The cream of college -- all the fun and frolic -- has been deftly siphoned for this September Playboy, and the textbooks and cramming and other unattractive aspects of campus life have been carefully eschewed.
A delicious method for getting the girls sneakily sozzled is the single martini that packs a double jolt because the H2O has been surreptitiously subtracted from the gin. What you do is mix up a double and set it in the back of your deep freeze for a couple of hours, at the lowest possible temperature. Come party time you reach into the freezer and drop a small shard of ice into the martini. The water in the gin, which is well below its freezing point but still liquid because it is mixed with the alky, solidifies before your eyes, leaving you with solid ice on top, and near 200 proof, very liquid, very lively vermouth-tinged gin on the bottom. Dump the ice, pour the now dehydrated drink into a standard size cocktail glass, add a twist of lemon, smile angelically, and serve to your nearest playmate.
The Fly, a marrow-chiller based on one of the most popular stories that ever appeared in Playboy, sticks reasonably close to George Langelaan's original--an eerie and mystifying narrative, if you recall, mainly dealing with the problems of a scientist who suddenly finds himself wearing the head and leg of a fly. One problem: to track down the fly with the scientist's rightful appendages so that a switch can be effected. The mixup comes about through the efforts of André Delambre (Al Hedison) to build a machine that disintegrates matter, transmits it, and then reassembles it. After some successes, misfortune: a bluebottle buzzes into the machine while André' is disintegrating himself, with the above-mentioned urpy result. Keeping his nauseating new acquisitions hidden, André asks his bewildered but loving wife, Hélène (Patricia Owens), to locate the fly in the ointment, then, when the hunt seems hopeless, despairingly orders her to kill him in a hydraulic press that will crush the ghastly parts out of all recognition so The World Will Never Know. Herbert Marshall plays a conscientious police inspector while Vincent Price adds a note of comfort as André's brother. In the way of plot changes, the locale has been shifted from France to Canada, and Hollywood softens blows: Hélène isn't clapped into a mental hospital (not right off, anyway), Price supplies wistful romantic interest and (naturally) Hélène doesn't commit suicide. All is not soft, however: the fly is finally found, trapped and screaming-scared, darting a green tongue, in a spider web. The spider approaches... You'll have nightmares.
A happy trend in the night club business, where big names have been pricing their talents out of existence or into TV (which amounts to the same thing) is the packaging of miniature revues which make up for their lack of "stars" with fresh faces and, even more important, fresh new material. Take Five (Offbeat 0-4013) offers a fine sample of the doings on this Scotch-and-soda circuit. And, happily, just about everything that fits on the tiny stage in Julius Monk's Downstairs at the Upstairs Room in New York, where Take Five is in its second year, fits very nicely on an LP. That includes three hilarious sketches and 10 assorted musical numbers. While uneven, all of the material is at least refreshingly adult and, at times, damn near great. All five members of the cast do justice to their assignments. Special honors to Ronnie Graham in the sketches: he's perfect as a hostile beat generation poet reading one of his epics, "We are the youth, yuh dirty bastards." Then, as an idiotically cheerful victim of a Mike Wallace interview who reacts to the news that Mike's researchers have dug up evidence that he is a murderer: "Did you ever have one of those days?" And, best of all, Graham's Harry the Hipster bit, the bop-talked graduation ceremony at a school for progressive jazz musicians. Take Five is both witty and sophisticated listening.
