let's begin, 
Mr. President, with some personal ques- 
tions. After 26 years at the center of con- 
troversy and history, what still motivates 
Fidel Castro? 

CASTRO: That's a very difficult question. 
Let me start by stating the things that do 
not motivate me: Money does not motivate 
me; material goods do not motivate me, 
Likewise, the lust for glory, fame and pres- 
tige does not motivate me. I really think 
that ideas motivate me. Ideas, convictions 


are what spur a man to struggle in the first 
place, When you are truly devoted to an 
idea, you feel more convinced and more 
committed with each passing year. I think 
that personal selflessness grows; the spirit 
of sacrifice grows; you gradually relin- 
quish personal pride, vanity . . . all those 
elements that in one way or another exist 
in all men. 

If you do not guard against those vani- 
ties, if you let yourself become conceited or 
think that you are irreplaceable or indis- 
pensable, you can become infatuated with 
all of that—the riches, the glory. I've been 
on guard against those things; maybe I 
have developed a philosophy on man’s rel- 
ative importance, on the relative value of 
individuals, the conviction that it is not the 
individual but the people who make his- 
tory, the idea that I can't lay claim to the 
merits of an entire people. A phrase by 
José Marti left in me a deep and unforget- 
table impression: “All the glory of the 
world fits into a kernel of corn.” 

PLAYBOY: Then you don't think certain 
men are destined for personal greatness? 
It's a matter of time and circumstance? 
CASTRO: Yes. Very much so. Let me give 
you some examples. If Lincoln had lived 
today, he might be a simple farmer in the 
United States, and nobody would have 
heard of him. It was the times in which 
he lived, the society in which he lived, that 
made a Lincoln possible, If George Wash- 
ington had been born 50 years after inde- 
pendence, he might have been unknown, 
and the same holds true if he had lived 50 
years earlier, Lenin, with all his extraordi- 
nary abilities, might have been an 
unknown, too, if he had been born at 
another time, 

Take my case, for example. If I hadn't 
been able to learn how to read and write, 
what role would I have played in the hi: 
tory of my country, in the Revolution? 
Where I was born, out of hundreds of kids, 
my brothers and sisters and I were the 
only ones who had a chance to study 
beyond the first few grades. How many 
more people were there, among those hun- 
dreds of kids, with the same or better qual- 
ities for doing what I did if they'd been 
given the opportunity to study? 

One of the 100 best poems in the Span- 
ish language tells of how often genius lies 
dormant in one's innermost soul, awaiting 
a voice that will call out, “Arise and 
walk!” This is true; I believe this deeply. 
This is why I believe that the qualities 
required for being a leader aren't excep- 
tional; they are to be found among the 
people. 

Why am I saying this? Because I've 
noticed, especially in the West, a great 
tendency to associate historical events 
with individuals; it’s the old theory that 
men make history. There is also a tend- 
ency in the West to see the leader of any 
Third World country as a chieftain; there's 
à certain stereotype: Leader equals chief- 
tain, From that, there is a tendency to 
magnify the role of the individual. I can 


see it myself in what you say about us: 
Castro's Cuba, Castro did this, Castro 
undid that. Almost everything in this 
country is attributed to Castro, Castro's 
goings, Castro's perversities. That type of 
mentality abounds in the West; unfortu- 
nately, it’s quite widespread. It seems to 
me to be an erroneous approach to histori- 
cal and political events. 

PLAYBOY: You may feel that the West mag- 
nifies the role of the individual, but aren't 
you under intense scrutiny here in Cuba? 
Don't you live in something of a fish 
bowl? 

CASTRO: Actually, I’m never even aware of 
it. There may be something that explains 
this: My activities are almost never re- 
ported in the press. I may be doing a lot of 
things for 15 days, yet none of it comes out 
in the papers. You may have noted that by 
and large, all countries have what's called 
a press office. Everything a leader does 
throughout the day is published in the 
papers and reported on television and 
radio. In a sense, ivory towers and fish 
bowls are built around these people. I 
haven't created a fish bowl for myself. I go 
out and visit factories, schools and the var- 
ious provinces and towns. It’s true that I 
visited them more often in the past, 
because I had more time then. But there's 
never been any protocol or welcoming cer- 
monies for me, as is customary for leaders 
in many other countries, 

Yet crowds gather where I go. How long 
is it since I last went to a restaurant? Why? 
A new Chinese restaurant has just been 
opened in old Havana, which is being 
restored. It’s small and cozy, in an old 
building. For some time now, I’ve wanted 
to go there; but if I do, it will mean eating 
while people wait to see me in the street. 
Well, these are the minor inconveniences 
of my job. I have ways of getting around 
them. If I want a rest, if I want to relax, I 
go to the sea. I go to a small cay out there 
to scuba dive. There are some marvelous 
bottoms, fish and coral reefs, and Гуе 
grown accustomed to those places. When I 
was a student, nobody ever thought of 
scuba diving in the ocean as a sport. There 
were all those stories about sharks. . . . 
PLAYBOY: Considering all the traveling you 
have done around Cuba, how would you 
describe the relationship between the peo- 
ple and Fidel Castro? 

CASTRO: I think that the people’s feeling is 
one of familiarity, confidence and respect; 
it’s a very close relationship. I think it’s a 
family relationship. The people look on me 
as a neighbor, as one more person. They 
aren't overpowered by positions, by public 
figures. No one ever calls me Castro, only 
Fidel. I believe that that familiarity is 
based, among other things, on the fact that 
we've never lied to the people. Ours has 
been an honest Revolution. The people 
know we keep our word—and not only 
Cubans in Cuba but also those in Miami; 
that is, people who don’t have any feelings 
of affection but trust our word. They have 
known ever since the Revolution that there 


will be no tricks, no betrayals or entrap- 
ments: When we told them they could 
leave from Mariel, they could—even if 
they are our worst enemies, even if they're 
terrorists. We are like the Arab of the 
desert who welcomes his enemy in his tent 
and doesn’t even look to see which direc- 
tion he takes when he leaves. Of course, 
this is based on the fact that the Revolu- 
tion never lied. Never! This is a tradition 
that dates back to the war. Throughout 
the entire war, all the information we re- 
leased on the fighting, the number of casu- 
alties, the munitions captured, was strictly 
accurate. We didn’t add one single bullet 
or rifle. Not even war justifies a lie or the 
exaggeration of a victory. This has been an 
important element in our Revolution, 
PLAYBOY: Do you have many close friends? 
Can a man in your position have friends? 
CASTRO: Well, I have many friends who are 
not Cubans, whom I've met through dif- 
ferent activities—some of them outstand- 
ing personalities: for example, doctors, 
writers, film makers, scientists, friends 
from abroad. But my friends in the Revo- 
lution are all my revolutionary comrades, 
all those who work with me, all those who 
hold important responsi is in the 
state, We have a friendly relationship. 

I don’t really have what you might call 
a circle of friends, because for me a circle 
of friends is a very broad concept. I don't 
have the habit of mecting always with the 
same group of eight or ten friends. I visit 
one friend one day, another another day; 
with some I talk more because of work 
relations—that's logical. However, I’ve 
tried to avoid—because it's not good prac- 
tice, from the viewpoint of my respon- 
sibility—cultivating just one group of 
friends I see every Sunday. 

PLAYBOY: What we were getting at is 
whether or not people feel intimidated, 
whether or not they can argue with you. 
CASTRO: As a rule, any of the comrades 
who work with me in the state or party can 
come to me in total familiarity and state 
any concern or problem he may have. In 
general, my relations with comrades are 
excellent. But since you've asked me, there 
are two or three people with whom I work 
closely who would tell you I'm a big head- 
ache to them. Comrade Chomy, who is sit- 
ting here with us, is the prime cxample. He 
has the unrewarding task of showing me 
the list of people I must see, who ask for 
meetings. . . . He is the one I can grumble 
and complain to. 

[Castro and Chomy laugh. Moments later, 
Chomy leaves the room and as Castro is mak- 
ing a point, the tape recorder Castro's aides 
are using for their own verification clicks 
to a stop. In exasperation, Castro shouts for 
Chomy, who rushes back in.) 

Asa rule, I do not let myself get agitated 
or obsessed by problems. If I didn't have a 
sense of humor, if I couldn't joke with oth- 
ers and even with myself, if I weren't able 
to let go, I wouldn't be able to handle 
the job. Because I also ask myself 
the same questions others do: How's my 


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PLAYBOY 


62 


blood pressure? How's my heart doing? 
How have I been able to stand it for so 
many years? 

I meet people who I immediately know 
are going to die young. I see them all 
worked up, bitter, tense, but that’s not my 
case. Exercise and moderate eating habits 
have helped. And why not? Nature and 
luck have also helped. 

PLAYBOY: Unlike most political leaders, you 
do much of your important work late at 
night—often into the early hours of the 
morning. Why the odd hours? 

CASTRO: On a day like today, with con- 
versations that go on this long, the sched- 
ule goes out the window, gets out of 
control, and this is frequently the case. A 
lot of visitors come to Cuba: ministers of 
foreign affairs, party representatives, a 
great many people, If I were to set an 
exact date and hour for each one of the vis- 
itors asking for an interview through Com- 
rade Chomy, through the party, through 
the ministry of foreign affairs, through the 
executive committee, through all chan- 
nels, I'd be tied up all the time. I dislike 
purely protocol meetings; they're a waste 
of time. I prefer to talk about interesting 
things with visitors, and I dislike keeping 
an eye on the clock. As a rule, I tell the 
people who have arranged someone's visit 
here, “Make up the schedule; I only want 
to know where he is and when he's free,” 
This has, of course, its inconveniences. 
Many times they tell me, “Minister so- 
and-so is leaving tomorrow," and then I'm 
forced to meet him at night, very late. 

On the other hand, nobody upsets my life 
as much as interviewers and journalists. 
PLAYBOY: Have you ever given any thought 
to marriage, a family, settling down and 
retirement? 

CASTRO: I've always been allergic to 
gossip-column publicity about the private 
life of public men. I believe that’s part of 
the few intimacies that one has. That's 
why I maintain discretion—until one day. 
Someday, the things you're asking about 
will be known, but not with my coopera- 
tion. I can tell you that everything's per- 
fectly well with my private life—no. 
problems. [Grins] 

PLAYBOY: One more question in the per- 
sonal vein: You are one of the last of the 
great orators, with your booming speeches 
to stadiums full of people; you are known 
as an effective communicator. Is there any 
difference between that public figure and 
the private man? 

CASTRO: [Laughs] I have a great rival as a 
communicator—and that is Reagan. But 
let me tell you something that people may 
not believe: I have stage fright. Whenever 
I'm about to speak in pul I go through 
а moment of tension. I don't actually like 
making speeches. I take it more as a re- 
sponsibility, a delicate task, a goal to be 
met. The huge rallies are difficult. I may 
have the basic ideas—you might call it a 
mental script of the essential ideas—and 
more or less the order in which I’m going 
to present them. But I work out and 


develop the ideas—the words, phrases and 
forms of expression—during the speech 
itself. People prefer that to a written 
speech. It seems to me that they like to see 
a man’s struggle, his efforts to elaborate 
ideas. 

PLAYBOY: This year, you have granted sev- 
eral interviews besides this long con- 
versation. Why? And why now? 

CASTRO: It’s true that I've granted several 
interviews in the past few months. I 
thought it would be useful to do this now. 
I'm not trying to launch a publicity cam- 
paign, much less improve my image. I'm 
not running for office in the United States. 
Rather, I'm doing this because this is a 
special time in the international field. 

For instance, there has been tension in 
Central America, and I believe that 
there's a really critical situation in Latin 
America, both economically and socially. 
There is great international concern over 
the problems related to the arms race, 
the danger of a war; at the same time, 
there are conflicts in southern Africa. If 
these problems are better understood, 
some contribution may be made to solving 
them. 

PLAYBOY: You've had a chance to sce the 
results of your earlier interviews; what do 
you think of your press so far? 

CASTRO: I believe that the PBS interview 
was a serious one, on interesting, complex 
topics, After PBS, there was an interview 
with Dan Rather of CBS. I don’t think 
very important problems were discussed 
in that interview. It was more anecdotal, 
containing personal views about Reagan 
and other topics. But television's possibili- 
ties for spreading information are, by defi- 
nition, very limited. Rather wanted to 
know why I hadn't attended Chernenko's 
funeral. Sometimes you make a great effort 
and put a lot of time into something, and 
then reporters take up anecdotal rather 
than essential matters. That’s why, as I 
said to you before we began, if you want to 
express your point of view in depth, you 
have to have the space to develop it. 
PLAYBOY: You may consider it anecdotal, 
but we saw the Rather interview and, like 
him, wondered about the Chernenko 
funeral. Why did you skip it? You didn’t 
really answer Rather. 

CASTRO: Look, I was present at Brezhnev's 
funeral; I was present at Andropov's 
funeral; I've attended the two most recent 
Soviet Party Congresses, that is, almost all 
the most important occasions of that type 
that have taken place in the U. 
One must bear in mind that the distance 
between Cuba and the Soviet Union is 
great; the other socialist countries are two 
hours away from Moscow, sometimes less. 

Now, the death of Chernenko—a man 
whom I held in great esteem, whom I'd 
known for some time and who was very 
friendly toward Cuba—occurred at a time 
when I had an enormous amount of work. 
On the day of his death, we had just con- 
cluded a women's congress to which I had 
devoted several days’ intense work. 


I'm going to tell you something else, 
since you force me to. Between the end of 
the Federation Congress, where I deliv- 
ered the closing address—that was Friday 
evening—and eight o'clock Sunday morn- 
ing, I worked for 42 consecutive hours. No 
rest or sleep. Since I had other visitors in 
town in the following days and I was wor- 
ried about keeping them waiting—and 
you are exceptional witness to the fact that 
I don't begrudge time or energy in attend- 
ing to visitors, regardless of their political 
rank— decided to ask my brother Raul to 
represent me at the funeral. 

Fulfilling a formal obligation isn't the 

only way to show affection, appreciation 
and respect for a friend. I can tell you in 
all frankness, our relations with the Soviet 
Union are excellent, better than ever; and 
precisely because of the confidence they 
have in us and the confidence we have in 
them, I knew they'd understand. 
PLAYBOY: What the Soviets feel for you is 
one thing, but it's no secret that attitudes 
in Washington have hardened in recent 
years. President Reagan has characterized 
you as a ruthless military dictator, one 
who rules Cuba with an iron hand. There 
are many Americans who agree with him. 
How do you respond? 
CASTRO: Let's think about your question. 
A dictator is someone who makes arbi- 
trary decisions on his own, one who is 
above all institutions, above the law, and 
is subject to no other control than his own 
will or whims. If being a dictator means 
governing by decree, then you might use 
that argument to accuse the Pope of being 
a dictator. His broad prerogatives for gov- 
erning the Vatican and the Catholic 
Church are well known. I don't have those 
prerogatives. Yet no one would think of 
saying that the Pope is a dictator. 

President Reagan can make terrible 
decisions without consulting anyone! 
Sometimes he may have to go through the 
purely formal motions of securing the Sen- 
ate's approval when he appoints an 
Ambassador, but Reagan can order an 
invasion, such as the one against Grenada, 
or a dirty war, such as the one against Nic- 
aragua, He can even use the codes in that 
briefcase he always carries around with 
him to unleash a thermonuclear war that 
could mean the end of the human race. If 
not, why does he have the briefcase? Why 
does he have the codes? And why does he 
have an aide with the briefcase? It’s to 
be supposed that Reagan would make the 
decision to unleash a thermonuclear war 
without consulting the Senate or the 
House of Representatives, without con- 
sulting the Cabinet. And that’s something 
that could spell the end of the human race. 
Not even the Roman emperors had that 
kind of power. 

PLAYBOY: But, Mr. President, don’t you, in 
fact, rule by personal decree? Don’t you 
make all important decisions of state? 

CASTRO: No. I don’t make decisions totally 
on my own. I play my role as a leader 
within a team. In our country, we don’t 


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PLAYBOY 


any institution similar to the Presi- 


єз. Here 


decisions— 


have 
all basic 


dency of the United 
all the 

are analyzed, discusse 
I don't 


ambassadors; | de 


decisions: 


import 
i 


and adopted 
collectively appoint. ministers or 


t appoint even the 


lowliest public servant in the country 


because there exists a system for selecting 


analyzing, nominati 
those officials. I do, in fact, have 
authority; I have influence. But my only 
real prerogative is to speak before the Cen- 
before the National 
Assembly, before public opinion. That's 


the main power I have, and I don’t aspire 


and appointing 
some 


tral Committee 


to any other. I don’t want or need any 
other 

Those are the conditions in which a 
politic 


I don't think any of these mesh with the 


l leader in our country must work 


idea of a dictator, which comes from the 
verb to dictate 


ing orders of all kinds. 


one who is always dictat 
I don’t act that 
way, nor am I empowered to. I don't give 
orders; I reason. I don't govern by decree 
nor can I 
During the war 
it has There has to be that 
kind of responsibility—during World War 
had the 


and the power to make decisions—but, as 


I led an army; in a war, 
» be that way 
Eisenhower 


Two. esponsibility 


soon as our movement was organized, long 


before the attack on the Moncada Garri- 


son on July 26, 1953, we had collective 


leadership; throughout the war, our move 


ment had collective leadership, and when 
the war was over, we immediately organ- 


ized collective leadership for the count 


These principles have remained unaltered 
throughout the years 

I honestly believe that the President of 
the United States has much 


ater power 


and more capability of giving direct, uni- 
lateral orders. If his power includes some- 
thing as monstrously undemocratic as the 
ability to order a thermonuclear war, I ask 
you who, then, is more of a dictator: the 
President of the United States or I? 

PLAYBOY: Nonetheless, what Amer 
is that there is a marked differ 


tween the personal freedoms in 


ans sec 


ce be- 
Western 
country and those allowed in Cuba 

CASTRO: I think U.S. and Cuban concep- 
different, For 
than 1,000,000 
lin the U.S. 


you have beg- 


tions of liberty are 
example, the 
children wh 


very 


are more 


have disappear 
Next to your millionaires 
yandoned children 
nor beggars without homes 


gars, We have neither 


Since 


idence, you 


You always speak of freedoms. 


your Declaration of Indep 


have spoken of freedoms. We, too, consider 


it self-evident that all men are bı 


n equal 
Washington and the oth- 
they did 
a US. 
black athlete could not play baseball in the 


But when Ge 


ers created U.S. independence 


not free the slaves: 


not long 


major leagues. And yet you called yours 
the freest country in the world 
The fr 


est country in the world also 


exterminated the Indians. You killed more 
Indians than Buffalo Bill killed buffaloes. 
Since then. allies of the 
worst tyrants in Argentina and Chile, you 
Africa. 
used the worst murderers in the world to 


you have made 


have protected. South you have 


organize the contra revolution—and yours 
is the country of freedom? What is the ban- 
ner of liberty the U.S. is really defending? 
OK, if you are a Communist in the U.S. 
freedoms? Can you work in 


the State I 
ernment employment? Can you speak 


rtment, in any form of Gov- 


openly on TV? In what papers can you 
write? We may be criticized in Cuba, but 


at least we are cleaner than you. Our sys- 


tem is cleaner, because we're not pretend- 
ing to be the best of liberty 

PLAYBOY: In fact, a Communist can speak 
openly in the U.S. In the U.S 
the frec 
CASTRO: You can say what you want, but 
you have no place to say it 


people have 


lom to say whatever they lil 


unless you 
can afford it. If you do not own a paper or 


a media empire, you are ignored. 1 have 
read how a right-wing Senator has tried to 
buy CBS to kick out Dan Rather—and 


Rather is not a Communist. But they want 
to shut his mouth 


some brilliant writers and journalists who 


I admit that there are 
write both for and against capitalism and 
can speak on TV 
wants to preach communism, who wants 
to chi 


but a Communist who 


We your syste 


does not appear in 


any big papers or on large TV stations 


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PLAYBOY: What about in Cuba? Could 
someone write against your system in your 
newspapers? 

CASTRO: No, a counterrevolutionary can- 
not write in our newspapers. Against our 
system, he cannot write. But that is exactly 
the same thing that happens in the U.S.— 
only we are honest; we say so. You say you 
are the best model of freedom that ever 
existed. When I see a Communist writing 
in The New York Times or The Washington 
Post, or speaking on CBS, I promise you I 
will open the doors so all the counterrevo- 
lutionaries will be able to write in our 
newspapers! But you set the example first 
PLAYBOY: Surely, you know there are Com- 
munist political candidates in the U.S. who 
speak freely. 

CASTRO: Yes, they are allowed to hand out 
their pamphlets and make speeches. But 
they are not covered by the press, they are 
not allowed to participate in the debates, 
the text of their speeches is not published. 
PLAYBOY: Could we go out right now to the 
main park in Havana and speak critically 
about Cuba? 

CASTRO: Cuba is one of the places where 
people are most critical. Anyone who visits 
here knows that Cubans speak openly 
From morning until night, they criticize 
everything. No one is arrested here for 
speaking out. If they were, everyone would 
be arrested! Things are not the way you 
imagine, Besides, people do not want 
another party. This country has had a 


political education, a revolutionary educa- 
tion. People can speak their mind, but not 
if they start conspiring or organizing ter- 
rorist plan: 
PLAYBOY: So if we went outside and began 
speaking against the party 
CASTRO: Go ahead, try it, test it. You could 
get in trouble! [Laughs] 
PLAYBOY: The history of relations between 
Cuba and the U.S. is quite bad; how much 
worse have they become since Reagan took 
office? 
CASTRO: Considerably. He has, of course, 
tightened the blockade against us. Then 
he put an end to private citizens” traveling 
to Cuba—something that had been re- 
established for some years. He also applied 
ant, tenacious practice of placing 

obstacles in the way of all of our country’s 
economic and trade operations. I don't 
know how many people in the United 
States are engaged in compiling informa- 
tion on all of our economic and trade oper- 
ations with the Western world to try to 
keep us from selling our products, to block 
Cuba's nickel sales to any Western country 
and to try to block credits to Cuba and 
even the rescheduling of the debt. Every 
time we reschedule the debt with various 
bankers, the United States draws up docu- 
ments and sends them to all the govern- 
ments and banks. 

The United States does not limit its 
blockade to trade between the United 
States and Cuba—it even bans trade in 


an ince: 


medicine, a shameful thing. Not even an 
aspirin can come from the United States— 
it is legally forbidden; pharmaceutical 
that may save a life are forbidden; no med- 
ical equipment can be exported from the 
United States to Cuba; and trade is pro- 
hibited in both directions. The U.S. also 
expands the blockade throughout the 
world as part of its policy of unceasing, 
shameful and infamous harassment of all 
of Cuba's economic operations. The only 
reason it doesn't interfere in our trade with 
the other socialist countries is that it can't. 
That’s the truth 

PLAYBOY: To ease these tensions, would you 
be willing to meet with President Reagan, 
without a prearranged agenda? 

CASTRO: [Very carefully, after several false 
starts] In the first place, you should ask the 
President of the United States. I don't 
want it to be said that I’m proposing a 
meeting with Reagan. However, if you 
want to know my opinion, I don't think it's 
very probable; but if the United States 
Government were to propose a meeting of 
that nature, a contact of that type, we 
wouldn't raise any obstacles. 

PLAYBOY: What if an invitation. were 
extended by the United States ngre: 
or, specifically, by the Congressional 
Black сиз? Would you accept such an 
invitation? 

CASTRO: Well, I have very good relations 
with the Black Caucus. I know many of its 
members, and any invitation from them or 


PLAYBOY 


any opportunity to meet with them, in 
Cuba or in the United States, would be an 
honor for me. In any case, I'd first have to 
know the position of the United States 
Government, because a visit to the United 
States requires a visa from the U.S. Gov- 
ernment. If that were possible, indeed, if 
that could lead to a broader meeting with 
U.S. legislators, I think I have the argu- 
ments with which to talk, discuss things 
and debate with a group or with all U.S. 
Congressmen at once. Thatis, I think so; I 
think I could go. There are many things to 
talk about that it would be useful for the 
members of the U.S. Congress to hear, 
and I could answer all of their questions. 
But all this is on a speculative, hypotheti- 
cal plane; I don’t think it can be done 
unless the President of the United States 
agrees. 

PLAYBOY: And that seems hardly likely, 
with what current Administration officials 
are saying about you. One particularly 
negative charge was by Secretary of State 
George Shultz, who claims there is evi- 
dence of a Cuban-Colombian drug con- 
nection. How did you react to that? 
CASTRO: One of the Ten Commandments 
says, “Thou shalt not bear false witness 
against thy neighbor.” The Reagan 
Administration should be constantly 
reminded of that. Besides, I believe that 
the United States Congress and the Ameri- 
can people deserve more respect. 

It’s absolutely impossible for the United 
States and the State Department to have a 
single shred of evidence of this kind! 
[Stands up, paces angrily] 1 believe that 
these are, in fact, dirty, infamous accusa- 
tions, a dishonest way of conducting for- 
eign policy! During the past 26 years, 
Cuba’s record in this regard has been spot- 
less, because the first thing the Revolution 
did in our country, where drugs were once 
freely used, sold and produced, was to 
eradicate that problem. Strict measures 
were taken to destroy marijuana planta- 
tions and to strongly punish all forms of 
drug production and trafficking. Since the 
victory of the Revolution, for 26 years, no 
drugs have been brought into our country, 
nor has any money been made from the 
drugs coming from anywhere else. 

During the 26 years of the Revolution, I 
haven't heard of a single case of any offi- 
cial's ever having been involved in the 
drug business—not one. I ask if the same 
could be said in the United States or if that 
could be said in any other Latin-American 
or Caribbean country or in the rest of the 
Western world. 

PLAYBOY: Secretary Shultz has said that 
Cuba tacitly goes along with the drug 
trade by allowing overflights of smugglers 
in light planes. 

CASTRO: Look, our country is the place 
drug smugglers fear the most. They all 
try to avoid landing in Cuba or making 
any sort of stop on our coasts, because 
they have a lot of experience with the 
consequences and the strict measures 
taken in our country. Our island has an 


east-west axis in the Caribbean and is 
more than 1000 kilometers long but only 
50 kilometers wide in some places. It’s 
easy to cross it in a matter of minutes and 
be under international jurisdiction again. 
Radar very often detects airborne targets 
approaching or leaving our territory. 
United States spy planes do this almost 
every day, even without entering our na- 
tional airspace; every so often, they do it 
with sophisticated aircraft that fly at an 
altitude of 30 kilometers at 3000 kilome- 
ters per hour. I imagine that those planes 
aren't carrying drugs. 

Small civilian aircraft penetrate our air- 
space rather frequently, and they don’t 
pay our interceptors the slightest atten- 
tion. Having to decide whether or not to 
fire on an unarmed civilian aircraft is a 
serious, tragic question. There’s no way 
you can be sure who's in it. An aircraft in 
the air isn’t like an automobile on a road 
that can be stopped, identified and 
searched. The occupants may be drug 
smugglers, but they may also be off course 


“Tt is impossible not to sense 
the contempt toward Latin- 
American peoples—this 
strange mixture of proud 
Spaniards, black Africans 
and backward Indians.” 


or trying to save fuel by taking a shorter 
route. They may be families, journalists, 
businessmen or adventurers—of whom 
there are many in the United States—who 
are afraid to land and be arrested in 
Cuba. 

Even though it is blockaded by the 
United States and doesn’t have any obliga- 
tion to cooperate with the United States on 
this or any other problem, Cuba has stood 
sentinel against drug trafficking in the 
Caribbean—as a matter of self-respect, a 
simple question of prestige and moral rec- 
titude. Is it right that the treatment we 
receive in exchange is the infamous accu- 
sation that Cuba is involved in drug traf- 
ficking? 

PLAYBOY: Why do you think there have 
been such harsh charges over the years? 
Why do you think American leaders— 
and, to some extent, the American 
public—have had such a relentlessly nega- 
tive view of Cuba and of you? 

CASTRO: In the first place, basically, it is 
not a negative attitude against Cuba and 
against Castro; it is fundamentally an 
antisocialist, antirevolutionary and anti- 
Communist attitude. The fact is that for 
the past 100 years in the United States, 


Europe and elsewhere in the world, this 
anti-Communist feeling has been drilled 
into the masses by all possible means; the 
anti-Communist indoctrination begins 
practically when a child is born. The same 
thing used to happen in our country: A 
permanent campaign in all the newspa- 
pers, magazines, books, films, television, 
radio, even children’s cartoons, was aimed 
in the same direction—toward creating 
the most hostile ideas and prejudices 
against socialism. I’m referring, of course, 
to a socialist revolution, not to the much 
used and abused word socialism, which so 
many bourgeois parties have taken up as 
something elegant in an attempt to dress 
old-fashioned capitalism in new clothes. 
PLAYBOY: Critics in the Reagan Adminis- 
tration would argue that you need to em- 
ploy cruel, punitive measures in imposing 
your kind of socialist system in Cuba. 
CASTRO: As regards the charge of cruelty, I 
think the cruelest people on earth are the 
ones who are indifferent to social injustice, 
discrimination, inequality, the exploita- 
tion of others—people who don’t react 
when they see a child with no shoes, a beg- 
gar in the streets or millions of hungry 
people. I really think that people who have 
spent all their lives struggling against 
injustice and oppression, serving others, 
fighting for others and practicing and 
preaching solidarity cannot possibly be 
cruel. I'd say that what is really cruel is a 
society—a capitalist one, for instance— 
that not only is cruel in itself but forces 
man to be cruel. 

Socialism is just the opposite. By defini- 
tion, it expresses confidence and faith in 
man, in solidarity among men and in the 
brotherhood of man—not selfishness, 
ambition, competition or struggle. I be- 
lieve that cruelty is born of selfishness, 
ambition, inequality, injustice, competi- 
tion and struggle among men. 

PLAYBOY: Getting back to the way the U.S. 
has portrayed Cuba specifically — 
CASTRO: Really, a study could be made of 
how much space, how much paper, how 
many media have been used against Cuba. 
But despite their huge technological 
resources and mass media—and I say this 
with sorrow—Americans are one of the 
least politically educated and worst- 
informed peoples on the realities of the 
Third World, Asia, Africa and Latin 
America. All this is actually at the root of 
those anti-Cuba, anti-Castro feelings—the 
anti-Castro part. 

Now, Га also like to say that, in turn, 
there is a broad minority of people in the 
United States who think, who have a high 
cultural and political level, who do know 
what's happening in the world, but they 
aren't representative of the average citizen. 
Furthermore, I know for a fact that there 
are many U.S. citizens who are not taken 
in by this phobia, by those prejudices and 
by those anti-Cuba feelings. On the other 
hand, I want to remind you of the follow- 
ing: Twenty years ago, the worst things, 
terrible things, were said about China, 


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about Mao Tse-tung, about Chinese com- 
munism, about the Red threat and all the 
most inconceivable threats that China 
posed. The press used to say the worst 
things about China every day. However, 
that is no longer the case. The press is no 
longer full of insults against the Chinese 
тте and the People’s Republic of 
Quite the opposite, there are excel- 
lent diplomatic relations, investments and 
increasing trade. And yet that process did 
not start with today’s China but with the 
China of Mao Tse-tung, at the time of the 
Cultural Revolution, at a time when an 
extreme form of communism was preached 
and applied in China. Now even Reagan 
has visited the Great Wall, and just look 
how everything has changed. 

And why? Gould you tell me why? Now 
there are even two types of Communists: a 
bad Communist and a good Communist. 
Unquestionably, we've been classified 
among the bad Communists, and I am the 
prototype. Well, Mao Tse-tung had also 
been included in that category for a long 
time. 

PLAYBOY: What would it take to change 
your image from that of a bad Communist 
to a good Communist? 

CASTRO: Unfortunately, if changing that 
concept of a bad Communist to that of a 
good Communist implies that we stop 
denouncing the things we deem incorrect, 
that we stop assisting the causes we deem 
just, that we break our ties of friendship 
with the Soviets, that we become a 
Soviet in order to be good Communists, 
acceptable to and applauded by the 
United States, then that will never hap- 
pen. If one day the United States changes 
its image of Cuba and public opinion has 
the chance to learn the truth, it will have 
to be on the basis of its ability to realize 
that neither Castro nor the Cuban people 
are opportunistic, turncoats, people who 
can be bought. 

PLAYBOY: And you feel that the U.S. treats 
the rest of Latin America as if it can be 
bough? 

CASTRO: I'm convinced that this U.S. pol- 
icy toward Latin America, the idea of act- 
y as the proprietor of the peoples of this 
йге и in contempt of the peoples 
of this hemisphere, is evident every- 
where—in the simple things, in speeches, 
anecdotes and stories, in the toasts that are 
made, in contacts with Latin-American 
leaders. I have the impression that when 
Columbus, Cortes, Pizarro and the Euro- 
pean conquistadors reached this conti- 
nent, they treated the Indians in almost 
the same manner and with the same 
philosophy—which included bartering 
mirrors and other trinkets for gold. I think 
that is the American attitude. 

I notice it, I feel it. Not when they talk 
with me, because with me, none of those 
tors can talk like that—besides, the 
visitors I receive are usually a different 
type of person, right? But when I look 
at the Presidents of the United States in 
their relations with Latin America, it is 


impossible not to sense their contempt, 
their underestimation of these Latin- 
American peoples—this strange mixture 
of proud Spaniards, black Africans and 
backward Indians; an uncommon and 
strange mixture of people who deserve no 
consideration or respect whatsoever. 

I think that someday, that policy—the 
policy of intervening in all countries of 
Latin America, setting guidelines, saying 
what type of government should be 
elected, the social changes that can or can- 
not be performed— will give out and result 
in a crisis, and I really believe that that 
moment is drawing nearer. 

The United States has been lucky 
that up to now, these problems have come 
up in small, isolated countries like Cuba or 
Grenada or Nicaragua, in Central Amer- 
ica; it can still afford to speak of invasions, 
acts of intervention and solutions based on 
forc had already been the practice 
in 1965 against another small Caribbean 
country, the Dominican Repul But 
when it is faced with these problems every- 
where in the Southern Hemisphere, in any 
one of the large or medium-sized countries 


“Pm sure that every day, 
United States citizens see 
things in their country that 
simply can't happen here, acts 
of violence against people." 


in South America, it won't be able to solve 
them through intervention, dirty wars or 
invasions; that would be catastrophi 

Since I can picture very clearly what 
will happen, I have been raising these 
problems, insisting on discussing them 
with all American people I meet, and 
maybe my effort will be useful to some 
extent and make at least some Ameri 
people reason things out. 

Maybe if, when the United States was 
about to embark upon the Vietnam war— 
as it enthusiastically did—someone had 
persuaded the people of what was to hap- 
pen there, he might have done a great 
service to the American people. For 
instance, it is said that if The New York 
Times had published the story it had con- 
cerning the Playa Girón [Bay of Pigs] 
invasion, it would have done Kennedy a 
great service and would have prevented 
that mistake. We are now doing exactly 
that with respect to Central America: As 
we watch the United States—or the U 
Government; I can’t say the U.S. people, 
because 72 percent of them are against 
intervention in Central America—move 
with similar enthusiasm toward interven- 
tion in Central America, we are not doing 


the people of the United States a disservice 
when we insist on warning them of the 
consequences to them, to all of us. 
PLAYBOY: There is obviously support for 
that position, as evidenced by the votes in 
Congress blocking Reagan's proposals to 
support the Sandinista’s adversaries. But 
that is hardly a ringing endorsement of 
cither the Sandinista or the Cuban regime. 
In fact, there is a general feeling that when 
a Marxist government takes over, the inev- 
itable result is repression, curtailment of 
human rights, imprisonment of political 
dissidents. 

CASTRO: The idea that anyone is i 
prison in Cuba, no matter what you ha 
heard, for holding ideas that differ from 
those of the Revolution is simply nonsen- 
sical! [Stands again, begins pacing] No one 
in our country has ever been punished 
because he was a dissident or held views 
that differed from those of the Revolution. 
he acts for which a citizen may be pun- 
ished are defined with precision in our 
penal code. Many of those laws were 
adopted prior to the triumph of the Revo- 
lution, in the liberated territory of the 
Sierra Maestra. Mountains, and were 
applied to punish torturers and other 
criminals. 

We have defended ourselves and will 
continue to do so. I don’t expect that 
the counterrevolutionaries will put up a 
statue for me or that our enemies will 
honor me, But I've followed a line of con- 
duct in the Revolution—and throughout 
my life, in fact—of absolute respect for an 
individual's physical integrity. If we had 
to mete out punishment—even drastic 
punishment—we meted it out. But no 
matter what our enemies may say, no mat- 
ter how much they may lie and slander us, 
the history of the Revolution contains no 
cases of physical abuse or torture! All the 
citizens in this country, without exception, 
know this. 

PLAYBOY: That's a sweeping denial, Mr. 
President, Does that mean that any story 
told about unfair imprisonment or torture 
in Cuba through the ycars has been a lie? 
CASTRO: Yes. We've never had to resort 
to anything illegal—to force, torture or 
crime. Throughout the entire history of 
the Revolution, no one can point to a 
single case of torture, murder or dis- 
appearance—things that are common, 
everyday happenings in the rest of Latin 
America. Another thing: Never has a dem- 
onstration been broken up by the police 
in Cuba. Never in 26 years has a police- 
man used tear gas, beaten a citizen during 
a demonstration or used trained dogs 
against the people. Never has a demon- 
stration here been broken up by the army 
or the police—something that happens 
every day everywhere else, in Latin Ameri- 
са and the United States itself. 

PLAYBOY: As well as in the Soviet Union 
and in the Eastern Bloc. But why is it you 
claim that Cuba is the exception? 
CASTRO: Because the people support their 
government, the people defend it. The true 


n 


PLAYBOY 


repression I speak of occurs in countries 
whose governments are against the people, 
whose governments have to defend them- 
selves against the people: in Argentina, 
with the military dictatorship; in Chile, El 
Salvador and elsewhere, with repressive 
forces and death squads trained by the 
United States. When the people them- 
selves are the Revolution, you may rest 
assured that there is no need for violence 
or injustice to defend it. Ours is the only 
government in this hemisphere—and I 
can state this proudly—that has never 
inflicted any bodily harm on an individual 
or committed any political assassinations 
or abductions. 

PLAYBOY: Are you claiming that the way 
you deal with political dissidents actually 
results in greater freedoms than Ameri- 
cans have? 

CASTRO: I’m sure that every day, United 
States citizens see things in their country 
that are never seen here, things that sim- 
ply can't happen here, acts of violence 
against people. Here, nobody has ever 
scen—nor will they—the murder of a 
champion of civil rights, such as Martin 
Luther King, Jr. Actions such as this have 
never occurred here, yet we don't go 
around bragging about the Revolution's 
humanitarian spirit and respect for human 
rights. 

PLAYBOY: You yourself were in prison 
before the Revolution. How do you 
remember it? 

CASTRO: I was in isolation for a very long 
time. Batista's men didn't want me to go 
to trial, because I had been so vocal; I had 
denounced all the crimes that were being 
committed, so it was clearly political. And 
even in prison, I was able to organize such 
political activities as a school, with courses 
in history, philosophy, politics. 

I was sent to the Isle of Pines—we now 
call it the Isle of Youth—and we organized 
while we were there. Once, I remember 
hearing that Batista himself was visiting 
the island to inaugurate a small power 
plant. The moment he was set to leave, we 
in the prison began to sing our anthem 
based on our uprising of the 26th of July. 
Batista thought he was hearing a song in 
his honor—he may have thought it was 
the Angels’ Chorale or something. But once 
he heard some of our lyrics— "insatiable 
tyrants,” and so forth—the policemen 
came into the prison and took harsh, 
repressive measures. One comrade was 
beaten—he was a black man and the 
author of our anthem. Others were put 
into isolation. I was in solitary detention 
for more than a year; they even shut off our 
electricity during the day. 

PLAYBOY: Was it always so harsh? 

CASTRO: I could say a few good things 
about prison. We took advantage of the 
time; we read a lot—14, 15 hours a day. I 
studied a lot of Marxist works. They even 
let us receive Das Kapital. 

PLAYBOY: There has been speculation over 
the years as to when you became a Marx- 
ist. Some have said it was only after you 


took power and were pushed to embrace 
communism because of Washington's hos- 
tility. But it sounds as if you left prison a 
committed Communist. 

CASTRO: No, I was a Marxist before 1 
entered. prison. Before our defeat at 
Moncada, which sent me to prison, I 
already had the deepest convictions. I had 
acquired them earlier, upon reading books 
about socialism. I was already a Utopian 
Communist. I became convinced of the 
the madness of capitalism 
just by studying its economics. I was in my 
second year in law school when I felt 
inclined toward Marx's theories. I did not 
have the knowledge I have today, but if I 
hadn't had a Marxist orientation, I would 
not have conceived of the struggle against 
Batista. 

PLAYBOY: It has recently been reported that 
Cuba has dramatically expanded its own 
defenses. After all these years, do you 
still fear an attack or an invasion by the 
United States? Do you think of it as a 
real possibility? 

CASTRO: [Very intensely) IUs no secret that 
we have increased our defense capability 
considerably in the past four years. Not 
just that, we've actually revolutionized the 
way we think about defense. Over these 
past four years, we have incorporated 
more than 1,500,000 men and women into 
the country’s defenses, besides the army 
and its reserves; we have trained tens of 
thousands of cadres; we have prepared for 
all possible scenarios of aggression against 
Cuba, even in the most adverse circum- 
stances; the population is organized, even 
in the remotest corners of Cuba, to fight 
under all circumstances, even under occu- 
pation. 

Why have we done this? Obviously, not 
as a sport; not for fun or for the love of 
arms. I'd rather have said, like Heming- 
way, “Farewell to arms.” It has been in 
response to an open, declared policy of 
force and threats against Cuba imple- 
mented by the U.S. Government. 
PLAYBOY: You say this has happened in the 
past four years, so it’s obviously the Rea- 
gan Administration's policies you feel 
threatened by. 

CASTRO: We launched this effort even prior 
to the present Administration, when we 
realized that the wave of conservatism and 
great economic difficulties might turn the 
U.S. constituency in favor of a chauvinist 
policy, when we saw there was a possibil- 
ity that the Republican Party could win 
the elections. We were familiar with its 
program, ideas and philosophy concerning 
all Caribbean and Latin-American issues; 
the Republican Party didn’t hide them, 
Indeed, it openly proclaimed them in its 
platform. We perceived a strong ideologi- 
cal component in this Administration: 
With the ideas and mentality of crusaders, 
they virtually proclaimed their objective of 
sweeping socialism off the face of the earth. 
In other times, there were people who had 
the same goal, and we know what hap- 
pened then. Our effort was intensified after 


the U.S. invasion of Grenada. What we've 
done is perfectly logical. We couldn't wait 
until the U.S. Administration decided to 
invade Cuba to start making ready. That's 
a mistake we could not afford to make; 
those who e it didn't surv; 
PLAYBOY: Do you think the United States 
will intervene militarily in Ni 
CASTRO: I do not rule out mi y 
vention. It is obvious that the Reagan 
Administration is obsessive about Nica- 
ragua. To be more precise, the President 
of the United States has an obsessive atti- 
tude and a very high degree of personal 
commitment on this issue, which could 
lead—at a certain moment—to direct in- 
tervention. It is quite evident that the 
istration has been preparing to that 
end; it has built new airstrips in Honduras 
and has rebuilt and expanded three old 
; it has set up land and sea military 
installations, training centers and numer- 
ous troops; the military exercises and 
maneuvers are all obviously aimed at cre- 
ating the conditions for an invasion of Nic- 
n is ever made. Now 
it is possible: Tanks, armored vehicles and 
other military equipment—all the mili- 
tary conditions are in place. 
PLAYBOY: Do you believe that the Reagan 
Administration does not really want a 
peaceful solution in Nicaragua? 
CASTRO: The objective of the Reagan 
Administration regarding Nicaragua is to 
crush the Sandinista Revolution; regarding 
dor, to exterminate every last 
revolutionary; more generally, to destroy 
once and for all the spirit of rebellion in 
this Central American people. It’s as if the 
Reagan Administration wants to teach an 
unforgettable lesson so that no one else in 
Central America or in Latin America will 
ever again think of rebelling against the 
tyrannies serving U.S. interests, against 
hunger and exploitation—so that no one 
will ever again fight for independence and 
social justice, 
PLAYBOY: Washington would argue that it 
is not how Cubans or Nicaraguans run 
their own countries that is a threat but 
your policy of spreading revolution to 
other countries. 
CASTRO: | once said that Cuba does not 
have nuclear rockets but it does have 
moral rockets. If the U.S. feels threatened 
by the altruism and sacrifice of Cuban 
teachers and doctors in other countries, 
perhaps they are right to feel threatened — 
because those workers are expressing a 
morality that is superior. If they want to 
fear our ideas, then I will say yes, they are 
right to fear the ideas—that is why so 
many lies have to be invented. But to say 
that we represent a physical danger to the 
U.S.—that’s absurd! 

How can Cubans or Nicaraguans be a 
threat to a country that has 16 or 17 air- 
craft carriers, 300 bases throughout the 
world, thousands of nuclear weapons? 
How can a Third World nation that does 
not produce any airplanes be a threat 
to a country thinking about Star Wars 


PLAYBOY 


defenses? It's ridiculous; it's brainwash. 
PLAYBOY: Let's discuss El Salvador. Your 
critics claim that Cuba is working to over- 
throw the newly elected. government. of 
President José Napoleón Duarte in El Sal- 
vador by supplying military arms to the 
rebels. Is that true? 

