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SPECIAL REPORT 


— uum E a n 


THE A TRUE 
STORY OF A DOPE 
RUNNER’S FINAL SCORE 


E EE E 
HEY DO YOUR DIGS 
KING OF THE INFOMERCIAL MEASURE UP? 


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He chose the beach. Picked his spot. And decided when it was time for some drinks 
C.C. and Gingers. Smooth. Refreshing. 
And brought to him in his beach chair. 


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ummer is a time to unwind and reflect, 
S: these days you take your eye off 
the ball at your peril. That's why we 
present Future Tense, a big rangy beach read 
designed to keep you ahead of the things the 
world will be throwing at us all too soon. It 
features everyone from 
on our environmental gauntlet to 
musing on our species's ability to 
find innovative ways to screw everything 
up. offers perspective on 
the ramifications of mankind's new global 
interconnectedness, and photographer 
shoots showing 
off her greatest asset in the age of digital 
convergence: her unvarnished self. Plus, we 
have entries from 


and the Playboy Advi- 
Sor. Less relaxing (but still perfect for the 
beach) is 's Smuggler's 


Blues, the true-life tale of what happened 
when he brought seven and a half tons of 
Lebanese hash into New York Harbor with 
the feds on his 
tail. Don't try 
this at home. 
Home, how- 
ever, is exactly 
where 
learned 
to shoot killer 
photos (his dad 
was a serious 
shutterbug). 
See what hap- 
pens when he 
becomes a 
PLAYBOY pho- 
tographer for a day, in Electric Ladyland. In 
20Q speaks to 
about his Seth Rogen fetish and movie audi- 
ences’ mortal fear of penises. Then it's off to 
South America for Raging Bulls, 

's ride through the twisted, nihilistic 
scene in Buenos Aires, where disaffected, 
wealthy ex-Wall Streeters party like it's the 
end of the world. Take away the money but 
leave the party and you have 

's surfer friends; the celebrated photog- 
rapher shoots a day in their lives in Malibu for 
The Endless Summer, this month's dose of 
fashion. Our short story, Cell Mates, is a gem 
on insanity and imprisonment from the late 


great writer, poet, traveler, 
genius. Plus, figures out what 
makes TV's most successful pitchman tick in 
Hi, I'm Billy Mays, takes us 


inside the world's best barbecue restaurant, 
and we revisit an old favorite with our excerpt 
from 's graphic novelization of 

's Fahrenheit 451. (The prose 
version ran as a serialized novel in these 
pages more than 50 years ago.) And oh yeah, 
we have and Miss 
July and Miss August respectively, also known 
as Hef's twin girlfriends. You're welcome. 


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VOL. 56, NO. 7-JULY/AUGUST 2009 


PLAYBO 


Want to get away? When Wall Street went belly-up, some finance guys went down to 
Buenos Aires for cheap and fast living. visited while they tried to find 
themselves in piles of cocaine and the bloodshot eyes of hookers and thieves. 


MONICA 
HANSEN 


FUTURE TENSE 
А gaggle of experts including 
and 
tells us what lies ahead. 
HI, РМ BILLY MAYS 
TV's bearded barker can sell anythind: But 
can he sell himself to 
THE MANLY ART OF GRILLING 
Follow to barbecue boot 
camp in Hot Springs, Arkansas. 
THE CASE OF THE 
MISSING G-SPOT 
searches for sex’s El Dorado. 
WHAT'S YOUR HQ? 
Are you hip or hep? Our quiz knows. 
A PLAYBOY PAD: 
MANHATTAN LOFT 
Artful lodger: hotelier Jason Pomeranc. 
SMUGGLER'S BLUES 
is a drug trafficker about 
to bring tons of hash into the U.S. The feds 
are onto him. This is his amazing true story. 


ALEC BALDWIN 


30 Rock's star vents to 


JUDD APATOW 


The comedy genius amuses 


FAHRENHEIT 451 
adapts 's 
classic into a scorching graphic novel. 
CELL MATES 
"5 dark and urgent tale 
of things that bind and bond us. 


The lady in the water is Olivia Munn, star 
of the G4 network's Attack of the Show! 
and our queen of convergence. Photogra- 
pher Steve Shaw captures Olivia emerging 
from the pool on our sizzling summer cover, 
while our Rabbit reflects on the scene and 
fondly recalls Phoebe Cates. 


VOL. 56, NO. 7-JULY/AUGUST 2009 


80 PLAYMATES 


SHANNON TWINS 


WHY WE LOVE THE '70S 
It was the last decade of decadence. 


QUEEN OF CONVERGENCE 
Move over, Princess Leia. Olivia Munn 15 
the new nerd crush. The Attack of the 
Show! host fulfills their and our fantasy. 

DOUBLE VISION 
In honor of the Shannon twins we look 
back at more Playmates who are sexy?. 

PLAYMATES: KARISSA 
AND KRISTINA SHANNON 
What a pair! Miss July and Miss 
August have doubled the fun at the 
Mansion, and now Hef's girls grace 
our Centerfold. 

ELECTRIC LADYLAND 
Marc Ecko pays tribute to 1980s art- 
ist Patrick Nagel in this cutting-edge 
pictorial with our models. 

HOW TO TAKE A BATH 
Step-by-step instructions with visual 
evidence. It's good clean fun 

MONICA 
Lady Godiva? Nope. That's interna- 
tional supermodel Monica Hansen 
riding bareback. 


* d 
“j - 4 


АП you need is tasty waves, a cool buzz 
and hip shore wear. Photographer Steven 
Lippman spends a day at the beach shoot- 
ing surf style. 


THE END OF THE 
AFFAIR 
After examining the recent banking 
catastrophe, explains why 
the U.S. was living on borrowed time 
(and money) and why we won't be 
able to recapture the prosperity of 
those boom years ever again. 


WORLD OF PLAYBOY 
Hef celebrates his 83rd birthday in Las Vegas with 
both the Girls Next Door and his three new girlfriends; 
Denise Richards hunts for Easter eggs at the Mansion; 
Mr. Playboy flies to Italy’s Festival di Sanremo. 

SWINGERS' DELIGHT 
Call it a tee party. Hef and a posse of Playmates 
enjoy pLaveoy’s Golf Scramble alongside athletes like 
the 49ers' Patrick Willis and Laker Andrew Вупит. 
PLAYMATE NEWS 

Follow globe-trotting supermodel Victoria Silvstedt 
on E!'s My Perfect Life; Kimberly Holland has advice 
on skinny-dipping; Jennifer Pershing is all a-Twitter. 


PLAYBILL 

DEAR PLAYBOY 
AFTER HOURS 
REVIEWS 
MANTRACK 
PLAYBOY ADVISOR 
PARTY JOKES 
GRAPEVINE 


PLAYBOY.COM 


Learn the secrets 
of giving the perfect massage in our 
sexy girl-on-girl video guide. 

Play StripQuest, Playmate 
Puzzler, ReBounder and our eye-popping 
take on Match Game—time well wasted. 
See Hef's 
house through his eyes. 

M'sic to F*ck To is our 
exclusive new series of soundtracks 
created by today's hottest DJs. 

From a country- 
and-western clothing mecca in Chi- 
cago to Nashville's best damn guitar 
shop, we name the top shops where 
guys should be dropping their cash. 


Q 


GENERAL OFFICES: PLAYBOY, 680 NORTH LAKE SHORE 
DRIVE, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 60611. PLAYBOY ASSUMES 
NO RESPONSIBILITY TO RETURN UNSOLICITED EDITO. 
RIAL OR GRAPHIC OR OTHER MATERIAL. ALL RIGHTS IN 
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MATERIAL WILL ВЕ TREATED AS UNCONDITIONALLY AS. 
SIGNED FOR PUBLICATION AND COPYRIGHT PURPOSES. 
AND MATERIAL WILL BE SUBJECT TO PLAYBOY'S UN. 
RESTRICTED RIGHT TO EDIT AND TO COMMENT EDITO. 
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RIGHTS RESERVED. PLAYBOY, PLAYMATE AND RABBIT 
HEAD SYMBOL ARE MARKS OF PLAYBOY, REGISTERED 
U.S. TRADEMARK OFFICE. NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY 
BE REPRODUCED, STORED IN A RETRIEVAL SYSTEM OR 
TRANSMITTED IN ANY FORM BY ANY ELECTRONIC, ME- 
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PLE AND PLACES IN THE FICTION AND SEMI-FICTION IN 
THIS MAGAZINE AND ANY REAL PEOPLE AND PLACES 
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009 Playboy 


PLAYBOY 


HUGH M. HEFNER 
editor-in-chief 


JIMMY JELLINEK 
editorial director 
STEPHEN RANDALL deputy editor 
ROB WILSON art director 

GARY COLE photography director 

A.J. BAIME, LEOPOLD FROEHLICH execulive editors 
АМУ GRACE LOYD executive literary editor 
DAVID PFISTER managing editor 


EDITORIAL 
TIM Mc CORMICK editorial manager FEATURES: CHIP ROWE senior editor FASHION: JENNIFER RYAN JONES 
editor; CONOR HOGAN assistant editor FORUM: TIMOTHY мони associate editor MODERN LIVING: 
SCOTT ALEXANDER senior editor STAFF: ROBERT B. DE SALVO senior editor; ROCKY RAKOVIC, JOSH 
ROBERTSON associate editors VIVIAN COLON, GILBERT MACIAS editorial assistants CARTOONS: 
JENNIFER THIELE (new york), AMANDA WARREN (los angeles) editorial coordinators COPY: WINIFRED 
ORMOND copy chief; CAMILLE CAUTI associate copy chief; DAVID DELP, BRADLEY LINCOLN, SANHITA 
SINHAROY, JOSEPH WESTERFIELD copy editors RESEARCH: MICHAEL MATASSA deputy research chief; RON 
MOTTA senior research editor; BRYAN ABRAMS, BRIAN COOK, CORINNE CUMMINGS, SETH FIEGERMAN, LING MA, 
NATALIA OSTROWSKI research editors EDITORIAL PRODUCTION: VALERIE THOMAS manager 
CONTRIBUTING EDITORS: MARK BOAL (writer at large), KEVIN BUCKLEY, SIMON COOPER, GRETCHEN 
EDGREN, KEN GROSS, DAVID HOCHMAN, WARREN KALBACKER, ARTHUR KRETCHMER (automotive), JONATHAN 


LITTMAN, SPENCER MORGAN, JOE MORGENSTERN, CHRISTIAN PARENTI, JAMES R. PETERSEN, STEPHEN REBELLO, 
DAVID RENSIN, JAMES ROSEN, DAVID SHEFF, DAVID STEVENS, ROB TANNENBAUM, JOHN D. THOMAS, ALICE K. TURNER 


CHRISTOPHER NAPOLITANO editor at large 


ART 
SCOTT ANDERSON, BRUCE HANSEN, CHET SUSKI senior art directors; 
PAUL CHAN senior art assistant; STEFANI COLE senior art administrator 


PHOTOGRAPHY 
STEPHANIE MORRIS west coast editor; им LARSON managing editor; PATTY BEAUDET-FRANCES 
senior editor-entertainment; KEVIN KUSTER senior editor, playboy.com; MATT STEIGBIGEL associate editor; 
KRYSTLE JOHNSON, RENAY LARSON, BARBARA LEIGH assistant editors; ARNY FREYTAG, S 
senior contributing photographers; GEORGE GEORGIOU staff photographer; JAMES IMBROGNO, 
RICHARD IZUI, MIZUNO, BYRON NEWMAN, GEN NISHINO, JARMO POHJANIEMI, 


EPHEN WAYDA 


DAVID RAMS contributing photographers; BONNIE JEAN KENNY manager, photo archives; 
KEVIN CRAIG manager, imaging lab; MARIA HAGEN stylist 


LOUIS R. MOHN publisher 


ADVERTISING 
ROB EISENHARDT associate publisher; JOHN LUMPKIN associate publisher, digital; HELEN BIANCULLI 
executive director, direct-response advertising; MARIE FIRNENO advertising operations director 
NEW YORK: JESSIE СТАВУ category sales manager-fashion; SHERI WARNKE southeast manager 
CHICAGO: LAUREN KINDER midwest sales manager LOS ANGELES: COREY SPIEGEL west coast manager; 
LEXI BUDGE west coast account executive DETROIT: STEVE ROUSSEAU detroit manager 
SAN FRANCISCO: ED MEAGHER northwest manager 


MARKETING 
LISA NATALE associate publisher/marketing; srEPHEN MURRAY marketing services director; 
DANA ROSENTHAL events marketing director; CHRISTOPHER SHOOLIS research director; 
DONNA TAVOSO creative services director 


PUBLIC RELATIONS 
LAUREN MELONE division senior vice president; PHIL DIIANNI, ROB HILBURGER publicity directors 


PRODUCTION 
JODY JURGETO production director; DEBBIE TILLOU associate manager; 
CHAR KROWCZYK, BARB TEKIELA assistant managers; BILL BENWAY, SIMMIE WILLIAMS prepress 


CIRCULATION 
PHYLLIS ROTUNNO circulation director; SHANTHI SREENIVASAN single-copy director 


ADMINISTRATIVE 
MARCIA TERRONES rights & permissions director 


INTERNATIONAL PUBLISHING 
DAVID WALKER editorial director; MARKUS GRINDEL marketing manager 


PLAYBOY ENTERPRISES INTERNATIONAL, INC. 
BOB MEYERS president, media 


OFEPLAYBOY 


HEF SIGHTINGS, MANSION FROLICS AND NIGHTLIFE NOTES 


HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HEF! 

Mr. Playboy celebrated his 83rd birthday with 
girlfriends old and new—Kristina, Karissa, Ken- 
dra, Bridget, Holly and Crystal—at the Palms in 
Las Vegas. The Aries enjoyed cake in—guess 
where—the Hugh Hefner Sky Villa, and a party 
at the Playboy Club. “I'm in good company," Hef 
said. “I get older, but they stay the same age.” 


ITALIAN IDOL A EASTER EGG 
Hef was a guest of — e HUNT AT THE 


RS honor at the Fes- MANSION 
= tival di Sanremo, Easter Sunday is a spe- 
i er a venerable Ital- cial holiday at PMW for 
IY n j ian song contest р Playmates' families, Hef 
^» 4 DA (think American Ё | and assorted Bunnies. 
Idol). He brought All ages converge on 
his own quartet— the Mansion grounds to 
55th Anniversary search for 3,500 Easter 
Playmate Dasha eggs. Among the seek- 
Astafieva and girl- ers were former PLAYBOY 
friends Karissa model Denise Richards; 
and Kristina Shan- Lou Ferrigno (the origi- 
non and Crystal nal Hulk and star of / 
Harris—to the Love You, Man) and his 
event. The Man wife, Carla; Scott Baio 
and his belle don- with his family; and Hef's 
ne were a hit. Easter chicks. 


SWINGERS’ | 
DELIGHT 


The combination of a day on the course and a 
night of partying with our models was—to quote 
ESPN's coverage of the Playboy Golf Scramble— 
"an adolescent fantasy come to life." (1) Playmates 
provide a visual argument for why Augusta should 
allow women. (2) The 49ers' Patrick Willis putts 
less like Tiger Woods and more like Minnesota 
Fats. (3) Olympic medalist Bode Miller with some 
cute caddies. (4) Takeo Spikes of the 49ers having 
the easiest drive of his day. (5) Cowboys Roy Wil- 
liams and Ken Hamlin don't mind letting others 
play through. (6) Corey and Susie Feldman meet 
Hefat the VIP pajama party. (7) Jerry Ferrara and 
Kevin Connolly upgrade their entourage with Miss 
December 2005 Christine Smith and Miss March 
2001 Miriam Gonzalez. (8) Nate Jackson of the 
Broncos and PMOY 2002 Dalene Kurtis. (9) 
Who wears rosary beads to PMW? The Raid- 
ers' Kirk Morrison, who found Miss June 2004 
Hiromi Oshima. (10) Hef and PMOY 2009 
Ida Ljungqvist. (11) PLAYBOY cover model Kim 
Kardashian. (12) Andrew Bynum of the Lak- 
ers gives Miss January 2002 Nicole Narain a 
Bunny-back ride. (13) Hef surrounded by eight 
beautiful women is about par for the course. 


WHITE-HOT RHYMES 
Your roundup of challengers to the 
throne of best Caucasian rapper (“Will 
the Next Eminem Please Stand Up?" After 
Hours, April) is a little disappointing. As a 
fan of the Metermaids and Aesop Rock, I 
can't see either of them being too happy 
about comparisons to Eminem. If the 
point is to introduce America to up-and- 
coming white rappers, you should have 
gone with Mac Lethal and the Crest. 
Tripp Rostad 
Madison, Wisconsin 


In the not too distant future Zach 
McOoy, a.k.a. MC Agent Orange, will be 
on your radar. You would never guess 
this redheaded, bespectacled 23-year-old 
(who happens to be my son) is a master of 
freestyle. In fact, his quick wit and sharp 
tongue landed him on BET's 106 & Park 
“Freestyle Friday.” Since rLAvBov has been 
a part of my family since before Zach was 
born, I wanted to give you a heads-up. 

Guy McCoy 
Springfield, Illinois 


SETH IS THE MAN 
I don't always read the Playboy Inter- 
view, but Seth Rogen (April) had me 
laughing so hard tears rolled down my 
cheeks. In my view, he is the funniest 
natural comic actor alive. 
Juan Rice 
Chicago, Illinois 


PLAYBOY has officially jumped the shark: 
Rogen is a funny guy, but he's a guy, and 
guys have no business on the cover of the 
magazine. Who's next? Rainn Wilson? 

Tom Varga 
Piscataway, New Jersey 
Great idea—you think he'd do it? 


Rogen says having a child would "get 
in the way" of his career, and he doesn't 
believe people who say their children 
make them happy. Lucky for Rogen his 
parents didn't feel this way. Why all the 
negativity toward having children? 

Lidia Baker 
Wakefield, Rhode Island 

Given how many people have children who 

shouldn't, we find Rogen’s honesty refreshing. 


The April Contents says the last man to 
appear on the cover before Rogen was 
Jerry Seinfeld, in 1993. But the Febru- 
ary 1996 issue shows Leslie Nielsen with 
several Playmates. What do I win? 

Larry Goodwin 
Palmetto, Florida 

Actually, we're both wrong. The most recent 
male to appear on the cover before Rogen is 
Gene Simmons of Kiss, in March 1999. But 
we'll still send you a pair of clackers. 


Iam happy to see Saving Grace included 
in the interview as one of the best stoner 
films (“Hey, This Bud's for You"). What 
surprises me is the omission of Outside 
Providence, the 1999 movie in which Amy 


DEAR PLAYBOY 


Is Barry Bonds a Martyr? 


Playing the race card or any other 
card isn't going to change the fact that 
former San Francisco Giants slugger 
Barry Bonds used steroids (The Per- 
secution of Barry Bonds, April). Any- 
one who would defend him, even if 
only to vilify the BALCO prosecutors, 
shouldn't call himself a baseball fan. 
"There may be a lot of skeletons in the 
closet of Jeff Novitzky, who pursued 
Bonds and other players while work- 
ing as an investigator for the IRS, but 
no kids are looking up to Novitzky as 
any kind of hero. Regardless of their 
skin color, players like Bonds are ruin- 
ing professional baseball for the next 
generation of fans. 

Aaron Mason 

St. John, New Brunswick 


Smart, who sat for the April 200, has a 
supporting role. It's a great flick even 
without the pot. 
Liz Diamond 
Gahanna, Ohio 


Тће photo you identify as Cheech and 
Chong in Up in Smoke is actually from Nice 
Dreams. Didn't think we would notice? 

Buck Barnett 
Ventura, California 


ARE BROKERS TO BLAME? 

In Liars, Cheats & Thieves (April) you 
suggest mortgage brokers are partly 
responsible for the financial crisis. I’m 
in the business and can assure you no 
broker has ever approved a loan. In an 
effort to outcompete one another, the 
banks started this mess by offering prod- 
ucts that required lower and lower credit 
scores. Now that their customers are fore- 
closing, the banks are deflecting blame. 
It's just sour grapes. And the borrowers 
who signed for these loans and got in over 
their heads should have known better. 

Chad Moore 
Dover, Delaware 


THE IMMORTAL 
Bettie Page will always be imitated 
but never duplicated (Remembering Bettie 
Page, April). Thanks to PLAYBOY for hon- 
oring her life and beauty. 
Charlie Foege 
St. Louis, Missouri 


Why wasn't Bettie on the cover? Know- 
ing how sweet and humble she was, it 
wouldn't have bothered her, but still. 

Melinda McCarty 
Hamilton, Ohio 


° 
Š 


Neal Gabler's tribute to Веше is a 
great read. But he overlooks the late Art 
Amsie, who for years kept Bettie in front 
of pinup-photo collectors through his Girl 
Whirl store in Alexandria, Virginia. Amsie 
also continued to correspond with her 
long after she had "disappeared." 

Robert Smith 
Springfield, Massachusetts 


Iam pleased to see your tribute to Bet- 
tie, one of my favorite models as a photog- 


Bunny Yeager with Bettie Page in 1954. 


rapher. However, a number of my images 
appear uncredited, including the two shots 
on the opening spread, Bettie leaning on 
the stool (which you credited to Irving 
Klaw) and Bettie with the Christmas tree. 
Bunny Yeager 
Miami Shores, Florida 


BAIL BONDS 

In his report on the Barry Bonds 
perjury case, Jonathan Littman ignores 
an interview BALCO prosecutor Jeff 


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Nedrow gave to Ше San Francisco Chron- 
icle last year in which he clearly states 
the government's rationale for pursuing 
charges against the home-run king. Since 
the days of Al Capone, federal prosecu- 
tors have granted immunity to minor 
miscreants in exchange for their testi- 
mony against major miscreants. This was 
done for Bonds, Jason Giambi and other 
players in exchange for their testimony 
against BALCO. However, only Bonds 
perjured himself; rather than allow him 
to undermine a critically important legal 
strategy, the feds are prosecuting him. 
Instead of accepting that straightforward 
explanation, Littman tries to build a case 
for a witch hunt based on racial prejudice 
and investigator Jeff Novitzky's supposed 
personal distaste for Bonds. What 
kind of journalism is that? 
Dan Wichlan 
Pleasant Hill, California 
Littman has spent more than six years 
looking beyond the official version of 
euents, which is what good journalists 
do. The idea that "only" Bonds lied is 
ridiculous—like Bonds, a number of 
his teammates told the grand jury they 
hadn't known what they were taking, yet 
none have been charged with perjury. 
The issue isn't whether Bonds or any- 
one else took steroids; it's the strangely 
aggressive (and expensive, costing more 
than $50 million by one estimate) pur- 
suit of the case by a zealous investigator 
from an agency with more important priori- 
ties, such as catching tax cheats. In a recent 
development BALCO prosecutors falsely 
accused Littman of filing a complaint that 
led to an investigation of Novitzky by the 
Treasury Inspector General for Tax Admin- 
istration. TIGTA's report states the facts: 
While reporting his first article for us on this 
case, Gunning for the Big Guy (May 2004), 
Littman left a voice тай with an IRS spokes- 
person, asking if Novitzky would respond to 
allegations that he had a vendetta against 
Bonds. The flack forwarded the voice mail 
to the IG. Given that prosecutors appear to 
have misled the court, perhaps it's time to 
open another perjury investigation. 


Тће Bonds case is another example of 
the unfortunate criminalization of pri- 
vate rule breaking, which would be bet- 
ter handled with suspensions and civil 
suits. Federal prosecutors now pursue 
"derivative crimes"—obstruction of jus- 
tice, money laundering, conspiracy, 
fraud—against star athletes, a strategy 
once reserved for locking up mobsters. 
As this case demonstrates, an easy way 
to snare an athlete is with a perjury trap. 
Ifan athlete lies under oath about an act 
that may violate only the rules of his 
sport, such as taking banned drugs, he 
commits perjury. If he admits to break- 
ing the rules, his testimony will likely be 
leaked and his career ruined. This pub- 
lic shaming is a clear abuse of power. 
Even disgraced NBA referee Tim 
Donaghy didn't wrong society as much 


Eriksson: Born in Russia, raised in Stockholm. 


as the league, its fans and a few gam- 
blers. The NBA justifiably fired Donaghy 
and could have sued him; instead, 
Donaghy got 15 months in prison for 
conspiracy to engage in wire fraud. 
Since when has it become the responsi- 
bility ofthe government, including Con- 
gress, to clean up sports? That's why we 
have athletic commissioners. 

William Anderson 

Frostburg, Maryland 

Anderson, who teaches economics at Frost- 

burg State University, is an expert on the use 
and abuse of federal racketeering laws. 


SWEDE MOTHER OF GOD 
Thank you for sharing Aleksandra 
Eriksson (The Swedish Supermodel, April), 


who demonstrates to the world that 
D cups aren't the only criteria for beauty. 
She's a stunner of the first degree. 

Zach Acox 

Lititz, Pennsylvania 


BAH-DUM BUMP 
April's Party Joke about what you call 
a man with a one-inch dick ("Justin") 
reminded me of a guy I dated who had 
only half an inch—we called him Dustin. 
Karen Jacobus 
Bismarck, North Dakota 


MISSING CYCLE 
I'm disappointed you didn't include 
the 2009 Yamaha YZF-R1 in Road Killers 
(April). It's the first production motorcy- 
cle with a cross-plane crankshaft, which 
puts Yamaha in a class of its own. 
Corey Kluge 
Hartland, Wisconsin 
It was a matter of timing. We shot the bikes 
when the YZF-R1 was still a rumor. 


DARK AND LOW 
With her long, curling, raven-dark hair 

and her sweet yet smoldering eyes, Play- 
mate Hope Dworaczyk (Hope & Dreams, 
April) embodies the mystique of the bru- 
nette, much like Bettie Page. Dworaczyk 
also has a derriere to die for. These are 
two directions PLAYBOY should be going: 
brunettes and butts. 

Brian Cooper 

Jackson Heights, New York 


E-mail via the web at LETTERS.PLAYBOY.COM Or write: 680 NORTH LAKE SHORE DRIVE, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 60611 


Explore a SAPPHIRE Collins 
wherever you are. 


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CLUB SODA 


Pour first three ingredients into a 
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soda. Garnish with a lemon wedge. 


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MODEL SEARCH 


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Bust: SEDD Waist: 25 Hips: 34 
Height; 96" Weight: 08 
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Name: Victoria Moore; 

Bust; SFD waist 23 Hips; 39 

Height 97? weight: 108 — 

Birth Date: _ May 7,1488 _____ 

Turn-ons: The American accent, __ 
old fashion romance, 

_ and good huggers. 

Tum-ofts: Being rude, bad morals 


| | _ and being impatient. 
EET c а 
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PLAYBOY AFTERHOURS 


He buys 
us coffee, 
and I dry 
hump the 
air for 20 
seconds. 


A w` 


BECOMING ATTRACTION 


Bree 
Turner 


It's called irony—the 
difference between 
what is implied and 
what really is. In The 
Ugly Truth, Bree Turner 
(who in truth is not ugly) 
plays best friend to 
Katherine Heigl (ditto). 
Bree's character, Joy, is 
anything but joyful. "She 
hasn't had sex in a cou- 
ple of years," Bree ex- 
plains, "and she's really 
jonesing for it. There's a 
scene where Katherine 
and I meet Eric Winter 
in a coffee shop. Eric is 
a gorgeous dude. He 
— buys us coffee, and I 
dry hump the air for 20 
seconds." Bree's next 


“ка project is also а come- 
D dy, less romantic than 
це chop-socky: "It's like 


" Airplane! with ninjas." 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY STEVE SHAW 


16 


Miles Aldridge describes his 
photography as Freud meets 
Fellini. Here's how we describe 
it: dreamscapes that are terrifi- 
cally morbid yet utterly glamor- 
ous, surreal, narrative and, dare 
we say, sexy? (His photos are 
often compared to the films of 
David Lynch.) "My work is not 
just about a dream but a dream 
of reality," Aldridge says. "It's 
all amplified, but it is essentially 
from reality and essentially con- 
temporary." And it's fun to look 
at. Have some time to kill? Dream 
away at milesaldridge.com. 


Step one: Situate yourself at a beach or pool 
where you'll be surrounded by legs up to here; 
try the Andy Warhol Pool at Jason Pomeranc's 
new Thompson Lower East Side hotel in New 
York. (For everything Pomeranc, turn to 

Step two: Wrap your hand around a cold 
beverage, such as the beer you see on this page. 
Three: Void the brain of all earthly worries. Four: 
Yes, you'd like another, please. 


ЛҮ? 


Drink 
of the 


Month | 


Porkslap Pale 
Ale is a can full 
of contradic- 
tion. It's the only 
canned beer 
you'll find on the 
menu at some 
of Manhattan's 
top gastronomic 
shrines such as 
Market Table. 
But its label 
and taste lack 
any pretension. 
It's a traditional 
pale ale with the 
slightest hint of 
ginger, a perfect 
summer thirst 
quencher. Check 
your local three- 
star joint. 


According to new research, lobsters, crabs and shrimp— 
thought to be so primitive and vapid they were immune 
to pain—do in fact suffer when dropped into boiling water. 
Scientists electroshocked hermit crabs and, in another 
study, introduced prawns to acetic acid. Both experi- 
ments ended badly for the shellfish. Point? Tell this to the 
guy nextto you at a clambake; more tail meat for you. 


PHOTOGRAPHS 
1961-1967 


Our recommen- 

dations for sum- 

mer-reading 

coffee-table, 

nay, patio books 

from Taschen: 

(1) Hugh Hefner's 

Playboy ($1,300). 

This one needs 

no explanation. 

(2) Ellen von Unwerth: Fráulein ($700). Smoking 
photos of Kate Moss, Claudia Schiffer, Adriana 
Lima et al., from the German fashion photogra- 
pher. (3) Dennis Hopper: Photographs 1961-1967 
($700). Features a remarkable series of intimate 
photographs taken by Hopper. Our favorites are 
the ones of Jane Fonda from 1966. 


THIS PRODUCT 
MAY CAUSE GUM 
DISEASE AND 
TOOTH LOSS 


PREMIUM 
TOBACCO 


E CAN HAVE 16198 


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PLAYBOY 


COVER TO COVER 


30-DAY MONEY-BACK GUARANTEE 


WHICH DECADE IS YOUR FAVORITE? CHECK OUT EVERY PAGE OF EVERY PLAYBOY 
MAGAZINE FROM 1955 THROUGH 2009 ON FULLY SEARCHABLE DVD-ROMS 


For the first time, every single issue in one searchable digital archive! Don't miss your 
chance to own these collector's-edition box sets—one for each decade. With every issue 
of Playboy ever published—all the stories and interviews and of course, every beautiful 
photo, in one complete collection. Each collector's box set also comes with a 200-page 
coffee-table book edited by Playboy’s founder. Sign up now to be the first to get the Cover 
to Cover box sets for every decade. Includes the powerful Mac- and PC-compatible Bondi 
Reader, which allows you to search and view every page quickly and easily. 


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Save more than $50 off the list price of $100 on your first volume ж Receive every issue 
published in the 1950s x Full-color coffee-table book ж Reissue of first edition featuring 
Marilyn Monroe (a $25 value). 


Review the introductory collector's box set for 30 days. If you're not satisfied, return the set with no further obligation. If you keep it, you'll 
receive a new Playboy Cover to Cover box set approximately every six months for $69.95 for each volume plus $8.95 shipping and handling per 
shipment. There's no minimum to buy. You may cancel future shipments at anytime by calling customer service. 


Skateboard Smackdown 


Top: a limited-edition line of decks designed by the edgiest 
of mainstream artists, Damien Hirst, and released by New 
York-based company Supreme. Second: new decks inspired 
by Spike Jonze's film Where the Wild Things Are (out this fall) 
from Girl Skateboards, a company Jonze partly owns. Jonze, 
a veteran of the BMX scene, has street cred. Hirst is just a cool 
bastard, and these boards cost hundreds of thousands less 
than any of his artwork. We'll take either to the half-pipe, but 
don't expect us to grind on dope art. That's just how we roll. 


Pussy Galore 


Killing Kittens (a euphemism for masturbation) is a U.K.-based 
international club that women can join along with their men 
(guys can't join alone). It bills itself as "the network for the 
world's sexual elite." The London Times in a recent story: "Why 
are educated and affluent young women flocking to join a 
secret society that hosts anything-goes sex parties?" Find out 
by having your girlfriend apply at killingkittens.com. 


Netflix 
Tokyo 
Gore 
Police 


A new film trend you 
should be aware of: 
OJSC—“outrageous 
Japanese splatter cin- 
ema” (our moniker for 
the genre). Last year 
Yoshihiro Nishimura 
released Tokyo Gore 
Police, a masterpiece 
of gorgeous geishas, 
geysers of blood and 
absurdist social com- 
mentary. Word from 
our contacts in Tokyo: 
A bevy of Japanese 
directors are now 
working on their own 
splatter flicks, with 
images that will make 
Quentin Tarantino 
queasy. We'll be in the 
front row. 


Employee of 
the Month 


Anmarie 
Soucie 


PLAYBOY: Where do 
you work? 

ANMARIE: I bartend 
at a nightclub in New 
York City called Web- 
ster Hall. 

PLAYBOY: What's your 
drink of choice? 
ANMARIE: Grey Goose 
vodka with a splash of 
pineapple. 
PLAYBOY: Has the 
recession hurt tips? 
АММАВТЕ: People still 
go out and drink. They 
may switch to cheaper 
liquor, and some clubs 
have done away with 
cover charges. 
PLAYBOY: Do you flirt 
for tips? 

ANMARIE: I'm соу by 
nature. Is that naughty? 
PLAYBOY: Maybe, but 
we won't tell anybody. 
Would you hold i 
against us if we told 
you that you have a 
nice body? 

ANMARTE: I think my 
eyes are one of my best 
features, but patrons 
have told me they like 
the total package. 
PLAYBOY: Indeed. 
Thank you for sharing. 


Unless you flip through wo 

en's or photo mags, you're 
missing out on the next gen- 
eration of beautiful fashion 
models. Fear not. Here's the 
catwalker of the moment: 
Isabeli Fontana. She lives 
in the U.S. but is Brazilian. 
Perhaps she was destined 
to make it big here as she 


turns 26 this Fourth of July. 
The way she grooms herself? 
We're guessing Brazilian. 


АЕТЕК REVIEWS 


Movie of the Month 
Public Enemies 


By Stephen Rebello 

Bullets spray all over the place in Public En- 

emies, director Michael Mann's 1930s-era 

crime saga starring Johnny Depp as legend- 

ary bank robber John Dillinger. The gangland 

epic is based on Bryan Burrough's nonfiction 

book and features Marion Cotillard as Dil- 

linger's girlfriend, Channing Tatum as Pretty 

Boy Floyd, Billy Crudup as G-man J. Edgar 

Hoover and Christian Bale as crime-busting 

agent Melvin Purvis. "Purvis was a fascinat- 

ing, elegant man nicknamed the Clark Gable 

of the Bureau and listed in the top 10 most 

popular figures of his time, along with Presi- 

dent Roosevelt,” says Bale. “I have a library 

of books on Purvis on my desk, but Michael 

Mann did 10 times that research." Don't ex- 

pect to see shoot-em-up fireworks between 

Bale and Depp, however. "I'm pursuing Dil- hen I was shooting at his sill 
linger, so Johnny and I don't breathe the window of Little Bohemia Lodge in 
same air, says Bale. “In one of the two Wisconsin. Any time we could film in the lo- 
scenes we had together, we only saw each cations where events actually took place, we 
other from a couple of hundred feet away at did. Believe me, that raises ghosts.” 


Adam Sandler and Seth Rogen 
are Judd Apatow's Funny People; Megan Fox is 
still hot in Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen; 
cop Ryan Gosling shoots for A// Good Things. 


m] G.I. Joe, the world's first “action figure," in 1964, took its name from the 1945 movie The 
N = StoryofG.l. Joe and was partly inspired by TV's The Lieutenant. After a hit line of comic books 


** and two animated TV series, the boy toy has come full circle in G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra. 


Г The wi 
+ luscious Kennedy-era det: 
lapels, conical bras and omnipresent 

L smokes—of TV's gold-standard drama 
remain peerless. The show's rich en- 
semble revolves around advertising 
genius Don Draper (Jon Hamm) suavely 
strutting square-jawed into the revolu- 
tion looming on the cultural horizon, 
with just a glint of “WTF is eyes. 
An eye-opening two-part 

"Birth of an Independent Woman" fea- 
turette. (BD) Y Y YY —Greg Fagan 


One of the best frakking sci-fi dra- 
mas reinvents the 1970s series and 


in a story line about a lost tribe of hu- 
mans trying to return bled home 
called Earth. Standouts include Tricia 
Helfer's sexy Cylon and Mary McDon- 
nell as the resilient president. 

"So Say We АП” featurette, in 
which cast and crew discuss the se- 
ries. (BD) YYYY —Bryan Reesman 


Zach Cregger and Trevor 
Moore co-directed this gross-out sex 
comedy that has them shagging beau- 
tiful women and getting inside the real 


Hw" Tease Frame 


Cregger awakens from a four-year 


Í coma and wants to bed former girl- To see more of beautiful 1 ams sans clothes will 
n а ( friend turned Playmate Raquel Alessi, require more than Netflix. Although McAdams appears semi- 
У ( M rcd ا‎ нао nude in The Notebook, you'll need an import DVD of 2002's My 
` lag ай jas ts esas неге сва see Name Is Tanino (pictured) to get your most unobstructed look 
Y a (P “Horsedick.MPEG” at the now nudity-shy actress. This summer she plays a stun- 
18 у music video. (BD) ¥¥¥ —Buzz McClain ning heiress opposite Eric Bana in The Time Traveler's Wife. 


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E. REVIEWS 


Game of the Month 
Ghostbusters: The Game 


Twenty five years ago goofballs tore around Manhat- 
tan chasing ghosts to create one of cinema's most 
enduring comedies. Today you can do it yourself in a 
game (for 360, PC, PS3 and Wii) that straps you into 
a new recruit's proton pack and tells you not to cross 
the streams. Timed to coincide with the release of 
Ghostbusters and Ghostbusters II on Blu-ray, it's the 
biggest expansion of the story and its world since 
1989; plus Bill Murray, Harold Ramis and Dan Ayk- 
royd came back to do voices. (Aykroyd and Ramis 
also consulted on the story.) Is any other comedy 
material ripe for the video-game treatment? "Maybe 
an Irwin Mainway game where you give a kid a Bag- 
o-Glass and then have to run from the lawyers and 
cops,” says Aykroyd, harking back to his SNL days. 
"Or Fred Garvin, Male Prostitute. That would make a 
great дате. See our full interviews with Aykroyd 
and Ramis at playboy.com/games. 


Also in gaming... 


(PS3) After a mysterious 
accident cripples a major city, you are 
granted godlike power over electricity, 
which you can use for either good or ill. 
In this gritty and dystopian experience, 
your actions have significant conse- 
quences thanks to a karma system that 
keeps track of your body count and repu- 
tation. УУУУ» Scott Alexander 


Music 


Cum On Feel the Noize 


The 1980s metal revival is officially in full ef- 
fect, and | А:5 Steel Panther is the ultimate 
Lycra-clad shred fest. The band's star-studded 
shows are either a cheeky homage to hair met- 
al or a loving send-up. Or both. We caught up 
with the Aqua Net abusers—singer Michael 
Starr, guitarist Satchel, bassist Lexxi Foxxx and 
drummer Stix Zadinia—between gigs. 
PLAYBOY: Does having a major record deal 
make it easier to get girls now? 

ЕОХХХ: They want to fuck us a lot more. As a 
result, I'm taking more trips to the clinic. 
PLAYBOY: What's the worst STD? 

SATCHEL: I think the worst STD is probably 
the Ford Explorer. 

PLAYBOY: Is there good and bad metal? 
ZADINIA: Heavy metal rules, and everything 
that's not heavy metal sucks balls. Faster 
Pussycat may have fucked fewer chicks than 
Slaughter, but they're still cool. 

PLAYBOY: Do you like anything on the fringes 


6 
1 


You Couldn't 
Make This Up 


The three most absurd 
real-life moments 
in heavy metal 


20 


Mr. Big guitar 
wizard Paul Gilbert 
plays solos using 
an electric drill in 
the late 1980s. 


1 (PSP) This 
portable version of the music game 
trades plastic instruments for rhythmic 
finger tapping as you manage guitar, 
bass, vocals and drums simultaneously 
(which sounds impossible but is great 
fun). The song list is strong, and down- 
loadable tracks will be available, but we 
do miss playing with friends. ¥¥¥ —S.A. 


of metal, like Jane's Addic- 
tion? 

SATCHEL: Dave Navarro is a 
ripping guitar player, and the 
guy knows how to get pussy. 
ZADINIA: That makes me like 
Jane's way more than I would 
if he didn't pull so much 
snatch. 

SATCHEL: I would suck Dave 
Navarro's dick just to taste the 
pussy that guy's had. And I'm 
not gay. Think about that. 


PLAYBOY: What about Jágermeister dispens- 


ers and stripper poles? Now that your record's 
due, what kind of backstage aspirations do you 
have? 

SATCHEL: If there is aspiration, we usually 
just use deodorant. 

STARR: A vagina dispenser would be cool. 
SATCHEL: Dude, that's basically what a Steel 


y 


— During a 1992 
show, Metallica's 
James Hetfield is 
burned onstage 
by pyrotechnics. 


The wonderfully ca- 
thartic Overlord 2 
(360, PC, PS3, Wii) 
lets you subjugate 
the cute things of 
the world, using 
your gleeful band 

of violent, degener- 

ate minions. Cheers. 


Panther show is. 

STARR: When I think about dying and going 
to heaven, that's what I think about: hanging 
out with everybody who rocks, and we all 
have vagina dispensers. And cocaine dis- 
pensers. And Jáger dispensers. And you 
know when you can't fall asleep because of 
cocaine? Doesn't happen in heaven. 


Ах! Rose of Guns 
N' Roses tells Kurt 
Cobain to discipline 
his female at the 
1992 MTV awards. 


GF )GAMEFLY.COM' 


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the price of your game plan at the end of your free trial. You must be 18 years of age or older and reside inside the 50 United States to use the бате Му service. 


SIGNIFICA, INSIGNIFICA, А, STATS AND FACTS 


WHOM DO YOU HAVE MORE FUN WITH? 
WHAT WE'RE THINKING: 


WITH THE RECESSION, HOW FAR ARE YOU WILLING TO 
TRAVEL FOR А SUMMER VACATION? 


T ч Е р LAY в OY PO L L. Y NEXT UP: со то PLAYBOY.COM/WWT TO ANSWER JULY'S QUESTIONS, INCLUDING: 
- 


BLONDES 43% RAVEN- d DAY TRIPIN CAR INTERNATIONAL MY 401(К) HAS 

| ALREADY BEEN 
BRUNETTES 36% А ROAD TRIP ТАКЕМ FOR A RIDE- 
REDHEADS 10% 


Е CLE TO 
DOMESTIC FLIGHT MMUNITYPOOL I'M STAYING HOME. 


b 57% 100 u.s. 


to the National Gay and Lesbian Task 
Force, 100 U.S. cities and counties now have 
legislation allowing transgender individuals to 
use either men's or women's public restrooms. 


AMERICANS WANT THE GOVERNMENT TO 
LIMIT THE SALARIES OF ATHLETES AND 
MOVIE STARS TO $1 MILLION A YEAR. THE WINNING EBAY 


BID FOR A TISSUE 
SCARLETT 
JOHANSSON HAD 
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INTO ON THE 

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ые RAN WHAT AUCTIONED TO 

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PAY 2896 OF ALL 28% 
TAXES; -| ACCORDING TO FRESHPAIR.COM о 
OFWOMEN PREFER ТО WEAR THONGS. FOOD CHARITY. 


9 a THE PERCENTAGE OF MARRIED WOMEN WHO . Я | Base 1 
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IN FACE-TO-FACE INTERVIEWS: 1. THE PER- ` g has a greater nega- 
CENTAGE WHO ADMIT ТО ІТ ON ANONYMOUS ` Ú y ve pace on employee morale and turn- 
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MONUMENTAL MOMENTS IN HISTORY 


1954 


1957 


1964 


TODAY 


? 


i 
| 


The "Playmate of the Month" appears for the 
first time in the second issue of P/ayboy. 


Playboy begins to offer lifetime magazine 
subscriptions. 


BRUTO makes it national debut ensuring that 
men everywhere stay cool when things start 
to heat up. 


BRUTO introduces 24 Hour Protection with 
Trimax® Anti-Perspirant and Deodorant for 
extreme protection against odor and wetness 
— ensuring that men everywhere smell great 
even in close quarters. 


