"I Have Almost Forgot the taste of fears," Macbeth big-talks near the end of the play, but a few king-size jolts knock the props out from under him soon after. In much the same way, hardened Hollywood studio cop John Pollock, who thinks he's seen everything, is beset by terror when he learns of a certain scalp-crawling evil in this month's lead yarn, The Taste of Fear. You'll search this Playbill page in vain for a photo of the story's author. "Hugh G. Foster" is a creature of the night who prefers to submerge his true self in an unpierceable cloak of pseudonymity. Fear marks his first major appearance in Playboy, but you may recall a charming lightweight number of his called The Doll (September 1956).
If you've been paying attention to recent liquor ads, you may have noticed that girls are finally beginning to get interested in the sauce. For the past 25 years or so, women haven't been allowed to appear in whiskey ads through the self-policing of the Distilled Spirits Institute. But now the ladies are allowed to appear, and even leer a little at the distillate being pushed (though they still can't be shown holding a glass in the new ads, let alone, God forbid, raising one, and "provocative dress" is frowned upon). How come this generous change of heart on the part of the D.S.I.? Well sir, the Institute says that "the social use of alcoholic beverages ... at mixed parties has become an accepted part of gracious living." We'll bet it wasn't easy to come right out and say that, in so many words; it probably took a lot of research, and certainly a lot of guts. Shocking as it may seem, we recently attended a party where the women not only looked at the liquor, but actually d--k it as well.
In the summer of 1958 thousands of landlubbers who didn't know which end of a sailboat was which (much less port from starboard) -- and couldn't have cared less -- got all het up over the 17th competition for The America's Cup, a yachting classic since it was first raced (between Britain and the U.S.) in 1851. Everybody knows that the British challenger, Sceptre, was cruelly clobbered, and many will remember the names of the American boats that raced each other to determine which would defend the Cup: Vim, Columbia, Weatherly, Easterner; Columbia the winner. What all the excitement was about is the theme of Carleton Mitchell's Summer of the Twelves (Scribner's, $10), a handsome, beautifully illustrated, big book which, in recounting the events leading up to the Cup defense and the defense itself, manages to recapture an astonishing amount of that excitement. (The title refers, of course, to the 12-meter yachts which competed.) Mitchell is a crack yachtsman, author of five books, owner and skipper of the fabulous Finesterre (only boat to rack up two consecutive wins in the Newport-Bermuda race) and seagoing lensman. He's a dandy writer, too; moreover, mercifully for the landlocked, his book is divided into narrative and technical parts, so that no nautical jargon or technical discussion mars his lively re-creation of the thrilling blue-water contest.
While you're reading Playboy's verbal salute to Prez in this issue, you'd be wise to spin the definitive Lester Young Memorial Album (Epic SN 6031). This is a two-disc compendium of Lester's greatest sides, made with the Basic band between 1936 and 1940, and jazz just doesn't get any better. On it are the now-classic Lester Leaps In, Blow Top, Tickle-Toe, Rock-a-Bye Basie, Riff Interlude -- a total of 24 tunes that eloquently showcase the president of the tenor saxophone during his halcyon years. Later Lester can be caught on The Lester Young Story (Verve 8308): Prez blowing with various small combos from 1950 through 1956. Despite the ravages of too much booze, he still managed to cut most of the other tenor men around; cock a special ear toward his delicate but always swinging treatments of I Want to Be Happy, Let's Fall in Love, New D. B. Blues and the beautiful and somewhat ironically titled Prez Returns.
Pete's Tavern (129 East 18th St.) is New York's second oldest eat-and-drinkery. It dates from 1865, a stripling compared to Fraunces Tavern of Revolutionary days (George Washington supped there), but plenty old enough to suit the thousands of backward-glancers who come from nearby Gramercy Park and elsewhere to sit in the booth where O. Henry sat or, in summer, to bask at an outdoor table. Proprietor Jim Frawley tells the story of the day long ago when a lion got loose in the circus stable next door (now the rear dining room) and ate a horse. Today the lions are the social kind and horse has been replaced on the large menu by such succulent Italian entrees as lobster fra diavolo, scampi and veal picante, and by practically meal-size appetizers such as stuffed artichoke and roast peppers and prosciutto. The ancient dark woodwork and white tiled floor foster a pleasant atmosphere reflected in the à la carte price scale -- from 90¢ for a plate of spaghetti marinara to $5 for steak Sicilian. Hours, 9 a.m to 4 a.m.