John P. Marquand, who broke in as a writer of whodunits, didn't really hit big until he devised the whydunit. Formula: take a middle-aged hero, face him with some soul-shaking crisis, then send him scurrying back into his New England past to find out how he got that way. In Women And Thomas Harrow (Little, Brown, $4.75), the hero is a highly successful playwright who's lost his silk shirt backing a Broadway musical. But money is only Tom Harrow's surface problem; underneath, it's women. He's currently working on Wife No. 3, an ashblonde actress who refers to No. 1 as "that woman" and No.2 as "that bitch" -- and who, apprised of the disaster, now refers to Tom as "a conceited, washedout, middle-aged has-been, and not even much of a lover." So back he goes into the past, and, in the course of his selfservice psychoanalysis, he discovers that he's still in love with wife No.1 -- smalltown Rhoda of the "financial face" (his broker's description) and the "beautiful pelvis" (her doctor's). She offers to come back to him, but he turns her down. His puritan conscience satisfied, he joins the other Marquand heroes, facing the future with a new calm, chagrin-and-bear-it outlook. Of course, this is all done with superior craftsmanship, but Mr. M. seems to be reaching the point of no return, where one of his yarns sounds just like all the others.
As soon as the Labor Day traffic crush is over, it's a good notion to drive out of the city for some sundown swigging and a spot of food. If the city in question is New York, we urge on you such exurbanite eateries as Boni's Inn at Fishkill, New York; Connecticut's Red Barn (Westport, of course); Emily Shaw's Inn at Pound Ridge, New York (Which has nifty nibbling despite its tearoom-type title), and, on Long Island, Frank Friede's Riverside Inn (Smithtown). All have, in addition to grub and grog, pleasing decor, good service, a relaxed but quite elegant air. Best phone ahead for reservations.
It Was a Day in early fall, one of those rare days with the delicate flavor of good dry wine, the soft air a thin sea of pale diffused gold. In a fold of valley, at the end of a dirt lane that sloped down from the ridge road, Abner Huck's place lay silent, graying in the sun.
Mundy cut the lights and the patrol car glided down silently through the trees onto the beach. The moon was high and full; they saw the car parked back under the trees just about the same time the people in the car saw them. Mundy swore and jumped out, grabbing for his flashlight. Redmond came out the other side, feeling ridiculous.
With The aim of publishing a realistic guide to the complete collegiate wardrobe, we consulted the available sources of information, discovered nothing but spotty reportage and the armchair predictions of "authorities." Whereupon we seized an opportunity uniquely ours. Playboy maintains a corps of campus representatives, some 300 young men at leading colleges and universities, who keep us in constant touch with the campus scene. Through these campus reps we launched a national two-part field survey. For Part I, we devised an exhaustive questionnaire with which we sent our reps to survey their fellow classmen's wardrobes, thus determining what clothing today's collegian owns and what he plans to purchase. Part II entailed a separate questionnaire with which Playboy reps interviewed 163 managers of major campus men's wear stores on what collegians buy. The results -- charted on the following pages -- constitute the first factual report on today's college wardrobe and thus a practical buying guide for the man who would be dressed with the best on his campus.
Herd-Running collegians who vent their exuberances on such unimaginative monkeyshines as panty raids, water fights and the crowning of campus spires and public monuments with chamber pots, among recent phenomena, are several cuts below those sparkling wits who, a few years back, had the brilliant audacity to sign up a milk-wagon horse for several courses at a small midwestern university. Nor are they likely to attain the stature of that college's dean of men when the hoax was revealed. "This is the first time," he said, wryly, "that we have enrolled a whole horse."
Playboy formal parties have become an institution at a number of institutions of higher learning across the country. This past year, over 25,000 students and faculty members of both genders attended such shimmering shindigs at Cornell, UCLA, Wisconsin, the U of Florida -- from coast to coast, in fact, and including the exclusive University Club in Chicago. At these poshfests, Playboy is the theme and keynote, the Playboy rabbit is the mascot, Playboy covers and cartoons serve as decorations, and -- not infrequently -- the highlight of the evening is the selection of a university or fraternity Playmate.