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< SOUND :: GROOMING :: STYLE | 


Celebrating 60 years of outstanding sound, McIntosh rereleases a classic 


Walk around a typical big-box electronics store and almost every piece of merchandise you see will have been made in Asia. Not 
that there's anything wrong with that: Asia's the place to make things if you want them to be inexpensive, and we can see the appeal 
of a $20 MP3 player as much as the next guy. But when you're ready to really invest in your sound system, go with a company that 
measures product life in decades, not months. Since 1949 McIntosh has been hand-making its products at its Binghamton, New York 
plant. And it shows—collectors routinely pay 10 times the original price for McIntosh amps from the 1960s and 1970s, which is why 
we're excited Big Mc is releasing a limited-edition remake of its classic MC75 tube amp in celebration of the company's 60th anni- 
versary. Developed in 1961, before the advent of stereo, the MC75 is strictly mono (but for any serious setup you'll want paired mono 
amps anyway, along with a preamp to sync them up). McIntosh is selling 120 sets of two MC75s plus an anniversary edition of its C22 
preamp for $15,000 (mcintoshlabs.com). It's a damn sight more than you'll pay for a mass-produced solid-state stereo. Then again, 
when you consider it will probably work fine when McIntosh's 100th anniversary rolls around, it's actually a remarkable bargain. 


Playing With Fire About Time 


That old medicine-cabinet standby 
the styptic pencil is your best friend 
when you gash your face 
before a big meeting, 
but the little white 
sticks lack 
flair. Styptic 
Matches ($50 ^ 
for five packs, 
hommage.com) 
prove that the 
things that make 
you pretty don't 
have to be ugly. 


We're not sure why watchmakers in- 
clude hands anymore; in the age of 
the cell phone no one uses these 
things to tell time. Today watches 
are used to make a statement 
about your style and financial sta- 
tus. Ritmo Mundo's Entourage 
(ritmomundo.com) succeeds on 
the first front, but while it looks 
like a million bucks, it will set you 
back only $750. Ritmo supplies 
the watches for HBO's show of 
the same name (note the star, a 
subtle nod to the Entourage logo). 


25 


26 


= MANTRACK 


HOME :: TECHNOLOGY :: SMOKE 


Forking Ridiculous 


Utensil holders are one of the few things more 
pedestrian than utensils themselves. Unless you're 
talking about ForkedUP ($300, thout.ca), a silverware 
holder that uses magnets and holes to make it Look as 
if you have a deranged knife thrower for a house- 
keeper. It's part of Thout's clever UtiliTile product line, 

which offers space-saving, high-design 


ways to store your most everyday 
NS items, from keys to coats. 


Japan is famous for its high-end cameras, but it has made some 
clinkers. Like the Diana, shown here, which came out in the 
1960s, sold for about a dollar, had a plastic lens and leaked light 
something awful. It also produced such strange, iconic results 
that it has become a collector's item for today's fashion and art 
photographers. If you're ready to go lo-fi, you can get an exact 
reproduction (including all the "imperfections" of the originals) 
for just $95 from the folks at lomography.com. 


Smokin' 
Hot 


Back when you could 
smoke indoors, cigars 
were a cold-weather 
Sport, but these days the best 
puffing (and the tastiest releases) 
happens when it's nice to be outside. Rocky 
Patel's Summer Collection (59 a stick) offers a rich 
and complex blend with a medium-full body. The Artesanos de Miami ($11) is a medium-bodied smoke but the 
fullest La Gloria Cubana has ever offered. Finally, master blender Frank Llaneza has a new masterpiece, the Siglo Limited 
Reserve ($10), full-bodied with rich flavors that will appeal to the more experienced puffer. Available at your local tobacconist. 


Whenever I'm at the liquor 
store, I notice many labels boast 
of having won some award. Who's 
giving out these honors?—K.L., 
Kansas City, Missouri 

When judging the judging of 
booze, keep in mind that awards are 
по! given out like Olympic medals. 
There are often dozens of specialized 
categories, and typically every spirit. 
that reaches a minimum standard of 
quality is honored. In that system, a 
gold medal means you're among the 
best or at least not among the worst. 
For example, the 25 judges who 
presided over last year's San Fran- 
cisco Wine and Spirits Competition 
(sfspiritscomp.com) awarded 749 
medals to 847 entries, including 
103 "double golds" given for unani- 
mous votes. Smaller contests tend to 
be winner take all. Judges for the 
World Whiskies Awards (whiskymag 
-com) each year select one entry as 
the best single malt, best blended, 
best American, best grain, etc. 


Onıy in the past two years have 
I convinced my stressed-out 
wife that masturbation is a great 
way for her to relax. She now 
masturbates two or three times 
a week in the morning after I 
leave for work. Once I learned 
her schedule, I placed our video 
camera in a strategic location so 
Icould watch the tape after I got 
home. Is it wrong to do this since 
she doesn’t know? I would love 
to share the videos with her so 
we could get turned on together, 
but I’m sure she wouldn't want to 
be taped getting off. What would 
you do?—B.H., Tampa, Florida 

Although it's hard to believe your 
wife isn't aware of what you're doing 
(where do you hide the camera — 
behind a fern?), we'll play along. 
First, unless you know she knows, 
you should stop taping—it's hot, 
yes, but also a violation of her trust. 
Given how easily she took to touch- 
ing herself, are you sure she would be 
reluctant to perform? Tell her you've 
been fantasizing about spying on 
her; can you set up a “hidden” cam- 
era? Cover the red light so she won't 
be able to tell whether it's on. Later 
she can film you while you mastur- 
bate watching her masturbate, and 
she can masturbate watching you 
masturbate while watching her masturbate. 
It's an infinite circle of lust. 


ћ April you mentioned Heinrich ди Preez, 
who hopes to play a round of golf on every 
continent, including Antarctica. He may be 
the first person to do that, but there is noth- 
ing new about golf in Antarctica. I have 
worked seasonally at McMurdo Weather 
Station over the past decade, and we have 
tournaments and often drive balls over the 


ADVISOR 


А few years ago a newly married friend gave me his 
collection of adult movies, which included a foot- 
fetish porno. I watched it a few times and developed a 
foot fetish. I've since gotten married myself and want 
to act out some foot fantasies. Although I've always 
shown an interest in fulfilling my wife's fantasies, I 
can't quite convince her on this one. It's frustrating. 
Any suggestions?—R.K., Boston, Massachusetts 

You don't have a foot fetish. A fetish is when you can't get. 
aroused by anything but the singular focus of your obsession. You 
have what we call an SSI, or specialized sexual interest, which 
is much more fun. (Developing three or more SSIs can lead to 
SSIS, or specialized sexual interest syndrome, a.k.a. terminal 
horniness.) Rather than presenting your wife with an elaborate 
foot-centered fantasy based on what you've seen on video, start 
small: Ask if she will exchange a lengthy foot massage for five 
minutes of playing with your cock and balls with her feet. Once 
she sees your reaction, she may well fall into step. 


ice. We paint them red or orange so we can 
retrieve them.—G.M., Medford, Oregon 
You're right. Antarctica has hosted many 
duffers, dating to at least 1962 when Austra- 
lian meteorologist Nils Lied said he smacked 
a 1.5-mile drive across smooth ice at Mawson 
Station. According to one account, his lead 
dog sniffed out the ball. These days you can 
buy water-soluble balls (ecogolfballs.com) so 
you don't have to bother. They're also useful for 
drives into the sea or toward floating greens. 


1 notice Du Preez says the world 
record for a golf drive is 658 
meters. That is wise because, in 
1971, Alan Shepard hit a drive 
on the surface of the moon that 
he described as sailing for "miles 
and miles and miles."—R.W., 
San Ramon, California 

When was the last time you took а 
golfer at his word, especially one who 
plays alone? Duncan Lennard, author 
of Extreme Golf, argues Shepard's 
space suit and backpack probably lim- 
ited his drive to about 550 meters. 


During the 13 wonderful years 
my wife and I have been married, 
she has given me an estimated 600 
blow jobs. She is expressing con- 
cern about the semen she has 
swallowed, because she has put on 
weight and has stomach problems. 
Is there any connection?—A.C., 
San Antonio, Texas 

Your wife knows a weekly teaspoon 
of sugar water isn't causing these 
problems; she's looking for a way out. 
Maybe she has never enjoyed it. In 
that case, numerous compromises can 
be made to her benefit and yours. 


Lam having an affair with my 
husband's married brother. We 
had a few flirty conversations, 
and my curiosity got the best 
of me. I asked him to meet me, 
and we ended up making out. 
Soon we were having sex once 
a week until he had a guilt trip 
= and wanted to end it. Three 
months later he called me, and 
we started having sex again until 
he had another guilt trip and 
asked me to tell him no the next 
time he wants sex. Three weeks 
later I went to his house to chat 
with his wife. She wasn't home, 
but he was. He said, "Why did 
you come here? Now I want to 
have sex with you. My brother 
is out of town, my wife is gone— 
perfect opportunity." I said no, 
but he talked me into it. I don't 
know why I find him so irresist- 
ible, but we are both afraid of 
"attachment" (his word). All I 
want to know is why I continue 
with this suffering.—H.T., Aus- 
tin, Texas 

Give it a rest. Yow're not a monkey 
in heat. If you're going to continue 
this charade, at least tell your husband rather 
than letting him play the fool until he catches 
you fucking his brother in his own living room. 
Once all is revealed and your brother-in-law is 
no longer taboo, he won't seem half as exciting. 


| disagree with the advice you gave in 
April to the reader who wanted to know 
when it is okay to ask a date if she has 
fake boobs and/or shaved genitals, since 
he dislikes both. You said never. But this 


27 


PLAYBO!Y 


28 


is a major turnoff to me as well, and I 
would rather be up front with a poten- 
tial lover than hide my disappointment 
while undressing her. Long before the 
possibility of our going to bed, I have 
asked several women if they shave, and 
none seemed offended.—R.P., Gibsonia, 
Pennsylvania 


I don’t mind ifa woman shaves from the 
clitoris down, but leave the top trimmed 
or natural. My advice is, upon discov- 
ering a smooth vulva, kiss it, lick it and 
enjoy it—and then erase her name from 
the black book.—R.S., Lithia, Florida 

Are you guys nuts? These are your criteria 
for whether a woman is worthy of fucking you? 
While you're at it, why not ask for a more com- 
plete inventory of potential turnoffs. Any scars? 
Tattoos? Moles? Butt pimples? Earwax? Innie 
or outie? How large are her labia? Would she be 
willing to wear her hair in a beehive? How often 
does she shave her pits? Does she wipe her ass 
thoroughly? If she's still answering your ques- 
tions at this point, allow her the honor. 


ls it still acceptable to carry a briefcase? 
It’s been a while since I saw a man with 
one. Is the briefcase out and the laptop 
bag in?—C.T., Troy, Michigan 

The leather briefcase is still indispensable— 
it has just been given a shoulder strap. In an 
age when “no one wants to look so uptight,” 
as fashion consultant Andy Stinson puts it, a 
strap adds a bit of casual flair. It also allows 
you to keep your hands free when juggling your 
phone and other essentials. Stinson says he has 
found he leaves his case behind far less often at 
restaurants and meetings because he has become 
used to having the weight on his shoulder. 


I joined a porn site for a three-day trial 
and now receive spam from all kinds of 
adult sites. What can I do to stop it?—J.H., 
Los Angeles, California 

Not much: Once your address is compromised, 
there's no way to get it clean again. However, 
your letter may save another reader some grief. 
When joining an adult website (or amy other 
site of unknown quality), use a "disposable" 
address created at sites such as Yahoo. 


Years ago during foreplay a girlfriend 
asked, “По you want to have sex with my 
boobs?" She began to remove her sweater, 
but the wool brushed my erection and I 
let out a gasp. When she heard that, she 
placed my cock between her boobs over 
the sweater to titty fuck me. It led to an 
explosive orgasm. Ever since, I've always 
suggested to women I date that they wear 
tight sweaters, and nearly all have seemed 
to get into it. Are we crazy or just having 
fun?—T.N., Ardsley, New York 

You're crazy only if you've stopped wanting 
10 see what's under the sweaters. 


А co-worker is driving me insane. Some- 
how I have become a sounding board for 
her problems, e.g., her trouble finding a 
man, the verbal abuse she takes from her 
family, her weight. I don't mind lending 


an ear, but she spends half an hour every 
morning at my cube. The rest of the time 
she instant messages me. And now she's 
texting me at night and on weekends. 
This past Saturday, when I avoided her 
calls she eventually wrote, "Are you all 
right? I'm worried about you." I don't 
want to hurt her feelings or cause her 
more anxiety (she's emotionally fragile), 
but I have my own life to worry about. 
Another complication: She happens to be 
my superior, although not my immediate 
boss. How can I get her off my back gent- 
ly?—J.B., Boston, Massachusetts 

You need to break up with her. There's no 
way to get that done without hurt feelings, but 
you can soften the blow with the "It's not you, 
it's me" routine. Let her know your work is 
suffering because of the watercooler talk and 
IMs and you'd like to keep it to a minimum. 
Next ask her not to call or IM you outside of 
work. If she protests that you're "friends," tell 
her that while she's very social, you've always 
been a private person and prefer to keep your 
work and personal life separate. Note that you 
don't want to hurt her feelings but you respect 
her enough to be honest. Finally, after she has 
left you alone for a few days, visit her office 
“Just to say hello,” chitchat for a few minutes 
and excuse yourself. Lead by example. If she 
comes to your cube, after a short exchange you 
can say, "I better get back to work.” That's our 
long-winded answer. The short answer: Hire 
an ambitious intern to run interference. 


After a 20-year romance with vodka mar- 
tinis I switched to scotch. I love the feel of 
the heavy rocks glass and the aroma and 
flavor. Yet in your magazine and others, 
the ads always show large, clear, square 
cubes that look as if they take an hour to 
melt. How can I make that impressive ice 
at home?—H.M., Weston, Florida 

You can’t make those cubes at home, because 
they're acrylic. Otherwise the photographer would 
never be able to light and take the shot before they 
melted. If your ice comes out of the freezer cloudy, 
try using distilled water that you've boiled. Or, 
for about $200, you can purchase a portable 
clear-ice-making machine, which forms the cubes 
in layers rather than freezing the water all at 
once. That's why icicles look so good. 


Several years ago my father remarried. 
I get along well with his new family— 
maybe too well, as I am falling for my 
22-year-old stepsister (I'm 41). I recently 
found out the attraction may be mutual. 
I mentioned this to a co-worker, and 
she looked at me as if I were planning a 
murder. ГА like your opinion. I’ve been 
alone my entire life, and I would hate to 
pass up what could be the greatest thing 
that ever happened to me just because 
people cling to silly superstitions —L.B., 
Dover, New Hampshire 

If Greg can chase Marcia, you can lust for 
your stepsister. The more serious problem here is 
the notion that this woman will be your salva- 
tion. It’s not fair to expect that of anyone. Plus, 
even if you weren't related by marriage, she may 
not be looking for a 41-year-old boyfriend. But 


ask her to lunch; if you have misread her signals, 
you'll know soon enough. 


А reader wrote in April asking if a man 
could temporarily sterilize himself by 
applying ultrasound to his testicles. I 
heard about a similar method years ago 
while in the Navy. A ship was visiting 
Naples, and a young sailor went to his 
chief to get permission to go ashore. He 
also asked about contraception. The chief, 
who was sitting next to a radar antenna, 
told the sailor to stand in front of it for a 
few minutes and he would be fine. The 
sailor stepped forward but paused when 
he noticed the chief putting a hot dog 
on a stick, which he then held in front 
of the radar to cook. The lesson: Never 
take birth-control advice from a Navy 
chief.—E.G., Cherokee, Alabama 

Good point. What would a Navy chief know 
about having sex anyway? 


My wife believes in corporal punish- 
ment. If I violate any of the rules we have 
agreed on, I receive spankings with a 
Jokari paddle, bath brush, bamboo switch 
or Ping-Pong paddle—her choice, based 
on the infraction. These punishments of- 
ten make it difficult to sit down. She never 
seems to violate our rules, so I never get 
to spank her. This all started a few years 
ago when, after too many margaritas, I 
spanked her for using foul language. The 
next morning she presented me with a 
contract outlining how she would be in 
charge of my punishments. I know this is 
not normal, but I am a model husband be- 
cause of it. My wife visits a website called 
the Disciplinary Wives Club for her pur- 
chases, advice and discussion; are there 
sites for husbands who are spanked by 
their wives?—W.W., Naples, New York 
There aren't many sites for those on the receiv- 
ing end of fem-dom spanking because dominant 
wives who have any sense control access to the 
Internet to avoid any Spartacus-type revolts. 
Besides, what gear does a spanking submissive 
possibly need to buy other than balm and a seat 
cushion? And who wants to listen to your whin- 
ing? A few destinations, such as femdomspank 
ingblog.com, show more sympathy than others. If 
this played out as you describe, you went from zero. 
to 60 faster than most couples who settle into ап 
overtly female-led relationship. We would politely 
ask to revisit the contract at least annually. Some 
dom wiues insist on a lifetime agreement, but the 
way we see it, they have one of those already. 


All reasonable questions—from fashion, food and 
drink, stereos and sports cars to dating dilemmas, 
taste and etiquette—will be personally answered 
if the writer includes a self-addressed, stamped 
envelope. The most interesting, pertinent ques- 
tions will be presented in these pages each month. 
Write the Playboy Advisor, 680 North Lake Shore 
Drive, Chicago, Illinois 60611, or send e-mail 
by visiting our website at playboyadvisor.com. 
Our greatest-hits collection, Dear Playboy 
Advisor, is available in bookstores and online. 


smi: ALEC BALDWIN 


А candid conversation with the outspoken actor about his baltles with studio execs, 
reporters, lawyers and his ex, plus what he really thinks about his electability 


When TMZ.com leaked a 2007 voice mail 
Alec Baldwin had left for his daughter, Ire- 
land, in which he referred to her as a “rude, 
thoughtless little pig” and called his ex-wife 
Kim Basinger “a thoughtless pain in the ass,” 
it seemed Baldwin had once again sabotaged 
a career destined for great things. 

He had done it before, when he stepped off 
the superstar track by choosing to do A Street- 
car Named Desire on Broadway rather than 
reprise the role of Jack Ryan he originated in 
The Hunt for Red October. Although Bald- 
win's Stanley Kowalski drew a Tony nomina- 
tion and favorable comparisons to Marlon 
Brando's, it cost Baldwin the kind of film 
franchise superstar careers are built on. 

The voice mail, which he accused his ex's 
lawyers of leaking, was more traumatic and 
potentially much worse. Baldwin, however, 
has recovered. 

Tivo years later his professional career seems 
in better shape tham ever. He has won an 
Emmy and two Golden Globes for his portrayal 
of 30 Rock's self-absorbed TV executive Jack 
Donaghy. At the age of 51 Baldwin also has 
a strong feature career that falls somewhere 
between star and character actor. He next plays 
а lawyer who squares off with Cameron Diaz 
in the courtroom drama My Sister's Keeper, 
and he is currently shooting a love-triangle 
comedy with Meryl Streep and Steve Martin. 


Baldwin was initially so distraught by the 
damage the tape did to his relationship with his 
daughter that he entertained thoughts of kill- 
ing himself, offered to leave his TV show and 
briefly dropped his agent (because the agency 
also repped his ex-wife), but he rebounded. 
After requisite apologies and a rekindled rela- 
tionship with Ireland, Baldwin turned the 
embarrassing incident into a chance to cham- 
pion reform of what he says is a broken child- 
custody court system, and he wrote A Promise 
to Ourselves, a primer for divorced fathers 
struggling to remain involved parents. 

Baldwin grew up in a middle-class home 
in Massapequa, New York, on Long Island, 
as the oldest of six children including future 
acting brothers Billy, Daniel and Stephen. 
He attended George Washington University, 
but he became interested in acting and trans- 
ferred to NYU. His dark looks and baritone 
landed him a job on the daytime soap The 
Doctors, followed by a role on the TV drama 
Knots Landing. 

He moved on to small parts in the films 
Married to the Mob, Working Girl and Great 
Balls of Fire and scored a quick hit as Jack 
Ryan. But Baldwin bristled at the star system 
and the executives who control it, often clash- 
ing with the Hollywood power structure. 

He often promotes his films with guest- 
hosting stints on Saturday Night Live (he has 


now hosted 14 times), and sometimes these 
appearances have been more memorable than 
the films. The characters Baldwin has created 
include the amorous scoutmaster who puts the 
moves on Adam Sandler's Canteen Boy dur- 
ing a camping trip, and Pete Schweddy, the 
monotoned purveyor of baked goods who takes 
to National Public Radio to describe his delec- 
table "Schweddy balls." 

The SNL connection paid off when SNL 
head writer Tina Fey created 30 Rock. Lorne 
Michaels, who produces both shows, persuaded 
Baldwin to do the sitcom, a move that reener- 
gized his career. Though he began as a part- 
time performer when NBC launched the show, 
his role grew and he signed on for six seasons, 
which will take him through 2012. 

PLAYBOY sent Michael Fleming, who last 
interviewed Hugh Jackman, to catch up with 
Baldwin in the Hamptons, where he lives part 
of the time. Fleming reports, “In person he is a 
bit thicker and grayer now than in his matinee- 
idol days. Considering the withering comments 
he has lobbed at enemies in the past, I expected 
Baldwin to come out firing. He is still a live 
wire, but age and public humiliation have mel- 
lowed him a bit. Luckily, the more he talked, 
the more outspoken he became." 


PLAYBOY: Setting up this interview was 
like trying to shoot a moving target. It 


“It will be ironic for some people, but I'm going 
to write a parenting book. We're at an awful 
place right now in terms of parenting. People 
are raising their children with the belief that we 
need to be friends with our children." 


"Everybody knows TMZ's Harvey Levin is 
a human tumor, a graceless character who 
lives in that weird netherworld. I find Levin 
peculiar and hypocritical. I don't blame those 
pathetic people; they are what they are." 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY DAVID ROSE 


"The day you say Тат a candidate,' you have 
a different responsibility. You hope the Ameri- 
can public has the ability to delineate what of 
your private behavior matters and what doesn't. 
The truth is, they'll slam you for all of it." 


29 


PLAYBOY 


30 


took months for you to carve out time 
in your schedule. Not many actors your 
age are so busy. 

BALDWIN: For me to have any career 
opportunities at the age of 51 is a mira- 
cle. But it's all about 30 Rock. We've won 
every prize they give out, some twice. 
People need to laugh right now. Tina 
Fey and her writers are so good, they've 
skewed things for me. 

PLAYBOY: How? 

BALDWIN: People send scripts now, and I 
read them and go [breathes in loudly], “1 
don't know. It's more cute than funny.” 
I work with people who are really funny. 
It sets the bar high. 

PLAYBOY: You, Tina Fey and Tracy Mor- 
gan are very different. On what level do 
you connect? 

BALDWIN: I love Tracy because he is this 
sweet kid from the Bronx, a real New 
Yorker who went from comedy clubs in 
the outer boroughs into the 212 area code 
with Caroline's and then stardom on SNL. 
But he's still childlike. When he was told 
he was going to host SNL, he burst out 
crying in front of us; he couldn't believe 
they'd asked him. He's among a handful 
of people in my life who always make me 
laugh. He's sick and perverted but in a 
wonderful way. He's my favorite pervert. 
PLAYBOY: How about Tina Fey? 

BALDWIN: Tina's a smart and sexy woman 
who writes with an edge and thinks like 
a guy. The success of 30 Rock is not how 
many people watch the show but who's 
watching the show. Industry people 
watch. There are shows far more suc- 
cessful than we'll ever be that nobody 
in my business watches. So when NBC 
chief Jeff Zucker or NBC programming 
honcho Ben Silverman or SNL and 30 
Rock producer Lorne Michaels are hav- 
ing lunch at the Grill and people walk up 
and say, "My kid downloads that show, 
and we watch the DVD boxed set," it's 
enormously gratifying. 

PLAYBOY: You've had enough classic 
moments on SNL to fill your own DVD. 
Which skit do people bring up most often? 
BALDWIN: "Schweddy Balls." It's going to 
be on my tombstone: HERE LIES ALEC BALD- 
WIN AND HIS SCHWEDDY BALLS. 

PLAYBOY: Did you turn down any sketches 
for being too outrageous? 

BALDWIN: Probably a few. It's hard to 
remember. I'm often asked if I think 
about going into politics. If I do, these 
guys will have a field day. I've given them 
so much crap to use against me—Can- 
teen Boy, Schweddy balls. I just did the 
Wii sketch. Did you see that? 

PLAYBOY: Describe it. 

BALDWIN: I did this with two SNL guys. 
I'm their father, and I show them that 
the best way to shake the Wii wand is to 
go like this [simulates masturbation], and 
we're doing this obscene, horrible thing. 
Google or YouTube that one; it's just 
ridiculous. While I'm doing it, I'm think- 
ing, If I run for political office, they'll 
have a forest of material to kill me with. 


PLAYBOY: Can comedy be held against you? 
BALDWIN: I always hope people will 
understand that what I do as an enter- 
tainer is totally different from the way I 
behave. The day you say “I am a candi- 
date," you have a different responsibility. 
You hope the American public has the 
ability to delineate what of your private 
behavior matters and what doesn't. If a 
guy's a drunk driver, he has shown a lack 
of judgment that could hurt people. A 
womanizer? Well, you don't know what 
someone's going through in their mar- 
riage. Maybe he or she was miserable 
and unhappy, and if they were seeking 
companionship from someone else, that's 
none of my business. If they don't pay 
their taxes? That I'd worry about. The 
truth is, you have to assume they'll slam 
you for all of it. 

PLAYBOY: Your hosting career spans 14 
SNL episodes. Who are the most impres- 
sive cast members you've worked with? 

BALDWIN: Phil Hartman, Will Ferrell and 
Will Forte. Hartman used to just amaze 
me. But maybe the most impressive mo- 
ment I witnessed on the show involved 
Mike Myers. He hosted a Japanese game 
show in which Chris Farley is tortured 
when he doesn't answer the questions 
right. Myers took my breath away. He 
just so nailed it, doing all this phonetic 
Japanese. We were peeing in our pants. 


ABLE FAMILY 


PLAYBOY: Do you watch a lot of television? 
BALDWIN: No. Гуе watched 60 Minutes 
and The Sopranos on Sunday nights, and 
I cried when The Sopranos ended. I don’t 
watch anything else. 

PLAYBOY: Why did you say yes to 30 Rock? 
BALDWIN: It’s shot in New York. Lorne 
Michaels made a provision in my con- 
tract that says I would never miss my visi- 
tation with my daughter. I work a limited 
number of days a week, and then I'm on 
a plane. That was the biggest consider- 
ation. The pilot was funny, the show got 
funnier, and by the end of the first sea- 
son people were saying glowing things. 
PLAYBOY: You’ve clashed with studio 
heads and producers. What bothers you 
about the way Hollywood works? 
BALDWIN: I worked for Warner Bros. on 
The Departed, and I just did Му Sister's Keeper 
with Cameron Diaz. My problem with 
Warner Bros. is that it's part of the same 
company as TMZ, and it's like that with all 
these companies—Extra, Access Hollywood, 
Entertainment Tonight. Y would be so happy 
if those shows went off the air. It is a huge 
problem in our business—this microcosmic 
analysis and elevation of people who are 
just witless and talentless, or people with 
talent, like Lindsay Lohan, who struggle. 
Who gives a shit about their personal trivi- 
alities? It hurts the business. 

PLAYBOY: TMZ's Harvey Levin ran the 


audio of the biting voice-mail message you 
left your daughter. How mad were you? 
BALDWIN: I thought about suing War- 
ner Bros. My attorneys told me digital 
or electronic property of a minor is the 
intellectual property of the parent or 
legal guardian. TMZ was not allowed to 
release that tape without my approval. I 
don't think they did anybody any favors. 
Everybody knows Levin is a human 
tumor, a graceless character who lives in 
that weird netherworld. I don't blame 
those pathetic people; they are what they 
are. This is about the company. Warner 
Bros. wants me to do a movie and then 
shoves it up my ass with another com- 
pany down the hall. You work for Para- 
mount, and they say, "We want you to 
promote the movie you've done for us 
by going on a TV show we own. We're 
going to double dip and make money on 
you both ways." They're not paying me 
serious appearance fees, and as a union 
member I have a big problem with that. 
You want me to do appearances now on 
Entertainment Tonight? Pay me. Are you 
making a profit on Access Hollywood and 
Entertainment Tonight? Everybody says, 
"Do it for free because you're promoting 
your movie." Pay me. 

PLAYBOY: We take it you're not winning 
this one. 

BALDWIN: It's the stance my union should 
take. Promotional activities for films and 
television shows have replaced talented 
marketing and publicity departments. 
These division heads want to walk into 
a meeting and say, "We ran this star up 
the flagpole, nobody saluted, and the 
movie bombed. So the movie bombed 
because nobody liked so-and-so." They've 
relieved themselves of any responsibil- 
ity by tying the marketing to the star's 
name. They psychologically abuse talent 
by going, "Hey, if the movie bombs, it's 
bad for you." They've psyched you into 
thinking you've got to run around the 
country for four weeks, telling the same 
anecdotes over and over until you want to 
drop dead. You miss your child's volley- 
ball game because if the movie doesn't do 
well, it reflects on you. They've conspired 
to wash their hands of any responsibility. 
PLAYBOY: Would you be reluctant to work 
with Warner Bros. again? 

BALDWIN: Well, I did My Sister's Keeper 
after that. The publicity I do now is mod- 
est because I don't think it makes a dif- 
ference. Why am I even here with you? 
Do you think this is something I enjoy? 
PLAYBOY: It's not? 

BALDWIN: I want to assure you of some- 
thing. Four out of five actors I know 
wouldn't do this if their life depended 
on it—unless they felt pressure to pro- 
mote a film. That's exactly how I feel. I 
wouldn't be sitting here with you, talk- 
ing about this crap and my opinions of 
the business. I wouldn't bother. I like you 
personally. I wouldn't talk to somebody 
who was a shit heel. If Harvey Levin 
wanted to interview me, I would tell him 


to go drown. But if this wasn't about pro- 
moting My Sister's Keeper and maybe 30 
Rock and the movie I'm now doing with 
Meryl Streep, I wouldn't waste fucking 
five minutes on it. 

PLAYBOY: Did you always feel this way? 
BALDWIN: When you're younger you 
get sold that it's vital. Bit by bit you see 
through that. Like the Тодау show. I'm 
on an NBC show, and Today was consid- 
ered vital. But when that voice-mail tape 
thing happened, Matt Lauer interviewed 
Levin before he even called me. Lauer 
put Levin on Today, and they never 
phoned me. When it's in their interest 
to reach me, they know how. I saw that 
and said, "My relationship with the Today 
show is over." ГП never do Today again, 
ever. Life's too short. 

PLAYBOY: But media everywhere focus 
on TMZ. 

BALDWIN: NBC will periodically give you 
that NBC-family spiel. I expected that, 
since I was starring on an NBC show, I 
would have gotten a phone call and they 
would've said, "Would you like an oppor- 
tunity to come in and talk about it?" 
PLAYBOY: Would you have accepted? 
BALDWIN: I probably would have done 
that before I did The View. I raced in to do 
that show. Whoopi Goldberg is a friend. 
I called her and said, “Do you think I can 
get a fair shake?" Because when you talk 
about family law and parental alienation, 
there is this unfortunate gender-based 
dynamic. Could I walk into a show with 
a strong female audience? Would they 
understand my point of view? I trusted 
Whoopi and Barbara Walters. Whoopi is 
an impeccably decent person, and I am 
grateful she gave me a forum. 

PLAYBOY: When you hit back at Levin, 
reports say you outed him as a homo- 
sexual. Was that fair? 

BALDWIN: No, I don't think I outed him. I 
thought Levin had been candid about that. 
But for a long time he wasn't. I have noth- 
ing against people who are homosexual, but 
I find it funny that people in that tabloid 
world keep their own secrets. They want 
the world at large to respect that but spend 
their lives outing the secrets of others. I find 
Levin peculiar and hypocritical. 

PLAYBOY: You've had a front-row seat at 
intrusive celebrity coverage—helicopters 
at your wedding, photographers trying 
to snap pictures of your newborn. Is it 
still this bad for you? 

BALDWIN: No. Those magazines focus on 
people who are younger and newer. Pm 
51 and have moved into another world, 
where they're done with you—unless 
you do something. The three quickest 
ways to get back into that loop are: Don't 
pay your federal income taxes, get drunk 
and try to bolt through airport security 
with a gun in your suitcase, and last but 
not least, get a DUI and be arrested in 
Malibu. A series of events could heat up 
that pot again, but the benefit of being 
older is they don't care about me. 
PLAYBOY: Why is there such an insatia- 


ble appetite to see stars in unflattering 
moments? 

BALDWIN: This society is very wired 
together, and it's the most neurotic a soci- 
ety has ever been. Twitter, all this stuff, 
I don't view as anything good. Everyone 
is so hyperaware of what everybody else 
is doing. Everybody has been convinced 
their opinion should count. We all need 
to be spouting opinions. Гт now giving 
you an opinion about opinions. 

PLAYBOY: You are. 

BALDWIN: Another element is how distant 
government has become for the average 
person. People want their opinion to 
count somewhere, so they've transferred 
the desires and expectations of their 
democratic voice over to entertainment. 
They don't have any input into what the 
government does. There is a chasm thou- 
sands of miles wide between Washington 
and the people. That's why shows like 
American Idol are so important: People 
want to think they can affect something 
in that Roman gladiatorial way—thumbs 
up or thumbs down. I'm not saying pub- 
lic officials are exempt, because every 
time the people can gang up and con- 
demn a public official, they do. 

PLAYBOY: When you hosted SNL recently, 
you jokingly thanked Christian Bale. 
Whose audio tirade was worse? 
BALDWIN: Mine was worse by far because 
it involved parenting. Christian Bale's 
was a skirmish with a colleague on set, 
and the only odd thing was how long it 
went on. Probably on half the films I've 
done I've seen someone lose it. You're 
shooting and someone gets in your eye 
line, or a light blows when you're really 
onto something as a performer. A phone 
goes off or a walkie-talkie. I've seen 
people lose it on behalf of their creative 
expedition. It's frustration, nothing per- 
sonal. Mine was so much different. 
PLAYBOY: What reaction hit you hardest? 
BALDWIN: The most harrowing for me 
was negative mail I got from people who 
were critical but not hating or condemn- 
ing. What hurt was that it was heartfelt. 
They'd say, “Му father or my mother did 
this to me one time, and I've never for- 
gotten it, never gotten over it." Wow. I 
still believe the people who released the 
tape only made it worse, but the worst 
part for me was the way it touched the 
people who parent their kids. I'm think- 
ing of my next book being about this. 
PLAYBOY: After all that, you'll write a book 
about parenting? 

BALDWIN: It will be ironic for some peo- 
ple, but I'm going to write a parenting 
book. We're at, not a crisis, but an awful 
place right now in terms of parenting. 
People are raising their children with the 
belief that we need to be friends with our 
children. Kids have too much power and 
call too many of the shots, telling their 
parents what they will and won't do. 
PLAYBOY: Why has this happened? 
BALDWIN: In my gut I feel it's another 
manifestation of how hard life has become. 


31 


32 


Band of 
Baldwins 


A look at America's most 
eccentric acting dynasty 


By Rocky Rakovic 


Daniel 
"Blackest Sheep" 


Birth rank: Second. Tour de force: Homicide: 
Life on the Street. Also in: Celebrity Fit Club, 
Celebrity Rehab With Dr. Drew. Familiar with: 
Johnny Law and cocaine. Accolade: Only Bald- 
win brother not nominated for a Razzie (that's a 
good thing). Now: Getting straight. Recently co- 
starred in the HBO docudrama Grey Gardens. 


Stephen 
"Most Annoying" 


Birth rank: Youngest, born-again. Tour de force: 
The Usual Suspects. Also in: Bio-Dome, America's 
Most Wanted (reenactor). Liked by: Sarah Palin, 
who on SNL told Alec that the ultraconservative 
Stephen is her favorite Baldwin. Now: Those who 
bought his books on Amazon also bought ones by 
Bill O'Reilly, Mike Huckabee and Kirk Cameron. 


Alec 
"Alpha Dog" 


Birth rank: First. Tour de force: 30 Rock. Also in: 
Glengarry Glen Ross, Beetle Juice, The Departed. 
Loves: Cuban cigars, vegetables. Loves/hate: 
Ex-wife Kim Basinger. Hates: Paparazzi. Now: 
Was given the ultimate validation of a bankable 
actor—he was asked to voice a character in Mada- 
gascar 2, a DreamWorks movie. 


Wil 
“Dreamiest” 
Birth rank: Third. Tour de force: The Squid and 
the Whale. Also in: Backdraft, Born on the Fourth 
of July. Spouse: Chynna Phillips. Underwear 
model? Check. Eccentricity: Doesn't eat meat. 
Now: He studied politics and worked on Capitol 
Hill before trying to act; recently he played Sena- 
tor Patrick Darling ТУ on Dirty Sexy Money. 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY LARA TOMLIN 


People are working hard to make money 
and manage their feelings about what the 
country's going through. We live in stress- 
ful times. People come home, walk up the 
driveway, put the key in the door, and they 
just can't do another hard job. Parenting 
your children effectively is a tough job. 
PLAYBOY: You write in your book that 
after the tape leaked you offered to leave 
30 Rock and even thought of jumping out 
a window. How serious were you? 
BALDWIN: Very serious. 

PLAYBOY: What did you learn from all this? 
BALDWIN: Don't lose your temper and act 
out in that way. I spoke to a lot of profes- 
sionals, who helped me. If I hadn't left 
that message, I wouldn't have left myself 
open for that. On the other hand, I left 
the message with the presumption of 
privacy. I never dreamed they would do 
that. I was mortified, stunned. And not 
for me, because if I blew my brains out, a 
cadre of people on the other side would 
be elated. If I committed suicide, they 
would have considered that a victory. 
Destroying me was their avowed goal. 
PLAYBOY: This is your ex's legal team? 
BALDWIN: Oh, it's a whole them. But the 
important thing is, when they released 
that, I was devastated for my daughter, 
who goes to school with other show- 
business kids. When parents are doing 
their job, these kids admire their moms 
and dads as entertainment professionals. 
When you go the opposite way, and this 
happens—I couldn't imagine anything 
more overwhelming for my daughter. 
PLAYBOY: How did you repair your rela- 
tionship with her? 

BALDWIN: АП I will say is, I met a thera- 
pist, one of the few smart therapists in 
the court-appointed family-law business. 
Most of them are racketeers who turn 
you upside down and shake your pock- 
ets out onto the table. But this guy said, 
“This is hard for you to believe right 
now, but you are the child's father, and 
a child has only one father. Your child 
will come back to you. Her nature is to 
come back to you." And over time that's 
indeed what happened. 

PLAYBOY: Ironically, in your new film, 
Му Sister's Keeper, you play a lawyer in a 
child-custody battle. 

BALDWIN: [Laughs] I tried so hard to put 
just a little sheen of oil on him. 

PLAYBOY: Did your experiences shape 
your character? 

BALDWIN: No, because if I had put in the 
things I might have wanted to, it would 
kill the movie. My character is very sym- 
pathetic, an epileptic who has a seizure 
in the middle of the trial. My guy's on 
the right side of the issue, representing 
a young girl in a medical-emancipation 
case. He's not a divorce lawyer, but I 
tried to give him the requisite oily sheen 
of most lawyers I know. 

PLAYBOY: Do you really have it in for 
lawyers? 

BALDWIN: I've met women since I've 
beensingle, and (continued on page 142) 


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UNEMPLOYED FINANCE 
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round October, when Ше economy went into free 
fall, a bunch of out-of-work finance guys in their 
20s descended on Buenos Aires, where you can 
have the penthouse, the steak dinners and the 
bottle service at ridiculous nightclubs and still 
save money renting out your apartment in New York or 
London. Lifestyle arbitrage, baby! The word got out, and 
the party built on itself, making the fantasy it offered all 
the more intoxicating: Come spend a month—or four—in 
Buenos Aires, where you really are a master of the universe, 
where nights are sleepless and potential business deals are 
all scams and the clubs teem with unemployed expat bank- 
ers looking for their identities in piles of cocaine and the 
bloodshot eyes of hookers and thieves. 
Jason got to the party four months early. That's not his 
real name. This is his story. 
He remembers May 15, 2008 as the worst day of his 
life—up to that point, at least. That was the day he got laid 
off from his dream job. Jason was an investment banker in 


ILLUSTRATION BY TOMER HANUKA 


ч 


New York City. He remembers leaving Ше office building 
after he was let go, and it was as if everything was muffled. 
He couldn't really hear anything. He was walking along 
West 57th Street in Manhattan when he ran into a friend 
from college who was giddy about a hilarious new speed- 
dating service he had discovered. 

“1 just didn't hear anything that was coming out of his 
mouth," Jason recalls. "I was so shell-shocked." 

Then he was on Fifth Avenue. He swears to God all the big 
buildings looked as if they were curving in above him. The 
trees formed a canopy, and their leaves seemed to be laugh- 
ing at him. Fifth Avenue was the street he used to walk down 
each time he got to the next level. There had been many. 

After graduating from a Big Ten state university in 2003, 
Jason told his college counselor he thought he might like 
finance because the entrepreneurial spirit and cutthroat 
competition of investing appealed to him—especially 
since he had been a star athlete and all. She suggested 
institutional sales. He started out at a public accounting 


35 


36 


firm, but he didn't want to be an accountant. He worked 
his way up, rising in the bullish years. Institutional sales, 
institutional sales, institutional sales, he would tell himself on 
the bad days. He worked in the back office at Lehman 
Brothers as an "ops monkey," doing the accounting work 
behind the trades being executed in the front office. He 
spent two years at Morgan Stanley, where he was techni- 
cally in the front office but not really. A little less than a 
year ago a foreign bank that had recently entered the U.S. 
market gave him his own trading desk. He was on top of 
the world. He dressed the part. His first day at work he 
wore a gray Theory suit he had just bought for $950, a 
pair of Ferragamo loafers ($425) and a light blue BCBG 
button-down he'd had custom fitted. 

This city can't fuck with me, Jason would say to himself. 
This city can't beat me. I'm a kid who went to a state school, 


largely through foreign investors, roughly half a billion 
dollars in properties, in cash. There is no credit in Buenos 
Aires, no loans, no mortgages. Every transaction is in cash. 
This is because banks here have no money to lend because 
they have no capital because no one in his right mind keeps 
much money in the bank since the government defaulted 
on its public debt during the 2001 financial crisis, robbing 
its citizens of some $93 billion. Since the latest financial 
crisis, short-term rentals have gone down, while month- 
to-month rentals are up 15 to 20 percent. Apartments BA 
chief executive Michael Koh doesn't ask, but clients often 
tell him, "I just lost my job in finance." 

A friend of a friend put Jason in touch with Jordan 
Metzner, a 25-year-old gringo from Sherman Oaks, Cali- 
fornia who had come to Buenos Aires three years earlier 
to pursue his dream of starting a small business. At that 


They all enjoyed a few snorts of coke, then had a threesome. 


with no cash in this world, and I'm fucking dealing. There 
were bottles and tables at Marquee and Tenjune with fellow 
banking friends. Jason likes to think he enjoyed the scene 
differently than the Ivy League kids who were handed 
their plum positions at investment banks, hedge funds and 
private equity funds. Jason's mother is a schoolteacher; his 
father works for the city of Syracuse. He delighted in acting 
the part and partying like his bonus could buy your ass. 

On May 15 the city beat Jason. He was unemployed. He 
ducked into Bloomingdale's that day and bought three 
pairs of Ferragamos: one pair of casual white ones—he 
liked white Ferragamos—and two pairs of dressy work loaf- 
ers. I'll wear these again one day, he told himself. 


Unable to get a job in New York, Jason began looking at 
emerging markets—Buenos Aires, Prague, Sao Paulo. If he 
could get something substantial going abroad, create a market 
in a country where there was none, he could build a bridge 
back to Wall Street and come out on top. Risk and reward. 

A friend sent Jason's résumé around to a few people he 
knew in Buenos Aires. In June he flew down for an inter- 
view, and a friend from Morgan Stanley tagged along. The 
interview did not result in an offer. 

Jason and his friend booked a room in a posh boutique 
hotel in Palermo Soho for $150 a night. That weekend they 
wound up at a party in another gringo's suite with a couple 
of girls who turned out to be hookers. The girls stole every- 
thing in the kitchen, which amounted to about $1,000. 

At the airport the next day Jason's friend was shocked 
when Jason told him he wasn't getting on the plane. The 
20-minute cab ride from Ezeiza International Airport back 
to the city offers views of the villas miserias (shantytowns) 
that surround the downtown area, as well as a fancy soccer 
facility, a training ground for the nation's top-ranked team, 
whose coach is the legendary Diego Maradona—a notori- 
ous ex-coke addict. 

By local standards Jason got bilked when he rented an 
apartment for a week for $500 from Apartments BA, a 
leading developer that has in the past decade purchased, 


time Jordan had one burrito restaurant in Microcentro, 
the Buenos Aires equivalent of the Wall Street area. Jor- 
dan happened to have a spare room for rent, and Jason 
jumped on it. 

He spent the first few months alone in his room, watch- 
ing soccer and hunting for jobs on the Net. Every so of- 
ten he would have a meeting with this real-estate fund or 
that wind-power start-up. Nothing smelled right, but he 
wasn't in a hurry. He enjoyed not working 12-hour days, 
instead taking time to nurse body and soul back to health. 
"I was reflecting on who I had become after six years in 
finance," Jason says. 