CASTRO: I don't know where this notion of 
the legality of that government comes 
from. Everyone knows that there was a 
civil war there; everyone knows that over 
the past six years, more than 50,000 peo- 
ple have been murdered there by the death 
squads and by the Salvadoran army itself; 
everyone knows that true genocide has 
been going on there and that Duarte has 
contributed to that genocide. He has actu- 
ally been a coconspirator and an accessory 
to those crimes, and he cannot shirk his re- 
sponsibility for what has been taking place 
in El Salvador for the past five years. 
PLAYBOY: But isn't it true that Duarte was 
elected president by the people of El Sal- 
vador in an open and free election? 
CASTRO: No! [Pounds table) Everyone 
knows under what conditions the elections 
took place: amid the most ferocious repres- 
sion, terror and war; everyone knows that 
the electoral campaign was planned by the 
United States, that the political parties 
were manipulated by the United States 
and that the electoral campaigns were 
funded by the CIA. The present govern- 
ment and all other allegedly legal bodies 
are the result of all that manipulation and 
all those maneuvers by the United States. 
Augusto Pinochet of Chile could also say 
that his government was legal after the fas- 
cist constitution was imposed upon the 
people in an alleged plebiscite in which no 
one but he and his constitution took part. 
Actually, one can't help wondering why 
the United States considers the El Salva- 
dor elections to be legal and, in turn, con- 
siders the Nicaragua elections illegal. In 
spite of the fact that the elections in 
ragua were sabotaged by the United 
States, the people turned out to vote with 
enthusiasm, granting the Sandinistas and 
the left more than 70 percent of the vote, 
This was witnessed by more than 1000 
people from all over the world: represen- 
tatives of governments, political organi- 
zations and parties and journalists from 
cverywhere. 

PLAYBOY: As you say, it can be argued both 
ways. The question remains, Isn't it true 
that Cuba has worked, and is actively 
working, to overthrow the government of 
President Duarte? If so, what right does 
Cuba have to intervene in the internal 
affairs of another country? 

CASTRO: I’m not concerned in the least 
about charges against Cuba in relation to 
our solidarity with El Salvador. We have 
stated that the United States knows per- 
fectly well that sending weapons to the 
Salvadoran revolutionaries is very diffi- 
cult, in practice almost impossible; but I 
have no interest whatever in clarifying 
anything on this subject, because I consi- 
der that morally, it is absolutely fair to 


help the Salvadoran revolutionaries. They 
are fighting for their country; it’s not a war 
from abroad, like the dirty war the CIA 
carries out in Nicaragua; it’s a war born 
inside the country that has been going on 
for many years. 

What I can assure you is that, in fact, 
the main supplier of the Salvadoran revo- 
lutionaries is the Pentagon, through the 
weapons given to the Salvadoran army. 
That also happened in Vietnam; the 
revolutionaries there seized huge amounts 
of weapons delivered by the United States 
to the puppet army. I really don’t know 
who could feel morally entitled to criticize 
Cuba for allegedly supplying weapons to 
the Salvadorans when the United States 
admits to supplying weapons to the 
Somoza mercenaries to overthrow the gov- 
ernment of Nicaragua. 

PLAYBOY: What evidence do you have that 
the CIA manipulated the presidential elec- 
tions in El Salvador? Didn't they have the 
same kind of scrutiny as Nicaragua’s elec- 
tions, which you claim were fair? 
CASTRO: The information was published in 
а States—and the CIA admitted 
. It gave money not only to the 
Christian Democrats but also to all the 
other parties and covered the expenses of 
the election campaign. Proof is not neces- 
sary in the face of a confession. 
PLAYBOY: You've mentioned Grenada. How 
do you explain the failure of the socialist 
revolution in that country? 
CASTRO: The invasion of Grenada by the 
United States was, in my view, one of the 
most inglorious and infamous deeds that a 
powerful country like the United States 
could ever commit against a small coun- 
try. What was occurring there had nothing 
to do with the failure of socialism. What 
had been taking place in Grenada was a 
process of social change, not a socialist 
revolution. I believe that what opened the 
doors for invading that country, what gave 
the United States a pretext on a silver plat- 
ter, were the activities of an ambitious and 
extremist sectarian group. I believe that 
the main responsibility for the domestic 
situation created there lies with Bernard 
d, an alleged theoretician of the revo- 
who was really advancing his own 
ns to conspire against the popular 
leader, Maurice Bishop. 
PLAYBOY: Do you believe that the United 
States would have intervened in Grenada 
had Bishop still been in power? 
CASTRO: No. If Bishop had been alive and 
leading the people, it would have been 
very difficult for the United States to 
orchestrate the political aspects of its 
intervention and to bring together that 
group of Caribbean stooges in a so-called 
policing coalition that didn’t include a sin- 
gle policeman from the Caribbean—it was 
exclusively U.S. soldiers. 
PLAYBOY: You say the U.S. invaded on a 
pretext. But President Reagan argued that 
the United States had no choice but to 
intervene in Grenada, because Cuba was 
building an airport and stockpiling weap- 


ons with which to export revolution— 
and, of course, because the American 
medical students studying in Grenada 
were in mortal danger. Why didn't the 
U.S. have a right to protect its citizens and 
prevent the spread of revolution? 
CASTRO: The U.S. invasion was accom- 
panied by unscrupulous lies, because for 
one thing, U.S. students on the island 
never ran any risk. The first thing the coup 
group did was to give assurances of safety 
to everyone, particularly the medical stu- 
dents. The safest people in Grenada were 
the U.S. students. As to the airport, Wash- 
ington claimed a thousand times that was 
a military airport, but not a single brick 
that went into that airport was military. It 
was built with the participation of the Euro- 
pean Economic Council and England, 
Canada and other United States allies. 
PLAYBOY: What explains the fact that the 
Grenadian people cheered the United 
States intervention and rallied behind its 
goals and objectives? 
CASTRO: I doubt very much that that sup- 
port is as deep and widespread as you sug- 
gest. Bishop was a man greatly loved by 
the people. He was the leader of the Gre- 
nadian people. He had the real, sincere 
and enthusiastic support of the people. 
The group involved in the coup plotted 
against Bishop, arrested him, fired on the 
people when they revolted and, further- 
more, assassinated Bishop and other lead- 
ers. Naturally, this caused great outrage and 
confusion among the masses. The United 
States intervened, stating its sole pur- 
pose as the noble aim of liberating the 
country from those people and that it would 
punish Bishop's murderers and those who 
had fired on the people. It was logical for a 
large number of people in that country, 
even most of the population, to be suscep- 
tible to accepting invasion as desirable. 
PLAYBOY: What about public support in the 
U.S.? The overwhelming majority of the 
American people rallied behind President 
Reagan's decision. 
CASTRO: Public opinion in the United 
States was manipulated by a pack of lies 
told over and over again. Melodramatic 
elements were brought into play: the stu- 
dents kissing U.S. soil on their arrival; the 
bitterness and frustration resulting from 
the Vietnam adventure and its humiliating 
defeat; the problem of the Marines killed 
in Lebanon and the memory of the [ran 
hostages; all these elements, latent in the 
spirit of the U.S. people, were manipu- 
lated in a cold, calculated manner. People 
can be manipulated; they can even 
applaud crimes. When the Nazis annexed 
Austria, the German people applauded; 
when they occupied Warsaw, the vast 
majority of Germans applauded. Some 
Americans applauded at the start of the 
invasion of Vietnam; later we saw the con- 
sequences, I believe future generations of 
U.S. citizens will be ashamed of the way 
their people were manipulated. 
PLAYBOY: You compare the “shameful” 
(continued on page 174) 


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71 


72 


down deep 
where nobody 
sees, our sexual 
fantasies play 
their erotic 
games. are 
these devils 
really us? 


Hol 
Secrets 


„Ву DAVID BLACK 


SOME YEARS AGO, I was on an uptown Madison Ave- 
nue bus, reading a newspaper account of an 
English lord who had paddled his child’s nanny 
the nanny's fanny—when the elegant woman 
reading over my shoulder asked me, “Would you 
like to spank me?" 

The bus was packed. Even though none of the 
other passengers was paying us obvious attention 
there was a subtle shift in the crowd. Conversa- 
tions stopped. Eyes snaked to the side to check us 
out. The elegant stranger, in her Audrey Hepburn 
Acline dress, looked like a slumming countess in a 
Fifties movie, the kind of film that has Gregory 
Peck as a newspaperman on the skids caught up in 
intrigue and romance against his will and better 
judgment. Her perfume had the bittersweet smell 


of crushed orange peel. She stared straight into my 
eyes as she waited for my answer 

Peck would have parried the question with a 
witticism. I blushed—for the first time since I was 
15 and Andrea Friedman's mother caught me star- 
ing at Andrea’s breasts, trying to imagine what 
they looked like naked. To the slumming countess 
I mumbled something inarticulate. At the next 
stop, I bol 

I had never before thought about erotic spank 
ing. If I had, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have 
thought it arousing. But from the moment I hit the 
pavement and the bus pulled away, I started fanta- 
sizing about what would have happened if I had 


taken the slumming countess up on her offer 
Twelve years later, I still fantasize about it, some- 
times so intensely that I smell the crushed orange 
peel of her perfume. 

The countess had joined the repertory company 
of my imagination, the dream the: 
been playing for a standing-room-only audience of 
one ever since I became conscious. The plays vary 
from one-acts of revenge (in which I pull out a 44 


er that has 


PLAYBOY 


74 


Magnum and blamelessly blast the tires of 
the guy in the classic T-bird who cut me 
off on the highway) to marathon five-act 
spectaculars featuring mansions, formal 
gardens with paths that wind under grape 
arbors, Scrooge McDuck swimming pools 
filled with cash and a chorus of popping 
bottles of vintage champagne. 

But my favorite performance, the long- 
est-running mental hit, is a burlesque 
show. Women who stride past me on Fifth 
Avenue do a slow striptease in my im- 
agination. Rachel Ward—or her dream 
double—inexplicably appears at my apart- 
ment door, dressed in a trench coat and 
nothing else. In one of the star turns of 
this erotic variety show, a female friend 
I've known for more than a decade as a 
chaste pal, someone at whom I would 
never make a pass, throws off her blouse 
and pulls me down to the sofa. A girl I 
dated in tenth grade rushes up from the 
dressing rooms in the backstage of my 
unconscious to make out with me, this time 
letting me fumble under her skirt, in the 
balcony of a remembered movie theater— 
just the balcony. The stage manager of my 
fantasies is efficient, using just enough 
scenery and props to tempt me into a will- 
ing suspension of disbelief. 

Like dreams, sexual fantasies are played 
out on an internal stage; unlike dreams, 
they tend to involve the real world in a 
direct way—as though the mental bur- 
lesque show were being performed by 
members of The Living Theater. The fan- 
tasies may be compelling shadows, but 
what thrills us is what is casting those 
shadows, the exotic who bumps and 
grinds around the corner of the imagina- 
tion in the light of reality—the phantom 
Juliet who discovers in us her flesh-and- 
blood Romeo. 

Such a fantasy woman, part succubus 
and part anima, mysteriously satisfies our 
deepest longings. In her many guises— 
blonde with pubic hair shaved off, bru- 
nette flaunting a peckaboo bra, redhead 
in sheer panty hose—she stirs up in us 
not merely lust but a kind of nostalgia, 
Thinking of her affects us like Proust's 
madeleine, the little cake whose taste un- 
locked a world of sensuous memory—as if 
the sex she offered were a place from which 
we had been exiled a long time ago. 

Sexual fantasies can be set off by the 
slightest stimulus. You don’t need to catch 
a glimpse of a breast through a sheer 
blouse or a stretch of thigh when a woman 
Sitting next to you at a bar crosses her legs. 
You can be plunged into a sexual reverie 
by something as simple as the feel of a 
breeze on the back of your neck. And these 
fantasies are not evoked only when you are 
in a romantic situation; they intrude at 
odd moments—when you're rattling a 
grocery cart down the aisle of the super- 
market, when you're discussing business, 
when you're all alone in an elevator. 

“Ever since third grade, I've fantasized 


about my teachers," says a man I will call 
Larry Calso (names of nonscientists have 
been changed to protect their privacy). 
Calso hasn't been in third grade for 30 
years. He is a businessman with a reputa- 
tion for being tough. Nothing about his 
presence—the expensive, conservative 
suits, the handmade shirts, the shoes I've 
never seen scuffed, the military posture, 
the typically challenging expressi 
hints at any kind of childlike vulnerability. 
Yet, in his fantasies, he is a child and he is 
vulnerable. 

“The situation is usually a variation on 
a single theme," he says, his voice sound- 
ing as professional, as matter-of-fact as if 
he were discussing a real-estate deal. “I 
have to stay after school. The room is over- 
heated, the way my classrooms often were. 
I even hear the hiss of the steam from the 
radiators. The only other person in the 
room is the teacher. She is sitting on 
the edge of her desk, She's wearing a tight 
skirt that rides up her thighs, so I can see 
her underwear, which is surprisingly frilly 
and sexy. I put my hand in my pocket and 
start to masturbate secretly, At some 
point, I realize that the teacher knows 
what I'm doing and is sitting so I can get 
an even better view of her crotch. Neither 
of us acknowledges what is happening. 
And there’s something about that—the 
fact that we're sharing an unspoken 
secret —that makes the fantasy especially 
arousing." 

During his description of the fantasy, 
Calso catches the waitress’ eye and orders 
another drink without losing a beat, I am 
astounded by how casually he is able to 
reveal something so intimate. Most people 
are not so ready to open up. 

“Гуе found that most men I go out with 
tend to be—not passive but fairly tradi- 
tional in their lovem: g,” says Robin 
Thouey. She interrupts herself to ask, 
"You sure you want to hear this?" Of 
course I want to hear it. What she means 
is, "Am I sure I want to tell it?" She later 
admits that although she'd been fantasiz- 
ing like crazy ever since I'd arranged to 
interview her, the moment we got 
together, she went blank. “I had to put 
myself into a sort of trance to tell you. I 
mean, it was fun—fun only after I got 
started. Before that, I was terrified. But I 
don't know of what. 

“Anyway,” she says, “my favorite fan- 
tasy, current favorite, one I'd like to act 
out with someone but no one is willing to 
do it, is, I'm in bed. Somehow, a guy has 
gotten the key to my apartment. He 
lets himself in. I wake up and realize that 
this guy, this stranger, is tying me down. 
He whips me—not really hard but not 
gently, either. I mean, somehow, I know 
everything is safe. It's not a fantasy about 
brutality. But he is very forceful. He mas- 
turbates me; he makes love to me vio- 
lently. I get off on his forcefulness.” 

Robin is an active feminist. It obviously 


costs her a lot to admit to such a sexist fan- 
tasy. But the fantasy exists; it would have 
cost her more to deny it. 

"Which fantasy should I tell?" says 
Richard Dietrich, a commercial artist who 
is working on his fifth shot of whiskey 
before he can approach the subject. He's 
spent more than an hour and a half asking 
questions about what I've learned in my 
research and seems ready to reveal his fan- 
tasies only after I’ve told him about a man 
who has a recurrent fantasy of watching 
his girlfriend make love to a dog. 

“Would he really want her to do that?” 
Dietrich asks. 

“It’s just his fantasy,” I explain. 

“A big dog or a small dog?” he asks. 

“Big,” I say. 

“Yeah, a Chihuahua wouldn't be that 
sexy," he says. "What was it that turned 
him on?" 

"Her wanting to do it," I say. 

“Does his girlfriend really want to do 
he asks. 

She likes imagining it," I tell him. “I 
don't think she'd like doing it.” 

“A dog" Dietrich says. "My fantasy 
isn't that bad. 

His fantasy involves watching his girl- 
friend make love to another man. "We're 
in a taxi, see,” he says, “and we're making 
out. She's got her blouse open and her 
skirt around her waist. The driver is 
watching us through the rearview mirror. 
I tell her that, and she gets hot. She asks 
the driver if she can sit up front with him. 
He parks on a side street and, half-naked, 
she gets into the front seat, I'm in the 
back, separated from them by a Plexiglas 
window. I can't even see what they're 
doing most of the time. But I can hear her. 
Oh, boy, can I hear her. It's hearing her 
come that turns me on. Would I ever do it? 
I don't know. I think if I got to the point 
where I could tell her the fantasy, Га want 
to try. But I don't know if I could ever 
get to that point. I'm afraid she'd be out- 
raged.” 

“Ts that all that's stopping you?" I ask. 
“Fear of her reaction?” 

He stares blankly past my shoulder, 
obviously still in the back seat of the imag- 
inary taxi. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.” 

At some point, all the people I inter- 
viewed wondered if their fantasies made 
them freaks. They wanted to know if 
everyone fantasized, if other people's fan- 
tasies were as odd as they thought theirs 
were. 

And all of them described their fantasies 
in the present tense, as if the imagined 
events existed on a parallel track with 
reality—the hot third rail of consciousness 
that brings us power. In fact, sexual fanta- 
sies are always with us, flickering on and 
off as we go through our daily routine. 
They are our secret sharers, an entire com- 
media dell’ arte cast waiting in the wings for 
the chance to flash, leap, tumble, fly, hop, 


“I love performing under the stars.” 


PLAYBOY 


juggle, clown, slink, twirl and cartwheel 
into awareness. 

Why does our unconscious cook up sce- 
narios that our conscious mind may reject? 
Where do such dreams come from? While 
they are often entertaining, sometimes 
they are also unsettling. What function 
do they serve? What, in fact, is a fantasy? 
Is it a sexual dream? A fleeting sexy 
thought? An elaborate erotic script? 

In the past few years, these questions 
have become popular research topics 
among psychologists and sexologists. For 
the first time, sexual fantasies are being 
studied in depth. Instead of merely cata- 
loging anecdotes, scientists are developing 
a statistical base for their theories. They 
are beginning to make cross-generational 
and cross-cultural analyses of fantasies. 
And, most important, instead of concen- 
trating on pathology, they are examining 
the function of fantasies in normal people. 
This new emphasis may be partly due to 
the social climate. In their lovemaking, 
couples are using erotic movies and 
books—fantasy-oriented material—more 
frequently than they have in the past. 

But the surge in fantasy research may go 
even deeper—to a realization that sexual 
behavior cannot be fully understood with- 
out a look at fantasies. In fact, it may be 
that sexual behavior is merely an artifact 
of the erotic stories we tell ourselves. 

. 

Fantasies are one of the last taboo sub- 
jects in our society. Long after people have 
lost any shame about discussing sex, they 
still can be embarrassed about admitting 
to fantasies—if you know what someone 
dreams, you know who he is. Tradition- 
ally, the macho stud chewing on his date's 
nipple as if it were a plug of Red Dog 
tobacco couldn't bear it if she knew he was 
imagining himself a sweetly suckling baby. 
The demure wife who during sex artlessly 
lets her arms fall to the sides in a dying- 
swan gesture would never want her hus- 
band to know she was pretending to be 
shackled, spread-eagled, to a rock with 
waves crashing about her, waiting for a sea 
snake ten feet long and as thick as a fire- 
plug to butt between her legs. 

But as our culture becomes more exhibi- 
tionistic, this psychological self-protection 
scems less of a factor. After the Sensitive 
Seventies, with its self-help fads, some 
people think nothing of betraying their 
most intimate secrets. Recently, I was ata 
dinner with a couple I hardly knew, and 
the woman casually mentioned over des- 
sert that ever since her husband had given 
up a two-pack-a-day cigarette habit, he'd 
lost interest in sex. 

“He can't get it up even when I stick my 
finger up his ass,” she said, smiling indul- 
gently across the peach compote at her hus- 
band, who beamed modestly, as though 
his wife were describing some anonymous 
act of charity in which he'd indulged. 


No, it's not the sexuality that embar- 
rasses people, it’s the fantasy. After all, 
fantasies are make-believe, play acting for 
kids. Adults are supposed to be reality ori- 
ented. As a result, for years, the study of 
sexual fantasies has been the Cinderella of 
sexology, a stepchild that was ignored or 
reviled most of the time, even though in 
practice it always ended up being the belle 
of the erotic ball. 

Pierre Janet, the French psychologist 
and precursor of Freud, who used hypno- 
sis to treat hysteria and neurosis, 
explained a case of “demonic possession” 
as being a severe attack of fantasies, which 
he called réveries subconscients—an obses- 
sive circling of a fixed sexual idea, an expe- 
rience many people have had at least once 
in their lives. 

“I was so loaded, I couldn't perform 
with this woman I'd picked up at the 
Odeon,” says a friend who for the past half 
year has been in the grip of an obsessive 
tasy. “No hand-eye coordination. I was 
like the drunk who can’t fit his key into his 
lock. Finally, I figured, What the hell, and 
rolled off her, just hoping the room would 
stop spinning long enough to let me catch 
my breath. But she was so hot that she 
started to masturbate herself, her hand 
going whap whap whap like she was beat- 
ing eggs. I was transfixed. It was the most 
erotic thing I’d ever seen. For months 
afterward, I couldn’t shake the picture of 
her on the bed, back arched and fingers 
going a mile a minute. Every day, all day 
long, it haunted me. It was like wandering 
around your apartment with the TV going 
full blast—except this TV was inside my 
head. Finally, I hired a whore to recon- 

; it wasn’t the same. It was 
like watching Gilda Radner play a Katha- 
rine Hepburn role.” 

In Psychopathia Sexualis, the pioneer- 
ing 1886 work on sexuality—and a great 
read-aloud book filled with entertaining 
vignettes—Richard von Krafft-Ebing rec- 
ognized that “reading and the experiences 
of everyday life . . . convert [sexual] notions 
into clear ideas, which are accentuated 
by organic sensations of a pleasurable 
Character." These erotic ideas—fanta- 
sies—were proof of "a mutual depend- 
ence between the cerebral cortex (as the 
place of origin of sensations and ideas) and 
the reproductive organs,” which “give rise 
to sexual ideas, images and impulses." 

About the same time, Havelock Ellis, 
the civilized and sane British psychologist, 
wrote in his Studies in the Psychology of 
Sex that daydreaming “is a very common 
and important form of autoeroticism” that 
has “attracted little attention.” He defined 
a daydream as “an imagined narrative, 
more or less peculiar to the individual, by 
whom it is cherished with fondness.” 

“The starting point,” Ellis wrote, “is an 
incident from a book or, more usually, 
some actual experience. ... The growth 


of the story is favored by solitude, and 
lying in bed before going to sleep is the 
time specially sacred to its cultivation. . . , 
It may involve an element of perversity, 
even though that element finds no expres- 
sion in real life.” 

Freud believed that fantasies were wish 
fulfillments, products of frustration and 
desire. If you were sexually active, Freud 
thought, you’d have fewer fantasies—a 
theory that research has not borne out. 

Alfred Kinsey was one of the first of the 
modern sexologists to report that sexual 
fantasizing was not abnormal. Eighty-four 
percent of the men and 69 percent of the 
women he studied admitted to fantasizing 
about the opposite sex. The lower figure 
for women may have been due to their 
embarrassment at revealing their fantasies 
or their difficulty in getting pornography, 
which could give them ideas and images, a 
verbal and pictorial language to shape 
inchoate sexual yearnings. Or maybe they 
didn’t realize they were fantasizing. 

“Many women have been taught many 
negatives related to sexuality,” says Dr. 
Mark Schwartz, a sexologist from New 
Orleans affiliated with the Masters and 
Johnson Institute, who is one of the lead- 
ers in the new field of sexual-fantasy 
research. “So if you say to a woman, ‘Do 
you use any fantasies?” she may say, ‘No.’ 
But if you say, ‘Have you ever thought 
about a movie star and felt lubrication?’ 
she may say, ‘Oh, yeah, I’ve felt that.’ The 
problem is labeling.” 

Much of the current sexual-fantasy 
research has been devoted to this problem 
of labeling. Like Adam in the Garden of 
Eden, sexologists have spent a great deal 
of time and effort on giving names to amor- 
phous things—sensations, experiences, 
fantasies. This work is necessary, because 
until such things are properly named, it is 
impossible to take a sexual census, to find 
out what is real and what is myth. 

In fact, the preliminary results of this 
work have already destroyed quite a few 
myths. For example, not only do women 
fantasize but their top five fantasies are (1) 
replacing their usual partner with another 
man, (2) having a forced sexual encounter 
with a man, (3) watching others involved 
in sex, (4) having idyllic sexual encounters 
with strange men and (5) having lesbian 
encounters. 

The top five fantasies for men are (1) 
replacing their usual partner with another 
woman, (2) having a forced sexual encoun- 
ter with a woman, (3) watching others 
involved in sex, (4) having homosexual 
encounters and (5) having group sex. 

Obviously, the difference between men’s 
and women’s fantasies is not as great as 
some have believed. 

Environment and culture may play a 
greater part than gender in determining 
what people fantasize. For people in a 

(continued on page 186) 


ES HE PROBLEM with grow- 
ing up on TV is that 
the person you grow 

up as is not necessarily who 

you are. Judy Norton-Taylor, 
for instance, grew up as Mary 

Ellen Walton on the long- 

running television series The 

Waltons. Mary Ellen was one of 

the sweetest, humblest 

noblest people you'd ever hope 
to meet. Judy, on the other 
hand, is a lot more fun 

It’s not that she doesn't 
share many of the qualities of 
her former television character; 
she does. But there’s an edge to 

Judy that Mary Ellen couldn't 


and 


even imagine. While her TV 
character may have been con- 
tent to sit and knead bread for 
most of the day, such a waste of 
good daylight would drive Judy 
out of her mind 

“That wasn't an image I was 
too comfortable with. It was 


The clan from Walton’s Mountain 
(left) makes a small hill itself 
when assembled. That's Judy as 
Mary Ellen o'clock. 
Below, several years and some 
judicious growing later, the real 
Judy  Norton-Taylor emerges. 


at seven 


ine FUNUN INJU 


miss norton-taylor says, “good night, mary ellen” 


-_ 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY RICHARD FEGLEY 


too . . . boring. It wasn't 
what my life was, and it 
wasn't what I wanted it to 
be. But I resent that chara: 
ter only when it limits peo- 
ple's assessment of me. Even 
when it was the main thing 
in my life, it still wasn't 
the only thing. There was 
another whole person who 
went home between shots.” 

Understandably, the d 
velopment of that other per- 
son in the shadow of the 
overwhelming TV image 
wasn't easy, but Judy is a 
child-star survivor. She' 
tough, bright and intens 
When she's interested in 
something, her entire being 
is focused on it; when she's 
bored, she makes a quick 
exit 

Seven years of ballet 
training have given Judy 
a powerful grace that she 


uses in her pursuit of sports 


and the adrenaline rush 
they provide. She's given to 
such knife-edge pastimes as 
equestrian jumping, trapeze 
acrobatics, skiing and sky 
diving. When you consider 
that most of these are not 
sports you try out but sports 
you do—or get killed d 
ing—you get some idea of 
her mind-set 
"I've done a lot of things 
that would probably be con- 
dangerous. But I go 
about them very slowly and 
carefully. I didn’t go out 
there and do trapeze stunts 
without a belt on. I stayed 
in the belt until everybody 
agreed I was ready. In the 
ay, I wouldn’t jump 
that I didn’t think I, 
or my horse, was ready for 
“It's the challenge that I 
like. Of course, there is that 
clement of fear in most of 
what I do, too. Despite the 
(text concluded on page 172) 


“To me, life is like a game, and 
my whole attitude is geared 
to what | enjoy—because if 
I'm not going to enjoy being 
here and living this life, then 
what's the point? If there's no 
excitement, nothing to look for- 
ward to, nothing to achieve, 
then | don't want to be here.” 


I 


@ 


THE 
CLOWNS 


these performers were knocking 
their audience dead—literally 


fiction 


By GARDNER DOZOIS, JACK 
DANN and SUSAN CASPER 


HE C. FRED JOHNSON Municipal Pool was 
packed with swimmers, more in spite of 
the blazing sun and wet, muggy heat 
than because of them 

It was the dead middle of August, stiflingly 
hot, and it would have made more sense to stay 
inside—or, at the very least, in the s 
than to splash around in the murky, tepid 
water. Nevertheless, the pool was crowded 
almost shoulder to shoulder, especially with 
kids—there were children everywhere, the 
younger ones splashing and shouting in the 
shallow end, the older kids and the teenagers 
jumping off the high dive or playing water polo 
in the deep end. Mothers sat in groups and 
chatted, their skins glistening with suntan oil 
and sweat. The temperature was well above 90, 
and the air seemed to shimmer with the he 
like automobile exhaust in a traffic jam 

David Shore twisted his wet bath towel and 
snapped it at his friend Sammy, hitting him on 
the sun-reddened backs of his thighs 

“Ow!” Sammy screamed. “You dork! Cut it 
out!” David grinned and snapped the towel 
at Sammy again, hitting only air this time but 
producing a satisfyingly loud crack. Sammy 
jumped back, shouting, "Cut it out! I'll tell! PI 
tell! Y mean it.” 

Sammy's voice was whining and petulant, 
and David felt a spasm of annoyance. Sammy 
was his friend, and he didn’t have so many 
friends that he wasn’t grateful for that, but 
Sammy was always whining. What a baby! 
That's what he got for hanging out with little 
kids—Sammy was eight, two years younger 
than David—but since the trouble he'd had 
last fall, with his parents almost breaking up 
and he himself having to go for counseling, he'd 
been ostracized by many of the kids his own 
age. David's face (continued on page 130) 


le— 


ILLUSTRATION BY GUY BILLOUT 


83 


Above: His jeans jacket, by Levi's, about 
$50, oversize T-shirt, by The Satur- 
days Group, $11, and gray T-shirt, by 
Perry Ellis America, $30, contrast with 
white Calvin Klein Jeans, about $34. 


razzle-dazzle ways 


to jazz up your 


summer wardrobe 


By H 


fashion 


JLLIS WAYNI 


ANKINDS age-old response to hot weath 
been light-colored clothing: White, beige 
: : tan are the most common summer hues. Sc 


you, like every other guy on your block, probat 
have 


bland summer wardrobe that a Good Hum 
man would sell his soul to own. Put that stuff 
or, better yet bine neutral pairs of 

shorts with the latest pop tops—shirts, T-shirts, pull- 
overs and jackets in brilliant tropical shades. Son 
examples are on these pages. Just add a great 


à 


Right: This black pop top with a floral print, by Hannes 
B, $130, colorfully counterpoints his cotton knit tank top 
by Calvin Klein Underwear, about $9, and cotton slacks 
with elasticized self-belted waistband, by Cadre, $45. 


Right: There's nothing shady about this character's shirt— 
it’s a box plaid, $30, worn over a colorful tank top, $15, 
both by Tony Lambert, and cotton poplin double-pleated 
walk shorts, by Boston Traders, $40. His sunglasses— 
appropriately enough—are by Shady Character, $35. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY E. J. CAMP 


Left: More bright ideas—including a cotton crew-neck, 
by Gene Pressman and Lance Karesh for Basco, $60, 
worn knotted over a knit pullover, by Merona, $40, and a 
knit shirt, by Saratoga, $40, plus shorts, by Gianfranco 
Ruffini, $40, and leather oerobic shoes, by Reebok, $43. 


personality By STEPHEN RANDALL 


AFTER EMMANUEL Lewis, TV’s other diminu- 
tive child star, has reported in about being 
at Ronald Reagan's Inauguration, and 
after George Hamilton has bragged for a 
while about his tan, Joan Rivers, guest 
hosting for you know who on The Tonight 
Show, introduces her next guest: "He's 
funny, he's terrific. . . .” As he has done 
seven times before, 29-year-old Steven 
Wright walks through the parted curtains. 
He is wearing a red-and-black plaid 
flannel shirt, black Levi's cords and work 
boots. His brown hair, receding in front, is 
long and curly everywhere else. Wright 
looks as though he is due back in the dorm 
immediately after the show. 

“Thanks,” he says, eying the applaud- 
ing audience suspiciously; but he says it in 
such a deadpan way, so devoid of emotion 
or energy, that it gets a sizable laugh. He 
edges cautiously into his first joke. 

“I just got out of the hospital," he tells 
the audience. “I was in a spced-reading 
accident." Pause. “I hit a bookmark.” 

"The audience laughs tentatively, partly 
at the joke and partly at the morose, 
almost spacy delivery. 

Wright continues, "Last summer, I 
drove cross-country with a friend. We split 
the driving. We switched every half mile.” 
Wright walks back and forth as the punch 
line, such as it is, sinks in. “The whole way 
across, we had only one cassette tape to li: 
ten to." He rubs his head thoughtfully. “I 
can’t remember what it was. 

“I was traveling with my friend George. 
Some people think George is weird ‘cause 
he has sideburns behind his cars. I think 
he’s weird 'cause he has false teeth but he 
has braces on them.” 

Wright paces nervously, as if he were in 
a psychiatrist’s office trying to come up 
with even more reasons he should be com- 
mitted without a hearing. 

“My friend George is a radio an- 
nouncer,” he says. “And when he walks 
under a bridge, you can’t hear him talk.” 
By now the audience is catching on, laugh- 
ing harder with each line and with each 
odd movement and strained expression. 

“The thoughts Steven comes out with 
are totally original,” says Peter Lasally, 
producer of The Tonight Show and the man 
who discovered Wright working in an ob- 
scure Boston club. “They’re not jokes, 
they’re fresh, original thoughts that are 
just so wonderful and so off the wall that 
you say, ‘My God, how could anyone 
think of things like that?’ He's brilliant. 
I've never seen anything like him.” 

In Los Angeles, if you meet someone 
Wright's age, you can safely assume he's 
one of three things: an aspiring actor, an 
aspiring screenwriter or an aspiring come- 
dian. Sometimes it seems as if there are 
comedy clubs every few inches and that 
people are falling in and out of improv 


troupes as often as they fall in and out of 
love. Wright's act is unusual enough that 
within a few days of his hitting town, he 
was sought after by virtually every major 
agency and producer with an interest in 
comedy. Now, three years later, he has an 
album that will be released shortly by 
Warner Bros., a special in the works for 
HBO, a movie deal in development with 
Orion Pictures and several New York pub- 
lishers courting him to do books. He turns 
down more TV work than most people are 
ever offered, and one can often hear him 
compared with Woody Allen—the reign- 
ing pinnacle of comedic achievement—as 
a likely candidate to cross over success- 
fully from clubs to films. 

Comparisons with Allen are frequent in 
Wright's life. For one thing, that's the 
standard showbiz way of complimenting a 
comedian, of telling him that he has poten- 
tial. And for another, Allen is one of 
Wright's idols—when he was younger, 
Wright listened over and over again to 
Allen's albums, analyzing the way each 
joke was structured and delivered. But 
beyond that, the comparisons are limited. 
Allen's humor is observational, drawn 
from the regular world that most of us 
inhabit. At least part of his appeal comes 
from the fact that the audience can recog- 
nize itself in his jokes and movies. 

Wright's jokes, on the other hand, seem 
as if they've been beamed down from a 
distant galaxy. Few people—at least, few 
people outside of mental hospitals— 
readily identify with Wright’s unique, 
twisted view of the world. As he tells his 
audiences, “I like to skate on the other side 
of the ice.” Instead of striking a familiar 
chord, Wright surprises his audiences with 
wordplay and unusual images, dragging 
them onto an unlikely, surrealistic planet 
where people make synthetic hair balls for 
ceramic cats and live in houses that run on 
static electricity. In a modest way, his act 
is a reinvention of the wheel, taking a 
hackneyed form—stand-up comedy—and 
doing something new and fresh. 

“When I was little, in our back yard we 
had a quicksand box," Wright is saying. 
“T was an only child . . . eventually. 

“Last time I tried to commit suicide was 
about an hour ago. I was down the street 
on the roof of this very tall building. I ran, 
I leaped off the edge and accidentally did a 
triple back flip, landed standing on my 
feet. Nobody saw this but two little kittens, 
and one of them said to the other one, ‘Sec, 
that’s how you do that'" The Tonight 
Show audience gives him an enthusiastic 
final round of applause. 

When Wright joins the other guests, sit- 
ting between George Hamilton's old-world 
elegance and Joan Rivers’ borrowed Perry 
Ellis original, he seems even more out of 
place than he had been on stage. And Riv- 
ers is uncharacteristically tongue-tied. In 
a world that (continued on page 165) 


for comedian steven wright, 
weird is normal 


SKATING 
ON THE 


OHH 
IE Or 
Meer 


ILLUSTRATION BY ROBERT RISKO 


HER BUTLER’s eyes change color from 
green to blue, depending on her mood, She 
was in a good mood the day she visited us 
in Chicago: One eye was green, one blue. 
She spoke in a tiny voice that seemed to fit 
perfectly the miniature tape recorder on 
our desk. “I’ve wanted to be a Playmate 
ever since high school, but I never told 
anyone about it. I was afraid that if I 
failed, I would disappoint people. I saw it 
as a lot of attention. I wanted the atten- 
tion. I was kind ofan ugly duckling in high 
school, a string bean, without much 
confidence." 

We found it hard to believe that this 
poised young woman had ever had a crisis 
of confidence. So we offered her some 
second-rate editorial coffee in our TRUST 
YOUR Lusr mug. She laughed. “Were you 
saving this for me?” We wondered if her 
self-assurance had come from a life on the 


“I dream of faraway places. My lover 
and I are alone. The stars hang in the 
night sky. It is quiet. I dream the 
dreams in color. They're better that way. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY RICHARD FEGLEY 


road. A lot of Pla 
Army brats 
sion of strange 


er 


a succes- 


close I 
come from a family of gypsies,” she 
said. "We moved every few years tc 
e boredom threshold low.” 
Cher was born in Texas but made 
stops in Nevada, British Columbi 
and New Mexico (where she finished 
high school) before settling into her 
current address in Washington, D.C. 
She got off the t 
her family finished building theirs 
Her mom and dad took C 
younger sister and hit the road in the 
Candy Ark, a rolling home buil 


us just about the time 


er's 


16 
At the top of the page, we catch Cher 
in a quiet moment with her morning 
coffee, the newspapers and her ever- 
present notebooks. There’s no telling 
what she'll write; her journals hold 
her most private thoughts. Above 
and left, we get to see why cleanli- 
ness is next to godliness as washing 
the car quickly turns into a soapy 
free-for-all. At right, Cher's at work 
as a_ veterinary assistant. “You 
should see how some people treat 
their pets,” she told us. "It's enough 
to make you sick. I've always loved 
dogs. Great companions, but right 
now I’m too rootless to have one.” 


for mont 
asked if there 


her mother rds and cor 


charts. a reliance 


during a 
closet. It’s a 


journals are a 


life in pers 


really strike 
nes from all 


tially an obser 
around. I kind ol le who can just dive in. I 
can't do that. I к” 

You're pro! 
Cher Butler 
expect, “I can't 


men. No one 


“I wouldn’t mind being rich, as long as dn't turn 
me into a bore. I wouldn't mind being famous, 
if the right opportunity came my way. I'm in the neu 
Don Henley video. Maybe it's the start of something." 


“I keep hoping that one day I'll find one man who has 
all the qualities I’m looking for. Right now, I have one 
man to play with, one to enjoy quiet time with, one to 
talk with and one to make love with, But I'm young. I 
don’t have to find Mr. Right in the next hour, do I? 


explain physical attraction. I like sensitive men; they're 
more attuned to music, writing and the emotions of 
women. I relate to them better. I don’t like tough guys. 
They’re hiding a bunch of things inside. I value dialog.” 
Does n run into this sensitive guy among the men 
in her generation? She gave this some thought before sh 
replied, “I find that the men in my generation are full 
questions but not answers. (text concluded on page 174) 


PLAYBOY’S PLAYMATE OF THE MONTH 


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PLAYMATE DATA SHEET 


NAME: Mes < 


HEIGHT: | 7 WEIGHT: _/23 
MEASUREMENTS: _ 27 £- Pe 


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WHO'S YOUR IDEAL MAN? One who detent dary his gun 


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CHOOSE ONE PLACE YOU'D LIKE TO VISIT AND TELL US way pt 


vhe 44 world no medir 
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WHAT ARE YOUR Ben > í Z 


WHO IN THE ENTIRE WORLD WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO MEET? f wata have _ 


PLAYBOY'S PARTY JOKES 


During half time, the furious football coach 
entered the subdued locker room carrying a live 
alligator. Glaring at his bumbling players, he 
dropped his pants, whereupon the reptile 
clamped its jaws onto his penis. Finally, after 
enduring several moments in its grip, the coach 
poked the beast in the eye and it dropped off and 
scuttled under a locker. 

"Any of you wimps man enough to do that?" 
he bellowed. 

After a moment, a blond young man stepped 
forward. “I am, Coach,” he volunteered. “Only 
pleeease don't poke me in the eye.” 


The Washington Dictionary defines ménage & 
trois as a trilateral commission. 


Look at this ad for VCRs,” the man called out to 

his wife. * "Lets s get one while they're on sale.” 
Een 

fourteen-day, one-event player in the bedroom.” 


The Loser's Dictionary defines ménage à trois as 
a lonely guy and two hand puppets. 


1 disagr 
tender. * 
little guy.” 

"You've got to be kidding,” countered the bar- 
tender. “Give me one example." 

“Well, using his economic policies as my 
guide, I don't think of myself as ne ing the IRS 
anymore,” the stockbroker said. “I F hink of 
myself as a deficit taxpayer.” 


," the young stockbroker told the bar- 
President Reagan has done a lot for the 


1 don’t want to say that Walter Mondale has 
dropped out of sight,” remarks comedian Mike 
Ostrowski, “but the other day I saw his picture 
on a milk carton." 


The Lancelot and Guinevere Dictionary defines 
ménage à trois as two characters in search of an 
Arthur. 


The vice-president of a small company had two 
loyal employees, Mary and Jack. One day his 
boss told him that he'd have to lay one of them 
off. “But how?” protested the V.P. “Mary's ter- 
Sic he's been here for ten years. And Jack’s a 
great worker with a family to support. How can I 
choose between them?” 

“Make it easy on yourself,” said the boss. 
“Whoever arrives first tomorrow morning— 
that’s the one who gets fired.” 

Dreading what he had to do, the V.P. spent a 
sleepless mght. At 8:55 the next morning, Mary 
walked into the office. "Mary," he stammered, 
“I have some very difficult news. I. . . I've wor- 
ried all night about it, but... I... well, I have 
to lay you or Jack off." 

“Ah, jack off,” she said. “I've got a head- 
ache!” 


The Los Angeles Dictionary defines ménage à 
trois as two nostrils and a $100 bill. 


‚After losing his penis in a horrible industrial 
accident, the desperate worker visited doctor 
after doctor, seeking a remedy. Finally, a cre- 
ative plastic surgeon agreed to substitute a baby 
elephant's trunk for the missing member. 

Thus equipped, the elated worker headed for 
home, deciding to break the news to his wife over 
dinner. 

Before he had found a way to explain his new 
appendage, however, the trunk swept up onto 
the table, grabbed a dinner roll and shot back 
beneath the table. 

The man's startled wife demanded an immedi- 
ate explanation. Upon learning of the operation, 
she became visibly excited and pressed her hus- 
band for details. 

“Tell me,” 
that again?” 

“I think so,” he replied. “But, to be honest, I 
don’t know if I can handle another bun up my 
ass.” 


she eagerly inquired, “can you do 


Heard a funny one lately? Send it on a post- 
card, please, to Party Jokes Editor, PLAYBOY, 
Pi Bldg., 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, 
Ill. 60611. $50 will be paid to the contributor 
whose card is selected. Jokes cannot be returned. 


"Hi! My name is Rick—I'll be your executioner today!” 


105 


GOOD ENOUGH TO DREAM 


this time the writer was the owner 
and they were his boys of 
summer—his team, 
his problems, his pride 


THE FIRST DREAM, full of innocence and sun- 
light, is to play the game. The dream 
shines, with that same eerie, morning light 
of promise, at Renton, Washington, along 
Spring Garden Road in Lincroft, New Jer- 
sey, and on West Arthur Street in Chicago. 
To play the game, To play the game 
superbly. To play with such a brilliant, 
sunlit, morning grace that the dream itself 
leaves you, at length, like Caliban, able to 
speak only fragments: "The clouds . , 
would open and show riches, ready to 
drop upon me... . ” 

I remember versions of my small base- 
ball fantasy from loving and faraway days 
when ballplayers wore uniforms of hot, 
baggy flannel and television existed only 
in the laboratories and fantasies of electri- 
cal engineers. 

You could pitch, like Christy Mathew- 
son, Van Lingle Mungo or John Whitlow 
Wyatt, and then the batters, aggressive, 
mean-spirited men—none seemed to have 
shaved that morning—quailed before your 
fast ball and your swift, snapping curve. 
Or you could hit, and now the pitcher 
became a foul, murderous brute who 
stared out of a storm-cloud visage. He 
knocked you down and cursed you with 
what people in baggy-flannel days 
described, in studied loathing, as “foul 
epithets.” You stood against his fast ball, 
his swift, snapping curve, and drove a 
long, high drive that climbed the sky. 

After that long-sounding thwack and a 
blur of base runners, you were borne 
shoulder-high by exulting teammates. In 
the crowd beyond, your father cheered 
and your mother brought both hands to 


memoir 


By ROGER KAHN 


her face, her cheeks glistening with pride 
Somewhere else in the careful tapestry of 
the imagined throng sulked a regretful 
baby-doll face. It was the girl who had let 
you get away. 