As a man who has been verbally clubbed and clobbered for talking out vigorously against anything that seems to me wrong with our national life, I see no reason to pull any punches in what follows. I do feel, though, that for Playboy readers, certain cautionary and qualifying words are required. What I am about to describe is a historical process and its current manifestations. In large part, I'll be talking about the men of my generation -- some 15 years older than most of the readers of this magazine. In large part, I'll be talking about what happened to a lot of them -- and a lot of the women in their lives. But not all of either. Gladly I concede that there are millions of my generation, both men and women, for whom what I say is, blessedly, not true. Happily. I note that the kind of alert and vigorous young men who will read me here, and who read this magazine, are largely immunized against much of the social sickness I'll describe -- and so are lots of the girls in their lives.
Football is two Games, not one. Take equal parts of school loyalty and regional chauvinism, add a few dashes each of academic architecture, pennant colors, brisk autumn air and Sousa marches, plus a peppering of old grads and delectable dates, mix them all together in a hip flask with some good sour mash, and this is Game Number One: football, the spectacular spectator sport.
Beach, lake and sky rich with deep late colors, with Indian Summer prosperity and only a few crisp leaves blown out onto the sands, which were white, tended, raked and heated by a long season -- he thought it must mean good luck. Why not believe in ease and health? Why not believe in reviving ways? He sat up, feeling the hot September sun on the sunburnt bridge of his nose, and decided that they had won their risk of a week's vacation after Labor Day, when on another year a thin September rain might have Kept them quarreling in the hotel off the lake. It was a good omen. An optimist still, he piously took good hope from good omens although not bad hope from bad ones.
Before we sanction national exposure of our gray matter to electronic innuendo, observes cautious cartoonist Jack Cole, let us consider the possible consequences of indiscriminate subliminal advertising in TV and the cinema. Let's consider, too, how some might misuse this latest phenomenon in hidden persuasion to achieve mischievous and Machiavellian ends.
Come the fine fall days and the breaking out of sweaters and tweeds -- and even the raccoon coat -- it's a good notion to round out your autumn outfit with a hip flask. For, though the air may be winey, the inner man will want something of somewhat higher proof to warm the cockles of his and his date's hearts as they sit on the 50-yard line or park the Porsche atop a sundrenched hilltop to admire the smoke-hazed hues of the season.
Hollywood, which has given us The Body and The Back, has also given us plenty of bosoms, starting with Lana Turner's besweatered charms, continuing through the delightful double features of Marilyn Monroe, and reaching an appetizing apogee in the mighty measurements of Mansfield. But all of these were lower case bosoms. The first Bosom worthy of a capital B has only recently reached Tinseltown. She's an import, but not from Sweden or Italy -- climes seemingly most conducive to such classic cultivations. It -- or they -- are from staid old England and are the perky properties of a pretty young Londoner named June (43-22-36) Wilkinson.
Long, long ago in the very olden time, before the good St. Patrick took his staff to the serpents, there lived two kings in Ireland. One was a man stout and strong, like a good Irishman ought to be. They called him the Good King. He had one daughter, and it was beautiful she was.
Come November, the new jets can whiz you to Europe in a scant six hours from Manhattan. And while you're there, just for contrast in transportation, we suggest you glim the world-famous antique auto race that runs (or putt-putts) from London to Brighton, with frequent halts at bucolic old roadside pubs. Across the Channel, we think you'll be interested in the recent increase in Stockholm night spots following the waning of prohibition there. Try the underground, dim-lit and vaulted Club Bacchus, or the Trianon -- exotically complete with tropical flora and caged parrots -- set on an island in the harbor. The cover charge at each is about $1.40 -- little enough for a hideaway to take those gloriously emancipated Swedish dolls to (if you don't mind ending a sentence with a proposition). The doors stay open till three A.M. Another tip to brighten your nights in Europe: the gambling casino at Enghien is only 20 minutes from Paris ($2.50 by cab) but if you don't want to waste all that time in transit, you can hang your Cavanagh right there: next to the casino (and hard by the Enghien race track -- if you don't drop your francs one way you can do it another) is a lovely lakeside resort hotel whose rooms start at a modest $5 a day.