Their friends were all bankers. Says Jordan of the people 
he graduated from college with, "Chris went to Goldman 
Sachs, Philippe went to J.P. Morgan, John went to Black- 
stone, Lindsey to Bear Stearns. I could just keep going on 
and on. David, Merrill Lynch. Matt went to J.P. Morgan. 
Anyway, they all got jobs in investment banking, wearing 
suits and ties. Most of my best friends made $200,000 the 
first year out of college." 

Toward the end of August Jason met a young hotelier 
named Gabriel Gruber, co-founder of the Tailor Made Ho- 
tel. Gruber invited him to look at a deal he was putting 
together for a new boutique hotel in Las Cañitas, а posh 
neighborhood known for its restaurants and bars. The fi- 
nancials were solid, and Gruber was a local with a great 
track record—exactly what you want if you're investing 
in an emerging market. Finally, an investment deal Jason 
could put his full weight behind. He lined up a few inter- 
ested New York investors. The next step was to figure out 
where the fund would be based. (Bringing money into Ar- 
gentina is difficult if you want to avoid going through the 
sketchy Central Bank and paying huge taxes.) That's when 
things went very wrong. 

Jason met a cocky 22-year-old porteño named José Rod- 
rigo. José worked for a New York-based private equity 
group as its representative in Montevideo, Uruguay, which 
is three hours east of Buenos Aires by water taxi and home 
to a number of legal tax shelters. José was happy to set 
up some meetings for Jason with (continued on page 148) 


"Yeah, Мот, it's pretty hot here. But don't worry. Pm 
getting lots of water." 


By BILL генме 


NOBODY HAS EVER EXPERIENCED ANYTHING LIKE 2009. 


13. 


SO WHAT LIES AHEAD? 


IS THE FUTURE IN YOUR HANDS? 


THE AGE OF THE BOTTLENECK 
by Margaret Atwood 


government designed a simple poster intended to 

bring reassurance and comfort to the civilian pop- 

ulation. It showed a yellow crown on a red background, 
with the slogan "Keep calm and carry on." 

This poster was never circulated. Perhaps it was 


D uring the darkest days of World War II, the British 


thought that since the population was already keeping 


calm and carrying on, they might be insulted by it. But 
it made its appearance in many gift shops just after the 
onset of the financial meltdown this past autumn, and it 
was snapped up as quickly as it was deployed. 

One was given to me and my partner as a joke. "Hang 
it in the bedroom," quipped a bystander, and being of the 
age at which such advice is sometimes both appreciated 
and necessary, that is what we did. 

With the global financial superstructure in a precari- 
ous if not crumbling state and the environmental bal- 


ances that sustain us on the verge—we're told—of tipping 
over into full-blown catastrophe, there's quite a lot to 
try to keep calm about, though there's a good deal of 
perplexity about how exactly we should carry on. Most 
people are willing to do whatever it takes, but whatever 
will it take, on both the economic and the environmental 
levels? And will this “whatever” be enough? Are we in fact 
entering the Age of the Bottleneck? 

Тће human race has been through bottlenecks before: 
those moments in time when adverse conditions such as 
terrible weather, plagues and diseases or crop failures 
produce mass die-outs. There are too many mouths and 
not enough food to fill them. Wars and famines take their 
toll. Some manage to squeeze through the bottleneck, 
but many do not. 

Scientists tell us that there must have been one such 
moment around 50,000 years ago, during which homo 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY DANIEL BEJAR 


sapiens—driven рег- 
haps by scarcity— 
began spreading out 
from Africa. In Europe, 
the Black Death of 
the 14th century was 
another bottleneck. 
If enough individuals 
make it through those 
narrow places, then 
societies can regen- 
erate. If enough do 
not, then extinction 
is the result, as it has 
been for an increas- 
ing number of spe- 
cies over the past 300 
years, many of which 
have died out because 
of us. This time, it's not 
only ourselves we have 
to squeeze through the 
bottleneck—it's much 
of the natural world 
as well. Without it, we 
can neither eat nor 
breathe. 
How can we turn 
the negatives in our 
rapidly changing pic- 
ture into positives, or 
at least minimize their 
worst effects? We're 
feeling overwhelmed; 
if we want to keep our heads above water we have to 
swim with the flow, figure out where the bottom is or 
build a boat. We're presently attempting to do all three. 
But where are the currents taking us, and how deep is 
the bottom? 
And which of our human-made boats will float? Any- 
thing that helps us do more for less energy will have 


T 


ready adopters in the 
immediate future. 
Remote modes of com- 
munication will become 
increasingly popular as 
long as they are cheap. 
Home greenhouses, 
clotheslines, airships 
and trains will make a 
comeback. And what 
about new options like 
solar fabrics? Thin, flex- 
ible and, with their tube 
or bubble structure, 
much more efficient, 
they'll enable us to turn 
our old-style energy- 
spewing buildings into 
energy generators. And 
if you happen to know 
anyone who's working 
on cheap desalination 
devices or gizmos that 
can pull water out of 
the air, don't call them 
crazy. 

We're an inven- 
tive species. Arguably, 
it's our inventiveness 
that's helped us into 
our present quagmire: 
We've altered the 
world's energy flows 
without anticipating 

the consequences. But it's our inventiveness, too, that 
may help us out of that quagmire: that and our optimism. 
So "Keep calm and carry on" isn't such a bad slogan to 
have on your wall. It assumes that if you do carry on, you 
can get through the difficult parts. As we can. Can't we? 

Margaret Atwood, author of The Blind Assassin, recently 
published a new novel, The Year of the Flood. 


CAR FUEL OF THE FUTURE 
by T. Boone Pickens 


he hydrocarbon era will come to an end, and it will 

T happen sooner than you think. The end may come 

as soon as 2050. Within the next five years the way 

we consume energy will have changed more radically than 
it has in the past 50. 

I have been an oilman for 50 years, so it may seem odd for 

me to predict that our days of pumping gas into our cars is 


over. Here's the problem with oil: The world currently pro- 
duces 85 million barrels daily. Production volume will not 
rise. Yet as third world countries become greater consumers 
of oil, the resource will become more valuable. I predict 
that by the end of this year the price of a barrel of oil will 
rise to $75. In three years it'll be back up to $150. In 10 
years, if America has done nothing to cut our dependence 
on foreign oil, we'll be importing 70 percent of our oil and 
paying $300 a barrel for it. We had better do something 
about it before we have a disaster on our hands. 

Тће money Ше U.S. and other countries are handing 
OPEC represents the greatest transfer of wealth in history. 
This year America will spend $450 billion on foreign oil. 
Our credibility around the world is so weak in great part 
because we've turned our energy destiny over to countries 
that hate us while we have undeveloped resources here. 
They think we're crazy, and we are. 

We need a short-term and a long-term solution. In the 
U.S. we have an abundance of natural gas, which is cleaner 
and cheaper than oil. We must use it as transportation fuel. 
In five years, when you go to a gas station you'll pump liq- 
uid natural gas into your car if you're not already driving a 
battery-powered vehicle. I think within the next six months 
Congress will enact a bill to start moving our heavy-duty 
18-wheelers onto liquid natural gas. With an investment 
of $30 billion to incentivize owners of 18-wheelers, we can 
put 350,000 trucks on natural gas in three years. What do 
we get for it? We'll cut our dependency on foreign diesel 
immediately by five percent and create 450,000 jobs directly 
and another 1.6 million indirectly. We have abundant natu- 
ral gas reserves. Gas burns cheaply and cleanly. Why don't 
we use it and get off foreign oil? 

Natural gas is a bridge fuel that can carry us to the ultimate 
solution, the next generation of transportation fuels. The 
transportation problem will be solved by batteries or fuel 
cells, more likely the former, and the energy used to power 
the batteries will be harnessed domestically, using wind and 
the sun. The Chinese are investing heavily in nuclear energy. 
Nuclear is fine with me as long as it's American. 

In the past this country has failed to come up with a so- 
lution to our energy problems. People address only what 
is critical for the day. We can get off foreign oil by using 
our own resources and planning for the future. No one will 
debate me on this issue. Like a guy once said, the best time to 
plant a tree was 20 years ago; the second-best time to plant 
a tree is right now. Natural gas is the immediate answer, and 
in 25 years we'll be clean, green and independent. 

T. Boone Pickens is chairman of BP Capital. 


THE NEW AMERICAN DIPLOMACY by Ishmael Reed 


e have a president 
who has ushered in 
a new era of Ameri- 


can diplomacy. He visits d 
ferent countries, speaks th 
language and tells a Mu: 
audience he has Muslim family 
members. At a summit meeting 
he settles a dispute between 
China and France—which is not 
surprising, since one study says 
children of biracial parents are 
good at settling disputes be- 
tween people of different back- 
grounds. Fareed Zakaria had it 
right when he said President 
Obama sees us as the rest of 
the world sees us, and though 
the majority of Americans support him, some members of 
the chattering classes—public intellectuals and academic 


elites on the left and right—are pouncing on what they re- 
gard as his every misstep. One neocon devoted a whole 
column to the first lady's biceps, and it was a progressive 
who said Obama was *dumber than a bag of hammers." 
These people aren't used to a black man who isn't Michael 
Jordan, Snoop Dogg or the guys who get handcuffed on 
Cops. Of course, with the election of a black president it 
was predictable that the usual yahoos would clown on him. 
The old era continues to present its embarrassments: The 
Rapture people, who deny global warming and the benefits 
of science, who describe gay marriage as part of a gather- 
ing storm—they believe people who are different from them 
are socialists and terrorists. The governor of Texas is threat- 
ening secession. A sham “tea party" promoted by the Fox 
network brought out some of the worst features of old-era 
America. One kid sported a sign calling Obama a monkey. 
Another called him a shoeshine boy. One hopes Obama's 
new era won't get undermined by the old era. 

Ishmael Reed is author of Mumbo Jumbo and Shrovetide 
in Old New Orleans. 


ТНЕ СО5МО5 


by Martin Rees 


nterests focus far from Earth. But a 

cosmic perspective impresses us that 

our planet is a special place and that 
we live in a special time. 

We are the outcome of 4 billion years 
of Darwinian evolution. The stupen- 
dous time spans ofthe evolutionary past 
are now part of common culture—ex- 
cept, of course, in creationist circles. But 
many still perceive humanity as some 
kind of culmination of the tree of life. 

Cosmologists can't believe this: They 

are mindful that still vaster time spans 

lie ahead. The sun is less than halfway 

through its life. In about 6 billion years 

it will swell up, engulf the inner planets 

and destroy whatever life remains on 

Earth. There's an unthinking tendency 

to imagine humans will be around to 

experience this event, but any life and intelligence that exist then 
could be as different from us as we are from a bug. We may not 
even be at the halfway stage of cosmic evolution. But even in a 
time perspective that stretches millions of cent 

ture, as well as into the past, this century is speci: 

which one species—ours—has the planet's future in its hands. 

Is there life beyond the Earth? This is a question for biologists, 
and biology is a harder subject than cosmology. We don't know 
how life began on Farth, so we can't assess whether it's likely to 
exist on other planets—still less what aliens, if they exist, may look 
like. Searches for extraterrestrial intelligence may one day suc- 
ceed. On the other hand, we may be the only self-aware life in our 
entire galaxy. But that would not render life a cosmic sideshow. 

Indeed, it would be a boost to our cosmic self-esteem: Tei 
restrial life, and its fate, would then be a matter of cosmic signifi- 
cance. Even if life is now unique to Earth, it could, long before 
the sun dies, spread through the entire galaxy. Our universe 
has the potential to harbor a teeming diversity of life far beyond 
what we can even conceive. The unfolding of intelligence and 
complexity could still be near its cosmic beginnings. Perhaps, in 
future centuries, spacecraft launched from the Earth could—via 
genetically engineered life or exotic machines—spawn new oa- 
ses of life far beyond the solar system. And that's not all. Perhaps 


| m a cosmologist—my professional 


' SEX by Chip Rowe 


advanced intelligence billions of years hence will be able to engi- 
neer black holes whose interior unfolds into new universes. 

There may ha еп an infinity of big bangs, not just one. 
Each cooled d differently and ended up governed by diffe 
ent laws. Just as Earth is a special planet among zillions of others, 
so perhaps our big bang was special—on a far grander scale. In 
this expanded cosmic perspective, what we've traditionally called 
our universe could be just one island in a vast cosmic archipelago. 
In the next decade I hope we will clarify the nature of the dark 
matter and the earliest stages of galaxy formation—when the 
universe is 200 million to 400 million years old. I think the most 
rapid and interesting progress will be in learning more about the 
planetary systems orbiting other stars—the first detection of large 
numbers of Earth-size planets (though the imaging of such plan- 
ets is still probably two decades away, awaiting the next genera- 
tion of ground-based telescopes or huge arrays in space). 

My professional interests span billions of years. This doesn’t 
stop me from worrying, as we all do, about what happens to- 
morrow or next year. But it is exhilarating to realize that the 
eras lying ahead will be as long and as eventful as the years 
that led to our emergence on Earth. 

Martin Rees is the U.K.'s Astronomer Royal, president of the Royal 
Society and author of Our Final Hour. 


Il this ridiculous talk of lifelike fuck dolls, human-robot 
love affairs and long-distance digital dildos isn’t about 
Д the future of sex, as it's made out to be. It's about 
the centuries-old effort to improve male masturbation, an 
ultimately disappointing pursuit because anything short of 
contact with the warm flesh of another will always be less 
than satisfying. While a walking, talking Stepford wife may 
someday receive a five-star rating on Amazon.com, the future 
of sex has nothing to do with technology. The reason lies 
within the dichotomy of need versus desire. Males need to 
climax; it's programmed into us to propagate the species. But 
no fembot will ever quiet our consuming desire, that part of 
our being that powers sonnets and separates us from apes. 
More important, no sex toy will ever need or desire you. To 
understand the difference, consider the poor sap who in the 
late 1960s submitted himself to a psychiatrist who placed an 
electric probe deep into the man's brain to “cure” his homo- 
sexuality. The man could give himself a shock of erotic plea- 
sure with the push of a button, which he did compulsively, 
pressing 1,500 times over three hours. Yet he never seemed 


to be enjoying 
himself. The neu- E 
roscientist Morten >. 


Kringelbach, X X 
author of The Plea- ` » > 
sure Center, points 

out that any cogni- 


h 

tive implant would N 4 u | 
need to activate 
both impulses— | 
need and desire— 
to truly threaten E 7 
sex. Our ability to 
reach orgasm may 
become as routine 
as checking the time and the inability to climax may go the 
way of polio, but desire will never be any different than it was 
a thousand years ago, or 10,000 years ago. 

Chip Rowe, a senior editor at the magazine, is the 
Playboy Advisor. 


Ñ k N 


iN d 


SEE MORE OF OLIVIA AT PLAYBOY.COM/OLIVIAMUNN. 


QUEEN OF CONVERGENCE: ` 


; THROUGH THE DIGIT/ 


by Reza Aslan 


ith apologies to Thomas Friedman, the world is 
not flat. It is our minds that have flattened. Glo- 
balization has not only altered the way we view 
the world. It has changed the way we view ourselves. Global- 
ization has profoundly affected the way we identify as part 
of a social collective. It has changed the way we conceive of 
our public spaces, how we interact with like-minded indi- 
viduals, how we determine our religious and political lead- 
ers, even how we think about categories like religion and 
politics. Indeed, globalization has transformed everything 
about how we think of ourselves both as individuals and 
as members of a larger society because our sense of who 
we are is no longer dominated by national concerns. And 
since the self is composed of multiple markers of identity— 
nationality, class, gender, religion, ethnicity and so on—if 
one of those (say, nationality) starts to give way, it is only 
natural that another (religion, ethnicity) would come to fill 
the vacuum. Which is why despite all the talk about the 
death of God, the truth is religion is becoming a stronger, 
more global force every day. A century ago, one half of the 
world's population identified itself as Catholic, Protestant, 
Muslim or Hindu. Today that number is nearly two thirds. 
Perhaps it is too early to talk of postnationalism, and it is 
likely premature to speak of the end of the nation-state 
as we know it (though this is already happening through- 
out the European Union). But there is no doubt we are 
approaching an era in which more and more people will 
cease defining themselves primarily in nationalistic terms 
and will instead fall back on more primal markers of iden- 
tity, like tribe, kin, clan, ethnicity and, above all, religion. 
АП the more reason then to strive to strip the conflicts we 
are witnessing around the world—from the wars in Iraq and 
Afghanistan to the cycle of violence between Israel and the 
Palestinians—of their religious connotations. This is some- 
thing the previous administration, with its religiously polar- 
izing rhetoric and evangelizing foreign policy, never seemed 
to understand. No wonder the vast majority of the Muslim 
world believes that the so-called war on terror is, in fact, a 
war on Islam. From the moment George W. Bush introduced 
this ideological conflict with radical forces in the Muslim 
world as a "crusade" to "rid the world of evil," he not only 
validated Al Qaeda's cosmic worldview, he set the stage for 
what may be a new and terrifying era of religious war. 
Now, with a new administration and a new global out- 
look, we have the opportunity to start anew. Thus far the 
Obama administration has worked hard to reshape Amer- 


ica's relationship not just with the Muslim world but with 
the rest of the international community. Its first step—get- 
ting rid of the problematic phrase war on terror—is a good 
one. But to truly change the perception of the U.S. and 
step back from the precipice of unending cosmic war the 
Bush administration took our country to will require more 
than a change in rhetoric. It will require a change in our 
foreign policy. Only then can we begin to look forward to 
a "new era" of global peace and prosperity. 

Reza Aslan is author of How to Win a Cosmic War: God, 
Globalization and the End of the War on Terror. His previous book, 
No God but God, has been translated into 13 languages. 


THE FUTURE WILL BE COOKED MEDIUM RARE by Setb MacFarlane 


hen р.дувоу asked me to contribute a few thoughts 
W about the future, | felt both honored and thrilled. 

To me ршлувоу represents so much more than 
Playmates, jazz festivals and quality footwear that North 
Providence Italian guys proudly wear to strip clubs. PLAYBOY 
provides a safe haven for openness, freedom of thought and 
the kind of divergent, creative thinking essential to human 
progress. Through the years, and the pages of rLaysoy, | have 
been exposed to compelling literature from Gore Vidal, Kurt 
Vonnegut and John Updike; brilliant, insightful comedy from 
Woody Allen and Steve Martin; and thoughtful, informed 
observations from Stephen Hawking and the quintessential 
rationalist Carl Sagan. | also got to see Tanya Roberts's ass. 
It was in some pilfered issue | saw as a kid, in an article trum- 
peting the release of the movie The Beastmaster. Poised to 
springboard from her enviable perch as the fourth or fifth 
Charlie's Angel, Tanya was beautifully photographed, totally 


naked among several jungle creatures. | think there was 
a tiger in there. Maybe a zebra? | don't know. The truth is 
1 don't really remember because all ! could look at was her 
gorgeous ass. And despite my exposure to the great thinkers 
within PLavBov's pages, nothing I’ve seen through the years 
has stayed in my consciousness more than that amazing na- 
ked bum—which brings me to the one concern I have for us as 
a species as we march into the future. 

We have a remarkable abi to solve the challenges that 
lie ahead. Unfortunately, we also have the primal urges that 
helped us survive our early years—a time that ! and many sci- 
entists refer to as the Flintstone Era—when our only thoughts 
were food, sex and how to hit on the head with a big rock 
anyone who stood in the way of those two things. Because 
these urges co-exist alongside our expanding degree of en- 
lightenment, they often obscure evidence of our growth and 
progress. Today we can drive (concluded on page 62) 


"Would you like to see my other tattoos?" 


Шу Mays is pitching me, talk- 
ng fast and loud so | can't get 
in a word, telling me about 
his high school football exploits in McKees 
Rocks, Pennsylvania and how he's half Ital- 
ian (true), half Jewish (not true). "If I can't 
get it wholesale, | steal it,” he says. Da- 
дит! Touching me on my arm to make con- 
tact, drawing me in, hypnotizing me, Mays 
tells me how he became a pitchman at the 
age of 24 on the Atlantic City boardwalk, 
selling Ginsu knives from a little stand, all 
the old pitchmen taking a shine to the kid 
with the loud voice and teaching him the 
tricks of the trade. "Get the crowd in closer. 
Belly them up to you.” "Kibbitz- Where 
you from?'" “Say | got something to show 
you.” "Get closer” And then the hardest 
part of the pitch, how to ask for money: 
"How much, you say? Thought youd never 
ask-$29.95 in a store, only $19.95 here. But 
here's the deal: The first five people who 
buy one now get it for only $10.” All the 
people are waving their hands now, beg- 
ging for a blessing to be able to buy a Ginsu 
knife or a WashMatik or whatever. If Mays 
would only recognize them, they could fork 
over their 10 spot for a gadget they didn't 
know they wanted 10 minutes ago-until 
Billy Mays showed them the light. 

"It's an art,” he says, "to get people to 
stay in one area for 10 minutes. They're put 
there by me. That's the thrill of the pitch. 
My pitch is my music. They're mesmerized 
by me. | love it." 

Today, at 50, Mays is the most famous 
pitchman in the world. His pitches are seen 
on TV in 57 foreign countries and dubbed 
in Chinese, Japanese, French, Italian, Ger- 
man, whatever. The media call him ubiq- 
uitous, with his swept-back black hair and 
full black beard he touches up "by drinking 
only dark whiskey”—da-dum! You've seen 
him on TV, leaping out of the screen at 
three a.m., just before you doze off, snap- 
ping you awake with his screeching voice. 
"Hi, I'm Billy Mays, here for OxiClean!" or 
KaBOOM!, Mighty Putty, Hercules Hook, 
Awesome Auger, Zorbeez, whatever. Mays 
sells them all: gadgets that stick harder 
than any glue, dig up weeds, hold up a 50- 
pound gilt-framed mirror (assuming you 
have a 50-pound gilt-framed mirror)—so 
many gadgets you never thought you 
needed, never even thought existed until 
Mays went into his pitch. A 30-second 
pitch, never more than two minutes-a 
short con-screaming at you, “Watch this! 
| get so excited! | gotta tell you something! 
Buy it right now!" So you call the toll-free 
number, give a strange voice your credit- 


card information and then get a package in 
the mail, stare at its contents—a gadget, a 
product—and wonder, Why did | buy this? 
But what the hell, it was only $19.95. It's 
always $19.95. That's Mays's secret. 

"It's gotta be under $20,” Mays says. Не 
shrugs. "I don't know. That's the magic num- 
ber” It also has to be an unknown item that 
can't be purchased in a store, that can be seen 
and purchased only on TV and that appeals 
to a mass audience of do-it-yourselfers. 
Mays gets his satisfaction from sheer quan- 


It'gets the» 
job done! 4 


та 


a а 
BüytheAuger.c 
( 2 


PLAYBOY 
PROFILE 


gay men who like so-called hairy bears. They 
call him "one of the hottest bears on the mar- 
ket" and beg to be able to "boff that bear” 
His haters refer to him as "an asinine piece 
of shit,” "a public nuisance" and an asshole. 
One fan says Billy Mays is his idol because 
he's "so obnoxious that he's cool" and can 
sell "dick to a dyke,” tap water from your 
own sink. A 55 bill for four easy payments 
of 519.95, plus shipping and handling. 

"It's all about trust,” says Mays. "I stay true 
to the pitch. I'm not a salesman. A salesman 


са Ном 
and ме! 


For.The 
Price:Of 


the offer! 


IT'S NOT AS IF BILLY MAYS CAN SELL ANYTHING-JUST ALMOST ANYTHING. HE MADE THE MAKERS OF ORANGE 
GLO RICH, AND NOW, THANKS TO BILLY, OXICLEAN IS ON GROCERY STORE SHELVES. BUT ONCE A PRODUCT IS 
SUCCESSFUL, IT POPS UP CHEAPER ON THE WEB AND BILLY HAS TO FIND ANOTHER TO REPLACE IT. 


tity. "I want to sell billions of things,” he says. 
And he has, which has made him rich (three 
Bentleys, million-dollar homes) and famous. 
There are websites devoted to either loving or 
ћа пе Billy Mays. He shrugs again and says, 
"There's a fine line between love and hate." 
One website is dedicated to fans who want to 
have his baby, though most of those fans are 


sells a product; a pitchman sells himself. | make 
people believe they have to own it” He smiles 
and says, "Life's a pitch, then you buy" 

Now Mays has his own company, Mays 
Promotions, which scours the earth for 
newly invented gadgets like, say, the 
double-bladed saw tipped with titanium, 
guaranteed not (concluded on page 158) 


FAHRENHEIT 


o 


vvhat if free thought was an offense against the state and a fireman’s job was to 

burn books? Bradbury imagined such a world in his 1953 novel, and Playboy was 

the first to serialize what soon became a classic of dystopian literature. This 

graphic adaptation of one mar's refusal to conform is no less incendiary than the 
original and a vivid reminder of what story can do in any form 


d from Ray Bradbury z Fahrenhel STE THE Avion: 


med Ө! Не work appearing herein is. с 


ШШ EL шш: sthaly promised, The righe producer 


ша Eger in August from Hill EVE) га division of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, ШС. CAUTION: = 


ү 


STONEMAN AND BLACK DREW i HERE 

FORTH THEIR RULE BOOKS WE ARE! 
AND LAID THEM OUT 

WHERE MONTAG MIGHT READ: 


ENOUGH 
OF THAT! 


THE ALARM SOUNDED. 
THE CARDS FELL IN A 
FLURRY.. THE MEN WERE 
СОМЕ. 


FORCE 
HER, 


BEATTY FLICKED HIS FINGERS 
TO SPARK THE KEROSENE. 


- 
MONTAG FELT HIMSELF 
BACK AWAY AND AWAY - 
QUT THE DOOR. 


HE HAD CHILLS AND 
FEVER IN THE MORNING. 


E 


ч 


PEOPLE RAN OUT OF 
HOUSES ALL DOWN THE 
STREET. 


гу. 
TURN IT 
DOWN. 


THAT'S 
MY 
FAVORITE WHAT 
PROGRAM. ABOUT THE 
ASPIRIN? 


HAD A NICE 
EVENING. 


maT THE 

А DOING? || PARLOR. 
WHAT 
WAS 
ON? 


SOMETHING 
HAPPEN? 


PROGRAMS. 


WHAT 
PROGRAMS? 


SHE 
WAS SIMPLE: 


RATIONAL AS YOU 
AND I, MORE SO 
PERHAPS, AND 
WE BURNED 
HER. 


mis 
15 THE DAY YOU GO 
ОМ THE EARLY SHIFT. 

YOU SHOULD'VE GONE 


Two HOURS 
you AGO. 
DONT 

EXPECT ME TO 

CALL CAPTAIN 

ВЕАТТУ, DO You 
You? MUST! Y 
CAN'T CALL 


HIM. I CANT 
TELL HIM ТМ 
SICK, 


Sn | 


YOU'RE 
NOT SICK. 


AW 


V. ново, 
нон WOULD fr BE 
tet, MODE, 

QUY му ов 

MES 


WANT TO. 
GNE UP EVERY- 


Tw 


AFTER 
ALL THESE 
YEARS OF WORK: 
ING, BECAUSE, ONE 
NIGHT, SOME 
WOMAN AND HER 
BOOKS- 


NOW YOUVE 
DONE IT. LOOK 
WHO'S 


OF THE BEST 


be. Š EVER. 


тв 
A GOOD 
THING THE 
RUG'S WASH- 
I ABLE. 
1 


ARENT 
YOU GOING 
TO ASK ME 
ABOUT LAST 
NIGHT? 


ща 


SHE 
SHOULDN'T HAVE HAD BOOKS. 
TT WAS HER RESPONSIBILITY, SHE 
SHOULD'VE THOUGHT 

ОР THAT. 


you you 
SHOULD HAVE WEREN'T THERE. 
SEEN HER, YOU DIDN'T SEE. 
THERE MUST BE SOME- 
THING IN BOOKS... TO 
MAKE A WOMAN STAY 
IN A BURNING 
HOUSE. 


k THOUGHT 
I'D COME ВУ АМО 
SEE HOW THE SICK 
MAN IS. 


¿ ү 1) DE 
pu 


i» “as 
= 
em O 
KM 
FOR A NIGHT OFF. 
Marb ier 
en 


TOMORROW. 


WHEN 
HE NEXT D 
wl you MAYBE. FIRST OF 
BE WELL? 


THE WEEK. 


EVERY 
FIREMAN, 
SOONER OR 
LATER, HITS 
THIS, 


THEY то 
ONLY NEED UNDER- SAY IT REALLY GOT 
STANDING, TO KNOW HOW STARTED AROUND THE CIVIL 
THE WHEELS RUN. WHEN DID WAR. WE DIDN'T GET ALONG 
IT ALL START, YOU ASK, WELL UNTIL PHOTOGRAPHY САМЕ ===] 
THIS JOB OF INTO ITS OWN. THEN-MOTION 
PICTURES. RADIO. 
TELEVISION. 


“POLITICS? ONE COLUMN, TWO SENTENCES. | | “ORGANIZE AND ORGANIZE AND SUPER- 
MORE SPORTS FOR EVERYONE, GROUP ORGANIZE SUPER-SUPER SPORTS." 
SPIRIT, FUN, AND YOU DON'T HAVE TO 
THINK, ЕН?” 


ONCE, 
BOOKS APPEALED TO 
А FEW PEOPLE HERE, THERE, 
EVERYWHERE. THEY COULD 
AFFORD TO BE DIFFERENT. 


Sy 
ma 

ДЕ oF свокос coma SOMEWHERE, NOWHERE. 
ili THE GASOLINE REFUGEE.” 


"BUT THEN THE WORLD GOT 
FULL OF EYES AND ELBOWS 

2 aso MOUTHS. QUADRUPLE 
POPULATION. FILMS AND 
RADIOS, MAGAZINES, BOOKS 
LEVELED DOWN TO A SORT 
OF PASTEPUDDING NORM.” 


FULL OF EVIL THOUGHTS, 
LOCK UP YOUR TYPEWRITERS. 
LET'S TAKE UP THE THEY DID. MAGAZINES BECAME А 


MINORITIES IN OUR CNLIZATION. NICE BLEND OF VALIA! 
DON'T STEP ON THE TOES OF T 
DOG LOVERS, THE CAT LOVER: 
DOCTORS, MORMONS, SWEDES, 
BROOKLYNITES, PEOPLE — _ 
FROM MEXICO. THE 
BIGGER YOUR 
=> МАВКЕТ, ТНЕ 
ТУЙ, 225 you use 
y 5# CONTROVERSY, 
REMEMBER 
THAT! 


BOOKS, 
50 THE DAMNED 
SNOBBISH CRITICS 
SAID, WERE DISHWATER. 
NO WONDER BOOKS 
STOPPED SELLING, THE 
PUBLIC, KNOWING WHAT 
IT WANTED, LET THE 
сомс BOOKS 
‘SURVIVE. 


“PICTURE IT. NINETEENTH- 
CENTURY WAN WITH HIS 
HORSES, DOGS, CATS, 
SLOW MOTION. THEN, IN 
THE TWENTIETH CENTURY, 
SPEED UP YOUR CAMERA. 
CONDENSATIONS. 

DIGESTS. EVERYTHING 
BOILS DOWN TO THE SNAP 
ENDING. CLASSICS CUT TO 
FILL A TWO-MINUTE BOOK 
COLUMN.” 


AND 


BORN 


THE THREE-DIMENSIONAL TECHNOLOGY, IT THIS BRIGHT BOY YOU ONE BEE 
SEX MAGAZINES, OF COURSE. MASS EXPLOITATION, EOD FOR TAING AND _ FREE AND EQUAL, AS 
THERE YOU HAVE IT, MONTAG- AND MINORITY PRESSURE TORTURES AFTER HOURS? THE CONSTITUTION SAYS, 

TT DIDN'T COME FROM THE CARRIED THE er BUT EVERYONE MADE 
GOVERNMENT DOWN. THERE TRICK. EQUAL. 


WAS NO DICTUM, NO 
DECLARATION. 


EACH 
MAN THE IMAGE OF TAKE 
; THEN ALL THE SHOT FROM THE 
50! A BOOK WEAPON. WHO KNOWS WHO 
IS A LOADED GUN IN THE MIGHT BE THE TARGET OF THE 
HOUSE NEXT DOOR. WELL-READ МАК? МЕ? I WON'T 
BURN IT. STOMACH THEM FOR A 
MINUTE. 


TODAY, 
THANKS TO 

THEM, YOU CAN 
STAY HAPPY ALL 


yes, 
BUT WHAT 
ABOUT THE 
FIREMEN, 
THEN? 


P 


wur 
Do we WANT N 
Tas COUNTRY, ABOVE ALL? 
РЕЗЕ WANT ТО Be HAPPY, 
ISNT ATRIO TATS AL. YES. 
WE LNE FOR, ISNT IT? FOR 
PLEASURE, FOR ES 
AS 


SURELY YOU REMEMBER THE BOY 
IN YOUR OWN SCHOOL CLASS WHO WAS 
EXCEPTIONALLY “BRIGHT,” DID MOST OF THE 
RECITING AND ANSWERING WHILE THE OTHERS 
SAT, HATING HIM. 


ONE 
LAST 


THERE THING. AT 
WAS A GIRL NEXT LEAST ONCE IN 
DOOR. SHE'S GONE CLARISSE HIS CAREER, 
NOW, I THINK, DEAD. SHE MCCLELLAN? EVERY FIREMAN 
WAS DIFFERENT. HOW- WEVE A RECORD GETS AN ITCH. 
HOW DID SHE ON HER FAMILY. WHAT DO THE 
HAPPEN? WE'VE WATCHED BOOKS 


THEM CAREFULLY. 
HEREDITY AND 
ENVIRONMENT 


p 


ARE FUNNY 
THINGS. 


WELL, 
THEN, WHAT IF A FIRI 
ACCIDENTALLY, REALLY NOT 
INTENDING ANYTHING, TAKES A 
BOOK HOME WITH 
HIM? 


you 
CAN'T RID YOUR- 
SELVES OF ALL THE ODD Ҹ 
DUCKS IN JUST A FEW YEARS. 
THE GIRL? SHE WAS A TIME BOMB. 
SHE DIDN'T WANT TO KNOW HOW 
A THING WAS DONE, BUT WHY. YOU 
ASK WHY TO A LOT OF THINGS 
AND YOU WIND UP 
| VERY UNHAPPY 
INDEED. 


ор 


THE 
POOR GIRL'S 
BETTER OFF 


REMEMBER, 
MONTAG, WE'RE THE 
HAPPINESS BOYS. WE 

STAND AGAINST THE SMALL 

~ TIDE OF THOSE WHO WANT TO 

ДВЕ MAKE EVERYONE UNHAPPY 

WITH CONFLICTING 
THEORY AND 
‘THOUGHT. 


MONTAG, TAKE 
MY WORD FOR IT, 


KNOW WHAT I WAS 
ABOUT, AND THE 


А 
NATURAL 
ERROR. 


= 
LET THE 
FIREMAN KEEP 
THE BOOK TWENTY- 
FOUR HOURS. ТЕ HE 
HASN'T BURNED 
TT BY THEN, МЕ 
SIWPLY COME 
BURN IT FOR 
HIM. 


WELL, 


MY TIME, то 


BOOKS SAY 
NOTHING! 


YOU HEAR 


KNOWS ALL THE 
ANSWERS. FUN IS 
EVERYTHING. 


SHE SEIZED 


A BOOK AND 
AND RAN TOWARD. 
YET I KEPT THE KITCHEN 
SITTING THERE INCINERATOR. 
SAYING TO 
MYSELF, ТМ NOT THINK. BUT NOW IT 
HAPPY, IM NOT LOOKS AS IF 
HAPPY. WERE IN THIS 


Tos! 


ЕР. 


LISTEN. GIVE МЕ А 
COND, WILL YOU? WE CANT 
DO ANYTHING. WE CAN'T BURN 
THESE. I WANT TO LOOK AT THEM, 
AT LEAST LOOK AT 
THEM ONCE. 


weve 
GOT TO START SOME- 

WHERE HERE, FIGURING OUT WHY 
WE'RE IN SUCH A MESS, YOU AND THE 
MEDICINE NIGHTS, AND ME AND MY 
WORK. WE'RE HEADING RIGHT 
FOR THE CLIFF, 
MILLIE. 


IF WHAT THE 
CAPTAIN Si 
TRUE, МЕЛ... BURN THEM 
TOGETHER, BELIEVE ME, 
WE'LL BURN THEM 
TOGETHER. YOU 
MUST HELP 
МЕ. 


Gop, 
I DON'T WANT TO 
GO OVER. I NEED YOU 
50 MUCH RIGHT 
NOW. 


62 


MacFarlane 

(continued from page 52) 
fuel-efficient hybrid vehicles with on- 
board navigational systems and unprec- 
edented safety features—and yet police 
recently arrested a man in Michigan for 
sticking his dick in a car wash vacuum 
hose. Electronic devices packed into 
microprocessors can bring every piece 
of written knowledge to our desktop 
at the touch of a finger, and still we 
huddle inside office cubicles, watching 
two young Asian women share a cup 
of poop. À network of orbiting global 
satellites circles the planet, bouncing 
sound and images to places once un- 
reachable, with the potential to unite 
us with messages of hope—and I use 
it to do a show about a guy who once 
turned down sex with his wife because 
he farted so hard he hurt his balls. 

See, as smart as we are, deep down 
we're basically big shaved monkeys do- 
ing a collective cosmic Texas two-step 
around the sun—one step up, two steps 
back. But we are moving forward to 
some degree, and the signs are every- 
where. Polio, diphtheria and scarlet fe- 
ver no longer threaten kids, and we are 
now free to grow up and die of obesity, 
heart failure or idiocy from driving a 
moped down a flight of stairs on spring 
break. All that we can ever imagine—or 
have yettoimagine—is ahead ofus, from 
flying cars and robot maids to even—as 
some old codger from my childhood 
once dreamed—cheeseburgers in pill 
form. I never quite saw the appeal of 
that one, actually. Why lose out on the 
fun of eating a cheeseburger? How 
about a cheeseburger that won't clog 
my arteries or make my midsection 
look like a python that just swallowed a 
small farm animal? 

Ibelieve all this and more is in our fu- 
ture. As long as we find the strength to 
resist those destructive impulses embed- 
ded in all of us, I believe we are truly on 
the cusp of what could be a spectacular 
and glorious age. I'd even like to believe 
that in some small way I could contrib- 
ute to our growth and help us move to- 
ward a better world. But unfortunately, 
for now, I can think only of Tanya Rob- 
erts's ass. And a cheeseburger. 

Seth MacFarlane is the creator and writer 
of the TV series Family Guy. 


THE FUTURE OF TELEVISION 
by Ben Silverman 


The television has been the centerpiece 
of the living room for the past 40 years. 
Butit's evolving. In the future it will have 
an Ethernet connection, making the liv- 
ing room a place where you consume 
broadcast shows and access thousands 
of hours of library content, video on 
demand and streaming and interactive 
media. TV and computer will merge 


with a hard drive, which will give you the 
capacity to deliver two-way functionality 
and high-speed Internet through your 
50-inch flatscreen. You'll be able to plug 
a portable device into your hard drive so 
you can have a hub in your home where 
you can surfthe web and watch program- 
ming, then plug in a Zune, iPod or Black- 
berry and load up on content. The days 
of everyone having to sit down to watch 
shows at the same time are over. We'll still 
have fans who will watch content the mo- 
ment it's available and big events that will 
be consumed the way they were 25 years 
ago—things like the Super Bowl, Macy's 
"Thanksgiving Day Parade and the Olym- 
pics. What is changing is the way tradi- 
tional scripted, narrative entertainment 
will be consumed. 

Consumers will either have to pay new 
subscription fees to fund programming 
or have to tolerate a lot more imbedded 
advertising. You'll have things that look 
like the television shows of the 1950s, 
when advertisements were within the 
programs and the shows were branded 
around a product: Kraft Television Theater 
or Texaco Star Theater. 

The combination of video and adver- 
tising has been the basis of TV since its 
birth. We need to work with advertisers 
to ensure they're linked to content, so 
that if a show and its ads aren't consumed 
on the initial broadcast the advertiser can 
still benefit when people watch them on 
Hulu, VOD or NBC.com. 

On the creative side we're seeing a 
number of advancements, but much of 
television is the same as it was 20 years 
ago. The top shows are still cop shows, 
hospital shows, family sitcoms and of- 
fice comedies. We need to find killer 
creative applications. Who Wants to Be a 
Millionaire? democratized the game show, 
made it an event with the interactivity of 
phone-a-friend. American Idol put power 
in the hands of the audience. There will 
be more of those creative evolutions. The 
key is to develop ideas that can tap into 
technology, not just in changing how a 
traditional episode is re-aired, rebroad- 
cast or made available in a different plat- 
form. The creative breakthroughs won't 
come just from companies like ours. May- 
be the new Office is being made by college 
kids. Or you may find the next Jimmy 
Fallon taping shows in his apartment, as 
opposed to being represented by a talent 
agency. The at-home entrepreneur will 
have more opportunity to get his or her 
ideas across. 

There will be a lot of roadkill along the 
way in the next few years, but I think it's 
an exciting time. The storytellers and the 
people who know how to do compelling, 
repeatable, strong content will be even 
stronger as we continue to migrate into 
the new world. 

Ben Silverman is co-chairman of NBC 
Entertainment and Universal Media Studios. 


A CONFUSION OF TERMS 
By Michael Eric Dyson 


Since Barack Obama took residence 
in the White House, a lot of folks think 
it’s a fait accompli that the United States 
has become, with the election of our first 
black president, a postracial society. Stop 
the presses. It just ain't so. Instead of be- 
ing forward-looking the term recalls the 
wish for Negro removal, the impetus 
behind the 19th century movement to 
send blacks back to Africa and the so- 
called urban renewal of the 20th centu- 
ry. The fantasy that blackness can some- 
how be done with, overcome, gotten rid 
of, quenched, quarantined, cordoned 
off or finally resolved is what really lies 
behind the ungainly word postracial. It 
really means postblack. But black folks 
can't—and shouldn't—have to stop be- 
ing black to be seen as fully human and 
completely American. Let's compare 
gender and race to get at the problem. 
Enlightened women and their male al- 
lies don't want this to be a postfemale 
society. We want this to be a postmisogy- 
nist society, a postsexist society, perhaps 
even a postpatriarchal society. We don't 
want women to stop being women. We 
want men and women to overcome 
negative, ill-informed beliefs and sexist 
behaviors that trump the recognition of 
their complex humanity and full equali- 
ty. So why do black folks have to stop be- 
ing black to be accepted as full-fledged 
members of society? We're already as 
American as we need to be. Blackness 
and Americanness are not mutually ex- 
clusive. What we should strive for is a 
postracist society. Obama's presidency 
will hardly put a dent in the forces that 
pulverize black life: high infant mor- 
tality and unemployment, poor health 
care, atrocious educational inequality, 
racial profiling. That's not to suggest 
that his presidency bears little symbolic 
value; that the leader of the free world 
is a black man carries huge meaning. It 
shows we have matured as a country. It 
proves we can look beyond color to see 
character and credentials. But it doesn't 
mean that we have arrived in the ra- 
cial promised land or that we're done 
with blackness. It means there's a new 
blackness in town, for sure, but not the 
absence of blackness. And it means we 
have the opportunity to slay the dragons 
of racism and inequality that stalk the 
national landscape, even as we welcome 
the appearance of new understanding 
and progress in the Age of Obama. 

Michael Eric Dyson is university professor 
of sociology at Georgetown University and 
author of 18 books, including Can You Hear 
Me Now?: The Inspiration, Wisdom and 
Insight of Michael Eric Dyson. 


"Wouldn't it be marvelous if my husband fell in love with your husband?" 


63 


DOUBLE VI/ION 


PLAYBOY's DNA often begets identical siblings, 
from our first twins, the Collinsons, in 1970, to this 
month's Centerfolds, Kristina and Karissa Shannon 


wins have 
folklore at 
grabbed 50 


DEISY and SARAH TELES 
64 December 2003 


` JE CNS КИ Ў А 2 
MADELEINE and MARY COLLINSON, October 1970 MANDY and SANDY BENTLEY, May 2000 


ROSIE and RENEE TENISON, August 2002 


5 А 


ТНЕ ОМЕ ТНЕ ОМЕ 


ON THE LEFT ON THE RIGHT 


SOME PERFECTION IS DEBATABLE. 


TEQUILA ` 
100% DE AGAVE 


SILVER , 


РАТКОК. 


HECHO EN MEXICO 
SOLE IMPORTER: 


SOME IS NOT. Made by hand from 100% blue agave. 


The world's #1 ultra-premium tequila. 


