More Than A Million Copies of Playboy are now being printed every month. We mention this just in case you missed our modest announcement of the fact on last month's cover. It's a big, round, fat, healthy hunk of number, that million, and we're proud of it. Pardonably so, we think, because we've only been publishing playboy a bit over 21/2 years and it is now the largest selling quality priced (50c or over) men's magazine in America.
Playboy, July, 1956, Vol. 3, No. 7. Playboy is published monthly by HMH Publishing Co., Inc., 11 E. Superior St., Chicago 11, Illinois. In the U.S., its possessions and Canada, subscriptions are $13 for three years; $10 for two years; $6 for one year; elsewhere, add $3 per year to cover foreign postage. Please allow three weeks for entering new subscriptions, renewals and for change of address. Entered as second class matter August 5, 1955, at the post office at Chicago, Illinois, under the act of March 3, 1879. Printed in U.S.A. Contents copyrighted 1956 by HMH Publishing Co., Inc.
"Listen, Jack, I've got a book for you – the kind of a book you've always dreamed about. It doesn't verge on the obscene – it is obscenity incarnate." Jack Kahane, a wily Britisher, grabbed the feelthy theeng, published it under the imprimatur of his Obelisk Press in Paris, sat back and watched the eyeballs pop.
Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Cole Porter Song Book (Verve 4001-2) is probably her most ambitious waxing effort to date and, happily, it turns out to be a realgas. Ella has welded together a package of 31 porter pretties into a two-disc album: the different moods are wonderfully expressed, backed by everything from a single 88 to a 35 piece orchestra complete with singing and syrupy horns. The fact that jazimpresario Norman Granz chose Ella for this rather major undertaking (instead of Ethel-e-e-e-e-y-a-a-agh – Merman, for whommost of the tunes wre written) is one more evidence of this good judgement. Here's proof, too, that when it comes to the singing dodge, there's no canary whocan fly with Mis Music, be it jazz or pop.
Because dancing has no place there, patrons pay no 20% cabaret tax at. The Embers in New York (161 E. 54th). But who needs pedal exercise in the presence of Teddy Wilson, the latest luminary in a glittering gallery of jazz-masters who have played the Embers? The unobtrusive decor, in Recreation Room Knotty Pine, lulls the sense of sight so the sense of hearing gets full play. Trudy Baer fools around with show tunes at the piano from 6 P.M., giving way to the virtuoso about 8:45. Meanwhile, you've eaten heartily of Chef Manuel Diego's small but choice menu: roast beef, steaks and barbecued ribs. For your dossier of offbeat drinks, bartender Dick Donohue submits the Derby cocktail, viz.: 1 oz. 86 proof bourbon, 1/4 oz. Benedictine, the juice of 1/2 lemon and 1/4 spoonful sugar; shake well with ice, strain into cocktail glass. The fans file in and flip every night till 4 A.M.
When Eugene O'Neill transplanted the ancient Greeks' Oresteian bit to New England and called it Mourning Becomes Electro, he started a fad that shows no signs of fading. Bizet's Spain. Chekhov's Russia and Verdi's Egypt (three presumably clashing climes and cultures) took on the drawl & y'all of Deepest Southland in stuff called Carmen Jones, The Wisteria Trees and My Dartin' Aida(honest: it ran for 89 performances at the Winter Garden back in '52) ; and Hollywood recently returned to the Greeks again in something called the The Second Greatest Sex, which was nothing more (and a good deal less) than Aristophanes'Lysistrata in the Wild and Woolly West. This transplanting is a harmless pastime, we guess, and some of the re-sultant shows have been pretty good:Carmen Jones seemed to us an invigorating evening of theatre (though a misch-masch of a movie) and Mourning De-comes Electra is still highly regarded by O'Neill cultists. More often, however, the original material is disastrously diluted and would have been much better left alone. Which brings us to this season's entry: a weirdie by Philip (Anna Lucasta) Yordan, an interesting but pointless film experiment called Joe Macbeth, believe it or not.
Frank (Guys and Dolls) Loesser is said to have worked five years turning Sidney Howard's They Knew What They Wanted into a musical called The Most Happy Fella. Mr. Loesser apparently didn't quite know what he wanted, for Fella has too much of too many things. There are 33 songs, including a pastoral choral hymn to the summer night that sounds akin to the scythe song in Cavalleria Rusticana, plus some snappy items like Standing on the Corner. But why look for unity of conception and purpose? For Broadway,Fella is exceptionally fine and it has plenty for everybody. A trio of comic Italian waiters arc brilliant in the tenor range of Abbondanza. The dance action scores on exuberance if not on originality, especially the Sposalizio production, a wedding feast which subsides at last with one couple on the floor in the initial attitude of cohabitation.
I am lean and nervous, with thin arms and long legs, and my belly is so flat that my trousers keep slipping down: in fact, I am exactly the opposite of what is required to make a good truckdriver. Have you ever looked at truckdrivers? They're all big fellows with broad shoulders, brawny arms, strong backs and bellies. For a truckdriver depends especially on his arms, his back and his belly: on his arms, for turning the steering-wheel, which has a diameter very nearly as long as an arm, and which sometimes, on the bends of a mountain road, has to be turned full circle; on his back, to stand up to the fatigue of sitting still for hours and hours, always in the same position, without beginning to ache or grow stiff; and finally on his belly, to keep him planted solidly in his seat, like a rock embedded in the earth. So much for the physical aspect. From the moral point of view I am even less suitable. The truckdriver should have no nerves, no caprices, no homesickness, nor any other delicate feelings: driving is exasperating and fatiguing enough to kill an ox. And with regard to women, the truckdriver, like the sailor, should think very little about them; otherwise, with that continuous coming and going, he would go completely crazy. But I myself am full of thoughts and preoccupations; I am melancholy by nature and I like women.