In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, and in a season of pretty bad U.S. films, Otto Preminger's Anatomy of a Murder seems almost good. Mr. Preminger has shrewdly allowed scripter Wendell Mayes to carry over much of the frank talk from Robert Traver's novel of a rape case (Playboy After Hours, March 1958), so words like panty, bitch, rape, spermatogenesis, completion (in the male sexual sense) are bravely tossed around, creating the impression of an "adult" movie. The plot, like Traver's original, hasn't much to offer in the way of twist, and one can pretty much call the shots. Method-actor Ben Gazzara plays the arrogant Army looey on trial for killing the bruiser who allegedly raped and clobbered his pretty young wife, Lee Remick; James Stewart puts his copyrighted drawl to fair use as the shambling, small-town defense lawyer; non-thesper Joseph N. Welch (of the McCarthy hearings) is cute as hell as the judge; fussy faker Arthur O'Connell is hard to take as a lovable old law-&-liquor-steeped has-been. A bravura performance is given by one George C. Scott as Stewart's opposing legal eagle: cold and sharp as a scalpel, he dominates the screen and almost demolishes Stew's case. Duke Ellington did the cool jazz score (is a crime flick complete without one these days?) and makes a brief appearance as a café 88er. Flawed but flavor-some fun, this film.
After coffee-and-danish in the studio commissary Pollock walked back, past the sound stages in a jagged transverse, to his office in the Security Bungalow. He sat at a desk centered between two windows in what had once been a dressing room for actors. A large make-up mirror rimmed with naked light bulbs faced the door, so that anybody who entered saw his own reflection first.
Weather Forecast: crisp, dewy mornings; nippy, blanket-bundling afternoons; cool, frosty nights just right for fireside relaxation. Perfect weather for filling the hip flask, shaking the camphor from the trusty raccoon coat, breaking out the old school muffler, and heading for the stadium for the first home game.
These days, more and more people are trying to get farther and farther out. I mean, especially fellows who are like over 18. When I was that age back in West Virginia anyone who smoked or drank or made out once in a while with a girl from the West Side was pretty hip. But today everyone smokes and drinks and makes out, so if you want to move you have to really reach. Like growing beards isn't much now, or wearing red shirts or dirty jeans. Or digging Zen or slow jazz or making scenes. None of that is really and truly cool. It doesn't represent any kind of rebellion anymore, because all the nervous types are latching on, and the real and true hipsters know it. But they keep reaching and trying. Sometimes they go over the edge. Like what happened to Shelley Kahn.
The scene is Atlantic City. The all-female panel of Miss America judges is huddling to select a winner, but the procedure is only a formality; of the 50 original entrants, 49 have already been eliminated: it has been proved, you see, that 27 had, during the contest, consumed at least one drink containing alcohol; another 22, watchdogs reported, had been seen conversing with members of the opposite sex, unchaperoned. The sole remaining girl is only moderately appetizing in her bathing suit, and her performance in the talent contest consisted of a series of deep knee-bends to the strains of I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy, supplemented by the rendering of that beloved melody on the alto kazoo, more or less in tune and rhythm. Nevertheless, it is she who will reign as Queen of America's biggest beauty contest.
Play a blues for Lester Young. At one time, he leaped out of the Basie band and was heard, in wheaty-toned, languorous pleas, groping for beauty in 12- or 32-bar sighs. When he played with inimitable delicacy, he transformed the most banal tunes into dramatic, personal monologs, wondrous speeches emerging from a kaleidoscopic life tinged with gin and bourbon and cheap wine and marijuana. When he stumbled, he often fell, scratching for answers, scratching for grace, love and beauty.
To stimulate appetite, drinking alcoholic beverages before eating is an entertainment enjoyed by many citizens of this country. But less understood in America, and certainly less followed, is the high art of making a fine meal finer by adding whiskey in the cooking.