The perfect way to enjoy Patrón is responsibl 


олго оу AN “Seña зел Auedwoy SluIdS uoyed SUL 8002: 


SIMPLY PERFECT. 


simplyperfect.com 


)GRAPHY OF MASCULINE CHEFS LIKE MARIO BATALI AND 


TOM COLICCHIO HAS TURNED A GENERATION OF MEN INTO FOODIES. 
REGIONAL CUISINES=NO MATTER HOW SLOPPY—HAVE BECOME CURIOSITIES FOR THE MOST SOPHISTI- 
CATED OF PALATES. ЕОН-ТНЕ FIRST ОВА SERIES OF ARTICLES, WE SEND THE PLAYBOY GOURMAND TO 
MCCEARD" PRINGS, ARKANSAS TO LEARN THE ART OF GRILLING PORK RIBS. MASTER THESE 
KILLS IN YOUR OWN BACKYARD AND YOU'LL BE THE MOST POPULAR MAN IN YOUR STATE. 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY JAMES IMBROGNO 


BARBECUE WORLD CHAMPION 
Recipe courtesy of joedavidson.com 


15 oz. cans of pork and beans 

15 oz. can of dark-red kidney beans 
15 oz. can of black beans 

green bell pepper, diced 


n gangsterspeak it was a *wide- 
open city." Leniency on the part of 
lawmen in Hot Springs, Arkansas lured 
the country's most notorious wiseguys 
during the most heralded era of gang- 
sterdom: Alvin “Creepy” Karpis, Lucky 
Luciano, Meyer Lansky. Al Capone 
based his bootlegging operation here, 
running moonshine in railroad cars 
marked MOUNTAIN VALLEY WATER. Їп 
1928 a restaurant that catered to these 
men and their moneyed ilk opened. 
The McClard family made its bones 
cooking meat and sauce so good they 
should have been illegal. 
Bible-thumpers have long since 
replaced the goons in this sleepy back- 
water town, but McClard's is still in 
business. It has been called the most 
authentic restaurant in America. Bill 
Clinton grew up less than a mile away. 
*The chopped beef and beans are his 
favorite," says Scott McClard, great- 
grandson of the founder. *When he 
was governor he would send men down 


— BEST BEANS ON THE PLANET ar 


red bell pepper, diced 
јајарећо pepper, seeds 
removed and diced 
small red onion, diced 
cups brown sugar 

Ib. chopped barbecued 
brisket (optional) 


18 oz. jar of your favorite to- 
mato-based barbecue sauce 


all the time to pick it up, and when he 
was president Га meet him at the air- 
port and deliver enough barbecue to 
fill Air Force One.” Clinton still stops 
by when he's in town, as do other 
McClard's fans like Dallas Cowboys 
owner Jerry Jones and Aerosmith gui- 
tarist Joe Perry (who is so into barbe- 
cue he bottles his own sauce). 

On an April morning just before six 
A.M., Scott and his father, Joe McClard, 
are in the restaurant's dungeonlike 
kitchen, tossing hickory logs into the 
bottom of two fire pits, each the size of 
a Honda Accord. Hanging on the walls 
are the tools of the trade: iron meat 
hooks, a well-worn ax. *We do things 
pretty archaically down here," Scott 
says. *This is exactly how my great- 
grandfather Alex did it in 1928." I have 
come to master the art of barbecue as 
only McClard's can do it. Minutes after 
sunrise I’m in barbecue boot camp. 

We start the fire with the logs, newspaper 
and matches. I manage to get one of the pits 


Preheat oven or grill to 350 
degrees. Drain beans and mix 
with all the remaining ingredi- 
ents in an aluminum-foil pan. 
Place the pan on a cookie 
sheet and cook at 350 degrees 
for two hours. Let stand 30 
minutes before serving. 


going without setting myself ablaze, though 
it's hard to ignore the smell of singed hair 
on my wrists. We load the pits with 35 
pounds of pig legs, 50-pound *gooseneck" 
beef cuts and 20 racks of pork ribs. The 
meat goes into the pits without any dry rub, 
no splatter of sauce, not even a dash of salt. 
Hickory smoke and history offer up all the 
flavor that's needed. 

By 6:15 the fire is roaring. Research 
any barbecue recipe and you'll learn the 
*correct? temperature at which to cook 
under the so-called low-and-slow theory: 
225 degrees to 250 degrees. McClard's 
pits are clocking in at a blazing 500. My 
shirt is covered in pig blood, and my arms 
are ready to give out from the weight of 
Flintstones-size cuts of beef. At 6:20 the 
Godfather arrives. 

Silver haired and gregarious, J.D. 
McClard, son of founder Alex McClard, 
started working for his dad in 1942. *I 
remember the first time I went to deliver 
barbecued goat to a gangster's card game," 
he says. “I knocked on the door and heard 


1928 in Hot Springs, Arkansas and catered to gangsters like Meyer Lansky and Lucky Luciano. 
Bottom right: J.D. McClard, the 85-year-old son of the founder, holds a portrait of one of the joint's biggest fans. 


Ф е 


ВЕЕР PORK, ( RIBS 
BEANS 


SLAW 
FRENCH FRIES 


HOZ 


LOCKHART, TEXAS 
Recipe courtesy of 


Legends of Texas Barbecue 
Cookbook by Robb Walsh 


the shotguns lock. When they 
opened the door I saw all their 
girls running around in their 
panties. They gave me a 50- 
cent tip." J.D. retired three 
years ago, at the age of 82. 
Quick to ask when the Play- 
mates will be showing up, he 
takes me outside to show off 
his new Lincoln with plates 


reading BAR-B-Q. 

He likes to tell the 
story of how the res- 
taurant was born. 

In the 1920s Alex 


cup olive oil 


cup white vinegar 
tsp. ground black pepper 


tsp. celery seed 
tsp. celery salt 
tsp. sugar 


was running a little hotel 
near the entrance to Hot 
Springs National Park. One 
guest couldn't come up with 
the 10 bucks to settle his 
bill. *My daddy wouldn't 
let the man off without get- 
ting something in return," 
he says, “зо the guy offered 
to give him the recipe for 
the world's best barbecue 
sauce and teach him the 
ropes." Over the next 
two weeks the two 
men built a pit brick 


- 
Rm 


am MITA TED 
Y AO Di A а а 


* PARTY PLATE * 


INGREDIENTS: 


The key to making the perfect 
plate of grilled pork ribs is the 
same as it is with anything else 
you want to do well in life: atten- 
tion to detail. Here's a step-by- 
step guide to rib deliciousness. 


The most important step 
in making pork ribs is buying the 
right meat. "Most local butchers 
love it when someone comes in 
on a mission to tackle a man-size 
cut, so ask some questions," says 
Scott McClard. "Tell him what 
you're fixing to do and | guaran- 
tee you'll walk out with the best 
stuff he has got." 


Real barbecue re- 
quires at the very least charcoal 
and, if you can find them, some 
wood chips for flavor. The best 
chips are hickory, but you can 
also use applewood or a mix of 
both. "Be sure to 

soak the chips 
in water for 
at least an 
hour before 
tossing 
them in 
with the 


Dump about 30 pieces of 
charcoal, along with your chips, 
into the pit, and light. Divide the 
pile in two and push each to 
opposite ends so the meat can 
cook in the middle over indirect, 
steady heat. After an hour, get an- 
other grill, a chimney starter or a 
coffee can go- 
ing with 15 
more 
pieces 
of char- 
coal so 
you can 
keep 
the heat 
on the grill 
constant for a long time. 


Rinse the 
racks of raw ribs, then pat them 
dry with paper towels. Combine 
two tablespoons each of kosher 
salt, black pepper, рарпка, brown 
sugar and garlic powder. Rub the 
mixture 
firmly into 
the meat, 
then place 
it on the 
middle of 
the grill. 
Feel free 
to stack 
the ribs 
on top of 
each oth- 
er; just remember to rotate every 
20 minutes or so. 


Let the meat sit on the 
grill uncovered for about three 
hours. Be sure to monitor the 
heat by opening the grill vents if 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY ERIC LARSEN 


shredded 


and 
before serving. 


the fire gets too cool or closing 
them if it's burning too hot. 
Ribs make a great 
party meal be- 
cause they can 

be cooking 
while your 
guests 
sip cock- 
tails and 
eat hors 
d'oeuvres 
in anticipa- 
tion of the 
main event. 


Time to crack 
open your favorite barbecue sauce 
(McClard's sells its own at mcclards 
.com). "The biggest mistake peo- 
ple make is putting sauce on the 
meat too early" says McClard. 
"There's plenty of sugar in 
most sauce, and it'll burn if 
it’s on the meat too long. 
That's why you've prob- 
ably had barbecued chicken 
that's black on the outside 
and raw inside." Use a bast- 
ing brush or a spoon to cover 
the ribs with a small amount 


tsp. basic yellow mustard 
medium green cabbage, 


Combine all the ingredients 
and toss until well mixed. Cover 
refrigerate overnight 


THE ВАСКҮА В piéce di 
résistance: barbecued poi 


of sauce. (Have more sauce avail- 
able for guests to add if they 
want.) Then leave the racks on the 
grill for a final searing. 


When are the ribs ready? 
"Take your long fork and push it 
into the thickest part of your cut," 
says McClard. "If the fork pulls out 
with slight resistance, you're ready. 
If it takes a little might to remove 
the fork, it's not ready." The meat 
will continue to cook after you've 
taken it off the grill, so let it sit for 
10 minutes. Carefully slice the racks 
into individual ribs and serve. 


Onetaste and you'll know why 
it takes hours to cook the perfect rib. 
It's all about texture and flavor. Make 
sure there are plenty of napkins, cold 
beer, bourbon, ice and Coke. 


—— MAMA FAYE'S HOME-STYLE POTATO SALAD = 


OWNER OF 17TH STREET BAR & 
GRILL IN ILLINOIS 

Recipe courtesy of 

Peace, Love and Barbecue 


Ibs. small red potatoes 
cup finely chopped onion 

large hard-boiled eggs, chopped 
tbsp. celery seed 

cups mayonnaise 

cup sour cream 


by brick while J.D.’s mom tinkered 
with the sauce recipe. *The man took 
off and never once got in touch to see 
what we made of the place," J.D. says. 
The sauce recipe is a secret to this day, 
ocked away in a safe-deposit box at a 
ocal bank—the McClard clan won't 
even reveal which bank it's in. 

“There's really no other like it, and 


tsp. kosher salt 
tsp. ground white pepper 
tsp. sugar 
tsp. mustard 
tbsp. pickle juice or 
pickle relish 

chopped scallions 


Place the potatoes in a large 
pot of salted water. Bring to a 
boil and cook for 40 minutes. 
The potatoes are done when 
an inserted knife comes out 


clean. Drain them and let cool, 
then dice into half-inch pieces, 
leaving on the skins. Toss with 
the onion, eggs and celery 
seed. In a separate bowl, 
blend the mayonnaise, sour 
cream, salt, pepper, sugar, 
mustard and pickle juice or 
pickle relish. Pour over the 
potatoes and mix it all gently. 
Garnish with chopped scal- 
lions. Refrigerate for four 
hours before serving. 


with Fritos, beans, chopped beef, 
sauce, onions and cheddar cheese). It's 
5:30 A.M. and Joe has already been 
here for three hours, making the 24 
gallons of sauce McClard's goes 
through every day. 

*Dude, you gotta hear this," says 
Scott, coming out of the kitchen. The last 
time I saw him it was one A.M. and we 
had just polished off a case of Budweiser. 


He informs me that Mike, one of our 
photographer's assistants, has just 
thrown 10 years of vegetarianism out the 
window. Apparently three days of pho- 
tographing meat was too much for him. 

*So I heard you gave in and had a 
rib," I later tell Mike. 

“I had more than one,” he replies. 

“And? How were they?” 

“Fucking awesome,” he says. 


I’ve tasted them all,” Joe says. “It’s 
tomato based but with a real fiery 
kick. I know people who use it in 
loody marys. 


Finally the time comes to sit down 


and eat. The dining room looks like it 
did when Al Capone ate here: red 
ooths, gumball machines. (While 


“real” barbecue joints have recently 
enjoyed a renaissance across the coun- 
try, most places—with their theme 
decor—are pale imitations of true orig- 
inals like Kreuz Market in Texas, Pete 
Jones’s Skylight Inn in North Carolina 
and McClard’s.) I dig into a plate of 
ribs and fries—six pork ribs covered 
th a pile of hand-cut fries. 

“Well,” Scott asks, “what do you 
think?” 


What’s more simple and perfect than 


w 


meat on a bone cooked over a wood fire 
and eaten with the utensils found at the 
end of your arms? 

“Put it this way," I reply. “If I were 
going to the electric chair, this would be 
my last meal.” 
“We've had that before,” he deadpans. 
“There was a guy who was going to get 
a lethal injection down at the prison in 


southern Arkansas. They called and said 
they were coming to pick up his last 
meal. He wanted a beef sandwich." 

I arrive the next morning after a 
sleepless night 
ingestion of chopped beef, pork shoul- 
der and McClard's famous tamale 


rought on by the 


where McClard's meat is cooked rage at a cool 500 degrees. 
"We do things pretty archaically down here,” says Scott McClard, pictured. "This 
is exactly how my great-grandfather Alex did it in 1928." The McClards cook off 
some 7,000 pounds of meat each week. 


spread (a freakishly good concoction 
of two hand-rolled tamales topped 


THE SexuaL Female 


Ша е CSS ет THE MESS ENG 


У РОТ 


апр OTHER MYSTERIES OF 
пе је Шен scx tidal 


DOES THE G-SPOT EXIST? 


BY CHIP BOWE 


76 


In 1866 Gustave Courbet painted L'Origine du monde ("The Ог 
upper right, magnetic resonance images taken by Dutch scientists of the female reproductive organs at rest, during arousal and 20 
minutes after climax. At lower right, a drawing from Robert Latou Dickinson's 1949 field guide, Human Sex Anatomy, that depicts 
his imagining of intercourse. The Dutch scans show the erect penis actually bends further upward, resembling a boomerang. 


forced Gráfenberg, a Jew, to give up his 
position as head of the gynecology depart- 
ment at a Berlin hospital, he didn't flee, 
believing himself safe because so many of 
his patients were the wives of top party offi- 
cials. But healthy Aryan vaginas couldn't 
save him, and the Gestapo imprisoned 
Gráfenberg on the questionable charge of 
illegally exporting a rare postage stamp. 
After lobbying by Margaret Sanger, the 
founder of Planned Parenthood, the Nazis 
accepted a ransom for his release. 
Gráfenberg immigrated to the U.S., 
where in 1944 he and another prominent 
but now largely forgotten sex researcher, 
Dr. Robert Latou Dickinson, argued in 
The Western Journal of Medicine for a 
then-radical contraceptive: a plastic cap. 
placed over the entrance of the uterus to 
block sperm. As an aside, the men noted 
some patients had reported "a zone of 
erogenous feeling" on the anterior, i.e., 
front, vaginal wall. Gráfenberg contin- 
ued the investigation while examining 
patients. In a 1950 issue of The Inter- 
national Journal of Sexology he reported 
that the urethra (which carries urine from 
the bladder) seems to be surrounded by 
erectile tissue similar to that inside the 
penis. Gráfenberg found the anterior 
wall in every woman to be more sensi- 
tive than any other part of the vagina to 
pressure from his finger. Many women 
may not realize the zone exists, he sug- 
gested, because in the missionary posi- 
tion a thrusting erection would not hit it 
unless the woman draped her legs over 
the man's shoulders. It would be stimu- 
lated, however, if humans consistently 


had sex in the manner most common 
among other mammals—coitus a tergo, 
or doggy style, in which the erect penis 
can apply pressure to the anterior wall. 
Further, Gráfenberg observed that stimu- 
lation of the area caused many women to 
ejaculate a clear liquid that wasn't urine. 
These "profuse secretions" apparently 
had no lubricating effect, he wrote, since 
they did not appear until climax. 

And that was that. Gráfenberg's study 
was filed away for the next quarter 
century—and it might have gathered dust 
for a while longer but for the curiosity of 
a 49-year-old widow named Josephine 
Lowndes Sevely. Following the death of 
her husband, Sevely enrolled at Tulane 
University to pursue a degree. One day in 
spring 1976 she was listening to a biol- 
ogy professor describe the work of sex 
researchers Alfred Kinsey and Masters 
and Johnson. These respected scientists, 
the instructor explained, had identified 
the clitoris as the sole source of female 
sexual pleasure and ejaculation as the 
sole province of men. 

Sevely was taken aback. That's not 
quite right, she thought. Glancing around 
at her much younger classmates, she 
wondered, Do they believe this? 


When the professor, a fungal geneticist 
named Joan Bennett, assigned the class 
to write term papers, Sevely already had 
a topic in mind. A few weeks later, Ben- 
nett found herself immersed in and deeply 
impressed by Sevely's report, in which the 
English literature major offered a parade of 
historical references to vaginally induced 


in of the World"), at left. It would not be shown in public until 1988. At 


orgasms accompanied by the release of 
fluid. Sevely's first citation was the work 
of Dutch anatomist Regnier de Graaf. His 
1672 textbook, New Treatise Concerning 
the Generative Organs of Women, contains 
15 chapters filled with descriptions and 
drawings of female genitalia, including the 
membranous lining of the urethra, which he 
called the female prostate. "The function of 
the prostate," he observed, "is to generate 
a pituito-serous juice which makes women 
more libidinous with its pungency and 
saltiness and lubricates their sexual parts 
in an agreeable fashion during coitus." He 
added, "It should be noted that the dis- 
charge from the female prostate causes 
as much pleasure as does that from the 
male prostate," which produces a milky- 
white fluid that accounts for 25 percent 
of semen. Women can be enticed to this 
pleasure, he said, by "frisky fingers." 
Bennett gave Sevely an А+, wrote her 
a long note of encouragement and told 
her she thought the paper should be 
published. That fall Sevely began gradu- 
ate studies at Harvard, expanding her 
research and soliciting feedback from 
sexologists such as John Money in Bal- 
timore and Dr. William Masters in St. 
Louis. Bennett helped prepare the mate- 
rial, and in February 1978 The Journal 
of Sex Research published J. Lowndes 
Sevely and J.W. Bennett's "Concerning 
Female Ejaculation and the Female Pros- 
tate," followed by 38 references. They 
included Gráfenberg's study, which Sev- 
ely first learned about from a citation in 
Kinsey's 1953 best-seller Sexual Behavior 
in the Human Female but which Harvard 


Medical School librarians had some 
trouble tracking down. Reporters began 
calling Sevely about this amazing "new" 
erogenous zone, and the publicity caught 
the eye of Edwin Belzer Jr., a professor 
of health education at Dalhousie Uni- 
versity in Halifax, Nova Scotia. He sus- 
pected from personal experience that 
many women who complained of incon- 
tinence during sex (and who were some- 
times "fixed" with debilitating surgery) 
were not expelling urine but had, prior to 
Sevely and Bennett's review, accepted the 
dismissive authority of Kinsey and Mas- 
ters and Johnson. Soon after, he visited 
Albuquerque to catch up with colleagues 
from his days teaching at the University 
of New Mexico. When they asked what 
he was up to, Belzer explained his inter- 
est in the puzzle of female ejaculation. 
A graduate student who happened to be 
listening asked if they could meet pri- 
vately. Over coffee at the student union, 
she explained how, to satisfy her own 
curiosity, she had on numerous occasions 
taken pills that contain Urised, a medical 
dye that turns urine blue. She would then 
masturbate by stimulating the front wall 
of her vagina. The fluid that stained her 
sheets at climax had either no color or a 
slightly bluish tinge. "It was her report 
that convinced me this was no unicorn 
hunt," Belzer says. 

And then the dam broke. In New Jer- 
sey sex researchers Beverly Whipple and 
John Perry were in the midst of a study 
in which doctors or nurses examined the 
vaginas of 400 women who said they 
expelled fluid at orgasm but who, when 
tested, had pelvic muscles far too strong 
to blame incontinence. Belzer, who 
had retrieved every source cited by the 
Tulane researchers, heard Whipple and 
Perry speak, in turn, at a conference; 
a week later he mailed them a copy of 
Gráfenberg's paper. Whipple and Perry 
were astounded. Gráfenberg had identi- 
fied the same sensitive area women vis- 
iting their lab were describing to them. 
Because it lies deep within the vaginal 
wall rather than on its surface, the area 
requires firm, rhythmic pressure and is 
usually not sensitive unless the woman is 
aroused, when it swells to the size of any- 
thing from a small bean to a half dollar. 
It's difficult for a woman to find on her 
own unless she is squatting. Because of 
its proximity to the bladder, putting pres- 
sure on the area will make a woman feel 
as if she has to urinate. That may dis- 
courage women from exploring or prevent 
them from enjoying a vaginal orgasm. 

As they prepared their "evidence in 
support of a new theory of orgasm" for 
the February 1981 issue of The Journal 
of Sex Research (Belzer would contribute 
a report in the same issue on "orgasmic 
expulsions"), Whipple and Perry decided 
to honor Gráfenberg for his discovery. 
The world's most famous dead German 


Why Bother? 


woman who has never come in 

her life can still become great 

with child, so it's clearly not 
required to keep us around. Why then 
has female climax survived? Choose 
your favorite hypothesis: 

(1) Orgasm is designed to encourage 
a woman to copulate despite her bet- 
ter judgment, given that she might get 
knocked up and spend nine months—and 
a lifetime—largely incapacitated. How- 
ever, evolutionary biologist David Barash 
and clinical psychiatrist Judith Eve Lipton, 
co-authors of How Women Бо! Their 
Curves and Other Just-So Stories, note 
that many other animals get the job done 
without the promise of “ап orgasmal car- 
rot." In fact, they appear to fuck with a 
sense of "bored resignation." 

(2) Orgasm encouraged early females 
to have sex with a variety of males in 
pursuit of "sustained clitoral stimulation," 
suggests anthropologist Sarah Blaffer 
Hrdy, though these days it just contrib- 
utes to "pair bonding," or bringing cou- 
ples closer together emotionally. Barash 
and Lipton counter that female orgasms 
may actually promote monogamy, based 
onresearch suggesting women are more 
likely to climax with familiar partners. 

(3) Orgasmic contractions help push 
the sperm toward the egg or contrib- 
ute to a safe passage in other ways 
such as by widening the cervix and/or 
weakening the mucus plug blocking 
the entrance to the uterus. Studies by 
biologists Robin Baker and Mark Bel- 
lis suggest if a woman does not reach 
climax or comes more than a minute 
before her partner, she retains much 
less sperm. There's also the commonly 
cited but widely challenged "uterine 
upsuck hypothesis," introduced in 1970 
after two trials on a single volunteer 
supposedly found negative pressure 
(ће. a vacuum) in her vagina. 

(4) Rather than helping the sperm 
along, orgasmic contractions aid fer- 
tilization by pulling the cervix up and 
away, making the journey tougher for 
sperm but giving them more time to 
undergo a chemical transformation that 
prepares them to merge with the egg. 

(5) Orgasm has developed as ап 
exaggerated "post-copulatory dis- 
play," including audibles, to inform other 
potential mates the female has made 
her selection and been fertilized and/or 
to let her partner know she's receptive. 

(6) Orgasm is an evolutionary by- 


YES, WE DO HOPE TO BET LAID 
AGAIN. BUT IN REPRODUCTIVE 
BIOLOGY, IT'S A FAIR QUESTION 


[ 


PESE 


product—women don't need to come, 
but since the clitoris is created with the 
same fetal tissue as the semen-shooting 
penis, climax also happens to exist in 
females. In other words, writes anthro- 
pologist Donald Symons, who proposed 
this explanation in 1979, female orgasm 
has no adaptive function but is simply a 
potential. It's still around because it's too 
hard to eliminate during the sensitive pro- 
cess of creating an embryo, and there's 
no need, since it does no harm. (Biolo- 
gist Elisabeth Lloyd, who examines all 
these hypotheses and a number of oth- 
ers in The Case of the Female Orgasm, 
thinks Symons's conclusion is the best 
one.) The analogy most often cited is the 
male nipple, which has no function but 
appears because nipples develop before 
sexual differenti . Barash and Lipton 
note the problem with this analogy is 
that the clit does do something. 

(7) Orgasm is a way for a woman's 
body to tell her brain she's having sex 
with a suitable partner, ¡.e., a male who is 
confident and unhurried enough to satisfy 
her, which reflects well on the quality of 
his genes (dominant males don't fear 
competitors who might interrupt) and his 
potential as a long-term provider. Barash 
first proposed this idea in 1979 (a good 
year for female-orgasm hypotheses); 
he and Lipton suggest someone test for 
a correlation between a man's skill as a 
lover and his skills as a father. Evolution- 
ary psychologist Clara Jones wonders if 
early women who had multiple orgasms 
attracted better mates because only the 
strongest, most dedicated males could 
and would stick around for more than 
one. It could also explain why females 
fake orgasms, the reproductive equiva- 
lent of a director at an audition saying, 
"Thank you. We've seen enough." 


77 


78 


dick than you do. In 1998 anatomist Dr. Helen O'Connell dis- 

sected the genitalia of 10 female cadavers in an attempt to 
redraw textbooks she had first seen in medical school that portray 
the organ as a miniature penis, a dot or, worst of all, nonexistei 
O'Connell's work confirmed the 17th century observations of Пе: 
de Graaf, who sketched the clitoris as a wishbone, with a visible 
and legs, or crura, reaching into the body on either side of the va 
O'Connell found these crura to each extend up to 3.5 inches. "The 
vaginal wall is, in fact, the clitoris," she has said. "If you lift the skin 
off the vagina on the side walls, you get the bulbs of the clitoris— 
triangular, crescental masses of erectile tissue" that rest between the 
crura and the urethra. The nerves and tissue of the distal, or front, part 
of the vagina and the clit are so intertwined, as are the vagina and 
the urethra (the floor of one being the ceiling of the other), O'Connell 
suggests the three sisters be renamed "the clitoral complex." 

The clit is secured by suspensory ligaments that reach into the 
body in a fan shape beneath the mons pubis (the fatty area under the 
inverted triangle of pubic hair). These muscles keep the engorged 
organ from bending and pull it up and out of the way in anticipation 
of a thrusting erection—which is why the damn thing becomes so 
much harder to find as a woman gets more turned on. In The Story 
of V, Catherine Blackledge proposes that the clit acts as a sentry—its 
sensitivity ensures a woman will be sufficiently wet to avoid injury. 
In fact, the clitoris head, or glans, is so responsive it is covered by a 
hood of skin to discourage direct stimulation. 

The clit has historically been viewed as the consolation prize of a 
process that turns the same glob of fetal tissue into male or female 
genitalia—i.e., a penile "remnant." But it's more accurate, points out 


T his is a shocking truth, but your girlfriend may have a bigger 


and Yours 


THAN 8,000 NERVE 
IN THE PENIS. + 
EJ 


Josephine Sevely, to think of the race as a tie; the spongy tissue 
inside the pt the male clitoris. The size ratio of the male clit to the 
female clit is five to four, which Sevely notes happens to be the ratio 
of the average male-to-female body weight. In the female, the clitoral 
body is shorter but the crura are longer and spread out. In the male, the 
body is longer but the legs are shorter and closer together. 


gynecologist would no longer be over- 
looked. In fact, he would have his own spot 
in history, his name on—and behind—the 
lips of millions of women. 


As it turns out, Whipple and Perry's 
tribute—the "Gráfenberg spot" (shortened 
by a reporter to the Gee spot and then by 
a publisher to the G-spot)—is a misnomer. 
Even Gráfenberg would have thought so, 
since he used the word only twice in his 
study, once to say it wasn't a fixed spot but 
an area or zone and once to point out that 
women had innumerable erotically charged 
spots all over their body. Moreover, the G 
is more suitable as a tribute to Regnier de 
Graaf, who beat Gráfenberg to the punch 
by nearly three centuries, although he's 
far from the first: A 12th century Indian 
love manual notes a sensitive spot "inside 
and toward the navel." (Whipple and Perry 
would later clarify that Gráfenberg was the 
first modern researcher to describe the 
area.) Josephine Sevely, who in 1987 pub- 
lished her research in a book she called 
Eve's Secrets, objects to the term G-spot. 
"Don't call it that," she says in an interview. 
"You could educate people if you don't call 
it that." Gary Schubach, a researcher who 
wrote his doctoral thesis on the source of 
female ejaculate, proposes the area be 
renamed the G-crest, since, when swol- 
len with arousal, it feels more like a ridge 
than a spot. Early on, Whipple and Perry 
adopted De Graaf's language, calling the 


area "the female prostate gland." But G- 
spot proved to be an ingenious shorthand 
(especially, Perry notes, for a name with an 
umlaut), and a book Whipple, Perry and 
psychologist Alice Kahn Ladas published 
in 1982, The G Spot and Other Discover- 
ies About Human Sexuality, has sold more 
than a million copies in 19 languages. 
The G-spot—or the idea of it— 
commanded attention for the simple 
reason that it meant the clitoris was not 
the sole source of female pleasure, as 
Kinsey and Masters and Johnson insisted 
but many millions of women knew to be 
inaccurate. It meant there is no textbook 
female orgasm; some women come by 
clit, some by vagina but most apparently 
by a "blended" response involving as 
many as five major nerves. Some ejacu- 
late, some don't. Every variation on the 
theme is natural and normal. In a 2005 
study of blood flow in the brain during 
climax, Whipple and a Rutgers University 
colleague, Barry Komisaruk, identified 
four distinct cognitive responses created 
by stimulating the clitoris, G-spot or cer- 
vix or by "thinking off" with no stimu- 
lation (a specialized skill, to be sure). 
They also found that women paralyzed 
by spinal cord injuries can reach orgasm 
through their cervix or vaginal walls. 
The reason? While the clit is connected 
to the brain primarily by the pudendal 
nerve, which travels through the spinal 
cord, the vagina is supplied by the pelvic 


nerve, which does not, and the cervix by 
the pelvic, hypogastic and vagus nerves. 
The female orgasm will not be denied. 


Male scientists have been debating for 
some time whether women can have 
vaginal orgasms without the involvement 
of the clitoris, that amazing organ whose 
only apparent function is to give pleasure. 
Women don't seem to care so much as 
long as both possibilities aren't ignored, 
although many report vaginal orgasms to 
be more intense, especially with ejacula- 
tion. In the early 20th century Sigmund 
Freud hypothesized that as a woman 
matures, she abandons her "phallic" 
masturbatory focus on the clitoris (the 
female version of the penis, said Freud) 
and turns to the more feminine, penetra- 
tive pleasure. Starting in the 1920s Dr. 
Karen Horney relentlessly mocked this 
"clitoral-vaginal transfer theory" until 
the aggrieved Austrian finally lashed 
out, claiming his critic had undiagnosed 
penis envy. Writing in his 1949 Human 
Sex Anatomy: A Topographical Hand 
Atlas, Robert Latou Dickinson sided with 
Horney. "Exalting vaginal orgasm while 
decrying clitoris satisfaction is found to 
beget much frustration," he reported. 
"Orgasm is orgasm, however achieved." 
John Perry believes Freud has gotten a 
bum rap. The psychoanalyst recognized 
both areas as capable of producing cli- 
max, Perry (continued on page 145) 


WE gl 
| ZI ANA 


— 


79 


"She's really taken quite а liking to you!” 


80 


IT TAKES TWO 


hat could be better than the perfect girl next door? 
How about two of them? Spend any time with 19- 
year-old twins Kristina and Karissa Shannon and 
you'll understand why Не! moved them into the 
Mansion. The sexy Floridians radiate youthful energy. When 
we caught up with them on a quiet patio at the Mansion, they 
were dressed in pleasantly snug gym outfits and were eager 
to talk. "We feel as if we're one," says Kristina. "In each other 


we always have a best friend." Kristina and Karissa appeared 
on The Girls Next Door during the 55th anniversary Playmate 
search. Hef asked them to be his girlfriends, and they never 
moved back to Florida. "He's so cool and very smart," say 
the twins. "One thing we have in common is that we all love 
Mafia movies." The two requested Hef's legendary circular 
bed from the Chicago Mansion for their room, and it was 
promptly delivered. "It's huge and could fit 15 people on it," 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY ARNY FREYTAG 


b 


"NW 
~ N ALL 


says Karissa. "It still has Hef's cool old-school phone." Miss July and Miss August always 
wanted to be models and have adjusted quickly to the media attention that comes with 
dating the Man. So do they pay attention to what gossip sites say about them? "If they say 
something bad, they're haters," say the twins. "It doesn't bother us at all." The sisters are 
instead focusing on singing, acting, modeling, boxing and tennis, and they're even studying 


Italian as they anticipate the new season of The Girls Next Door. "We're in the same situation 
and just go through everything together," says Kristina. "When we talk to people, we don't 


say, 'We live at the Mansion.' We say, 'Yeah, that's our house. We're home. 


See more of the Shannon twins 


at club.playboy.com. 


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PLAYBOY'S PARTY JOKES 


| demand a raise,” a man said to his boss. 
“Three other companies are after me.” 

“Is that so?” asked the manager. “What other 
companies are after you?” 

The employee replied, “The electric com- 
pany, the telephone company and the gas 
company.” 


A guy went back to the sex shop to return 
his blow-up doll. “Ехсизе me,” he said, “but I 
blew this doll up last night and right away she 
went down on me. I want my $50 back.” 

The owner replied, “Hell, if I had known 
she could do that, I would have charged 
you $75." 


What's the difference between a good ol’ boy 
and a redneck? 

A good ol’ boy raises livestock; the redneck 
gets emotionally involved. 


A girl asked her mother, “Where did you meet 
Daddy?” 

“At a picnic,” the mother answered. 

“Did I go there with you?” the girl asked. 

The mother answered, “No, sweetheart, but 
you were with me on the way back.” 


A manufacturing company, feeling it was 
time for a shake-up, hired a new CEO. He was 
determined to rid the company of slackers. 

On a tour of the facilities, the CEO noticed a 
guy leaning against a wall. The room was full 
of workers, and he wanted to let them know 
he meant business. He walked up to the guy 
leaning on the wall and asked, “How much 
money do you make a week?” 

Surprised, the young man looked at him and 
replied, “I make $400 a week. Why?” 

The CEO handed the guy $1,600 in cash 
and yelled, “Here’s four weeks’ pay. Now get 
out, and don’t come back!” 

Feeling pretty good about himself, the 
CEO looked around the room and asked, 
“Does anyone want to tell me what that 
slacker did here?” 

From across the room came a voice. “He’s 
the pizza delivery guy.” 


Have you heard about the corduroy pillows? 
They're making a lot of headlines. 


A seven-year-old told her mother a little boy 
in her class asked her to play doctor. “ОБ dear," 
the mother nervously replied. "What hap- 
pened, honey?" 

"Nothing much," said the little girl. “Не 
made me wait 45 minutes, then double billed 
the insurance company." 


А bachelor has a flat stomach because when 
he opens his fridge he says, "Fuck it, the same 
thing again!" and then goes to bed. 

A married man has a potbelly because 
when he goes to bed he says, "Fuck it, the 
same thing again!" and then goes and opens 
the fridge. 


Senator,” an aide called, “there’s someone on 
the phone who wants to know what you plan 
to do about the abortion bill.” 

Не responded, “Tell them ГП have a check 
in the mail by morning.” 


Dear Playboy Advisor: My wife says I don't use 
enough lubricant before we have sex. Exactly 
how many beers am I supposed to drink before 
I bed her? 


bby E 


Doctor, I'm losing my memory,” a man said. 
“What do you suggest I do?” 
He answered, “Pay in advance!” 


A novel idea: Congressmen should wear uni- 
forms like NASCAR drivers so we can identify 
their corporate sponsors. 


The economy is so bad,” one friend said to 
another, “when I got in a cab the other day, 
the driver spoke English.” 


One of the little-known side effects of Viagra 
is a headache. Often when a husband takes the 
pill, his wife gets a headache. 


Send your jokes to Party Jokes Editor, PLAYBOY, 680 
North Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, Illinois 60611, 
or by e-mail through our website at jokes.playboy.com. 
PLAYBOY will pay $100 to the contributors whose sub- 
missions are selected. 


“Wow, spectacular view, isn't it?" 


91 


. You 
. Him 
. Both of you—it's a split pot. 


A 


Ze A 
A.PAUL B.MICK D.GEORGE 
MCCARTNEY TAYLOR CLAPTON HARRISON 


A. Johnny 

Cash 
B. Don 
King 
C. Sonny 
Liston 
D. Duke 
Ellington 


Keith Richards 
Steve McQueen 
Paul Newman 
Ornette Coleman 


A. One comes with traditional bhindi 
sauce, the other with masala sauce. 

B. One delivers a heavy, lazy high, 
while the other is associated more 
with a cerebral, energetic high. 

C. One refers to the female marijuana 
plant, while the other refers to the TONY TONY TOKY ENY 
male plant. SOPRANO MONTANA LUCIANO HILL 

D. There is no difference. 


A. "All | have in this world is my balls 


m 


A. Malbec and my word, and | don't break them 

B. Rioja for no one" > ~ 
С. Sangiovese В. "Murderers come with smiles. They = — 
D. Chianti come as your friends, the people 

E. Bordeaux who've cared for you all of your life." 


оц don't shit where you eat. Ап. 

C. "You don't shit wh: it. And 
you really don't shit where | eat." 

D. "There's no such thing as good money 


| 
D. GERMANY or bad money. There's just money" 


' 
4. ASTON MARTIN DBS 


A. Ronin 
B. Vanishing Point. 
C. Bullitt 

D. Casino Royale 


1. “The sky above the port was the 
color of television, tuned to a 
dead channel." 

2. "All this happened, more or less." 

3. "| was born twice: first, as a baby 
girl, on a remarkably smogless 
Detroit day in January of 1960; 
and then again, as a teenage boy, 
in an emergency room near Petos- 
key, Michigan, in August of 1974." 

4. "It was a bright cold day in April, 
and the clocks were striking 13." 


A. Nineteen Eighty-Four, George 
Orwell (1949) 
B. Neuromancer, William Gibson (1984) 
C. Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides 
(2002) 
D. Slaughterhouse-Five, 
Kurt Vonnegut (1969) ] 


IE] MATCH THE OSCAR-WINNING ACTRESS TO HER BREASTS: 


A. Mark David Chapman 
B. James Earl Ray 

C. John Hinckley Jr. 

D. Marvin Gaye Sr. 


A. Oasis 

B. Yeah Yeah Yeahs 
C. Babyshambles 

D. MGMT 


A. Blood on the Tracks 
B. Infidels 

C. Slow Train Coming 
D. Highway 61 Revisited 


A. Villa Nellcóte 

B. Villa d'Amour 

C. Exile on Main Street 
D. 461 Ocean Boulevard 
A. Glock 7 

B. Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum 

C. Colt .45 

D. .44 Magnum 


A. Allen Ginsberg 
B. William S. Burroughs 
C. Gregory Corso 
D. Neal Cassady 
A. Marilyn Monroe, Mia 
Farrow, international 
A. Hugh Hefner celebrity model Dorian 
B. Stephen Hawking Leigh 
C. The Ramones B. Marilyn Monroe, Frank 
D. George Clooney Sinatra's mistress 
Judith Campbell Exner, 
Nazi spy Inga Arvad 
A. Atom Heart Marilyn Monroe, Jayne 
en Pink Mansfield, New York 
y 5 
. Year Zero, Nine Times political reporter 
Inch Nails Tess Harding 
. Kill Them All, 
Metallica 
. The Who Sells 
Out, The Who 


| MATCH THE ACTOR ТО HIS ROLE IN RESERVOIR DOGS: 


1. Jay-Z 

2. Nas 

3. Notorious B.l.G. 
4. The RZA 

5. Eminem 

6. ОГ Dirty Bastard 


A. Marshall Bruce Mathers III 

B. Robert F. Diggs 

C. Russell Tyrone Jones 

D. Nasir bin Olu Dara Jones 

E. Shawn Corey Carter 

F. Christopher George Latore 
Wallace 


A. He pitched a no-hitter in game 
seven of a World Series. 

B. He pitched a no-hitter on acid. 

C. He was the first "out" gay major 
league baseball player. 

D. He broke Billy Martin's nose in the 
Yankees clubhouse. 


24 WHICH JORDANS ARE WHICH? 


4. STEVE BUSCEMI 


. "You want me to hold the chicken, 


. "Mr. President, I'm not saying we 


. "| like simple pleasures, like butter 


. "Hitler was better-looking than 


. The Producers 

. Dr. Strangelove 

. Five Easy Pieces 
. Boogie Nights 


5.QUENTIN TARANTINO 


huh?" “| want you to hold it be- 
tween your knees." 


wouldn't get our hair mussed, but 
| do say no more than 10 to 20 
million killed, tops—depending on 
the breaks." 


in my ass, lollipops in my mouth. 
That's just me. That's just some- 
thing that I enjoy." 


Churchill. He was a better dresser 
than Churchill. He had more hair, 
he told funnier jokes, and he could 
dance the pants off of Churchill." 


1. Gimlet 
2. Sidecar 
3. Sazerac C. Rum 

4. Bullshot D. Whiskey 
5. Bee's knees E. Gin 


A. Brandy 
B. Vodka 


A. Renzo Piano 

B. Rem Koolhaas 

C. Ludwig Mies van der Rohe 
D. Art Vandelay 


A. San Francisco 49ers 
B. Dallas Cowboys 

C. Green Bay Packers 
D. Miami Dolphins 


A. Vegas 

B. Los Angeles 

C. Barstow 

D. Minneapolis/ 
St. Paul 


A. Rosario Dawson 


Nes 
B. Zooey Deschanel D. Scarlett 
Johansson 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY SCOTT ANDERSON 


2. BILLGATES 


MATCH THE MUG SHOT TO THE CRIME: 


1. “1 believe that sex is one of the 
most beautiful, natural, wholesome 
things that money can buy." 

2."A lot of people say to me, 'Why 
did you kill Christ?' 1 dunno, it was 
one of those parties, got out of 
hand, you know." 

3. “I'd like to die like my father died... 
My father died fucking. My father 
was 57 when he died. The woman 
was 18. My father came and went 
atthe same time." 

4. "The problem is that God gives men 
a brain and a penis and only enough 
blood to run one at a time." 


A. Steve Martin 
B. Robin Williams 
C. Richard Pryor 
D. Lenny Bruce 


A. Space Invaders 
B. Computer Space 
C. Pong 

D. Pac-Man 


FILL IN THE 

BLANK: “IT'S 
5 

WORLD. 

WE JUST LIVE 

IN IT." 


A.John McLaughlin, Michael 
Henderson, Billy Cobham, Herbie 
Hancock, Miles Davis 

B. Ornette Coleman, John Coltrane, 
Billy Cox, Miles Davis 

C. Charlie Parker, Buddy Rich, Marcus 
Miller, Miles Davis 


BONUS QUESTION 


IN EASY RIDER, WHAT 
IS THE LAST LINE THAT 
SUMS UP THE FILM AND 
THE END OF HIPPIE 
IDEALISM? 


M 


3. LINDSAY LOHAN 


а € 


4. ALPACINO 


A. Original Penguin 
B. Fred Perry 

C.Le Tigre 

D. Burton 


A. All Quiet on the Western Front 
B. Seven Samurai 

C. The Seventh Seal 

D. Star Whores VII 


THE 40-YEAR-OLD VIRGIN 


FREAKS 
AND 
GEEKS 
| SUPERBAD 
KNOCKED UP 


PINEAPPLE EXPRESS 


ANCHORMAN: 
THE LEGEND OF RON BURGUNDY 
и STEP BROTHERS 


WALK HARD: 


THE DEWEY COX STORY 


BY ERIC SPITZNAGEL 
PHOTOGRAPHY ВУ 
ART STREIBER 


JUDD 
APATOW 


THE COMEDY GENIUS BEHIND ALMOST EVERY FUNNY MOVIE EVER MADE EXPLAINS HIS OBSESSION 
WITH PENISES, HIS FRIENDSHIP WITH SETH ROGEN AND HIS UNIQUE WAY OF GETTING REVENGE 


Q1 
PLAYBOY: Your new movie, Funny People, is about a middle- 
aged, highly successful comic dying from a rare blood disorder 
who mentors an up-and-coming young comic played by Seth 
Rogen. Coincidentally, you're a middle-aged, highly successful 
comedy writer and director who has mentored a young comic 
named Seth Rogen. Are you trying to tell us something? 
APATOW: No. Luckily that part of the movie is all from my imag- 
ination. | can say with full confidence that I'm not dying from a 
rare blood disorder. | had always wanted to make a movie about 
the relationship between two comics. The problem was | didn't 
have a great story. Nobody wants to watch a two-hour movie 
about a hilarious older comic being kind to a young man. That's 
just a terrible idea. But then it turned into a demented-mentor 
movie with a father-son aspect. | find that fascinating. 


Q2 
PLAYBOY: Your characters suffer through failed marriages, 
fractured relationships, the slow conviction that everything 
they've done is crap and, eventually, dying young. Is that 
what success as a comedian means to you? 

APATOW: There's a fine line between what's healthy about 
being a comedian and what's sick and twisted about it. When 
I'm doing good work, a part of me feels as though it's а contribu- 
tion to society. I'm making people laugh and helping them think 
about their lives in a positive and life-affirming way. At the same 
time, a sick, wounded part of me just wants to know somebody 
out there likes me. | serve both gods simultaneously. 


Q3 
PLAYBOY: How is making a comedy film different from 
being in therapy? 

APATOW: It's different because you don't have a therapist to 
interpret your babblings for you. Just before | started shooting 
Funny People | stopped going to therapy. And now that I've 
finished the movie I have this weird instinct to avoid going 
back. | think it's my responsibility to work through all the 
issues the movie raised for me. In a weird way, it seems as 
though talking about it with a therapist would be cheating. 