Out of the roughly 1,500, 


00 young men 


who graduate from American high schools 
every year, no more than 500 are signed 
to professional baseball contracts, The 
chances against your getting any contract 
at all, on the very lowest level, anywhere 
in organized baseball run about 3000 to 


one. The death of the baseball dream, with 
all its innocence and sunlight, comes early 
to most. You have to be very, very good to 
play professionally, even at a rudimentary 
stage, and few young ballplayers are 
that—very, very good 

For myself, I guarded dreams carefully. 
My father, Gordon, a teacher, editor and 
polymath, knew baseball, played baseball 
and coached baseball. id mentioned 
that he had played third base for the City 
College of New York in the season of 1923, 
and years later, when I had the means to 
check old City College box scores, I 
decided not to verify what he said. He 
wanted me to believe that he had played 
college ball, and I wanted to believe that 
he told the facts. Who needed truth, with 
all her tedious footnotes, breaking in on 
admiration and love? 

I wanted above all things to play profes- 
sional baseball, but there were insistent 
early hints that Joe DiMaggio and I were 
made of different stuff. For one thing, I was 
always small for my age. For another, my 
throwing arm was suspect. Although in 
later years I reached a respectable level of 
competence in softball, we are talking 
hardball here. Major-league hardball. I 
never came close. 

My father developed a fine and rather 
relaxed friendship with me around the 
centerpiece of (continued on page 137) 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY MARK ENGLISH 


take it from george brett—the hot corner 
for barbecue is his own home town 


food By RICH DAVIS 


110 PHOTOGRAPHY BY DAVID MECEY 


IN THIS HIGH-TECH, fast-food world, it's reassuring to know 
that at least one primitive, slow-paced human passion con- 
tinues to grow in popularity—and I'm not talking about 
baseball. The centuries-old lust is for native, smoky, Ameri- 
can barbecue. Barbecue Texas style, Memphis style, Caro- 
lina style and Kansas City style—each has its merits. 
Charcoal grilling of fish, fowl and meats is also growing in 
popularity; note the current hysteria over mesquite-grilled 
foods. Many an outdoor chef turns out great steaks, burg- 
ers and grilled fish, but grilling ain’t genuine American 
barbecue. 

Traditional barbecue is the combination of slow cooking 
and continuous wood smoking of various meats over low 
heat to a crusty well-doneness. And in my opinion, the best 
of all barbecue breeds is Kansas City style. “Smoke it slow 
and cook it low” is the K.C. rib watchword to the wise. And 
when it’s time for the sauce (at the end of the barbecue proc- 
ess, not the beginning), there are about 25 Kansas City- 
style sauces, from Bobby Bell’s to Zarda, on the market. 


WOODS AND SMOKE 


Mesquite charcoal is excellent for grilling because of its 
high burning temperature (nearly twice that of most char- 
coal briquettes). But I prefer hickory charcoal or wood 
(hickory or pecan) logs for traditional barbecuing, because 
you want to maintain a 200-degree smoky-coal cooking 
environment, without flames. Soak the logs or chunks sev- 
eral hours or overnight in water, so that they won’t flare up. 
And resist the temptation to peek into your closed cooker; 
every time you do, you lose the accumulated smoke and 
cause a fire flare-up by letting in fresh air. The result 
is a hotter, less smoky atmosphere that doesn’t do the 
ribs or your taste buds any good. — (concluded on page 184) 


POP 
TOPS 


because a skyline is a 
terrible thing to waste 


THE U.S. POST OFFICE BUILDING 


TOASTMASTER TOWERS 


RAID CORPORATION BUILDING 


(with repellent beacon) 


BUILDINGS USED TO BE DESIGNED from the ground up, which made not only excel- 
lent engineering sense but aesthetic sense as well—after all, architects wanted 
their buildings to be appreciated by pedestrians passing by on the sidewalks. 
Sure, there were edifices. Sure, there were flourishes of cornice and column. But 
the real art was at street level. These days, architects seem to think about the 
tops of their buildings more than anything else. Philip Johnson had no pressing 
reason to make the AT&T building into a 647-foot Chippendale dresser. But 
that didn’t stop him. Well, we’re not going to let other pressing reasons stop us, 
either. If we're going to be stuck high up in our fast-sprouting urban landscapes, 
looking at the skyline—as more and more of us seem to be—the least we can 
ask is that the buildings wear distinctive hats. Here’s to making our skyline fun. 


THE HARPER & ROW BINDERY BUILDING 


THE BLACK & DECKER TOWER 


WALT DISNEY WORLD HEADQUARTERS 


or: 


ILLUSTRATION BY DAVE CALVER 


ONE PIZZA HUT PLAZA 


THE ETHAN ALLEN FURNITURE MART 


THE POLAROID CAMERA COMPANY 


SAKS FIFTH AVENUE 


TWO BY 
QU 


articles 


By WILLIAM JEANES, 
BROCK YATES, BILL 
NEELY and GARY 
WITZENBURG 


a quartet of eminent auto- 
motive journalists road-tests 
four of the latest two-seaters 


EVER SINCE homeward-bound GIs 
started packing spindly MGs into their 
steamer trunks following World War 
Two, America has been in love with 
sports cars—MGAs, Austin Healeys, 
Jaguars and Triumphs; Alfas, Fiats and 
Ferraris; Porsches and Mercedeses; 
Corvettes and Ford’s two-seat T-bird. 
But postwar America was too busy 
making babies to consume many two- 
seaters. The American dream may have 
included them, but suburban drive- 
ways were lined with sedans and wood- 
sided wagons instead. The T-bird grew 
to a 2+2, with room in back for kids. 
So did many others. The Japanese won 
some two-seater hearts in the Seventies 
with Datsun Zs and Mazda RX-7s, but a 
lot of the Europeans folded their 
tents and fled as U.S. safety, emissions 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY BRUCE AYRES 


Above: Cross your fingers; it’s not here yet—but come 
mid-1986, the gorgeous Renault Alpine (with bumpers 
slightly amended from the European version pictured 
here) should roll off the boat to burn up our highways 
and byways. The price? About $30,000. Get in line, fella. 


Below: Automobili Ferruccio Lamborghini's asphalt- 
eating mid-engined Jalpa is loose; and if you're man 
enough to drive it, you're in for one fine motoring expe- 
rience. Zero to 60 in less than seven seconds, and 
the speedometer reads 180 mph. Yours for $53,000. 


Above: Four-wheel disc brakes, a five-speed gearbox as 
smooth as a hot knife in butter and a 112-hp, 16-valve 
engine with a zero to 60 of just about eight seconds— 
Toyota's MR2 is a delightful funmobile that's almost too 
good to be true. A $13,500 winner fully loaded. 


z 
РА 
H 
£ 


Below: Pontiac’s new GT Fiero has gotten its automotive 
act together, with a 2.8-liter V6 engine instead of the 
original 92-hp four-banger. Add a sexy interior, zero to 
60 in less than nine seconds and a top end upward of 125 
mph and who could turn it down? All for about $14,000. 


recently launched its 12-cylinder 
Testarossa and Porsche its 944 Turbo. 
Mazda’s new RX-7 is due this fall. 
Renault’s turbo-V6 Alpine (like mod- 
ern Porsches, not a true two-seater but 
very much a sports car) hits the road 


ler (with Maserati), Cadillac (with 
Pininfarina), Ford and Buick. Lotus’ 
wedge-shaped Etna is years away. 
Lamborghini is revamping its awesome intended 


V12 Countach, and Aston Martin is 
collaborating with Zagato on a 185- 
plus-mph super GT. 

Why the boom? More and more 
Americans are single and/or childless. 
The decade of dullness has left us 
hungry for auto excitement, and the 
car-as-status syndrome ocowrages 
automotive show- 

Somebody once defined a sports car 
as a car with everything unnecessary 
removed. Purists insisted that it have a 
ragtop, competition capability and no 
more than two seats. Today’s best defi- 
nition is simply that it's designed for 
fun and, primarily, for two people. It's 
ages in size, striking in looks, exciting 

performance, agile in response, 
delightfully $ sexy and impractical and 


warm summer nights, 


0 
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жез 


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PLAYBOY 


8 


scenic mountain roads and cuddly com- 
pany. 

From Toyota’s twin-cam, 16-valve 
four-cylinder MR2 to Lamborghini's 
thundering V8-powered Jalpa, here's a 
pulse-quickening cross section. 


TOYOTA MR2 


Sports-car lovers have greeted Toyota's 
MR? with an enthusiasm usually associ- 
ated with Super Bowl victories or large 
inheritances. They are overjoyed. And 
they have every reason to be. To drive 
"Toyota's new two-seater, the MR2, is to 
rediscover the lost world of the sports car. 
It has a high-revving engine that's a mar- 
vel, room for only you and your compan- 
ion, a shifter that's so smooth it's scary 
and the ability to go around corners at 
speed without losing control—or causing 
you to. 

Furthermore, for those who remember 

the questionable joys of having snow blow 
through the side curtains of an MGA and 
who understand the humor of a T-shirt 
that says, THE ENGLISH DRINK WARM BEER 
BECAUSE THEY HAVE LUCAS REFRIGERATORS, the 
MR? offers the added advantage of being a 
civilized automobile. 
, an engine of leading- 
tion, powers the MR2, 
doing its precision work from just behind 
the driver's right shoulder. The 16-valve 
twin-overhead-cam engine reaches its 
horsepower peak at 6600 rpm, an engine 
speed that just a few years ago could be 
found only on race tracks. The 112- 
horsepower four-cylinder displaces only 97 
cubic inches (1587 c.c.), yet gets you from 
zero to 60 in just over eight seconds. 

When you're under way in the MR2, 
tucked snugly into its low-slung and firmly 
supportive driver’s seat, you will notice 
ordinary responsiveness—until the engine 
reaches 4350 rpm. At that point, electronic 
witchcraft opens the intake portion of the 
fuel-injection system and you get a swift 
kick in the acceleration curve. With sur- 
prising smoothness and rapidity, you'll 
find yourself streaming happily along far 
above the 55-mph level. 

You control the five-speed gearbox with 
as little effort as you will ever expend in 
the cause of changing gears. The shifter 
might operate more smoothly on the 
moon, where gravity isn’t a factor, but I 
doubt it. 

Under pressure, when you have to stop 
for something or escape from a curve that 
you've entered too fast, the MR2 shows 
true grace. Its four-wheel disc brakes stop 
you with a commendable absence of com- 
motion, and its cornering qualities will 
comfort any driver who's not certifiably 
inept. 

The MR2’s suspension system, an unre- 
markable four MacPherson struts with 
low-pressure gas struts and front and rear 
stabilizer bars, delivers confidence-inspiring 
neutrality—with just enough of the dreaded 


trailing-throttle oversteer to remind you 
that you're in a sports car. 

(Trailing-throttle oversteer is car-nut 
talk for what happens when the back end 
breaks loose and your own rear license 
plate passes you after you've lifted your 
foot off the accelerator. This heart- 
wrenching phenomenon overtook me on a 
snow-covered interstate, but, thanks to the 
MR?'s predictability, I survived with a 
minimum of corrective steering action.) 

Inside, the MR2 is cozy, as sports cars 
should be, but offers enough leg room for 
drivers well over six feet tall. You also sit 
in a straight line, which means that you 
don't have to drive with your feet aimed at 
the front license plate and your shoulders 
twisted, The instruments and the controls 
are ergonometrically correct and simple to 
use, and the over-all finish is in keeping 
with a car that would cost a lot more than 
the MR2's base price of $10,999. 

Is there nothing wrong with this car? Of 
course there is; it wouldn’t be a sports car 
otherwise. When you're tooling along at 
70, the engine's noise makes things a bit 
buzzy— which means that you don't hear 
the standard stereo all that well. Which is 
OK, because it doesn't sound all that won- 
derful. The exterior looks as if ten inches 
or so had been lopped off either end, but 
beauty has never been a prerequisite for 
sports cars. Remember the bugeye Sprite? 
A better left armrest would make long- 
distance driving a little easier—but 
remember the MGA? It didn’t have arm- 
rests. 

Other than those minor quibbles, I had 
too much fun driving the MR2 to waste 
time finding fault. The only genuinely seri- 
ous problem with it is availability; the 
annual U.S. allotment—dictated by man- 
ufacturing capacity, not quotas—has been 
set at 36,000. That’s bad news. 

— WILLIAM JEANES 


FIEROGT 


The Pontiac Fiero hit the streets in 1983 
as a flashy two-seater that had all the mak- 
ings of a solid, relatively cheap sportster. 
Some of the car had been scavenged from 
the old parts bin (modified Chevette front 
suspension, for instance), but the basic 
chassis was strictly high-tech. The Fiero 
broke new ground with a stiff space frame 
to which cheap, easily replaced and 
repaired composite-plastic body panels 
could be attached. In a styling sense, it 
was a knockout. But beneath its sexy exte- 
rior wheezed an antiquated four-banger 
engine with all the power and charisma of 
a cast-iron antique salvaged from an early 
Sixties economy-model Chevrolet—which 
is exactly what it was. Someone with an 
arch sense of humor dubbed it the Iron 
Duke, but this heavy, feeble (92 hp) old 
plug was dirt-ball proletarian to the bot- 
tom of its crankcase, and the performance 
it offered the Fiero turned the appealing lit- 
tle machine into a sheep in wolf's clothing. 


But G.M.’s penchant for improvising 
along the way kicked in and, sure enough, 
the Fiero GT is a vast improvement. The 
GT now packs a neatly conceived 2.8-liter 
V6 (also courtesy of Chevrolet) that devel- 
ops 140 hp. The engine features such con- 
temporary amenities as Bosch-type port 
fuel injection, with a classy cast-aluminum 
intake manifold and a stainless-steel 
exhaust manifold. With all that fresh 
power, torque and flexibility comes legit- 
imate performance: zero to 60 in less than 
8.5 seconds and a top speed approaching 
125 mph. Add to that a real man's growl 
from the exhaust and you've got a Fiero 
that packs sufficient punch to legitimize its 
racy looks. 

Moreover, the GT has been restyled to 
produce even zoomier lines than the orig- 
inal. Its soft polyurethane nose, which first 
appeared on the 1984 Fiero Indy pace car, 
coupled with rocker-panel skirts and a 
rear-deck spoiler, not only enhances the 
aesthetics but drops the coefficient of drag 
to a rather slippery 0.350. Overall, the 
Fiero GT is a splendid-looking package, 
with sufficiently sensuous lines to make its 
archrival, the Toyota MR2, look like a 
four-wheeled box kite. 

This is not to say that the little Pontiac 
is ready to challenge Porsche or Ferrari as 
a road machine with impeccable breeding. 
Pontiac still has a few bugs to work out 
before that happens. One is the manual 
gearbox, which is presently limited to the 
old X-car four-speed. An Isuzu-built five- 
speed is available on the low-line Iron 
Duke version, but it lacks the beef to han- 
dle the V6's added torque. The steering 
remains quirky, feeding the driver unpleas- 
ant twitches on lumpy pavements and 
offering limited directional stability. One 
assumes that the evolutionary develop- 
ment policies in force at Pontiac will soon 
result in a five-speed transmission for the 
V6, but bad G.M. memories of the litiga- 
tion surrounding such rear-engine cars as 
the Corvair may prevent such a beast from 
ever reaching the showrooms. 

The interior is appealing, with efficient 
control ergonomics and instrumentation 
devoid of corn-ball video games. The 
pedal location makes heel-and-toe braking 
and downshifting a breeze, and the seats 
offer good lateral support. Of course, one 
of the evils of a mid-engine configuration is 
the loss of foot and luggage room, and 
the Fiero is no exception. Long trips can 
make passengers feel as if their legs were 
wrapped in a mailing tube. The tiny trunk 
offers room for toothbrushes and extra 
skivvies but little else. However, when one 
recalls that Pontiac began planning the 
Fiero as a short-haul commuter vehicle in 
the fuel-crazed Seventies, its lack of 
freight-hauling capacity becomes more un- 
derstandable. Yet, in keeping with its new 
“grand touring” designation, Pontiac 

(continued on page 172) 


n undocumented worker. He does all the 


a 
jobs атои 


"He's 


nd the house I don't want to do." 


TO BEDA [AILE 
= === 


actress ingrid boulting shows just how much fun а game of cops and robbers сап be 


INGRID BOULTING likes to be different. That's 
why she had one restriction when she agreed 
to pose for PLAYBOY: It couldn't be an ordinary 
pictorial. It had to have humor and tell a 
story, so that she would get to act, not merely 
pose. And Ingrid wanted to play a far differ- 
ent character from the one most often associ- 
ated with her, that of Kathleen Moore, the 
ethereal beauty who haunts Robert De Niro 
in The Last Tycoon. “I'm tired of being type- 
cast as an untouchable Madonna,” she says. 
Ingrid is a woman who knows her own mind. 
She knows movies, too: Her father, Roy, is 
one of Britain’s famed Boulting twins, 


producer/directors of such classics as Lucky 
Jim, I'm All Right, Jack and Seven Days to 
Noon. So we were interested in her opinion of 
her own latest movie vehicle, Deadly Passion. 
“It’s a low-budget quickie,” she said. “It’s 
supposed to be The Maltese Falcon Meets Body 
Heat, but I refuse to see it. At least it gave me 
a chance to visit some family while I was on 
location in Africa.” In Deadly Passion, Ingrid 
played a villainess. In our pictorial, she gets 
to play a detective, which she sees as a nice 
departure, though she’s ambivalent about 
nudity. "To me,” she says, “what is sexy is 
suggestive. But then, I’m not a man, am I?” 


Before you begin reading this pictorial story, concocted especially for Ingrid, the star herself has a helpful 
suggestion: “I think the background music to this should be Tina Turner's What's Love Got to Do with It?” 
Those of you without stereos handy can hum clong as Ingrid plays a daring detective getting ready to 
stalk a famous jewel thief (he's the one reflected in her glasses, left, ond featured in the dossier above). 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY RICHARD FEGLEY 


121 


y Xy 


You can’t catch your prey without 
bait, right? That’s why Ingrid, at left, 
is sparing no expense—new clothes, 
expensive diamonds, strategically 
placed gun—in her quest to snarı 
Nick the Thief. “Remember 
cautions, “my chara c 

she's greedy and ruthless.” She ta 

a cab (below) to the seedy Gardenia 
Club (right), a.k.a The Rotten Club, 
Nick's favorite hangout. There she 
tries to win his attention with a.sug- 
gestive dance. (That's Nick sipping his 
drink at a ringside table.) What she 
doesn't realize is that she's already 
gotten his attention. Tipped off by 
accomplices with access to pol 
files, Nick hos been followi 

since she first put together her thief 
catching wordrobe—and has plans 
of his own to turn the tables on her 


Here's where the story gets 
complicated, if not downright 
implausible. Let’s start with the 
top picture, for left. While 
Ingrid temporarily loses herself 
in a sensuous reverie on the 
dance floor, Nick sneaks up 
behind her and, true to his call- 
ing, snatches her jewels, which 
is an embarrassing develop- 
ment for any detective. She 
gives chase outside the club but 
to no avail (middle, far left) 
Not even yelling “Stop, thief 

at the top of her lungs seems to 
help. But Ingrid still has a few 
tricks secreted in her garter 
belt, and she makes haste for 
Nick’s hotel room, where she 
resourcefully picks the lock 
(bottom, far left). When Nick 
comes back (left), Ingrid is 
ready to turn the tables on him. 
She whips out her gun (above 
right), which, fortunately for 
Nick, fires only blanks. Crafty 
Ingrid is using the gun as an 
invitation to a private party 
that has a guest list of two, 
Lowering his guard while lower- 
ing Ingrid's slip (right), Nick 
R.S.V.P.s that he will, indeed, 
be attending. And when it 
comes to parties, Ingrid shows 
that she’s a very special host- 
ess (see overleaf), displaying, 
as good hostesses do, all the 
tricks she learned before grad- 
vating at the top of her class at 
the police academy, including 
how to apply a tourniquet and 
some of the subtler techniques 
of mouth-to-mouth resuscita- 
tion. True, these aren't the 
methods favored by Cagney 
‘and Lacey, but in the world of 
professional law enforcement, 
a good cop knows when to 
improvise. Even a jaded jewel 
thief like Nick is moved, and 
as for our detective, she, too, 
is caught up in the passion of 
the moment. As we shall soon 
see, however, the result of in- 


tense fun and games can mud- 


dy a person's sense of his or 
her professional responsibilities 


This is obviously the problem with sex on the 
job. Ingrid looks hoppy ht? That's 
because she's gotten her jewels back and 
her rocks off (left and below). Remember, 
оз the song says, girls just want to have fun. 
But what about her professional deport- 
ment? Why isn’t Nick in handcuffs, on his 
way to the station to be fingerprinted, 
booked and sent up the proverbial river? 
Before you jump to ony sexist conclusions 
that Nick has won a major victory, ask 
yourself why he’s leaving with no more jew- 
elry than his own cuff links (right). What's 
the point of being a jewel thief if you don't 
get the jewels? The answer is clear. When it 
comes right down to it, boys just want to 
have fun, too. We like this ending because 
it leaves room for a sequel. If Nick isn't up 
for a rematch, we're certain there'll be no 


shortage of volunteers. Just don't call us; 
our switchboard is already overloaded 


PLAYBOY 


130 


(continued from page 83) = 


“There was a clown sitting in the chair, sitting and 
rocking, watching the kids in the swimming pool.” 


darkened for a moment, but then he sighed 
and shook his head. Sammy was all right, 
really. A good kid. He really shouldn't 
tease him so much, play so many jokes on 
him. David smiled wry! Maybe he did it 
just to hear him whine 

"Don't be such a baby," David said 
tiredly, wrapping the towel around his 
hand, “It’s only a towel, face. It's not 
gonna kill you if——" Then David 
stopped abruptly, staring blankly off 
beyond Sammy, toward the bathhouse. 

“It hurt,” Sammy whined. "You're a 
real dork, you know that, D; 
come you have to—s And then 
paused, too, aware that David wasn't pay- 
ing any attention to him anymore. 
“Davie?” he said. "What's the matter: 

“Look at that,” David said in an awed 
whisper. 

Sammy turned around. After a moment, 
confused, he asked, “Look at what?” 

“There!” David said, pointing toward a 
sun-bleached wooden rocking chair. 

“Oh, no, you're not going to get me 
again with that old line," Sammy said dis- 
gustedly. His face twisted, and this time he 
looked as if he were really getting mad. 
"The wind's making that chair rock. It 
can rock for hours if the wind's right. You 
can't scare me that easy! I'm not a baby, 
you know!" 

David was puzzled. Couldn't Sammy 
see? What was he—blind? It was as plain 
as anything. 

"There was a clown sitting in the chair, 
sitting and rocking, watching the kids in 
the swimming pool. 

"The clown's face was caked with thick 
white paint. He had a bulb nose that was 
painted blood red, the same color as his 
broad, painted-on smile. His eyes were like 
chips of blue ice. He sat very still, except 
for the slight movement of his legs needed 
to rock the beat-up old chair, and his eyes 
never left the darting figures in the water. 

David had seen clowns before, of course; 
he'd seen plenty of them at the Veterans’ 
Arena in Binghamton when the Barnum & 
Bailey Circus came to town. Sammy's 
father was a barber and always got good 
tickets to everything, and Sammy always 
took David with him. But this clown was 
different, somehow. For one thing, instead 
of performing, instead of dancing around 
or cakewalking or somersaulting or squirt- 
ing people with a Seltzer bottle, this clown 
was just sitting quietly by the pool, as if it 
were the most normal thing in the world 
for him to be there. And there was some- 
thing else, too, he realized. This clown was 
all in black. Even his big polka-dotted bow 


tie was black, shiny black dots against a 
lighter gray-black. Only his gloves were 
white, and they were a pure, eye-dazzling 
white. The contrast was startling. 

“Sammy?” David said quietly. “Listen, 
this is important. You really think that 
chair is empty?” 

“Jeez, grow up, will ya?” Sammy 
snarled. “What a dork!” He turned his 
back disgustedly on David and dived into 
the pool. 

David stared thoughtfully at the clown. 
Was Sammy trying to kid him? Turn the 
tables on him, get back at him for some of 
his old jokes? But David was sure that 
Sammy wasn't smart enough to pull it off. 
Sammy always gave himself away, usually 
by giggling. 

Odd as it seemed, Sammy really didn't 
see the clown. 

David looked around to see who else he 
could ask. Certainly not Mr. Kreiger, who 
had a big potbelly and wore his round 
wire-rimmed glasses even in the water and 
who would stand for hours in the shallow 
end of the pool and splash himself with 
one arm, like an old bull elephant splash- 
ing water over itself with its trunk, No. 
Who else? Bobby Little, Jimmy Seikes and 
Andy Freeman were taking turns diving 
and cannon-balling from the low board, 
but David didn't want to ask them any- 
thing. That left only Jas Ritter, the pool 
lifeguard, or the stuck-up Weaver sisters. 

But David was beginning to realize that 
he didn't really have to ask anybody. 
Freddy Schumaker and Jane Gelbert had 
just walked right by the old rocking chair, 
without looking at the clown, without even 
glancing at him. Bill Dwyer was muscling 
himself over the edge of the pool within 
inches of the clown's floppy oblong shoes, 
and he wasn't paying any attention to him, 
either. That just wasn't possible. No mat- 
ter how supercool they liked to pretend 
they were, there was no way that kids were 
going to walk past a clown without even 
glancing at him. 

With a sudden thrill, David took the 
next logical step. Nobody could see the 
clown except him. Maybe he was the only 
one in the world who could see him! 

It was an exhilarating thought. David 
stared at the clown in awe. Nobody else 
could see him! Maybe he was a ghost, the 
ghost of an old circus clown, doomed to 
roam the earth forever, seeking out kids 
like the ones he'd performed for when he 
was alive, sitting in the sun and watching 
them play, thinking about the happy days 
when the circus had played this town. 

That was a wonderful idea, a lush and 


romantic idea, and David shivered and 
hugged himself, feeling goose flesh sweep 
across his skin. He could see a ghost! It was 
wonderful! It was magic! Private, secret 
magic, his alone. It meant that he was spe- 
cial. It gave him a strange, secret kind of 
power. Maybe nobody else in the universe 
could see him—— 

It was at this point that Sammy 
slammed into him, laughing and shouting, 
“TI learn you, sucker!” and knocked him 
into the pool. 

By the time David broke the surface, 
sputtering and shaking water out of his 
eyes, the clown was gone and the old 
rocker was rocking by itself, in the wind 
and the thin, empty sunshine. 


б 

After leaving the pool, David and 
Sammy walked over the viaduct—there 
was no sign of any freight trains on the 
weed-overgrown tracks below—and took 
back-alley short cuts to Curtmeister's bar- 
bershop. 

“Hang on a minute,” Sammy said and 
ducked into the shop. Ordinarily, David 
would have followed, as Sammy’s father 
kept gum and salt-water taffy in a basket 
on top of the magazine rack, but today he 
leaned back against the plate-glass win- 
dow, thinking about the ghost he'd seen 
that morning, his ghost, watching as the 
red and blue stripes ran eternally up and 
around the barber pole. How fascinated 
he'd been by that pole a few years ago, 
and how simple it seemed to him now. 

A clown turned the corner from Avenue 
B, jaywalking casually across Main 
Street. 

David started and pushed himself 
upright. The ghost again! Or was it? 
Surely, this clown was shorter and squatter 
than the one he'd seen at the pool, though 
it was wearing the same kind of black cos- 
tume, the same kind of white gloves. 
Could this be another ghost? Maybe there 
was a whole circusful of clown ghosts wan- 
dering around the city. 

“David!” a voice called, and he jumped. 
It was old Mrs. Zabriski, carrying two 
bulging brown-paper grocery bags, work- 
ing her way ponderously down the side- 
walk toward him, puffing and wheezing, 
like some old, slow tugboat doggedly 
chugging toward its berth. “Want to earn 
a buck, David?" she called, 

The clown had stopped right in the mid- 
dle of Main Street, standing nonchalantly 
astride the double white divider line. 
David watched him in fascination. 

"David?" Mrs. Zabriski said impa- 
tiently. 

Reluctantly, David turned his attention 
back to Mrs. Zabriski. “Gosh, I’m sorry, 
Mrs. Z.," he said. A buck would be nice, 
but it was more important to keep an eye 
on the clown. “I—ah, I promised Sammy 
that I'd wait out here for him.” 

Mrs. Zabriski sighed. “OK, David,” she 

(continued on page 154) 


“They were pleasant enough at the beginning.” 


131 


20 QUESTIONS: RON HOWARD 


from perpetual kid to bankable director, 
his entire career has been a magnum opie 


pe Opie has grown up and become a hot- 
shot film director. Apparently, goin’ 
fishin’ with Andy and hanging out with the 
Fonz paid off. Not to mention an assortment 
of serious TV-film roles, a lead in “American 
Graffiti" and an apprenticeship ("Grand 
Theft Auto”) in the Roger Corman school for 
budding directors. To Ron Howard's recent 
big-screen credit are “Night Shift" and 
“Splash.” We asked Contributing Editor 
David Rensin to meet with Howard in Holly- 
wood as he was putting the finishing touches 
on "Cocoon," just released. Says Rensin, 
“Ron Howard does not look dumb in a mus- 
tache. Aunt Bee would be mighty proud.” 


1. 
PLAYBOY: Could you, as a director, have 
improved Happy Days? 


HOWARD: I never thought I could make the 
show better. But to tell you the truth, I 
never understood the show or why people. 
liked it so much. We were doing good 
work, but I figured out early on that it was 
a genre I didn't relate to very well. I only 
knew that it was working. People would 
come up and say, “That scene when you 
two dressed up as girls was so funny!" But 
the whole time I was dressed up, I was 
thinking, Boy, this is really lame. I eventu- 
ally came to understand it as a fantasy of 
home life in the Fifties. Fonzie was a fan- 
tasy hood. I was a fantasy nice guy. How- 
ard and Marion were fantasy parents. 


PLAYBOY: Ever get any good advice from 
your fantasy parents? 

HOWARD: Tom Bosley is а good business- 
man. He told us all to buy houses, and he 
was right. He told us all to incorporate, 
and he was right again. During the first 
few years, we were all bombarded 
investment representatives. We didn’t 
know how to handle that. My real parents 
knew show business well but were unso- 
phisticated about investments. So Tom 
would sit with us and explain why we 
needed life insurance even though we were 
only 22 years old and how to be responsi- 
ble with our money. 


PLAYBOY: What was Opie short for? 

HOWARD: Nothing. It was the name of a 
bandleader famous during Andy Griffith's 
childhood—he visited different towns and 
played in the gazebo on Sunday after- 
noons. Andy thought he was the greatest. 
So when they developed the show, he sug- 
gested the name and I got stuck with it. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY PENNY WOUN 


When you're a kid, Opie is not such a 
great name. I've had people with red hair 
and freckles come up to me and say, “All 
my life, people have called me Opie.” I 
always say, “Isn’t that horrible when 
you're not making any money off it?" 
Besides, Opie rhymes with a lot of things. 
They don’t sound bad now—dopey, 
soapy—but when you're nine. . . . Later, 
when drugs became important, it was 
“Hey, Opium.” I took quite a razzing. 


4. 


rLAvtOY: Any physical abuse? 
HOWARD: Used to be. All through elemen- 
tary school, there used to be at least two 
weeks of fights when the year started. But 
I was a pretty good fighter. My dad and I 
used to watch wrestling on TV. We'd even 
wrestle a bit ourselves. He'd be the 
Destroyer and I would be Freddie Blassie 
or Cowboy Bob Ellis. So I could get guys 
in scissors locks and half nelsons. But one 
day, when a kid was giving me trouble, 1 
realized there was more to fighting. He 
gave me three jabs and knocked me down. 
T couldn't get up for my flying drop kick. It 
was a whole new thing. 

But the fighting stopped—except on my 
first day in high school. 1 was scrambling 
around, trying to find my classes, and in 
the middle of zipping one way 
another, I stepped on this short Mexica 
white shoes. Everything stopped. He said, 
“Clean them off, fucker.” I looked around. 
"There was a whole group of kids around 
me. It was like my first test. I said, "I'm 
sorry I stepped on your shoes, but I'm not 
going to clean them off.” But he just said, 
“Clean them off, fucker!” I didn’t know 
what to do. He had a bunch of pals and 
mine were nowhere around. So I said no 
and took a half-baked swing at him. He 
took a jab at me and missed. Then the bell 
rang and we were standing there staring at 
each other. People started drifting away 
and we used it as an excuse, too. 


5. 


млувоу: To what do you attribute Don 
Knotts's enduring popularity? 

HOWARD: [Long laugh] He's so sensitive. 
He's the most vulnerable person you've 
ever seen on TV—but you like it, Of 
course, he’s actually more self-assured, 
because he’s been a star for a long time. 
But I think the character was born out of 
all that is really Don Knotts. When he’s 
doing that character, the poor guy could 
disintegrate before your very eyes, and 
you don’t want to see that happen. And he 


does it better than anyone else. 

However, I think that at any moment, 
he pop up in some interesting mo 
as a completely different, serious character 
and just blow everyone away. 


pLaynoy: What should someone your age 
already know about life? And when did 
you learn it? 

HOWARD: [Quickly] First, you have to realize 
that life isn't fair, But you can ipulate 
it. You sure as heck can't wait for any- 
body. You just can't. However, it’s not the 
easiest thing to do. A lot of anxiety comes 
with taking control, Not everyone can like 
you. That doesn't mean you have to go 
around screwing people like a son of a 
bitch. But you've got to know you can't 
say yes. You've got to know that 
everyone who comes up with an idea may 
not have the right idea for you—even if it's 
your wife, your best friend or someone 
you're trying to please. Learning to seize 
control of my own life is the most impor- 
tant thing I've picked up. 1 didn't know it 
until I was about 21. One more thing I've 
learned, especially where directing is con- 
cerned, is that the adage “The more you 
know, the less you know” is true. It's scary 
to realize you're just out here, floating. 


7. 


PLAYBOY: Since you mention floating, how 
much fun was it casting the mermaid in 
Splash? Did you sit in front of a big tank? 
And why were you so demure about 
nudity? One critic complained that Daryl 
Hannah's hair never moved. 
HOWARD: We got very lucky with Daryl 
Hannah, because we didn't interview pco- 
ple on the basis of their swimming ability. 
We were looking for an actress and fig- 
ured we'd use a double for the mermaid 
stuff, We settled on Daryl after a long, 
painful search. Then I asked her to go 
along when we looked for doubles so we 
could compare shapes. But she said she 
was a good swimmer and had wanted to 
be a mermaid since she was little, It was 
kind of like the actor up for a part in a 
Western who always answers the quest 
“Can you ride?” with “Like the win 
Then he falls off. But Daryl jumped into 
the pool and swam with these aqua balle- 
rinas and she was just so beautiful, arrest- 
ing. I met her on the surface and told her 
to do herself a favor and get into the best 
shape possible so she could do her own 
swimming. 

1 expected more nudity. But when 


PLAYBOY 


Daryl took the role, she surprised us by 
saying she wouldn't do nudity; that she 
hated it; that she'd had enough of it in her 
previous films. Her nudity in Summer Lov- 
ers was like non-nudity, but apparently it 
wasn’t filmed that way. But I felt there 
were a few places in Splash where I had to 
establish that this woman didn’t care 
whether or not she was naked; that she 
was topless under the water; that she had 
arrived naked at the Statue of Liberty. I 
kept running around, saying that we 
couldn't let the film become a Doris 
Day Fifties mermaid movie—especially 
because Disney releasing it. We 
designed all sorts of mermaid tails. Some 
covered the breasts, but they made Daryl 
look like Esther Williams—hokey. We 
were always going to have her covered by 
the hair, but we found we could cover 
more. In fact, once we'd established our 
style, people thought it was neat that they 
weren't seeing too much. It was sexier, In 
fact, we actually edited out some of the 
underwater stuff and kept her covered up, 


8. 


PLAYBOY: Which other actresses would you 
like to direct in a nude scene? 
HOWARD: God, can 1 name 


was 


them all? 


Phoebe Cates. 


body 


I think she has a great 
I've interviewed her a few times and 
she can act. Elizabeth McGovern. Her 
nude scenes in Ragtime were great, 
because she was sexy but had no idea she 
was—which meant that she had to know 
in order to do the scene. For Night Shift, 
we auditioned lots of girls topless—just 
taking off their clothes and running 
around. It was sort of disappointing. Í 
guess I figured I'd get excited by the whole 
thing, maybe get an erection. But it was 
just uncomfortable. I felt bad for the 
women and they felt kind of awkward. So 
I'm probably more interested in what a 
girl can bring to the scene besides just a 
great body 

There's one other woman I'd like to 
direct, and she’s going to kill me for saying 
this—but it’s Penny Marshall. It would be 
hysterical, I've never seen her nude, but 
she actually has a pretty good body. What 
she would say and what she would go 
through would be hysterical, In fact, I'd 
like to direct Penny Marshall in those 
scenes from Ragtime. 


9. 


¿very director leaves great scenes 


PLAYBOY: 
on the cutting-room floor. What wonderful 


moment from Cocoon won't we ever sce? 
HOWARD: The best was when we were film- 
ing in the Coliseum Ballroom in St. Peters- 
burg. It was built in the Twenties and is 
like a giant Quonset hut. People still 
ther there two nights a week to dance, 
and one dance is everyone's favorite: the 
chicken, As soon as the bandleader says, 
“OK. I haven't forgotten. Now it’s time for 
the chicken,” all these 75- and 80-year-old 
people start flapping their arms and pok- 
ing around like chickens. I managed to get 
all of our actors doing this—except Wil- 
ford Brimley. But to get all this into the 
film would have been about a six-minute 
investment. If I had been Michael Cimino 
filming The Deer Hunter, 1 might have 
stayed with it, but I decided instead to 
move the story along. 


10. 


PLAYBOy: What are three secrets to keeping 
together in show business? 

First, you've got to keep sexuality 
in perspective. Stay virtuous. 105 not the 
easiest town in which to stay that w 
be 


ma 
HOWARD: 


ause there are so many beautiful and 
exciting people running around. And 
when you're working on a film on which 
money is being spent so fast and people 


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PLAYBOY 


are thrown together, pooling all their 
resources and sometimes going to strange 
places to do it, suddenly total strangers 
can become best friends. And sometimes, 
although you know there's nothing more 
there, you almost feel compelled to con- 
summate a relationship. 

Second, you have to avoid being seduced 
by the business to the point where it takes 
over everything in your life. 105 very 
demanding. There's always someone with 
a great deal, or somcone who's dying to 
invest $25,000,000 in pictures. There's 
always an actor or a writer you can meet, a 
party or a screening you can go to. If you 
wanted to, you could do the business from 
a seven-AM. breakfast at the Polo Lounge 
until two in the morning—every day! And 
all of a sudden, you realize you're not 
married. 

Third, never work with your wife. My 
wife has become a writer. We actually 
tried to do a script together. It was a bad 
idea. You don't get good vibes from peo- 
ple. They fecl it’s nepotism. Even more, it 
means you can't go home and escape the 
business, You don't have someone to give 
you real perspective on what you do. Mov- 
ies become so important that if your part- 
ner, who happens to be your wife or 
husband, is screwing up a deal, you could 
go so crazy that it would endanger or end 
the marriage because—at the moment— 
the deal seems more important. 


11. 


PLAYBOY: How do you beat stress? 

номлар: I don't. I'ma very unhealthy guy. 
This is a serious question. I’ve got to work 
on it, I spend so much time being consci- 
entious in work that I don’t play tennis 
twice a week or play baseball or jog. I get 
up before my wife and daughter and read a 
script. I have breakfast and then work all 
day long. Afterward, I go home and play 
with my daughter and play with my wife 
and go to sleep. That's my life. I think I’ve 
got to get on the stick here. On Splash, 
when we were doing all the diving, I was 
eating like a horse, was getting great exer- 
cise and was in great shape. But I found 
out I couldn’t keep eating like that when 
I was sitting in front of a Movieola. So 
I ballooned in postproduction. / couldn't 
do a nude scene. My butt is too lumpy. 


12. 


PLAYBOY: What's the best rumor you've 
ever heard about yourself? 

HOWARD: That I was the largest dope dealer 
on the USC campus, a major connection, 
making millions of dollars a year doing 
dope while I was acting in American Graf- 
fiti. And people really believed it. And 1 
kept hearing it even after I left USC. Mar- 
ion Ross has a son five years younger than 
I am. One day she came to me and said he 
was shattered. At his high school, they 
were talking about drugs, and she said, 
“He heard you were the biggest drug 
dealer at USC.” I couldn’t believe it! Even 


196 producer Brian Grazer, who went to USC, 


told me he'd heard it. 

Of course, no one ever came up to me at 
school and tried to buy anything. But I 
never denied it too much, either. I got too 
big a kick out of it. 


13. 


PLAYBOY: Who can still call you Ronnie? 
Ay wife. Henry Winkler, some- 
times. Brian Grazer can get away with it 
some of the time. Nobody has to call me 
Mr. Howard, though. I cringe at that. 


14. 


pLaysov: How long have you had your 
mustache and how long did it take to 
grow? 

HOWARD: It's about three and a half years 
old. There was at least a year of penciling 
it in when I went on talk shows. I grew it 
to look older. I keep wanting to shave it off, 
but my wife says not to. Maybe one day 
ГЇЇ need to look younger and it will go. 


15. 


viavuoy: Was it tough for you to be taken 
as a director in Hollywood 
because of your history? 


patronizing attitude with me, a very safe 
one, in retrospect. They said that if I 
wanted to be a director, they were sure 
that one day I could. "You can do it, 
Ronnie. Why not? Maybe when you're 30, 
35." But no one was really being encourag- 
ing. It bothered me, because my goal had 
been to direct a feature when I was still in 
my teens. My looking so young was also a 
drawback at the time, but finally Roger 
Corman gave me my first break and people 
began coming around. 


16. 


What does Roger Corman—who 
has given many of today's well-known 
actors and directors their first chance— 
know that he could bottle and sell? 

HOWARD: He knows that above all, concept 
is the important thing. High concept. He 
knows that coming-attraction trailers are 
crucial. He figures that if he has a good 
trailer and a good concept, he doesn't 
have to spend very much money or even 
have particularly experienced people 
doing the job. But if they can just execute 
the material to a quasi-acceptable degree, 
he can get a good trailer out of the mate- 
rial and get people to show up at a picture 
that didn’t really cost anything, That 
doesn’t apply to most other producers, 
who want people to see the film more than 
once. Roger doesn’t care about that. 


17. 


rLAYBOY: Defend Robby Benson. 

номлкр: Oh, no! Well—Robby is a good, 
solid, thoughtful actor. But he’s at an awk- 
ward time right now. A few years ago, peo- 
ple thought he was great because he was 
this kid and he was funny. His problem 
now is that you know he’s not a kid, but he 
still doesn’t look like a man. His voice still 


seems a little funny, even though he’s 
maybe 27, 28. He's just got to get older. 
‘Then he has a strong career ahead. 

That also happened to me, but I bailed 
out and became a director. I'd made the 
transition from kid to juvenile to young 
adult, But I wasn't sure I could make it to 
adult, even though I had done a few TV 
movies and had played adults. I think that 
if I had stayed with Happy Days and had 
taken all that money I was offered, I would 
be very frustrated right now. 


PLAYBOY: What do you know about Henry 
Winkler that no one has ever asked you 
and you've been dying to tell? 

HOWARD: People think of him as so cool 
because of the Fonz, the way he handles 
himself on talk shows, in public. He's 
always got an answer. He's bright. But no 
one ever asked what he was like when he 
got hurt. Henry really wants to be liked all 
the time by everyone. It makes him a won- 
derful guy on one hand. But he sort of 
can't accept it if someone doesn’t return 
the affection. Гуе seen him almost break 
down in tears when he felt he was being mis- 
treated—especially when he was learning 
how to deal with Fonzie mania. His vul- 
nerability is an endearing quality, but no 
one ever thinks of him as vulnerable. 


19. 


PLAYBOY: What's Richie Cunningham's 
biggest secret? 

HOWARD: That he actually had sex with 
Shirley after that Laverne & Shirley spin- 
off where Fonzie gets Richie a date with a 
loose woman. It didn’t work out that 
night, but I just know that Richie wan- 
dered over there one night and scored— 
because he was such a nice guy. 


20. 


vLAYBOY: Which parent told you about sex? 
nowarp: My dad. It was memorable. I was 
five years old and we were living in a small 
apartment in Burbank. My parents said 
they were getting ready to have a baby. I 
asked how that worked. I remember my 
dad sort of looking down at me and rub- 
bing his eyes with his hands and sighing 
and saying, “All right, come on in here.” 
He started drawing these pictures. First a 
woman—he couldn't draw very well, but 
he gave her pubic hair and a couple of 
breasts. Then a man, with a penis. Then 
an erection. And he gave me the whole 
thing, saying, “Well, the penis goes in 
here, into the woman, and then the man 
plants a seed.” It was great. When I got to 
the eighth grade, which is when they 
explain all that stuffin school, I remember 
thinking how cool my dad had been about 
all that stuff. He was incredibly open 
about it. [Long pause and growing smile] 
And I can anticipate your next question. 
Yes, I did. Oh, my God! It’s absolutely 
true. The first time I had sex, I thought of 


the pictures! 


(QS 
gus зЗ 
www vom SACR O 


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GOOD ENOUGH TO DREAM 


(continued from page 108) 


“Poor, unpampered, they were professional ballplay- 
ers, the job description that covered Mickey Mantle.” 


baseball. Whatever my father’s great 
concerns—high tariffs vs. free trade, his 
own career, angina pectoris, Stalin's meg- 
alomania or the rise of Hitler—he did not 
discuss such things with me. My father 
and I played catch and went to ball games. 
I listened to his baseball lore with full 
measures of affection and concentration. 
He knew the game. He could hit a ball 400 
feet. And if he used the Socratic method, 
with the persistence of a youthful law pro- 
fessor, no one else has ever spoken to me 
with such kindness, concern, enthusiasm 
and love, all at the same time. When Gor- 
don and I, father and son, walked in our 
baseball moments, Caliban's gorgeous 
cloud rode lordly above us, opening and 
showing riches ready to drop as softly as 
the leaves. ... “That, when I waked, I 
cried to dream ада! 


