The Greeks had a word for it,agora; the Romans had a word for it. forum; our own discussion of contemporary issues, The Playboy Panel, is initiated in this issue and is slated to reappear in issues to come. The Playboy Panels will be lively discussions, by experts in their fields, on provocative topics of contemporary interest and concern. This month's Panel probes a subject clothed with highly charged emotion and very little public insight: Narcotics and the Jazz Musician. Participating are eight top musicians, a prominent jazz critic, an attorney who is Secretary of the Musician's Clinic, and a practicing psychologist who is Secretary to the National Advisory Council on Narcotics. We act as moderator and we think you'll find this forensic exploration as engrossing and enlightening as we did. Future Panels will deal with the new shape of American humor, and with sex, censorship and the arts.
Playboy, November, 1960, VOL. 7, NO. 11. Published monthly by HMH Publishing co., Inc., Playboy Building. 232 East OH1O street, Chicago 11, ILL. Subscriptions: in the U.S., ITS possessions, The pan American union and Canada. $14 for three years, $11 for two years, $6 for one year. Elsewhere ADD $3 per year for Foreing Postage. Allow 30 Days for new Subscriptions and Renewals. Change of Address; send both old and new addresses to Playboy, 232 East OH1O street, Chicago 11, ILL., and allow 30 days for change. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director, 720 Fifth Avenue, New York 19, N. Y., CI 5-2620: Advertising Production, Playboy Building. 232 East OH1O street. Chicago 11, ILL., MI 2-1000: Los Angeles Representative. Blanchard-Nichols Associates, 633 South Westmoreland Avenue, LOS Angeles 5, Calif., DU 8-6134; San Francisco Representative, Blanchard-Nichols Associates, Phillips and van orden Building, 900 Third street. San Francisco 7, Chlif., YU 6-6341; South. Eastern Representative, The Hal Winter Company, 7450 Ocean Terrace, Miami Beach, Florida, UN 5-2661.
Since the August issue's picture story about the first of what will soon be a national, and eventually international, chain of private Playboy Clubs, important new plans have materialized. The first club "closed" its doors for business (to be opened only by members who possess the Playboy Club Key) early this year in Chicago, just a few blocks from the publication itself; the second Playboy Club, it has now been established, will be in Miami, and its facilities should be available to members by the first of the year. The Miami Playboy Club will be located on beautiful Biscayne Boulevard, easily accessible from both the beach and city; the Miami club will have all the features now available to members in Chicago, plus swimming pool, cabanas and a dock to which boat-owning members can tie up. The third Playboy Club will be in New Orleans on famous Bourbon Street, in the French Quarter, and its facilities will be available to members early in the coming year; locations have also been chosen in both New York City and Los Angeles and clubs will be ready there in early 1961, too; sites are currently being sought in San Francisco and Washington. D.C., and franchise information has been requested by interested businessmen from all parts of the U.S., Canada and Mexico, plus Nassau, Jamaica, London, Paris, Cannes, Rome and Tokyo. Meanwhile, playboy's law firm has been kept busy pressing injunctions and suits for damages against the unauthorized use of the playboy name in conjunction with clubs and bars to protect both the publication and its club members. Additional news about the International Playboy Clubs will be printed here as it develops; for information about membership, write to International Playboy Clubs, Inc., 232 E. Ohio Street, Chicago 11, Illinois.