Q4 

PLAYBOY: Men cry a lot in your movies. Are you a naturally 
weepy sort? 

APATOW: Absolutely. I'm a big crier. Sometimes when my wife 
and l are watching a movie we'll both start to cry at the same time, 
and then we'll slowly turn toward each other to acknowledge that 
it got both of us. That's great and funny when we're both crying, 
but it's not so wonderful when I'm the only one in tears. 


Q5 

PLAYBOY: Your movies are so popular your first name has 
become a verb: "Judd it up" has become a familiar refrain 
on Hollywood movie sets. Is it humbling to realize you've 
spawned your own comedy genre? 

APATOW: I don't think I’m doing anything particularly dif- 
ferent or original. There's nothing new about comedies about 
underdogs who make an enormous number of mistakes and 


97 


98 


learn from them. That goes back to Buster Keaton. We're just 
doing our generation's version of Buster Keaton. 


Q6 
PLAYBOY: When you were growing up, you used to transcribe Sat- 
urday Night Live scenes. In hindsight, was that time well spent? 

APATOW: Back when | was watching Saturday Night Live for 
the first time, VCRs hadn't been invented yet. So whenever the 
show aired, | thought to myself, If | don't watch this now, | may 
never get to see it again for ће rest of my life! I would put a tape 
recorder right next to the TV, and then I'd sit up all night and 
transcribe the skits that amused me the most. | don't know why 
| did it. | did the same thing with Twilight Zone episodes. 


Q7 
PLAYBOY: As a teenager, you interviewed dozens of your com- 
edy idols, including Garry Shandling and Jerry Seinfeld, for a 
high school radio station. Did you ever listen to any of them 
and think, I'm a thousand times funnier than this guy? 
APATOW: Not really. | always tried to interview people | 
respected. Some were nicer than others. Some of them taught 
me lessons that proved to be invaluable. When | interviewed 
Seinfeld, he said, "It takes seven years to find your voice as a 
stand-up comic” So when started doing stand-up, I didn't think 
| was awesome after being onstage just a few years. It gave me 
a patience | wouldn't have had otherwise. 


Q8 
PLAYBOY: After your first two network TV shows-Freaks and Geeks 
and Undeclared—were canceled, you sent an angry letter to the 
responsible TV executive, wondering how "can you fuck me in the 
ass when your dick is still in there from last time” Has time healed 
all wounds, or is his penis still in you, figuratively speaking? 
APATOW: Nothing is more painful than being canceled. But 
sometimes it just ends out of nowhere and everyone has to 
go home. | tend to take cancellation particularly hard: | cry, 1 
have back surgeries, and I'm bitter for decades. 


09 
PLAYBOY: Do you ever attempt to get revenge? 

APATOW: | go so far as to attempt to turn every single person 
who ever acted on any show I've ever been involved with into a 
feature-film star just so | can prove | was right about the TV show. 
Sometimes the actors will say to me, "Wow, you must really think 
I'm good." No, | don't think you're good at all. | just have to prove 
to that goddamn TV executive that he made a mistake. It's not 
a sign of my support; it's a sign of how insane | am. I'm the most 
arrogant man on earth, and | always need to be right. 


010 
PLAYBOY: From Freaks and Geeks to Funny People, you and 
Seth Rogen have been collaborating for more than a decade. At 
what point do the two of you become common-law spouses? 
APATOW: | don't know if we should be married or if | should 
become his adoptive grandfather. Seth has said he thinks of 
me as his creepy uncle. [laughs] | like that. 


011 
PLAYBOY: You and Adam Sandler, who co-stars in Funny 
People, were roommates in the early 1990s. Was that an Odd 
Couple-type relationship? 
APATOW: We had a good time together. It was a $900-a-month 
apartment. | paid $425, and he paid $475 because he had a bath- 
room in his bedroom. | had to use the guest bathroom. Most 


days we would sleep till noon, get up, eat, spend way too much 
time in a mall, do stand-up-comedy sets at the Improv and then 
eat again at 1:30 in the morning. 


012 
PLAYBOY: While you were roommates, Sandler purportedly 
demanded to see your penis. Did he ever bother to explain why? 
APATOW: He used to say, "I just want to know what I'm deal- 
ing with." That was his only explanation. On some deeply 
macho level, | understood. 


013 

PLAYBOY: Seth Rogen told PLAveov you made some pretty 
bold claims about your penis. Apparently it has gray pubes, 
looks very distinguished and could teach a Harvard class in 
literature. Do you stand by that description? 

APATOW: It's a complete fabrication. | use Grecian Formula 
now. It still looks distinguished. From a certain angle it kind 
of looks like Ben Kingsley. 


Q14 
PLAYBOY: Many of your movies feature male nudity. Why are 
penises so funny? 
APATOW: Because a penis looks like a man with a big nose 
and large ears. [laughs] It's a vulnerable area, so it's good 
for comedy. But you have to be very careful about how much 
you show. | learned this from working on Forgetting Sarah 


's nothing new 
Б dies about 
gs. We're just 

version of 


Marshall, in which Jason Segel is naked for an entire scene. 


915 

PLAYBOY: How much is too much? 

APATOW: When you show a movie with full-frontal nudity to a 
test audience, you instantly learn how many seconds of screen 
time results in how many audience members walking out of the 
theater. You may get away with three seconds of penis exposure, 
but at five seconds you'll lose 18 people. At 10 seconds it could be a 
hundred. The fear of the penis in modern society is unparalleled. 


Q16 

PLAYBOY: If you take out the cursing and the male genitals, 
your movies have traditional pro-family values. Do you con- 
sider yourself a closet conservative? 

APATOW: | never think of my movies in those terms. | just try to 
tell stories that have sorne sort of positive idea behind them. Like in 
Knocked Up | don't think it's a big leap to suggest it may be a good 
thing not to run away when you get somebody pregnant. | don't think 
my values are so shocking. My movies (concluded on page 144) 


WARM UP 


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A 


OS с 


ason Pomeranc has been 

called the man who 

turned "the designer 

hotelier into the latest 
thinking-person's sex symbol." His 
hotels—the Hollywood Roosevelt 
and Thompson Beverly Hills in L.A. 
and New York's Thompson Lower 
East Side and the recently opened 
Smyth among them—are known for 
their celebrity and rock-star clien- 
tele: Brad and Angelina, Prince and 
Lenny, Lindsay Lohan et al. (Prince 
loved the Roosevelt so much he trans- 
formed the penthouse into his own 
vanity suite replete with murals of 
his visage. Courtney Love, less flat- 
teringly, passed out near the David 
Hockney-painted pool and exited by 
ambulance.) Pomeranc's curatorial 
abilities have given each of his hotels 
a personality of its own. 

So when the hotelier, 38, moved 
into his fine-boned contemporary 
downtown New York apartment six 
years ago, he decided it was time, 
as he says, "to evolve": "I wanted to 
remove myself from this vacuum of 
having a personal ‘guy’ space, that 
whole fraternity-house mentality of 
male living.” His home—a 3,000- 
/ >r E ⁄ ) square-foot loft in SoHo, as airy as 

2 ни = В ЕН a gallery, with 12-foot-high ceilings 
, and stainless-steel elevator doors 

opening directly into the living 

area—fit the bill for his new bach- 


elor pad. The fourth-floor space was 


once the gallery of Leo Castelli, the 
fabled art dealer who, in the 1960s 
and 1970s, handled such pop art- 
ists as Roy Lichtenstein and Robert 
Rauschenberg. Like Pomeranc's 
hotels—which all feature specific 


photographers' works, from Steven 
Klein (Thompson Beverly Hills) and 
THERE'S ARTISTRY IN RESIDENCE WITHIN HOTELIER TO Guy Bourdain (Six Columbus) to 


THE HOLLYWOOD SET JASON POMERANC'S BACHELOR John Sparagana (Smyth)—the space 
15 about “anonymity and escap- 


SPREAD IN DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN ism,” says Pomeranc. “While there 
are some elements that are оуег 

BY STEVE GARBARINO п що Я y 
sexual," he says, "it's not just about 


APH sex; it's about mental escape." His 
home is an extension of his hotels. 
100 JAMES IMBROGNO Baggage is checked at the door. 


Left: The pop-out custom teak bar was designed аз a 
flight of jet-setting fancy. Its inspiration: “| wondered 
what it would look like if Dean Ма moved from 
a Palm Springs pad in the 1960s into a Manhattan 
loft," says Pomeranc, whose poison is Patrón on the 
rocks with three limes, by the way. Above: The airy 
stainless-steel kitchen with chopping island caters to 
a party scene. "When cooking does happen in here, 
it's more of a collaborative experience," says Pomer- 
anc. "The kitchen is an extension of the social space of 
the loft." The real cooking occurs in the restaurants in 
Pomeranc's hotels, revered Los Angeles and New York 
spots like BondSt, Blue Ribbon and Shang. 


"The master bedroom and bathroom allude 

to a hotel suite," says Pomeranc. "You feel 

уоште at a distance from the rest of the apart- 

ment." The bedroom windows look out onto 

his 60 Thompson Hotel. Top right: The Elvis 

portrait by Russell Young was appropriated 

from a photo taken at the White House during 

the infamous Nixon-Elvis meeting in 1970; the 
ce is part of the artist's "mug shot" series. 
даје right: This painting is a party scene by 

Lisa Reuter. Says Pomeranc, "Evocative of a 

pop, Warhol-like palette, fun and colorful, 

yet there's a darkness to 

almost predatory." Bottom 

used chocolate syrup as p: 

of Max Ernst and Peggy Guggenh 

ing the Nazis during World War Il. 


| 


ШАТ 
NL 
visti RAM 


As Pomeranc puts 


n the first line of his Thompson Hotel Group manifesto, "In 
a world full of choices, we all need to question who we are and where we belong." 
Everything in his loft is an expression of who he is and where he belongs. Above 
right: A piece called / Marvel the Flames Do Not Wake You, by artist Rob Wynne, 


hangs in the main space opposite the di g table and windows, which allow light to 
flood in by day. The artwork is the hotelier's current favorite. "It's a little foreboding 
to a lot of people," he says of the piece, laughing. “1 think it's a statement to any 
woman who comes in here. Still, | think the apartment is very inviting." Right: The 
soldier drawing, by London-based artist Antony Micallef, is another of Pomeranc's 
favorites. He keeps a small collection of incredibly detailed hand-carved helicopters 
on a long walnut console handcrafted in the Netherlands. "My helicopter collection 
was made Бу a Vietnam war-era sculptor," he says. "It's my arty version of a collec- 
tion of toys a boy would maintain as he grew up." Everywhere the eye falls in this 
loft one finds a balance between thoughtfulness and sim| ; it's high-minded 
design that inspires one to seek adventure. Other art pieces include works by pho- 
tographer Steven Klein (see the moody portrait of Brad and Angelina that hangs 
behind Pomeranc on the first page of this story) and artists Doug and Mike Starn. 


The dining area is likely to be empty during daylight 
hours. Most of the action in Pomeranc's life happens after dark. 
The Prouvé table is made of Brazilian rosewood with signature 
flared legs. When the seats are filled it's usually with guests 
whose names one recognizes. At his informal Oscars party 
Pomeranc hosted much of the cast of Gossip Girl. He had it 
catered with knishes and pastrami sandwiches courtesy of the 
one and only Katz's Deli. The onyx fireplace, framed in 
python print, is next to an inset firewood box. 


arc Ecko is grinning as 

he checks out the latest 

results of his PLAYBOY photo 
session. “ should quit my day job? he 
says, laughing. Though he started out 
doing graffiti, the guy knows his legit 
artists, too. “This shoot is an homage 
to Patrick Маде!” he says, referring 
to the PLAvBov illustrator who went on 
to create the iconic cover for Duran 
Duran's Rio. “Не struck a balance 
between artistic and illustrative com- 
position, as well as balancing the right 
amount of flesh with the right amount 
of styling" In this case Ecko brought 
the style and we brought the flesh, in 
the shapely form of Miss March 2006 
Monica Leigh, Miss May 2007 Shan- 
non James and Cyber Girl Chernise 
Yvette. Because Ecko's an insatiable 
artist and entrepreneur who has made 
his mark in everything from fash- 
ion (see his lines at shopecko.com) 
to magazines, animal rights, video 
games, fragrance and viral video (you 
can watch him tag Air Force One at 
stillfree.com), we weren't surprised to 
find he'd had a fair amount of experi- 
ence with photography. 4 got a lot of 
my creative spirit from my dad, who 
was a regular guy with some real pho- 
tographic chops. We'd turn the laun- 
dry room into a makeshift darkroom 
every weekend.” But was the PLAYBOY 
shoot, you know, fun? "Are you kid- 
ding?" he says. “I got that giddy-little- 
boy laugh as soon as | found out I 
would get to do this” 


X Y 
x 


See more of Магс Ecko's shoot ot club.ployooy.com. 


KLIBENS 
WORLD 


у 

SS 
уа 

“y 


“Please, Howard...don't do anything foolish!” 


“What's ай this chow mein doing in the hallway?" 


“Rescue? Who said anything about a rescue?” 


*Put on some clothes, run down to the corner 
and bring me back a corned beef on rye." 


"In my day, nice girls didn't do that." 


БА IN 
— gun. 
> @ „>= 


Í WITH THE FEDS ON HIS TAIL, A CAREER DOPE 
| SMUGGLER SETS UP THE SCORE OF A LIFETIME. 


> ^ 


A TRUE STORY 


oncordia Venus, the Greek 
freighter carrying my 
goods, is at sea, headed 
for the port of New Jer- 
sey. Using a clean set of phony 
ID, I fly from Maui, Hawaii to 
New York. There I check into a 
suite in the funky Hotel Chelsea 
to wait for my ship to come in. 

"This is the biggest load my part- 
ners and I have ever attempted: 
15,000 pounds—seven and a half 
tons—of the best quality blond 
and red hashish available in all 
of Lebanon, plus 50 gallons of 
primo hashish oil. The hash and 
oil are concealed in a million and 
a half pounds of pitted Iraqi dates 
packed in cardboard cartons and 
loaded into seven 40-foot orange 
sea/land containers. The load is 
worth $50 million retail, $15 million 
wholesale. My end alone is upward 
of $5 million. Cash. Tax free. All I 
have to do is get the load past U.S. 
Customs without getting busted. 

A creature of habit, I stay at the 
Chelsea when I am waiting for a 
load. Once the load is in and the 
cash starts to flow, I will move to 
the Plaza, where I'm known as Dr. 
Lowell. I hand out $100 bills and 
pose as a psychiatrist to explain the 
odd guests coming and going from 
my room at all hours. 

What I like about the Chelsea 
pre-load is that cops and feds will 
not go unnoticed. The staff knows 
me and my aversion to agents of the 
law. Freaks, artists, writers, musi- 
cians, dope fiends and dope dealers 
live at the Chelsea. The place has 
history. Dylan Thomas was stay- 
ing here when he drank himself to 
death, in 1953. Sid Vicious killed 
his old lady here, in 1978. The Beat 


poet Gregory Corso wanders the 
halls, talking to himself. I fit in. The 
desk clerk will tip me off if anyone 
comes around asking questions. 
The Chelsea is a place of good luck 
for me, and I am as superstitious as 
a medicine man. 

No one knows my real name. 
I am already a fugitive wanted by 
the DEA and the U.S. Marshals Ser- 
vice, having jumped bail and gone 
on the lam from a pot-smuggling 
case in Maine. I have three sets of 
false ID and have to remind myself 
each morning who I am that day. I 
do not make calls from my room. 
To stay in touch with my people I 
use a pay phone at the rear of El 
Quijote, the Spanish restaurant 
adjoining the hotel. I come and go, 
drink tequila at the bar, make my 
calls and wait for word that the load 
has arrived. In the room I smoke 
joints and watch TV—repeat epi- 
sodes of Get Smart—and listen to 
Bob Dylan's “Sad-Eyed Lady of the 
Lowlands,” which he wrote for his 
wife Sara while staying at this hotel. 
Years later I will name my firstborn 
son Maxwell, after Maxwell Smart 
and the Beatles song “Maxwell’s 
Silver Hammer," and my daughter 
Sarah—residual memories from my 
days waiting at the Hotel Chelsea. 

A rule of thumb in the dope- 
smuggling business is, Shit happens. 
Rare is the trip when everything 
goes according to plan. At my pay 
phone in the rear of El Quijote, 
between drinks, I get the call. 

"Bro, we got a problem." 

It's S., my partner, whose father 
owns both the New Jersey trucking 
company that is to pick up the con- 
tainers at the docks and the bonded 
warehouse in Jersey City where the 


ILLUSTRATION BY KAKO 


114 


Clockwise from above: The writer (cen- 
ter, with beard) in Lebanon; V., his 
girlfriend and partner, at their Maui 
hideout; Lebanese hashish with pipe; а 
DEA surveillance photo of the writer and 
his private plane; Ше rose or BEKAA logo 
that was stamped onto the slabs of hash, 
with the year of shipment. Below: Down 
and out at the Metropolitan Correctional 
Center, a.k.a. the Criminal Hilton. 


INMATE А 
ACCOUNT 


containers are to be 
delivered. 

“Meet me under 
the West Side 


Som `. Highway in an 
„RICHARD LOWELL — 02070-036 hour," S. says. 
1-13-1946 ^ 
17 CWTAISS налан вулі, It в Thursday 


night when I meet 

S. to hear about 
our problem. Customs flagged the load of dates. Agency offi- 
cials called S.’s father at the trucking company and told him 
that, after a cursory look, they had sealed the containers at the 
docks and were going to escort them from the port to the ware- 
house, where they would conduct a thorough inspection. 

“Shit.... Why?” I ask. 

“I don’t know. Could be because the load was shipped out 
of Lebanon. It’s known as a source country for narcotics.” 

True, though with the war between Iraq and Iran lots of goods 
from the Middle East are being rerouted through Beirut. 

“Maybe they were tipped off,” S. muses aloud. 

“By who?” I say. “No one knows about this trip except me, 
you and the Lebs—and they’re not about to dime out their 
own load.” 

“What if Customs ran dogs around the containers and 
they picked up the scent?” 

“No way. Not the way it was packaged. And if that were 
the case, they’d hold the shipment at the docks and wait for 
us to pick it up, then bust us.” 

“1 don’t know, bro. It’s fuckin’ crazy. But we can’t pick up 
that load.” 

“What're you talking about?" 

“We gotta just...leave it there.” 

“How can we do that? If we don't pick it up, they'll know 
we know it's hot." 

"But they won't know who to bust," he argues. "We can say 
we don't want to touch it if they think there's contraband in 
it. Put it back on them...whatever. I can't let my old man take 
a fall. He'll lose the business." 


"Brother, if this load goes down, we're all out of business." 

I want to discuss it with 5.5 father. Refusing to pick up the 
containers seems to me like a clear admission of complicity. 
Picking up the containers and playing the hand out seems 
to me the only reasonable, albeit risky, plan. The bold way 
is the best way. Just act as though nothing is wrong and we 
know what we're doing. 

S. and I drive across the river to meet his father at a diner in 
Paramus. We sit in the car in the parking lot and discuss what to 
do. 5.5 father is in favor of picking up the containers. He agrees 
that to refuse to pick them up is as good as admitting guilt. 

“There's too much at stake here,” he says. "We've worked 
too hard for this to just let it go." 

"Fifteen million dollars' worth of goods," I remind them. 

"Yeah, and we can get 15 years if they bust us," S. says. 

“That's the nature of the business," I say. "We wouldn't be 
making this kind of money if it were legal." 

5.5 father and I look at each other. “What do you want to 
do?" he asks. "This is your play." 

"I say we go for it." 

Of the seven containers, three contain hash and dates; 
four contain only dates. 

“Here, these are the identification numbers of the contain- 
ers that have only dates,” I say. I write the numbers down on a 
slip of paper and give it to S.'s father. “Call Customs; tell them 
уопте backed up and you can't get down to the docks to pick 
up the shipment until late tomorrow. Friday afternoon the 
agents will all be thinking about going home for the weekend. 
We pick up two or three of the clean containers. Let Customs 
inspect those. Maybe that way we'll be able to finesse it.” 

S.’s father agrees. He says he doesn't think Customs has 
been tipped off; he feels it's a routine secondary inspection. 

So we have a plan. A hairy plan, but still it's some- 
thing. I go back to the Hotel Chelsea. The waiting now 
becomes 10 times as intense. Not even Maxwell Smart 
and the kind bud can take my mind off the possibility 
oflosing all that beautiful hashish. S. and I have close to $300,000 
invested in this trip. All that work, (continued on page 134) 


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е happened to be in prison in the same 

month of the same year, although the pris- 

ons were thousands of miles apart. Sofia was 

born in 1950 in Bilbao. She was dark, small 

and very pretty. In November 1973, while I 
was a prisoner in Chile, she was sent to jail in Aragon. 

At the time she was doing a science degree at the University 
of Zaragoza, biology or chemistry, one or the other, and she 
went to Jail with almost all of her classmates. The fourth or fifth 
night we slept together, as I was adopting a new position, she 
told me there was no point tiring myself out. I like variety, I 
said. If I fuck in the same position two nights in a row, I become 
impotent. Well, don't do it for my sake, she said. The room had 
a very high roof, and the walls were painted red, the color of a 
desert at sunset. She had painted them herself a few days after 
moving in. It looked awful. I've made love every way there is, 
she said. I don't believe you, I replied. Every way there is? That's 
right, she said, and I was lost for words (maybe I was embar- 
rassed) but I believed her. 

Later she told me, but this was quite a few days later, that 
she was losing her mind. She ate hardly anything, only instant 
mashed potato. Once I went into the kitchen and saw a plas- 
tic bag beside the refrigerator. It was a 20-kilo bag of mashed- 
potato flakes. Is that all you eat? I asked. She smiled and said 
yes; sometimes she ate other things, but mostly when she went 
out to a bar or a restaurant. At home it's simpler just to have 
mashed potato, she said. That way there's always something to 
eat. She didn't put milk in it, only water, and she didn't even 
wait for the water to boil. She mixed the flakes with warm water, 
she told me, because she hated milk. I never saw her consume 
any milk products; she said it was probably some kind of psy- 
chological problem that went back to her childhood, something 
to do with her mother. So when we were both in the apartment 
at night, she would have her mashed potato, and sometimes 
she would sit up late with me watching films on TV. We hardly 
talked. She never argued. At the time there was a Communist 
living in the apartment; he was in his 205, like us, and he and I 
used to get into long, pointless arguments, but she never joined 
in, although I knew she was more on my side than on his. One 
day the Communist told me Sofia was hot and he was planning 
to fuck her at the first opportunity. Go ahead, I said. Two or 
three nights later, while I was watching a Bardem film, I heard 
him go out into the passage and knock discreetly on Sofia's 
door. They talked for a while and then the door closed and the 
Communist was in there for a good two hours. 

Sofia had been married, though I didn't find out until much 
later. Her husband had been a student at the University of Zara- 
goza too and gone to prison with the rest of them in November 
1973. When they finished their degrees they moved to Barce- 
lona and after a while they split up. He was called Emilio and 
they were still good friends. Did you make love every way there 
is with Emilio? No, but nearly, said Sofia. She also said she was 
losing her mind and it was a worry, especially if she was driving. 
The other night it happened in Diagonal, lucky there wasn't 
much traffic. Are you taking something? Valium. Lots and lots 
of Valium. Before we slept together, we went to the movies a 
couple of times. French films, I think they were. One was about 
a woman pirate; she goes to this island where another woman 
pirate lives and they have a duel to the death with swords. The 
other one was set during World War II; there was a guy who 
worked for the Germans and the Resistance at the same time. 
After we started sleeping together we kept going to the movies 
and, strangely, I can remember the titles of the films we saw and 
the names of the directors but nothing else about them. From 
the very first night Sofia made it perfectly clear that our rela- 
tionship wasn't going to be serious. I'm in love with someone 
else, she said. Our Communist comrade? No, you don't know 
him; he's a teacher, like me. She didn't want to tell me his name 
just then. Sometimes she spent the night with him, but not very 
often, about once a fortnight. We made love every night. At first 


PAINTING BY ANDREA VENTURA 


RESIST SoFia’s 


BEAUTY- 


Itried to tire her out. We would start at 11 and keep 
going until four in the morning, but soon I realized 
there was no way of tiring out Sofia. 

At the time I used to hang out with anarchists and 
radical feminists and the books I read were more 
or less influenced by the company I was keeping. 
There was one by an Italian feminist, Carla some- 
thing, called Let's Spit on Hegel. One afternoon I lent 
it to Sofia. Read it, I said, I thought it was really 
good. (Maybe I said she would get a lot out of it.) The 
next day Sofia was in a very good mood; she gave 
me back the book and said that as science fiction it 
wasn't bad, but otherwise it sucked. Only an Italian 
woman could have written it, she declared. What 
have you got against Italian women? I asked. Did 
one abuse you when you were little or something? 
She said no, but if she was going to read that sort of 
thing, she preferred Valerie Solanas. I was surprised 
to learn that her favorite author was not a woman but 
an Englishman, David Cooper, one of R.D. Laing's 
associates. I ended up reading Valerie Solanas and 
David Cooper and even Laing (his sonnets). One of 
the things that impressed me most about Cooper 
was that during his time in Argentina (although I'm 

not sure now whether 


SHE 
STARTED 
CRYING AND 

I ASKED WHY. 
“BECAUSE 
PM SUCH AN 
ANIMAL; 
EVEN THOUGH 
PM MILES 
AWAY, 1 
CAN'T HELP 
COMING.” 

WE WENT 

ON MAKING 
LOVE. 


Cooper was ever really 
in Argentina, maybe 
I'm getting mixed up) 
he used hallucinogenic 
drugs to treat left-wing 
activists. These were 
people who were crack- 
ing up because they 
knew they could die at 
any moment, people 
who might not have the 
experience of grow- 
ing old in real life, but 
they could have it with 
the drugs, and they got 
better. Sofia used drugs 
too, sometimes. She 
took LSD and amphet- 
amines and Rohypnol, 
pills to speed up and 
pills to slow down and 
pills to steady her hands 
on the steering wheel. I 
rarely accepted the offer 
of a lift in her car. We 
didn't go out much, in 


fact. I went on with my 
life, she went on with hers, and at night, in her room 
or in mine, our bodies locked in a relentless struggle 
that lasted till daybreak and left us wrung out. 

One afternoon Emilio came to see her and she 
introduced me to him. He was tall, he had a won- 
derful smile, and you could tell he was fond of Sofia. 
His girlfriend was called Nuria; she was Catalan 
and worked as a high school teacher, like Emilio 
and Sofia. You couldn't have imagined two women 
more different. Nuria was blonde, blue-eyed, tall 
and rather plump. Sofia had dark hair and brown 
eyes so dark they seemed black; she was short and 
slim as a marathon runner. In spite of everything 
they seemed to be good friends. As I found out 
later on, it was Emilio who had ended the marriage, 
although the separation had been amicable. Some- 
times, when we'd been sitting there for a long time 
without talking, Nuria looked North American to 


me and Sofia looked Vietnamese. But Emilio just 
looked like Emilio, a chemistry or biology teacher 
from Aragon who'd been an anti-Franco activist and 
a political prisoner, a decent sort of guy though not 
very interesting. One night Sofia told me about the 
man she was in love with. He was called Juan and 
he was a member of the Communist Party like our 
comrade. He worked in the same school as her, so 
they saw each other every day. He was married and 
had a son. So where do you do it? In my car, said 
Sofia, or his. We go out in our cars and follow each 
other through the streets of Barcelona, sometimes 
all the way to Tibidabo or Sant Cugat. Sometimes 
we just park in a dark street and he gets into my 
car or I get into his. Not long after she told me this, 
Sofia got sick and had to stay in bed. At that stage 
there were only three of us in the apartment: Sofia, 
the Communist and me. The Communist was only 
around at night so I had to look after Sofia and go 
to the pharmacy. One night she said we should go 
traveling. Where? I asked. Portugal, she said. I liked 
the idea, so one morning we set off for Portugal, 
hitchhiking. (I thought we would go in her car but 
Sofia was scared of driving.) It was a long and com- 
plicated trip. We stopped in Zaragoza, where Sofia 
still had her best friends, then at her sister's place in 
Madrid, then in Extremadura.... 

I got the feeling Sofia was visiting all her ex- 
lovers. I got the feeling she was saying good-bye to 
them one by one, but not in a calm or resigned sort 
of way. When we made love she seemed absent at 
first, as if it had nothing to do with her, but after a 
while she let herself go and ended up coming over 
and over. Then she started crying and I asked her 
why. Because I'm such an animal; even though I'm 
miles away, I can't help coming. Don't be so hard 
on yourself, I said, and we went on making love. 
Her face wet with tears was delicious to kiss. Her 
whole body burned and flexed like a red-hot piece 
of metal, but her tears were only lukewarm and, as 
they ran down her neck, as I spread them on her 
nipples, they turned ice-cold. A month later we were 
back in Barcelona. Sofia hardly ate a thing all day. 
She went back to her diet of instant mashed potato 
and decided not to leave the apartment. One night I 
came home and found her with a girl I didn't know; 
another time it was Emilio and Nuria, who looked 
at me as if I were to blame for the state she was 
in. I felt bad but said nothing and shut myself in 
my room. I tried to read, but I could hear them. 
Shocked exclamations, reprimands, advice. Sofia 
didn't say a thing. A week later she was given four 
months' sick leave. The government doctor was an 
old friend from Zaragoza. I thought we'd be able 
to spend more time together, but little by little we 
drifted apart. Some nights she didn't come home. 
I remember staying up very late, watching TV and 
waiting for her. Sometimes the Communist kept me 
company. I had nothing to do, so I set about tidying 
up the apartment: sweeping, mopping, dusting. The 
Communist was very impressed, but one day he had 
to leave too and I was left all on my own. 

By then Sofia had become a ghost; she appeared 
without a sound, shut herself in her room or the 
bathroom and disappeared again after a few hours. 
One night we ran into each other on the stairs; I 
was going up and she was coming down, and the 
only thing I could think of asking was if she had 
a new lover. I regretted it straightaway, but it was 
too late. I can’t remember (continued on page 152) 


"Excuse me, Henri—what do you actually have in mind?” 


MONICA 


WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU MIX NORWAY AND BRAZIL? 


et's talk about intelligent design. What happens when you put together 
a former model from Brazil with a strapping sea merchant from Scan- 
dinavia? You might expect something extraordinary. 

In this case, you get Monica Hansen, a former Miss Norway and 
cover model. At five-foot-11 and with blockbuster dimensions, she's a certifi- 
able superbreed. "My mom was actually Miss Rio and a famous samba dancer," 
Monica says, her English honeyed with a slight Nordic lilt. “People see photos 
and ask if it's Brigitte Bardot. I say, ‘No, that's just my mom.’” 

Monica grew up on an island outside of Oslo where the Norwegian royal 
family spends the summer. She was modeling by the age of 14, and a few years 


PHOTOGRAPHY BY KEITH LANDER 


later she captured the title of Miss 
Norway. "My family is an exotic mix, 
and I don't look like a standard Nor- 
wegian," she says. "I'm skinny but 
also curvy, and although I'm blonde, 
Itan really well." 

The tanning part worked nicely 
for her when she moved to Miami 
at the age of 18. But the change of 
culture took some adjustment since 
Scandinavia is more permissive than 
Miami. "Nudity is not a big deal in 
Norway," Monica says. "From our 
teens on, we go topless on the beach, 
so even the boys don't really take 
notice. You can go to the mall naked 
and not get arrested. Topless bath- 
ing is accepted in Miami, but I got a 
lot more attention on the beach there 
than I was used to." 

The modeling world noticed too, 
and she was soon signed to a major 
agency, jetting around the world 
and appearing on the covers of 
such magazines as Maxim and FHM. 
Monica now lives alone in Los An- 
geles, sharing a house with two Afri- 
can tortoises—which can eventually 
weigh up to 150 pounds. She has yet 
to name them. “I can't tell if they're 
boys or girls yet, so I kind of have to 
wait," she says with a laugh. 

"I was born in the year of the 
horse, and I'm a total free spirit," 
she says. "I grew up riding horses, 
and I've always dreamed of riding 
nude and bareback on a beach." We 
like the way you think, Monica. De- 
spite her years of modeling, she had 
never been photographed completely 
naked before this PLAYBOY shoot. 

Monica loves animals, but she pre- 
fers the company of humans. "I talk 
а lot," she admits, “which you can 
probably tell. Thank God you don't 
know Norwegian or you'd never get 
in a word!" 

Her easygoing nature has a natu- 
ral upside. “In high heels I’m six- 
two and tower over a lot of men, so 
I can seem intimidating. But I'm a 
total goofball, and I can hang with 
anyone. People quickly feel comfort- 
able around me, and that intimida- 
tion factor is soon gone." 

In addition to modeling, she's de- 
signing clothes, acting and painting. 
"Im artistic, and I'm looking for 
an artistic guy," she says. "We're all 
drawn to people similar to ourselves, 
and I like men who are a little mys- 
terious, maybe a little bit odd —more 
of a Johnny Depp than an all-star 
Tom Cruise." Makes sense. 

As for the next step, Monica says, 
"I'm still on an inner search. Artists 
are more lost than most people, and 
I'm always galloping to where the 
grass is greener." She laughs merrily. 
"I'm a forever-galloping horse." 


"arg 


2 


PLAYBOY 


134 


SMUGGLER'S BLUES 


(continued from page 114) 
months of risking my life in Lebanon put- 
ting together the load. Going to Baghdad 
to buy the dates, shipping them overland 
to Beirut. If we make it, if we get the load 
in and sold, ГЇЇ have enough money to 
stash in some offshore bank accounts and 
live the high life in the wind. 

АП day Friday at the Chelsea I pace and 
watch the news. No reports of massive 
loads of hash busted at the port of New 
Jersey. I try to read, but I can't concen- 
trate. I go out and walk the streets. 

Just let me get this load in, dear Lord; let 
this one through and I swear ГИ give й all up 
and —what? What would I do? How could I 
ever gel the same rush I get from doing this? 

Friday evening S. shows up in front of 
the hotel in a rental car. 

"You're not going to believe this," he 
says when I get in and we drive off toward 
the Holland Tunnel. 

"Ту me." 

But I can't believe it. I have to see it 
with my own eyes—and smell it with my 
nose. Three containers were trucked to 
the warehouse from the port, the con- 
tainers Customs would be inspecting. 
When I walk into the warehouse in Jersey 
City, I can smell hashish. Yes, unmistak- 
able. Fresh hash mixed with the syrupy- 
sweet smell of chopped dates. One of the 
containers I told them not to pick up 
is backed into the warehouse and half 
unloaded. There are the cartons with red 
plastic strapping that contain hash sitting 
out on the loading dock. 

Ilook at my partner and his father. Brace 
yourselves. We are all about to be busted. I 
suffer an intense rush of fear and paranoia. 
Тће warehouse is surrounded by Customs 
and DEA agents just waiting for me to 
appear before they make their move. 

This has to be a setup. My one оуег- 
whelming urge: Пит and run, motherfucker. 


BEIRUT, LEBANON, MARCH 1982 


A month earlier. I had been inside for 
weeks, a virtual prisoner holed up in a 
luxury penthouse in West Beirut. The 
entirety of Lebanon pitched and heaved in 
the throes of civil war. Soldiers and spooks 
were everywhere: Syrian troops, the sev- 
eral armies of the various warring factions 
in the holy war—Marines, Iranian Revo- 
lutionary Guard units, Hezbollah, PLO, 
CIA—but no drug agents. The airport in 
Beirut was under siege. Israel's formidable 
army was rallying at the southern border. 
F-15 and F-16 fighter jets streaked across 
rain-washed blue skies and announced 
their presence with sonic booms. 

My girlfriend and partner, V., had been 
trapped in Beirut when the airport was 
closed just days after she arrived with a 
suitcase full of money. The concrete walls 
of the bedroom where we slept and made 
love were gouged with gray bullet holes 
from stray machine-gun fire. Americans 
and Europeans were snatched off street 
corners to be held hostage by the armies of 


the jihad. The Holiday Inn where we had 
been staying was reduced to a blown-out 
shell and massive rubble heap. The streets 
of what was once known as the Paris of the 
Middle East were a battleground stinking 
of death and something alive: fear. 

Our daily routine consisted of drinking 
rich Turkish coffee; eating endless meals of 
hummus and kibbe, the national dish; drink- 
ing arrack; smoking hash; reading; listening 
to tapes of Fairuz, the enchanting Lebanese 
chanteuse; watching Dallas on ТУ, J.R. yam- 
mering away in Arabic; and getting it on with 
bombs and rockets exploding outside. 

At last the day arrived. I stepped alone 
from the dim vestibule of the building, 
slipped on a pair of Arafat-style sunglasses, 
pulled the checkered kaffiyeh close around 
my pale Yankee face and ducked into the 
rear of a waiting Mercedes. 

Crouched on the floorboards for the dash 
across the Green Line, I heard sirens and 
mortar fire over the racing Mercedes engine 
and the humming of tires. Nasif drove; 
my bodyguard, Saad, rode shotgun—or I 
should say machine gun, as Saad carried his 
ugly black Uzi everywhere he went. 

"You okay back there, Mr. Richard?" 
Nasif called. 

Nasif and Saad ranted on in Arabic. Nasif 
prided himself on being able to outmaneu- 
ver the shooters poised along Ше verdant 
no-man's-land separating East from West 
Beirut. Yet bullet holes pocked the trunk 
and rear quarter of the Mercedes. 

Everything was ready—or so Moham- 
med, Nasif's father and the chief of cus- 
toms in Beirut, told me. He urged me to 
remain in the relative safety of the pent- 
house and take his word that he and his 
men had followed the precise, detailed 
instructions I had given them for prepar- 
ing the shipment. 

But my word and my New York part- 
ners’ freedom, as well as $15 million 
worth of hashish, were on the line. Years 
of working with Arabs, Mexicans, Jamai- 
cans and Colombians had taught me they 
just didn't understand the lengths to 
which North American law-enforcement 
agents were willing to go to bust our loads 
and lock us up. 

“This is serious business,” I reminded 
them. “People go to prison.” 

Maybe not in Lebanon, not if you were 
chief of customs. 

My Yankee WASP ethic demanded 
dependability and attention to detail. In 
more than 15 years in this business I had 
never lost a load because of carelessness. 
As my grandmother Ethel Lowell used to 
tell me, “Anything worth doing is worth 
doing right.” 

S., my New York partner, had acquired 
a copy of the U.S. Customs manual from 
a bent Customs agent. S. instructed me 
on which red flags in a foreign shipment's 
profile tripped the computer and moti- 
vated agents to give the goods a thorough 
inspection. The cover merchandise—in 
this case a million-plus pounds of Iraqi 
dates—must not be paid for with cash. I 
bought the dates in Baghdad using a letter 


of credit from Bordo Foods, a legitimate 
import company with years of corporate 
history. During the war between Iran and 
Iraq, dates from the Middle East—the soft 
brown ones used in cake mixes and pre- 
pared foods—were difficult to obtain and 
in demand. Mohammed arranged to have 
the dates shipped overland by truck from 
Baghdad to Beirut. Now they were stored 
in a warehouse at the port and repack- 
aged with seven and a half tons of hashish 
from Lebanon's Bekaa Valley. 

Once we crossed the Green Line into 
East Beirut, we were out of immedi- 
ate danger of sniper fire. I sat up in the 
rear seat but kept the kaffiyeh wrapped 
around my head. Here in the Christian 
section of the city, the war was not as 
intense. The warehouse was under guard 
by four bearded Uzi-toting heavies in 
green fatigues. Half a dozen orange sea/ 
land containers were stacked on the dock 
beside the warehouse, a seventh backed 
up to a loading platform. Nasif pulled 
up out front, and I was quickly hustled 
inside. As soon as I walked through the 
door I was met with the perfumed odor of 
premium-grade hashish mixed with dates. 
Hundreds of brown waxed-cardboard car- 
tons labeled kHISTAWI DATES in English and 
Arabic were piled along the rear wall. The 
rest of the load had already been packed 
into the containers on the dock, waiting 
to be hoisted aboard a Greek freighter 
expected to arrive in Beirut in a few days. 
As Mohammed had told me, everything 
was ready. Or so it appeared. 

"Check the cartons yourself, Richard. 
Make sure they do it right," I could hear 
S. admonish me. 

It had taken me months of negotiating 
to acquire the goods. With Abu Ali, the 
godfather of the Bekaa Valley, I drove 
around buying bulk hashish from growers 
on plantations outside the ancient town of 
Baalbek. In the evening we would sit in 
his office above a heroin-processing lab 
and drink arrack. 

“Mr. Richard," Abu Ali would say, 
"why don't you take some of the other, 
the white?" 

“Ко, no," I protested. "No heroin." 

"But why? It is so much easier to hide. 
And worth so much more." 

“Bad karma," I would tell the Leba- 
nese, though I don't think they under- 
stood the concept. 

Lebanese hashish is graded by num- 
ber: number one, top commercial grade; 
zahara, or zero, above the best; and double 
zahara, dealer's choice, the fine, dusty, res- 
inous nodules shaken and gathered from 
freshly harvested female plants. Finally 
we came up with the quality product my 
buyers back in the States and Canada 
demanded. The hashish needed to be 
prepared, pressed into 500-gram slabs, 
packaged in canvas sacks, labeled and 
stamped with our seal: ROSE OF BEKAA. 

It would take all seven sea/land con- 
tainers full of cartons packed with dates 
and hashish to conceal the load. The 
cardboard cartons containing the hash 


"Of course I'm heartbroken that you couldn't make our date, Felicia. 
But you know me, I'm a survivor." 


PLAYBOY 


were wrapped with red plastic straps to 
distinguish them from the ones with only 
dates, which had green, blue or yellow 
strapping. The hash was packed into sealed 
tin boxes. According to instructions 1 had 
given Mohammed, the tin boxes full ofred- 
olent hashish were supposed to be packed 
into the cardboard cartons, then covered 
top and bottom with a thick layer of dates 
within those cartons. 

I walked to the rear of the warehouse 
and took down a box with red straps. It 
didn't feel right—too hard. I snipped the 
plastic bands and tore open the carton. 
Inside was a sealed tin box and no dates. I 
looked at Mohammed. 

"Where are the dates?" 

"In the other cartons," Nasif answered, 
"as you wanted." 

Ishook my head. I was beginning to feel 
dizzy; I couldn't believe what I was see- 
ing. After I'd waited weeks to get this load 
packed and shipped, they fucked it up. I 
took down another red-strapped carton 
and ripped it open. Again they had simply 
shoved the tin box with the hashish inside 
the cardboard box without packing it in 
layers of dates on the bottom and top as 
they had been told maybe 10 times. 

"No good,” I said, struggling to control 
my anger. "You've got to unload all these 
containers, repack the cartons and cover 
the boxes of hash with dates. Thick layers 
of dates! On the bottom and top, the way I 
showed you." 

As Nasif translated, I could see Moham- 
med starting to turn purple with rage. Did 
he think I wouldn't check the load? That I 
would just let it go and trust in Allah to get 
it past Customs? 

"But, Mr. Richard, that will take days. 
Maybe more than one week," Nasif pro- 
tested. "We'll miss the ship. It could be 
weeks before we can arrange new trans- 
port. And the war——” 

"You tell your father I'm sick of this shit. 
It doesn't matter how long it takes. I told 


you how I wanted the cartons packed." I 
was yelling now. The dudes with the Uzis 
were getting tense. "It's got to be done right 
or I'll take every one of these fucking boxes 
of hash and throw them into the sea!" 

There was a lengthy discussion in Ara- 
bic between father, son and one of the men 
guarding the warehouse. They gave me 
a look that said, Forget about it, pal. The 
shipment’s going the way it is. 

То break the impasse, I grabbed one of 
the cartons I had opened, took it out onto 
the dock and heaved it into the murky 
Mediterranean. 

"Every fucking one!" I yelled and headed 
back inside. “ГП go home with nothing. 
I don't give a fuck. I don't want to go to 
prison. Can't you understand that?" 

Finally Mohammed relented. The men 
fished the box of hash from the sea and 
laughed at me. Crazy American! I could feel 
my grandmother's spirit swelling with pride. 

He may be a dope smuggler, but at least 
he's a conscientious dope smuggler. 

After all, hadn't some of our forebears 
made their fortune smuggling opium and 
God knows what else? It was a Yankee tradi- 
tion to thumb one's nose at the government 
and break the laws that were perceived as 
wrongheaded. One of my heroes, Henry 
David Thoreau, taught me that in his essay 
"Civil Disobedience." Governments and 
their picayune laws were for the uninformed 
masses, the sheep. Fuck that noise. Every 
great fortune is founded on a crime; Balzac 
said that. As a New Englander, I was brought 
up with rumors that Joe Kennedy had made 
his fortune smuggling booze during Prohibi- 
tion—and his son went on to become presi- 
dent. The laws against pot were stupid and 
unenforceable. It was just a matter of time 
before pot prohibition was repealed. In the 
interim, fortunes would be made. I had paid 
my dues. No reason I should not be a mari- 
juana millionaire. Or so I believed. 