The ballplayers were seated along 
wooden benches anchored to the floor, 
beneath two rows of orange lockers inside 
a stout blockhouse of a building. Forty 
years earlier, WPA workers had laid and 
cemented every brick. Only four of the 
players had so much as heard of the Works 
Progress Administration. “I either read it 
in history,” said a catcher named Mark 
Krynitsky, “or my dad, or his dad, worked 
for the WPA. I don't know.” 

Light entered through two opaque win- 
dows backed by metal grilles, and fluores- 
cent tubes glared overhe: The name of 
this team assembled in the weathered 
brick clubhouse was the Blue Sox and they 
played their home games in the historic 
community of Utica, New York. Historic 
but in a baseball sense obscure. Those 
sunlit boyhood dreams project you far 
beyond a drab clubhouse in Utica; you see 
yourself moving on winged spikes through 
carpeted—indeed, — hallowed—dressing 
rooms in Los Angeles or New York City. 

Still, the Blue Sox were professionals. 
Their abilities resembled the skills of majo 
leaguers far more than the enthusiastic 
fumblings you see among high school ath- 
letes. Professionals in a WPA clubhouse. 

Most would be earning $500 a mont 
Out of that they had to pay taxes, rent, li 
ing expenses and meals when the Blue Sox 
played at home. The cars they drove were 
small or old or both. But the good athletes, 
the ones who would turn out to be good, 
felt pride in their professionalism. Poor, un- 
pampered, they were professional ball- 
players, the job description that covered 
Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays and Steve 
Garvey. 

I was sitting in the clubhouse not as a 
journalist granted a privileged pass from 


the manager, as it were, in exchange for 
the promise of a favorable story. I was sit- 
ting there, bless my wallet, as principal 
stockholder and president of the team. 

Since running a successful election cam- 
paign in the subsenior bunk at Camp Rob- 
inson Crusoe 45 years earlier, I had not 
been president of anything. I took my 
motto from William Tecumseh Sherman: 
“If nominated, I will not run; if elected, I 
will not serve." Aside from that, I don't 
recall ever being offered any kind of nomi- 
nation for any kind of office across all 
those decades. 

Now, in the clubhouse in the warm June 
of 1983, I viewed my new-won presidency 
with resolute optimism punctuated by 


spasms—cellos playing in a minor key—of 
undressed and unarmored alarm. Those 
friends of mine who knew the least about 
baseball suggested that being president of 
a low minor-league club would provide me 
with an ultimate toy, far better than my 
latest stereo set, more fun even than the 
black Mercedes sports car that an entranc- 
ing lady had once offered up as an adjunct 
to a romance, 

Other friends, who knew somewhat 
more about baseball—say, for example, 
that minor-league teams can go bank- 
rupt—put forth temperate forecasts. “Best 
way to look at it,” said one of those, pos- 
sessed of a dogged literary manner, “is 
that you're taking over the Pequod. Now, 
maybe you're going to find that old white 
whale. But maybe you're not," 

My cherished Brooklyn Dodger friend 
Carl Furillo, a veteran of 20 years of glori- 
ous professional ball playing, took a colder 
view, “You're taking over a minor-league 
club? In Utica? You're president? You'll be 
lucky if you don’t have two ulcers by 


“Would you like to take advantage 
of our July white sale?” 


137 


PLAYBOY 


Labor Day.” 

What did a president do? I had been 
whipping myself with that question across 
most of the eight months it had taken me 
to find a ball club I wanted to rescue and 
run. I had known four outstanding base- 
ball presidents, but they all seemed to do 
different things in different ways. 

Distinct similarities link them—Branch 
Rickey, Bill Veeck, George Steinbrenner 
and Walter O'Malley. Energy. Intelli- 
gence. A feel for finance. A sense of adven- 
ture, A willingness to risk. Long hours. 
Hard work. Ego. But for each similarity 
you can find differences, sweeping all the 
way from individual character to style. 
O'Malley and Rickey were patient. Veeck 
and Steinbrenner are not. Veeck and 
O'Malley appeared to enjoy the cut and 
thrust of dialogs with the press. Rickey 
and Steinbrenner, in the same circum- 
stances, preferred monologs. Veeck is a 
warm and compassionate man. The others 
had strong tendencies to bully. 

Only Steinbrenner could succeed as dic- 
tator of El Salvador. Only Rickey could 
have substituted for Billy Graham as 
public-address announcer for God. Only 
O'Malley could have thrived as the politi- 
cal boss of a moderately corrupt metropo- 
lis, Only Veeck could run a circus, an art 
gallery, a bookstore or an opera company. 

But Utica... ./ was in Utica, with a 
ragtag ball club, a shaky front office and a 
cash flow that would have made O'Malley 
weep. 

"You knew all these executives?" my 
manager, Jim Gattis, said in my small rear 
office in the trailer that was the Blue Sox 
front office. “You actually knew them?” 

“I had drinks with all of them except 
Rickey, who was dry." 

Gattis smiled his strong-jawed smile. 
“Well, before this summer ends,” he said, 
“you're gonna ask yourself what the hell 
you're doing in Utica. I guarantee it.” 
Then he was gone to run a Blue Sox prac- 
tice and, falling to earth, I went to work. 

Beyond the prayers that the president of 
the New York-Penn League said he had 
offered in my behalf, I needed a crash 
course in the realities of minor-league 
baseball. As recently as the Thirties, 
minor-league teams were predominantly 
independent local operations. Business- 
men in, say, Olean, New York, rounded up 
the best talent in the Olean area, bought 
franchise rights for perhaps $1000 and 
joined a league. They then had to pur- 
chase uniforms, balls and bats, find a 
manager and rent the local ball park, 
which was typically owned by the city rec- 
reation department. 

For revenue, the operators drew largely 
from three sources—attendance, conces- 
sions and the sale of contracts of the better 
ballplayers to teams in higher-classifica- 
tion leagues. These are the minor leagues 
of myth and memory: The best from our 
town takes on the best from your town 
while we drink beer and watch with pleas- 
ure on a Sunday summer afternoon. 


Today, most minor-league clubs are 
farm teams for the majors, and they gener- 
ally exist as a three-way partnership. The 
major-league team, of course, supplies 
players, coaches, manager and a trainer. 
The owner-president provides the budget 
for the operating costs (bus, hotel rooms, 
balls, bats and telephone bills), sometimes 
with additional help from the parent club. 
The community supplies the permanent 
facilities, such as the ball park, the club- 
house and the lights, for a modest rental 
fee. Before you move into a town, you had 
better have in place all the facilities that 
you hope to get. Once a minor-league club 
is actually functioning, playing its games, 
the politicians figure that they have you 
and your money, so why invest another 
dime of city funds? In minor-league base- 
ball, as in romance, the courtship phase is 
when you can best demand gifts. 

As their price for player-development 
contracts—for meeting the minor-league 
team’s baseball payroll—the major-league 
clubs impose certain conditions on their 
farm teams. In essence, they insist that 
minor-league baseball imitate major- 
league baseball in significant ways. They 
like ball parks with major-league dimen- 
sions. They love large crowds, not so 
purely to keep the minor-league team sol- 
vent as to acclimate athletes to the sounds 
of hoots and cheers. 

And here is where the major-league rep- 
lication ends. Major-league ball is a sport 
played to win. Minor-league ball is a sport 
played to develop major-leaguers. In 
essence, the farm club exists to ripen tal- 
ent. If it wins games in the process, so 
much the better. The minor-league game 
may be thrilling, but the thrills are a by- 
product of research and development. The 
1983 Blue Sox, nobody's farm team, were 
unique. We played primarily, overwhelm- 
ingly, to win. 

The Utica Ragtags, as I thought of them 
at first, had not become independent on 
ideological or practical grounds, like the 13 
colonies 200 years before. They were 
independent because no major-league or- 
ganization wanted to claim them. At the 
time, even the Falkland Islands were being 
claimed. But nobody wanted the Utica 
Blue Sox—until I showed up at Murnane 
Field, their home, in the spring of 1983. 

There is no visually attractive approach 
to Murnane Field. It is set on a naked flat 
in a corner of southwestern Utica, without 
so much as a single tree to grace the scene. 
From one angle, you first see Murnane 
across a high school football field, observ- 
ing the back side of the metal outfield wall, 
which cries for shrubbery and paint. From 
another side, Rose Place, you see slabs of 
plywood fixed to a wire fence, screening 
the playing area from those who have not 
bought tickets. Approaching the main 
entrance, you enter a dirty and rutted 
asphalt parking lot. The sentry box, where 
the ticket takers work, is faded blue. 

I walked in on a chilly late-May morn- 
ing and tramped across the infield to deep 


shortstop. The infield dirt was dark, rutted 
clay. Every ground ball would be an 
adventure. There were no covered stands, 
only steep, naked bleachers behind first 
base, and no seats on the left-field side. 
Weeds were growing tall beyond third 
base. I remembered a manicured California 
college field I had seen recently and the 
calm, beckoning ocean beyond it. At Mur- 
nane, I felt a sense of an ill-kept diamond set 
in the middle of an abandoned junkyard. 

“We'll have everything fixed up in a 
few days," my general manager, Joanne 
Gerace, promised. “It'll look real nice.” 

So this was my ball park. After all the 
joyous times at Ebbets Field and Fenway 
Park and Yankee Stadium, I was assigning 
myself to work in an elephant graveyard. 

“A little paint and some weeding,” 
Joanne continued. 

She stopped. “Bad, isn't it?” 

I attempted to cheer myself by closing 
my thoughts to the drying mud and 
shaggy weeds. I imagined athletes per- 
forming on this wasteland. 

“Those fellows I hear are coming 
back,” I said, rattling off names I knew 
from my roster. “Jacoby. Moretti. Coyle. 
Are they really major-league prospects? 
How good are they?” 

Joanne stood on her high heels in the 
infield and thought for a while. Then she 
said, “They're good enough to dream.” 

. 


We would open on Sunday, June 19, 
playing an afternoon game against the 
Watertown Pirates at a new ball park set 
in an old fairgrounds 83 miles north of 
Murnane Field. From that day in June 
until September second, the New York- 
Penn League schedule did not offer a sin- 
gle day ой. Not one. The players were 
supposed to play every day (or mostly 
every night), and I would have to work at 
my modest presidency every day and 
every night. There are no banker’s hours 
in the minor leagues. 

“You had better like writing if you 
intend to be a writer,” Harold Rosenthal 
told me years before, when we both 
worked for the New York Herald Tribune, 
“because you're going to spend an awful 
lot of time at a typewriter.” You had better 
like playing baseball if you're going to 
become a professional ballplayer, because 
you will play and practice, practice and 
play, until the game becomes a job and, 
after that, the job becomes the touchstone 
of your life. Nothing in my previous expe- 
rience had prepared me for the way a sin- 
gle baseball season, lived from within 
rather than observed from without, takes 
possession of your spirit. Beyond reason, 
the team becomes an extension of your 
essence, your values, your competence, 
your very manhood, so that, also beyond 
all reason, certain victories become more 
than victories and make you feel that for 
all your faults, you are a profoundly good 
and formidable man. Conversely, certain 
losses would throw almost all of us into 
silent wells of despair. We had not simply 


Bure Grow 


“What the hell is it about fire engines?” 


PLAYBOY 


140 


lost a game; we had failed. White-faced 
and grim, each man felt isolated and even 
worthless simply because another ball 
club had scored more runs. 

A baseball team, like any other group 
pressed into daily intimacy, develops a 
collective personality as it coalesces. This 
is, to be sure, the sum of the individual 
ballplayers, the solid citizens, the drinkers, 
the chasers, the loud and the silent, but it 
is more than that, as well. The character of 
a team also proceeds from interaction 
between the various athletes and the 
cliques that inevitably form. Finally, 
the team’s personality is further shaped by 
the manager and the coaches and the 
response of ballplayers to authority. 

There is generally no simple, satisfac- 
tory answer to the fan who asks, in ingenu- 
ous curiosity, what a certain team is really 
like. A team is happy and sad, bristling 
and fearful, open and secretive. In short, a 
baseball team is variable, affected by vic- 
tories and losses, wives and girlfriends, 
hangovers, the schedule, the press, the 
management and the weather. 

In the first month of the season, the 
Utica Blue Sox went 26-6, a phenomenal 
and unsustainable early pace. And as the 
team hurried up the mountain to first 
place, individual characters and the char- 
acter of the team came into gradual deline- 
ation. Jim Gattis, the manager, had an 
obsessive need to control. He demon- 
strated this by holding meetings every day, 
which became occasions for assertive 
speeches. He seemed partial to a patterned 
kind of meeting in which he first praised 
the players for winning and then, anger 
growing, picked apart flaws in the previous 
night’s effort. As Gattis complained, the 
players sat on the benches below the 
orange lockers and looked at their spikes. 

This bothered him. “I wish there was 
somebody who'd lash back," Gattis told 
me. “I worry about this team. We've got 
too many easygoing guys.” 


“You can’t expect them to be angry 
when they're playing .800 ball,” I said. 

“Maybe,” Gattis said, “and maybe not. 
But what's their character going to be 
when they lose a few? I wonder how this 
team will react the first time they lose 
three in a row.” 

I thought we had enough good pitching 
to make extended losing streaks unlikely, 
but Gattis” question was a good one, and it 
stayed with him. He never became manic 
during the winning spurt, because he 
would not stop worrying about how every- 
one would behave when times grew 
tougher, which, he assured me, they defi- 
nitely would. 

“ГИ tell you something,” he said, as we 
ate a late breakfast at Pete’s Parkway 
Diner (“Eat at Pete’s, where the Blue Sox 
eat”). “Maybe you get tired of hearing my 
speeches. Maybe they get tired of them. I 
don't care. You're my boss and I appreci- 
ate that you got a lot to do, but I see a big 
part of my job as making sure we play with 
a surplus of intensity. I want them ready 
to play, not thinking about some movie or 
some girl, when it comes game time, and 
you don't have to tell me that it's hard to 
come up with maximum effort, game after 
game, night after night, when there’s no 
day off, because I know that. Maximum 
effort. Intensity.” 

Gattis himself, it was plain to see, was 
burning with intensity. 

Bob Veale, the pitching coach and a vet- 
eran of ten big-league seasons, was more 
aloof and more contained. He indulged in 
a little basso chuckle after victories and a 
small scowl following defeats, but in the 
manner of a former major-leaguer and a 
man who was within a few months of his 
50th birthday, he knew how to drop 
his intensity when he left the ball park. 
“This game can give you a heart attack, 
he said, “and a heart attack is not what 
I'm looking to get. I can relax. That's how 
it is when you're black. Most black people 


E 


м/о Pm A 


“Would you like to see it again?” 


are born relaxed.” 

Barry Moss, the player/coach who 
served as the Blue Sox’ designated hitter, 
found himself in a perplexing role. Gattis 
wanted to show the other players that he 
indulged no favorites. Even though Moss 
had grown up with Gattis and even 
though he was his confidant and coach, 
Moss, the player, was a favorite target. 
Sometimes, during one of Gattis’ daily ser- 
mons, he paused, turned to Moss and said, 
“Barry, in the fourth inning, you looked 
real horseshit chasing that low inside 
pitch.” Pause. Inhale. “Real horseshit.” 

Barry batted .400 for the first month, so 
he did not look bad often at the plate. “Jim 
gets me a little confused," Moss said. “I 
know what he's trying to do. He likes 
pressure within the team, so that the play- 
ers keep driving one another. He tries to 
get that by setting up different groups— 
sort of the hard workers and the fuck-ups. 
The names change. You can move from 
one group to the other. But right now I'm 
having a hard time deciding whether I’m 
one of the coaches or one of the fuck-ups.” 

“And if you had to make the choice?” 
I said. 

“Oh, no contest," Barry said. "I'd be 
one of the fuck-ups. I may go on and coach 
or manage for years. But this can be my 
last season as a player. I want to remem- 
ber it that way, as a ballplayer." 

“The fuck-up .400 hitter,” I said. 

Moss laughed. He was pleased to be 
playing well. 

The other athletes emerged a little more 
slowly but not, given time, any less viv- 
idly. Mark Krynitsky, our best catcher, 
had a Slavic face that I associate with 
actors who played American coal miners 
fighting to organize a union in long-ago 
movies that were heavy with social signifi- 
cance and now appear on television in 
stark black and white in the hour just 
before dawn. 

Krynitsky, who was trying to complete 
work toward a college degree, came from 
Fairfax, Virginia. His family had labored 
in coal mines to the north during rug- 
ged times, he said. He was a slab-muscled 
200-pounder, recessive off the field but a 
driving leader during games. 

Ed Wolfe, our first baseman, a strong, 
quiet 23-year-old from Arizona, was 
deeply, profoundly, endlessly committed 
to rock music, He traveled nowhere with- 
out his glove and his ghetto blaster, The 
harsh sounds of rock worked as a tranquil- 
izer. "It's tough,” he told me one day, 
“being in a pennant race, and Gattis 
doesn't make it any easier.” 

We were canoeing on Hinckley Lake, 15 
miles north of Murnane Field, after a 
noontime softball game against learning- 
disabled children at Camp Northwood. 
It was a gloriously warm July afternoon. 
At the edges of the lake, cedar and maple 
and white birch and wildflowers pro- 
claimed Adirondack summer. 

“You know I played for Gattis last 
year,” Wolfe said. “I’ve played for a lot of 


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PLAYBOY 


142 


managers and coaches, ever since little 
league. But I never met anyone who liked 
to rip like Gattis.” 

I wanted to let Wolfe speak his piece, 
since he spoke seldom and I could hear 
him now. The ghetto blaster lay on the 
shore. But I did not want to encour- 
age ballplayers to complain to me about 
the manager unless they presented a spe- 
cific problem I could remedy or a serious 
crisis arose. 

“Jim does a lot of things well," I said. 
“If you think he rips, you ought to hear 
Billy Martin. 

"Look," said Wolfe, who was working 
hard at first and hitting .330 at the time, 
“Gattis is the best technical batting coach 
I've ever known. Get into a little slump 
and he's right there. But the ripping every 
day. I mean, it's like he's good at baseball 
but he isn't any good at people." 

I was left puzzled. It was possible that 
the diet of approbation Wolfe craved might 


have produced a smiling, relaxed first 
baseman and might even have snapped his 
dependency on hard rock. That first base- 
man, however, might have gone cheerfully 
about his summer trade, hitting .150. 

“It’s not a gentle game, Eddie," I told 
him, "when you're a pro." 

Don Jacoby, our high-energy, hard- 
hitting third baseman, became the subject 
of an ethnic incident that amused me. 
Sandy Schlesinger, a New York lawyer 
who had bought stock in our team, called 
one day to announce that he was voyaging 
from Madison Avenue to Utica and that 
he looked forward to watching our fine 
Jewish third baseman. 

“He's not Jewish, Sandy,” I said. 

“What? That’s ridiculous. How can you 
not be Jewish if your name's Jacoby?” 

“If your name was originally something 
else.” 

I wanted a Jewish ballplayer as badly as 
I wanted a Utica local to make the team, 


“We don't expect this to turn into an actual big 


war. We view it as a ‘combat opportunity. 


The better the mix, the better the gate. 
But neither want was satisfied. I had to 
tell Schlesinger that the closest we came to 
a Jewish ballplayer in Utica was Sandy 
Koufax, whose likeness was displayed at 
the Hall of Fame in nearby Cooperstown. 

Jacoby was a patient batter—which is 
to say that he waited well, taking strikes 
that caught the black rims of home plate, 
hoping to see a better pitch to hit. His 
swing was compact and smooth, and that 
combination, the patience and the swing, 
made him one of the league's best hitters. 

His natural defensive position was sec- 
ond base, but we had a second baseman 
who surpassed him. This led Gattis to 
position Jacoby at third. There Don suf- 
fered and did not improve. Since Gattis 
had been a third baseman himself, he 
brought personal passion to Jacoby’s daily 
instructions. 

They began easily enough. "Now, 
Doni third base is basically a reflex 
position, You've got to react on reflex; 
there's no time to do anything else. It isn't 
like second. Are you with me?" 

“Yeah, Skip," Jacoby said. 

“But you have to think. The hitter, The 
pitch. The game situation. You should be 
moving, away from the line or toward it, 
and getting set even before the batter 
swings.” 

Jacoby nodded vaguely. 

“I was a good third baseman,” Gattis 
said, "and Im slow, probably because 
I've got a big ass.” 

“You sure do,” said Jacoby. “You got a 
huge ass." 

The men were standing on the grassy 
knoll outside the clubhouse, where group- 
ies were beginning to gather after our 
games, "Whore Hill" some of the ball- 
players called the knoll. But in the 
Murnane infield, with its rippling base 
paths, things were not pleasant for Jacoby. 
Third base requires before anything else a 
kamikaze distance as short as 90 feet. 
Hard ground balls are even more trying. 
And the Murnane Field ground ball was a 
particularly dangerous breed. 

But Gattis would make Jacoby a third 
baseman. He insisted that he would. 
Afternoons, at two o'clock, Gattis took a 
batting-practice bat, a taped-together 
batting-practice bat, and skimmed hard 
ground balls toward Jacoby. Then he 
shouted, “Down! Keep your head down! 
Keep your goddamned head down! Oh, 
Christ, Jacoby, will you look that fucking 
ball into your glove!” 

Jacoby tried. But he could not do what 
Cox and Brooks Robinson and Graig Net- 
tles did every afternoon of summer. He 
could not keep his head down and look the 
hopping baseball into his glove. 

Gattis became frustrated and angry. 
One afternoon, while hitting grounders, he 
shouted at Jacoby, “Coward!” 

Absurdly harsh, I thought. Abuse is not 
a teaching tool. After a bit, Gattis and I sat 
in the dugout. 

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143 


PLAYBOY 


144 


York-Penn League, Jim, righ 

Gattis became watchful. “What are you 
getting at?” 

“You've got a ballplayer, Jacoby, who 
stands in against 90-mile-an-hour fast 
balls in bad light. He’s hitting .397. When 
pitchers throw at his chin, he won't back 
off an inch. The guy can't make it at third 
base. So you shout at this ballplayer, 
who'll hit the roughest fast balls, you 
shout, ‘Coward.’ And maybe ten of his 
teammates hear what you shout.” 

“It's a complex fucking game,” Gattis 
said. “You can be brave in one area and 
afraid somewhere else. You remind me of 
my brothers. They think they know the 
game. I know the game. That’s why I'm 
managing. And I say Jacoby is a coward 
at third.” 

"So switch him and Eddié Wolfe," I 
said. "Wolfe plays better third than Jacoby 
and Donny's OK at first base." 

"No," Gattis said. "I'm gonna make 
Jacoby a third baseman.” 

He stood up. In a minute, he was hitting 
more ground balls to third and repeating 
the word coward in a low, angry way. 

I'm gonna make Jacoby a third baseman. 

My ballplayers were in Class A because 
they had not developed major-league 
skills. In time they might. They had not 
yet. 

Neither, I suppose, had my manager. 

. 


For a time, our starting shortstop was a 
solemn, stringy young Californian named 
Shawn Barton, who talked to himself in 
intricate ways. Waiting on deck to hit, Bar- 
ton muttered, “You're gonna get your 
pitch. Nah, that curve was nowhere. Your 
pitch is coming. Here it comes. Give ita 
ride.” He'd be kneeling as he spoke, very 
softly, so that from a distance you saw his 
lips move but heard no sound. Shawn 
sprinted on and off the field and, between 
innings, fielded imaginary grounders to 
his right or left. He was solitary, courteous 
and a curiosity to the other ballplayers. 
They were sufficiently puzzled by his 
behavior to spare him needling for a 
while. 

“This is how I always play,” Barton 
told me. “I keep myself, you know, 
pumped up.” He did not look you in the 
eyes when he spoke. “Little things, you 
know, and I don’t bother anybody with 
what I do. Like, after an inning, I run in 
hard, because I like to be the first player to 
get to the dugout.” It was a race he ran 
with swift determination against no rivals. 

Gattis and I puzzled over Barton with- 
out solving him, this being Class A base- 
ball first and group analysis only 
coincidentally, “But you got to wonder,” 
Gattis said. “All that funny muttering. Do 
you think, maybe, if it wasn’t for baseball, 
Shawnie might be holding up banks?” 

Whatever, Barton was a loner who 
never seemed lonely. 

He always had himself to talk to. 

Larry Lee, the second baseman, was 
nicknamed Francis, because of his vague 


resemblance to an erratic character in the 
Bill Murray movie Stripes. (Murray was 
the most famous of the minority share- 
holders in the Blue Sox, and the ballplay- 
ers wondered whether or not he would 
travel from Hollywood to watch them and 
his modest investment. He never did.) 

Actually, Lee was the quiet, occasion- 
ally droll son of a college teacher in San 
Luis Obispo, California. Larry wore his 
black hair in the manner of Prince Valiant 
and had a look suggesting both intelli- 
gence and softness. Curiously, he made a 
few mental errors at unfortunate times, 
but when Gattis berated him, he showed 
no softness. Attacked, our resident page- 
boy struck back like a Dead-End Kid. 

Our starting outfield—one of our start- 
ing outfields—was the shortest you could 
find anywhere in professional baseball. 
Daryl Pitts, Ralph Sheffield and Rocky 
Coyle each claimed to stand 5'7". Their 
real height was closer to 5'5". They were 
all good ballplayers, but one reason 
we had them proceeded from an obvious 
rule of major-league scouting. Scouts look 
for size. 

Pitts was the one Blue Sox who was 
always broke. “That alimony, man, it eats 
you up,” he said one day after borrowing 
lunch money from me in the men’s room of 
a dreary roadside diner. 

“How much alimony are you paying, 
Daryl?” I said. 

“Eighteen hundred a month.” 

“Pve paid alimony, Daryl. Gattis has 
paid alimony. How the hell can you pay 
$1800 a month alimony when your salary 
is $500 a month?” 

"You beginning to see the problem, 
man," Pitts said. “Got stuck bad when I 
had a job as a truck loader. I was making 
more. We got a team lawyer can maybe go 
to the judge for me and explain." 

"Where's the judge?" 

“Los Angeles.” 

“Our team lawyer is in New York.” 

“You see,” Pitts said. "Everything's a 
problem.” 

Sheffield was a smiling, stylish center 
fielder who had minored in drama at 
Pepperdine and promised that he would 
give the team “my famous Richard Pryor 
imitation” when enough players pleaded 
to hear it. Sheffield worked that particular 
game—"'l really want to be wanted”—so 
hard that when he finally began a Pryor 
act on a bus, the others shouted him down. 

Sheff had small, even features, a glisten- 
ing style and, as Barry Moss reported to 
me after a long conversation, a sense that 
he was the second coming of Willie Mays. 
He was always running out from under his 
cap and snaring line drives with graceful 
dives. At this point, at least, he was a pearl 
of undiluted charm. 

Rocky Coyle, the third of our short, 
gifted outfielders, was an Arizona native 
who suffered from (or thrived on) 
extremely intense religiosity. He was mar- 
ried and a father and had somehow found 
the means to bring his wife, Debbie, 


and his son, Joshua, to Utica. Coyle trav- 
eled with a Bible. I had a faint concern 
that he might reveal, with preaching, lam- 
entation and exhortation, that he was an 
evangelical zealot. He was not. Rocky read 
Matthew and Mark and the Psalms without 
enlisting the rest of us to do the same. 

But Gattis said excessively religious 
ballplayers bothered him. “ГИ put it to 
you brief,” he said. “They lose. Then they 
say God meant for this to be.” 

Probably the most assertive player 
around the free-beer bar we set up for the 
Blue Sox was Willie Finnegan, the fastest, 
wildest pitcher on the club. In our early 
rush, John Seitz, Mike Zamba and a 
rather solemn right-hander from Tucson 
named Dan Roma established themselves 
as reliable starting pitchers. Jim Tompkins. 
was a gritty middle relief man. Roy 
Moretti was supreme at the end game. We 
had other pitchers, of course, and wild 
Willie Finnegan ranked near the bottom, 
Veale, who had been wild in his youth, 
viewed him as a reclamation project. I 
recalled pitchers who had spent a decade 
mastering control. And while we marveled 
at Willie's speed, we didn't pitch him. 

Since he wasn’t allowed to pitch, 
Finnegan had to find a compensatory fac- 
tor. It was his tongue. 

“When I get in there,” Willie would say 
over a Matt's (the local brew), "anybody 
leans in on me, you better keep those doc- 
tors ready at Faxton Hospital. ГЇЇ break 
his jaw." 

Or “I got a heater"—fast ball—''and 
under these lights, they ain't gonna see it. 
They'll be lucky if they hear it." 

His voice was pure New York, or the 
part of New York that used to be called 
Hell's Kitchen. He enjoyed talking tough, 
and his take-no-prisoners chatter, night 
after night, might have unnerved 
Muammar el-Qaddafi. As the season 
developed, you could recognize it for what 
it was: bravado. The tougher he talked, 
Finnegan reasoned, the more likely he was 
to be told to start a game. 

We were tied with the Little Falls Mets 
for first place on July second, when Veale 
and Gattis, in cabal, decided to start 
Finnegan against the Mets in Utica. 

“You pick the pitchers,” I said to the 
manager, “but if I were doing it, I'd use 
somebody else. Save Finny for a weaker 
team. Watertown." 

Gattis looked distressed. “This can 
work,” he said. “Anyway, Veale thinks it’s 
a good idea.” 

Finnegan stood 6'2" and weighed about 
185, but three hours before game time, the 
toughness slipped away. He was smoking 
cigarettes at an emphysematous pace. 

Barry Moss said, "Finny's worrying 
me a little. A pitcher shouldn’t go out on 
the mound as if he were a boxer going into 
the ring. Control. Calm." 

At 7:15, Finnegan began to warm up 
with one of our reserve catchers, Steve 
Sproesser. He threw harder and harder, 
and the ball popped so loudly into 


Dont settle for walking. 


PLAYBOY 


146 


Sproesser’s mitt that fans wandered 
toward the bull pen to see the fast balls. 

Exertion reddened Finnegan’s Irish 
face. “Hold it,” Veale said in his drill- 
instructor tone. 

“Just two more pitches,” Finnegan 
said. 

“Hold it,” Veale said, half an octave 
deeper. 

“OK.” Finnegan put on his jacket and 
started toward the dugout. The beer-bar 
jawbreaker was now going to have to 
dance a two-step with real life. 

He walked the first batter, Stanley Jef- 
ferson, a prime Mets prospect. Jefferson 
stole second. Finnegan filled the empty 
space by walking the second batter. By the 
time the half-inning ended, we were two 
runs behind. By the end of the second, we 
were down five. The Mets would win it, 
8-2. 


marched to the clubhouse and his ciga- 
rettes. "Friggin' Gattis,” he said. “He 
made me throw pitchouts. I got trouble 
with control and he’s making me pitch 
out.” (It was, of course, friggin’ Gattis 
who had given him his start.) 

“And my girlfriend came up. She's a 
great girl and all, but that pisses me off. 
When I'm in the heat of battle, stay away.” 

He continued to mutter and rant, “I just 
wanted to beat those suckers for first 
place, but until I throw my breaking stuff 
for strikes, they're going to do what they 
did tonight. Damn. I stunk out the yard.” 

He took his uniform off slowly, so slowly 
that he was able to finish two cigarettes 
while he undressed. At the end of the 
game, he reappeared at the beer bar. “He 
won't start again,” Gattis was saying. 


Gone by the third inning, Willie “Ifyou don't start Finny again,” Jimmy 
= 
"= 


Tompkins said, "you're messing with his 
life. Im glad I don't have to make that 
decision.” 

“We can spot him somewhere,” Veale 
said, 

The losing pitcher sipped beside his girl, 
and beer restored bravado. 1 heard him 
say, “Nobody can stop the Finny Express.” 

But, to be sure, the next morning would 
come and, with it, a slight headache for the 
Finny Express. Thinking of Willie, who 
was young but not so young as before this 
failure, I mused that baseball in Utica, 
summer of 1983, had found a way to pose a 
frightening question: How can you get 
older without getting more scared? 

. 

Rocky Coyle took to calling out the stars 
of cach game and demanding applause. 
Rocky would order a golf clap (quiet), a 
tennis clap (louder) or a concert clap 
(rhythmic, in the manner of European 
audiences urging an encore). 

Gattis had a parlor trick that he played 
on many bus-ride nights. Place six beer 
cups on the floor—the manager had to 
look away during this process—invert 
them and conceal a coin under one. Gattis 
would then turn, kneel, work his right 
hand back and forth over the inverted cups 
and, invariably, select the one hiding the 
coin. We suspected Moss of flashing a sig- 
nal, but we never caught the sign. And 
Gattis never missed. 

Moss organized the most elaborate 
instance of our bus-ride merriment. Fol- 
lowing Finnegan's Wake on July second, 
the Sox worked their way back into first 
place and made the first extended trip, to 
Jamestown and Batavia, in the western 
part of the state. When we swept James- 
town, a Montreal farm, we moved a game 
ahead of Little Falls. The trip to Batavia 
next day turned into a kangaroo court. 

Bailiff Rocky Coyle stood up as the bus 
rode north on Route 60, past summer- 
green farms and hills, and spoke into the 
driver’s microphone. 

“The Utica Blue Sox’ first kangaroo 
court"—there never was another— will 
come to order. No talking. Judge Daniel 
Gazzilli presiding. All rise, please.” 

Everybody stood and then sat down. 

“The prosecuting attorney will now 
read the cases. Anyone accused must 
stand trial. He will be granted five min- 
utes for himself or his defense counsel.” 

Moss rose. The bus rolled smoothly. It 
was not hard to keep your footing. He 
spoke in carefully austere tones. 

“Case number one. The Blue Sox versus 
Shawn Barton for wearing his stirrups as 
high as his knees and for continually talk- 
ing to himself in a psychopathic manner." 

Laughter. Barton grinned and blushed. 

“Case number two. The Blue Sox ver- 
sus Daryl Pitts and Larry Lee for wearing 
kneepads at their ankles during batting 
practice. 

“Case number three. The Blue Sox ver- 
sus Ralph Sheffield for continually throw- 
ing equipment, notably after striking out, 


and for swearing at children alongside the 
first-base dugout 

“Case number four. The Blue Sox ver- 
sus the pitchers for not carrying the train- 
er's gear 

“Case number five is the Blue Sox ver- 
sus Michael Zalewski for not abiding by 
his contract with the court. The court 
has determined that to be employe 
traveling secretary and statistician, your 
physical body must be maintained within 


as 


20 years of your chronological age. The 
prosecution further charges, Mike, that 
your body is that of a 65-year-old woman. 


It also alleges that your body is hazardous 
to your health.” 

Defense attorneys could be selected by 
defendants from the balance of the team 
Or one could elect to defend himself— 
as many players did. These deliberations 


came alive with pleasure. The players 


could mock one another harmlessly and 
get back at their stern 
ager and his front-office cronies. 


Batavia, site 


nd volatile man- 


bus pressed northward toward 
of a factory that manufac- 
tured a cloth guaranteed to clean your 
automobile as thoroughly as a ca 
Advertisements for this product b 
“Does your car get shameful dirty?" 
would be Batavia (and two more ea 
tories for the Blue Sox), but amid the 
laughter and the fellowship, we might as 
well have been rolling east toward Eden. 
We did not lose many games we should 
have won on that road trip. Over the next 


wash 


few weeks, we seldom lost at all, On July 


21, squarely in first place, we started Mi 
Zamba against the second-place Little 
Falls Mets. Mike's arm was not as "live 

as some. His forte was intelligent pitching. 
He knew how to move the ball from spot to 
spot, how to change speeds, how to keep a 


hitter from swinging in a groove and how 
to disrupt the hitter's timing. If Mike had 
Wild Willie Finneg 
be working in the 


vs fast ball, he would 
ajor leagues today 

We scored a run first, but it was a grind- 
ing kind of game, close and tense most of 
the way. When Z 
Roy Moretti, our bull-pen ace, in the last 
half of the eighth inning. Roy got the last 
four outs in ov 


nba tired, we went to 


rpowering fashion. A pop 
fly. A tap to the mound. Two swinging 
strike-outs, including a formidable Mets 
prospect named Ed Williams. 

Both teams had played splendid base- 
ball; there was a ma 
particular game. When the Blue Sox won 
it, 7-4, our lead over Little Falls reached 
an even seven games. Our winning per- 
centage, .813, was the highest to be found 
anywhere in organized baseball, 

As we rode the bus back to Utica and 
Rocky Coyle called for various shadings of 
applaus 
smirked. Jim Tompkins broke out his gui- 
tar and began to sing a country song. The 


league feel to this 


we drank beer, joked and 


scene about me was young, beautiful, 

alive. Hearts and voices moved to the joy 

and tuneful singing. 
Whatever Thomas Wolfe 


claimed— 


and Dylan Thomas set down in his g 
ous tale of a Swansea park—1 was going 
home again, to my own boyhood. In the 
dark bus, happiness filled my eyes with 
unseen tears 

Tompkins, the cowboy pitcher, crooned 
the words; 


'Goin' home 
Goin' home 


To the place where I was born 


But time, which takes survey of all the 
world, can never stop. 

The next day, we collided with reality 

. 

No one can really explain what hap- 
pened next, but, quite simply, fortune 
turned. We had been both good and lucky 
in playing .800 bascball, and now the team 
lost some of its competitive edge and some 
ofits good luck all at once 

In a style of writing that was popular 50 


years ago, one blamed such change of cir- 


cumstance on angered gods. Whatever the 
metaphysics of the Blue Sox' situation, 1 
can only report that a skilled and rugged 
Class A ball club, out front by seven 


ded to come unraveled. 


games, proce 


Casey Stengel offered a racteristi 


cally cogent description of a slump. “It's 


when the hitters ain't hittin',” he said, 
‘and the pitchers ain’t pitchin’ and the 
fielders ain't catchin’ the ball.” Always 


self-protective, Stengel did not add, “And 
when the manager ain’t managin’ great 
neither 

We did not collapse like a game animal 
felled by an elephant gun, but little things 
and then larger things began to go wrong 


Larry Lee neglected to dive for a grounder 


back of second base, and the ball carried 
through and cost us an important run 
Gattis tried Moss at first b 


two errors in one game. T 


e and he made 


pkins tempo. 
rarily lost mastery of his best pitch, the 
knuckle curve. Our hitters cooled in clutch 
situations. The horrible hops of Murnane 
Field began to bounce against us. Frustra- 
tion gripped Gattis, and after a while frus- 
tration gave way to simmering anger, Each 
loss seemed to make his personality more 
contentious, and we would lose a lot of 
games. 

By all the history and logic of baseball 
we were too hot not to cool down. Teams 
simply do not play .800 ball across a sea- 
son. The 1927 Yankees, with Gehrig 
Ruth in their primes, played at a .714 
pace. The 1953 Dodgers, who had a pen- 
Labor Day, played 
682. The 1954 Cleveland Indians, who 


won 111 games, played .721. Nobody 


and 


nant secured soon aft 


maintains .800. But we were an emotional 
bunch in Utica, and neither history nor 
logic tranquilized us when we were 
beaten 


The pressure Gattis felt was increasing 


the way the pain of a toothache increase: 
simply by persisting day after day. The 
amiable character Gentleman Jim faded in 
the summer heat. Now the season without 
a day off gripped him and the games night 


If this bottle 
looks familiar 
at this distance, 
we congratulate yo 
on your taste 
and perception. 


Tanqueray Gin. A singular experience. 


PLAYBOY 


148 


after night scraped his nerve ends raw. 

After the two annoying losses to the 
Oneonta Yankees, we fell into a .500 pat- 
tern, mixing defeats and victories about 
equally. For most of us, a sense of fun per- 
sisted, even though we were losing the sort 
of games we had earlier rallied to win. We 
still had the lead. It was up to Little Falls 
to catch us. But our bad games tore at 
Gattis and our good games never seemed 
quite good enough. He ripped the players 
night after night, creating a jagged breach 
between the team and the manager. A few 
devised a nickname for him. It was one 
word, derisively spoken: Dad 

It became more and more difficult for 
me to reach Dad Gattis. He saw himself as 
the captain of a dissolute crew, and he 
didn’t want any coaching from the com- 
modore. It was his crew. The nature of my 
conversations with him altered. They 
became rather like Gattis lectures instead 
of discussions. 

Curiously, this was the season when 
George Bamberger resigned as manager of 
the last-place New York Mets, telling 
reporters, “1 probably suffered enough." 

Someone in Utica asked me if I thought 
that comment, coming from a professional 
baseball person, was unmanly. I didn’t. I 
thought that it was frank. Each day, I 
watched our manager, who had a good 
grip on first place, suffer intensely. I imag- 
ine he dreamed of horrifying abysses into 
which he saw the Blue Sox falling, drag- 


ging him into purgatory with them. 

We swept two games from Geneva, a 
last-place club, but Little Falls kept win- 
ning and our lead did not grow. Then w 
lost two straight games to the Newark Oi 
oles at Colburn Field. Newark was devel- 
oping into the strongest team in the 
western division of the league. (At the end, 
they won their division by ten games.) 
Gattis told the players furiously that they 
had to beat good teams as well as bad ones 
if they expected to finish first, and then he 
shouted at them in general frustration. Lit- 
tle Falls kept winning. When we left New- 
ark on August fifth, our lead, with a month 
to go, was down to a mere three and a 
half—no longer large enough to make any- 
body truly comfortable. 

The times were tense, but I had organ- 
ized a promotion that could briefly relieve 
stress. On August sixth, before a home 
game against Little Falls, five young 
women, wearing white bathing suits, high 
heels and brightly colored capes, gathered 
at home plate for the finals of the Miss 
Utica Blue Sox contest. After Fred Snyder 
announced the names, each girl spoke 
briefly on why she wanted to be Miss 
Utica Blue Sox and told a little about her- 
self. Then she dropped the cape and 
walked to first base in skimpy bathing suit 
and skin past whistling fans and smiling 
“judges""—Tompkins, Jacoby, Gattis and 
myself, Gattis insisted on being a judge. So 
did I 


The contest beautified barren Mur- 
nane; but when it was over, Little Falls 
pounded us, 10-3. Our lead shrank to two 
and a half games. Neither player meetings 
nor fierce speeches from the manager 
seemed able to stop our steady, infuriating 
slide toward second place. We had now 
lost another three in a row and nine of our 
previous 16 games. The mood within the 
team was grim and prickly. Gattis fumed 
alternately at the players and the front 
office. The extended Blue Sox family was 
squabbling in whiny ways. The team had 
lost its winning touch. And now our bull- 
pen stopper, Moretti, began to talk about 
packing up and going home. 

E 


Like the existence of many other wan- 
derers, a minor-league ballplayer's life 
is touched with schizophrenia. He leaves 
his home environment, his family, his 
friends and sets forth to play baseball with 
strangers. He can win fame and glory 
(though not much money) far from home, 
but when he returns, no one knows what 
he has done. Where the high deeds of 
major-leaguers sound and resound in the 
press and on television, a minor-leaguer's 
triumphs and disasters usually draw local 
attention but no more. After an exhilarat- 
ing pennant race, full of crackling ball 
games and ovations, minor-leaguers go 
home to an empty greeting: “Say, where 
have you been for the past few months?" 

Back in Victoria, British Columbia, Roy 


If vou 


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Moretti was, he said, a sales manager in a 
Chevrolet agency. He was obscure but 
made a comfortable living. Here in Utica, 
he was a superb right-handed pitch- 
er, nicknamed the an Goose, idol- 
ized, famous and underpaid. When Roy 
was right, which was most of the time, we 
needed only to carry a lead into the eighth 
inning. Then he'd come in and save the 
game. He was the linchpin of the pitching 
staff, confident, always ready to work, 
uncomplaining and proud without being 
haughty. He was a good pitcher who knew 
that he was good. But he was also a hus- 
band in a troubled marriage. 

He'd been playing baseball for a long 
time. In fact, when he was small, Moretti 
told me, he had cracked the little league at 
seven, by lying about his age. Now, 20 
years later, he was wondering if his life in 
ball would lead him anywhere but to 
court. His wife, Heather, was a 
registered nurse, with a good job and a 
wide circle of friends. “They ask her what 
she's doing with a man who leaves a good 
job in the summer to play a kid's game in a 
town they don't know for a team they 
never heard of and for $500 a month." 

Jtica heroics meant little, if anything, in 
the Canadian West. Our greatest game 
Roy's greatest games, wer 
sions in Utica but were generally unno- 
ticed by the media. Roy had 
reached an age where a man is expected to 
get serious, and Heather Moretti and her 


Canad 


divorci 


festive oc 


national 


friends, 3000 miles away, hardly regarded 
pitching for the Blue Sox as a serious 
endeavor. 

We can win the pennant, Roy,” I said. 
fou want to be with a pennant winner, 
don't you?" 

He nodded but said, “I kind of get the 


feeling my marriage ought to come first." 
“Has she said, ‘Come home or we're 
through'?" 
“Not in those words. She's very lonely 
She hasn't used those words yet." 
"The team can give you a hand flying 
her into Utica 
She can't get away from her work as a 


nurse 

"You love Heather?" I asked 

“А lot," Moretti said 

Then I didn't know what to do. Could I 
argue that he should stay and risk divorce, 
with all its torments, self-doubt, loneliness 
and lawyers? Not convincingly 
Should I tell him that he had already done 
a great deal for the Blue Sox and that he 
should fly to Heather without guilt, with- 
out worrying teammates and 
with my blessing? | didn't want to say 
that, either 


very 


about his 


I said, 

you, Roy." 
“I know that. I appreciate that.” 
“I want pennant badly, 

badly as Gattis," I said, "but I can't tell 


The whole team looks up to 


this just as 


you to stay and lose your marriage. I can't 


say that. 