With the holidays season well-nigh upon us, we lift a cup of cheer to five new titles that have crossed our bar stool, all dedicated to the stimulating subject of booze. They come in assorted strengths, bodies, bouquets, but the most readable of the lot is probably Berton Rouche's The Neutral Spirit (Little, Brown, $3.50), wherein The New Yorker's medicine man ladles out the shrewdly distilled essence of what you need to know about drinks, drunks and drinking. He touches on most everything, from who invented the stuff (Stone Age man; couldn't wait to get stoned), to when, where, how and by whom it's been brewed, fermented, rectified and imbibed, and with what results. It's all done in 150 pages of high-proof prose and can be tossed off in a single sitting. Leon D. Adam's The Commonsense Book of Drinking (McKay, $3.95) undertakes much the same thing, but is on the beery side: longer, more casual, and with a frothy head of anecdotes. A demon researcher, Adams goes far afield to purvey little nuggests of lore: that "booze" comes from the Abyssinian brew"bouza," that the Chinese were the first distillers, that steam beer has no more to do with steam than rape wine with rape. But basically, he's set out to provide a "sober drinker's handbook," using what might be called the rule-it-yourself approach. He gives you the lowdown on all the main potables, and includes a variety of gimmicks like the Drinkometer chart, which tells you how many of what drinks you can knock over before you're falling-down drunk. Useful these are, but his formula for figuring your sobering-up time would require a slide-rule and a couple of Univacs to work out, not to mention the clear head which, ipso facto, you won't have. On the whole, though, he fulfills his promise, and this is one you many want to keep on your private bar, if only to settle arguments. More somber and minatory are To Know the Difference by Albert D. Ullman (St. Martin's, $4.75) and Tomorrow Will Be Sober by Lincoln Williams (Harper, $3). Alcoholism, not alcohol, is the burden of their message, and with some five million problemdrinkers extant, a heavy burden it is, Both writers shoulder it manfully, but sociologist Ullman is the more exhaustive, marshaling all the latest data and subjecting it to cold sober scrutiny. Much of what he says will be news to no one, but the sections on remembering your first drink, alcoholism and nationality, and the tragic trajectory of the alcoholic will fascinate you, be you oenophilist (a tippler) or oenophobist (a teetotaler). More urbane but no less urgent is Dr. Williams, a British M.D. who writes out of long practical experience in his own clinic. He tells the same sad story, with a British accent, but, like Ullman, he ends it on the upbeat, thanks largely to AA. Despite divergences, these four tomes on tippling reveal parallel approaches to the subject and use many of the same sources. But Social Drinking by Giorgio Lolli, M.D. (World, $4.50), taps a whole new keg. The title is a misnomer: this is no club-car companion. Out of wide reading, deep study and keen observation, Dr. Lolli has produced a comprehensive and definitive analysis of the gent who drinks for the fun of it. Most original of his notions is what he calls the "unitary pleasure" reaction, whereby alcohol supplies a "blended pleasure of body and mind"that can take you back to your mother's breast. If it does, watch out; this is a bottled-in-bondage blend that can lead straight to the DTs. But he also makes a strong case for the moderate use of alcohol to banish what he calls the "tabu on tenderness" which is the bane of our society. No bluenose, Dr. Lolli. Taken together these sagas of the sauce leave little unsaid and go a long way toward offsetting what has been called the illiterature of alcohol. So on your way to your friendly neighborhood package store, stop off and pick up one or more.
In Let's Make Love, Marilyn Monroe's a swinging-singing chick who's working in a satirical revue off-Broadway. Yves (it's pronounced "Eve," but he's all Adam) Montand is a billionaire who wants Marilyn. He moves in when the producers unknowingly hire him to portray himself, one of the targets for satire in the revue. From there on in it's a hip kind of Cinderellasville, a place you've visited before but never in such charming, amusing company. Some of the better moments en route: Marilyn doing a cuddlesome version of My Heart Belongs to Daddy; her rock-'n'-roll number, Specialization, with British singing star Frankie Vaughan, and the sequence in which Yves gets some tips on musical comedy from Bing Crosby, Gene Kelly and Milton Berle. Tony Randall, as Yves' harassed public relations man, is at his witty best. Although M. Montand doesn't get much chance to sing or dance along the way, this picture should guarantee that U.S. audiences will see a lot more of him and his specialties in the near future. Credit Jack Cole for the knockout musical numbers.
We caught the nifty new George Russell Sextet at the Five Spot in New York and dug the meaty, modern jazz that came tumbling out. Russell, known primarily as a contemporary composer, has surrounded himself with a young, vigorous crew of musicians from Indiana (most of them were in trombonist Dave Baker's big band at the University of Indiana). In addition to Baker, Russell's chargers include Dave Young, tenor; Al Kiger, trumpet; Ted Snyder, bass; and Joe Hunt, drums. Baker and Kiger studied under Russell at the School of Jazz in Lenox, Massachusetts, last year and sounded him out about forming the group. When George said OK, the students returned to Indiana last winter and recruited the rest of the personnel. Russell joined them in late spring and spent four hours a day, six days a week, in rehearsal – for a month before the debut. Russell does the charts for the group and plays curiously chordal, extremely personal piano. We were surprised to hear number after number with a tightly arranged head and tail, but with acres of freewheeling improvised solo work in the middle. His recent Decca LPs – New York, N.Y. and Jazz for the Space Age – had prepared us for music of a more orderly, but harmonically complex, nature. "I hope to get a lot more composed work into our book," Russell told us, "but when you have blowing talent like these kids you have to see what they'll come up with in their own way, and then you have to build the group around them. The Sextet will develop by itself." (It has recorded one LP for Decca and will cut another before the end of the year.) In trumpeter Kiger and tenor man Young, Russell has two of the brightest improvisors to storm the jazz heights in many a season. Kiger blows a melodic line with confidence and imagination. Young tears off his solos in a blunt-toned rolling style akin to that of John Coltrane. In all, it's a serious set of jazzmen capable of essaying fresh material, like Russell's Stratosphunk and Baker's Stone Nuts and Kentucky Oysters with stunning style and excitement, and also able to turn a jazz standard, like Woody'n You, inside out and back again with such dazzle and verve that even the Five Spot's hip waiters had to shake their heads to regain focus. Go listen.