Back in our penthouse prison one after- 
noon as we lay in bed, V. said she was going 


stir-crazy. “I’ve got to get out of this place. I 
don't care how fucked-up it is out there." 

She showed me an ad in the English- 
language newspaper. The Shining, starring 
Jack Nicholson, was playing at a movie the- 
ater on Hamra Street. 

“Take me to the movies or ГП walk.” 

We went to a matinee. "How's the war 
today?" I asked Nasif when he and Saad 
came to collect us. It was like asking about 
the weather. 

"So-so," he shrugged. "Lots of metal in 
the air." 

Тће movie was in English with Arabic 
subtitles. The audience loved it. So did V. 
After the show we went to dinner at a res- 
taurant owned by rogue CIA agent Frank 
Terpil and drank Johnnie Walker. 

"I want to go home," V. said, clutching 
my hand beneath the table. "I mean home 
home. Enough of this place already." 

"Soon, baby." 

"Soon.... Sheesh! You sound like 
Mohammed." 

We were both a little tipsy on the ride 
back to the apartment. V. rested her head 
on my shoulder and closed her eyes. When 
we turned down our street, I saw flashing 
red-and-blue lights. Ambulances and emer- 
gency vehicles were parked outside the 
apartment building. 

Тће neighborhood had been struck by 
heavy rocket fire. Stunned, I got out and 
looked up at a gaping hole in the skyline 
where our bedroom had once been. Half 
of the top three floors of our building had 
been blown away. Rescue workers searched 
through the rubble for a family who lived 
on the floor beneath us. 

In time we would joke that Jack Nichol- 
son had saved our lives. 

We spent the night at the Commodore 
Hotel. V. begged me to leave the country 
with her. 

"You know I can't go, baby. Not until the 
load is safely on its way to New York. We've 
come this far. I can't quit now." 

"You're crazy. You're not thinking 
straight. These people are all insane. They 
won't stop until everyone is dead." 

The next day Nasif arranged for V. to be 
driven across the border to Israel, where 
she caught a flight from Tel Aviv to JFK, 
then back to her home in Hawaii. 

Our freighter carrying the load of dates 
and hash was one of the last ships to leave 
the harbor before Israeli gunboats block- 
aded the port. 

I fled east. Back to the Bekaa, where I 
was certainly not safe. Syrian and Iranian 
warriors were encamped there. АП Ameri- 
cans had a price tag on their head. So I 
kept traveling east into Syria, to Damascus, 
where I boarded a plane for Dubai. From 
Dubai I flew to New Delhi to rest for a few 
days—a stranger in a strange land, the only 
real peace I knew. On to Hong Kong and a 
long flight to Honolulu. Then a short hop 
to Maui, where V. waited for me in a house 
by the sea on the slopes of a volcano. 


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138 


Customs. Instead of giving our orange con- 
tainers a cursory look at the docks, agents 
secure the hinged doors with lead self- 
locking seals. It will take seven trucks to get 
the seven containers to our warehouse. Our 
guys show up with three trucks and pick up 
three. The only problem: Customs agents 
choose which three. The agents pile into 
two cars and escort our containers from the 
port to our warehouse in Jersey City. 

When S. and l arrive at the warehouse, 
S.'s father is there. So 15 5.5 brother and 
Fat Bobby, our stash man. They are all 
smiling at me. I'm waiting for the doors 
to come crashing in and the place to be 
swarmed with federal agents sticking guns 
in my face and screaming, "Down on the 
floor, motherfucker!" 

Nothing happens. 

"Are you guys fucking nuts? What're you 
smiling at?" 

I walk to the rear of the loading dock, grab 
one of the cartons with the red plastic straps, 
plunk it down on a table and rip it open. 

"Red straps," I say. "What does that 
mean?" 

S. says, "It means, bro, we got the load. 
Or part of it, anyway." 

"It was а crapshoot,” his father says. 
"They wouldn't let us choose which con- 
tainers we were gonna pick up. They told 
us which ones to take. If we insisted, that 
would've looked suspicious." 

He takes me to the rear of the warehouse 
and points out two more 40-foot containers 
in the fenced-in yard. One of them, I know 
by the numbers painted on the outside, also 
contains hash and dates. "They opened the 
container inside and started inspecting the 
cartons," he says. He tells me they had 
examined a dozen cartons, all of them con- 
taining only dates. 

Right next to one of the cartons they 
opened and inspected is an unopened car- 
ton with red straps. 

"Finally, like we figured, it was late Friday 


afternoon. They got tired and went home, 
said they'd be back Monday morning to fin- 
ish the inspection." 

“And,” S. says, “they had dogs." 

"Get the fuck out of here!" 

"Yeah, bro. Dope dogs. They came in 
here and sniffed around." 

"I can smell hash," I say. 

"They must've been junk dogs," Bobby 
says. "They get 'em strung out on junk so 
they go nuts when they smell heroin. But 
they don't give a fuck about hash." 

We all laugh—giddy, nervous laughter. 

"Here's the problem," S. runs it down. 
“We can take all the cartons out of this con- 
tainer and remove our goods, but when 
they come back here Monday morning this 
container will be light by about a third. So 
we've got to take out the hash and replace it 
with something that weighs about the same 
and put all the cartons back in and hope 
they don't open one." 

"That's only two thirds of the load," I 
say. The rest of the containers are still at 
the port. 

"Better than nothing." 

Outside the warehouse, S. shows me 
the U.S. Customs seals on the container 
doors—no way to open the doors without 
breaking the seal. Fat Bobby is a welder by 
trade. The next day, Saturday, he brings 
his torch to the warehouse and cuts the 
hinges holding the doors on the rear of the 
containers. We borrow a tow truck from a 
friend and winch the doors off the contain- 
ers without breaking the Customs seal. 

It takes us all weekend, working well into 
Sunday night, to remove all the cartons 
with the red straps and replace them with 
boxes of sand. The hardest part is finding 
paint on a Sunday to match the orange 
color of the containers so we can weld the 
doors back on and make it look as if they'd 
never been opened. The paint is still sticky 
by early Monday morning. 

We have 10,000 pounds of hashish and 


“...And to think, with this four-hour erection I almost 
called a doctor!" 


50 gallons of honey oil safely stored in a 
stash house out on Staten Island. There is 
still the Customs inspection to get through. 
If they find the remaining 5,000 pounds in 
the container at the docks or the sand in 
the containers we unloaded, we'll be nailed. 
But at least we'll have the income from the 
hash to provide for our families while we 
ride out the bust. 

Monday I am asleep in my suite at the 
Chelsea when S. calls. 

"Relax, bro. Sleep in and hug yourself. 
You're a rich motherfucker." 

He goes on to say that first thing Monday 
morning they got a call from Customs. The 
agents were satisfied with their inspection; 
we can go ahead and break the seals on the 
containers in the yard and come down and 
pick up the rest of the shipment. 

It is time for Dr. Lowell to check into the 
Plaza. 


ULUPALAKUA, MAUI, HAWAII, JUNE 1982 


Istir from a nightmare of being trapped in 
a crumbling, besieged city. When I open my 
eyes V. is asleep beside me. At the foot of the 
bed the curtains undulate in the morning 
breeze. There is no loud machine-gun fire, 
no bombs exploding. Ah, Maui. Not Beirut. 

But then fear grips me. Will this be the 
day they find me and lock me in a cage? 
And the regret. Is this all there is? Wasn't I 
meant to do more with my life? 

Iam still wanted for skipping bail on a 
Maine bust, and there's no telling when this 
whole Lebanon deal could go wrong. One 
guy gets busted and he could rat everyone 
out to save his own ass. 

No one in the world except the woman 
lying beside me knows where I am. Each 
day in paradise I busy myself coordinating 
the collection of millions of dollars of dope 
money and distributing it to the different 
partners—the Arabs in Beirut, the Jews in 
New York, the Mexicans in Texas—doing it 
all from afar, in the wind, blowing from pay 
phone to pay phone with only a sack full of 
quarters to keep me from blowing away. 

At night V. and I smoke Hawaiian herb and 
make love. Some days we play on the beach. 
Not a bad life as long as I can keep myself 
anesthetized from the fear and nagging 
regret. V. has been managing the whole deal. 
She is the public face, traveling to Anchor- 
age, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Toronto. 
She picks up money and delivers it. 

Lately, though, V. has begun to worry 
me. Her antidote for the craziness I 
brought into her life is cocaine and booze. 
On a recent trip to the mainland, when she 
stopped in Los Angeles to see her mother, 
she got a visit from a couple of deputy U.S. 
marshals with the fugitive unit asking about 
me. She handled them with the cool of 
someone used to living outside the law. 

"Sure, I know him,” she told them, "but 
I haven't seen him since he got popped in 
Maine." 

A deputy marshal handed her his card: 
James Sullivan, out of the Boston office. He 
reminded her of the laws against harboring 
a fugitive. 

"When do things get normal?" V. once 
asked me. 

"What's normal?" I asked, though I 


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knew what she wanted or what she thought 
she wanted: a home in her own name—her 
own name, for that matter—and a man who 
wasn't on the lam. 

“There's no such thing as normal,” I said. 
“Not for us." I told her what she already 
knew. "It's not going to happen with me. I 
run from normal. The house in the suburbs, 
the station wagon, shopping trips to the 
mall. All that depresses the shit out of me." 

Some part of her wants normal, but I am 
unwilling or unable to quit. I'm hooked оп 
the rush I get from beating the Man—that's 
ту narcotic. 

One night I leave V. at the house in Ulu- 
palakua, fly to Honolulu and check into a 
hotel. I can feel the heat closing in. I want no 
one, not even V., to know where to find me. 

At a bar in the hotel lobby I make a call 
from a pay phone to my answering service 
in New York and pick up a message to call 
the Captain in Texas. The Captain is one 
of the more clandestine characters in my 
life. He is Lebanese and a captain in the 
U.S. Army. He told me he was a member 
of Delta Force, as well as some supersecret 
subunit known as Army Support Intelli- 
gence Activity, or ASIA, made up of hand- 
picked individuals from different countries 
who were trained to become part of an elite 
black-ops antiterrorist team. 

He is also the son of Abu Ali, the patron of 
Bekaa Valley hash growers and a rising force 
in the emerging Lebanese junk trade. 

It was through Abu Ali and Mohammed 


that I was introduced to the Captain. He is 
stationed at Fort Hood, midway between 
Austin and Waco. I met him at a restaurant 
in Austin, where he briefed me on his mis- 
sion: He was determined to find an American 
smuggler who had ripped off his father. 

"I found him," the Captain tells me when 
Ireach him from Hawaii, pay phone to pay 
phone. "I spoke to him. He doesn't know it, 
but I have his address." 

"Where is he?" 

"Near Los Angeles. He says he will pay, 
but he wants to meet only with you." 

"Why me?" 

"He's afraid ГП kill him. He says he 
wants to meet with you, give you the money 
and let you deal with me, my father and 
Abu Nasif.” 

Abu Nasif, which means “father of Nasif ” 
in Arabic, is Mohammed. 

"I have a рап,” the Captain continues. 
"While he is meeting with you to give you 
the money, I'm going to blow up his house, 
create a vacant lot." He laughs. "That will 
teach him a lesson." 

We make plans to meet in Los Angeles. I 
say ГП call him with a location. That after- 
noon I leave for the mainland. I don't even 
question the Captain's proposal to blow up 
this dude's house. It seems like a good idea 
at the time. Normal. 

The Captain and I are to meet in the lobby 
bar at the Sheraton Senator Hotel at LAX. 
I arrive two hours before the appointed 
time and sit in the mezzanine with a view 


of the front doors, through which I know 
the Captain will enter. This is the level of 
my paranoia. He arrives on time, walks in 
carrying a bulky black leather briefcase. He 
is short, maybe five-seven, wiry, in great 
shape, with thick horn-rimmed glasses and 
dark hair. He looks more like an accoun- 
tant than a highly trained warrior. 

I keep an eye on the front doors to see 
if he has been followed. No shady-looking 
characters who may be agents come in after 
the Captain. Satisfied he is clean, I go down 
the escalator and walk over to where he is 
sitting. Since our last meeting I have grown 
a beard and dyed my hair. When I approach 
his table, he doesn't recognize me at first. 

"Ah, Richard," he says and stands. We 
shake hands. "You look different." 

"Let's take a walk. My car's out back." 

He leaves a bill on the table and picks up 
his black bag. We start back through the 
lobby toward the rear doors. When we are 
in the middle of the lobby, near the front 
desk, I look over and see what looks like 
hotel employees vaulting over the counter. 
Bellmen are drawing weapons. Desk clerks 
are running toward us with guns pointed 
at our heads. It's as if the entire staff of the 
hotel is made up of agents. I freeze and 
raise my hands. But the Captain, a serious 
martial artist, drops his bag and goes into 
a karate stance. 

"He's got a gun!" I hear someone yell, 
and I think, Oh shit. They're going to 
blow us away. 


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"Take it easy!" I yell. “Хо guns!" 

Three agents leap on the Captain and 
wrestle him to the floor. A stocky, well- 
built blond stands before me, flashing his 
badge. 

“U.S. Marshals," he says. "You're under 
arrest. 

They cuff me and take me to an ТАРО 
satellite station at the airport and lock me 
in a small room. After about an hour the 
blond marshal comes in and introduces 
himself: James Sullivan, the deputy U.S. 
marshal with the fugitive unit who ques- 
tioned V. at her mother's. Now I'm begin- 
ning to wonder if she set me up. 

"You can call me Sully," he says. "I'm 
from Boston, like you. I've been tracking 
you for a long time now, pal, and I gotta 
tell ya, I'm sorry to see it end. You had 
a good run." He smiles. "Where's your 
girlfriend?" 

"Who?" 

He mentions V., but he doesn't say V. 
He uses her real name. "She's pretty cute. 
Smart kid. But I knew she was lying. I knew 
she knew where you were." He pauses and 
looks me over. "Who's the other guy?" 

"What guy?" 

"Your friend A." He uses the Captain's 
real name. "Fuckin' guy thinks he's Bruce 
Lee. He coulda got you both killed." 

Sully sits down next to me. "You know 
what he had in that black bag?" 

"What bag? 

"Plastic explosives," Sully says. "Rich, 
what's up? So now you're a terrorist?" 

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

"No? Let me tell you. Not only do we have 
you on the fugitive warrant for the Maine 
case, but you and your little pal there, Bruce 
Lee, are facing new charges: illegal posses- 
sion and transportation of explosives. That 
can get you another 15 years." 

I say nothing. Sully shrugs, stands and 
leaves me alone to wonder who set me up. 

V.? No way. I haven't spoken to her 
since I left her in Maui. She had no way of 
knowing where I was meeting the Captain. 
Then I figure it has to be the Captain. 
He's the only person who knew where 
we were going to meet. But then why the 
karate and explosives? Maybe they have 
his phone tapped, but I'm sure we never 
discussed where we were to meet over his 
phone; we made plans pay phone to pay 
phone. The agents had to have known the 
location well in advance in order to posi- 
tion their people at the hotel as desk clerks 
and bellmen. 

I am bewildered. Oddly relieved but 
totally perplexed. 

About an hour later Sully returns. 

"All right, Rich," he says, "now I really 
want to know who the fuck that guy was." 

"I can't help you." 

"Seriously, Rich. Off the record. One 
Irish guy from Beantown to another. Who 
was that masked man?" 

"I'm not Irish." 

"Fuckin' limey then. C'mon, tell me. I 
won't give it up." 

"If I knew, I'd tell you." 

"You're lying, but that's okay. You know 
where he is now? Your friend? The kung 
fu master?" 

“No.” 


“Not here. He's gone." 

"Gone?" 

"Yup. As in, he left. Some brass from the 
DOD came down here and waltzed him 
out. Generals. Fuckin' scrambled eggs on 
their shoulders, know what I mean? Big- 
wigs. Just like that. They even took his little 
bag of tricks. No charges. Like it never hap- 
pened. Like the guy doesn't exist." 

I don't know what to say. “Sometimes the 
left hand doesn't know what the right hand 
is doing" is all I can come up with. 

Sully laughs. “ГП say one thing for you, 
Rich. You've got big balls." 

“Or,” I say, "maybe I'm just crazy.” 


METROPOLITAN CORRECTIONAL CENTER, 
NEW YORK CITY 


Т вега crook's tour of our vast federal prison 
gulag as I am transported across the coun- 
try. This is the real Con Air, known among 
convicts as diesel therapy. They truss me 
up in cuffs, leg irons and a device known as 
the black box—a hard plastic casement fit- 
ted over the handcuffs and linked to a belly 
chain that makes it impossible for me to 
move my hands. It takes three weeks, riding 
for hours on a slow-moving prison bus or on 
a desultory flight to some joint not necessar- 
ily on the way to where I am supposed to be 
going. Finally we arrive in New York. 

There are jails—bad jails and not-as-bad 
jails—and then there is the Metropolitan 
Correctional Center in downtown Man- 
hattan, otherwise known as the Criminal 
Hilton. Here is where the outlaw elite are 
summoned to face the almighty rule of the 
American criminal-justice system. It's a high- 
rise full of unregenerate dealers and squeal- 
ers, crooked correctional officers, flimflam 
artists and white-collar crooks, bank robbers, 
IRA soldiers, international arms dealers and 
professional assassins. Spies, Mafia bosses, 
Colombian drug lords, rogue CIA agents, 
Wall Street cowboys, international confi- 
dence men, Black Panthers, Weathermen. 
Every player of any stature in the world of 
international crime eventually does a stint at 
MCC in New York. 

At first I am intimidated by the joint, but 
after a few weeks I fit right in. 

One night I'm awakened in the early 
hours when the graveyard-shift cop opens 
my cell door and installs someone in my 
cell. I go back to sleep. A few hours later I 
am awakened again, this time by agonizing 
groans coming from my new cell mate as 
he sits on the toilet a foot from my head, 
sweating, moaning, taking what appears to 
be the most painful crap of his life. 

It turns out not to be shit at all but rather 
shit: a plastic cylinder filled with Sicilian 
heroin he had shoved up his ass. He tells 
me he was busted at JFK on an old warrant, 
and they never found the stash of junk in 
his rectum. 

I'm stunned. Here we are in jail, sitting 
on a huge stash of quality junk. In the 
words of the great prison novelist Edward 
Bunker, possession of that tube of smack 
gives me and my new cellie the power of 
the gods. A tiny match head in each nostril, 
and I am ready for whatever the feds have 


in store for me. 


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141 


PLAYBO!Y 


142 


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ALEC BALDWIN 


(continued from page 32) 
the minute I find out one is a lawyer, Pm 
like, "Check, please." 

PLAYBOY: Compared with the controversial 
things you've said in the past, your words 
seem more measured now. 

BALDWIN: I think it just doesn't help any- 
body. I've watched people go at it, like 
Rosie O'Donnell and Donald Trump. АП 
the negativity in my ugly assessments of 
Harvey Levin or my ex-wife's divorce law- 
yers, all the negativity that has been in my 
life—I don't want that. Let's say there are 
10 people I've had real tension and conflict 
with in the past. I never think about them 
anymore; none of them live in my life now. 
I did The Marrying Man with my ex-wife at 
Disney. A lot went wrong. Almost 20 years 
ago I did things I would do differently now. 
Yet 15 years later Michael Eisner called 
and asked me to do his interview show on 
CNBC, and he was a delight to talk to. Did I 
enjoy doing the movie when he ran Disney? 
No. I set that aside. Jeffrey Katzenberg ran 
the studio back then, and many of the fric- 
tions I had on The Marrying Man were with 
him. He called and said, "Would you come 
and do Madagascar with us?" I had a great 
time; he was an absolute gentleman. You've 
got to set those things aside. 

PLAYBOY: When did you come to this 
realization? 

BALDWIN: For me, everything changed 
when I turned 50. 

PLAYBOY: How? 

BALDWIN: Suddenly life is too short. 30 Rock 
has spoiled me in terms of realizing there's 
nothing like having an audience for what you 
do. You realize you have plenty of time left 
but none to waste. And you don't want to do 
anything you don't want to do anymore. 
PLAYBOY: What's the biggest downside of 
being 51? What do you miss about the guy 
who starred in The Marrying Man and The 
Hunt for Red October? 

BALDWIN: About being younger? Having 
dark hair. When you get older, you look 
older, and there's nothing you can do. 
PLAYBOY: At least you have plenty of hair, 
even if it's gray. 

BALDWIN: I’ve got hair for five guys. That's 
one thing I am proud of. I don't miss much 
else. I still throw a football with people at 
work all the time. I play tennis. But now, 
at 51, boy, my arm hurts the next day. You 
don't recover as well, and you don't want 
to get hurt. I ski, but if visibility is low, I 
don't want to go out. I get a little scared. 
I don't have time to lie in bed and recover 
for four or six weeks from a broken back or 
collarbone. But ГП answer that question in 
a different context, in terms of what I went 
through in divorce. My only regret in life is 
that my daughter had to go through what 
she went through. I wonder how she'll feel 
years from now, how it will affect her rela- 
tionships. That is one of the greatest trag- 
edies of the system, the reason I wrote the 
book. The most important thing is what 
is in the best interest of the child, but the 
system treats parents like mules. They just 
beat you with this incessant metronome of 
what's best for your child. Who cares how 


much you suffer or how much you spend 
financially or emotionally? It's not about 
you. That is a lie and a huge mistake. It 
should be that both parents deserve to have 
a life as well, with some dignity, decency 
and privacy, without the intrusion of these 
judges and lawyers, who are just the worst 
people you've met in your life. 

PLAYBOY: Could even a perfect legal sys- 
tem mitigate the bitterness that obviously 
existed between you and your ex? 
BALDWIN: They have to ignore the emo- 
tionalized part of it. Judges should sit down 
and say, “If either of you alienates the child 
from the other, I will give primary and sole 
custody to the other person. Don't do it." 
But they don't want to get in the way of 
the gamesmanship. Once one alienates 
the other, it's more lawyer fees. If you get 
divorced, if your wife keeps your kids from 
you, you're going to spend money to get 
them. The courts don't want to get in the 
way of that commerce. А woman walks in, 
takes all your behavior as a father, puts it in 
the blender with the lawyer and paints you 
as a bad father for the purposes of alienat- 
ing your child. That has to change. 
PLAYBOY: How did growing up with five 
siblings in the Long Island town of Mass- 
apequa shape you? 

BALDWIN: You discover as years go by how 
much that determines who you become as a 
person. There are times I love living alone 
and other times I really miss a house filled 
with a big family. My dad was a teacher. 
He didn't have money, and his six kids 
had to entertain themselves. My friends 
had money, boats, country houses, finished 
basements with pool tables. We had none of 
that. So it was my brothers and I, playing 
football, baseball, softball in a field adjacent 
to a golf course near our house. We lived 
there. At home everybody told jokes, find- 
ing a way to be funny. That led to what 
we're all doing. 

PLAYBOY: Were you surprised they followed 
you into acting? 

BALDWIN: My brothers had been putting one 
another on and entertaining one another 
out of necessity since they were five years 
old. I realize ending up in this business was 
natural for them. I was formed in my home, 
with my family, living a very simple life. I'm 
not some bling kind of person, no private- 
jet guy with big gold-encrusted jewelry. I 
linger on this because when I think about 
what the average American is, I think of my 
dad—the average American who wakes up 
every morning, puts in the hours trying to 
hold on to his job and do it well. If I run 
for office, my goal is to recognize that gov- 
ernment doesn't need to have lower taxes, 
a smaller budget. It'll be smaller than now 
because we are undergoing a correction. 
But government needs to spend money 
more responsibly. It's the only entity in 
this country authorized to stick its hand in 
your pocket and take your money, and if 
you don't pay, you go to jail. It's a disgrace, 
the way they just piss it away. Government 
needs to build roads, put satellites in the 
air, have bombs, ships and planes for the 
defense department, and schools. We need 
basically everything we have now. We just 
need to do it better. Let's say I want you to 


build a highway. ГА have people come in 
from all around the world and explain how 
they built one in Germany, Italy or Riyadh, 
and I would turn to people in my country 
and say, "You've got six months to build the 
highway, and if you don't, you're fired." 
It becomes a reservoir a certain group of 
politically connected people drinks from. 
That has to stop. 

PLAYBOY: How? 

BALDWIN: Make everyone understand that 
when you steal on a government contract, 
it's almost like treason. If I were president, I 
would make defense fraud treason. I would 
make it a treasonous act to play on the secu- 
rity fears of the American people, to have 
them authorize the building of all these things 
to defend and protect us, and then have you 
steal money inside the life of that contract. I'd 
send you to prison for treason. 

PLAYBOY: What about bailed-out companies 
like AIG cutting bonus checks? 

BALDWIN: That's a complicated question I 
don't even think experts can answer now. 
People have contracts; it would be illegal 
to void them. These things were rushed by 
the former administration. What we need 
is an SEC that matters. The reason I think 
I would want to run for office and be good 
at it is, the way all this should be done is 
overwhelmingly obvious to me. 

PLAYBOY: Explain. 

BALDWIN: You want business, but you've 
got to stand up to business. If a company 
says, "Hey, you break our chops about 
exhaust, about our factories...," you turn to 
them and say, "Go. Leave. Because the jobs 
and tax base we'll lose are less than what 
it would cost to clean up your mess, what 
we'll pay later in hospitals for the people 
who get cancer from what you're going to 
do." I think our society is evolving that way 
now. This is the thing that excites me about 
Barack Obama: He gets that you'll pay now 
or later. Tell that corporation to drop dead, 
get out of your state and move someplace 
where they need jobs so bad they'll sell 
their souls for short-end money. 

PLAYBOY: Every article written about you cites 
your decision to do A Streetcar Named Desire on 
Broadway—which cost you Patriot Games—as 
the reason you dropped off the superstar 
track. Would you do it differently now? 
BALDWIN: I don't know if I'm so certain and 
self-assured about the choices I've made. 
Sometimes I think, What if I had done it 
their way? Where would it have led? You 
are asked to be a part of a system in which 
the bulk of the films you make will be for- 
gettable but will give you an opportunity 
to do certain things creatively. I look at 
Tom Cruise, who made films that called 
for him to be young, fit and charming, 
and that appeal made him a star. When 
Тот wanted to give a real performance, 
he made Magnolia. It was like watching 
some alien that looked like Tom Cruise, 
because it was nothing you'd ever seen Tom 
do. That he was not given the Oscar that 
year for Magnolia was devastating to me. I 
thought he was breathtaking. Julia Roberts 
in Erin Brockovich—like Tom, she's beauti- 
ful, charming, smart, funny and winning, 
yet she plays a self-serving woman, a little 


coarse and willing to go to considerable 
lengths to get her way. She won the Oscar. 
Could I have done that? 

PLAYBOY: How might that system have 
worked for you? 

BALDWIN: You can get into that rhythm of 
"I'll do one for them, one for me.” I didn't 
do that. I wanted independence. I thought, 
You want me to do these movies, and they 
suck. Only later do you realize that if you 
do the one that sucks, you could do the one 
you wanted to do and have an audience for 
it. In spite of the reversals he has had over 
the past several years, the person who has 
done the most with that is Mel Gibson. He 
has made great films in all genres. Mel is 
everything you want in a movie star, but 
there's a layer underneath him. I don't 
know if the word is danger or pathos, but 
there's a complexity to Mel. Apocalypto is 
one of the most overwhelming, exhilarating 
but hideously violent films I've ever seen. 
PLAYBOY: You mentioned to me after our 
first session that you had never made a 
truly great film. The Departed won an Oscar. 
You made Glengarry Glen Ross, The Hunt for 
Red October, The Good Shepherd, Married to the 
Mob. How can you say that? 

BALDWIN: What I meant was, it's one thing 
to make a small contribution to a great film. 
The goal of a film actor is for your name to 
be above the title in a film that is a soaring 
commercial success or wins an Oscar. Not 
you, necessarily, but the film wins some- 
thing significant. 

PLAYBOY: Is that still your goal? 

BALDWIN: I had to let go of that. Whatever 
dreams of glory I had, so to speak, I no 
longer have. I'm doing the TV show. When 
that is over, my eye is looking toward doing 
something else. 

PLAYBOY: Won't TV momentum help your 
future in movies? 

BALDWIN: ГП be too old by then. 

PLAYBOY: Is there a performance you are 
most proud of? 

BALDWIN: No. I don't have the feeling for 
anything I've done in movies that equals 
anything in the plays I’ve done. I liked 
them, but take every supporting role and 
throw it out the window. You just come in. 
and play your scene. I remember being 
around Leo DiCaprio in The Aviator and 
thinking, God, how gifted this guy is, how 
he's taking advantage of his opportunities. 
Ilove to watch the young actor transition 
into the grown man on film. There was 
always something boyish and puckish about 
Johnny Depp, but ГП never forget watch- 
ing Sweeney Todd and feeling profoundly 
impressed by his performance. 

PLAYBOY: You say you have no regrets, but 
it sounds as if you wish you had trusted the 
system more. 

BALDWIN: Yes, not that I should have but 
rather what might have resulted if I had? 
A lot depends on who sponsors you in that 
club. If you're a young De Niro and you 
forge into a unit with Martin Scorsese or 
Woody Allen and the company of actors 
that included his former wife, or Leo with 
Scorsese—I didn't have that. It's like they're 
asking you to walk down a dark alley. If it's 
the right people, a door at the end leads 


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143 


PLAYBOY 


144 


to a fabulous wonderland. But the people 
who asked me to come down the alleyway? 
I was like, “Eh...let me get back to you.” 
PLAYBOY: Should you have gone down the 
alleyway anyway? 

BALDWIN: From time to time 1 wonder. 
Maybe I say this to myself just to medicate 
whatever anxiety I have, but had it worked 
out, I might have been seduced into doing 
that the rest of my life. I do not want to 
do this for the rest of my life. There are 
other things I want to do. I do what I do 
on a case-by-case basis, and I see that this is 
going to end, probably very soon. 
PLAYBOY: By your choice? 

BALDWIN: It doesn't really matter. More my 
choice, since I want to do other things. This 
is the jail with golden bars, but it would be 
so horrible for me to read this article and 
not have said there is a lot of wonderful in 
this business, a lot I'm going to miss. God 
knows, to walk away will be hard, but I’m 
trying to have the discipline to understand 
that I want to have other experiences. 
Maybe a private life. 

PLAYBOY: Is that realistic? 

BALDWIN: I have this silly fantasy. I get mar- 
ried again, I have a kid. I'd love another 
shot at that, with everything I've learned. 
My kid's like eight, comes home and says, 
"Dad, Jimmy's mom says you were a 
famous actor on TV and in the movies. Is 
that true?" And I go, "Yes, Johnny, Dad was 
famous." I whip out my scrapbooks and my 
DVDs and say, "Believe it or not, that's your 
dad." And my kid's like, "You used to be 
on TV and everything? And now you stay 
home and just clean the house all day while 
Mom works?" "That's right, son." It's a 
dream, that the kid doesn't know anything 
about that part of my life. Our normal life 
is uncontaminated by it. 

PLAYBOY: How long are you committed to 
30 Rock? 


BALDWIN: I've got three more years to go. 
PLAYBOY: Will you run for office? 
BALDWIN: ГП put it this way. The desire is 
there; that's one component. The other 
component is opportunity. A law firm in 
a liberal Democratic bastion in Ohio state 
politics sent me a binder with a cover let- 
ter that read, "Mr. Baldwin, here's who we 
represent, the kinds of cases we handle, our 
credentials in Ohio state politics. We want 
you to move to Ohio and run for governor. 
We will launch your career." 

PLAYBOY: Could you live in Ohio? 
BALDWIN: I have sometimes thought I could 
move to New Jersey or Connecticut and 
run. Pd love to run against Joe Lieberman. 
I have no use for him. But it's all fantasy. 
I'm a carry-me-out-in-a-box New Yorker. 
Here, anything can happen. Who thought 
Eliot Spitzer would go down the way he 
did? Senator Hillary Clinton left to serve as 
secretary of state. Two of the biggest forces 
gone. Maybe Andrew Cuomo will run for 
one of their old seats. How much longer 
will Chuck Schumer stay as senator? After 
2013 Bloomberg will be gone. What hap- 
pens then? Do I run for Congress on Long 
Island? What's Tim Bishop going to do? Не 
represents my district. People get sick, die. 
They're offered lucrative deals and want to 
cash in and make топеу for their retire- 
ment. People misstep. Unfortunately, an 
opportunity for me may mean bad things 
for someone else. I don't wish that. 
PLAYBOY: How does all this factor into your 
career? 

BALDWIN: I'm done in 2012. In March 2012 
I'll wake up and say, "What am I going to 
do now? Am I done?" I think I will be done. 
I may finish a play or something, but I'm 
retiring at the wrap party. 


"You're doing great, Cheryl Ann, but that's 5 the stick oe 
you've got in your mouth. 


JUDD APATOW 


(continued from page 98) 
depict a lot of immature behavior, but it's 
usually to point out how wrong it is and show 
somebody on a path to finding a better way. 


Q17 

PLAYBOY: Abortion is dismissed in Knocked 
Up. In fact, the word isn't even spoken. It's 
called “smushmortion.” Is it safe to assume 
you're pro-life, or anti-smushmortion? 
APATOW: If Katherine Heigl’s character had an 
abortion, the movie would have been only 11 
minutes long, so that wasn't an option for us. 
What interested me was making a movie about 
two people who don't know each other well 
but decide the right thing to do in their situa- 
tion is to get to know each other, just to see if 
a relationship can form. The baby is coming, 
and if nothing else, they can tell their child 
someday that at least they tried. That was a 
more interesting premise to me than anything 
having to do with pro-life or pro-choice. 


Q18 

PLAYBOY: You brought along your nine-year- 
old daughter, Maude, to record the DVD 
commentary on Superbad. Is it fair to say 
your daughters are pretty much corrupted? 
APATOW: My kids haven't seen any of my 
movies except You Don't Mess With the Zohan. 
and Heavyweights. Maude is 11 now, so 1 
probably live in a fantasyland where I still 
believe she hasn't snuck behind my back and 
watched them herself at two in the morning 
on her computer. That may be why she's 
not begging me to see them. If she were 
smart, she'd beg a little more just to make it 
look as if she hasn't seen them already. 


Q19 

PLAYBOY: You co-wrote and directed The 40-Year- 
Old Virgin. How did you lose your virginity? 
APATOW: When I lost my virginity, I said to 
the girl, “Hey, was it good for you, too?” 
And she said, “Well, I guess it'll get better 
eventually.” Sadly, she wasn’t right. It wasn’t 
better for her or any of the women who sub- 
sequently agreed to sleep with me. 


920 

PLAYBOY: Has success mellowed you, or do 
you still have the fierce ambition of a young 
filmmaker with something to prove? 
APATOW: I know what it feels like to have your 
movie bomb. I know what it feels like to have 
your movie bomb even though you think it's 
really good. I know what it's like to have your 
movie bomb when you know it's not very 
good. I know what it's like to succeed with a 
movie you're proud of. I know what it's like to 
succeed with a movie even you don't think is 
very good. I've been through all the permuta- 
tions. After everything that has happened to 
me, I feel I can relax and take a deep breath. 
But as I get older, I realize nothing has really 
changed. The second I finish a movie, I always 
want to occupy my head with a new problem, 
a new project. If I were truly mature, I prob- 
ably wouldn't feel the obsessive need to keep 
making more and more movies. I would just 
smell a leaf for a few years and be satisfied. 


G SPOT 


(continued from page 78) 
notes, but at the time "it would have been 
as unthinkable for a Victorian to advocate 
the active use of the vagina before mar- 
riage as it was to advocate the continuation 
of masturbation after marriage." The clit 
doesn't atrophy after a woman begins to 
have mature vaginal sex, Freud wrote; its 
function becomes to transmit "the excita- 
tion to the adjacent female sexual parts just 
as pine shavings can be kindled in order to 
set a log of harder wood on fire." 

Rather than Freud, Perry says, Alfred 
Kinsey is responsible for the notion of dis- 
tinct innie and outie orgasms because he so 
adamantly dismissed the vaginal variety. He 
based his belief in a single sexual trigger on 
the fact that it exists 
in men, i.e., the penis. 
But Perry notes there 
is no scientific basis for 
that conclusion, espe- 
cially since it's clear 
men can also reach 
climax through pros- 
tate stimulation. To 
validate his view, Kin- 
sey set up an experi- 
ment in which three 
male and two female 
gynecologists touched 
more than 800 women 
at 16 points, including 
the clit, labia, vagina 
and cervix, with the 
equivalent of a cotton 


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the vagina had only two functions: to serve 
as a place to stimulate an erection to orgasm 
and as a place to deposit semen. Helen Singer 
Kaplan, another prominent sexologist, said, 
"Probably most women are not intended to 
have orgasm during intercourse." Yet no one 
could explain why so many women, includ- 
ing thousands of those interviewed by Kinsey 
and his researchers, had such good things to 
say about the vagina. Kinsey concocted a few 
hypotheses to explain pleasure from penetra- 
tion, including the "psychological satisfaction" 
ofthe act (reflected years later in a comment by 
sex researcher Shere Ние that clitoral orgasms 
are "real" while vaginal ones are “emotional”), 
the grinding of their partner's pelvis when ће 
doesn't use his arms to support himself (pro- 
moted decades later as the “coital-alignment 
technique”) or indirect stimulation of the clit 


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swab. Triumphantly, 
Kinsey reported that 
while almost all the 
women felt the light 
touch to their clits, 
only 14 percent felt it 
inside their vaginas. 


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He concluded that 
it was "impossible" 
for the vagina to be 
"a center of sensory 
stimulation." Some see 
evidence in the way 
women masturbate: 
Kinsey found that of 
those he surveyed 
84 percent said they 
manipulated their clits 
and labia minora, and 
less than 20 percent inserted a finger or an 
object and even then usually stimulated their 
clit at the same time. In other words, women 
may be fantasizing about intercourse, but 
they aren't trying to re-create it. 

Despite Kinsey's confidence in his methods, 
Perry notes that a swab doesn't feel much like 
a thrusting erection or a finger, and there is no 
evidence that light touching of any area tells 
you much about a person's sexual response. 
In addition, Kinsey found that 91 percent of 
the women could feel pressure applied to the 
vaginal wall. So rather than proving vaginal 
orgasm a "biologic impossibility,” Perry says, 
Kinsey showed the opposite. Nevertheless, 
after the publication of Sexual Behavior in the 
Human Female, psychologists began repeating 
their single-locus mantra to female patients. 
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when it is tugged by the movement of the 
muscles in the vagina and pelvic floor. 

"There's another factor Kinsey didn't con- 
sider. In 1924, in a French medical jour- 
nal, an amateur sexologist named Marie 
Bonaparte (a great-grandniece of Napo- 
leon) reported the results of her examina- 
tion of 243 women recruited through doctor 
friends. She interviewed each patient about 
her sexual response, then measured the dis- 
tance from the woman's vagina (more pre- 
cisely, her urethral opening) to her clitoris. 
Bonaparte found that the 21 percent of her 
sample who had the most space—as much 
as two inches—reported the least frequent 
orgasms from intercourse. The 69 percent 
who had less than an inch said they nearly 
always came from penetration. The 10 per- 
cent who had precisely an inch, Bonaparte 


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said, lived on the "threshold of frigidity." 
Kim Wallen, a professor of behavioral neu- 
roendocrinology at Emory University who 
has verified Bonaparte's math and hopes to 
repeat her experiment, sums up the findings 
thus: "If the distance is less than the width of 
your thumb, you are likely to come." If true, 
the maxim raises an intriguing question: Are 
many, most or all women who regularly cli- 
max during penetration simply those whose 
clits are nearest the thrusting penis? Is the 
G-spot a pink herring? 


NONBELIEVERS 


Whatever the science, the G-spot has infil- 
trated the popular culture to such an extent 
few men or women seem to doubt its exis- 
tence; the sex-toy shop Babeland.com stocks 
65 ше of vibrators and dildos designed to 
reach the area. So in 
August 2001, when 
Terence Hines, a pro- 
fessor of psychology at 
Pace University and 
an adjunct professor 
of neurology at New 
York Medical College, 
portrayed the spot as 
fanciful, echoing criti- 
cism heard in 1982 
after the release of 
The G Spot, he found 
a target drawn on his 
groin. A dedicated 
skeptic (his book Pseu- 
doscience and the Para- 
mormal is in its second 
edition, and he's a 
research fellow with. 
a group that debunks 
alternative medi- 
cal therapies), Hines 
speaks about the G- 
spot with the glee of 
a man who enjoys a 
good pissing match. 
When a student in an 
introductory physi- 
ology course asked 
about it during a dis- 
cussion of human sex- 
uality, Hines assumed 
its existence had been 
proved. But when he 
reviewed the medi- 
cal literature, he was 
underwhelmed. In a 
scathing commentary published on August 28, 

2001 in the American Journal of Obstetrics and 
Gynecology, Hines said he could find only two 
clinical studies, neither close to convincing. A 
1981 case study by Belzer, Perry, Whipple and 
others involved a woman who experienced 
“deeper” orgasms and whose anterior vaginal 
wall appeared to grow about 50 percent dur- 
ing arousal. A 1983 review by Whipple and 
five colleagues involved gynecologists who 
first underwent three hours of training before 
being asked to determine if any of 11 women 
had a G-spot (four did). Besides the fact the 
subjects knew what researchers were looking 
for, which certainly introduced bias, writes 
Hines, “it is astonishing that the examination 
of only 12 women, of whom only five ‘had’ 
G-spots, form the basis for the claim that this 
anatomic structure exists.” 


145 


PLAYBOY 


146 


In his coup de gráce, Hines concludes that 
without more definitive research, “the G-spot 
will remain a sort of gynecological UFO.” 
That catchy phrasing immediately generated 
buzz, including invitations from women who 
offered to show Hines their spots firsthand, 
but the 9/11 attacks pushed the debate out 
of the news. Hines says he's surprised no 
one in the eight years since has answered his 
challenge, which Clara Peller might have pre- 
sented as, Where's the nerves? While Gráfen- 
berg mentions nerves inside the anterior wall 
of the vagina, he cites another study, which 
Hines says offers no source and mentions it 
only in the course of dismissing the idea the 
vagina has nerves. Hines says he had hoped 
his commentary would be an introduction to 
definitive research he would conduct himself; 
he planned to dissect the front vaginal wall of 
a number of female cadavers (tricky but not 
impossible, he says) and use medical staining 
to search for nerve bundles. However, he says 
the Catholic officials who run the New York 
Medical College refused to allow it. 

Have any studies since 2001 given him 
pause? A handful have been intriguing, he 
says. For instance, the title of a 2006 Journal 
of Sexual Medicine report—" Prospective Study 
Examining the Anatomic Distribution of Nerve 
Density in the Human Vagina"—suggested to 
Hines that the histological research he longed 
to see had been completed. "Alas, no," he says. 
“The subjects were surgical patients, and the 
tissue was biopsy samples, not the entire ante- 
rior vaginal wall. In fact, the authors write, “We 
did not document a corresponding increase in 
innervation in the anterior vagina. However, 
we do not claim this is proof the G-spot does 
not exist.' That's the correct conclusion but 
also offers support for my position." 

"Two years later Hines dog-eared another 
study in the same journal. A team led by Dr. 
Emmanuele Jannini, a professor of experi- 


mental medicine at the University of L'Aquila 
in Italy, took high-definition ultrasound 
images of the genitalia of 20 volunteers. He 
found the nine women who said they had 
G-spot orgasms had slightly thicker tissue 
(by about two millimeters) along the upper 
wall between the vagina and urethra than 
the clitoral-orgasm group did. Although his 
study was small, Jannini nevertheless claims 
he has proven some women don't have G- 
spots. But Hines isn't sure how Jannini can 
be so certain, given that he defines ће G-spot 
as "the human clitoris-urethrovaginal com- 
plex." This, Hines notes, "extends the size 
of the zone quite a bit —why not just say it's 
the entire vagina? What I think is going on 
here is that if the vaginal tissue is thicker, the 
vaginal space is smaller. In other words, the 
woman is tighter—and everyone has a bet- 
ter time regardless of the relative number 
of neurons." Other factors could also be at 
play in whether a woman responds to vaginal 
stimulation, including the size of her clitoris, 
her state of arousal and the strength of the 
hammock-like pubococcygeus muscle, which 
has a direct line to the sexual center of the 
brain via the pudendal and pelvic nerves. 
Along with many feminist writers, Hines 
says his criticism comes out of a concern that 
the notion ofa hypersensitive area sets women 
up for failure. "Women who don't respond to 
stimulation, as the G-spot myth suggests they 
should, may end up feeling inadequate or 
abnormal," he writes. Ed Belzer has had the 
same reservations. "I was speaking years ago 
to a couple about sex therapy," he says, "and 
when the husband brought up the G-spot the 
wife chimed in, 1 don't want to hear about 
this. It took me long enough to accept myself 
without having another hurdle to get across." 
We've always been sensitive about that; it's not 
an athletic achievement." For many, the "dis- 
covery" ofthe G-spot only ratcheted up what 


"Well, Гт home before 11...." 


JoAnn Loulan describes in Lesbian Sex as “the 
tyranny of orgasm"—women are expected, 
like men, to be satisfied only if they reach the 
"goal" of climax. 