Roy nodded and tapped me on the 
shoulder in a gentle gesture of affection. 
We exchanged troubled looks and, in Rob- 
ert Frost's phrase, we were men together 

On August eighth, Roy saved a victory 
over Watertown, keeping our lead at two 
and a half games, stayed up most of the 
night making play- 
ers and, on August ninth, flew home to 
Victoria. 

I thought, in a spasm, There goes the 
pennant. And after all the work that all of 
us had done. But part of my job as presi- 
dent was to absorb pain silently and to 
keep my doubts and anxieties to myself 

“Come on, Jimmy,” I said to Gattis. 
“We're gonna make it without him.” 

“Bet your butt we are,” Gattis said. 

Our eyes met, full of apprehension 

Without Moretti, the relief 
switched to Tompkins and several others, 
who performed well. We hit hard and we 
played hard and we did not collapse 
Instead, we played .500 ball. So, fortu- 
nately for our side, did Little Falls, We 
held our narrow lead. Nobody talked 
about Moretti. Like combat pilots, the 
players did not dwell on those who were 
missing. That would have depressed us all 
On August 16, we defeated Elmira, 23-4, 
establishing our lead at an even three 
games. Early that evening, my telephone 
rang. Moretti was calling from Victoria. 
“It's OK now with me and Heather," he 


farewells to other 


burden 


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


smoke 


please try Carlton. 


PLAYBOY 


150 


said. “I can come back, if you want me." 
He would return on August 18. When 
he left, our lead had been two and a half 
games. By the time he rejoined us, the lead 
was two. The Blue Sox had survived his 
absence. His marriage, Moretti reported 
cheerfully, was surviving the season. 


б 

The Blue Sox knew how to play baseball 
and how to think. Gattis’ speeches, 
whether mild or diatribes, reminded the 
Sox to play intelligent and intense base- 
ball. It was important, even essential, to 
keep reminding them. Minds can wander 
amazing distances over a game and over a 
season. But because the Blue Sox were a 
year or two older than any other team, the 
players already knew better than most 
what they had to do. That knowledge, 
that experience, as much as our four hit- 
ters at the ready on deck, grinding their 
teeth and pumping their bats impatiently, 
was why we reached the middle of August 
in first place. After a stretch of .500 ball, 
though, we split the last of three double- 
headers, falling a full game behind Little 
Falls as we did. Afterward, we boarded the 
bus for a long and rather difficult trip 
home. 

I sent someone to fetch a small bottle of 
Scotch—for staff morale, I said—and to 
buy cases of beer for the players. Gattis 
and I worked on the Scotch until it seemed 
that we had won three double-headers, not 
split them; until it seemed that we still 
owned first place. This was a night when a 
few athletes smoked pot, while others 
urgently told them to open some windows 
so that management—Gattis, Moss, my- 
self—did not catch a whiff of the stuff in 
our seats up front. We never noticed. 

This night, on this long bus ride, the 
players’ anger at the way Gattis had 
treated them erupted in a song composed 
and sung by Jimmy Tompkins, the bard of 
Austin, Tompkins called it Ode to Jim 
Gattis and based the words and melody on 
Bob Dylan's Don't Think Twice, It's All 
Right. 

Gattis was sleepy with Scotch as the bus 
rolled along the New York Thruway, but I 
could hear Tompkins’ lyrics clearly. 


There ain't no use in screamin’ on the 
bus, Jim, 

When we lose another game. 

No, there ain't no use in screamin’ on 
the bus, Jim, 

"Cause we can't hear what you say. 

You are a psycho and no friend of. 
Larry Lee. 

You have no class, no originality. 

One more week, this will all be his- 


tory. y 
But don't think twice, it's all right. 


Jimmy Don Tompkins was somewhat 
angrier (and certainly more eloquent) 
than most of the Blue Sox. He had come 
from poor beginnings and had fought his 
way into the University of Texas on good 


intelligence and a fast ball swift enough to 
win him an athletic scholarship. His father 
ran a gasoline station in Austin, Jimmy 
wanted to pitch in the major leagues. 

He was having a decent year at Utica, 
but he was also 24 years old. A decent 
year, as opposed to a great year, in the 
New York-Penn League portends jour- 
ney's end for a 24-year-old ballplayer. 

Tompkins’ Ode to Jim Gattis contained 
more than his personal dismay. It repre- 
sented the thinking of a substantial num- 
ber of Blue Sox who believed, right or 
wrong, that Gattis’ abuse was muddying 
their outlook, spoiling their prospects, 
dirtying their dreams. 

The bus continued to journey along the 
Thruway. The pot smoking subsided. 
Almost everyone went to sleep. I remem- 
bered the poignant joy of the earlier night 
when Tompkins had sung after we had 
beaten Little Falls and our spirits had 
soared into flight. I could hear Bill Veeck's 
strong voice reminding me, "The game is 
supposed to be fun." 

It was less fun now than it had been. 
Some nights were hard and stony grinds. 
Oh, the magic was still there. But stress— 
the unrelenting stress of a close pennant 
and the bumpy stress of egos in collision— 
was crowding fun out of the game. The 
stresses worked on Gattis and the players 
in different ways, so we had silly jokes and 
somber songs. Some players, like Tomp- 
kins, had bet their futures and their most 
desperate dreams on 12 baseball weeks in 
Utica. Not every dream was coming to a 
happy pass. 

Rolling somewhere east of Rochester 
and west of Syracuse at three AM, I con- 
cluded that the game was supposed to be 
fun for the fans. 

Seen from within, lived from within a 
pennant race that slashes about you like 
the boiling, misty river under Niagara 
Falls, baseball, where everyone wants to 
win and only a few can be winners, is 
something else. 

For all its glories, baseball is a brutal 
business. 

. 

The Blue Sox’ obsession that we had 
to win infected me as surely as it domi- 
nated Jim Gattis. With the season's end 
fast approaching, I noted that a Korean 
passenger plane, flight 007, had been shot 
down over Russian airspace, killing every- 
one aboard. I thought, One more move in 
the nuclear chess game that the U.S. and 
the Soviet Union play each day. That 
stress would pass. The real game was here 
at Murnane Field, which had become the 
center of my world. The great issue was 
whether the Blue Sox won or lost. If that 
makes little sense in retrospect, it still was 
so for most of us during the final week of 
the season. We didn’t want World War 
Three to break out just then, because it 
would have disrupted the pennant race. 

For the rest of the season, the five nights 
from August 29 through September sec- 
ond, we would play all our games against 
the Watertown Pirates. The Pirates were a 


young team and they had started abys- 
mally, but by this point, they were learn- 
ing how to win. Twenty-one-year-old 
ballplayers, if they are any good at all, can 
improve quickly. By the end of August, 
Watertown had become tougher, sounder, 
more aggressive. 

At long last, we had come to the part of 
the season in which, Gattis said, the ball- 
players could be left alone to motivate 
themselves. Under the master plan that 
Jim tried to follow—and did when he 
could keep his emotions in check—the 
daily routine would now be free of 
harangues. “If the ballplayers can't get 
themselves up and do it every night,” he 
said, “with a possible pennant less than a 
week away, then they aren't real ballplay- 
ers. I guarantee it.” 

Indeed, our manager became more 
quict and less visible, except for one after- 
noon when he suddenly began to throw 
handfuls of Murnane Field rocks toward 
an umpire. 

After we beat Watertown in the series 
opener, the Pirates played hard and skill- 
fully the next night, and we went into the 
ninth inning with some problems. Little 
Falls had already won its game, defeating 
Batavia, and Watertown was beating us, 
5-2. Another damnable fall from first 
place loomed, with subsequent disorder, 
recrimination and sorrow. But desire, in 
powder-blue uniforms, had never burned 
more brightly under the Murnane lights 
than in the ninth inning that evening. 

We came back to tie the game in the bot- 
tom of the ninth, as much by will as by 
skill. Our players’ drive to win, their stout 
refusal to be defeated, was almost tangi- 
ble. You could feel it rising from the field 
into the steep, bare bleachers. We were, 
and would remain, essentially in a half- 
game situation, For most of the four 
remaining days, we would cither lead by a 
half—an extra game that Little Falls had 
played and lost—or trail by a half. That is 
about as close as both the mathematics 
and the climate of a pennant race ever get. 

As it began to drizzle in the bottom of 
the tenth, we pressed our attack and 
loaded the bases with two out. Ed Wolfe 
walked toward the batter’s box. The skies 
opened. Deluge. The umpires met in the 
downpour and called time. Despite Gattis’ 
conviction that New York-Penn League 
umpires were storm troopers in blue, he 
didn’t argue. It was raining that hard. 

We sat in the clubhouse, abusing the 
cumulo-nimbus clouds. They lingered 
heedless overhead. No one said much to 
Ed Wolfe. He walked about in nervousness 
for a few minutes and then, clutching his 
portable radio, escaped as best he could 
into the cacophony. The downpour never 
let up, and the chief umpire informed me 
that he was suspending the game and that 
we'd have to resume it from the precise 
point where rain had stopped us, as part of 
a semi-double-header tomorrow. We 
ended the evening essentially tied for first. 

Bad as another double-header might be 


“Remember those carefree days when we used to 
whistle and sing on the way to work?” 


PLAYBOY 


for our tired pitching staff, we ended up 
with something even worse and almost 
without precedent: Rained out again, we 
had no game the next night and a semi- 
triple-header at Watertown on September 
first. 


. 

We had first-line, if somewhat arm- 
weary, pitching ready for the triple- 
header. We would use Moretti to finish the 
suspended game, then start John Seitz and 
Mike Zamba in the two others. Little Falls 
would be playing the Oneonta Incom- 
petents, so to be practical, we felt we had 
to sweep the triple-header. As I told Gat- 
tis, “The way things are going, we better 
just take it three games at a time.” 

In Watertown, Wolfe, who'd been on 
deck when the rain halted the game, told 
me that he had been unable to sleep the 
night before, “Coming into that bases- 
loaded situation,” he said, “it all depends 
on me. I never been through anything like 
this before. I want a hit. I want to get it 
over. A single up the middle on the first 
pitch. Wouldn't that be nice? But I'll take 
anything: wild pitch. Passed ball, Please, 
just not an out.” 

The bases were refilled, the game 
resumed and the entire team stood up and 
cheered when Wolfe walked in, with two 
outs, to hit. His face was pale. He fouled 
out to the right fielder. 

Moretti—implacable, unflappable 
Mighty Mo—struck out two Pirates in 
each of his first two innings. Then, in the 
12th, Brian Robinson walked, Sheffield 
scratched a single and Moss walked, load- 
ing the bases again. Who was the hitter? 
Eddie “Bases Loaded” Wolfe. By this 
time, color had returned to his face, He hit 
a sacrifice fly and we won the first of three, 
6-5, working Moretti for two innings— 
longer than we wanted. 

Although Roy insisted that he was ready 
to start the second game, we elected to 
send him to the bull pen. We would save 
him for another short burst of power pitch- 
ing should a suitable situation develop. It 
never did. 

Watertown took a quick 3-0 lead and 
we never caught up. The Pirates beat us, 
4-3. We had fallen a full game behind. If 
we were defeated in the third installment 
of the triple-header, the pennant race 
would end right here. 

With our defeat, we had lost what some- 
one called “control of our own destiny.” 
Even if we won game three and won again 
the following night, we would finish sec- 
ond unless Oneonta found a way to defeat 
Little Falls. 

Gattis had nothing to say during the sec- 
ond intermission. The players were quict, 
disappointed. If we were going to fold, this 
seemed to be the time and this slightly 
misshapen country ball park, Alex Duffy 
Fairgrounds, seemed to be the place. 

But Zamba pitched beautifully, keeping 
his slider low and away and curbing the 
Pirates’ enthusiasm to lean into it with 


152 good inside fast balls. In the fourth inning 


of game three, we scored seven runs and 
we won the ball game, 8-4. Taking two 
thirds of the triple-header, we stayed halfa 
game behind the Little Falls Mets. 

. 

At one р.м. the next day, I found Gattis, 
dead-voiced and grim, trying to pencil a 
line-up. He sat alone at a table in the 
motel dining room. “It’s not coming out 
right,” he said as I joined him. 

“Moretti pitches," I said. 

“That's the easy part.” 

“Little Falls has to lose,” I said. 

“T got an intuition that they just might 
do that,” Gattis said. “Hey, we're not the 
only guys who're feeling pressure." 

We sat silently. In essence, Gattis was 
trying to create a flawless line-up out of a 
Class Single A roster. But every Class A 
roster is inherently flawed. The player you 
want the most always seems to have 
moved up to Double A. Strain twisted at 
Gattis’ strong-featured face. 

Moss took a seat opposite us, felt the 
tension and had the good sense to say 
nothing. At length, Moretti appeared, 
“Hiya, fellers.” He looked calm and 
enthusiastic. He tried twice to start con- 
versations, and when his efforts failed, he 
picked up a Watertown newspaper and 
began to read the major-league results. 

It was a long wait until game time. 

The early-evening air was cool and 
clear. It would get cold. I wrapped myself 
in my Blue Sox jacket and took a seat just 
off the playing area, near the dugout. 

Rocky Coyle led off a line single to cen- 
ter. He stole second. Gattis was batting in 
the second spot. He made a lunging swing 
and hit a bounder to the second baseman, 
Despite fading reflexes, Jim knew how to 
hit. By going to the right side, he advanced 
the runner. But Ed Wolfe tapped back to 
the pitcher. Two out and a man on third. 
Then Barry cracked an outside breaking 
ball sharply down the third-base line. We 
had a run. 

Moretti struck out two Pirates in the 
first and another in the second, when he 
gave up a pop-fly single to left. He was 
commanding on the mound, working 
quickly in the urgent chill, as though he 
were impatient to dispose of this hitter and 
start devastating the next victim. By the 
end of the fourth, we had a 2-0 lead. 

It is customary in the New York—Penn 
League (and all professional baseball) to 
announce or display the scores of other 
games. But when Steve Sayers, the 
bearded, lethargic general manager of the 
Pirates, heard that Oneonta had opened a 
lead over Little Falls, he forbade his 
public-address man to announce the score. 
“It could encourage the Blue Sox,” he 
said, “and make them play harder." 

I commissioned Mike Zalewski as our 
communicator. “Open a telephone line to 
Oneonta,” I told him in the press box. 
“Keep it open all game long.” 

We dispatched a bat boy to hurry from 
the dugout to the rooftop press box, like an 
Olympic torch bearer, and bring us back 


the news from Oneonta. Amazingly, the 
Yankees moved ahead of Little Falls 6-1, 
after four innings. All these days, these 
weeks, these months, had come down to 
the fractions of two games. 

Moretti was performing magnificently. 
‘Two more strike-outs in the fifth. Struck 
out the side in the sixth. Two more strike- 
outs in the eighth. Going into the ninth, 
Roy had himself a two-hit shutout and our 
2-0 lead looked lovelier than spring. 

Then Ron DeLucchi whipped his bat 
into a high fast ball and slammed it 400 
feet over the center-field wall. There was a 
moment of shock. Our impervious pitcher 
had been scratched. Hercules was human. 
“Forget it, Roy," I bellowed. "All you 
gotta do is get the next man.” That was 
roughly akin to reciting the alphabet to an 
English scholar. Moretti took three deep 
breaths, recovering. He got the final out on 
a grounder to Brian Robinson. 

We had won another ball game that we 
could not afford to lose. Under pressure 
that would have flattened lesser teams, 
we had won five of our past six, including 
two out of three in that wretched triple- 
header. But we had not won the divisional 
championship. Zalewski bellowed that 
Little Falls was coming back at Oneonta. I 
considered planting a spear in his foot. 
in his spikes, Gattis clattered to the 
press box and began to call the Little Falls 
game, batter by batter, down to the rest 
of us on the field. The clubhouse man 
dragged out cases of champagne. We stood 
in the Jefferson County cold, listening 
to Gattis’ shouts and watching his hand 
signals. 

“Nobody touch that champagne,” I 
ordered, “until Oneonta gets the final out. 
Anybody who jinxes us gets dismem- 
bered.” 

Onconta had scored again, 7-1, but Lit- 
tle Falls came blazing back with four in the 
eighth. Our players were tramping in jit- 
tery circles. The Watertown g.m. kept the 
public-address system alive and insisted 
on announcing inconsequential awards to 
his last-place ballplayers. Mozart. I was 
trying to hear Mozart. And this man kept 
playing Spike Jones. 

With two men on base for Little Falls in 
the eighth inning, Stanley Jefferson, the 
all-star center fielder, pulled a 390-foot 
drive that carried over the left-field fence, 
foul by a yard. I was thankful that I was 
not there to see it. Then Jefferson popped 
out and Oneonta hung. The Yankees won 
the game, 7-5. Up in the press box, Gattis 
threw his hands into the air in exultation. 

Players erupted on the field. Cham- 
pagne erupted on the field. Moss and 
Mark Krynitsky hoisted me to their shoul- 
ders. The players formed a circle and 
chanted my name. Even Bob Veale joined 
them. They chanted my name over 
and over and over. 

I looked at the faces of my smiling, roar- 
ing summer friends. 

I have known worse moments. 


im Pugilist Thespian 


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PLAYBOY 


154 


THE CLOWNS 


(continued from page 130) ` 


“David could see Mr. Thorne jerk in surprise as he 
felt the white-gloved hands close over him.” 


said. “Another time, then.” She looked 
across the street to see what he was staring 
at, looked back puzzledly. “Are you all 
right, David?” 

“Yeah. Honest, Mrs. Z.,” he said, with- 
out looking around. “Really. I'm fine." 

She sighed again with doughy fatalism. 
And then she started across the street, 
headed directly for the clown. 

It was obvious to David that she didn’t 
see him. He was standing right in front of 
her, grimacing and waving his arms and 
making faces at her, but she didn’t even 
slow down—she would have walked right 
into him if he hadn't ducked out of the way 
at the last moment. After she passed, the 
clown minced along behind her for a few 
steps, doing a cruel but funny imitation of 
her ponderous, waddling walk, pretending 
to spank her on her big, fat rump. 

David stifled a laugh. This was better 
than the circus! But now the clown seemed 
to have grown bored with mocking Mrs. 
Zabriski and began drifting slowly away 
toward the far side of Main Street, 

David wanted to follow, but he suddenly 
realized, with a funny little chill, that he 
didn’t want to do it alone. Even if it was 
the ghost of a clown, a funny and enter- 
taining ghost, it was still a ghost, after all. 
Somehow, he'd have to get Sammy to 
come with him. But how could he explain 
to Sammy what they were doing? Not that 
it would matter if Sammy didn’t come out 
of the shop soon—the clown was already a 
block away. 

Anxiously, he peered in through the 
window until he managed to catch 
Sammy's attention, then waved to him 
urgently. Sammy held up his index finger 
and continued his conversation with his 
father. “Hurry up, dummy," David mut- 
tered under his breath. The clown was get- 
ting farther and farther away, almost out of 
sight now. Hurry up. David danced 
impatiently from one foot to the other, 
Hurry up. 

But when Sammy finally came running 
out of the barbershop with the news that 
he'd talked his father into treating them 
both to a movie, the clown was gone, 

LI 

By the time they got to the movie thea- 
ter, David had pretty much gotten over the 
disappointment of losing the clown. At 
least it was a pretty good show—cartoons 
and a space-monster movie. There was a 
long line in front of the ticket window, a 
big crowd of kids—and even a few 
adults—waiting to get into the movie. 

"They were waiting in the tail of the line 
when the clown—or a clown—appeared 
again across the street. 

“Hey, Davie!” Sammy said abruptly. 


“Do you see what / sec?" And Sammy 
waved to the clown. 

David was startled—and somewhat 
dismayed—by the strength of the surge of 
disappointment and jealousy that shot 
through him. If Sammy could see them, 
too, then David wasn't special anymore. 
The whole thing was ruined. 

Then David realized that it wasn’t the 
clown that Sammy was waving to. 

He was waving to the old man who was 
waiting to cross the street, standing just in 
front of the clown. Old Mr. Thorne. He 
was at least a million years old, David 
knew. He'd played for the Boston Braves 
back before they'd even had television, for 
cripes' sake. But he loved children and 
treated them with uncondescending cour- 
tesy and in turn was one of the few adults 
who were really respected by the kids. He 
was in charge of the yo-yo contests held in 
the park every summer, and he could 
make a yo-yo sleep or do around the world 
or over the falls or walking the dog better 
than anyone David had ever seen, includ- 
ing the guy who sold the golden yo-yos for 
the Duncan company. 

Relieved, David joined Sammy in wav- 
ing to his old friend, almost—but not 
quite—forgetting the clown for a moment. 
Mr. Thorne waved back but motioned for 
them to wait where they were. It was excit- 
ing to see the old man again. It would 
be worth missing the movie if Mr, Thorne 
was in the mood to buy them chocolate 
malteds and reminisce about the days 
when he'd hit a home run off the immortal 
Grover Cleveland Alexander, 

Just as the traffic light turned yellow, an 
old flat-bed truck with a dented fender 
came carcening through the intersection. 

David felt his heart lurch with sudden 
fear—— But it was all right. Mr. Thorne 
saw the truck coming, he was still on the 
curb, he was safe. But then the clown 
stepped up close behind him. He grabbed 
Mr. Thorne by the shoulders. David could 
see Mr. Thorne jerk in surprise as he felt 
the white-gloved hands close over him. 
Mr. Thorne’s mouth opened in surprise, 
his hands came fluttering weakly up, like 
startled birds. David could see the clown's 
painted face grinning over the top of Mr. 
Thorne’s head. That wide, unchanging, 
painted-on smile. 

Then the clown threw Mr. Thorne in 
front of the truck. 

There was a sickening wet thud, a sound 
like that of a sledge hammer hitting a side 
of beef. The shriek of brakes, the squeal of 
flaying tires. A brief, unnatural silence. 
Then a man said, “Jesus Christ!” in a soft, 
reverent whisper. A heartbeat later, a 


woman started to scream. 

Then everyone was shouting, scream- 
ing, babbling in a dozen confused voices, 
running forward. The truck driver was 
climbing down from the cab, his face 
stricken; his mouth worked in a way that 
might have been funny in other circum- 
stances, opening and closing, opening and 
closing—then he began to cry. 

All you could see of Mr. Thorne was one 
arm sticking out from under the truck's 
rear wheels at an odd angle, like the arm of 
a broken doll. 

A crowd was gathering now, and 
between loud exclamations of horror, 
everyone was already theorizing about 
what had happened: Maybe the old man 
had had a heart attack; maybe he'd just 
slipped and fallen; maybe he'd tripped 
over something. A man had thrown his 
arm around the shoulders of the bitterly 
sobbing truck driver; people were kneeling 
and peering ly under the truck; 
women were crying; little kids were shrick- 
ing and running frenziedly in all direc- 
tions. Next to David, Sammy was crying 
and cursing at the same time, in a high 
and hysterical voice. 

Only David was not moving. 

He stood as if frozen in ice, staring at 
the clown. 

All unnoticed, standing alone behind 
the ever-growing crowd, the clown was 
laughing. 

Laughing silently, in unheard spasms 
that shook his shoulders and made his 
bulb nose jiggle. Laughing without sound, 
with his mouth wide-open, bending for- 
ward to slap his knees in glee, tears of 
pleasure running down his painted cheeks. 

Laughing. 

David felt his face flame. Contradicto- 
ry emotions whipped through him: fear, 
dismay, rage, horror, disbelief, guilt. 
Guilt... . 

The fucking clown was laughing — 

All at once, David began to run, motion- 
less one moment and running flat-out the 
next, as if suddenly propelled from a sling. 
He could taste the salty wetness of his own. 
tears. He tried to fight his way through the 
thickening crowd, to get by them and at 
the clown. He kept bumping into people, 
spinning away, sobbing and cursing, then 
slamming into someone else. Someone 
cursed him. Someone else grabbed him 
and held him, making sympathetic, sooth- 
ing noises—it was Mr. Gratini, the music 
teacher, thinking that David was trying to 
reach Mr. Thorne's body. 

Meanwhile, the clown had stopped 
laughing. As if suddenly remembering 
another appointment, he turned brusquely 
and strode away. 

“David, wait, there’s nothing you can 
do. . Ar. Gratini was saying, but 
David squirmed wildly, tore himself free, 
ran on. 

By the time David had fought his way 
through the rest of the crowd, the clown 
was already a good distance down Willow 
Street, past the bakery and the engraving 


company with the silver sign in its second- 
story window. 

The clown was walking faster now, was 
almost out of sight. Panting and sobbing, 
David ran after him. 

He followed the clown through the 
alleys behind the shoe factories, over the 
hump of railroad tracks, under the arch of 
the cement viaduct that was covered with 
spray-painted graffiti. The viaduct was 
dark, its pavement strewn with candy 
wrappers and used condoms and cigarette 
butts. It was cool inside and smelled of 
dampness and cinders. 

But on the other side of the viaduct, he 
realized that he'd lost the clown again. 
Perhaps he had crossed the field . . . 
though, surely, David would have seen 
him do that. He could be anywhere; this 
was an old section of town and streets and 
avenues branched off in all directions. 

David kept searching, but he was get- 
ting tired. He was breathing funny, sort of 
like having the hiccups. He felt sweaty and 
dirty and exhausted. He wanted to go 
home. 

What would he have done if he'd caught 
the clown? 

All at once, he felt cold. 

There was nobody around, seemingly 
for miles—the streets were as deserted as 
those of a ghost town. Nobody around, no 
one to help him if he were attacked, no one 
to hear him if he cried for help. 

The silence was thick and dusty and 
smothering. Scraps of paper blew by with 
the wind. The sun shimmered from the 
empty sidewalks. 

David’s mouth went dry. The hair rose 
bristlingly on his arms and legs. 

The clown suddenly rounded the corner 
just ahead, coming swiftly toward him 
with a strange, duck-walking gait. 

David screamed and took a quick step 
backward. He stumbled and lost his bal- 
ance. For what seemed like an eternity, he 
teetered precariously, windmilling his 
arms. Then he crashed to the ground. 

The fall hurt and knocked the breath 
out of him, but David almost didn't notice 
the pain. From the instant he’d hit the 
pavement, the one thought in his head had 
been, Had he given himself away? Did the 
clown now realize that David could see 
him? 

Quickly, he sat up, clutching his hands 
around his knee and rocking back and 
forth as if absorbed in pain. He found that 
he had no difficulty making himself cry, 
and cry loudly, though he didn’t feel the 
tears the way he had before. He carefully 
did not turn his head to look at the clown, 
though he did sneak a sidelong peck out of 
the corner of his eye. 

The clown had stopped a few yards 
away and was watching him—standing 
motionlessly and staring at him, fixedly, 
unblinkingly, with total concentration, like 
some great, black, sullen bird of prey. 

David hugged his skinned knee and 
made himself cry louder. There was a pos- 
sibility that he hadn't given himself 


away—that the clown would think he'd 
yelled like that because he'd tripped and 
fallen down and not because he'd seen him 
come dancing around the corner. The two 
things had happened closely enough 
together that the clown might think that. 
Please, God, let him think that. Let him 
believe it. 

The clown was still watching him. 

Stiflly, David got up. Still not looking at 
the clown, he made himself lean over and 
brush off his pants. Although his mouth 
was still as dry as dust, he moistened his 
lips and forced himself to swear, swear out 
loud, blistering the air with every curse 
word he could think of, as though he were 
upset about the ragged hole torn in his 
new blue jeans and the blood on his knee. 

He kept slapping at his pants a moment 
longer, still bent over, wondering if he 
should suddenly break and run now that 
he was on his feet again, make a flat-out 
dash for freedom. But the clowns were so 
fast. And even if he did escape, then they 
would know that he could see them, 

Compressing his lips into a hard, thin 
line, David straightened up and began to 
walk directly toward the clown. 

Closer and closer. He could sense the 
clown looming enormously in front of him, 
the cold blue eyes still staring suspiciously 
at him. Don’t look at the clown! Keep 
walking casually and don’t look at him. 
David's spine was as stiff as if it were made 
of metal, and his head ached with the 
effort of not looking. He picked a spot on 
the sidewalk and stared at it, thrust his 
hands into his pockets with elaborate 
casualness and somehow forced his legs to 
keep walking. Closer. Now he was close 
enough to be grabbed, if the clown wanted 


to grab him. He was right next to him, 
barely an arm’s length away. He could 
smell the clown now—a strong smell of 
greasepaint, underlaid with a strange, 
musty, earthen smell, like old wet leaves, 
like damp old wallpaper. He was suddenly 
cold, as cold as ice; it was all he could do to 
keep from shaking with the cold. Keep 
going. Take one more step. Then one 
more. ... 

As he passed the clown, he caught sight 
of an abrupt motion out of the corner of his 
eye. With all the will he could summon, he 
forced himself not to flinch or look back. 
He kept walking, feeling a cold spot in the 
middle of his back, knowing somehow that 
the clown was still staring at him, staring 
after him. Don't speed up. Just keep walk- 
ing. Papers rustled in the gutter behind 
him, Was there a clown walking through 
them? Coming up behind him? About to 
grab him? He kept walking, all the while 
waiting for the clown to get him, for those 
strong cold hands to close over his shoul- 
ders, the way they had closed over the 
shoulders of old Mr, Thorne, 

He walked all the way home without 
once looking up or looking around him, and 
it wasn't until he had gotten inside, with 
the door locked firmly behind him, that he 
began to tremble. 


. 

David had gone upstairs without eating 
dinner. His father had started to yell about 
that—he was strict about meals—but his 
mother had intervened, taking his fa- 
ther aside to whisper something about 
"trauma" to him—both of them inadvert- 
ently shooting him that uneasy walleyed 
look they sometimes gave him now, as if 
they weren't sure he mightn't suddenly 


“TU check the rulebook, but Im sure you 
have to play on a pony!” 


155 


PLAYBOY 


156 


start drooling and gibbering if they said 
the wrong thing to him, as if he had some- 
thing they might catch—and his father had 
subsided, grumbling. 

Upstairs, he sat quietly for a long time, 
thinking hard. 

The clowns. Had they just come to 
town, or had they always been there and 
he just hadn't been able to see them 
before? He remembered when Mikey had 
broken his collarbone two summers ago, 
and when Sarah's brother had been killed 
in the motorcycle accident, and when that 
railroad yardman had been hit by the 
freight train. Were the clowns responsible 
for those accidents, too? 

He didn’t know. There was one thing he 
did know, though: 

Something had to be done about the 
clowns. 

He was the only one who could see 
them, 

Therefore, he had to do something about 
them, 

He was the only one who could see 
them, the only one who could warn people. 
If he didn't do anything and the clowns 
hurt somebody else, then he'd be to blame. 
Somehow, he had to stop them. 

How? 

David sagged in his chair, overwhelmed 
by the immensity of the problem. How? 

The doorbell rang. 

David could hear an indistinct voice 
downstairs, mumbling something, and 
then hear his mother’s voice, clearer, say- 
ing, “I don't know if Davie really feels very 
much like having company right now, 
Sammy.” 

Sammy — 

David scooted halfway down the stairs 
and yelled, “Ma! No, Ma, it’s OK! Send 
him up!” He went on down to the second- 
floor landing, saw Sammy's face pecking 
tentatively up the stairs and motioned for 
Sammy to follow him up to his room. 

David's room was at the top of the tall, 
narrow old house, right next to the small 
room that his father sometimes used as an 
office. There were old magic posters on the 
walls—Thurston, Houdini, Blackstone: 
King of Magicians—a Duran Duran 
poster behind the bed and a skeleton 
mobile of a Tyrannosaurus hanging from 
the overhead lamp. He ushered Sammy in 
wordlessly, then flopped down on top of 
the Star Wars spread that he'd finally per- 
suaded his mother to buy for him. Sammy 
pulled out the chair to David's desk and 
began to fiddle abstractedly with the 
pieces of David's half-assembled Bell X 15 
model kit. There were new dark hollows 
under Sammy's eyes and his face looked 
strained. Neither boy spoke. 

"Mommy didn't want to let me out," 
Sammy said after a while, sweeping the 
model pieces aside with his hand. “I told 
her Pd feel better if I could come over and 
talk to you. It’s really weird about Mr. 
Thorne, isn’t it? I can’t believe it, the way 
that truck smushed him, like a tube of tooth 


paste or something.” Sammy grimaced 
and put his arms around his legs, clasping 
his hands together tightly, rocking back 
and forth nervously. “I just can’t believe 
he’s gone.” 

David felt the tears start and blinked 
them back. Crying wouldn't help. He 
looked speculatively at Sammy. He cer- 
tainly couldn’t tell his parents about the 
clowns. Since his “nervous collapse" last 
fall, they were already afraid that he was a 
nut. 

“Sammy,” he said. “I have to tell you 
something. Something important. But first 
you have to promise not to tell anybody. 
No matter what, no matter how crazy it 
sounds, you've got to promise!” 

Yeah?” Sammy said tentatively. 
No—first you've got to promise.” 

“OK, I promise,” Sammy said, a trace of 
anger creeping into his voice. 

“Remember this afternoon at the swim- 
ming pool, when I pointed at that rocking 
chair, and you thought I was pulling a 
joke on you? Well, I wasn't. I did see some- 
body sitting there. I saw a clown.” 
mmy looked disgusted. "I see a clown 
right now,” he grated. 

“Honest, Sammy, I did see a clown. A 
clown, all made up and in costume, just 
like at the circus. And it was a clown—the 
same one, I think—who pushed Mr. 
Thorne in front of that truck.” 

Sammy just looked down at his knees. 
His face reddened. 

“I'm not lying about this, I swear. I’m 
telling the truth this time; honest, Sammy, 
I really am x 

Sammy made a strange noise, and 
David suddenly realized that he was cry- 
ing. 

David started to ask him what the mat- 
ter was, but before he could speak, Sammy 
had rounded fiercely on him, blazing. 
“You're nuts! You are a loony, just like 
everybody says! No wonder nobody will 
play with you. Loony! Fucking loony!” 

Sammy was screaming now, the muscles 
in his neck cording. David shrank away 
from him, his face going ashen. 

They stared at each other. Sammy was 
panting like a dog, and tears were running 
down his cheeks. 

“Everything's . . . some kind of . . . 
joke to y Sammy panted. “Mr. 
Thorne was my friend. But you . . . you 
don't care about anybody" He was 
screaming again on the last word. Then he 
whirled and ran out of the room. 

David followed him, but by the time he 
was halfway down the stairs, Sammy was 
already out the front door, slamming it 
shut behind him. 

“What was that all about?” David's 
mother asked. 

"Nothing," David said dully. He was 
staring through the screened-in door, 
watching Sammy run down the sidewalk. 
Should he chase him? But all at once it 
seemed as if he were too tired to move; he 
leaned listlessly against the doorjamb and 


watched Sammy disappear from sight. 
Sammy had left the gate of their white 
picket fence unlatched, and it swung back 
and forth in the wind, making a hollow 
slamming sound. 

How could he make anyone else believe 
him if he couldn't even convince Sammy? 
There was nobody left to tell. 

David had a sudden, bitter vision of just 
how lonely the rest of the summer was 
going to be without even Sammy to play 
with. Just him, all by himself, all summer 
long. 

Just him . . . and the clowns. 


. 

David heard his parents talking as he 
made his way down to breakfast the next 
morning and paused just outside the 
kitchen archway to listen. 

“Was the strangest thing,” his mother 
was saying. 

“What was?” David's father grumbled. 
He was hunched over his morning coffee, 
glowering at it, as if daring it to cool off 
before he got around to drinking it. Mr. 
Shore was often grouchy in the morning, 
though things weren't as bad anymore as 
they'd been last fall, when his parents had 
often screamed obscenities at each other 
across the breakfast table—not as bad as 
that one terrible morning, the morning 
David didn’t even want to think about, 
when his father had punched his mother in 
the face and knocked two of her teeth out, 
because the eggs were runny. David's 
mother kept telling him that his father was 
under a lot of “stress” because of his new 
job—he used to sell computers, but now 
he was a stockbroker trainee. “What 
was?" David's father repeated irritably, 
having gotten no reply. 

“Oh, I don't know," David's mother 
said. "It's just that I was thinking about 
that poor old woman all night. I just can't 
get her out of my mind, You know, she 
kept swearing somebody pushed her." 

"For Christ's sake!” David's father 
snapped. "Nobody pushed her. She's just 
getting senile. She had heavy bags to carry. 
and all those stairs to climb, that’s all.” 
He broke off, having spotted David in the 
archway. “David, don't skulk like that. You 
know I hate a sneak. In or ош!” 

David came slowly forward. His mouth 
had gone dry again and he had to moisten 
his lips to be able to speak. “What—what 
were you talking about? Did something 
happen? Who got hurt?" 

“Marty!” David's mother said sharply, 
glancing quickly and significantly at 
David, frowning, shaking her head. 

"Damn it, Anna," David's father grum- 
bled. “Do you really think that the kid's 
gonna curl up and die if he finds out that 
Mrs. Zabriski fell down a flight of stairs? 
What the hell does he care?” 

“Marty!” 

“He doesn’t even know her, except to 
say hello to, for Christ's sake! Accidents 
happen all the time; he might just as well 
get used to that ——" 

David was staring at them. His face had 


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I wasn't about to 


give up 
running shoe 


comfort 

for just 
ordin 

boas 


1 used to knock around a lot in running shoes. Even wore ‘em to work. 
Know why? They're so darn comfortable! My feet were turned off by 


ordinary shoes and boots. That is, u tried on new Wedge SuperSoles. 


These Red W g boots are something else! They give me the 
protection of SERRE leather boots, but they feel like running shoes 
inside. That's because of the high- tech insole that snugs and cushions 
my feet just like my runnin; And they're lined with Cambrelle® 
to keep my feet feelin’ nice and d 

The sole is incredible! It's Red gs 
new wedge shape that softens concrete floors, yet it wears like 
iron and grips great even in grease and oil. I rack up a lot of 
miles in my Red Wings and my feet haven't complained a bit. 


Running shoe 
comfort. 
Tough enough 
for work. 


gone white. "Mrs. Zabriski?" he whis- 
pered. “Is—is she dead?” 

His mother gave her husband a now- 
look-what-you've-done glare and moved 
quickly to put an arm around David's 
shoulder. “No, honey,” she said sooth- 
ingly, in that nervous, almost foo sympa- 
thetic voice she used on him now whenever 
she thought he was under stress. "She's 
going to be OK. Just a broken leg and a 
few bruises. She fell down the stairs yester- 
day on her way back from the grocery 
store, Those stairs are awfully steep for a 
woman her age. She tripped, that’s all.” 

David bit his lip. Somehow, he managed 
to blink back sudden bitter tears. His fault! 
If he'd carried her bags for her, like she'd 
wanted him to, like she'd asked him to, 
then she'd have been all right; the clown 
wouldn't have gotten her. 

For Mrs. Zabriski hadn't tripped. He 
knew that. 

She'd been pushed. 

. 

By the time David got to Sammy’s 
house, there was no one home. Too late! 
His father had reluctantly let David off the 
hook about eating breakfast—the very 
thought of eating made him ill—but had 
insisted in his I'm-going-to-brook-no- 
more-nonsense voice, the one he used just 
before he started hitting, that David wash 
the breakfast dishes, and that had slowed 
him up just enough. He'd hoped to catch 
Sammy before he left for the pool, try to 
talk to him again, try to get him to at least 
agree to keep quiet about the clowns. 

He made one stop, in the Religious 
Book Store and Reading Room on Main 
Street, and bought something with some of 
the money from his allowance. Then, 
slowly and reluctantly, trying to ignore the 
fear that was building inside him, he 
walked to the swimming pool. 

Sammy was already in the water when 
David arrived. 

The pool was crowded, as usual. David 
waved halfheartedly to Jas, who was sit- 
ting in the high-legged lifeguard's chair. 
Jas waved back uninterestedly; he was sur- 
veying his domain through aluminum sun- 
glasses, his nose smeared with zinc oxide 
to keep it from burning. 

And—yes—the clown was there! Way 
in the back, near the refreshment stand. 
Lounging quietly against a wall and 
watching the people in the pool. 

David felt his heart start hammering. 
Moving slowly and—he hoped—incon- 
spicuously, he began to edge through the 
crowd toward Sammy. The clown was still 
looking the other way. If only 

But then Sammy saw David. “Well, 
well, well,” Sammy yelled, "if it isn't 
David Shore!” His voice was harsh and 
ugly, his face flushed and twisted. David 
had never seen him so bitter and upset. 
“Seen any more clowns lately, Davie?” 
There was real hatred in his voice. “Seen 
any more killer invisible clowns, Davie? 
You loony! You fucking loony!” 

David flinched, then tried to shush him. 


People were looking around, attracted by 
the shrillness of Sammy’s voice. 

The clown was looking, too. David saw 
him look at Sammy, who was still waving 
his arms and shouting, and then slowly 
raise his head, trying to spot who Sammy 
was yelling at. 

David ducked aside into the crowd, half 
squatting down, dodging behind a couple 
of bigger kids. He could feel the clown's 
gaze pass overhead, like a scythe made of 
ice and darkness. Shut up, Sammy, he 
thought desperately. Shut up. He 
squirmed behind another group of kids, 
bumping into somebody, heard someone 
swear at him. 

“Da— vie!” Sammy was shouting in bit- 
ter mockery. “Where are all the clowns, 
Davie? You seen any clowning around here 
today, Davie? Huh, Davie?” 

The clown was walking toward Sammy 
now, still scanning the crowd, his gaze 
relentless and bright. 

Slowly, David pushed his way through 
the crowd, moving away from Sammy. 
Bobby and Andy were standing in line at 
the other end of the pool, waiting to jump 
off the board. David stepped up behind 
Andy, pretending to be waiting in line, 
even though he hated diving. Should he 
leave the pool? Run? That would only make 
it easier for the clown to spot him. But 
if he left, maybe Sammy would shut up. 

“You're crazy, David Shore!” Sammy 
was yelling. He seemed on the verge of 
tears—he had been very close to Mr. 
Thorne. “You know that? You're fucking 
crazy. Bats in the belfry, Davie" 

The clown was standing on the edge of 
the pool, right above Sammy, staring 
down at him thoughtfully. 

"Then Sammy spotted David. His face 
went blank, as though with amazement, 
and he pointed his finger at him. “David! 


There's a clown behind you!” 

Instinctively, knowing that it was a mis- 
take even as his muscles moved but unable 
to stop himself, David whipped his head 
around and looked behind him. Nothing 
was there. 

When he turned back, the clown was 
staring at him. 

Their eyes met, and David felt a chill go 
through him, as if he had been pierced 
with ice. 

Sammy was breaking up, hugging him- 
self in glee and laughing, shrill, cawing 
laughter with a trace of hysteria in it. 
“Jeez-us, Davie!” he yelled. “You're just 
not playing with a full deck, are you, 
Davie? You're > 

‘The clown knelt by the side of the pool. 
Moving with studied deliberation, never 
taking his eyes off David, the clown 
reached out, seized Sammy by the 
shoulders—Sammy jerked in surprise, his 
mouth opening wide—and slowly and 
relentlessly forced him under the water. 

“Sammy!” David screamed. 

The clown was leaning out over the 
pool, eyes still on David, one arm thrust 
almost shoulder-deep into the water, hold- 
ing Sammy under. The water thrashed 
and boiled around the clown’s outthrust 
arm, but Sammy wasn't coming back 
up— 

“Jason!” David shrieked, waving his 
arms to attract the lifeguard's attention 
and then pointing toward the churning 
patch of water. “Ja-son! Help! Help! 
Somebody's drowning!” Jason looked in 
the direction David was pointing, sat up 
with a start, began to scramble to his 
feet — 

David didn’t wait to see any more. He 
hit the water in a clumsy dive, almost a 
belly whopper, and began thrashing 
across the pool toward Sammy, swimming 


159 


160 


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as strongly as he could. Half blinded by 
spray and by the wet hair in his eyes, half 
dazed by the sudden shock of cold water 
on his sun-baked body, he almost rammed 
his head into the far side of the pool, bang- 
ing it with a wildly flailing hand instead, 
He recoiled, gasping. The clown was right 
above him now, only a few feet away. The 
clown turned his head to look at him, still 
holding Sammy under, and once again 
David found himself shaking with that 
deathly arctic cold. He kicked at the side 
wall of the pool, thrusting himself back- 
ward. Then he took a deep breath and 
went under. 

The water was murky, but he was close 
enough to see Sammy. The clown's white- 
gloved hand was planted firmly on top of 
Sammy's head, holding him under. 
Sammy's eyes were open, strained wide, 
bulging almost out of his head. Dread- 
fully, they seemed to see David, recognize 
him, appeal mutely to him. Sammy's 
hands were pawing futilely at the clown's 
arm, more and more weakly, slowing, run- 
ning down like an unwound clock. Even as 
David reached him, Sammy's mouth 
opened and there was a silvery explosion 
of bubbles. 

David grabbed the clown's arm 
shock went through him at the contact, 
and his hands went cold, the bitter cold 
spreading rapidly up his arms, as if he 
were grasping something that avidly 
sucked the heat from anything that 
touched it. David yanked at the clown's 
arm with his numbing, clumsy hands, try- 
ing to break his grip, but it was like yank- 
ing on a steel girder. 

A big white shape barreled by him like a 
porpoise, knocking him aside. Jas. 