I Was Relishing a tumblerful of fine old Kentucky sour mash at a Boston house party one evening in February, 1954. Present at the gathering were a number of charming couples, among them Louis and Elaine Lorillard of Newport, Rhode Island.
The Week-End Admiral to starboard (deserting his ship!) definitely has his Sea-Legs: a cagey copywriter's name for three-quarter length pants that fit trim and tight, belted with a husky hunk of rope threaded through metal loops, and neatly notched just below the knees for fast action on deck. We first spotted the sailor pants in fishing villages around the Mediterranean area, but this season they're held in frisky favor from New England waters to the boat clubs of the Great Lakes, straight on down to the Gulf Coast. Practical, too: tailored of rugged sailcloth, heavy denim or Huck-abuck cloth that carries the look of homespun fabric. The shirt's just as Continental, taken from French Riviera models in bold red-and-white stripings with a wide-vented collar. It's a breezy slipover that can also be worn flapping outside the Sea-Legs, comes equipped with two big patch pockets down front for stowing extra gear. Both the Antibe shirt and the Sea-Legs are part of a boat load of special sailing duds styled by White Stag. Nautical, but nice!
Never ask a woman to come up and see your salad bowl. If you do, don't let her go near it. There are some things a woman can toss around fairly well, but a salad isn't one of them. Consider, for instance, such forms of feminine bunny food as Frozen Tomato Salad in Cucumber Boats, Jellied Ginger Ale and Grape Salad, Firecracker Salad and salads in the shape of flower pots, hyacinths and lilies of the valley—all of the savorless fabrications originating in the minds of congenital spinsters, Home Economics teachers and amateur food demonstrators. A woman, in fact, who may be an otherwise skillful cook and an unaffected creature invariably becomes coquettish when she makes a salad. When your back is turned, she'll come up with Prunes and Cottage Cheese, or Pea and Walnut Salad or an elaborate bowl of mixed greens tasting exactly like a bale of wet hay. You may intimate to the young lady that you like radishes. Will she let you bite into a plain hard radish? Will she put simple crisp radish slices in the salad? Oh, no. You'll have to wait until she surprises you with her "radish roses." For centuries now the petals of these damned radish roses have been getting into men's mustaches, falling into their vests and killing the enjoyment of an ancient, honest garden vegetable.
When Photographs of this month's contributors were being gathered for the Playbill, the editors discovered that the author of The Deal, the lead fiction story for July, is a very attractive woman. It seemed a shame to limit her likeness to the Playbill page.
The Putrid way I really am, if you've got to know, is slightly maraschino. That's what my kid brother, Otto, calls it. He's a real gone brat, Otto; I mean, he really is. Slightly precocious for four-and-a-half, going on five, but then, who isn't? Like the time he was watching me slick up for a date and puts his arms akimbo (I like that word; I really do) and cocks his corny little pointed head and sneers:
That Pert Parisienne, Clementine, whom you met in our April issue, has trotted off to the Bikinied beaches of her native France, with mother and father in tow, of course. Cartoonist Jean Bellus is on hand, too, to record all the mischievous goings on during this jolly July vacation. Something like 120 of his Clementine drawings have been put together in one hard cover volume by the Grayson Publishing Corporation and are available at your local book dealer's for $2.95.
Smvchkov, A musician, was walking from town to Prince Bibulov's country villa where, to celebrate an engagement, there was to be an evening of music and dancing. On his back lay an enormous double-bass in a leather case. Smychkov was walking along the bank of a river, the cool water of which was running if not majestically, at least extremely romantically.
Pliny The Elder once muttered something to the effect that shoemakers should give no opinions beyond the shoes. We hope he didn't have anything against non-shoemakers sounding off on footwear: though no cobblers, we, there are a few pithy points about shoes we'd like to unload right here, Pliny or no Pliny.
Every Marriage must have a home. A marriage without walls around it is a flimsy thing indeed. You will need a cozy nook for just you two. More specifically, this should include a kitchen, bathroom, and at least one room for living and sleeping.
Look Your Last, boys. Scrutinize each interesting inch of the transparently-clad Marla English you see here, and commit it all to memory. The English epidermis will no longer be thus exposed, for Marla's star has risen in the Hollywood heavens and her advisers are now advising her to keep her shirt on, and her skirt, too, whenever a camera comes into range.
Ailsa Had Been easily the homeliest and the least talented girl in the University, if also the most logical and levelheaded. Now, almost 15 years later, she was the most attractive woman Martin had ever seen and, to judge from their surroundings, by some lengths the richest.
The colorful, chock-full August package of stories, photos, cartoons, special insert and fold-out features, tips on travel, food and fashion will include Anita Ekberg in the altogether and an altogether enjoyable new work of fiction by favorite Charles Beaumont. It will be an issue to have and to hold.