Naturally, every prominent G-spot 
researcher took issue with Hines's conclu- 
sions. Whipple and Perry could barely contain 
themselves, noting the critic had cited only 24 
of more than 250 studies on the matter before 
dropping this anvil on his head: "By saying 
the G-spot is a myth, Hines has now contrib- 
uted to denying women's sexual response and 
pleasurable experiences." Dr. Jules Black, a 
prominent obstetrician in Australia, wrote 
Hines personally: “Ifthe phenomenon cannot 
yet be explained to the nth degree physiologi- 
cally, anatomically, biochemically, histologi- 
cally, histochemically, etc., so what? There are 
many bodily functions where the pathways 
from cause to effect aren't fully worked out. 
For years I have been telling Beverly Whipple 
to get some of her proven research subjects 
to will their vaginas to science so that we can 
reverse engineer them." 

Some have tried. In The Human Female Pros- 
late, a summary of 150 vaginal dissections he 
has conducted, pathologist Milan Zaviacic of 
Comenius University in Bratislava, Slovakia 
says he found about 70 percent of women 
have ramp-shaped meatus prostates, with 
the thickest part of the tissue located near the 
urethra. Further, he counted as many as 31 
microscopic ducts emptying into the urethra, 
most in the front third. Next, there's the 15 
percent of women with posterior prostates, 
in which the thickest part is located closest to 
the bladder. Seven percent of women have a 
middle prostate distributed along the length 
of the urethra but with a smaller concentra- 
tion in the middle, like a dumbbell. The final 
type, the rudimentary prostate, found in 
about eight percent of women, has few glands 
and ducts. Why is this important? Because, 
Zaviacic writes, "the main part of the female 
prostate tissue does not correspond with the 
topological placement of the G-spot.” That 
may explain, says Deborah Sundahl, author 
of Female Ejaculation and the G-Spot, why some 
women have trouble finding the zone. "They 
are looking too far back in the vagina and miss- 
ing the location of the most common meatus 
prostate, which is just inside the vagina, near 
the urethra, or not far back enough, which is 
where the posterior prostate can best be felt," 
she writes. This variability is one reason many 
researchers reject the term female prostate—the 
male prostate has a highly defined size, shape 
and location; the female version is apparently 
а vagabond shape-shifter. 

If a G-spot can't be found, does it exist? 
In a 2002 study, Jannini at the University of 
L'Aquila reported dissections of the pelvic 
regions of 14 female cadavers had revealed 
two women who did not have erectile tissue 
along the front inner wall of their vagina and 
five who did not have paraurethral glands 
(sometimes called the Skene's glands, after 
a doctor who described them in 1880 but 
believed them to be inactive), which may 
account for female ejaculation. Three years 
later anatomist Dr. Helen O'Connell pro- 
posed that the G-spot may never be found 
because it's not a separate structure that can 
be identified through dissections or scans. 
Instead, it's part of two erectile bulbs that 
extend from a highly sensitive external пиђ 


into Ше body, where they wrap around the 
urethra and vagina (see "The Deep Secrets 
of Her Clitoris and Yours," page 78). The G- 
spot, she suggests, is the unseen clitoris. 


HONEYPOT 


Like the G-spot, the phenomenon of female 
ejaculation has had its doubters. Although 
descriptions of women emitting fluids as 
they climax date to at least the fourth century, 
Alfred Kinsey, whose opinions held great 
weight following the 1948 publication of Sex- 
ual Behavior in the Human Male, wasn't buying 
it, arguing that any expulsion was surely just 
lubrication from the vaginal walls pushed out, 
sometimes at great force, by orgasmic con- 
tractions. William Masters reached the same 
conclusion. Despite the praise he offered 
for Josephine Sevely's research ("the lady 
certainly has done her homework"), he and 
Virginia Johnson derided the idea of female 
ejaculation as "erroneous." John Perry recalls 
that the woman who first piqued his and 
Whipple's curiosity had years earlier sought 
out Masters, who dismissed the sugary fluid 
she emitted as a sign she was "prediabetic." 
The famed researcher had a chance to stake 
his claim on the G-spot, Perry says, “had ће 
not assumed unusual symptoms were inher- 
ently pathological." 

The woman had been introduced to Whip- 
ple and Perry in 1979 by her doctor; she 
agreed to demonstrate in a lab with the assis- 
tance of her husband, who used his fingers to 
massage her anterior vaginal wall. (This would 
become the 1981 case study cited by Terence 
Hines.) With her urethra under a bright light, 
and while being filmed, the woman came and 
ejaculated three times in less than five minutes, 
creating wet spots anywhere from a centimeter 
to more than three feet away. The team later 
collected four samples by pressing a drinking 
glass against her taint. A biochemical analysis 
showed the liquid contained more tartrate- 
inhibited acid prosphatase (thought to be 
prostatic) and glucose and less urea and creati- 
nine than urine. Subsequent studies of female 
ejaculate would identify prostate-specific anti- 
gens (PSA), which are also produced by the 
male prostate. Whipple and Perry say the vol- 
ume of clear or milky-white fluid typically fills 
по more than a quarter teaspoon; there is no 
"gushing" as described in ancient erotica and 
by Gráfenberg or seen in modern porn. They 
explain the discrepancy by noting that people 
are prone to exaggerate, such as happens with 
self-reports of menstrual blood (in reality it's 
usually about four tablespoons) and semen 
(about one teaspoon). Yet many women insist 
they soak the sheets; the females of more than 
one "primitive" African tribe have been said 
to spray the walls. Gary Schubach devoted his 
doctoral research at the Institute for Advanced 
Study of Human Sexuality in San Francisco 
to figuring out why some women may at best 
squirt their partner in the eye while others 
waterboard them. Each of seven volunteers 
masturbated in a lab until they were near 
orgasm. Schubach then inserted a catheter 
and drained each woman's bladder, keeping 
the device in place to isolate the fluid originat- 
ing there at orgasm. Then each woman con- 
tinued to masturbate until she climaxed and 
ejaculated, an exercise in concentration that 
any man who has awoken from surgery with 
a tube sticking out of his penis can appreciate. 


Schubach and his colleagues observed about 
95 percent of the fluid at climax came from 
the catheter, even though the bladder had 
been drained only minutes before. And this 
was a gush by any standard: from a half liter 
to a liter of fluid. Although analysis showed the 
liquid had been "de-urinized" (it contained 
only 25 percent of the urea in pee), Schubach 
hypothesized that it must have come from the 
walls of the bladder and new kidney produc- 
tion. The other five percent of the fluid, "in. 
some women and at some times," likely came 
from the paraurethral glands. 

When Perry read Schubach's study in 1997, 
he admits, it made him rethink his position 
that women who "gush" something other 
than urine exist only in the erotic imagination. 
He wondered if the fluid might be similar to. 
"beer piss"—the diluted urine produced on 
the fly when you are emotionally or physically 
aroused (such as while watching a big game, 
hitting on a woman at a bar or having sex) 
and find you have an immediate urge to pee. 
The debate comes down to this: Is anything 
that passes through the bladder by definition 
urine? Whipple says yes, that only expulsions 
from the paraurethral glands are female ejac- 
ulate—since it's nearly impossible for men 10 
urinate and ejaculate at the same time, why 


shouldn't that also be the case for women? 
Schubach—and now Perry—says the ejaculate 
comes sometimes from the urethra, sometimes 
from the bladder, and sometimes it's a mix- 
ture. It may be that every woman ejaculates 
but the fluid usually flows back into the blad- 
der. (One study found PSA levels in female 
urine to be higher after orgasm than before.) 
Whatever the case, why would this evolve? Is 
ejaculation designed to keep the flow moving 
outward to prevent urinary or bladder infec- 
tions? Is it produced as "washback" (seen in 
other mammals) to flush out excess sperm or 
sperm deposited by an earlier suitor? Perhaps 
men deserve some credit for its evolutionary 
survival: If you mate with a female who gets 
50 aroused when you do her doggy style that 
she spurts all of a rival’s future offspring into 
the dirt, you'll be damn sure to find others like 
her. Some scientists suggest this is why semen 
has gotten thicker over the eons; it's harder to 
wash away. More food for thought: The fruc- 
tose in female ejaculate happens to be sperm's 
favorite meal. Perhaps ejaculate gives them a 
boost, like race officials handing Gatorade to 
marathon runners. At the finish line waits the 
next generation of ejaculators. 


"Well...if you won't blow me, can your girlfriend blow me?" 


147 


PLAYBO!Y 


148 


RAGING BULLS 


(continued from page 36) 
the tax shelter operators he knew and 
offered to accompany him on his trip. 
What a guy. 

The trip was productive, and Jason was 
eager to get back to Buenos Aires. Jose 
said that since they were already in Uru- 
guay they should spend an afternoon in 
Punta del Este, a well-known resort town 
a mere hour-and-a-half drive—along the 
completely barren coastline—from Mon- 
tevideo. They lunched at the famous 
Parador La Huella. Jason got up to use 
the bathroom. After lunch he suggested 
they hit the road. José asked him if he 
was feeling all right. When Jason said he 
wasn't, José said it was probably best to 
head home. Twenty minutes out of town 


Jason asked José to stop the car. He was 
feeling queasy and his legs were numb. As 
soon as he got out of the car he fell to his 
knees and began vomiting. José drove off. 
Jason could not believe his eyes. 

It was dark and cold, and he was alone. 
He thought he was going to die. He 
crawled two miles to a bus station. After 
five buses passed, a driver took pity on 
him and allowed him to ride for free. 
The driver radioed ahead to a hospital 
that he had a sick passenger. At the hos- 
pital Jason realized he had no money. He 
remembers a nurse had to get someone 
who spoke English. “You're in Uruguay,” 
they told him. "Medical care is free." Di- 
agnosis: He had been poisoned. 

Two days later Jason finally made it back 
to the Palermo neighborhood in Buenos 
Aires. At José's apartment the police found 


PUN ВИЛ NA 


“Please, Brad... 


it’s not what it looks like...!” 


Jason's stuff, except his computer, which 
was all that mattered (though the police 
reports did make fine souvenirs). 

A couple of days later Jason was still 
feeling like hell. Jordan came into his 
room: “Guess what, man.” He told him 
Bank of America had acquired Merrill 
Lynch. Not long after, Lehman Broth- 
ers went under. The finance industry was 
crumbling; the demise was stunning in its 
breadth and immediacy. 

According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor 
Statistics, between January 2008 and April 
2009 some 276,000 Americans with jobs 
in the finance industry were handed their 
walking papers. Jason and Jordan start- 
ed to get phone calls from their banker 
buddies in the States. Many of them were 
headed for Buenos Aires. 


After being poisoned and left for dead, 
Jason gave up trying to put together deals 
in Buenos Aires. Building a bridge back 
to Wall Street wasn't happening. 

On October 21 Argentina's leftist gov- 
ernment nationalized the $30 billion pri- 
vate pension system. The stated purpose 
was to protect investors from losses re- 
sulting from the global market turmoil. 
Another effect was that trying to raise 
foreign capital, even for a tourism ven- 
ture, became pointless; no one wants to 
invest in a country that recently nation- 
alized $30 billion in private investments. 
Besides, tourism was sure to go down, be- 
cause social upheaval and violence would 
likely ensue. 

Meanwhile Jason started going out 
more—what the hell else was there to do? 
He spotted more and more bankers ev- 
erywhere he went. He went to Crobar in 
Palermo Chico, next to the Rose Garden 
park where he used to jog in the halcyon 
days of winter (summer in New York). 
While waiting to get in—the nightclubs 
open at two A.M.—he noticed a group 
of about seven guys, in blazers and ex- 
pensive loafers, whose eyes seemed to be 
popping out of their heads. They wanted 
help getting into the club and explained 
that they were from New York, worked 
in finance and had moved to Buenos Ai- 
res for a couple of months. At Bahrein, 
a club in Centro, Jason encountered an- 
other pack of blazers, who were waving 
money at the doorman, trying to jump 
the line. He had a good chuckle later that 
night when he saw them invite two very 
convincing transsexuals to join them at 
their table. Another night, at Rumi, he 
was at a table with a couple of friends 
and a bunch of hot girls. Four American- 
looking dudes started hovering, trying to 
mack on their women. Jason had to break 
up a fight between his friends and one of 
the dudes, a blond guy in a blazer and 
V-neck T-shirt. Jason is six-five. The guy 
explained to him that it was all good; he 
was also from New York and had “volun- 
tarily" left his job at Lazard. Then the guy 
offered Jason some coke he had bought 
from the taxi driver on the way over. 

"There's a Banker" became a game 
Jason played with his friends. The expat 
bankers weren't difficult to spot: "You see 


these kids in their sports jackets. Their jaws 
are clenched tight. They're in a fucking 
club where there's amazing techno music. 
They don't even know what the hell it is. 
Твеуте wearing fucking sports jackets, 
and they just look like idiots. They're 
fucking sitting there with their eyes pop- 
ping out of their heads, and they're shit- 
faced drunk. Girls are like, 'What the fuck 
are these...?' You know? They don't party 
like that down here." 

During his time in Buenos Aires Jason 
met only one local drug dealer. His name 
is Marcello. "There are more gringos in 
my city every day," says Marcello in a 
brief interview in Palermo Soho. He has a 
shaved head and a sleeve of tattoos on his 
left arm. He speaks from the saddle of his 
motorcycle. "I don't particularly deal with 
them every day, but I have told my em- 
ployees to target them in the clubs. As far 
as bankers go I have been to many parties 
where American bankers have been. They 
all buy coke from me and blow it immedi- 
ately. That's the American way—consume, 
consume. They don't respect the drug the 
way Argentines do. We use it when we are 
tired and want to keep dancing. These 
guys do a gram in an hour, and it's not 
even 12 a.m. yet. For me it's good because 
I always have more to sell to them." 

Marcello says his guys find most of their 
gringos at Crobar, Pacha and Jet on the 
weekends. "Expats are always at tables 
and spend a lot of money on drinks and 
are bad dancers and always too drunk. So 
it is easy for my guys to find them. They 
just go up to the tables, find the biggest 
gringo and ask him if he wants ecstasy, 
coke, MDA or ketamine." Gringos are 
mostly into coke, with ecstasy a distant 
second, Marcello says. He sells his goods 
by the gram: 50 pesos for local customers 
and up to 120 pesos for gringos. 

"The gringos all ask me if I am a real 
drug dealer,” he says. "I don't tell them, 
but I ask them what they do. They say 
they are some big banker from London 
or New York, and I tell them that I am 
too. They like me better, and then I sell 
them more coke." 


In early December, at a holiday party at 
his friend Nell Hutchins's place, Jason 
was forced to confront the extreme bias 
he had developed against his fellow ex- 
bankers. Nell, a 27-year-old New Yorker, 
said that in her nine months in B.A. four 
of the seven guys she went on dates with 
turned out to be bankers. Half the guests 
at the party seemed to be unemployed 
finance guys. Until then Jason had avoid- 
ed any serious conversation with other 
bankers he'd encountered because he as- 
sociated them with the system that had 
chewed him up and spit him out. But 
at this intimate gathering conversation 
could not be avoided. He was surprised 
at how comforting it was to talk to peo- 
ple who were going through the same 
career and identity crises. The industry 
they had all fought so hard to be a part 
of, that had in a way defined their gen- 
eration and that they'd assumed would 
fund their futures lavishly, was simply 


gone. What next? More than ever Jason 
appreciated the sharp intellect and ag- 
gressive attitudes of his counterparts, in 
particular a guy named Mat Levine. Mat 
also wore white loafers. 

Like so many young bucks in the fi- 
nance world, Mat, 27, is big, brash and 
physically fit—he was the leading scorer 
three years running on the Emory Uni- 
versity soccer team. He is a fiend for ac- 
tion. When the credit markets first began. 
to freeze up, in December 2007, he grew 
dissatisfied with the returns he was get- 
ting on his 12-hour days at Sandalwood 
Securities, а New Jersey-based hedge 
fund. He found himself sitting on his 
hands with a six-figure savings account 
smoldering under his Herman Miller of- 
fice chair. After a full year of traveling the 
world he arrived in Buenos Aires earlier 
that month and rented an apartment in 
Palermo Hollywood. It had a doorman, 
a beautiful pool, a double balcony, a mas- 
sive bedroom with views of the city, a 
huge open kitchen, a huge living room 
and three flat-screen TVs. He says it was 
the sort of place that would have cost 
$10,000 a month in Manhattan; it cost 
$1,800 a month in Buenos Aires. 

For Mat, there would be no afternoons 
spent lounging in the Plaza de Mayo, gaz- 
ing up at Casa Rosada, where Eva Perón 
rallied the masses, no lazy Sundays perus- 
ing the many booths at the antiques mar- 
ket in San Telmo, no midnight gawking at 
the milongas, the outdoor neighborhood 
parties where locals dance the tango. /Que 
auténtico! Screw that shit. Here's how Mat 
describes his life in Argentina: "My aver- 
age day was waking up at, let's say two— 
maybe three but let's say two—and going 
to lunch, which consisted of going to a 
nice restaurant and having a big steak. 
Then I would get back to my place at, say, 
four, 4:30 and spend the afternoon at the 
pool. I would maybe go for a short walk 
or most likely have some friend over to 
the pool. And then I would meet up with. 
friends at, like, 10ish to go to dinner, and 
you go to another one of the top restau- 
rants. Dinner ends at midnight or one. 
Then you go to a bar for an hour, maybe 
two. Then you go to a nightclub. Usually 
the clubs start to empty out around six or 
seven in the morning." 

Jason fell into the routine. He found 
himself dining at one of the most expen- 
sive Argentine steakhouses, even though 
he couldn't afford it, and then hitting 
the clubs. Suddenly his cell phone was 
crammed with the numbers of expats. He 
was going out five nights a week. He dif- 
ferentiated himself from the posse by ven- 
turing out from the VIP section to join 
the masses in back-and-forth hip-swivel 
dancing, which expats commonly refer to 
as the washing machine. Also, his banker 
gear was long gone, save for the white Fer- 
ragamos. The new uniform was tight Rock 
& Republic jeans and colorful long-sleeve 
T-shirts of local design, topped with flop- 
py, flaxen locks. He did, however, take up 
the banker-mentality competition for who 
could consistently bring home the hottest 
babes. At last count Jason was somewhere 
in the neighborhood of 20 girls. 


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Mat and his crew—which included 
two Aussie i-bankers, Duncan and Dan— 
took the games to a new level with the 
“Olympics,” which involved various Her- 
culean feats with girls at bars: remove an 
item of her clothing in a bar; make out 
with a girl without uttering a word, in a 
bar. Others, who shall remain nameless, 
assumed superhero identities: Batman 
would point a flashlight at a lucky lady, 
illuminating her shadow against the wall 
before the romance ensued; Spider-Man 
would jerk off in his hand and cast out his 
progeny in a fashion similar to the way his 
namesake unleashes his web. 

All through spring and summer more 
expats arrived. Jason spent Christmas 
day alone in his apartment. Now six 
months in Buenos Aires, he was feeling 
the hangover. For the first time in his life 
his parents wanted to get off the phone 
with him. He said he had never felt so 
alone and helpless. He contemplated his 
options: return to New York, which was 
experiencing one of its coldest winters 
and where he would blow through his 
savings in two months while job hunting 
in the worst employment market since 
the 1930s. 

"I decided I would hang myself if I went 
back there," he says. He resolved to make 
the most of the next two months. "I sort 
of took refuge in the banker community." 


On New Year's Eve Jordan hosted a tradi- 
tional asado, an all-day barbecue around 
a charcoal grill, on his rooftop. He esti- 
mates that about half the 20 people who 
came were from the finance world. One 
attendee, David, a 26-year-old J.P. Mor- 
gan casualty, sent an e-mail home describ- 
ing the events of the night. 

"At about 1:30 ам. we all left to go to 
the nightclub. One of the most unforget- 
table experiences of my life," read the 
missive. "I have partied in many cities, 
from Tel Aviv to Rome to Los Angeles, 
and nothing would prepare me for what 
was about to come. Pacha nightclub is a 
monstrous three-story building set just 
on the edge of Buenos Aires, with two 
huge dance floors, including an outdoor 
patio and balcony with complete views of 
the ocean. The club was amazing. We got 
in at two A.M. and the music was already 
bumping. At one point I was dancing on 
a balcony overlooking the ocean and star- 
ing down at a sea of people jumping up 
and down to electronica as the sun began 
to rise behind them. I have never seen 
anything like it. 

"In New York people leave before the 
music stops. In Buenos Aires the music 
stops at eight A.M., and then everyone 
leaves with their sunglasses on. Some 
decide to finish their night in the morn- 
ing and others continue to an after-hours 
club, which opens at eight a.m. and closes 
at three р.м.... Such a drug culture here. 
Getting a drink is a pain. You need to 
first put in your order and pay at the reg- 
ister. Next they give you a ticket to wait in 
another line so you can give the ticket to 
the bartender to fill the order. It's a huge 


150 pain in the ass, so everyone says fuck it 


and does lines and rolls ecstasy. But you 
don't need to be on something to have 
fun, as the adrenaline rushing through 
your system from the thousands of people 
dancing around you is enough to get you 
high. I met this Brazilian girl from Sáo 
Paulo who was visiting, and we hit it off 
immediately. Dancing to techno all night 
and grinding hard.... Smoking hotttyyyy 
making out and touchy-feely all night...." 

In the Pacha VIP section, Jason fell in 
with a clique of gringos he had never met 
before. One of them was a commodities 
trader from Texas who was wearing a Ver- 
sace suit and snakeskin boots and had more 
coke than he knew what to do with. Jason 
gave him the nickname Dallas. After a brief 
sojourn at Dallas's suite at the Philippe 
Starck-designed five-diamond Faena Hotel 
in the Puerto Madero neighborhood, the 
group of new friends set out in search of 
an after-hours club they had heard about 
called Kites. At around 11 A.m., after а me- 
andering 45-minute cab ride, they arrived 
at the monstrous fortress. 

Around two A.M. Jason and two Ar- 
gentine girls he had met there arrived 
at an apartment in Palermo Hollywood. 
He remembers walking in and seeing а 


The cop pointed a shotgun 
at them and told them 
they were going to make a 
tour of ATMs. То hours 
and $3,000 latex, the 
cops set them free. 


scuzzy-looking porteño hipster dude in a 
white V-neck and tight jeans sitting on a 
couch next to a beautiful young Argen- 
tine girl with wavy brown hair and large 
breasts. He gave Jason a sleazy look, as 
if to say "Watch this," then cupped the 
young woman's breasts with one hand, 
dumped some cocaine on her cleavage 
and plunged his face in there. 

Тће girls took Jason into a bedroom, 
where they all enjoyed a few snorts and 
then a threesome. An hour or so later Ja- 
son was back on the streets. The 20-min- 
ute walk home was one of the darkest 20 
minutes of his life. 

"I decided right then and there that 
I had to get back to New York," he says. 
After another equally soul-crushing night 
with a former Goldman Sachs banker, he 
booked a ticket for the end of January. He 
never got on the flight. 

Through January and February Jason 
began hearing more stories of expats get- 
ting robbed or being kidnapped. One 
friend, Mike, who had worked at a now- 
defunct hedge fund in San Francisco, and 
another guy were leaving a bar in Micro- 
centro, doing bumps off their hands as 
they walked. A cop car pulled up. They 
thought they were going to jail. The cop 


in the passenger seat pointed a shotgun 
at them and told them they were going to 
make a tour of ATMs, which are few and 
far between in this city. Two hours and 
$3,000 later, the cops set them free. 
Prostitution is a huge industry in Bue- 
nos Aires. The whorehouse district is 
across the street from the historic Reco- 
leta Cemetery, a major tourist attraction, 
on Vicente López. The street is lined with 
"cabarets." Customers pay a charge at the 
door; inside, the bars are full of working 
women. What you do from there is your 
business. Gabriela, a manager at the МКО 
Hippopotamus cabaret, tells me she has 
seen a significant increase in American 
expats at the club since the financial cri- 
sis. She says the young Americans are the 
worst. "They think they are the best," she 
says. "Sometimes they tell you what they 
want..." She makes a grabbing motion 
with her hands. "They don't ask for it." 


Jason hit bottom the night he visited Hip- 
popotamus in late February Up until 
then he had had no cause to visit a caba- 
ret, but his friend Abdullah (a nickname, 
on account of his Middle Eastern heri- 
tage) was in town. Abdullah had lost his 
job at Lehman Brothers a few days ear- 
lier. When Jason heard the news, he per- 
suaded Abdullah to come down to Buenos 
Aires. The poor bastard was in no condi- 
tion to enjoy paradise. As soon as he ar- 
rived at Jason's apartment he hijacked the 
computer and spent the rest of the day 
job hunting. The two finally made their 
way to a bar, where Abdullah proceeded 
to order shot after shot of tequila. 

At one point a girl asked him what he 
did. Jason was like, "Say it, dude. Say it." 

Later that night, Jason looked over at 
his friend and saw him sitting there, drunk 
and crying in public. The next night 
Abdullah was wasted again, threatening 
to kick everyone's ass. Then he turned to 
Jason and barked, "Take me to a whore- 
house!" Jason says he was so frustrated 
with his houseguest that he was happy to 
facilitate a decision Abdullah would regret. 
Once inside Hippopotamus, Abdullah be- 
came grumpy again and said he wanted to 
leave. Jason had another idea: He found 
an attractive-enough girl with a big brown 
front tooth, gave her 50 pesos and told 
her to walk up to his friend and grab his 
cock. Back at the apartment, Jason stayed 
up to make sure she didn't steal anything 
on the way out. 

Around three р.м. the following day 
Abdullah emerged from his room and 
immediately started bitching: "Why did 
you take me there? I didn't even want to 
go! This is exactly why I didn't want to 
visit you, because I would end up in these 
situations. I am trying to change my life 
around for the better." Abdullah booked 
a flight out of town that day. 

Jason made it back to New York on 
March 1. The Ferragamo work loafers 
he bought on that fateful day in May 
2008 remain in a box in his parents” 


house upstate. 


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152 


CELL MATES 


(continued from page 124) 
what she said. In the good days, five of us 
had lived in that huge apartment; now it 
was just me and the mice. Sometimes I 
imagined Sofia in a prison cell in Zaragoza, 
back in November 1973, and me, in the 
southern hemisphere, locked up too, for 
a few decisive days, and though Т realized 
that this fact or coincidence had to be sig- 
nificant, 1 couldn't work out what it meant. 
Tve never been any good at analogies. One 
night when I came home, I found a note 
saying good-bye and some money on the 
kitchen table. At first I went on living as 
if Sofia were still there. I can't remember 
exactly how long I waited for her. I think 
the electricity got cut off. After that I moved 
to another apartment. 

It was a long time before I saw her again. 
She was walking down Las Ramblas, looking 
lost. We stood there, the cold seeping into 
our bones, talking about things that meant 
nothing to her or to me. Walk me home, 
she said. She was living near El Borne, in a 


building that was falling down it was so old. 
The staircase was narrow and creaked with 
every step we took. We climbed up to the 
door of her apartment, on the top floor. To 
my surprise, she didn't let me in. I should 
have asked her what was going on, but I 
left without saying anything; if that was 
what she wanted, it was up to her. 

А week later I went back to her apart- 
ment. The bell wasn't working and I had 
to knock several times. I thought there 
was no one there. Then I thought there 
was no one living there. Just as I was about 
to go, the door opened. It was Sofia. The 
apartment was dark and the light on the 
landing went off automatically after 20 sec- 
onds. At first, because of the darkness, I 
didn't realize she was naked. You're going 
to freeze, I said when the landing light 
came on again and showed her standing 
there, very straight, thinner than before. 
Her stomach and legs, which I had kissed. 
so many times, looked terribly helpless, 
and instead of feeling drawn toward her, 
I was chilled by the sight of them, as if I 
were the one without clothes. Can I come 


"My old cell phone took photos, movies, had e-mail and I could surf 
the net. My new one is even better—it's also a vibrator." 


in? Sofia shook her head. I assumed her 
nakedness meant that she was not alone. I 
said as much and, smiling stupidly, assured 
her that I didn't mean to be indiscreet. I 
was about to go back down the stairs when 
she said she was alone. I stopped and 
looked at her, more carefully this time, try- 
ing to read her expression, but her face 
was indecipherable. I also looked over her 
shoulder. Nothing had stirred in the utter 
silence and darkness of the apartment, but 
my instinct told me that someone was hid- 
ing there, listening to us, waiting. Are you 
feeling all right? Fine, she said very quietly. 
Have you taken something? No, nothing, 
I haven't taken any drugs, she whispered. 
Are you going to let me in? Can I make you 
some tea? No, said Sofia. Since I was asking 
questions, I thought I might as well try one 
more: Why won't you let me see your apart- 
ment, Sofia? Her answer surprised me. My 
boyfriend will be back soon and he doesn't 
like it if there's anyone here with me, espe- 
cially if it’s a man. I didn't know whether 
to be angry or treat it as a joke. Sounds like 
this boyfriend of yours is a vampire, I said. 
Sofia smiled for the first time, although 
it was a weak, distant smile. I've told him 
about you, she said. He'd recognize you. 
And what would he do? Hit me? No, he'd 
just get angry, she said. And kick me out? 
(Now I was starting to get indignant. For a 
moment I hoped he did turn up, this boy- 
friend Sofia was waiting for, naked in the 
dark, just to see what would happen, what 
he would do.) He wouldn't kick you out, she 
said. He'd just get angry; he wouldn't talk 
to you and after you went he'd hardly say 
a word to me. You've lost it, haven't you, I 
spluttered. I don't know if you realize what 
you're saying. They've done something to 
you; it's like you're a different person. I’m 
the same as ever; you're the idiot who can't 
see what's going on. Sofia, Sofia, what's 
happened to you? You never used to be like 
this. Get out, just go, she said. What would 
you know about me? 

More than a year went by before I heard 
any news of Sofia. One afternoon, com- 
ing out of the cinema, I ran into Nuria. 
We recognized each other, started talking 
about the film and decided to go and have 
coffee. It wasn't long before we got on to 
Sofia. How long since you saw her? she 
asked me. A long time, I told her, but I also 
said that some mornings, when I woke up, 
I felt as if I had just seen her. Like you've 
been dreaming about her? No, I said, like 
Га spent the night with her. That's weird. 
Something like that used to happen to 
Emilio too. Until she tried to kill him. Then 
he stopped having the nightmares. 

She told me the story. It was simple. It 
was incomprehensible. 

Six or seven months earlier, Sofia had 
rung up Emilio. According to what he later 
told Nuria, Sofia mentioned monsters, con- 
spiracies and murders. She said the only 
thing that scared her more than a mad per- 
son was someone who deliberately drove 
others to madness. Then she arranged for 
him to come to her apartment, the one I'd 
been to twice. The next day Emilio arrived 
exactly on time. The dark or poorly lit stair- 
case, the bell that didn't work, the knock- 
ing at the door: Up to that point it was all 


familiar and predictable. Sofia opened Ше 
door. She wasn't naked. She invited him 
in. Emilio had never been in the apart- 
ment before. The living room, according 
to Nuria, was pokey, but it was also in a. 
terrible state, with filth dripping down the 
walls and dirty plates piled on the table. At 
first Emilio couldn't see a thing, the light 
was so dim in the room. Then he made out 
a man sitting in an armchair and greeted 
him. The man didn't react. Sit down, said 
Sofia, we need to talk. Emilio sat down. A 
little voice inside him was saying over and 
over, This is not good, but he ignored it. 
He thought Sofia was going to ask him for 
a loan. Again. Although probably not with 
that man in the room. Sofia never asked for 
money in the presence of a third party, so 
Emilio sat down and waited. 

Then Sofia said: There are one or two 
things about life that my husband would 
like to explain to you. For a moment Emilio 
thought that when she said "ту husband" 
she meant him. He thought she wanted 
him to say something to her new boy- 
friend. He smiled. He started saying there 
was really nothing to explain; every experi- 
ence is unique.... Suddenly he understood 
that he was the “you” and the “husband” 
was the other man, and something bad 
was about to happen, something very bad. 
As he tried to get to his feet, Sofia threw 
herself at him. What followed was rather 
comical. Sofia held or tried to hold Emilio's 
legs while her new boyfriend made a sin- 
cere but clumsy attempt to strangle him. 
Sofia, however, was small and so was the 
nameless man (somehow, in the midst of 
the struggle, Emilio had time and presence 
of mind enough to notice the resemblance 
between them—they were like twins) and 
the fight, or the caricature thereof, was soon 
over. Maybe it was fear that gave Emilio a 
taste for revenge: As soon as he got Sofia's 
boyfriend down on the ground he started 
kicking him and kept going until he was 
tired. He must have broken a few ribs, said 
Nuria, you know what Emilio's like (I didn't 
but nodded all the same). Then he turned 
his attention to Sofia, who was ineffectually 
trying to hold him back from behind and 
hitting him, although he could hardly feel 
it. He gave her three slaps (it was the first 
time he had ever laid a hand on her, accord- 
ing to Nuria) and left. Since then they had 
heard nothing about her, though Nuria still 
got scared at night, especially when she was 
coming home from work. 

I'm telling you all this in case you ever 
feel like visiting Sofia, said Nuria. No, I 
said, I haven't seen her for ages and I don't 
have any plans to drop in on her. Then we 
talked about other things for a little while 
and said good-bye. Two days later, without 
really knowing what prompted me to do it, 
I went round to Sofia's apartment. 

She opened the door. She was thinner 
than ever. At first she didn't recognize me. 
Do I look that different, Sofia? I muttered. 
Oh, it's you, she said. Then she sneezed 
and took a step back. Perhaps mistakenly, I 
interpreted this as an invitation to come in. 
She didn't stop me. 

The room in which they had set up the 
ambush was poorly lit (the only window 


gave onto a gloomy, narrow air shaft) but it 
didn't seem dirty. In fact the first thing that 
struck me was how clean it was. Sofia didn't 
seem dirty either. I sat down in an arm- 
chair, maybe the one Emilio had sat in on 
the day of the ambush, and lit a cigarette. 
Sofia was still standing, looking at me as if 
she wasn't quite sure who I was. She was 
wearing a long, narrow skirt, more suit- 
able for summer, a light top and sandals. 
She had thick socks on and for a moment 
I thought they were mine, but no, they 
couldn't have been. I asked her how she 
was. She didn't answer. I asked her if she 
was alone, if she had something to drink 
and how life was treating her. She just stood 
there so I got up and went into the kitchen. 
It was clean and dark; the refrigerator was 
empty. I looked in the cupboards. Not 
even a miserable tin of peas. I turned on 
the tap; at least she had running water, but 
I didn't dare drink it. I went back to the 
living room. Sofia was still standing quietly 
in the same place, expectantly or absently, 
Icouldn't tell, either way just like a statue. I 
felt a gust of cold air and thought the front 
door must have been open. I went to check, 
but no. Sofia had shut it after I came in. 
That was something, at least, I thought. 

What happened next is confused, or per- 
haps that's how I prefer to remember it. 
I was looking at Sofia's face—was she sad 
or pensive or simply ill?—I was looking 
at her profile and I knew that if I didn't 
do something I was going to start crying, 
so I went and hugged her from behind. I 
remember the passage that led to the bed- 
room and another room, the way it nar- 
rowed. We made love slowly, desperately, 
like in the old days. It was cold. I didn't 
get undressed. But Sofia took off all her 
clothes. Now you're cold as ice, I thought, 
cold as ice and on your own. 

The next day I came back to see her 
again. This time I stayed much longer. We 
talked about when we used to live together 
and the TV shows we used to watch till the 
early hours ofthe morning. She asked me if 
Ihada TV in my new apartment. I said no. 
I miss it, she said, especially the late-night 
shows. The good thing about not having a 
ТУ is you have more time to read, I said. 
I don't read anymore, she said. Not at all? 
Not at all. Have a look, there's not a book in 
the apartment. Like a sleepwalker I got up 
and went all round the apartment, looking 
in every corner, as if I had all the time in 
the world. I saw many things but no books. 
One ofthe rooms was locked and I couldn't 
go in. I came back with an empty feeling in 
my chest and dropped into Emilio's arm- 
chair. Up till then I hadn't asked about her 
boyfriend. So I did. Sofia looked at me and 
smiled for the first time, I think, since we'd 
met again. It was a brief but perfect smile. 
He's gone away, she said, and he's never 
coming back. Then we got dressed and 
went out to eat at a pizzeria. 


From the collection Llamadas telefónicas (Ana- 
grama, 1997) to be published in the U.S. by New 
Directions in 2010. Translation by Chris Andrews. 


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153 


PLAYBOY 


154 


The 7О/ 
(continued from page 38) 


anybody really know what time it was? did 
anybody really care?) as recorded by the band 
Chicago, which coincidentally was also the 
place whence this famously pajamaed man 
took gradual to permanent flight in those 
same halcyon years, landing right where 
I found him the other day, at his Mansion 
West, itself a sprawling monument to that 
superfine funkadelic Last Libertine Era. Hav- 
ing decisively conquered the Great Indoors 
that was his fabled original Chicago Mansion, 
he opted to throw his open lifestyle into open 
sunlight on an epic Hollywood scale, with 
impeccable timing. At Hef's Holmby Hills 
playground, five and a half acres of hedonist's 
Eden a block south of Sunset Boulevard, the 
1970s found an epicenter almost sacred, if not 
secret (this revolution, after all, was televised, 
e.g., the ABC network special Playboy's Roller 
Disco and Pajama Рап), to cite but one Rabbit- 
eared Nielsen-ratings eyeful), where America's 
great behavioral clarion call of the moment— 
"If it feels good, do it"—was answered with 
unmatchable authority. "A new Playboy Man- 
sion for a new decade," pronounced the then 
newly relocated icon in residence, whose Cali- 
fornia homesteading act began with the vow, 
exquisitely realized, to "do my best to create a 
heaven on earth." Anyway, so here now was 
Hugh M. Hefner, nearly four decades hence 
and counting, twinkling before me in the 
Mansion's Great Hall, waxing a tad nostalgic 
about that which had transpired on his watch 
in that time and concluding, "Well, you know 
what they say: 'If you remember the 1970s, 
you weren't there.’ " 

And of course he is correct if also somewhat 
incorrect. In truth, that was what "they" said 
about the 1960s, whereas in actual fact the 
1960s were more the militant testing lab for 
what came fully aflower, and was thus uni- 
formly indulged in, in the breezier decade 
that ensued. (And by the way, Hefner, who 
forgets nothing, was most supremely, indel- 
ibly there in each storied decade and has the 
pictures to prove it—oh God, such pictures.) 
But the 1960s, if you think about it, mainly 
wagged a stern finger and proselytized for a 


HEY, GUYS... 
WENDY AND 1 HAVE 
Ам IDEA. WHAT WOULD 


constricted-conflicted populace to make love, 
not war. The 1970s slipped a mood ring on 
that finger and welcomed it (with accompany- 
ing digits) to freely roam erogenous zones of 
choice, no worries permitted. In fact, permis- 
siveness would never again be as pervasive. 
(Wet-blanket Reaganism and the black plague 
of AIDS were still blissfully beyond fathom- 
ing.) As such, hang-ups were hung out in the 
freshened air and cast to shifting winds scent- 
ed with cannabis and candles, Herbal Essence 
and Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific, Charlie 
("Kinda free, kinda wow") and Brut colognes, 
among other heady musks hygienically emit- 
ted or dispensed in naughtily shaped bottles. 
(Per the "splash-on" Brut, how could we help 
but heed ads in which Joe Namath threw 
down the spiced gauntlet "If you're not gonna 
go all the way, man, why go at all?") 
Experientially speaking, it was all about АШ 
back then—"to the max," as went the par- 
lance—and also about More, as well as Never 
Enough. I think of former porn actress An- 
drea Тгиез 1976 hit dance anthem, "More, 
More, More" (“Ooh, how do you like your 
love?"), and the late, great orchestral basso 
seducer Barry White's grinding coital oeuvre 
("Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe," 
etc.). Later, the oversize, overheated Maestro 
White would put the era in idyllic perspective: 
"It was a freedom time—more people expe- 
rienced things and tried new things, whether 
it was drugs or whatever. It wasn't about sex 
but love and sensuality, communicating, re- 
lating. There's a world of difference between 
making love and having sex, and the 1970s 
was approached as if it was a woman being 
romanced and made love to." Well, it was, as 
long as his records were playing, maybe—if 
pop radio hadn't also been instructing us to 
just "bang a gong, get it on" and "push, push. 
in the bush." Bush, incidentally, flourished in 
this time, as evidenced in these pages, where 
pubic hair (remember pubic hair?) made its 
hello-there debut in 1971, the same year Hef 
began installing verdant shrubs on his just- 
acquired voluptuous Mansion grounds. The 
landmark film spoof Monty Python and the 
Holy Grail four years later cheekily pushed 
bush consciousness further when the dreaded 
forest-dwelling Knights of Ni demanded of 


IT! WERE 
RIGHT?! 


Wow! REALLY?! 
LETS GO FOR 


ON BOARD! 


the questing King Arthur crew, “We want...a 
shrubbery! You must return here with a 
shrubbery or else you will never pass through 
this wood alive!” Feel free to make your own 
shrub-and-wood joke here. Actually, feeling 
free was the whole point of pubic pride—and 
of every other au courant in-your-face erotic 
trend—from the get-down get-go. (Waxes, in 
that bygone moment, remained the province 
of kitchen floors and car polish.) 

Hair, in general, was big—well, more ac- 
curately, Big was big, celebratory even, most 
infectiously so in the realm of personal pre- 
sentation. You had to join the gleeful, expan- 
sive spirit at play or risk existential insignifi- 
cance. Fashion (God help us) enthusiastically 
screamed "Look at me or else," from cavern- 
ous bell-bottoms and fat neckties to aero-flap 
shirt collars and belts the size of traffic stripes. 
(Electric stripes and plaids, by the way, so ir- 
radiated all requisite wardrobe polyesters as 
to inflict near blindness—but hey, it felt snazzy 
to be encased in such visual shrill.) Also, plat- 
form shoes towered and teetered, earrings 
grazed shoulders, sideburns consumed faces. 
But hair—no longer a symbol of defiance as 
in the 1960s—just did its own thing: extra 
large and carefree and winging wild via cow- 
licks, mullets, helmets and feathered shags. 
Poster goddess Farrah Fawcett-Majors (her 
then-bionic hyphenate per marriage to ТУ 
cyborg hero Lee Majors) gave remarkable 
hair remarkable ubiquity; 12 million copies of 
her immortal 1976 pinup with red swimsuit 
(a one-piece to hide childhood tummy scars) 
coated worldwide wall space, never mind 
she was months away from becoming one 
of Charlie's Angels when striking that magic 
pose (in front of the ratty Indian blanket that 
moments earlier had served less glamorously 
as a seat cover in the photographer's 1937 
Chevy). "I was a little self-conscious,” recalled 
Farrah of her time-capsule image, "probably 
because my smile is so big." (See? Big! Per- 
fect!) No wonder Cheryl Ladd, who replaced 
Farrah on Charlie's Angels, reported for duty 
on the series in a T-shirt lettered with the 
demurral FARRAH FAWCETT-MINOR. 

Farrah's tooth-o-rama smile notwithstand- 
ing—keep in mind that the sunnily ubiquitous 
HAVEANICEDAY smiley face was trademarked at 


THIS WAS A 
GREAT IDEA! Т 
JUST HOPE OUR 
HUSBANDS ARE 
HITTING IT OFF 
THIS WELL! 


2x] 


the decade's outset—we should also note that 
miles of reflexive smiles were mostly triggered 
by the poster's casual glimpse of celebrity- 
nipple protrusion. (For the record, Charlie's 
Angels introduced the concept of jiggle tele- 
vision to a videoscape that had never before 
so blatantly showcased such developments.) 
Arguably, however, it was Carly Simon's ap- 
propriately titled 1972 No Secrets album—on 
whose cover her raisins d'étre pertly greeted 
consumers beneath a snug blue top—that set 
pop-cultural precedent. Simon's unabashed 
example, according to scholar Anne-Lise 
Francois, took "the scandal out of bralessness, 
making the practice so prominent and accept- 
ed as to be both visible and hardly capable of 
attracting notice." Perhaps even more 1970s 
salient regarding No Secrets was its hit-single, 
self-obsession harangue "You're So Vain” (“TI 
bet you think this song 
is about you"), which 
Simon had wryly com- 
posed in caustic honor 

. Well, that's one 
secret she's hoarded 
to this day, although 
she has confessed that 
his name contains the 
letters E, 4 and R— 
and frankly, everyone 
surmised its subject 
was her former swain 
and the decade's pre- 
eminent Hollywood 
lothario (and Playboy 
Mansion habitué), 
Warren Beatty. "He 
certainly thought it was 
about him," she later 
revealed. "He called 
me and said thanks for 
the song." Meanwhile, 
Beatty's brilliant 1975 
cinematic exposition 
in lost-boy narcissism, 
Shampoo—he stars as 


www.playboy.com/vix 


gratification by way of New Age enlightenment 
and Eastern spiritualism, primal screams and 
shame-free shrinkage—all of which seeped 
into the mainstream, sneakily permeating the 
most reticent bastions of stoic holdouts and 
scoffing stragglers. (Who didn’t tog themselves 
in that utopian oh-whatever uniform of the 
day, the synthetic leisure suit?) This self-awak- 
ening movement offered “appeal [that] was 
simple enough,” wrote Wolfe. “It is summed 
up in the notion: ‘Let’s talk about Me.’ No 
matter whether you managed to renovate 
your personality through encounter sessions 
or not, you had finally focused your attention 
and your energies on the most fascinating sub- 
ject on earth: Me.” Thus the period’s most last- 
ing art was taken personally, largely because 
it was made that much more personally. As 
James Wolcott would write in The New Yorker, 


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is about a guy who decides to make his own 
decisions. The further he gets in his career the 
more he's convinced he's not going to listen 
to the crap.” A mantra of me-ism that synchs 
with that of news prophet Howard Beale's 
1976 Network rant for Americans to yell out 
their windows: "I'm as mad as hell and Pm 
not going to take this anymore!” 