David floundered, kicked, broke the sur- 
face of the water. He shot up into the air 
like a Polaris missile, fell back, took a great 
racking breath, another. Sunlight on water 
dazzled his eyes, and everything was noise 
and confusion in the open air, baffling 
after the muffled underwater silence. He 
kicked his fect weakly, just enough to keep 
him afloat, and looked around. 

Jas was hauling Sammy out of the pool. 
Sammy's eyes were still open, but now 
they looked like glass, like the blank, star- 
ing eyes of a stuffed animal; a stream of 
dirty water ran out of his slack mouth, 
down over his chin. Jas laid Sammy out by 
the pool edge, bent hurriedly over him, 
began to blow into his mouth and press on 
his chest. A crowd was gathering, calling 
out questions and advice, making little 
wordless noises of dismay 

The clown had retreated from the edge 
of the pool. He was standing some yards 


away now, watching Jas labor over 
Sammy 
Slowly, he turned his head and looked 


at David. 

Their eyes met again, once again with 
that shock of terrible cold, and this time 
the full emotional impact of what that look 
implied struck home as well. 


The clowns knew that he could see 
them. 

The clowns knew who he was, 

The clowns would be after him now. 

Slowly, the clown began to walk toward 
id, his icy-blue eyes fixed on him. 

Terror squeezed David like a giant's fist. 
For a second, everything went dark. He 
couldn't remember swimming back ac 
to the other side of the pool, but the next 
thing he knew, there he was, hauling him- 
self up the ladder, panting and dripping. A 
couple of kids were looking at him funny; 
no doubt he'd shot across the pool like a 
torpedo. 

The clown was coming around the far 
end of the pool, not running but walking 
fast, still staring at David. 

There were still crowds of people on this 
side of the pool, too, some of them paying 
no attention to the grisly tableau on the far 
side, most of them pressed together near 
the pool's edge, standing on tiptoe and 
craning their necks to get a better look. 

David pushed his way through the 
crowd, worming and dodging and shoving, 
and the clown followed him, moving faster 
"The clown seemed to flow like smoke 
around people without touching them, 
never stumbling or bumping into anyone 
even in the most densely packed part of the 
crowd, and he was catching up. David 
kept looking back, and each time he did, 
the widely smiling painted face was closer 
behind him, momentarily bobbing up over 
the sunburned shoulders of the crowd, 
weaving in and out. Coming relentlessly 
on, pressing closer, all the while never tak- 
ing his eyes off him. 

The crowd was thinning out. He'd never 
make it back around the end of the pool 
before the clown caught up with him. 
Could he possibly outrun the clown in the 
open? Panting, he tried to work his hand 
into the pocket of his sopping-wet jeans as 
he stumbled along. The wet cloth resisted, 
resisted, and then his hand inside the 
pocket, his fingers touching metal, closing 
over the thing he'd bought at the store on 
his way over. 

Much too afraid to feel silly or self- 
conscious, he whirled around and held up 
the crucifix, extended it at arm's length 
toward the clown. 

The clown stopped. 

They stared at each other for a long, 
long moment, long enough for the muscles 
in David's arm to start to tremble. 

Then, silently, mouth open, the clown 
started to laugh. 

It wasn't going to work. 

The clown sprang at David, spreading 
his arms wide as he came. 

It was like a wave of fire-shot darkness 
hurtling toward him, getting bigger and 
bigger, blotting out the world — 

David screamed and threw 
aside. 

The clown’s hand swiped at him, 
hooked fingers grazing his chest like stone 
talons, tearing free. For a moment, David 
was enveloped in arctic cold and that 


s 


now. 


himself 


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161 


PLAYBOY 


162 


strong musty smell of dead leaves, and 
then he was rolling free, scrambling to his 
feet, running—— 

He tripped across a bicycle lying on the 
grass, scooped it up and jumped aboard it 
all in one motion, began to pedal furi- 
ously, Those icy hands clutched at him 
again from just a step behind. He felt his 
shirt rip; the bicycle skidded and fishtailed 
in the dirt for a second; and then the 
wheels bit the ground and he was away 
and picking up speed. 

When he dared to risk a look back, the 
clown was staring after him, a look 
thoughtful, slow and icily intent. 

. 

David left the bicycle in a doorway a 
block from home and ran the rest of the 
way, trying to look in all directions at 
once. He trudged wearily up the front 
steps of his house and let himself in. 

His parents were in the front room. 
They had been quarreling but broke off as 
David came into the house and stared at 
him. David's mother rose rapidly to her 
feet, saying, “David! Where were you? We 
were so worried! Jason told us what hap- 
pened at the pool.” 

David stared back at them. “Sammy?” 
he heard himself saying, knowing it was 
stupid to ask even as he spoke the words 
but unable to keep himself from feeling a 
faint stab of hope. “Is Sammy gonna be all 
right” 

His parents exchanged looks. 

David's mother opened her mouth and 
closed it again, hesitantly, but his father 
waved a hand at her, sat up straighter in 
his chair and said flatly, “Sammy’s dead, 
David. They think he had some sort of 
seizure and drowned before they could 
pull him out. I'm sorry, But that’s the way 
itis." 

“Marty!” David's mother protested. 

“It's part of life, Anna," his father said. 
“He's got to learn to face it. You can't keep 
him wrapped up in cotton wool, for 
Christ's sake!” 

"It's all right,” David said quietly. “I 
knew he had to be. I just thought may- 
be...somehow...." 

There was a silence, and they looked at 
cach other through it. "At any rate,” his 
father finally said, "we're proud of you, 
David. The lifeguard told us you tried to 
save Sammy. You did the best you could, 
did it like a man, and you should be proud 
of that." His voice was heavy and solemn. 
"You're going to be upset for a while, 
sure—that's only normal—but someday 
that fact's going to make you feel a lot bet- 
ter about all this, believe me.” 

David could feel his lips trembling, but 
he was determined not to cry. Summoning 
all his will to keep his voice steady, he. 
said, “Mom... Dad... if I. . . told you 
something—something that was really 
weird—would you believe me and not 
think I was going nuts again?" 

His parents gave him that uneasy, wall- 
eyed look again. His mother wet her lips, 
hesitantly began to speak, but his father 


cut her off. “Tell your tall tales later,” he 
said harshly. “It's time for supper." 

David sagged back against the door 
panels. They did think he was going nuts 
again, had probably been afraid of that 
ever since they heard he had run wildly 
away from the pool after Sammy drowned. 
He could smell the fear on them, a sudden 
bitter burnt reek, like scorched onions. His 
mother was still staring at him uneasily, 
her face pale, but his father was grating, 
“Come on, now, wash up for supper. 
Make it snappy!” He wasn't going to let 
David be nuts, David realized; he was 
going to force everything to be “normal,” 
by the sheer power of his anger. 

“I'm not hungry," David said hollowly. 
“Td rather just lie down.” He walked 
quickly by his parents, hearing his father 
start to yell, hearing his mother intervene, 
hearing them start to quarrel again behind 
him. He didn’t seem to care anymore. He 
kept going, pulling himself upstairs, lcan- 
ing his weight on the wrought-iron banis- 
ter. He was bone-tired and his head 
throbbed. 

In his room, he listlessly peeled off his 
sweat-stiff clothes. His head was swim- 
ming with the need to sleep, but he paused 
before turning down the bedspread, gri- 
maced and shot an uneasy glance at the 
window. Slowly, he crossed the room. 
Moving in jerks and starts, as though 
against his will, he lifted the edge of the 
curtain and looked out. 

There was a clown in the street below, 
standing with that terrible motionless 
patience in front of the house, staring up at 
David's window. 

David was not even surprised. Of course 
the clowns would be there. They'd heard 
Sammy call his name. They'd found him. 
They knew where he lived now. 

What was he going to do? He couldn’t 
stay inside all summer. Sooner or later, his 
parents would make him go out. 

And then the clowns would get him. 

. 

David woke up with a start, his heart 
thudding. 

He pushed himself up on one elbow, 
blinking in the darkness, still foggy and 
confused with sleep. What had happened? 
What had wakened him? 

He glanced at the fold-up travel clock 
that used to be his dad's; it sat on the desk, 
its numbers glowing. Almost midnight. 

Had there been a noise? There had been 
a noise, hadn't there? He could almost 
remember it. 

He sat alone in the darkened room, still 
only half-awake, listening to the silence. 

Everything was silent. Unnaturally 
silent. He listened for familiar sounds: the 
air conditioner swooshing on, the hot- 
water tank rumbling, the refrigerator 
humming, the cuckoo clock chiming in the 
living room. Sometimes he could hear 
those sounds when he awakened in the 
middle of the night. But he couldn’t hear 
them now. The crickets weren't even chir- 
ruping outside, nor was there any sound of 


passing traffic. There was only the sound 
of David’s own breathing, harsh and loud 
in his cars, as though he were underwater 
and breathing through scuba gear. With- 
out knowing why, he felt the hair begin to 
rise on the back of his neck. 

The clowns were in the house. 

That hit him suddenly, with a rush of 
adrenaline, waking him all the way up in 
an eyeblink. 

He didn’t know how he knew, but he 
knew. Somehow, he had thought that 
houses were safe, that the clowns could 
only be outside. But they were here. They 
were in the house. Perhaps they were here 
in the room, right now. Two of them, eight, 
a dozen. Forming a circle around the bed, 
staring at him in the darkness with their 
opaque and malevolent eyes. 

He burst from the bed and ran for the 
light switch, careening blindly through 
blackness, waiting for clutching hands to 
grab him in the dark. His foot struck 
something—a toy, a shoe—and sent it 
clattering away, the noise making him 
gasp and flinch. A misty ghost shape 
seemed to move before him, making 
vague, windy gestures, more sensed than 
seen. He ducked away, dodging blindly. 
Then his hand was on the light switch. 

The light came on like a bomb explod- 
ing, sudden and harsh and overwhelm- 
ingly bright. Black spots flashed before his 
eyes. As his vision readjusted, he jumped 
to see a face only inches from his own— 
stifling a scream when he realized that it 
was only his reflection in the dresser mir- 
ror. That had also been the moving, half- 
seen shape. 

There was no one in the room. 

Panting with fear, he slumped against 
the dresser. He'd instinctively thought 
that the light would help, but somehow it 
only made things worse. It picked out the 
eyes and the teeth of the demons in the 
magic posters on the walls, making them 
gleam sinisterly, and threw slowly moving 
monster shadows across the room from the 
dangling Tyrannosaurus mobile. The light 
was harsh and spiky, seeming to bounce 
and ricochet from every flat surface, hurt- 
ing his eyes. The light wouldn't save him 
from the clowns, wouldn't keep them 
away, wouldn’t banish them to unreality, 
like bad-dream bogeymen—it would only 
help them find him. 

He was making a dry little gasping 
noise, like a cornered animal. He found 
himself across the room, crouching with 
his back to the wall. Almost without think- 
ing, he had snatched up the silver letter- 
opener knife from his desk. Knife in hand, 
lips skinned back over his teeth in an ani- 
mal snarl, he crouched against the wall 
and listened to the terrible silence that 
seemed to press in against his eardrums. 

They were coming for him. 

He imagined them moving with slow 
deliberation through the darkened living 
room downstairs, their eyes and their 
dead-white faces gleaming in the shadows, 
pausing at the foot of the stairs to look up 


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PLAYBOY 


164 


toward his room and then, slowly, 
slowly—each movement as intense and 
stylized as the movements of a dance— 
beginning to climb . . . the stairs creaking 
under their weight . . . coming closer. . . . 

David was crying now, almost without 
realizing that he was. His heart was thud- 
ding as if it would tear itself out of his 
chest, beating faster and faster as the 
pressure of fear built up inside him, shak- 
ing him, chuffing out, "Run, run, run! 
Don't let them trap you in here! Run!” 

Before he had realized what he was 
doing, he had pulled open the door to his 
room and was in the long corridor out- 
side. 

Away from the patch of light from his 
doorway, the corridor was deadly black 
and seemed to stretch endlessly away into 
distance. Slowly, step by step, he forced 
himself into the darkness, one hand on the 
corridor wall, one hand clutching the sil- 
ver knife. Although he was certain that 
every shadow that loomed up before him 
would turn out to be a silently waiting 
clown, he didn’t even consider switching 
on the hallway light. Instinctively, he 
knew that the darkness would hide him. 
Make no noise, stay close to the wall. They 


might miss you in the dark. Knife in hand, 
he walked on down the hall, feeling his fin- 
ger tips rasp along over wood and tile and 
wallpaper, his eyes strained wide. Into the 
darkness. 

His body knew where he was going 
before he did. His parents’ room. He 
wasn't sure if he wanted his parents to pro- 
tect him or if he wanted to protect them 
from a menace they didn’t even know 
existed and couldn’t see, but through his 
haze of terror, all he could think of was 
getting to his parents’ room. If he could 
beat the clowns to the second floor, hide in 
his parents’ room, maybe they'd miss him; 
maybe they wouldn't look for him there. 
Maybe he'd be safe there . . . safe . . . the 
way he used to feel when a thunderstorm 
would wake him and he'd run sobbing 
down the hall in the darkness to his par- 
ents’ room and his mother would take him 
in her arms. 

The staircase, opening up in a well of 
space and darkness, was more felt than 
scen. Shoulder against the wall, he felt his 
way down the stairs, lowering one foot at a 
time, like a man backing down a ladder. 
The well of darkness rose up around him 
and slowly swallowed him. Between floors, 


"As we complete our descent, 
ladies and gentlemen, with the usual 
ritual thanks for flying with us, we wish to 
apologize for the cramped conditions, the mediocre food 
and the insensitivity of some of our staff." 


away from the weak, pearly light let in by 
the upstairs-landing window, the darkness 
was deep and smothering, the air full of 
suspended dust and the musty smell of old 
carpeting. Every time the stairs creaked 
under his feet, he froze, heart thumping, 
certain that a clown was about to loom up 
out of the inky blackness, as pale and terri- 
ble as a shark rising up through black mid- 
night water, 

He imagined the clowns moving all 
around him in the darkness, swirling 
silently around him in some ghostly and 
enigmatic dance, unseen, their fingers not 
quite touching him as they brushed by like 
moth wings in the dark . . . the bushy fright 
wigs puffed out around their heads like 
sinister nimbi . . . the ghostly white faces, 
the dead-black costumes, the gleaming- 
white gloves reaching out through the 
darkness. 

He forced himself to keep going, fum- 

bling his way down one more step, then 
another. He was clutching the silver knife 
so hard that his hand hurt, holding it up 
high near his chest, ready to strike out 
with it. 
The darkness seemed to open up before 
him. The second-floor landing. He felt his 
way out onto it, sliding his feet flat along 
the floor, like an ice skater. His parents’ 
room was only a few steps away now. Was 
that a noise from the floor below, the faint- 
est of sounds, as if someone or something 
were slowly climbing up the stairs? 

His fingers touched wood. The door to 
his parents’ room. Trying not to make 
even the slightest sound, he opened the 
door, eased inside, closed the door behind 
him and slowly threw the bolt. 

He turned around. The room wa 
except for the hazy moonlight coming 
the window through the half-opened cur- 
tains; but after the deeper darkness of the 
hall outside, that was light enough for him 
to be able to see. He could make out bulky 
shapes under the night-gray sheets, and, 
as he watched, one of the shapes moved 
slightly, changing positions. 

They were there! He felt hope open hot 
and molten inside him, and he choked 
back a sob, He would crawl into bed be- 
tween them as he had when he was a very 
litle boy, awakened by nightmares .. , 
he would nestle warmly between them , , . 
he would be safe. 


k, 


“Mom?” he said softly, “Da He 
crossed the room to stand b the bed, 
“Mom?” he whispered, Silence. He 


reached out hesitantly, feeling a flicker of 
dread even as he moved, and slowly pulled 
the sheet down on one side- 

And there was the clown, staring up at 
him with those terrible, opaque, expres- 
sionless blue eyes, smiling his unchanging 
painted smile. 

David plunged the knife down, feeling it 
bite into the spongy resistance of muscle 
and flesh. 


(continued from page 88) 


“Wright is left alone in the classroom with the tub of 
beer and his Sony Walkman. . . . 


operates on the decimal system, Steven 
Wright often seems to be talking in binary 
He has a loyal following, but there are also 
those who don't get the joke 

As Wright sits in his chair, Rivers cheer- 
fully observes, “You're just as vivacious in 
real life as you are on stage." 

They spend some time chatting, but 
most of the time it appears that Rivers is 
» at Wright or he is looking 
re are 


long silences during 
which you can’t be sure exactly which of 
not talking. Finally 
‘Can I ask you some- 


them is the one 
Wright says slowly, 
thing?" 

"Sure, take your time," says Rivers 

"No," he answers, with a bewildered 
expression on his face. "I thought you 
were somebody else.” 

. 

Wright is winding his way 
through a mammoth kitchen somewhere 


Steven 


on the campus of the State University of 
New York at Albany. Even though it’s a 
Thursday night, more than 100 people arc 
milling about outside in the 16-degre 
weather hoping to get a seat for his per- 
formance. There 


They won't make it e 


850 other students already inside the Ca 
pus Genter Ballroc 


fe 
1, and Tom Mottolese, 
one of the show’s promoters, is grousing 
about how much money he could have 
made if only the university had let him put 
оп a second show 

A kitchen worker with an apparently 
razor-sharp memory for two-week old 
Tonight Shows points to Wright and says, 
"Can I ask you something? . .. №, I 


thought you were somebody else.” His 


delivery is all wrong, of course, which 


proves that comedy, like medicine, was 
never meant to be practiced by the general 
public 

The kitchen, which has more twists and 
turns than an Elmore Leonard novel, leads 
to a series of back stairs and catacombs 
that go up and down so often that I 
can't tell whether we're on the third floor 
or in the basement. We're searching for 
Wright's room,” but when 
Mottolese finds what he thinks is it, it 
turns out to L 


“dressing 


a classroom full of stu- 


dents, Another door opens to a closet 
Finally, we come upon the real dressing 
room—which is another classroom but 


without the class 

Mottolese is used to promoting rock 
shows and big names, so he had assumed 
that Wright would like something special 
in his dressing room, such as fresh kiwi 
fruit or champagne or Godiva chocolates. 
When asked, Wright's booking agent 
didn’t know but volunteered to track the 


” 


star down and find out. “Sometimes I like 
to have a beer before the show to relax,” 


Wright offered. “They could get me a six- 
pack of Budweiser if they want.’ 

A tub of ice with cans of Bud is dragged 
into the room, and with it come much 
commotion, dozens of people in and out 
and endless confusion about the appro- 
priate introduction, where the bathrooms 
are or aren't and, of course, just what is 
the quickest way to get to the stage. The 
acoustic-guitar 


opening act—a local 
duo—is alrcady performing, and Wright 
has yet to prepare for his show. He never 


does the same set twice; he has a vast store 


of material, some of which logically goes 
toward the beginning of his act, some 
toward the end, but he puts it together on 
stage, fitting the pieces to match the audi- 
ence and the situation. It requires enor- 
mous concentration 

“I think Im going to take some time to 
prepare now,” he says very quietly 
Wright sometimes speaks so softly that it 
jolts people. He calls it reverse yelling, and 
he accidentally discovered it as a useful 
way of getting attention. In the early days 
of his night-club career, he found that the 
more he lowered his voice, the quieter the 
audience became. Even with an unruly 
crowd, he discovered if he almost whis- 
pered, they'd snap to and pay attention 

Wright is left alone in the classroom 
with the tub of beer and his Sony 
Walkman with a brok 


chan 


» plastic cover. He 


s from one very casual, beat-up 
green pullover shirt to an equally casual 
striped one, puts on his earphones, turns 
out the lights and listens to Van Morri- 
son's Beautiful Vision. 

As showtime approaches, Mottolese and 
his partner are pacing gingerly outside the 
darkened classroom, debating the proper 
way to rouse the star. Knocking doesn’t 
seem to work, thanks to the combined 
efforts of Sony and Van Morrison. Final- 
ly—and reluctantly—they walk in. Head- 
phones still on his head, Wright is led 
through another series of dark passages 


and stair wells to the stage. It’s a large 
stage, big enough for a game of volleyball 
and its flanked by towering speakers. 
When the first few rows of the audience get 
a glimpse of Wright, they start stomping 
their feet. In that weird way that mass psy- 
chology works, soon the rest of the crowd 
is thundering in anticipation, as if the 
Stones were about to jump on stage. It's a 
high-energy response for a low-energy 
comedian. 

“I got a new shadow,” he tells the 
appreciative audience. “I had to get rid of 


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PLAYBOY 


the other one. It wasn't doing what I was 
doing. 

“Once I was walking through the woods 
and saw a rabbit standing in front of a can- 
dle making shadows of people on a tree.” 
He pauses. “I said, “Don't be so sarcastic.” 

“Today I saw a subliminal advertising 
executive . . . but just for a second. 

"I went to a place to eat. The menu 
said, BREAKFAST ANY TIME, so I ordered 
French toast during the Renaissance." 

His 45-minute set is an obvious hit, with 
an almost electric response. All things con- 
sidered, a college audience, even a con- 
servative one, is tailor-made for Wright's 
cerebral brand of weirdness. It's an audi- 
ence whose members were weaned on the 
old Saturday Night Live, and they expect 
humor to go beyond the usual boundaries. 
And Wright is young enough to be 
plugged into their concerns, mentioning 
SAT scores and telling them, “I went to 
Harvard . . . for carpentry. I build cabi- 
nets that cost $58,000." The crowd loves 
it, but later, Wright will rate the show a 
mere six on a one-to-ten scale. 

“The audience would be surprised to 
hear that," I say. 

“They have only one show to compare it 
with,” he says. “I have 3000.” 

Back in the classroom dressing room, 
the parade of well-wishers begins—stu- 
dents with their Kodak Instamatics and 
flash cubes, fledgling journalists asking 
strange, unanswerable questions; there's 
even a familiar face from Wright's Boston 
days, a portly comedian who proudly an- 
nounces, “I’m getting a chance at all the 
roles John Candy turns down.” 

Wright is good-natured about all the 
attention, though he appears slightly 
detached, as if his mind were off wander- 
ing in another dimension. He poses for pic- 
tures, answers questions, reminisces with 
the comic—in all, he’s being perfectly 
polite, and yet he's still very much the 
character they watched on stage. Sud- 
denly, a female student appears at the 
door and brazenly takes over the room. 

"I'm not with any of these other peo- 
ple,” she announces. “I just came by 
because you never smile and I want to see 
you smile.” 

Without so much as a second’s hesita- 
tion, Wright breaks into a gigantic, 
cheesy, showbiz grin. 

“Thanks,” she says and walks out the 
door. 

. 

There's nothing contrived about 
Wright’s smile—more accurately, the lack 
of it—or the bizarre nature of his act. He 
is simply unleashing the unusual thoughts 
that have always seemed to lurk in his 
head. Nor is his stage persona contrived to 
match his material. To a great extent, 
Steven Wright is just being himself when 
he's on stage. He's odd, very odd, and 
that’s the way he’s always been, as even 
his mother admits. 

“Steven was the laziest of my four chil- 
dren,” explains Dolly Wright. “As an 


infant, he'd fall asleep when I breast-fed 
him. So I called the pediatrician and he 
said, ‘Well, snap the bottoms of his feet.’ I 
did that, but it didn’t work. I called the 
pediatrician again and he said, ‘Put him 
on a hard table'—now, believe me, it's 
very hard to nurse a baby on a table. The 
others would be up and Steven would be 
falling asleep. And it's followed him 
throughout his life. When he was three, I 
couldn't find him, so I called the police. 
He'd fallen asleep downstairs in the mid- 
dle of the afternoon. He just dozed off and 
I didn’t know it.” 

“I was one mellow kid,” says Wright. 
He remembers being dragged off, with 
some regularity, for blood tests to see 
whether or not anything was wrong. 
He was normal—at least physically—but 
the symptoms never went away. 

"He's still like that," complains his 
mother. “He came home for a week 
recently and slept the whole time. I hardly 
saw him.” 

Wright was so painfully shy and in- 
troverted that it was sometimes difficult to 
tell when he was awake. He spent most of 
his few waking hours playing alone in the 
quiet Boston suburb of Burlington, where 
he grew up. To members of his family and 
a couple of friends, he would occasionally 
show flashes of his otherworldly humor, 
though neither Wright nor the jokes 
seemed like the type you might someday 
find on TV. Almost unnoticed, he was de- 
veloping a passion for comedy, getting up 
early on Saturday mornings—which was, 
of course, no small accomplishment—to 
watch The Three Stooges and, when he 
was older, listening to Woody Allen's 
albums and attending Marx Brothers 
films, To his family, he was a budding art- 
ist; By fourth grade, he was drawing out- 
lines of The Flintstones for his classmates 
to color, and by high school, he had dis- 
covered surrealism and abstract painting. 
Everyone figured he'd go to art school. 

Meanwhile, Wright was wondering if 
his twisted vision of the world—the joke 
about George with the sideburns behind 
his cars came to him in junior high 
school—would actually play on stage. But 
since he was paralyzed at the thought of 
giving an oral report in class, it seemed 
silly to mention it. Nor, for that matter, 
did he have many people to whom he could 
mention it. 

“I kind of missed everything,” he says 
now of his precollege days. “I didn't go to 
any football games. I didn't go to any 
proms. I was too shy to ask a girl out until 
I was 18. There were two or three guys Га 
hang out with and I was funny with them, 
but if you weren't close to me, I'd be nerv- 
ous and wouldn't say anything." 

He surprised everyone by not going to 
art school—“I thought if I tried to make a 
job of it, it would ruin the enthusiasm I 
had'—and instead enrolled at Emerson 


College in Boston. Emerson had a well- 
regarded radio department, and Wright 
was leaning toward becoming a disc jockey 
as a steppingstone to comedy. The other 
schools in the area were breeding grounds 
for preppies, but Emerson seemed com- 
fortably lodged in the Sixties, with more 
than its share of eccentrics, free spirits and 
just plain weirdos. Wright began allowing 
the weirdness that had always existed 
inside him to emerge. 

One of his best friends, iael Arm- 
strong, remembers those days: "He was a 
strange and bizarre character, sort of 
aloof. We didn't become friends until later 
on, when I hired him to work on a paint 
crew at school. I remember his turning up. 
every day in a pair of shorts, with no shirt 
and no shoes, with no paintbrush or any- 
thing. And he was probably one of the 
worst painters I've ever met, but he was 
the most fun to work with.” 

So introverted was Wright that even as 
he came out of his shell, he was still largely 
unnoticed, “During graduation, people 
usually applaud their friends or people 
they know,” says Armstrong. “But when 
he came across the stage, there were about 
three people applauding in the crowd. It 
was almost a deathly silence. He just 
didn’t know anybody.” 

Lacking any real desire to become a disc 
jockey, Wright took his degree and got a 
variety of odd jobs, such as parking cars 
and working in a warehouse, and then 
spent five months traveling across the 
country. When he returned to Boston, he 
discovered that a comedy club had opened 
and that it held open-mike auditions on 
‘Tuesdays. He decided to do it. 

“I didn't want to be 40 years old, selling 
insurance in Iowa, wondering what would 
have happened if I had tried to be a 
comedian,” Wright says. “The audi 
laughed at half of my stuff and didn't 
laugh at the other half. I felt very dis- 
appointed because they hadn't laughed at 
everything, but when I was walking back 
to my apartment I thought, Wait a min- 
ute, they did laugh at some things. And 
that was an incredible rush, because I had 
been fantasizing about it for so long." 

Wright tried again and was quickly 
offered a regular slot at the Ding Ho, a 
Chinese restaurant that also featured local 
comics, For three years, he was one of a 
small clique of Boston comics, making 
$300 a week under the table and occasion- 
ally working other New England clubs. “1 
felt like I had beaten the system, like I was 
a millionaire,” he says. “I was getting paid 
for telling jokes.” He had no agent, no 
plans to get one and only the vaguest 
notion of what direction his career should 
take. “We didn't know the business side of 
things,” he says of the group at the Ding 
Ho. “We were just trying to be funny. It 
was like Woodstock, it was pure." 

It was like Woodstock when it came to 


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fashion, too—at least for Wright. Dressed 
in old sandals and older clothes and fre- 
quently sporting an eight-day growth of 
beard, he quietly performed his act while 
leaning against a wall. “It was almost as if 
I wanted to be on stage without being 
noticed.” 

One day, the Ding Ho got a phone call 
from Peter Lasally. Even Woodstock-pure 
comedians in Boston know who he is. And 
The Tonight Show is still the one show on 
TV that can take an unkempt, underfed 
and unknown comic and, overnight, turn 
him into a card-carrying member of the 
Hollywood establishment. Lasally was 
going to be in Boston scouting colleges 
with his kids, and as long as he was in the 
area, he thought he'd spend an evening 
checking out the local talent. 

The local talent quickly struck a deal. 
Usually, four comics would do 20 minutes 
each. In honor of their special guest, 
everyone agreed to cut down his act to ten 
minutes, so they all could have a shot. 

"It was a Thursday and it was a noisy 
audience,” says Wright. “Usually, I can 
quiet them down, but I couldn’t this night. 
So I did my ten minutes and got off." 

“How did you do?" I ask. 

"A six. Just like Albany. I have a 
closetful of sixes. I was disappointed, but, 
surprisingly, I didn’t think it was the end 


of the world. I thought, Maybe next time 
ГИ do better, and then ГЇЇ get on.” 

Lasally remembers the evening differ- 
ently. “I saw 12 to 15 comedians that 
night, and the one who stood out over 
everything Га seen over the years was 
Steven. I couldn't believe what I saw—it 
was that different, that fresh and that 
exciting. All these comics came to see me 
as I was in the parking lot, saying, ‘How 
did I do? The one guy who didn't show up 
was Steven.” Lasally laughs at the mem- 
ory. “Steven just went home.” 

Home, at that time, was a sparsely fur- 
nished apartment Wright shared with a 
fellow comedian. It had a kitchen table 
and chairs, a couch and a TV set on a tree 
stump. One afternoon three weeks after 
Lasally's visit, Wright was home alone 
watching cartoons when the phone rang. 

On the other end was a talent coordi- 
nator asking, rather matter-of-factly, if 
Wright would like to guest on The Tonight 
Show or write for it, or both. 

“The phone is on the floor; there’s not 
even a table to put it on,” says Wright. 
“There's almost no furniture and there are 
cartoons on the stump. I said, ‘Wait a 
minute, you mean from seeing me for ten 
minutes three weeks ago, that's it? No 
more auditioning, nothing?” And he said, 
“Yeah, just mail us a tape so we can go over 


“Well, if you're not a proctologist, why have you got 
your hand up my ass?” 


it again, but other than that, you can go on 
if you want.’ We talked another 15 min- 
utes, and then I hung up the phone and 
called all my friends and family and no one 
was home.” 

Wright decided to pass on the offer to be 
a Tonight Show staff writer, but he did send 
in a video tape immediately. “It was the 
only one I had, 20 minutes of me on stage. 
I had half a beard, sandals and a flannel 
shirt hanging out.” 

The Tonight Show still liked what it saw, 
but when the talent coordinator called 
back to set a date, he had a suggestion. 
“Don’t wear sandals,” he said. “Dress as if 
you were going to a nice place." 

Leaving his cartoons behind on the 
stump, Wright flew first-class to L.A. and 
was picked up by a limousine, and he and 
his girlfriend were given a room at the 
Sheraton Universal Hotel. Two other 
friends, including Michael Armstrong, 
showed up to provide moral support, Arm- 
strong also provided a shirt, pants and a 
belt. Wright could contribute only under- 
wear and shoes to the proceedings. 

“They put make-up on me, which I 
never had—eyelashes, eyebrows; they 
even did my hands—and then I suddenly 
realized that I was really pissed off at 
women, because I looked 180 times better 
than when I'd walked in. The difference 
was unbelievable. It was like they had 
tricked us all these years. I'm talking to 
Peter while the guy is putting on my make- 
up and I feel someone standing beside me. 
Johnny was standing right there. He said, 
“Peter has told me a lot about you. Wel- 
come to the show and I hope you have a 
good time out there.’ And I said, ‘Thank 
you very much.’ He could have said, ‘I'm 
going to kill you and your entire family 
and bury them at sea in less than an hour,’ 
and I would have said, “Thank you, thank 
you very much,” because I was in shock." 

That was August 6, 1982. “He created 
an enormous stir," says Lasally. “Word 
gets around very quickly when something 
as exciting as this happens.” 

In fact, Wright got work immediately on 
a syndicated TV show called An Evening 
at the Improv and stuck around to tape that 
show. When he was done, Lasally had an 
unusual proposition for him. How would 
he like to do The Tonight Show again? The 
next night, in fact. His first show had been 
on a Friday. His second was less than a 
week later, on Thursday. It had been ten 
years since a comic was brought back that 
quickly. 

“Usually, we would have waited a cou- 
ple of months before we booked him 
again,” says Lasally. “But Johnny was 
very impressed.” 

Fortunately for Wright, Michael Arm- 
strong had brought a second shirt. 


. 

A mere 12 hours after walking off stage 
in Albany, Steven Wright is checking into 
a Holiday Inn in Philadelphia for а two- 


night stint as the headliner at a club called 
The Comedy Works. To the clerk behind 
the desk, he's apparently just another 
tourist in town to check out the Liberty 
Bell. 

“Can I help you, sir?" she asks perkily. 

“Td like one room on the top floor with 
a window that opens," he answers. “Could 
T have that for almost one night?” 

The clerk smiles wanly. She thinks this 
may be a joke, but given Wright’s deadpan 
delivery, she's not exactly sure. She 
gamely has us fill out the appropriate 
forms and starts handing out keys. 

"We'll need 11 keys to each room,” 
Wright tells her solemnly. “But I can't tell 
you why until Monday." 

The clerk ignores him and gives us each 
one key—keys, as it turns out, to rooms on 
the top floor with windows that open. In 
fact, if you open one and lean out, you 
see a gigantic bust of Benjamin 
Franklin le out of 80,000 pennies, all 
donated by school children. Wright eyes it 
suspiciously. “I didn't know he was that 
big," he says. 

It's one of the few sights he will see. In 
all, he'll be in Philadelphia less than 48 
hours, which is about three times as long 
as he was in Albany. The day before that, 
he played an 85-seat club in Northampton, 
Massachusetts. He's on the road a lot— 
about half the time since he hit it big on 
The Tonight Show and moved to Los Ange- 
les in 1982—and he doesn't much like it. 
He travels alone, often crisscrossing time 
zones insanely, is picked up at the airport 
by a stranger from the club or school he's 
playing and stays anywhere from half a 
day to a week. Sometimes, he'll make 
friends with the other acts or the staff of 
the club. Other times, he's pretty much on 
his own. Either way, he’s uprooted the 
minute it’s over and the whole process 
starts all over again in another strange 
city. 

Of course, his life is not significantly 
saner when he's at home—at least not at 
the moment. “I’m moving out of my 
apartment tomorrow and I'm going on the 
road,” he told Joan Rivers on The Tonight 
Show. "I'm going to have no place to live.” 
Rivers and the audience laughed—there’s 
something about his delivery that guaran- 
teed that—but the statement was true. “I 
have no address” is how he explained it to 
me. As it turns out, that's not all he 
doesn't have. He doesn't have a car, a 
stereo, a VCR, a phone, furniture, many 
clothes or much of anything. In the age of 
the Yuppie, Wright is a comedic monk 

“He's a complete innocent," maintains 
Lasally. “I’ve never seen it to this extent 
before. He remains the way he was when 
he started. He doesn't have a place of his 
own or a car; but knowing Steve, you come 
to expect that. He barely copes with life.” 

Michael Armstrong is still lending him 
clothes. "Every time he comes around, 
he's in need of a shirt," says Armstrong, 


who now lives in Aspen. “I don't under- 
stand it, but I keep on growing out of my 
clothes and yet they always seem to fit him 
perfectly. Right now, Im unemployed, 
and he’s got thousands in the bank, and 
I'm always giving this guy clothes. 

“He doesn't seem to want or need any- 
thing,” Armstrong says. Several years ago, 
when the pair was just out of college, 
Wright found them a place to share in 
Boston—a Beacon Hill condominium that 
was up for sale and available for rent on a 
week-to-week basis. “So we took it," Arm- 
strong recalls. “There were several large 
rooms with nothing in them but one bed 
and one mattress on the floor. I hated it, 
but he was so happy. I wanted to sit down 
on a couch, to turn on a radio or make a 
cup of coffee, but Steve would just lie there 
on that mattress with a glass of water 
beside him and his notebook—which was 
a few pieces of paper with jokes written on 
them—and say, "This is all that I want." 

Friends such as Armstrong are con- 
stantly urging Wright to rent an apart- 
ment or buy a car, but he can't even decide 
which city he wants to live in, let alone 
find an apartment, “I've ruled out Bos- 
ton,” he announced two months after leav- 
ing his L.A. apartment. The fact that the 
choice was now down to L.A. or New York 
struck him as considerable progress. 
Meanwhile, he lives with friends or checks 
into a hotel and rents a car. His money— 
by now a substantial sum—is hidden 
away in a Los Angeles bank, where he can 
safely ignore it. 

Wright's first show at The Comedy 
Works brings out a rowdy table from the 
University of Pennsylvania. It isn't really 
enough to harm the show—after six years 
in clubs, Wright has honed some deft put- 
downs—but he is still mad afterward, 
complaining as we walk back to the Holi- 
day Inn, where, he promises, he will intro- 
duce me to the best bartender in 
Philadelphia. 

The closest thing Wright has to a hobby 
is his never-ending search for interesting 
bars and good laundromats. He spends a 
considerable amount of time in one or the 
other, which means, among other things, 
that while he doesn't own many clothes, 
the ones he does own are always clean. 

“People never understand why I don’t 
have my clothes done,” he s. “I like the 
machines, that hmmmmm noise. I even like 
the smell of the driers. It’s as if I go into 
meditation and space out. 

Bars serve much the same purpose, “1 
get relaxed there,” he explains. “It’s like 
a little rest station on the outside of 
society.” 

The Wings Lounge is just such a place. 
It's stamped out of the mold that's used 
for all Holiday Inn lounges—a padded 
bar, tables, a stage for the obligatory 
lounge act and lots of mirrors. Tending the 
bar is Red, who Га take to be nearing if 


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169 


PLAYBOY 


170 


hair and a nicely sarcastic sense of 
humor. 

“Do you remember me?" asks Wright. 

Red feigns boredom. “Yeah, sure. You 
were here about a year ago and sat right 
there and drank beer, and you were here 
about a year before that with a girlfriend 
and you sat down there and drank 
tequila,” Red tosses a cocktail napkin in 
front of each of us. “And I remember 
you're a slow-talking son of a bitch.” 

Wright laughs. The difference between 
Steven Wright on stage and Steven Wright 
off stage is not great, with one noticeable 
exception. “The important thing you need 
to know about Steven,” his agent, Marty 
Klein, once told me, “is that he likes to 
laugh.” On stage, he’s a bizarre, twisted 
guy who never smiles. Of stage, he’s a 
bizarre, twisted guy who not only smiles 
but laughs a lot and who appears, in his 
own odd, morose way, to be enjoying life 
immensely. 

Red is buying the drinks and Wright is 
talking about a variety of subjects, ranging 
from Woody Allen and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. 
(“I read his stuff and I feel boring, like an 
accountant”), to David Bowie. Bowie had 
seen Wright’s act and was impressed 
enough to invite him to the 1983 US Festi- 
val, where Wright, still something of an 
unknown, found himself in a trailer back- 
stage, sitting on a couch between Bowie 
and Bianca Jagger, making small talk with 
Bette Midler, who sat across from him. 
Later, Bowie invited him to a party in 
L.A., where Wright, Bowie and a small 
group discussed movies for nearly three 
hours. “He rarely talked about music,” 
says Wright. “It was like music was some- 
thing he did on the side.” 

There's a general commotion by the 
stage in the Wings Lounge as the musi- 
cians are taking their places, There'd be a 
buzz of anticipation in the audience, too, 
except that there’s not much of an audi- 
ence to buzz. The lounge, which is a frac- 
tion of the size of The Comedy Works, is 
half empty. Right before the show begins, 
I count 17 heads—and a couple of them 
later turn out to be part of the act. 

The headliner at Wings Lounge is 
Sonny Averona, a middle-aged auto 
wrecker who sounds enough like Frank 
Sinatra to have launched a minor career as 
a singer. Red beckons him to join us at the 
bar. 

Wright, of course, is wearing his stand- 
ard avant-hippie uniform—a faded shirt, 
black cords and work boots. Sonny is 
stretching a large, expensive tuxedo to 
its limits. He's not wearing a tie, but he 
has enough gold jewelry on to match one 
of Wright’s bank accounts. 

“This is Steve," says Red. "He's been 
on The Tonight Show." 

Sonny docsn't quite hear him correctly. 
"You're gonna do a Tonight Show?” he 
asks. “Good luck. I just did a Remington 
Steele myself.” 

Red makes an attempt to set the record 
straight, but Sonny is distracted. Wright 


is just a scruffy kid to him, but 
since they are fellow show-business pro- 
fessionals, Sonny is willing to be benevo- 
lent. 

"Red, write this kid's name down on a 
piece of paper, and we'll introduce him 
from the stage.” 

He writes it down. “Jesus, Red, 
whattaya giving me such a big piece of 
paper for?” Sonny complains, ripping the 
edges off to make it a more manageable 
size. He punches Wright on the shoulder. 
“Don't worry, kid, we'll give you a plug." 

Red buys another round of drinks and 
Sonny, after the m.c. introduces him as 
“one of the most exciting voices to ever 
appear at the Holiday Inn,” takes the 
stage, backed by a seven-piece orchestra 
and accompanied by the lovely Charlotte 
Duber, a tall blonde singer decked out in 
sequins and a long white feather boa. 

“It's funny,” says Wright, scanning the 
meager audience. “I get pissed off because 
a tableful of people are talking during my 
show, yet he's really into it. If I walked 
into this room, I'd blow my brains out,” 

Meanwhile, Sonny is working the 
lounge as if it actually had people in it. It's 
a polished show—Sonny reportedly has a 
loyal following in Atlantic City, where he 
often plays—but it's the type of en- 
tertainment you most often see on a Jerry 
Lewis telethon, full of the bogus clichés 
that Bill Murray used to parody on Satur- 
day Night Live. 

“You know,” muses Wright, “he and I 
are in the same business.” 

While Sonny throws himself into his 
show, I mention to Wright that some of 
the people around him seem concerned by 
his lackadaisical attitude toward his 
future. Marty Klein claims that he is often 
the one with his foot on the accelerator; 
and while other clients call him frequently 
to goad him into more action, Wright 
hardly calls at all. “I think success fright- 
ens him a bit,” says Klein. 

Lasally echoes the same theme. “Steven 
is at the point in his career where concepts 
for specials and screenplays are going to 
overpower him. You have to be very disci- 
plined and savvy to deal with that. He has 
to make the next step beyond just coming 
up with enough jokes to do in a club.” 

Wright has heard it all before. “My 
ambition without drive,” he jokingly calls 
it. "I'm more of a dreamer,” he admits. 
"I'm not one of those people who are going 
to be doing eight things at once. Right 
now, I feel like I have my hands full. 
That's why I don't push." 

From the stage, you can sense that that 
logical break is coming, that lull when a 
performer like Sonny introduces some of 
his celebrity friends who might have 
dropped by. Wright, who has been 
squirming uncomfortably just thinking 
about this, decides that now is a good 
time to duck out and change for his sec- 
ond show. 


He's too late. Sonny has begun his 
speech. “You know, I’m lucky to have such 
great friends in show business, and I'm 
particularly thrilled that one of the best 
has come by to see me tonight.” There's a 
look of amused horror in Wright’s eyes. 
“Ladies and gentlemen... . Joey Reynolds.” 

As Joey Reynolds, a local disc jockey 
who not only just happened to drop by but 
also just happens to be wearing a tuxedo, 
bounces on stage, Wright slips out, 
already late for his own second show. He's 
due on stage at midnight, but he’s still in a 
cab inching through late-night Phila- 
delphia traffic when the sound of church 
bells chiming 12 can be heard in the back- 
ground. The club’s m.c. is vamping for 
time when Wright finally takes his place 
backstage to listen for his introduction. 

Unlike his performance the night before 
in Albany, when the backstage distrac- 
tions were so numerous that he es- 
caped between headphones to prepare, 
this time he walks straight out on stage 
without time to catch his breath or get his 
customary glass of water. Something 
about the Wings Lounge has charged him, 
and it’s as if he hits the ground run- 
ning. The audience, a fun-loving, heavy- 
drinking Friday crowd, is equally charged 
and, though smaller, is as responsive as 
the SUNY students 24 hours earlier. 

“I'm doing a lot of painting,” he says, 
pacing the length of the small stage. “Ab- 
stract painting . . . extremely abstract— 
no brush and no canvas. | just think 
about it. 

"It's a small world," he tells the crowd. 
“But I wouldn't want to paint it. 

“My house is made out of balsa wood. 
When no one's home across the street 
except for little kids, I come out and I lift 
my house up over my head. I tell them to 
stay out of my yard or I'll throw it at 
them. 

“I have a three-year-old dog. I named 
him Stay. It was a lot of fun when he was a 
puppy, because I would call him and I'd 
say, ‘Come here, Stay. Come here, Stay.’ 
It's different now, though. Now when I 
call him, he just ignores me and keeps on 
typing 

“I didn't have much money, so I bought 
an irregular phone. It had no five on it. I 
was walking down the street and 1 
bumped into a friend of mine who said, 
“How come you don't call me anymore?’ I 
said, ‘I can't. My phone has no five on it.’ 
He said, "That's really weird. How long 
have you had it?’ I said, ‘I don't know. My 
calendar has no sevens.” 