One year ago this month, Jack Cole met sudden and untimely death. Certainly among the most distinctive American cartoonists of our time, his rich style became part of Playboy early in our first year of publication and he quickly was established as the artist most closely identified with the magazine.
If the face is familiar, it is because Marianne Gaba's cute countenance has appeared on countless magazine covers across the country, especially the romance and movie fan publications which chronicled, in considerable detail, her recent "going steady" with teenage heart-throb Ricky Nelson. Marianne is a starlet in Hollywood, concentrating on what she hopes will be a successful movie career, with just enough spare time to satisfy the lensmen who shoot those magazine cover portraits, but up till now insufficient attention has been given to the rest of the Gaba goodies. This may seem peculiar, too, since it was surely the sum total of Marianne that won for her the Miss Illinois title in the Miss Universe contest two years ago and first took her to Hollywood, but it can be explained by Marianne's reluctance to be typed as "just another bathing beauty" and her corresponding refusal to pose for any of the West Coast's hundreds of pin-up photographers. She has made an exception for Playboy, however, for which we're mighty grateful, and so we proudly present something more of Marianne Gaba than has ever graced a magazine before, in the fetching form of Miss September.
It has often been observed that collegiate fashion is a fairly static matter when it comes to the wardrobe basics, i.e., suits, slacks, sports jackets, shoes and such. The persistence of Ivy on campus has been noted (and approved) for years. In our estimation, this does not reflect lack of daring, nor unimaginative conservatism on the part of collegians. Our guess is that the academic cycle is at the heart of the matter: lower classmen emulate upper classmen and each senior class impresses the impressionable freshmen with its taste -- and foibles -- in garb.
Mr. Wayne came to the end of the long, shoulder-high mound of gray rubble, and there was the Store of the Worlds. It was exactly as his friends had described: a small shack constructed of bits of lumber, parts of cars, a piece of galvanized iron and a few rows of crumbling bricks, all daubed over with a watery blue paint.
The Pipe! It is a great soother, a pleasant comforter! Blue devils fly before its honest breath! It ripens the brain; it opens the heart; and the man who smokes thinks like a sage and acts like a Samaritan."
We'd be Wide open to wise replies if we asked you what lovely Lisa Winters, Joyce Nizzari, Cindy Fuller, Myrna Weber, Mary Jane Ralston and Bonnie Harrington have in common, so instead we'll tell you they've all been featured in Playboy -- as memorable Playmates or as guests at our May '59 House Party -- in photographs taken by lovely Linnéa Eleanor Yeager (rhymes with vaguer, which she emphatically is not), known to most as Bunny.
My girl millie has this nutty idea sometimes that we should just go around singing one of these songs I write until somebody notices. She's addicted to little pep-up things like: "How many drug stores you think Lana Turner sat around in before they got the idea she had to be discovered?" What had to be discovered there, I tell her, you could at least see with the bare eye.
Two heads are better than one, especially when they're bobbing out of a mad dual cape designed especially for compatible collegians. Like the cape-ably attired couple at the right, you and your date will probably discover that you've lost all track of time and score, lingered longer than other spectators in the stadium. And outside the stadium -- for après ski, sports-carring or just plain skylarking -- nothing touches the double-header for coziness and paired protection against the fall winds. Patterned after the traditional South American poncho, the double cape threatens to rival the loden and raccoon coats in popularity this fall, even beats the traditional blanket for passing the flask. It's all wool and warm, yet lightweight and comfortable. Available in red, black, beige or a red/gray plaid, the double-header comes in one size that fits all; $24.95. (If permanent propinquity is not your cup of grog, two single capes -- easily zipped together should the need arise -- are suggested; $14.95 each.)
"Remember when you put up that sign a few short months ago? I was just an office boy then, but it sparked my imagination. One good idea led to another, until -- but I'm keeping you, Mr. Anderson, and you're probably anxious to get to the unemployment office and file your claim for compensation ..."
Two Angels, HâroÛt and MâroÛt, looked down at the earth and spoke of mortals. "That Allah should have created beings so sinful!" they piously exclaimed. "He should visit a plague upon them. He should wipe them out!"