Even as California rock rogues the Eagles 
were imploring us to take it easy (and also 
to the limit), we did in fact take plenty 
else square in the chops: inflation, stagfla- 
tion, recession, oil crunches, Kent State, 
Three Mile Island, Wounded Knee and the 
blighted Nixon presidency as unraveled by 
1972's Watergate scandal and as unmasked 
by All the President's Men marauders Bob 
Woodward and Carl Bernstein, via help from 
the deep-background source dubbed Deep 
Throat—an homage 
to that moment's 
eponymous film sen- 
sation in which Linda 
Lovelace revolution- 
ized the meaning ofa 
mouthful. The tooth- 
less presidency of a 
toothy peanut farmer 
followed, even after 
Jimmy Carter “shock- 
ingly” confessed in 
these pages that his 
Bible-belted heart 
had “looked on a lot 
of women with lust.” 
But such was the 
egalitarianism of the 
times, whose sym- 
bolic capitol throbbed 
within that velvet- 
roped Taj Mahal of 
discotheques, Studio 
54—which, accord- 
ing to Andy Warhol, 
epitomized “a way 
of life...a dictator- 
ship at the door and 
a democracy on the 
floor. It's hard to 


m y 


the era (and his own 
legend therein) when 
he lectures to fawn- 
eyed Goldie Hawn, 
"Everybody fucks ev- 
erybody. Grow up, for 
Christ's sakes! Look 
around you—all of 
'em, all of these chicks, they're all fucking." 
This may suggest why Woody Allen (who gave 
that decade just plain funny films without 
apology, for the last time) once wished to be 
reincarnated as Warren Beatty's fingertips. 
Most famously of course, “Tom Wolfe pro- 
claimed these years the Me Decade, wherein, 
also famously, Steve Martin bleated “Excuuuuse 
meeee!” and Neil Diamond brayed “I am, I 
said—I am, I cried!” and Chevy Chase asserted 
“Tm Chevy Chase, and you're not!" and Helen 
Reddy yowled “I am woman, hear me roar!" 
and Lynyrd Skynyrd fretted "If I leave here 
tomorrow, would you still remember meeee?” 
and Todd Rundgren whinnied "Hello, it's 
me..." and psycho taxi driver Travis Bickle 
taunted (straight into his own mirror, natu- 
rally) "You talkin' to me? Well, I'm the only 
one here." And self-actualization met instant 


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“The 1970s were the last time when movies 
seemed signed with the sweat of a director's 
brow rather than packaged by a committee 
of cellular phones." Even now, to behold the 
best cinema of that epoch is to taste the ОМА. 
of auteurs in heat: Robert Altman (Nashville, 
McCabe and Mrs. Miller), Hal Ashby (Harold 
and Maude, The Last Detail), Martin Scorsese 
(Taxi Driver, The Last Waltz), Paul Mazursky 
(An Unmarried Woman), William Friedkin (The 
Exorcist, The French Connection), George Lucas 
(American Graffiti, Star Wars), Steven Spielberg 
(Jaws, Close Encounters of the Third Kind) and 
Francis Ford Coppola (The Godfather I and 
II, The Conversation, Apocalypse Now). Coppola 
took his Vietnam Apocalypse allegory so person- 
ally he suffered a nervous breakdown during 
its gonzo shoot; the film's screenwriter, John 
Milius, later stated, “In a way, Apocalypse Now 


Checks should be made payable to: 
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get in,” he said, “but 
once you're in you 
could end up danc- 
ing with Liza Min- 
nelli. At 54, the stars 
are nobody because 
everybody is a star. 
It's the place where 
my prediction from the 1960s finally came 
true: In the future everyone will be famous 
for 15 minutes.’ " 

АП of which explains the eternal stayin'- 
alive shimmer of 1977's Saturday Night Fever. 
When John Travolta pointed skyward, he 
also fanned worldwide disco-inferno flames 
of hope and underdog dreams come true— 
"I'm a dancin' man, and I just can't lose!"— 
as set to the relentless beat of the Bee Gees” 
insanely best-selling soundtrack. Snicker now 
though we may at the retro strut of those 
boogie shoes of yore, the 1970s opened the 
cultural dance floor to platform-heeled pos- 
sibilities and oversize optimism. It's a fashion 
trend that today looks more enviable than 
ever. Maybe we should be dancing after all. 


62009 Playboy 


155 


THURSDAYS @ 8/7c HN 


JENNIFER PERSHING IS ALL A-TWITTER 

Want updates on Miss March 2009 Jennifer Pershing in about 140 charac- 
? аг 
Watching TMZ to пу and make my eyes tired to fall asleep," *Likes 
ramen noodles" and *Suze Orman is telling me how to survive the reces- 
sion...stop shopping lol!” Elsewhere she sounds like one of the guys: *Drink- 
ing and watching TiVo lol! Life of champions...now if I only had а cheesesteak 
:)” Well, the fellas rarely express themselves with emoticons and “lol.” 


PMOY 1994 


(see story above) is 
also featured in Miss June 1997 
's magazine, Envi-image. 


DID YOU 
KNOW 


wrote Healing and Preventing Autism, for 
parents of children with the disorder. 


THE REAL PERFECT LIFE 

It’s good to be PMOY 1997 Victoria Silvstedt. In My 
Perfect Life you will see how the international sen- 
sation jets from photo shoots to celebrity parties to 
runways (the modeling kind as well) and on to Holly- 
wood. Despite all the high flying, she always remains 
grounded—she’s just a Swedish girl next door. The 
E! network’s new show proves that, yes, it is possible 
to balance the glamorous life with real life. 


Thirty years ago this 
month we introduced 
you to Dorothy 
Dorothy was whisked to 
Los Angeles from Canada 
during our 25th anni- 
versary Great Playmate 
Hunt. She didn’t win that 
title, but she did become 
Miss August 1979 and 
quickly won over readers’ 
hearts, leading to her being 
crowned Playmate of the 
Year 1980. A few months 
after her PMOY issue her 
husband took her life. She 
has since been eulogized in 
song, film and literature, 
but v е to remember 
Dorothy as full of life, pre- 
cious and gorgeous. 


Want to SEE MORE PLAYMATES—or more 
of these Playmates? Check out the Club at club 


.playboy.com, access the mobile-optimized playboy 
.com and find more news at playboy.com/pmblog. 


PMOY 2006 hosted the 
Playboy Energy Special Final Four Party 
at South Beach Ultra Lounge in Detroit. 


recently 


Miss October 2004 
imberly Holland 
thinks you should 
havea good escape 
plan if you swim 
nude this summer: 
“Му friends 

and I were 
skinny- 
dipping, 

and we saw 

some guys 
coming. 

My friends 

all started 
running 

out, and I 

got my foot 
caught on a root 
on the riverbank. I 
broke my toe and 
had to run around 
the woods naked 
with a broken toe." 


BYOSCARNUÑEZ — * 


—actor, The Office 

“I have several favorite Á 
Playmates. One cer- 

tainly is Miss October 

1993 Jenny McCarthy, 

whom I actually worked with on her show 
Тре Bad Girl's Guide. Hey, you gotta love a 
gal who gives you work!" 


nu 


WHAT A DIFFERENCE A YEAR MAKES 


In less than 12 months Miss August 2008 Kayla Collins went from small- 
town modeling in Pennsylvania to hanging out on set with Vin Diesel for 


er appearance in Fast 
С Furious. “My career 
as definitely skyrock- 
eted since PLAYBOY," 
Kayla says. *Just mov- 
ing to L.A. gave me a 
boost, and I get plenty 
of jobs simply because 
Im a Playmate." Kayla 
as been on numer- 
ous Girls Next Door 
episodes and made it to 
prime-time TV on CSI: 
Miami. She also stays 
busy modeling, gracing 
the pages of magazines 
ike Lexani Lifestyles, 
Mini Truckin’ and Fit- 
nessRx. *It was differ- 
ent posing with a guy," 
she says about the last 
appearance, *and a little 
frustrating—they were 
more worried about 
how he looked than 
how I looked. На!” 


FOR MEN! THE SCIENTIFIC APPROACH TO BUILDING MUSCLE. 
J LOSING FAT, ENHANCING PERFORMANCE AND STAYING HEALTHY 


YOUR ULTIMATE PRESCRIP Tj 4 


GET RIPPED 
FOR SPRING! 
CHISEL YOUR 
MIDSESTION 


NOT ORTON'S WIFE 
BUT PLAYS HER ON TV 


After a WWE Raw episode featured 
Randy Orton's wife, Samantha, in a 
plotline this spring, Internet message 
boards and blogs were ablaze with 
inquiries about whether she was his 
real wife. The definitive answer: 
nope. It was the beautiful Miss July 
2008 Laura Croft. 


OUT AND ABOUT WITH... 


Miss December 1979 Candace Collins met up with 
fashion designer and TV personality Isaac Mizrahi. 
Chicago Social mag- 
azine, department 
store Carson Pirie 
Scott and Graham 
Kostic co-hosted a 
party at Tree Studios 
to celebrate Mizrahi 
and the launch of his 
spring 2009 collec- 
tion for Liz Claiborne 
New York. Candace 
remarked, “He's so 
engaging, witty and 
real that you can't take your eyes off him.” She felt 
the same way about his clothes.... PMOY 2008 Jayde 
Nicole lit up the runway upon entering the launch 
party for Mansion favorite Bridget Marquardt's 
show Bridget's Sexiest Beaches at—where else?— 
the Playboy Mansion.... Miss July 1990 Jacqueline 
Sheen and Miss January 1987 Luann Lee attended 


the premiere of American Identity. The women 
looked beautiful on their approach to the Samuel 
Goldwyn Theater in Beverly Hills (proof above)... 
The Centerfolds below rocked out with their ears out 
at the South by Southwest music festival. As part of 
our Rock the Rabbit project we mixed cool music by 
acts like Jane's Addiction and A-Trak with hot Play- 
mates at our own SXSW party. The event was the 
talk of Austin thanks in part to the Playmates who 
shook their Bunny tails on the dance floor. 


Miss November 2008 lists 
her heroes as her mother, Hugh Hef- 
ner and Christopher Walken. 


Miss December 2001 
returns to television with her show 
Celebrity Moms on Oxygen. 


PLAYBOY 


BILLY MAYS 


(continued from page 55) 
to throw sparks or ignite fires—which is why 
he is here today, in December, in Clearwater, 
Florida, pitching his sparkless saw to the Clear- 
water Fire and Rescue Department. If this or 
any of his gadgets catch on—"My success rate 
is six out of 10. America votes, but I don't take 
it personally"—he'll find a company to invest 
in it, and then he'll outsource it to China, 
where it can be made cheaply and quickly. 

While the firemen cut through metal doors 
with his saw, Mays sits in the shade on this 
sunny morning, pitching me. In between 
pitches, Mays is not much like his TV image. 
He's soft-spoken, a little shy, a little wary, look- 
ing at me for a split second before he answers 
a question, as if it's a trap. (Some consumers 
complain his products don't clean and don't 
stick as Mays claims they do. They ask for their 
money back, and Mays sends them a personal 
check.) He's a little cynical, too, the way a carny 
barker behaves toward the rubes, and a little 
cornball, like a baggy-pants comic who knows 
how corny his jokes are even as he tosses them 
off. "Are you married or just happy?" Da-dum! 

"I'm not a star," Mays says. "When I have 
to perform, I perform. When I'm done, Pm 
done." Mays is modest. He says he's not an 
inventor like Ron Popeil, the first of the 
great TV pitchmen, though Mays does claim 
he has "taken over Ron Popeil's baton." 
Popeil is a college professor to Mays's carni- 
val barker. Popeil invents things, then stands 
before a live TV audience in his suit and tie 
and lectures them about his product, how it 
works, how it will change their lives, using 
infomercials that last 30 minutes, an hour, 
sometimes even longer. Popeil is the master 
of the long con. "I just see other people's 
vision," says Mays, "like the Smart Faucet. 
And my new chamois." Mays once sold a 
chamois on TV that was, he says, "knocked 
off the air by this other guy's chamois. Now 
I'm gonna take back my business. Pitchmen 
are very competitive." Mays is the most com- 
petitive pitchman extant. He always has to 
be the big dog. It's an easy game for keep- 
ing score. Money and quantity: How much 
money did he bring in in an hour, and how 
many items did he sell? 

Mays is pitching me again, leaning in 
close, tapping my arm, talking loud and 
fast, telling me how, after he made his 
bones in Atlantic City, he hit the road for 
15 years and worked the home shows in big 
tents, which is a lot easier than the board- 
walk because there's a captive audience 
looking to buy something. He got his big 
break in 1995 in Pittsburgh while selling the 
WashMatik. An old guy named Max Appel 
was watching Mays draw in a crowd, his two 
assistants taking in money hand over fist 
and Mays pitching "like a machine," never 
leaving his booth for hours, not even to 
piss. "I was killing," Mays says, "just pound- 
ing the old guy trying to compete." He kept 
drawing away the old guy's crowd until 
the old guy was finally done. *His voice 
was shot, his crowd gone, his microphone 
broke, and he's out of the show. I felt sorry 
for him," Mays says. "I was wearing a fancy 
headset with hidden speakers, and he had 
a cheap RadioShack mike. I went over to 


158 him and told him I would help him out sell- 


ing his Orange Glo because I know how it 
can be. I lost my voice at times too. Some- 
thing clicked between us, and eventually I 
became the spokesman for Orange Glo." 

The rest is history. Mays took Orange Glo 
International from a little-known Denver- 
based outfit to an internationally known enter- 
prise that was one of the top privately owned 
companies in the world from 1999 to 2001, 
making more than $400 million in sales a 
year, according to Inc. magazine. This success 
brought Mays to the attention of the Home 
Shopping Network thanks to a tall, lanky Eng- 
lishman named Anthony “Sully” Sullivan, now 
Mays's partner in Mays Promotions. 

Mays calls out, “Sully! Come over and talk 
to this guy. Tell him how it happened." Sul- 
livan ambles over and sits down. Mays gets 
up to leave. “Listen to Sully,” he says. “Не 
knows." Now Sullivan begins pitching me, 
just like Mays only less physical, not so loud 
and less aggressive, more conspiratorial, a 
master of words. In fact, so many words 
are spilling out so quickly I'm exhausted 
just listening to Sullivan tell me he was a 
surfer dude from Devon, England, a quaint 
village of thatched-roofed homes, until he 
went to London and became a pitchman, 
surfing and, with a cockney accent, pitch- 
ing products like the V-Slicer “that'll make 
tomato slices so thin a tomato will last a 
whole summer." Or the Rolling Ruler. Or 
the Rotato, which "conforms to the undu- 
lating terrain of every fruit and vegetable, 
big or small—the Rotato peels them all." 

In 1994 Sullivan went to a home show 
in McKees Rocks, Pennsylvania, where he 
had heard of "the legendary pitchman Billy 
Bucket," as Mays was then known, who sold 
WashMatiks. "It was instant friction," says 
Sullivan. "I told Billy I sold WashMatiks in 
England. He said, “Wanna show me how to 
do it?' I said, 'I sell differently than you." 
Billy said, "This is how we do it, kid. Wel- 
come to America.' I don't shout like Billy. I 
talk quickly because my British accent plays 
in the States. Billy's more deliberate, physi- 
cal, with his beard and blue work shirt, a lot 
of hand actions—oh, he's an artist." 

Over the next few months Mays and Sul- 
livan bumped into each other a lot at home 
shows. They forged a friendship grudgingly at 
first, then with more respect for each other's 
artistry. "We would compare how much money 
we had made at the end of a day,” says Sully. 
"If I was ahead for a day, he had to beat me the 
next day. Billy always had to be top joint.” 

Then one Halloween Sullivan was invited 
to sell a new mop on the Home Shopping 
Network. He soon got the producers to put 
Mays on the show, too. The first time Mays 
began his shouting pitch on TV the co-host 
stepped back in fear. He said, “You don't 
need to shout—you got a mike.” But Mays 
kept shouting, selling his Zap A Spot cleaner, 
“Just aim and spray and walk away.” 

"Billy and me, we were owning it," says 
Sullivan. "We were on every day, pitching. 
We slept and ate in the green room and 
went on-screen every 20 minutes, 24 hours 
a day for days without sleep. We were 
finally at the party. We knew through TV 
we could infect the market." 

Mays returns. He stops and listens to Sul- 
livan for a minute with a thin smile. Then he 
says, "They had a star on the water closet for 


me. They had to explain it to [HSN owner] 
Barry Diller. They began calling it the Billy 
Mays Network. They'd call me 24/7. I'd be at 
the beach with my family, and they'd tell me 
to get to the studio. They needed money; 
they needed me to pitch. I always showed 
up and pitched whatever they had." 

"We were both on fire," says Sullivan. "I 
began to write our copy. “It's the white knight 
in shining armor, powered by the air you 
breathe and activated by the water you drink.” 

"Makes your whites whiter, your brights 
brighter," adds Mays. "Mother nature- 
approved, without the damaging side 
effects of chlorine." 

Sully says, "It was the first time we 
weren't competing." 

Suddenly Mays and Sullivan start talking 
back in forth in a form of gibberish. Their 
gibberish is animated and means something 
to them but not to me. When they stop, Mays 
says, "We were talking carny." I ask why. Mays 
says, "Sully wanted to tell you something, but 
I wasn't sure he should." What? 

Sullivan says, "Did you see where Orange 
Glo was just sold for more than $300 mil- 
lion? Well, Billy made Orange Glo. There's 
no one out there like Billy on TV today. 
He's an artist. And after all Billy did for 
Orange Glo, you'd think they'd toss him a 
million. But they gave him nothing." 

Sullivan says the days of the old-time 
pitchman are fading fast. Soon he and 
Mays will be anachronisms, wiped out by 
the Internet. The problem is that once 
Mays makes a product known on TV, it 
almost immediately pops up on the Inter- 
net at a cheaper price. Then Mays needs a 
new product. It's an ever-quickening cycle. 
Mays pitches, the product gets hot, three 
months later it's on eBay, and Mays has to 
find a new product. 

Late in the afternoon, as the sun begins 
to set over the Gulf of Mexico on Clearwa- 
ter Beach, Mays is autographing some pho- 
tos of himself by his car. I ask him if he ever 
meets little kids who say they want to grow 
up to be like Billy Mays. Mays grumbles, "If 
I do, I crush them." 

He walks onto the pier stretching into the 
gulf. Mays is holding an object: three silver 
rings attached to each other by an elastic 
cord. It looks like a giant cock ring. I ask Sul- 
livan, “What's the gimmick?" Sullivan smiles. 
"You catch on quick. It's the Spin Gym," he 
says. "You can put it in your pocket." 

Mays is now shouting at passersby, trying 
to draw a crowd. "Come on over here!" he 
says. “ГП show you how it works." A girl with 
huge breasts straining against her T-shirt 
comes over. "I wanna show you a new prod- 
uct," Mays says. The girl says, "I'm shy." Mays 
says, “So am I.” Then he gives her a demon- 
stration, talking all the while. "You wind it up 
and start pulling! You get a full workout for 
your shoulders, your arms, your chest." The 
girl blushes. Mays says, "This powerhouse 
gym fits in the palm of your hand." The girl 
pulls and tugs on the rings, then walks away. 

Mays grabs a couple and pulls them into 
his pitch. "Where you from?" he says. They 
tell him Iceland. Mays says, "My mother 
was from Iceland; my father was from 
Cuba. I'm an ice cube." Da-dum! 


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PLAYBOY FORUM 
THE END OF THE AFFAIR 


OUR WORLD HAS CHANGED PROFOUNDLY IN THE PAST SIX MONTHS. 
BUT HOLD ON TO YOUR HATS: MORE CHANGE IS ON THE WAY 


BY JOHN GRAY 


sense of unreality surrounds the efforts of the 
/ ` Obama administration to revive the American 
economy. The near disintegration of the financial 
system has shown that the wealth generated during the 
past two decades was mostly illusory—a figment created by 
the reckless expansion of credit rather than the result of 
productive enterprise. Certainly some Americans became 
remarkably rich during that period, but the income of many 
was stagnant or declining for years before the bust. Rising 
prices in the stock and housing markets didn't reflect any 
comparable increase in America's national wealth. Escalat- 
ing asset values were artifacts of abnormally low interest 
rates, which were engineered by Alan Greenspan in the 
wake of Long Term Capital Management' collapse in the 
late 19905. The fall of LTCM was an early warning of the 
extreme fragility that goes with highly leveraged finance. 
Ironically, the effect of Greenspan's policies has been to 
leverage the entire American economy. 
3reenspan's role in stoking the crisis has been much 
criticized, but the perilous path he marked out for 
America continues to be followed today. As it was a 
decade ago, when Bill Clinton was president, the goal 


of the current administration is to restart the debt- 
driven growth that has given Americans—even if they 
are not themselves prosperous—the reassuring impres- 
sion of being surrounded by increasing wealth. But the 
dangers are far greater now: The bailout of the U.S.'s 
bankrupt financial system has ballooned to enormous 
proportions, and the world knows the U.S. has built up 
a level of debt that can never be repaid. At the same 
time, the contraction of the global economy threatens 
the ability of America's foreign creditors to continue 
funding the American deficit. In the most literal sense, 
the U.S. is living on borrowed time. The phantom 
wealth of the past 20 years cannot be conjured back 
into existence, and like people in many other countries, 
Americans face years of declining living standards. 
One of the more predictable effects of this global cri- 
sis has been that each country is looking after itself, and 
here as elsewhere the U.S. is setting the trend. President 
Obama has been emphatic in rejecting the unilateral 
approach to foreign policy of his White House predeces- 
sor. Yet the administration seems to continue to think it 
can enact economic policy without regard to the reaction 


JOB FAIR IN BEIJING: More than 20 million Chinese migrant workers have lost their jobs in the current economic downturn. 


] 


of the rest of the world. The “Buy 
American" clause in legislation passed 
by Congress has alarmed China, which 
was already disquieted by the prospect 
that its holdings in U.S. Treasury bills 
would be devalued by a future decline 
in the dollar. When discussing this 
prospect in February 2009, Luo Ping, a 
director-general at the China Banking 
Regulatory Commission, was reported 
to have commented, "We hate you guys. 
We know the dollar is going to depre- 
ciate, but there is nothing we can do." 
We cannot know if these remarks were 
an unscripted lapse, a coded threat or 
a cover for a decision that had already 
been made by China to diversify out of 
the dollar. What we do know is, since 
February, China's economic prospects 
have worsened, while the U.S. has tilted 
toward protectionism. Heavily depen- 
dent on a weakening American market, 


ER ( 


China is now confronting fast-rising 
unemployment and a mounting risk of 
civil unrest. Unlike the U.S., China hasa 
vast surplus and can afford the stimulus 
it has announced. But if the required 
growth doesn't materialize, further 
injections will be needed, and China's 
capacity to service America's federal 
debt will be reduced. If that were to 
happen, China's rulers would be com- 
pelled to decide between continuing 
their relationship with America, which 
has been mutually advantageous in the 
past, or securing their own future. 


Ts can be little doubt which 
alternative China would choose. In 
March Russia banned its oil-based 
sovereign wealth funds from 
investing in Fannie Mae and 
Freddie Mac on the grounds 
that the funds were needed for 
the country's budget and pen- 
sion system. Russia is giving 
priority to domestic concerns, 
and China will surely take the 
same path. There were signs 
in March that China was con- 
sidering making its currency 
more internationally convert- 
ible, and even if it doesn't run down its 
holdings of U.S. Treasuries to a point 
that endangers the American economy, 
China has gained immense leverage over 
American policy. The freedom of action 
of debtor countries is necessarily limited 
by the strategic goals of their creditors. 


(: Unemployment rates in the U.S. continue to rise. 


The 1956 seizure of the Suez Canal by 
British, French and Israeli forces ended 
when President Eisenhower, who believed 
the invasion went against American stra- 
tegic interests, threatened to sell U.S. 
holdings of British currency and bonds. 
Had the threat been acted on, the pound 
would have collapsed and the U.K. 
wouldn't have been able to pay for essen- 
tial imports. The British government had 
no option but to call off the operation. If 
U.S. policies were to run contrary to Chi- 
nese strategic interests, why would China 
not exercise a similar veto? 


THE 
CRISIS HAS 
ENTERED 
A NEW 
PHASE. 


Triggered by the banking cataclysm, 
the global economic crisis has entered 
a new phase in which the future of 
governments is at issue. So 
far, only in Iceland and Latvia 
have governments fallen. But 
the implosion of world mar- 
ets has acquired a powerful 
momentum and threatens to 
overwhelm governments in 
other countries and regions. 
Тће postcommunist countries 
are facing an economic melt- 
down that could shake the 
European Union to its founda- 
tion. More highly leveraged than their 
American counterparts, Europe's banks 
are perilously vulnerable to worsening 
debt problems in Hungary, the Baltic 
states and Ukraine, among other coun- 
tries. European governments are at 
odds on how to deal with the crisis, and 
the brittle structures of the 
EU contain no mechanism 
that could deliver a Europe- 
wide bailout. The risk in post- 
communist Eastern Europe is 
a kind of rebalkanization in 
which varieties of defensive 
nationalism replace liberal 
market policies while West- 
ern Europe drifts toward 
the rocks. As did the U.S., 
governments have reacted 
to the weakness of banks by 
nationalizing their debt, but 
that only transfers the risk 
to the state. Ireland is fac- 
ing the specter of sovereign 
default. The U.K. may be 
the most vulnerable of all the 
advanced economies. Hav- 
ing taken on the liabilities 
of much of its vastly overex- 
tended banking system, Brit- 
ain is potentially exposed to a 
disastrous run on its govern- 
ment bonds. “Reykjavík on 
the Thames" may not yet bea 
high-probability scenario, but 
it is no longer unthinkable. 


cenes of angry people demon- 
S strating against weak govern- 

ments of the kind seen in Iceland 
and Latvia are sure to be repeated in 
many countries in the coming months. 
Тће U.S. is unlikely to be an excep- 
tion. The public goodwill in which a 
gifted and charismatic new president 
still basks will erode very swiftly if 
the bailout and linked programs fail 
to reenergize the economy and stem 
the rise in unemployment. Some have 
hailed the new administration as the 
architect of another New Deal. But 


SAVINGS ВОН 


U.S. DEBT: Who will buy our bonds? 


history has moved on since the 1930s, 
when the U.S. was the world's most 
powerful industrial economy. Ameri- 
can industry has been hollowed out, 
run down or moved offshore, and the 
core of the economy is now finance, 
insurance and real estate—the sec- 
tors that were most bloated during 
the debt-fueled boom years. It is these 
same sectors that are now sinking, 
and it isn't clear that refloating them 
is either feasible or desirable. 

It is sometimes suggested that Amer- 
ica may repeat the experience of Japan, 
which is widely seen 

THE 


as having suffered a 
lost decade. It may 

BOOM 
TIME 


be true that Japan 
WAS A 


was slow to take 
action in dealing 
with the problems 
that followed when 
its bubble economy 
burst, but America's 
position today is sig- HOLIDAY 
nificantly worse than 
Japan's in the 1990s. FROM 
Japanese households 

had large reserves of HISTORY. 
liquid savings then 

and could withstand a long period 
of deflation. Also, Japan was—and 
remains—one of the world's great 
manufacturing economies. The U.S. 
has neither of these advantages, and 
it is unthinkable that it could endure 
a decade or more of deflation without 
experiencing serious unrest. Though 
seemingly far-fetched, the risk that 
distress and anger may spill over into 
riots is real. A more aggressive policy 
of monetary loosening may therefore 


be unavoidable. Bailing out the banks 
may be necessary if only to stave off 
systemic collapse, and some of the 
administration's programs may be 
useful in mitigating distress. But the 
ever-expanding bailout cannot revivify 
economic activity or avoid running up 
an even more unmanageable level of 
debt. The most likely result, not too 
long down the road, is an outbreak of 
inflation, which when combined with 
a run on the dollar could easily spi- 
ral out of control. The result need not 
be anything like the hyperinflation of 
Germany's interwar Weimar Republic 
to be seriously damaging. Like some 
Latin American countries in the past, 
the U.S. could slide into a chronic 
condition of double-digit inflation in 
which prices rise continually while 
prosperity melts away. 


he fact is there is no way of recap- 

turing the seeming prosperity 

of the boom years. A hallucina- 
tion conjured by techniques of finan- 
cial engineering that are no longer 
viable, that go-go era has gone for 
good. The impact of its passing affects 
more than the economy: 
In a cruel conjunction, 
the past that Americans 
remember and the future 
they believed they could 
reasonably expect have 
evaporated simultaneously. 
The boom time was a kind 
of holiday from history, a 
period in which what had 
gone before was forgot- 
ten and the future was an 
endless repeat of what was 
then happening. As long as 
the fantasy of debt-created 
prosperity was intact, liv- 
ing in an ever-recurring 
present was pleasant and 
exciting. Now that the 
dream has dissipated, the 
effect can be only disillu- 
sion and disorientation, as 
many Americans find them- 
selves trapped in a present 
moment in which pleasure 
and excitement are replaced 
by hardship and fear. 

The impact on expecta- 
tions is likely to be worse among baby 
boomers. A generation that has been 
fortunate for most of its life, it now 
faces intractable difficulties. The past 
50 years or so contained many chal- 
lenging moments—Korea, Vietnam, 
the civil rights movement, the culture 
wars of the 1960s, the Cuba crisis, the 
Kennedy assassinations, Watergate and 


the 9/11 terrorist attacks—these and 
other events helped make a turbulent 
half century. But as traumatic as they 
were, these were not events that over- 
turned the expectations of a genera- 
tion. Now, however, the baby-boomer 
generation faces an irreversible decline 
in its prospects. Demographics were 
always going to have an impact on 
markets as the boomers downshifted 
to smaller houses and sold off stocks 
for safer investments as they neared 
retirement. Today many of them do 
not have these choices—their stocks 
have collapsed, the store of capital 
they believed they had accumulated 
for a comfortable retirement has 
largely vanished, and they have little 
equity in their homes. It was always 
going to be the case that medical 
expenses would increase as baby 
boomers grew older, but this will now 
happen at just the time when private 
and public resources needed to fund 
that medical care are shrinking dra- 
matically. Across the spectrum, the dif- 
ficulties that go with a foreseeable 
demographic shift are being com- 
pounded by a slide into depression. 


/ 


> ™ 


GEITHNER AND OBAMA: More money troubles. 


The destruction of expectations 
formed in the go-go years, which is cur- 
rently under way in the baby-boomer 
generation, has yet to alter Washing- 
ton's prevailing perception of America's 
place in the world. A glance at recent 
events shows power has already shifted. 
Even if it is eventually reversed, the 
decision by the Kyrgyzstan government 


to shut down an American air base used 
for operations in Afghanistan marks 
a trend. Strengthened by the rise of 
populist parties demanding a more 
assertive stance, the resistance of Swiss 
authorities to American demands to 
relax bank secrecy is another pointer. 
As these small countries become more 
self-confident, bigger players are in an 
increasingly strong position to reorder 
the international environment. Not 
only may China opt to divert some of 
its surplus out of dollars, so may coun- 
tries whose wealth comes from oil. 
Resource-based economies, which are 
currently reeling, will recover when 
commodities prices rebound. When 
that happens, as it must someday, prob- 
ably fairly soon, states that have never 
accepted American hegemony—Iran, 
Russia and Venezuela, 
for example—will once 
again be in a position to 
project their power in 
the global arena. 


o a considerable 
extent, this redis- 
tribution of power 


is a consequence of glo- 
balization. The reality is 
not the spreading of free 
markets and the triumph 
of American values, as 
fondly imagined by the 
prophets of the flat world. 
Itis worldwide industrial- 
ization, which inevitably 
spells the end of Ameri- 
can preeminence. As well 
as shifting production to 
other countries, advanc- 
ing globalization inten- 
sifies the rivalry over 


АМ: China 15 the most important market. 


dwindling natural 
resources. If Amer- 
ica is the world's big- 
gest debtor, it is also 
crucially dependent 
on energy imports 
that the world's new 
industrial societies 
now need in increas- 
ing quantities. Using 
their growing wealth, 
these rising powers 
will claim resources 
the U.S. has in the 
past preempted. 
The only result can 
be that America will 
lose its primacy and 
become one among 
several powers strug- 
gling for a place in 
the sun. 


of America from a position of domi- 

nance might have taken place over 
several generations. With its enor- 
mous cost, global unpopularity and 
uncertain outcome, the invasion of 
Iraq sped that decline, and as a con- 
sequence of the financial crisis the 
process has been further accelerated. 
It is entirely realistic to expect a major 
downshift in American power over the 
next few years. However, there is noth- 
ing to suggest Washington perceives 
this. As the administration prepares 
to exit from Iraq, it is increasing its 
engagement in Afghanistan—a site 
of conflict where the defeat of Soviet 
forces helped topple the Soviet regime. 
The U.S. has deep sources of internal 


| n normal circumstances the descent 


legitimacy, and the possibility it will 
replicate anything like the Soviet col- 
lapse is remote in the extreme. But nei- 
ther will America recover the position 
of leadership that seemed so secure in 


Debtors' hands are tied. 


the boom years. Like other countries 
America will have to learn to live with 
problems it cannot fully solve. 

The lesson of history is that difficul- 
ties of the magnitude that exist today 
are not usually overcome. They are 
simply left behind as history moves on. 
The past has gone for good, and Amer- 
ica now lacks the power to fashion the 
future for itself or the world. 


John Gray is professor emeritus at the 
London School of Economics and the au- 
thor of Black Mass: Apocalyptic Religion 
and the Death of Utopia. 


: As globalization has become a reality, American values have not prevailed. 


READER RESPONSE 


ARRRGH, PIRATES! 

While I appreciated Lawrence 
Lessig's column on prohibition 
(“Our New Prohibition," April), I 
found myself wondering why Lessig 
only briefly mentioned the prohibi- 
tion against marijuana, which is a 
much more worrying aspect of our 
nation's laws. Hundreds of thousands 
of people remain in jail for mari- 
juana possession while pharmaceuti- 
cal companies line their pockets with 
profits from drugs that make people 
go insane, not to mention highly 
addictive drugs like OxyContin that 
people overdose on every day. Still 
we hear stories on Fox News about 
the link between severe vomiting 
syndrome and pot use that mention 
only two instances of severe vomit- 
ing. I'm no conspiracy theorist, but 
this is one aspect of our government 
(and media) we have to stop ignor- 
ing, playing down and mocking, or 
we will become indifferent servants to 
the pharmacological tyranny Aldous 
Huxley predicted 50 years ago. Let's 
talk about weed, baby. 

Mallory Pickard 
Durham, North Carolina 


Lessig needs a swift kick in the ass. 
PLAYBOY needs an even harder kick in 
the junk for printing such trash. Not 


For Violation of the 
National Prohibition Act 


m ORDEK OF 


J. S. DISTRICT COURT 


Current copyright laws make us all criminals. 


only is his position made of straw, the 
article fails to tie a problem to a solu- 
tion. It instead appeals to the emo- 
tions while making absurd parallels 
between problems of vastly different 
natures. I'll conservatively estimate 
that 90 percent of peer-to-peer file 
sharing is overt theft. Laws con- 
cerning theft must be enforced—in 
civil court if need be. Certainly the 
author feels that the copyright to his 
new book is valid and that he should 
be fairly paid for his work. I bet his 
publisher thinks so too. How does 
PLAYBOY feel about the images it has 


published over the years? Are those 
images public property to be traded 
by the masses at will? 
Joel Gradinger 
Memphis, Tennessee 


Great article. This is absolutely another 
failed prohibition that is turning good, 


Alcohol ban is gone. Pot ban should go. 


normally law-abiding Americans into 
criminals. The difference between this 
and the war on drugs, however, is that 
the copyright prohibition is not killing 
and incarcerating people. Nonviolent 
drug offenders are jailed at an alarming 
rate, and the U.S. taxpayer has to foot 
the bill. Drug cartels are causing more 
deaths now than ever before—and not 
just in Mexico; it happens here on our 
own soil. At a time when our leaders are 
struggling to find solutions to our eco- 
nomic woes, just imagine the windfall 
from taxing an industry worth tens of 
billions a year, not to mention the mil- 
lions of dollars we would save by not 
catching, prosecuting and jailing these 
offenders. Lessig is correct that we need 
reform, but let's start with the mistakes 
of the 20th century. Then we can move 
on past the millennium. 

Matthew Wollersheim 

Chicago, Illinois 


Lessig is respected even by those of us 
in the copyright bar who do not neces- 
sarily agree with the opinions he pres- 
ents on why the "copyright war" should 
not be waged against p2p piracy in the 
way it has been. At the core of his argu- 
ment is a pragmatic understanding that 
you can legislate conduct (what not to 
do) but not perception (why people 
think it is okay to do it anyway). "Why 
It Matters," however, slides into farce 
about evil corporations. Corporations 
do not write or perform songs, movies 
or literary works. Artists do, and it is 


their livelihood that illegal downloading 
and file sharing are taking away. If you 
don't believe me, ask the people who 
contribute to PLAYBOY and see how they 
feel about job security these days. 

Alan Behr 

New York, New York 


ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL 

After reading the March issue I could 
not let Joe Domanick's politically biased 
open-border diatribe (“Start Making 
Sense") go unanswered. Apparently 
Domanick wants to make the keeping 
out and removal of illegal aliens a racial 
issue by talking only about how angered 
whites in Arizona are. Well, how about 
the jobs blacks, Native Americans and, 
for that matter, legal immigrants are 
losing to illegals? You don't think they 
might be angry too? He is also appar- 
ently not concerned about the welfare of 
illegal aliens themselves, who are often 
used and abused and have no recourse. 
Тот Hawksworth 

Roseburg, Oregon 


After reading the articles about immi- 
gration in the March Forum I must say I 
believe the U.S. should consider halting 
immigration until the last unemployed 
U.S. citizen gets a job. It's unfair for a 
noncitizen to get a job because he or she 
offers to work more cheaply, while tax- 
payers must pay for benefits for unem- 


Immigration debates: economic or racial? 


ployed citizens. Many Latin American 
governments also want to maintain the 
status quo because they need the money 
their citizens send home. 
Mauricio Mejfa 
Tegucigalpa, Honduras 


E-mail via the web at letters.playboy.com. 
Or write: 680 North Lake Shore Drive, 
Chicago, IL 60611. 


GRAPE VINE 


The Swan of 42nd Street 

Model AMANDA SWAN plays a stripper in The Don of 42nd 
Street. "It's the highlight of my little career!" she writes, clearly 
unable to contain her excitement. 


If a couturier's job 
is to put a star in a 
sexy but not reveal- 
ing frock, TAYLOR 
SWIFT's crew gets 
a mild fail. On the 
other hand, we're 
now huge Taylor 
Swiftfans. She sings : Е 
or something. Hint From Heloise 

Got stubborn soap scum on your shower door? Scrub vigorously 

with an abrasive cleanser. Got DAE DANIELS on your shower 

door? Scrub vigorously, but do not use abrasive cleanser. 


When MEL В (Таг left) 
and KELLY MONACO 
(Left) perform with the 
Peepshow burlesque 
revue in Vegas, audiences 
exit feeling both titillated 
and confused. 


We used to run photos of 
KELLY BROOK with a jeal- 
ous snark about how per- 
petual fiancé Billy Zane 
was the luckiest man on 
earth. Same deal now, UU 
only Mr. Lucky is rugby ~ 

player Danny Cipriani, = 
who gets to do what he's 

doing at left with what 

you see below. At will. 


—m “س‎ Ў 


Swede ANGELICA JANSSON tells us she's in Baby О, а musical starring Billy Burke, 
Theresa Russell and Robert Goulaaaaay. She also claims roles in a video for a di- 

minutive Kiss cover band and an aborted Eddie Griffin reality series. Our researchers 
cannot confirm any of this. It could be just a pack of lies. And we're okay with that. 165 


г аз 
TEAM GORGEOUS ON THE BEACH, OUT OF THEIR CLOTHES. 


TEAM GORGEOUS—SUZANNE STONEBARGER AND MICHELLE MORE 
ARE EASY TO PICK OUT IN A CROWD, AND NOT JUST BECAUSE THEY 
STAND FIVE-NINE AND SIX-ONE, RESPECTIVELY. COME HANG OUT 
ON THE BEACH FOR THIS SIZZLING PICTORIAL AS MEMBERS OF THE 
WORLD'S HOTTEST VOLLEYBALL TEAM SLIP OUT OF THEIR BIKINIS. 
SOMETHING TELLS US THEY WON'T BE THE ONLY ONES SWEATING. 


SETH MACFARLANE—IN THE PLAYBOY INTERVIEW, THE PROLIF- 
IC FAMILY GUY CREATOR TALKS TO ROB TANNENBAUM ABOUT 
WHY GAS IS A GAS, WHAT HE'D LIKE TO DO TO BILL O'REILLY AND 
WHICH FAMILY GUY EPISODE FOX DOESN'T WANT YOU TO SEE. 


INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS—CONTROVERSIAL AND BRILLIANT 
AUTEUR QUENTIN TARANTINO EXCERPTS HIS BRUTAL NEW 
FILM IN GRAPHIC-NOVEL FORM. 


THE HILLIKER CURSE—IN THIS SOUL-RENDING INSTALLMENT 
OF HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHY, CRIME FICTION LEGEND JAMES 
ELLROY GETS MARRIED, GETS DIVORCED, GOES CRAZY AND 
MEETS THE RED GODDESS. 


COLLEGE FOOTBALL 2009—0UR ANNUAL RUNDOWN OF THE 
STATE OF THE GAME AND THE SEASON'S HOTTEST PROSPECTS. 


CONFIDO—IN A NEVER-BEFORE-PUBLISHED SHORT STORY, 
KURT VONNEGUT MEDITATES ON MAN'S LIMITLESS KNACK 


HEY, SETH MACFARLANE, WHAT'S SO FUNNY? 


= OKLAHOMA'S BIG YEAR? 


NEXT MONTH 


OUR SPEIDI SENSE IS TINGLING. 


FOR CRUELTY AND THE INEXORABLE CORRUPTING INFLUENCE 
OF TECHNOLOGY. 


20Q—BETWEEN HER STINTS AS AN OBJECT OF OBSESSION 
IN WICKER PARK AND TROY, IT'S HARD TO THINK OF DIANE 
KRUGER AS AN UGLY DUCKLING. STILL, THE GERMAN INGLOU- 
RIOUS BASTERDS ACTOR TELLS US SHE WAS GANGLY AND 
AWKWARD UNTIL SHE STARTED MODELING. HERE'S HOPING 
HER STARRING ROLE OPPOSITE BRAD PITT HELPS WITH HER 
CONFIDENCE ISSUES. 


HEIDI MONTAG—WE HEAD FOR THE HILLS AS THE IMPOSSI- 
BLY SEXY REALITY-SHOW DIVA POSES FOR A PICTORIAL AND 
GETS INTERVIEWED BY HER NOTORIOUS HUSBAND, SPENCER 
PRATT. NO UNCOMFORTABLE PAUSES HERE. 


ELEMENTS OF STYLE—TODAY'S GENTLEMAN NEEDS TO KNOW 
WHEN METROSEXUAL IS TOO METROSEXUAL AND WHAT TO SAY 
WHEN SHE CATCHES YOU CHECKING BASEBALL SCORES ON 
YOUR PHONE DURING A CHICK FLICK. THE ULTIMATE GUIDE 
TO MODERN PANACHE. 


PLUS—FRANK OWEN INVESTIGATES THE DOOM PROPHETS 
OF 2012, WE PARK OURSELVES IN THE MOST STYLISH CHAIRS 
EVER MADE, AND MISS SEPTEMBER KIMBERLY PHILLIPS 
SOOTHES OUR FEVERED BROW. 


Playboy (ISSN 0032-1478), July/August 2009, volume 56, number 7. Published monthly except a combined July/August issue by Playboy in national and regional 

editions, Playboy, 680 North Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Periodicals postage paid at Chicago, Illinois and at additional mailing offices. 

Canada Post Canadian Publications Mail Sales Product Agreement No. 40035534. Subscriptions: in the U.S., $29.97 for a year. Postmaster: Send address change 
166 to Playboy, PO. Box 2007, Harlan, Iowa 51537-4007. For subscription-related questions, call 800-999-4438, or e-mail PLYcustserv@cdsfulfillment.com. 


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