As the sold-out crowd roars its ap- 
proval, Wright pauses, scratches his day's 
growth of beard and ponders a rhetorical 
question, one that is probably on the 
minds of many in the audience. 

“Can you imagine thinking like this all 
the time?” 


was precocious. . . .” 


s, Mendelssohn 


“Mozart was precociou. 


171 


PLAYBOY 


172 


JUUT ROR TON ini Lon 


(continued from page 79) 
fact that I feel confident—well, pretty 
confident—about what I'm doing, there's 
still a chance that something could go 
wrong. And then there's always that urge 
to push it a little bit more. Like, with ski- 
ing. As I get better, I try harder hills or 
skiing a little faster 

“Im sort of a dilettante, playing at 
everything. I like to be busy, but I hate 
being mediocre at anything, so I've got to 
choose: Either I’m going to be lousy at 
everything or I've got to give up some 
things and concentrate on what I really 
want to de 

Unfortunately, what Judy really wants 
to do is everything. She's constantly hunt- 
ing for new experiences, new people, new 
roles to play. Somewhere behind her are 
two marriages. Adventure doesn't come 
cheap, but you do learn a lot about your- 
self along the way 

“I need a constant challenge. One of the 
problems that I run into in a relationship 
is mental parity, I want someone who's 
active, because I'm so active; I want some- 
one I can go out and do things with— 


someone who's creative 
“But there’s also the personal side. You 
can’t rub each other the wrong way too 
often. Everyone has pet peeves. But my 
theory is that in a working relation- 
ship, the flaws one person has can’t be 
those that drive the other person crazy 
“Men have told me that they find m 
very intimidating. I've had guys say, ‘I 
don’t think I could deal with your lifestyle; 
1 don't think I could keep up with you." I 


‘My wife and I are slowly dri 


think that in order for a man to deal with 
me, he’s got to be very secure.” 

Acting the central 
Judy's life, but in the four years since she 
left The Waltons, she has put it on the bac 
burner in favor of sports, taking only 
selected roles, mostly in the theater 

“For me, acting is an opportunity to live 
other lives. For instance, in my personal 
life, I'm very even-tempered; I never blow, 
no matter how angry I get. I always think 
in terms of compromise and diplomacy. 
When I'm acting, I can be a real bitch or 
that sort of thing. It’s 
fun to allow those sides of you, those emc 
tions, out while you're creating a fantasy 

“If I did that in real life, it wouldn't 
even be satisfying, because I'd just have to 
pay the price—go back and clean up, 
repair the damage. So acting, in effect, lets 
me play." 

Playing on the stage is a new experience 
for Judy, who's flexing different creative 
muscles from those she used on television 
She's also discovering the magic of live 
performance. 

“One reason I enjc 
than 


remains love of 


very sarcastic 


theater more, in a 
way, the audience 
There's that feeling of creating something 
that holds the attention of people. It's 
form of control, a form of power, be 
you are, for that given amount of time, 
taking these people on а little trip with 
you. And if you're good, you hold their 
interest; you make them believe and care 
and laugh and ery with you. Then, if it all 
works, there's a great sense of accomplish- 
ment. You did it! 


television is 


aus 


ifting apart; I want you 


to speed it up.” 


TWO BY FOUR 


(continued from page 118) 
should attend to the minimal-luggage- 
space problem while also adding some size 
to the puny 10.2-gallon fuel tank, which 
cuts cruising range to about 220 miles. 

No matter; the Fiero has come a long 
way during its short life. It is a massive 
success in the market place, with more 
than 100,000 cars sold in its first year, 
despite their availability in only four basic 
colors: black, red, white and silver, For 
less than $14,000, a fully equipped Fiero 
is an automotive bargain of the first 
magnitude—and one, by the way, that 
confirms the belief that, with 
engineering, Detroit can compete head 
to head with anybody anywhere but in 
the low-ball econobox field. Yes, Pontiac 
is getting it right with the Fiero. In a 
big way —BROCK YATES 


creative 


RENAULT ALPINE 


Even in Europe, where sports-car 
sophistication has traditionally run a cou- 
ple of light-years ahead of that in America, 
Renault Alpine is not exactly a household 
word. Unless, of course, you happen to be 
a devotee of the Monte Carlo rally or the 
24 Heures du Mans; then you know that 
for three decades, Alpines have been rac- 
ing through the snow-packed mountain 
passes and down Mulsanne Straights like 
the hammers of hell. And winning. The 
rest of the time, they have been seen look- 
ing, well, smugly pretty on the Champs 
sées or the Rue de Rivoli. Those have 
been their habitats—the Monte Carlo, Le 
Mans and the boulevards of Paris. 

All of that may change. 

By mid-1986, American Motors Corpo- 
ration and its French partner, Renault, 
plan to invade the American sports-car 
scene with a brand-spanking-new version 
of the Alpine. And they're going straight 
for the jugular vein—the Corvette/ 
Porsche 944 Turbo market 

Is the Renault Alpine good enough to 
carve out a place in the land of the "Vette 
and the 944? Well, I got my hands on one 
before it crossed the big pond, and I can 
tell you, the answer is yes 
The test began on the Normandy coast, 
at the tiny plant where 25 Alpines a day 
are hand-crafted by a cadre of dedicated 
Renault workers. Their attention to detail 
is reflected in the flawless workmanship 
and the tight fit of everything from the 
supersmooth laminated-polyester body to 
the buttery-leather Recaro-type seats 

The Renault Alpine is a world-class 
sports car in looks and value, Tha 
vided that you're browsing in the $30,000 
market place, For one thing, it is a bright 
new face on the sports-car horizon and not 
a made-over copy from some Modena or 
Stuttgart drawing board. It is low and 
agile-looking, with an incredibly low 0.30 
drag factor, and if it weren't for the hide- 
away headlights on the American model, 
which make it appear sort of faceless, it 


"s pro- 


would epitomize free-flowing grace. Per- 
sonally, I would have kept the wide-eyed, 
alert look of the European version, with 
Cibies out there for God and everybody to 
see. 

The interior is functional and attractive, 
with everything within easy reach. There's 
so little leg room in the back seat, however, 
that the designers would have done better 
to replace it with more luggage spac: 

For three days, I put this rear-engine, 
rear-drive rocket through its paces 
through ever-blurring Norman land- 
scapes, winding up on the racecourse at Le 
Mans. Keep in mind, this is my job. Here's 
how it went: 

For openers, the Alpine simply doesn’t 
feel like a rear-engine car; the first high- 
speed turn brought me to that realization. 
It was one of those panic situations th; 
come up so often with quick highway dri: 
ing. | was hammering along just outside 
Pont-de-l'Arche on Route А15 toward 
Rouen at about 250 kilometers per hour 
(150 mph) when I saw the first hard left- 
hander coming up. I tried to do all the 
things they’d taught me at the Bondurant 
School, and I must have gotten at least 
half of them right, because the Alpine slid 
right through the corner. 

After my first day of hard driving, I dis- 
covered three interesting facts. Fact one: 
The Alpine has very little oversteer for a 
rear-engine car. It is forgiving— thanks, in 
part, to the four-wheel independent sus- 
pension. Fact two: There is also very little 
turbo lag, which could make the car dan- 
gerously quick for the inexperienced. Fact 
three: The Alpine feels like a 911. Unless a 
turn is supertight, you can power right on 
through it. 

At Le Mans, the Alpine proved to be 
very stable—nearly neutral, in fact. The 
Renault engineers say that this is because 
of the attitude of the front suspension, 
combined with a wider front than rear 
track and considerably wider rear than 
front tires. Whatever the reason, it wasn't 
long before I felt comfortable making high, 
if not record, speeds. 

The four-wheel ventilated disc brakes 
haul the Alpine down well, but for a car 
with a near-155-mph top end and a zero- 
to-60 time of 6.6 seconds, they could be a 
tad better. 

"The 200-kilometer trip back to Paris on 
the autoroute was mostly at 200 kph, and I 
can tell you one thing: This car is a great 
highway cruiser, unbelievably smooth and 
quiet enough to let you enjoy American 
rock on the outstanding sound system. 

In terms of appeal, where the Corvette 
shines, and sophistication, where Porsche 
seems to have an edge, the Alpine should 
fit nicely in between, provided the market- 
ing guys get the word out. It should have 
particular appeal to Lotus/Jaguar XJS 
fans, who seem to desire sophistication 
blended with a certain amount of "What's 
that?” curiosity from those who view their 
cars. 

Or, as the guys say at the corner of 


Boulevard Haussmann and Rue du Fau- 
bourg St. Honoré, "Qu'est-ce que c'est que 
cela?" — BILL NEELY 


LAMBORGHINI JALPA 


Lamborghini markets two cars in Amer- 
ica: the one whose name no one can pro- 
nounce and the one no one knows about. 
The first is the VI2-powered Countach 
(coon-tach), a rolling Darth Vader-ish 
space capsule of a car, so fast and evil- 
looking that owners routinely get stopped 
on suspicion of doing something illegal. 
The other is the Jalpa (hal-pa), introduced 
in Europe in 1982 as successor to the open- 
topped Silhouette, which was itself de- 
scended from the handsome Uracco coupe 
of 1971, Fewer than 20 Jalpas have rolled 
off the boats onto American soil as this is 
written, and few Americans have seen or 
heard of one. 

‘The key to understanding any Lambor- 
ghini is understanding the man whose 
name it bears, Ferruccio Lamborghini 
(now retired) was a hard-di 
neur who started with nothing after World 
War Two and built it into a fortune in the 
tractor, oil-burner and air-conditioning 
businesses. His zodiacal sign is Taurus, 
the bull, and his nature is a mix of Italian 
machismo and intense competitive one- 


upmanship. 
If the $99,500 Countach is for blowing 
off 12-cyli the $53,000 


Jalpa’s mission is to give Ferrari's 308 its 
share of headaches. Although it's not as 
beautifully proportioned as the 308, its 
shape is virile and aggressive, and there's 
more than a little family resemblance to 
the Countach. People may not know what 
the Jalpa is, but they know that it’s worthy 
of respect. 


5 ide (watch out for the pro- 
truding window frame), you notice a 
lovely and complete set of gauges. The 


8000-rpm tach is red-lined at 7500, and 
the speedometer stretches to a heady 180. 
The seats are low and well contoured, 
while the three-spoke wheel sits high for 
instrument visibility. A removable roof 
panel opens the interior to sun and fresh 
air, and electronically adjustable side mir- 
rors nearly compensate for the gun-slit 
back window and the solid rear quarters. 

One thing for which the Jalpa is not 
intended is rush-hour gridlock, which I 
encountered the day I picked it up. 105 
definitely a man's car—high clutch, brake, 
shifter and steering efforts make it a 
mobile Nautilus machine at creep-along 
speeds, and it's impatient in traffic, long- 
ing to run free, Switch on the auxiliary 
cooling fan, watch the temperature gauges 
and you should be all right. 

But turn off the freeway onto some suit- 
able open road, and you'll find that the 
n devour asphalt at a startling 
rate. It leaps from zero to 60 mph in less 
than seven seconds, stretching its legs to 
nearly 155 flat-out. The song of its four- 
m, four-carb, 3.5-liter V8 behind your 
head is mechanical Mozart, The suspen- 
sion is tight but supple, the midship engine 
placement makes for agile, balanced han- 
dling and the huge Pirelli P7 tires grip like 
glue through the twisty bits, 

Like its wilder, costlier cousin the Coun- 
tach, Lamborghini's mid-engine Jalpa is 
not for everyone. It's half race car, half 
moon rocket and requires some com- 
promises in comfort and conveni- 
ence—not to mention sufficient strength 
and skill to operate it properly. But if all 
your neighbors own Ferraris and Porsches, 
and you're into exclusivity and automotive 
one-upmanship, it may be the answer, Just 
as Signor Lamborghini intended, 

— GARY WITZENBURG 


“Do you deny ever having said, ‘Ethics, shmethics’?” 


173 


PLAYBOY 


174 


ШШ 
(continued from page 98) 


Some of them want to be rich, some want 
to be famous and some just want to 
express themselves without being criti- 
cized. Mostly, they want to be loved.” 
Lest you think Cher is all introspection 
and not really of this world, let us set you 
straight. When she comes home from her 
job at an animal hospital, Cher has been 
known to scour the town for a competitive 
game of handball, to search out really 
experimental rock music (and drop the 
band cold ifit gets too mainstream) and to 
check out antiques stores in the hope of 
adding to her green-plastic-plate collec- 


tion. But if you want to catch her, you'd 


better hurry. The wanderlust is still upon 


her. She dreams constantly of travel and 
opportunity. Right now, she’s thinking 
about a move to California. She's not look- 
ing for a career so much as hoping to fall 
into one. She believes totally in serendip- 
ity, in the thing just around the corner 
that may happen if she's open to new 


experiences. What's next? "Australia and 
Africa are on my mind. Places with no 
technology and not too many people. I'll 
go with my lover and we'll make love with 
just the animals for company." How can 
she do that and fulfill her Playmate obliga- 
tions? Easy. “I want this experience to 
take me somewhere, but I don't know 
where yet." We don't mind being left in 
her dust. 


“Poor Luigi's so unhappy . . . still waiting to kidnap 
Miss Right.” 


FIDEL CASTRO 


(continued from page 70) 
Grenada invasion to actions by Nazi Ger- 
many; some would say that the actions of 
Soviet troops in Afghanistan are a more 
appropriate comparison. How can the 
bloodshed caused by the Soviet invasion of 
Afghanistan be anything but a shame and 
an embarrassment to socialist countries? 
CASTRO: Afghanistan is one of the most 
backward countries in the world, where a 
feudal regime had existed until April 1978. 
It had an illiteracy rate of 90 percent and 
an infant mortality rate of 235 for every 
1000 live births—one of the highest in the 
world. Two thousand families owned 70 
percent of the land, and the population 
consisted of around 1500 tribes. I believe 
that Afghanistan was one of the places 
the world where a revolution was becom- 
ing more and more indispensable. As soon 
as that revolution took place—as it inevi 
tably had to—the CIA began its subver- 
sive activities, exactly like the ones being 
arried out in Nicaragua. The United 
ates has invested one billion dollars in 
helping the counterrevolutionary gangs 
since the beginning of that Revolution 

The Afghan Revolution led to a series of 
tensions in the region. Cuba was involved 
in trying to find solutions, including host- 
ing the sixth summit meeting of the non- 
aligned countries in Havana, in 1979. 
There I met President Taraki of Afghani- 
stan. I had also met the man who was to 
overthrow him and cause him to be 
murdered—Amin. He was a man who 
came to resemble Pol Pot, the genocidal 
leader of Cambodia. You can't imagine 
what a pleasant man he was! You know, 
I’ve had the rare privilege of meeting some 
figures whom you would find courteous, 
well educated, who have studied in Europe 
or the United States, and later on you find 
out that they've done horrible things. It’s 
as if at some moment, people go mad. It 
seems that there are people whose br: 
neurons aren't adapted to the complexities 
of revolutionary political problems, so they 
do crazy things that are really amazing. 

In any case, everyone had a hand in 
that situation until the events that took 
place in Afghanistan in later 1979. The 
Soviets were helping the Afghans—that is 
true— because Taraki originally requested 
their help. Amin also asked the Soviets for 
help later, and a lot of Soviets were there, 
assisting in a wide range of fields— 
military, economic, technical, all kinds— 
up until Soviet troops were sent into the 
country on a massive scale. 

PLAYBOY: That is, when they invaded. You 
say that was based on what provocation? 

CASTRO: Essentially, counterrevolutionary 
actions fostered from abroad. Revolutions 
always entail more than a few complica- 
tions and headaches. No revolution has 
ever avoided that; not the French Revolu- 
tion of 1789, the Russian Revolution of 
1917, the Chinese Revolution, the Viet- 
namese Revolution, the Cuban Revolution 
or the Nicaraguan Revolution. There are 


Alive 
with pleasur 


t 
^" 


= 


if smoking isn’t a pleasure, 
why bother? 


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


no exceptions, and all the problems arise 
from the invariable attempts made from 
abroad to overthrow the revolution. This 
is also what happened with the revolution 
in Afghanistan. 

PLAYBOY: You blame the invasion on the 
CIA, then? 

CASTRO: The CIA was doing, and contin- 
ues to do, everything in its power to create 
problems for the government of Afghani- 
stan and for the Soviets. It’s pouring 
enormous numbers of weapons and 
amounts of money into Afghanistan, using 
the émigrés, playing on the political back- 
wardness of a part of the Afghan people, 
using religion—it's making use of every 
tool it can to create difficulties for the 
Afghan revolutionaries and for the Soviets. 
I don't think the CIA is particularly inter- 
ested in promoting peace in the countr 
PLAYBOY: Yet there was a bloody inva 
How can you defend the Soviet action, and 
at the same time preach the philosophy of 
revolution and libera: 
CASTRO: | sincerely believe that the 
Afghan Revolution was just and neces- 
sary, and we could support nothing that 
would jeopardize it. We sympathize with 
and support the Afghan Revolution; I say 
this frankly. But I think Afghanistan could 
be a nonaligned country—but one in 
which the revolutionary regime was main- 
tained. If a solution is sought that is based 
on the idea that Afghanistan should go 
back to the old regime and sacrifice the 
Revolution, then, unfortunately, I don't 
think there will be peace there for a long 
time. I think it's in the interest of all the 
neighboring countries, including the 
Soviet Union, to find a solution. And I 
believe that the observance of the principle 
of respect for Afghanistan's sovereignty 
and for its right to make social changes, 
build the political system it deems best 
and correct and have a nonaligned 
government—as a Third World country— 
should serve as the basis of a solution for 
the problems there. 

PLAYBOY: You repeatedly describe the 
United States as the source of many of the 
world's problems while either pi 
avoiding criticism of the Soviet U 
many see Soviet foreign policy as warmon- 
gering and expansionist. The invasion of 
Afghanistan and the crushing of Solidarity 
would seem to fit that category. 

CASTRO: You can't ask the Soviet Union to 
remain impassive if it actually feels threat- 
ened, I believe that these accusations of 
warmongering have no historical founda- 
tion whatsoever. Let's go back for a 
moment. Any scholar who knows the his- 
tory of the Soviet Revolution can’t ignore 
the fact that while Lenin's first decree was 
a proclamation of peace—immediately, 24 
hours after the victory of the 1917 Revo- 
lution—the first step the Western coun- 
tries took was to invade Russia. It was 
Lenin who first stated the principle that 
the nations that had made up the czarist 
empire had a right to independence. 
PLAYBOY: Pardon us, but —— 


CASTRO: [Waving away the interruption] 1 
would cite the example of Finland, which 
was part of that empire and became an 
independent nation. Yes, everyone who 
has studied history knows that Lenin 
waged a great battle for the enforcement of 
that principle. It can't be ignored that as 
this was happening, there were armed ac- 
tions against the Soviet people from all 
over the West: from the Germans, who 
attacked and penetrated the Ukraine to 
Kiev; from the French in the south; from 
the English in the Murmansk region in the 
north; from Japan and from the United 
States in the eastern territory. Everyone 
joined in. World War One had already 
ended, but intervention in the Soviet 
Union went on for several more years. 

What happened in later years is well 
known: Even Finland itself was used by 
Fascist Germany to attack the Soviet 
Union. The country was invaded, and I 
believe that contemporary history doesn't 
know of any other example of such massive. 
destruction and death as was caused by 
fascism there. 

After World War Two, the Soviet Union 
was surrounded by dozens and dozens of 
nuclear bases—in Europe, the Middle 
East, Turkey, which lies on the Soviet bor- 
der, the Indian Ocean, Japan and other 
Oriental countries—and by military fleets 
near its coasts in the Mediterranean, the 
Indian Ocean, the Pacific Ocean. No one 
can deny these facts. It was surrounded by 
nuclear bombers, nuclear submarines, 
military bases, spy bases, electronic 
installations—a country totally sur- 
rounded, How can the Soviet Union be 
accused of warmongering and aggressive 
attitudes in the face of these historical real- 
ities? How can we not explain the Soviet 
Union's highly sensitive reactions regard- 
ing anything that occurs near its territory? 
Who is historically responsible for this lack 
of trust on the part of the Soviets? How 
can international politics be explained so 
simplistically? 

PLAYBOY: Many people believe that the 
next full-scale war will break out in South 
Africa. As an opponent of apartheid, what 
do you think can be done there? 

CASTRO: [In the most impassioned tone of the 
entire interview] Apartheid is the most 
shameful, traumatizing and inconceivable 
crime that exists in the contemporary 
world. I don't know of anything else as 
serious—from the moral and human 
standpoint—as apartheid. Particularly 
after the struggle against Nazi fascism, 
after the independence of all the former 
colonies, the survival of apartheid is a dis- 
grace for humanity. The major industrial- 
ized countries, however—the United 
States included—have made heavy invest- 
ments in and have collaborated economi- 
cally, technologically and through the 
supply of weapons with the apartheid 
regime. In fact, South Africa is an ally of 
the West's, and it is the West that has actu- 
ally made it possible for that system to 
endure. The United States has systemati- 


cally opposed all sanctions against the 
South African regime. 

PLAYBOY: What international measures 
would you propose to force South Africa to 
abandon its policy of apartheid? 

CASTRO: As long as South Africa continues 
to receive technological assistance, eco- 
nomic assistance and assistance in the 
form of weapons, it will remain unaltered 
and will continue in its blackmailing posi- 
tion. South Africa, like Pinochet, the 
West's other fascist ally, parades itself 
before the West as the great standard- 
bearer of anticommunism and other social 
changes. 

I wonder: Is there any fascist regime in 
the past 40 years that has not been an ally 
of the United States’? In Spain, the Franco 
regime; in Portugal, the Salazar regime; in 
South Korea, the fascist military; in Cen- 
tral America, Somoza, the агу dicta- 
torships in Guatemala and El Salvador; 
and Stroessner, the military dictatorships 
in Argentina, Uruguay and Brazil, as well 
as the Duvalier regime. I don’t know of 
any reactionary, fascist state that has not 
been a close ally of the United States’. 

Yes, the West is responsible for the sur- 
vival of apartheid. How can you justify the 
aggressive, subversive measures against 
Nicaragua, the economic blockade of 
Cuba—which has already lasted 26 
years—and then talk about constructive 
relations with the apartheid regime? If 
South Africa were effectively isolated, eco- 
nomic measures were implemented 
against it and everyone were to support 
them, the apartheid system would come to 
an end. The measures the United States 
take against socialist countries are not 
taken against apartheid! Nothing about 
apartheid has produced sufficient revul- 
sion in leaders of Western countries, just a 
few embarrassing situations that they try 
to explain with hypocritical statements. 
PLAYBOY: Would you favor, then, an inter- 
national war against South Africa? 
CASTRO: No. I’m not saying that violent 
measures should be taken. They're not 
needed. What is called for is simply inter- 
national political, moral, technological 
and economic pressures. This will not in 
the least harm the vast majority of South 
Africa's population, who live in the ghet- 
tos and who are being massacred and 
assassinated every day. Not a month goes 
by without a slaughter of greater or lesser 
magnitude. 

PLAYBOY: You are passionate about South 
Africa, yet Cuba has been widely con- 
demned for its extensive military 
volvement in Africa. How do you ju: 
sending Cuban troops to such countries as 
Ethiopia and Angola? 

CASTRO: We sent troops for the first time 
outside our country in 1975, precisely 
when South Africa invaded Angola, at the 
moment of its independence. We are the 
only country that has actually fought 
the South African racists and fascists, the 
only country in the world—in addition 
to Angola, of course, which was under 


177 


PLAYBOY 


178 


I.C.L. PROCESS BECOMES A REAL GROWTH INDUSTRY 


P 
the patient, Juan Andujar uni 

ocedute at 
performed by Dr k and a 


BALD HAIRDRESSER'S 


As a man who has tried everything 
on my own thinning locks except the 
Sweat of a moose, | was always skep- 
tical of all hair replacement ads, as 
Menachem Begin is of President 
Reagan's claim that AWACS planes in 
Saudi Arabian hands would be “good 
for Israel." 

With this in mind, I recently visited 
International Cosmetic Labs, 209 
Professional Building, Rt. 130, 
Cinnaminson, N.J. 08077, after calling 
(609) 829-4300 which has performed 
thousands of medical procedures 
during it's long existence. 


NOT A TRANSPLANT 


"This is not the same thing as a hair 
transplant or a hair piece, or medical 
implants", explained a medical 
assistant. "It is designed for people 
who still have some hair. We take a hair 
sample from the customer and then 
make the new preparation to blend 
perfectly with it. The new preparation 
is made of a combination of human and 
synthetic hair.” 

While | waited for a nearly bald 
customerto go through the procedure, 
a handsome young man walked into 
the International waiting room with a 
head of thick, wavy hair. 


I u AAA A ee nn ا‎ 


By LEN LEAR 


A RECENT EXAMPLE 


“This was done here last week,” ex- 
plained Dr. Jack Rydell, a 25-year-old 
chiropractor from central Jersey who 
showed himself (before the procedure) 
with a balding pate. 

1 started losing my hair when | was 
19. Some men don't care about this, but 
I do. I looked into hair transplants, but 
theyre too messy, and they cannot 
thicken hair which | wanted to do. 
They can never give you a natural look. 
Now my hair looks just like it did when I 
was 18. 

Dr. Rydell said he is completely 
satisfied with his "new hair", which 
may cost anywhere from $1200 to 
$3800. Iran my own fingers through his 
hair, which looked and felt exactly like 
thick hair. I yanked, but it did not come 
off. 


SEVERAL RETAINERS 


Losing my skepticism quickly, | 
watched as Juan Andujar, a 28-year- 
old hairdresser from New Jersey who 
was largely bald on top, underwent the 
LC.L Process. Dr. Max Mollick, a staff 
physician of International Cosmetic 
Labs applied fine hairlike retainers 
throughout Andujar's dome. Techni- 
cians then started attaching hair fila- 
ments, creating a full head of hair. A hair 


DREAM COMES TRUE 


We've all seen the ads on tv, a man with a billiard ball for a head suddenly has a head full of thick wavy hair. He's 
swimming & playing tennis. Beautiful ladies mesmerized by his now wavy mane, and no matter how hard a disembodied 
hand yanks, it can't upset a hair on his head, or his rosy disposition. 


stylist then styled it, the whole process 
taking about 3 hours. Andujar was ob- 
viously pleased with the results. 

Dr. Max Mollick is a radiologist who 
has performed thousands of surgical 
procedures. When asked about the 
possibilities of infection, "We've seen 
cases of minor infections but they've 
been very rare, certainly no greater 
thanin any other type of surgery. There 
is also a lifetime warranty with this 
procedure. Also, the 1.C.L. Process is 
totally reversable for those who worry 
about that sort of thing 

The retainer material used in THE 
1.C.L. PROCESS has been used ex- 
tensively in many parts of the world in 
major heart surgery, for those of you 
who care about such things, it is an 
isotactic crystalline stereoisomer of a 
linear hydrocarbon polymer containing 
alittle or no unsaturation. Such retainer 
material is not absorbable nor is it 
subject to degradation or weakening 
by the action of tissue enzymes. It is 
resistant to involvement in infections. 
There are no known contraindications 

and for you doctors with your 
medical Baedeckers handy, for further 
data you may refer to THE JOURNAL 
OF THE AMERICAN MEDICAL ASSO- 
CIATION, March 10, 1962, Vol. 179, pp. 
780-782; BRITISH JOURNAL OF 
SURGERY, Vol. 52, No. 5, August 1967 
or write International Cosmetic Labs. 


attack. You can be sure that all the African 
countries have always admired and been 
thankful for this action by Cuba. The 
troops are still there, to defend Angola 
against another operation by the South 
Africans. It was simply that, an unex- 
pected situation in which somebody had to 
fight against the racists, and not part of 
some larger plan by the Soviet Union, as 
the United States has claimed. 

PLAYBOY: What about Ethiopia? There was 
no South African invasion there. 

CASTRO: Until very recently, Ethiopia had 
lived under a feudal regime. Before the 
Revolution, there was even slavery in Ethi- 
opia. We appreciate the importance of the 
Revolution in Ethiopia, one of the largest 
African countries, with the longest tradi 
tion of independence, but a very poor 
country, one of the poorest in Africa. Right 
after the Revolution, contacts were estab- 
lished between the new Ethiopian leaders 
and ourselves. We supported their socialist 
experiment and also sent them doctors, 
instructors and weapons. 

Then came an invasion to seize some 
oil-rich land, this one from Somalia, in the 
south, while the separatist movement in 
the north was being fanned with the aid of 
such American allies as the Sudan and 
Saudi Arabia. It was a difficult moment 
for Ethiopia. The Revolution could have 
collapsed; the Ethiopian people needed 
our help and we sent it. No one could help 
them when they were invaded by Musso- 
lini's troops, but this time they received 
support from tiny Cuba. 

PLAYBOY: In one case you intervened in 
what would be called a civil war, and 
in both cases you have troops in African 
countries well after the crisis has passed. 
Do you really claim that Cuban troops are 
still there in a just cause? 

CASTRO: Only a few well-equipped units 
with combat capabilities remain in Ethio- 
pia, as a symbol of solidarity. They will 
remain there as long as the Ethiopian gov- 
ernment deems it convenient. That is not 
the situation in Angola, a nation with a 
smaller population and less experience 
and one faced with South Africa’s milita 
might, There, too, the dirty war was 
organized by the South Africans, who did 
just what the United States is doing in 
Nicaragua. I consider what the Cuban 
troops are doing a truly honorable cause, 
among the most honorable in the history of 
Africa. I think that nothing can stop the 
course of history. Nothing shall prevent 
the tens of millions of Africans living in 
ghettos and bantustans in their own home- 
land from someday becoming the masters 
of their own destiny. The concentration 
camps of Dachau and Auschwitz also 
came to an end, 

PLAYBOY: You've talked bitterly in the past 
about the 26-year trade blockade by the 
U.S. Because of its effect—and your own 
domestic problems—haven't you had to 
reduce many needed programs and serv- 
ices that your revolution promised in its 
early days? 


CASTRO: No, not at all. We already know 
what we are going to do during the next 15 
years in all fields of economic and social 
development—in the industrial, agricul- 
tural, housing, educational, cultural, 
sports and medical programs. And despite 
the blockade, there are some areas, such as 
public health and education, in which we 
expect to be ahead of the United States in 
the not-too-distant future. That is, we use 
our resources rationally to achieve sus- 
tained economic development in the inter- 
ests of the people. We certainly won't 
adopt any such measures as cutting aid to 
the elderly, reducing old-age pensions, 
cutting medicines for the sick, reducing 
hospital and school appropriations. We 
don't sacrifice social programs, as they do 
in the United States, for the sake of build- 
ing aircraft carriers, MX missiles and other 
engines of war that the world abhors. 
PLAYBOY: Do you mean to suggest that 
Cuba can boast a stronger record of 
accomplishment in the social realm than 
the United States? 

CASTRO: What I’m suggesting is th 
While the United States has recently 
adopted a policy of cutting or freezing its 
social-assistance programs, in our country 
these are top-priority items. Rather than 
being cut, as has been suggested in the 
United States, they are increasing every 
year, asour economic performance improves. 
PLAYBOY: You're also saying that, despite 
the problems you mentioned earlier, Cuba 
is not really facing an economic crisis, as 
other Third World countries are. 

CASTRO: Precisely. Due to the fi 
tioned, we are the only Latin лог 
Caribbean country that hasn't suffered 
from the present economic crisis. We 
haven't been exposed to the crisis, except 
as it affects the 15 percent of our trade that 
is carried out with Western countries— 
which, of course, charge high prices for 
their products, pay low prices for ours and 
force us to pay high interest rates on our 
foreign debt. 

PLAYBOY: And, of course, your economy is 
tied to that of the Soviet bloc. 

CASTRO: Eighty-five percent of our trade is 
within the socialist community, and this is 
what gives us a solid foundation for the 
sustained growth of our economy. That is 
why we are morally entitled to speak 
bout the economic crisis and Latin Amer- 
ica’s debt; we don't have to keep silent 
‘That is precisely why we are energetical 


denouncing it. But we can feel secure, 
because, fortunately, we depend very little 


on the Western world, and we don't 
depend at all on economic relations with 
the United States. I wonder how many 
other countries can say the same. 
PLAYBOY: Some would say you have merely 
traded a former dependency on the United 
States for another dependency—on the 
Soviet Union. 

CASTRO: That question is older than the 
rain. Actually, we consider ourselves the 
most privileged nation of all, because in a 
world where everyone depends on the 


United States, there is one country— 
Cuba—that does not. It is a unique privi- 
lege. 
PLAYBOY: But you have paid a price for that 
support—some of your independence. 
CASTRO: The Soviets have given us their 
support with no conditions; they do not 
say what Cuba can or cannot do. In 26 
years, I cannot remember a single time 
when the Soviets have attempted to tell us 
what to do in our foreign or domestic pol- 
icy. And criticizing us for our dependency 
on the Soviets is like telling us, “Look, we 
sank the ship—and you used a lifesaver!” 
No country in the world can be an eco- 
nomic island. You in the United States 
depend on Saudi Arabia, on Kuwait, on 
the Persian Gulf states for your oil. We 
depend on others, too, to a greater or 
lesser degree. 
PLAYBOY: Let's speculate; What would 
happen if the United States were to resume 
trade relations with Cuba? 
CASTRO: Frankly, the United States 
fewer and fewer things to offer Cuba, If we 
were able to export our products to the 
United States, we would have to start mak- 
ing plans for new lines of production to be 
exported to the United States, because 
everything we are producing now and 
everything we are going to produce in the 
next five years has already been sold to 
other markets. We would have to take 
them away from the other socialist coun- 
tries in order to sell them to the United 
States, and the socialist countries pay us 
much better prices and have much better 
relations with us than does the United 
States. There's a folk saying that goes, 
“Don’t swap а cow for a goat!” 
PLAYBOY: Talking about economics for a 
wide audience can be cumbersome, but 
one thing everyone has heard about is the 
staggering debt Latin-American countries 
owe to Western countries, particularly the 
U.S. You recently spoken out against 
attempts to pressure these countries to 
repay that debt. Don't you think they 
have a moral responsibility to pay their 
creditors? 
CASTRO: Some 20 or 25 years ago, Latin 
America had practically no debt; now it 
amounts to 360 billion dollars. What did 
that money go for? Part of it was spent on 
weapons, In Argentina, for example, tens 
of billions of dollars went for military 
expenditures, and the same was true of 
Chile and other countries. Another part of 
that money was embezzled, was stolen and 
wound up in banks in Switzerland and 
the United States. Another part was 
returned to the United States and Europe 
as a fight of capital. Whenever there was 
talk of devaluation, the more affluent peo- 
ple, out of mistrust, would change their 
money for dollars and deposit it in U.S. 
banks. Another part of that money was 
squandered. Another part was used by 
some countries to pay the high prices of 
fuel. And, finally, another part was spent 
on various economic programs. . 
PLAYBOY: But, with respect, you're avoiding 


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the question. Don't these nations have 
a moral responsibility to repay the debt? 
CASTRO: You say that they have a moral 
responsibility. When you talk about 
nations, you're talking about the people, 
the workers, the farmers, the students, the 
middle class—the doctors, the engineers, 
the teachers, the other professionals—and 
the other social sectors. What did the peo- 
ple get out of the billions that were spent 
on weapons, deposited in U.S. banks, mis- 
spent or embezzled? What did the people 
get out of the overvaluation of the dollar or 
out of the interest spread? They got abso- 
lutely nothing. And who has to pay for that 
debt? The people: the workers, the pro- 
fessionals and the farmers; everybody has 
to make do with reduced wages and 
reduced income and make huge sacrifices. 
What is the morality of imposing measures 
that result in a blood bath in an effort to 
make the people pay the debt, as was the 
case in the Dominican Republic, where the 
International Monetary Fund’s measures 
resulted in dozens of people's being killed 
and hundreds more shot? The people have 
to protest, because they are being forced to 
pay a debt that they didn't contract and 
that brought them practically no benefits. 
PLAYBOY: Mr. President, are you saying 
that Third World countries should simply 
cancel their debts? 

CASTRO: Even if they wanted to repay 
them, it would be an economic impossibil- 
ity, a political impossibility, a moral 
impossibility. You would practically have 
to kill the people to force them to make the 
sacrifices required to pay that debt. Any 
democratic process that tries to impose 
those restrictions and sacrifices by 
force will be ruined. The debt simp! 
not be paid. “Give me liberty or give me 
death.” The choice for those governing 
Latin America now is between the cancel- 
lation of the debt and political death. 
PLAYBOY: Do you honestly feel that any of 
this is realistic—that creditors should sim- 
ply swallow the losses from the canceled 
debt? 

CASTRO: I'm not suggesting that the banks 
lose their money or that the taxpayers pay 
more taxes. I am suggesting something 
very simple: using a small percent of mili- 
tary expenditures—which wouldn’t be 
more than 12 percent—so the govern- 
ments of the creditor nations can assume 
the debts from their own banks. That way, 
neither the banks nor the depositors would 
lose; to the contrary, the banks would have 
that money guaranteed. Who could guar- 
antee this better than the rich and power- 
ful industrial states of which the Western 
nations are so proud? They consider them- 
selves capable of dreaming up and waging 
“star wars” while giving barely a thought 
to the risks involved in a thermonuclear 
conflict that would in the first minute 
destroy a hundred times more than what is 
due their banks. In short, if the idea of uni- 
versal suicide doesn’t scare them, why 
should they be afraid of something as 


simple as the cancellation of the Third 
World's debt? It's a simple accounting 
operation. It’s not going to close a single 
factory; it's not going to stop a single ship. 
along its route; it's not going to interfere 
with a single sales contract on the market. 
To the contrary, employment, trade, 
dustrial and agricultural output and 
profits would be increased everywhere, It 
i to hurt anybody. The only 
adverse effects would be on arms and mili- 
lary spen: 
PLAYBOY: What effect do you think a 
change in U.S. military spending would 
have? 

CASTRO: The avoidance of financial catas- 
trophe for all of us. What will be the con- 
sequences for the future U.S. economy of 
spending two trillion dollars in only eight 
years for military purposes, instead of 
investing it in industry, technology and 
economic development? The only signif- 
icant development has been registered by 
the arms industry, but weapons aren't 
goods that the population can consume. 
Rifles, bullets, bombs, bombers, battle- 
ships and aircraft carriers increase neither 
the wealth nor the productive capacity of a 
country; they can't meet any of man's 
material or spiritual needs. You can't even 
fish with those boats; you can’t do any 
thing with them that’s useful for human 
life, health or the struggle against cancer 
and other diseases that kill so many U.S. 
citizens every year. 

PLAYBOY: Again, you focus on the dire eco- 
nomic consequences of military spending 
by the U.S., even though the Soviet 
Union—a socialist state—is engaged in 
the very same arms race. 

CASTRO: A socialist can better under- 
stand—is better prepared to understand, 
from a theoretical point of view—the folly 
of spending on weapons the resources 
needed to meet the pressing needs and 
problems of any human society. The so- 
cialist states know what can be done with 
those resources both at home and abroad. 
A glance shows the poverty and disasters 
that plague our planet. The arms race is a 
crime against mankind. Why not opt for a 
sincere effort to seek peace and coopera- 
tion among all countries, based on full 
respect for the sovereignty and the social 
system that each people has chosen for 
itself? As for the Soviets, they are not to 
blame for the arms race. Their response 
reflects decisions made in Washington— 
the desire to protect themselves against 
possible U.S. aggression. But they are not 
the culprits. They are not to blame for the 
arms race. 

PLAYBOY: What will happen, in your opin- 
ion, if the industrialized world refuses to 
cancel the debt? 

CASTRO: If a negotiated solution cannot be 
found, the Third World will impose a 
solution—unilateral cancellation. Indus- 
trialized nations will not have any actions 
open: economic blockades, invasion of 


Third World countries, repartitioning of 
the world’s territories and resources, as in 
past centuries, are simply impossible 
today. Any rational person can under- 
stand this. They couldn’t invade ten coun- 
tries, blockade 100 countries. 

PLAYBOY: Since it’s not likely that the 
industrialized world will follow the course 
you're recommending, what do you see as 
the final outcome? 

CASTRO: If we want to be madmen, if we 
want to continue the arms race and keep 
this unfair economic order, we will con- 
tinue along the path leading to large-scale 
famines, great social conflicts and—what 
even worse and probable—a large 
nuclear conflict, until all people, both sane 
and insane, are wiped off the face of 
the earth. By the way, it may also be said 
that not all madmen are in government, 
and not all who govern are mad. 

PLAYBOY: You have made several literary 
references during this Interview. To shift 
we near the end, to a personal 
topic, are you still an avid reader? Do you 
still find time to read? 

CASTRO: Yes, though my tastes have varied 
with time, Of course, when I was younger, 
literary works and novels, for example, 
interested me more than they do now, 
Obviously, a good novel is pleasant read- 
ing, really recreational reading, so I read 
many novels. I remember perfectly that 
during the 22 months I spent in prison, 
there weren't enough books there for the 
15 or 16 hours a day that I read. I read lit- 
erary, economic, historical and political 
works, but throughout my life I have usu- 
ally preferred history books, biographies, 
books about nature, narratives, 

I've read many memoirs, from Church- 
ill's—which is quite unwieldy but interest- 
ing, with a lot of historical data— 
to DeGaulle's. Гуе also read numerous 
books on the World Wars and the main 
events that took place then. I've read most 
of the books dealing with the actions car- 
ried out by both the Western powers and 
the Soviets. I’ve read practically all those 
books—memoirs, narratives, particularly 
about the military actions. I've always 
been interested in that kind of literature. 

Once in a while, I delve into the roots of 
the language and reread Cervantes’ Don 
Quixote, one of the most splendid works 
ever written. If it weren't for the long nar- 
rative passages it contains, which make it 
somewhat boring at times, I would read 
some excerpt from it every day. 

I've also read all of Hemingway's works, 
some more than once. I'm really sorry he 
didn't write more. I've also read most of 
Garcia Marquez’ novels, stories, historical 
works and newspaper articles. Since we 
are friends, ГІ dispense with the praise. 

It is amazing, isn’t it, to think of the 
enormous number of quality publications 
that are printed every year and the tension 
between the desire to read all of them and 
the real possibility of reading very few? 
PLAYBOY: You mentioned Don Quixote. Is 


181 


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there anything about Don Quixote, the 
character, with which you specifically 
identify? 

CASTRO: Well, I think that a revolutionary 
is what Don Quixote resembles the most, 
particularly in his desire for justice, in that 
spirit of the knight-errant, of righting 
wrongs everywhere, of fighting against 
giants. It has been said that Don Quixote 
was written to ridicule the romances of 
chivalry. I believe it was written very 
ingeniously. In fact, I think that it is one of 
the most marvelous exaltations of man’s 
dreams and idealism and, above all, it’s 
very interesting. We have the two charac- 
ters: Sancho, with his fect on the ground, 
looking at all the problems and giving 
advice, a model of caution who remembers 
all the details; and the other, who's always 
dreaming about a cause to defend. Don 
Quixote’s madness and the madness of the 
revolutionaries are similar; the spirit is 
similar. I like that character very much. 
I'm sure Don Quixote wouldn't have hesi- 
tated to face the giant of the North, 
PLAYBOY: Have you ever had any self-doubt? 
CASTRO: Let me state, in all frankness, that 
I have never harbored personal doubts or 
a lack of confidence. That may be good or 
it may be bad. But if you see your actions 
as objectively correct, then not having 
doubts is good. I must admit that pride 
may have influenced my attitudes from 
time to time. But once I came to a conclu- 
sion as to what was right, I had great per- 
sonal confidence in those ideas. This 
doesn’t mean that I am not self-critical. 
Quite the contrary: I constantly question 
the rightness of my beliefs and actions. In 
that sense, I’m quite hard on myself. I've 
never fallen victim to the trap of compla- 
cency. But I have always persevered. 
PLAYBOY: Clearly, you cannot live forever. 
What plans, if any, do you have for the 
succession of power? Is there an heir 
apparent? 

CASTRO: Well, of course I don’t have any 
plans for dying. I'll tell you this: Since the 
beginning of the Revolution, since the very 
first year, and particularly when we 
started realizing that the CLA had plans to 
shorten my life, we suggested the prior nomi- 
nation of another comrade, Raul Castro— 
today second secretary of the party—who 
would immediately assume leadership. In 
my opinion, the comrade chosen is the 
most capable, not exactly because he’s my 
brother but due to his experience and rev- 
olutionary merits. 

PLAYBOY: If you were to step down to- 
morrow, what would happen in Cuba? 
CASTRO: In this question, I am not yet 
dead, correct? [Laughs] Let me tell you 
one thing. If tomorrow I were to resign all 
my functions, first, there'd have to be a 
truly convincing reason for the population 
to understand it—it would have to be logi- 
cal, natural and justifiable. I couldn't just 
say, “I'm going to drop these activities be- 
cause I'm bored or because I want to lead 
a private life." It would be difficult to 
explain and difficult for the people to 


understand. The people have also been 
instilled with the idea that one must do 
everything possible, that one must give top 
priority to all revolutionary obligations. 

I haven't the slightest doubt that 
although I can still be useful and make 
further contributions to the Revolution— 
there are still some things that need a little 
time to mature—I believe that the opinion 
and the recognition of the people with 
respect to the role I've played and my 
efforts in the Revolution would be truly 
high if I were to quit tomorrow. This in no 
way means that everything has been per- 
fect, free of errors or anything of the sort. 
But I'm quite sure that there'd be a high 
opinion of my services. I haven't the slight- 
est doubt. 