This Month in New York, rehearsals begin on a new musical based on Edna Ferber's Saratoga Trunk, with songs by Johnny Mercer and Harold Arlen. The show's author, director and co-producer is a boyish 44-year-old named Morton Da Costa. The hits he's directed (The Music Man, No Time for Sergeants, Auntie Mame) have been big, fast dazzlers, unabashedly loud and colorful; yet Da Costa is cool and collected, and his recipes for theatrical success are low-pressure-cooked. Lest anyone confuse leniency with flaccidity, he vows: "I'd rather direct a grammar school Halloween play my way than Hamlet with restrictions." He took his first fling at filmsville last year, directing the celluloid version of Mame, only because it was served up to him à la carte blanche. Television? "Never!" Then he qualifies: "Or at least not so long as soap-makers double as script editors." Saratoga (the first show he's written) is scheduled to open in December; as soon as it's on the boards, Da Costa, who has restricted himself almost entirely to comedy, hopes to plunge into serious drama. "But it will have a special, upbeat point of view. There is nothing constructive in picking out the sordid and depraved side of life and wallowing in it. It takes greater strength to conquer pessimism than to surrender to it."
If you attended last year's Compton Invitational in California, you saw an 18-year-old dental student heave the hefty 16-pound shot over 61 feet. It was impressive, but not to the future dentist, Dallas Crutcher Long III, who said, "I was just warming up." He wasn't joking. Since that time, the bulky Arizonian (6″ 4′, 255 lbs.) has unofficially shattered the world record on more than three occasions, and his fantastic "best" of 64-6 (set in an Arizona school meet) is a full 16 inches beyond Parry O'Brien's world mark of 63-2. Long credits North Phoenix High track coach Vernon Wolfe for his initial success: "Vern supervised barbell workouts and helped me master O'Brien's 180°; body-spin delivery." In his senior year, Long deserted football (as all-state tackle) to concentrate exclusively on "the iron." Coach Wolfe says, "Dallas had to decide whether he wanted to be a good shot-putter or a great one." Long held the Arizona shot-put record -- and once achieved 66-7-1/2 with a 12-pound shot -- before heading for the University of Southern California. Now maintaining a B average as a Sigma Phi Epsilon pledge at USC, he admits he's going for the "impossible" 70-foot mark, then adds with a grin, "but I also go for Kim Novak, cool jazz and steaks."
You may never have heard the voice of the man who is quite possibly the best singer of romantic ballads in the business: David Allen. He's had a scant three LPs released (A Sure Thing, Let's Face the Music and Dance, I Only Have Eyes for You), done only a couple of network TV shows, is just beginning to make the national nightclub rounds. Who says he's so good? The hippest segment of the world of jazz, the musicians themselves. Last fall, when Playboy inaugurated the Musicians' Poll as part of the All-Star Jazz balloting, Allen very nearly beat out Sinatra for the All-Stars' All-Star award in the category of Male Vocalist. Actually, this is Allen's second singing career. He sang with Jack Tea-garden in the early 40s and with the fine Boyd Raeburn band just after the war. Then he got caught in the trap that has gripped many another jazzman, drugs. Finally, to support his habit, he forged some checks and went to prison. There he shook his addiction and, he feels, matured. But he must still contend with the lack of personal confidence that drove him to drugs in the first place, plus a volatile temperament: when a Variety reviewer recently panned him, Allen stalked into the critic's office and literally spat in his eye. Now that he's on his way again, how far David Allen's second career will go depends on how thoroughly he can shake the demon insecurity as he has already shaken the habit. One thing is certain: all that suffering has given his singing a depth and warmth he could never have achieved by mere technique or fancy phrasing.
"... and we decided that what would really up circulation is an inside, on-the-spot account of a woman's life in a sultan's harem. Something with plenty of photographs, human interest and sex entitled 'I Lived in a Harem!' Now here's where you come in, Miss Glickman ... "
Tzaneen, anyone? Bulwayo, Kiubo or Usumbura? They're all way stations for a 100-day auto tour of the dark continent that gets on the road at Capetown and wends northward, to Nairobi. November is a dandy time of year to make the jaunt. It's probably the most complete African tour that has ever been offered, and will give you a chance to glim spots like Mount Kilimanjaro, an Opaki-capturing station (Opakis are rare African mammals closely related to the giraffe), Basutoland and Murchison Park, among many, many others.