PLAYBOY: Let's end on a note of imagina- 
tion. Here is something truly wonderful 
from your point of view: Suppose the U.S. 
canceled Latin America’s foreign debt, as 
you propose, and offered substantial aid to 
boot—in other words, offered to treat the 
hemisphere with the fairness you think it 


MA. 


deserves. What would you do then? Reas- 
sess your views? 
CASTRO: If the United States were to spon- 
taneously do what you say—if such an 
inherently selfish, neocolonialist system 
were capable of that generosity—a real 
miracle would have taken place, and I 
would have to start meditating on that 
phenomenon. I might even have to consult 
some theologians and revise some of my 
opinions in that field. If that were to hap- 
pen, Í might even enter a monastery. 
PLAYBOY: We asked you toward the begin- 
ning of this Interview whether or not you 
considered yourself a dictator. Do you 
again deny the charge? 
CASTRO: I would say that I am a sui generis 
type of dictator, one who has been sub- 
jected here to the oppression, torture, de- 
mands and impositions of a journalist and 
a legislator from the United States and 
who has shown his willingness to discuss 
any topic openly, frankly and seriously, 

Y 


— 22 


chm 
Day 


“Give me tens, twenties and any literature you have 
on estate planning.” 


PLAYBOY 


К.С. AT THE ВАТ 62619 


“When you go to the meat market, ask the butcher for 
either loin back or two-and-down rib cuts.” 


BARBECUE SAUCES 


Everybody has a secret recipe for a 
down-home barbecue sauce originally per- 
fected by an ancestor around the time of 
the Civil War. To my way of thinking, 
store-bought Kansas City-style barbecue 
sauces sold in the area—and on a limited 
basis nationwide—are about as good as 
you can get. And they save you a lot of 
time messing around in the kitchen when 
you'd rather be out by the pool while the 
ribs do their own slow cooking. 

When you select a barbecue sauce, al- 
ways look at the color, smell for richness, 
check to see whether or not the sauce is 
thick enough to coat a piece of meat thor- 
oughly and, most important, read the 
ingredients label. Sauces made with gums 
and food starch may be thick, but I prefer 
to invest my barbecue money in sauces 
that are loaded with pure tomato concen- 
trate (instead of catsup) and heavy corn 
and molasses syrup. Chemicals, artificial 
colors, flavors or thickeners are taboo. 

In the Kansas City area, Arthur Bry- 
ant’s famous rib sauce is available only at 
his restaurant. Gates & Sons’ sauce is 
available at restaurants and in area super- 
markets. Gates’s brand is produced in a 
mild and a regular version. K.C. Master- 
piece, an area favorite that’s also sold 
nationally, is available in five flavors: orig- 
inal, Southern style, hickory, mesquite 
and a no-salt-added variety. 

Kansas City barbecue sauces are gener- 
ally tomato-based and are flavored with 
vinegar and mild to hot peppery spices. 
They include sweeteners and Liquid 
Smoke in some cases. A hint of chili pow- 
der often comes across. Those Kansas City 
sauces available by mail order are listed in 
my book Bar B.Q.: Kansas City Style 
(Barbacoa Press), which also includes 
many prize-winning recipes, along with 
the history of barbecue. 


RIBS 


Now a few words about deciphering rib 
talk. From experience, I've learned that 
most people don’t know a sparerib from a 
country-style back rib or a three and 
under from an entire slab. So that you'll 
get what you want when you stop by the 
butchershop, here’s a straight-to-the-point 
primer. 

There are three basic cuts of pork ribs: 
country-style back ribs (ribs that have lots 
of meat but are cut short because they 
include some of the spinal bone); loin back 
ribs (the meatiest, most expensive ribs, 
which need little trimming); and—from 


lower on the side and the underside of the 
hog—spareribs (the least expensive ribs 
you can buy). If the spareribs are trimmed 
of gristle, you have a St. Louis or a Kelso- 
cut rib. Naturally, St. Louis ribs are more 
expensive than plain spareribs. 

Next to the specific cut of the rib, the 
weight of the whole slab determines 
the meatiness—and the price. The smaller 
the rib, the meatier i Hence, whole 
slabs of ribs weighing two pounds and 
under ("two and under" or "two and 
down" butcher talk) are the meatiest 
and most expensive. They are also called 
baby back or Danish ribs. Three and un- 
der, three to five pounds and five and over 
are the three other categories of whole 
slabs of pork ribs. So when you go to the 
meat market, ask the butcher for either 
loin back or two-and-down rib cuts. 

One last point before I get to the reci- 
pes. When you prepare Kansas City-style 
ribs over a barbecue fire, don’t trim off 
the fat until the ribs are done. Cooking the 
ribs fat side up will baste the meat natu- 
rally and will help produce the master- 
ly, crusty exterior that protects a juicy 
interior. 

Recipe number one is the simplest, least 
expensive version of traditional Kansas 
City-style barbecued ribs. (You can't go 
wrong with it when the talk turns to ribs.) 
Recipe number two is a spicier one that 
calls for Kansas City-style barbecue sauce 
as an option. (The soy sauce, honey and 
mustard add a disti е culinary touch.) 
Recipe number three is for apartment and 
condo dwellers who don’t have an outdoor 
barbecue. And remember, ribs are meant 
to be eaten with your fingers. Hold the 
knife and fork, please. 


RECIPE NUMBER ONE 
(For four rib lovers) 


whole slabs (each 3 Ibs. and under) 
spareribs 
ozs. each black pepper and paprika 
and 4 ozs. granular brown sugar, all 
mixed with 1 teaspoon garlic powder 
and 1 teaspoon allspice 

Kansas City-style barbecue sauce— 

mesquite or hickory flavor 

Salt 

Sprinkle ribs on all sides generously 
with spice mixture. Place in barbecue 
cooker, fat side up. Build small (10-15 bri- 
quettes) charcoal fire to one side of where 
ribs will smoke (no direct heat). Light fire 
and, after briquettes are reddish-white, 
add premoistened chunks of hickory or 
other hardwood. Place ribs away from fire 


ә ON 


and close smoker. Open only to add small 
amounts of charcoal and wet wood to 
maintain a smoky 200° heat. Barbecue 4 to 
6 hours. During last 30 minutes, place 
ribs meat side up and salt, then pour bar- 
becue sauce generously over ribs. Serve as 
soon as cool enough to handle. 


RECIPE NUMBER TWO 


2 whole slabs two-and-under loin back 
ribs 

1 cup honey 

% cup soy sauce 

Ya cup sweet, spicy mustard 

% cup lime juice 

Kansas City-style 

optional 

The day before, mix honey, soy sauce, 
mustard and lime juice. Place ribs in long, 
shallow marinating dish. Pour mixture 
over ribs, coating on all sides. Cover with 
plastic wrap and refrigerate (at least 4% 
hours). Day of barbecue, prepare fire as in 
recipe number one. When fire is ready, 
uncover ribs and place in barbecue unit, 
Check occasionally, since honey tends to 
burn. Baste every 30 minutes with any 
remaining marinade. Barbecue at 200° for 
4 to 6 hours. These ribs may be eaten with- 
out sauce, but if you prefer, coat with 
barbecue sauce for last 30 minutes of 
cooking. 


barbecue sauce, 


RECIPE NUMBER THREE 
(For indoor, year-round enjoyment) 

2 whole slabs three-and-under loin-back 

ribs 

2 cups apple juice 

Kansas City-style sauce—mesquite flavor 

2 ozs. Liquid Smoke 

Mixture of spices as in recipe number 

one 

Place ribs in roasting pan. Mix apple 
juice, 1 cup barbecue sauce and Liquid 
‘Smoke, and pour over ribs. Cover roasting 
pan with lid or heavy-duty aluminum 
wrap. Bake in preheated 400° oven for 1 
hour. Use a ventilator fan, since Liquid 
Smoke produces a delicious but penetrat- 
ing smell of barbecue. Remove ribs, pat 
dry and sprinkle seasoning generously on 
both sides. Place ribs meat side up on rack 
over pan or foil. Broil 3-5 minutes to 
brown. Lower ribs away from broiler unit 
and reduce oven temperature to 300°. Pour 
additional barbecue sauce to thoroughly 
coat ribs and bake uncovered % hour. 
Remove; cool to serve. 

These indoor-barbecued ribs are a sur- 
prisingly delicious, simple version with an 
outdoor flavor. 

And when you’re in Kansas City, don’t 
forget that there are more than 60 barbe- 
cue restaurants in the area—just in case 
you're tired of your own home cooking. 
Who knows? You just might sit down at a 
table next to George Brett. 


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Hot Secrets 


(continued from page 76) 
culture that has a taboo against showing a 
breast, breasts will become objects of fan- 
tasy. For people in a culture that has a 
taboo against showing the face, faces will 
become objects of fantasy. 

Even within a culture, different regions 
may put their stamp on the kinds of fanta- 
sies people have. In San Francisco, a city 
with a large and active gay population, 
there is a lot of gay pornography, which, 
according to store owners, is not bought 
only by gays. In Los Angeles, the center of 
human display, porn stores have what 
seems an inordinately large collection of 
magazines and films devoted to voyeurism 
and exhibitionism. And in Lancaster, Penn- 
sylvania, a farming community, the porn 
stores, appropriately enough, have lots of 
material about bestiality (such as Puppy 
Lovers, Craving for Canines and—a title 
that deserves a prize either for outrageous- 
ness or for humor—Oral Doggie). 

But the content of sexual fantasies is in 
some ways less significant a puzzle than a 
simple definition of the beast itself; What 
is a fantasy? This is a question about 
which no one seems able to agree. 

. 

Dr. Schwartz describes a sexual fantasy 
as “any thought that enables someone 
to feel sexual arousal or elicits sexual 
response.” Typically, this thought is of 
the kind that Schwartz calls “the sneaky 
Pete”—something naughty. “The quality of 
being illicit is important for sexual fanta- 
sies,” he says. 

Most fantasies are accompanied by a 
physiological response—vasocongestion, 
deep breathing, increased heart rate and 
increased muscle tension, according to Dr. 
David H. Barlow, a clinical psychologist 
and professor at the State University of 
New York at Albany. 

Dr. Barlow distinguishes sexual fan- 
tasies—which occur in the absence of any 
immediate stimulus and can last for some 
time—from sexual urges, which are brief 
responses to someone or something sexy. 
Someone who typically may have around 
seven sexual fantasies a day can have 50 to 
60 or even continuous sexual urges. 

Dirk Zimmer of the Psychological Insti- 
tute at the University of Tubingen in Ger- 
many separates sexual fantasies into three 
groups, focusing not on the function of the 
fantasies but on the activity going on 
during them: sexual daydreaming, mastur- 
batory fantasies and coital fantasies. 

Dr. Kenneth S. Pope, a psychologist in 
private practice and on the clinical faculty 
at the University of California in Los 
Angeles who serves as chairman of the 
California State Psychological Association 
Ethics Committee, categorizes fantasies in 
other ways: the ones people have during 
sex, which may or may not have sexual 
content (“The kids will be home from 
school any minute, and we forgot to lock 


the bedroom door” or “If this woman 
squeals any louder, the neighbors will call 
the police!”); the sexual ones that people 
have even if they are not engaged in sexual 
i and the ones that may not have 
explicit sexual content but put people in a 
sexy or romantic mood (such as those 
prompted by a song, a shaft of sunlight or 
the memory of a present given by a 
lover). 

“People tend to fantasize most in their 
teens and 20s,” Dr. Pope says, “and sexual 
fantasies tend to decrease as one gets 
older.” Decrease but not go away. “Fanta- 
sizing,” Pope says, “is reported as normal 
into the 90s.” 

And, like good wines, some fantasies 
improve with age. 

“When I was in college, I had a girl- 
friend on the East Coast and another on 
the West Coast,” says a nationally syndi- 
cated columnist. “Once, both were at my 
school at the same time. One was in the 
cafeteria, the other upstairs in my room. I 
ran from one to the other, The girlfriend 
waiting in the cafeteria knew I was 
upstairs fucking my other girlfriend—and 
she wasn't upset. In fact, years later, she 
told me she thought I was going to invite 
her up to join us! And she said she would 
have done it. Ever since then, I've gone 
over and over that possi refining it, 
experiencing in my imagination something 
I was too young and too scared to do in 
reality.” 

But old or young, male or female, gay or 
straight, "virtually everyone,” Pope says, 
“will fantasize at one time or another"— 
at an average of seven to 12 times a day. 
“And the more sexually active you are, 
the more you are likely to fantasize and the 
richer and more varied your fantasy life 
will be.” 

The deed follows the thought. Pope 
explains, “Research shows that women 
who have masturbatory fantasies that 
include intercourse—that is, while they're 
masturbating, they're thinking of having 
intercourse—tend to be more orgasmic 
than women who do not have such fanta- 
sies, who fantasize about other things, 
things that do not include intercourse." 

The orgasmic group can also fantasize 
about oral sex or using roller skates in 
some ingenious way, but their fantasies 
must include intercourse as well. 

“My husband has no clue to my fantasy 
life," says Linda Pabst, a photo researcher. 
“Partly because I like the idea of having a 
special, secret place I can go off to in my 
head by myself. Sometimes after he's 
asleep, I'll start working up a fantasy as 
I'm lying next to him. It may come from a 
picture I've seen during the day—such as 
a still from a movie involving someone like 
Richard Gere. I'll start by putting myself 
in the place of the woman in the picture. 
Like, in this Richard Gere picture, ГЇЇ 
become Diane Lane, all dressed up in a 
silky Twenties sheath dress. These details, 
the costumes, are important. I like to 
imagine the feel of textures—silk, satin or 


sometimes something rough. Burlap—I 
like to imagine making love on burlap 
bags. Then, slowly, Diane Lane—or who- 
ever the woman is—becomes me, and it’s 
me with Richard Gere. Lately, I’ve been 
fantasizing that he—whoever he is— 
bends me over a coffee table and makes 
love to me from behind. I'll start to mas- 
turbate quietly, so I won't wake my 
husband—although that's another fan- 
tasy, one that really gets me off. I some- 
times think he's really awake and just 
pretending to be asleep." 

A 1983 study found that women who 
fantasize have a more positive outlook on 
sex than women who don't. And Cana- 
dian, French and Swiss psychologists have 
found that women fantasize as much as 
men do; other studies indicate that women 
may fantasize even more often than men 


Your girlfriend's smug smile as she sits 
peacefully turning the pages of Heidegger 
may be due to an obscene dream—such as 
one a woman described to me in which a 
lion licked her to orgasm 
rmany, Indiana and 
Kansas have found that women get just as 
aroused by pornography as men do, but 
their erotic images may contain different 
key elements. As a rule, women seem to be 
more passive than men in their fantasies, 
according to Dr. David E. Nutter and Mary 
Kearns Condron, sexologists in Lancaster, 
Pennsylvania. Women like scenes of people 
caressing each other or involved in heavy 
petting more than scenes of penetration 
and come shots. And they enjoy romantic 
written pornography more than explicit 
pictures. 

Men, on the other hand, tend to have 
specifically sexual fantasies that are also 


Researchers in С 


more visual, more correlated to left-brain 
activity—which ma 
sies incorporate a lot of disparate material 
simultaneously and so demand the kind of 
analytical, logical reasoning that seems to 
be the function of the left brain 

Jerome L. Singer, a professor at Yale 
University and one of the key figures in the 
resurgence of cognitive psychology, has 
found that personalities—male, female, 
urban, rural, those who imagine caresses 
and those who imagine donkeys—can be 
grouped into three categories: the positive- 
adaptive, the anxious-distracted and the 
guilty-dysphoric. 

The positive-adaptive personality uses 
fantasies to plan, rehearse and entertain 
Theanxious-distracted personality is keyed 
up and has difficulty in concentrating 
(^ 
doms if she doesn't have her diaphragm? 
What would she do if I pulled out the 
dildo? Does the dildo have fresh batter- 
ies?”), An anxious-distracted is tense and 
sees sex as a test he is going to fail. The 
guilty-dysphoric personality is depressed 
and slow-moving ("I'm not in the mood 
It's not a good time. I'm unhappy now; 
I'll be unhappy forever. She was right to 
leave the bed. Га kill myself, but the razor 


kes sense, since fanta- 


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blades are in the other room”). 

But the watershed study in sexual fanta- 
sizing was published last year in The Amer- 
ican Journal of Psychiatry by America’s 
most eminent sexologist, Dr. William 
Masters, who legitimized the subject by 
lending it his prestige. The study—which 
produced the earlier-mentioned list of the 
most common sexual fantasies—was 
sponsored by the Masters and Johnson 
Institute and was co-authored by Mark 
Schwartz. It explored the fantasies of 120 
men and women, half of them homosexual 
and half heterosexual. It found that sexual 
orientation had little effect on fantasies. In 
their imagination, gay men make love to 
women, gay women make love to men, 
straight men make love to other men and 


straight women make love to other 
women. 
Dr. Masters believes that fantasies can 


be categorized as "the three Es: eliciting, 
enhancing and enabling fantasies." Elicit- 
ing fantasies are something we use to tease 
ourselves, he says. "You walk down the 
street and see an attractive gal ahead and 
say, ‘Gee, Га like to. . . .'” He waves his 
hand in a wizard’s gesture, as if to spread 
out on the table between us a whole ban- 
quet of erotic possibilities. “That doesn’t 
say you're going to do anything about it. 
You're thinking about it.” 

The second kind of fantasy, enhancing 
fantasies, is “usually a bed-partner type 
of thing,” says Masters, "when you're 
involved but not involved enough. You 
use an enhancing fantasy to get an erection 
and an enabling fantasy to get an 
orgasm.” 

Those enabling fantasies, finally, which 
are likely to be established before puberty, 
are usually all from the same limited rep- 
ertoire. Something in our past was associ- 
ated with sexual arousal, and this thing is 
hard-wired into our consciousness. While 
the connection between event or image 
and arousal may be elaborated in many 
ways and disguised in many forms, our 
enabling fantasies are not likely to change 
much through a lifetime. 

“When I was six, my sister, a friend and 
I would close the bedroom door, strip to 
our underpants and play The Girl in the 
Glass House,” says a history professor I 
will call Rebecca Tydings. (“If you give 
my real name,” she says, “I'll probably 
lose my job"—as if admitting to a sexual 
fantasy were somehow treason against civ- 
ion.) “We used to take turns being 
the girl, who would have to lie very still 
with her arms by her sides while the two 
others humped her. Whenever I have a 
sexual fantasy now, very often it is in one 
way or another a variation on that. I'll be 
doing something completely unconnected 
with sex, chairing a meeting or eating 
lunch, and suddenly ГЇЇ realize Pm 
aroused. I'll realize that, while I haven't 
been paying attention, part of my mind 
has been churning up this really hot sce- 
nario, a bondage fantasy or a fantasy 
involving two other women. And ГЇЇ 


think, Whoa, wait a minute. Where did 
this come from?” 

The enabling fantasies are what Mas- 
ters refers to as “the old friends,” like my 
slumming-countess fantasy, fantasies we 
can rely on to arouse us no matter what. 
Often, there may be an element of the per- 
verse in them, some scenario involving sex 
and power, possibly because they were 
formed when we were children and feeling 
relatively powerless. 

. 

When I fantasized about spanking the 
slumming countess, was I preparing my- 
self to accept her invitation the next time 
she sat beside me on a Madison Avenue 
bus? Or was I indulging in a waking 
dream that could never be anything more 
than a fantasy? 

“Everyone says a fantasy is a dry run for 
reality," says Masters, “but there's no real 
evidence to support that contention. I 
don't think we are necessarily what our 
fantasies suggest at all. I’m not sold on the 
fact that if one has homosexual fantasies, 
one is a latent homosexual. Homosexuals 
have a lot of heterosexual fantasies, and no 
one calls them latent heterosexuals.” 

Schwartz, while mostly agreeing with 
Masters that fantasy can be “totally sepa- 
rate" from action, allows that fantasy can 
be a bridge. “If I’m not thinking about 
bondage, it would be very unlikely that if I 
met a woman who was into bondage, I 
could get off on it. But if I've been fantasiz- 
ing about bondage and I met some woman 
and she said, ‘Please tie me up,’ I might be 
more likely to do i 

Pope feels that the connection between 
fantasy and reality can be even stronger. 
“For many people, fantasies are dry runs 
for reality. People use them to research or 
explore behavior, Fantasies enable you to 
have rehearsals that cost nothing. You 
anticipate many kinds of sexual activity 
with a partner and have them be risk- 
free.” 

“Acting out a fantasy is dysfunctional 
only if it produces a dysfunction or 
involves someone’s getting hurt,” says Dr. 
Michael Perelman, a clinical assistant pro- 
fessor of psychiatry at Cornell Medical 
Center in New York, who specializes in sex 
therapy. “A couple may share fantasies 
with each other and discover that what 
one of them thought was a wild-and-crazy 
thing, the other thinks is intriguing.” It 
can be something as simple as oral sex or 
as silly as dressing up in lingerie—though 
there are natural limits, he believes. 
“Instead of making love on the Staten 
Island Ferry,” he says, “it’s better to pre- 
tend to do so at home—just for safety and 
comfort.” 

“The ultimate exhibitionistic fantasy 
would be making love on the catwalk 
between the two walls of glass way up in 
Grand Central Station,” says a woman 
who used to explore that catwalk with a 
male friend. 

Would it be practical? Probably not. 


Would it be arousing? The idea cer- 
tainly is. 

The problem with it—as with many 
fantasies—is logistics. And how much is 
lost or gained in making the transition 
from dream to reality? 

But even if Pope believes that fantasies 
can, in certain situations, productive- 
ly lead to experience, he, like Masters 
and Schwartz, thinks that fantasy doesn't 
necessarily demand follow-through in 
action—which, according to Pope, “dis- 
pels another myth. People often love fanta- 
sizing, getting aroused by activities they 
would hate to undergo in real life” —which 
helps explain why so many people in 
Schwartz and Masters’ study like rape 
fantasies. A fantasy is not necessarily a 
repressed wish; and a kinky, bizarre or 
unconventional sexual ai y that is fan- 
tasized about or even acted out by a cou- 
ple is not necessarily the expression of a 
disturbed sexual relationship or an un- 
happy marriage. 

Unlike the others I interviewed, Dr. 
Wendy Stock, an assistant professor of 
psychology at Texas A & M University, 
believes that the relationship between fan- 
tasy and action, though not directly 
causal, is strong enough to require the lim- 
itation of some materials that may give 
people ideas for certain fantasies. 

“During the entire time I was working 
on my dissertation,” she says, “I ada- 
mantly opposed any kind of legislative 
procedure [against pornography] and 
believed educational intervention was the 
best approach; but the more violent sexual 
pornography I saw, the more I became 
convinced it might be worth it to give peo- 
ple the right to take those things to 
court.” 

She—like many women involved in sex 
research, particularly those sympathetic to 
the Women Against Pornography move- 
ment—has used recent research on sexual 
fantasies (such as Edward Donnerstein's 
studies associating violent pornography 
with aggression) to support antipornog- 
raphy laws like the one written by Andrea 
Dworkin and Catharine MacKinnon and 
passed in Indianapolis. This law is based 
on the assertion that pornography (“the 
graphic, sexually explicit subordination of 
women” ") violates women's civil rights. 
iere is some risk that ME ue 
groups might attempt to use the law to ban 
Our Bodies, Ourselves or sex-educational 
Dr. Stock admits. But she 
doesn’t feel that, given the definition in the 
ordinance, the law could be used against 
classic works such as Lady Chatterley's 
Lover. 

Stock is not against erotica that would 
be “consensual, nondemeaning . . . depict- 
ing affectionate, mutual and egalitarian 
sexual expression” —a demand as realistic 
as my aunt's request after reading my first 
novel that I stick to writing about “nice” 
subjects. The whole point of fantasies is 
that they are not under the control of the 
conscious mind. They exist in a world that, 
includes meadows with butterflies 


let the stage do the work.” 


“Just relax, ma'am 


189 


PLAYBOY 


190 


casting flickering shadows on the naked 
entwined bodies of men and women 
engaged in “affectionate, mutual and egal- 
itarian sexual expression”; but that world 
also includes dark Dostoievskyan garrets 
and Dickensian alleyways, nightmares out 
of Céline and grotesques out of Gogol. You 
can't prevent the bubbling up of dark fan- 
tasies, even if you establish a fantasy 
police. All you'll do is create a black mar- 
ket in which such fantasies become over- 
valued. 

In her research, Stock has even found 
that sexual fantasies are important. Ninety 
percent of the women who reported a 
“high frequency of sexual fantasy during 
masturbation,” she writes, “were most 
able to generate sexual arousal in a labora- 
tory situation, in the absence of external 
erotic stimuli.” That suggests to Stock that 
“sexual fantasy is a cognitive skill which 
would enable women to haye control over 
their own sexual arousal . . . rather than 
depending solely on their partners.” 

But what about all the women who— 
for example—reported rape fantasies in 
Schwartz and Masters” study? Is Stock 
willing to deprive them of their chance “to 
have control over their own sexual arousal”? 

The most obvious argument against the 
discouragement of fantasies and the cen- 
sorship of fantasy-related material—and 
the argument that makes the least head- 
way against those who support Women 
Against Pornography and are convinced 
that they have a strangle hold on the 
truth—is that one person's pornography is 
another person's erotica. Different people 
interpret the same image differently. 

б 

The only point on which almost all the 
fantasy researchers seem to agree is that 
fantasies are OK if they work and bad if 
they don't—work being defined as arous- 


ing someone in such a way that he is 
brought into a more intense relationship to 
reality (without, of course, harming him- 
self or anyone else). 

The key, according to Schwartz, is 
whether a fantasy brings two people closer 
together or keeps them apart. If I am able 
to make love to my wife only while imagin- 
ing a detailed—and ritualized—seduction 
scene involving Kathleen Turner, a seesaw 
and a gallon of hot fudge, if I can’t per- 
form unless I am imagining that and if 
that fantasy obliterates the reality of the 
situation, prevents me from noticing the 
seesaw and hot fudge I’m actually using— 
then the fantasy is unhealthy. Or, to use a 
sexologist's frame of reference, is not prac- 
tical. 

If the fantasy somehow turns up the 
erotic volume of the moment, makes me 
pay even closer attention to what I am 
really doing, then the fantasy is practical. 

If it is a compulsion, the necessary pre- 
requisite for sex, it is not practical. 

If it is the counterpoint to sex that is 
already satisfying, it is practical. 

If it focuses too closely on a particular 
thing—a shoe, panties made from a par- 
ticular fabric with a particular design, the 
diameter of a nipple—it is not practical. 

If it focuses closely enough on 
something—the same shoe, panties or 
nipple—so we experience it in its vivid 
reality, it is practical. 

It’s not even how obsessive we get about 
our fantasies that is the issue. After all, 
Freud made a career out of internal obses- 
sion, as do most artists. 

It’s when the obsession begins feeding 
itself rather than nourishing the person 
doing the obsessing that it becomes dys- 
functional. 

“He felt at times that he lived in an 
opium dream, for nothing was very real to 


“Serfs up!” 


him except to wait for night, when easily, 
led by each new wish, waiting for the 
pleasure itself, they would come together, 
they would explore a little further, he 
would come back with more," wrote Nor- 
man Mailer in The Deer Park about a cou- 
ple in lust. "Over and over he would 
remind himself that nothing lasted forever, 
and the tenderness he enjoyed so much 
might not be equally attractive to her . . . 
but Elena had a spectrum of fancies as 
complex as his own, and so he had the 
faith these days that they would continue 
to change together." 

For Mailer's couple, shared fantasy 
became an experience that bound them 
together as intimately as telepathy, putting 
them into each other's dreams. Years ago, 
Thad a girlfriend whose favorite quote was 
from Bob Dylan: “ГИ let you in my 
dream, if you let me in yours.” I used to 
dismiss that as sentimental. Only now can 
I see that it was exactly the opposite, a 
fierce and forgiving intrusion of one per- 
sonality into another. 

The cost could be huge, of course. You 
could overwhelm each other, scare each 
other away by the intensity of the fanta- 
sies. But what may be gained is valuable: a 
consensus reality that gives you a common 
reference point in the unconscious. 

“The change in fantasy is an artifact of 
evolution of the person,” says Dr. Loretta 
Haroian of The Institute for Advanced 
Study of Human Sexuality in San Fran- 
cisco, “So your fantasies evolve with you, 
mature with you. Sometimes fantasies lose 
charge, and so you have to embellish 
them, extend them. But overall, it's amaz- 
ing how durable fantasies are. I've often 
said that a masturbation fantasy is like a 
mantra, It's amazing that it continues to 
work: the same fantasy in the same old 
way—and the body responds to it for 
years and years.” 


. 

Every time the Madison Avenue bus 
stops, I scan the people getting on for my 
slumming countess in her Audrey Hep- 
burn dress. 

How often do I ride this route? Two or 
three times a week. Sometimes, I’m actu- 
ally going somewhere—to shop or on busi- 
ness. Sometimes, I'll ride the bus when 
I'm stuck in my work and just want to take 
a break. 

But whenever I do it, there comes a 
point when the countess steps into my 
imagination and in my imagination sits 
down beside me. I have the same newspa- 
per from years before—or maybe a new 
edition with a similar story. English lords 
are always paddling nannies’ fannies. She 
reads over my shoulder. My heartbeat 
speeds up. My blood pressure rises. She 
asks the question she's been asking me for 
more than a decade: “Would you like to 
spank me?” 

And this time, staring her straight in the 
eye, I say, "Why not?" 


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VANTAGE 
PERFORMANCE COUNTS.: 


The Audi 4000S Quattro is so logical. 

It uses all four wheels all of the time for the good 
reason that permanent all-wheel drive maximizes 
traction efficiency by equally distributing the 
engine's power to all four wheels. 

And when each wheel is then supported with 
independent suspension and disc brakes, the result 
is an enhanced feeling of driver control. All of the 
time. In any weather. In the city or on the hi Y 

And all achieved with no loss of fuel efficiency. 
unlike other four wheel drive systems 

Permanent all wheel drive significantly improves 


directional control, cornering capabilities and 
stopping power. 


The power source for all four wheels is a 5- 
cylinder, 2.2 litre engine that accelerates smartly 
from 0 to 50 in 6.9 seconds. 

Feel what it's like to have all four wheels 
working for you. Test drive the 4000S Quattro. 
Call 1-(800)-FOR-AUDI for the dealer nearest you. 
Manufacturer's suggested retail price for the 4000S 
Quattro is $17,450. (Title, taxes, transportation, 
registration, dealer delivery charges additional.) 

With this car, Audi engineers have taken the 
simple fact that a car has four wheels to a 
particularly effective conclusion. 

ST. HWY. Compare the 


The art ofengineering. 


І Every car has four wheels. 


Only Quattro uses them all. 


s you prepare to hit the beach this summer, take 
stock of the essentials; trim swim trunks, a sensible 
T-shirt, self-basting suntan oil and, most crucial of 
all, the beach radio. Our pick is the Beachcomber 


sach radio/cassette player Model BC-1C from Salton. Its 


three-function LCD-readout TanTimer shows you hours and 


Sixty-five dollars is a small price to 


seconds and 


for those who have already spent too much 
time in the sun 


what day it is. It also has a storage compart- 


ment for personal possessions—including a secret compart 


ment that's so secret we won't tell where it is. The 


Beachcomber is sand- and water-resistant, so it won't mind if 


some bully kicks sand in its face. Turn on, tune in, drop trou 


ay for a lot of great sound down beside the seaside or the poolside, but that's all Salton’s asking for 
its BC-IC Beachcomber AM/FM radio/cassette player. It's easy to carry, virtuall 


indestructible and loaded with compartments. We like. 


WHIEELS 
PLAYBOY GOES RACING 


America showroom stock, essentially unchanged 

since they rolled off the assembly line. The series of 
six races being run from March 30 to September 29 at six 
tracks across the country is the Playboy United States 
Endurance Cup, with $800,000 in prize money at stake, Pic- 
tured here is the March 30 opening race, at Riverside 
Raceway, near Los Angeles. All makes of cars can compete, 


he sport is road racing, in which every hairpin turn is 
a heartbeat skipped. The cars are Sports Car Club of 


Left: Yes, that’s Kym again, 
with Stirling Moss, who flew 
in to compete in the Playboy 
United States Endurance Cup 
and finished 17th overall in 
the 5.5.С.Т. class in a Porsche 
944. Right: Kym and Marlene 
keepa for the over-all 
winner at Riverside—a 1985 
Corvette driven by Don 
Knowles and Bobby Carradine. 


from Porsches to Escorts. Drivers will race in four classes, 
with equal payoffs for each class, and the winners stand to 
be kissed by co-host Playmates Marlene Janssen and Kym 
Malin. Playboy U.S. Endurance Cup promoter/organizer/ 
competitor Gary Mathewson promises full fields, celebrity 
drivers and surprises at every event “If you're thinking per- 
formanc е says, "this is the kind of racing you should be 
watching.” Why do drivers do such things? For the money. 


For the glory. And for the sheer crazy fun of it. Let's go racing. 


KERRY MORRIS 


UNITED STATES 
ENDURANCE CUP 


ft: Our other Playmate co-host, Marlene Janssen, proved 

trackside diversion. Above right: With prize 
money of $20,000 per race, plus a $40,000 championship fund 
from Escort Radar Detectors, the action was predictably aggressive. 


Left: The six-hour Riverside 
race continued into the night, 
with track competition as hot 
as the pit lights. Right: A gor- 
geous send-off to a great rac- 
ing series. The last two events 
will be a six-hour race at Lime 
Rock, Connecticut, on August 
31 and a 24-hour race at Mid- 
Ohio on September 28-29. 
Our crash helmets are packed. 


HEATING UP THE LONG, HOT SUMMER 


The next best thing to three gorgeous naked ladies is three geous ladies 


almost naked in three of the sexiest swimsuits we've seen this side of 


St.-Tropez. And who gives such great swimwear? Ujena, a mail-order com- 


pany at P.O. Box 7211, 1400 Stierlin Road, Mountain View, California 
94039-7003, that sells swimwear all round. The one at top left, mod- 
eled by Playboy model Carmen Monique, is opaque when dry but trans 
parent when wet. Oh, yaaaas—and it's only $36, The yellow twist bikini 
that March 1981 Playmate Kym Herrin has slipped into is $47. And the 
little red bikini that July 1984 Playmate Liz Stewart likes is a scant $29 
Ujena has an 88-page catalog for $2.95. Go for it! 


NET GAINS— 
ITH A CATCH 


Duffers have been driving balls 


into nets for years. But now 
there's a catch. A unique prod 
uct, the Gatcher Sport Net 
that’s handmade knotted and 
braided nylon netting, measur- 
ing 6'10" high and 6'10" wide 
holds the ball in the netting 
(the net is actually two nets, 
one superimposed over the 


other and the two woven 


together by hand) wherever 
you hit it, thus giving you a 
better fix on how to correct 
hooks and slices, as well as 
helping you connect properly 
with the sweet spot. Better yet 
the Catcher, which hangs on a 


elf-supporting, freestanding 


frame, is light, portable, can 
be used indoors or out and 
doe: 


cost a bundle: $159, 
postpaid, sent to Catcher Sport 
Net Company, P.O. Box 742, 
Lewiston, New York 14092. 

et it up in front of your 
TV and play the U.S. 
Open with Nicklaus, 
Watson and Zoeller. 


POTPOURRI 


OFF TO THE RACES 


Pimlico, Portland Meadows, Marquis 
Downs and The Meadowlands: Ryan's 
Guide to North American Thoroughbred 
Racing covers them all, listing every fact 
you need to know, from racing dates and 
minimum purses to the previous years’ 
leading joc e isn't much 
more than a $2 wager: just $5.35 sent to 
Ryan's Guide, Р.О. Box 412, Glenview, 
Illinois 60025. A smart bet 


DETAIL CONSCIOUS 


Anybody can take his cherished chariot 
to a car wash. But owners of serious 
machines in the Manhat 
ing fast treads to Steve's Detailing, an 
auto-cleaning service that began in Bev 
erly Hills 


n area аге mak- 


d has just 
gone East, Steve's is at 265 11th Avenue, 
near 28th Street, and for $145 you get 
eight to ten hours of squeaky cleaning 
that even includes a toothbrush scrub- 
down of the engine. Yuppie heaven! 


ight years ago 


FIRE AND ICE 


There is a fire down South 


inside the bottles of ginger ale 
that Blenheim Bottling Com 
pany, th 
indepenc 
customers who have asbestos 
esophagi. Blenheim's Extra 

Pale brand is hot, but its Old 


tion's oldest 


nt bottler, sells to 


Devil’s eyes. A mixed case of 
24 ten-ounce bottles costs $20 
sent to Blenheim Bottling 

P.O, Box 62, Mineral Spring 
Road, Blenheim, South Caro- 


lina 29516. Both kinds have a 
mineral-water base, which 
means you stay healthy while 


your throat goes up in flames 


POSTER PURRFECT 
Last November, we showcased 
six of Olivia De Berardinis 
lingerie designs in Roving Eye 
Olivia has returned to the 
drawing board and has pro- 
duced a series of six posters 
including La Femme & Feline 
pictured at left—that are 


about as lusciously erotic as 
your jaded orbs can stand. A 
collection of the posters is 


available as litho; 
signed edition of 325, with 
pr 5 to 
$500; printed poster 


aphs in a 


es ranging from 


are $35 
unsigned. For a catalog, send 
$5 to Robert Bane Publishing 
9255 Sunset Boulevard, Suite 
716, Los A 


les 90069. 


Carolina way, and it's burning 


#3 will bring tears even to the 


IT'S IN THE CARDS 


It's no secret at Hofstra Uni- 
versity that Drs. Richard 
Block and Harold E. Yuker 
are playing with a full deck 
The deck, in fact, is an out- 
growth of Dr. Block's passion 
for collecting unique playing 
cards and visual images and 
Dr. Yuker's interest in peo- 
ple's attitudes and per- 
ceptions. Their Can You 
Believe Your Eyes? deck of 


regulation playing cards 


contains 52 optical il- 
lusions—all for a price 
that’s no eye popper 

50 sent to the Hofstra 
University Bookstore, Hemp- 
stead, New York 11550. Nice! 


— 


WE'VE GOT A SECRET 


All those dirty bits of trivia you've gleaned from 
reading the National Enquirer have finally come 
home to roost in Blackmail, a game from Action 
Games, Woodland Hills, California, that makes 
you a winner if you're ruthless enough to take 
advantage of other players’ weaknesses. The first 


step is to identify a famous person pictured on a 
card. The second step is to show just how much 
you know about him—all for $29.95. Then the 
game really gets nasty. Have a nice day—quick! 


It's not just who you know, 
but what you know about them. 


THE BIRDMAN OF SPRINGFIELD 


Some architects design great houses; Craig Yerkes 


designs great bird cages. A graduate of Pratt 
Institute, Yerkes flew the coop several years ago 
and opened Hamilton Studios at 27 Lyman 
Street, Suite 606, Springfield, Massachusetts 
01103. His specialty is flights of fancy for favorite 
fowl, The 28"-high Sheldon's Tavern 
costs $750—and he'll even do cı 
at prices that aren't chicken feed 


below 


п cagework 


Ail 3 


JA Wn ei 


fo] iu 0] 


de. — see = 


197 


Airport Motel 


Singer MARTHA DAVIS of The Motels is feeling good. She's exercising 
and has cut down on junk food. She's cleaned up her act. The Motels’ 
long-overdue album will be in your hands very soon. But what's a year 


among friends? Martha can come fly with us any time. 


IN 


— GRAPEVINE_ 


We've Just 
Met a Girl 
Named Maria 


For all those hot 
days and cool nights, 
actress MARIA MI- 
CHAELS brings you 
our summer fashion 
statement. You've 
seen Maria on Night 
Court and T. J. Hook- 
er, or maybe at the 
movies in The Boys 
Next Door and Sum- 
mer Jobs. We like 
her sense of style. 


Racy & Lacy 

We're going to brag, OK? We published a 
photo of gorgeous APOLLONIA back in 
1983, when she was just plain Patty 
Kotero. We thought she was hot stuff 
even before the whole Purple Rain busi- 
ness became a downpour. But who picks 
her outfits? 


Another Lennon 
Marshals the Masses 


JULIAN LENNON can relax now. He's 
proved he's his own man. Valotte, his 
debut album, went platinum, and the 
single Too Late for Goodbyes hit the top 
ten. He toured last spring to sold-out halls. 
Here, with guitarist JUSTIN CLAYTON, 
he explains why he’s doing it on the road. 


Gimme an F! 


These guys don't look too weird. They're called METALLICA. They live in the Bay Area 
and disturb the peace. They hang out with Ednas (their word for groupies). They play 
heavy metal. Loud. They're currently writing songs for a new opus. The 

old one, Ride the Lightning, was on the charts for a long time. 
You can see that success has given them a new ap- 
preciation for art. They're keeping 

it simple. And they're smiling. 


Royal Cheek 


These past few months, we've been bombarded with the front of this 
dazzling lady. PRINCESS STEPHANIE's face has stared out at us 
from countless magazines. No question, it's some face. How could 
the daughter of Princess Grace be any less than beautiful? Still, we're 
public-service-minded. It’s our duty as responsible journalists to 
bring up the rear. Mission accomplished. 


IM 


Fine Crystal 


BILLY CRYSTAL is so hot he’s burning up. He’s 
waited a long time for this and deserves the 
acclaim, He can do Sammy Davis Jr. better 
than Sammy can, and the whole world is talk- 
ing like Fernando Lamas. Even Sammy. 


NEXT MONTH 


RATING NIELSEN MBO THEATER SCIENTIFIC SNAF 


"COPS"—THE WRITER OF THE BEST-SELLING "NAM “MEN, WOMEN AND MORALITY"—DO MEN REALLY 
TOOK TO THE STREETS TO INTERVIEW MORE THAN 100 ASPIRE TO HIGHER ETHICAL PRINCIPLES? OR ARE 
OF OUR BOYS IN (AND OUT OF) BLUE THE RESULT: FEMALE BEHAVIORAL STANDARDS SUPERIOR? SEPA- 
GRITTY, TOUCHING, HILARIOUS FIRST-PERSON AC- RATE BUT EQUAL? REPORTAGE FROM THE LATEST 
COUNTS BY GUYS WHO SEE THEMSELVES AS NATURES SEXUAL BATTLEFIELD—BY ANTHONY BRANDT 
GARBAGE MEN. DONT MISS THE PADDY-WAGON CHASE, 
THE KENTUCKY FRIED STAKE-OUT OR THE ASSAULT BILLY CRYSTAL TALKS ABOUT FERNANDO LAMAS, 
OF THE GYPSY MOTHER'S MILK—BY MARK BAKER DESIGNATED HITTERS, ASTROTURF AND THE SEX AD- 
VICE HED GIVE HIS DAUGHTER IN A SURPRISINGLY 


“THE MENSA GIRLS"—THEY COULD BE SMARTER REFLECTIVE “20 QUESTIONS" 
THAN YOU ARE, BUT THAT DOESN'T KEEP THEM FROM 


BEING KNOCKOUTS. AN A-PLUS PICTORIAL FEATURE “POINT OF VIEW" REMEMBER PLAYBOY'S SCIENCE 
FICTION CLASSIC THE FLY? WAIT TILL YOU READ THIS 


TALE OF RESEARCH GONE AWRY—BY DAMON KNIGHT 
“PM DICK FELDER"—THIS SHOPPING-MALL DENTIST 


HAS PROBLEMS: HIS WIFE MAY BE PLAYING AROUND 
AND HIS KID WANTS TO CHANGE HIS NAME. PIECE OF 
CAKE COMPARED WITH WHAT HAPPENS WHEN HE 
HITCHES A RIDE ON THE NEW WAVE—BY JERRY STAHL 


“BONKERS OVER BRIGITTE"—IT'S NOT BARDOT THIS 
TIME BUT A DANISH BEAUTY NAMED NIELSEN. SHES 
ON SCREEN IN RED SONJA, WITH ARNOLD SCHWAR- 
ZENEGGER, BUT YOU'LL SEE MORE OF HER HERE 


“MBO THEATER; FEAR AND LOATHING IN THE NEWS- PLUS: A QUARTERLY REPORT ON HOW INVESTMENT 
ROOM"—FACED WITH A MISGUIDED MANAGEMENT, A SYSTEMS REALLY PERFORM, BY ANDREW TOBIAS; 
REPORTER FINDS AN UNUSUALLY CREATIVE WAY TO “PLAYBOY'S PRO FOOTBALL FORECAST," BY OUR 
PROVE HE, TOO, CAN PULL STRINGS. A TRUE AND TER- OWN ANSON MOUNT; "PLAYBOY GUIDE: BACK TO 
RIFIC PHILADELPHIA STORY—BY PETE DEXTER CAMPUS"; AND MUCH, MUCH MORE 


Remember special occasions by sending a gift of Smirnoff anywhere in the continental US. 
Where allowed by state law Col 1-800-367-5683 

SMIRNOFF? VODKA 80 А 100 Proof Distilled from grain. © 1985 Ste. Pierre Smirnott FLS 
(Division of Heublein, inc) Hortford CT— Mode in USA 


Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined 


That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health. 


SOFT РАСК: 9 mg. “tar”, 0.8 mg. nicotine, 
BOX, MENTHOL BOX: 12 mg. "tar", 1.0 mg. nicotine, 
av. per cigarette by FTC method. 


NEW 
REGULAR SIZE 
SOFT PACK. 


Not available in all areas. 


w 


х 
STERLING 
— SPECIAL 

BLEND 


Alsoavailable in regular 


and menthol longer-length box. 


4 


< wa мумоговтовассосо 


REACH FOR THE EXCEPTIONAL 


STERLING