Cafe Chauveron (139 East Fifty-third) in Manhattan has several distinctions which recommend it to the gourmet sophisticate – more, in our estimation, than quite a clutch of more famous establishments. The carte is superb and formidable in the variety of its offerings, but many menus are as impressive. The difference, here, is that the promise of the menu is not only fulfilled, it is surpassed by the food itself. Then there is the matter of decor; lately there's been an increase in restaurants whose interiors are refulgently grandiose. At Cafe Chauveron, the atmosphere is calculated to stimulate the diner, not distract him: in its elegant simplicity and opulent functionalism it reminds one of the best haute cuisine restaurants of Paris. Finally, the service is that ideal blending of attentiveness and reserve which makes one feel well waited on, not fawned over. The reason for all this is not far to seek: the founders of Chambord are behind the scenes, assuring that everything from the pate imported from Perigord to the Chateaubriand charcoaled to perfection, to the Peches Flambees au Cognac is – simply – the best that money can buy. Incidentally, take lots of the latter with you, and make advance reservations for lunch (12 to 4) or dinner (6 to 11:30). Limit the cocktails, we say, so you can better relish the best from a splendid wine cellar.
Cy Coleman and his trio, backed by a covey of well-behaved brass, can be heard at some length, and most pleasantly, in a brightly-burnished new album, playboy's penthouse (Everest). Coleman, to us, has always been the prototype of the better supper-club pianist – inventive, technically proficient, and possessed of the innate good taste that separates the note pickers from the note grabbers. The Playboy's Penthouse theme, penned and played by Coleman for our TV show, kicks off proceedings in a muted vein that is sustained throughout. Not that Coleman is averse to the upbeat; Kiss and Run, Lulu's Back in Town and Top Hat, White Tie and Tails move – but with a restraint that is almost a fet-ish with him. Top Hat, incidentally, features a scintillating contrapuntal melody handled by the brass – a refreshing approach to what has been, up till now, one of our most unfavorite ever-greens.
I'm an old hand at playing the field, and I generally know how to handle most situations, but here's a toughy that's new to me. At dinner the other night, a friend and his wife happened to come into the restaurant and, at my invitation, joined me and a new date for a drink. The girls got on so well that we had dinner together. After dinner, my friend and his wife asked us if we'd spend the weekend as their guests in the exurbs, and we accepted the impromptu invitation. My problem is this: I've been to this couple's weekend parties and practically all the guests were married. Those that weren't always had an arrangement, and it was taken for granted that they'd share a room. I don't know the girl I'm going with that well – yet – and I don't know whether to tip her off, consult my host, or just play it cool and see what happens. Any comments? – T. J., New York, New York.
The vast area known as the great plains of the United States is a belt about six hundred miles wide between the Mississippi River and the mountains of Wyoming and Colorado. An ocean of land, mostly flat, sometimes with waves of hills, it rises in swells to the west, a dozen feet to the mile, league after league of earth becoming gradually more arid, until it is a mile above the sea. And then suddenly, west of Denver, it gives up its gradual climb. The escarpments of the Rocky Mountains burst from the plain and leap into the air, tier upon tier as far as the eye can reach, to snow and glacier.
"If Hollywood is dead or dying as a moviemaker, perhaps the following are some of the reasons."
My first bosses in Hollywood (1925) were Jesse Lasky and B. P. Schulberg, heads of Paramount Studios. I wrote an opus for them called Underworld – the first gangster picture. Hector Turnbull produced it. George Bancroft, Clive Brook and Evelyn Brent starred in it. Messrs. Lasky, Schulberg, Turnbull, Bancroft, Brook and Miss Brent are dead.
A wee Christmas giftie can loom large indeed in the eyes of the begifted if it's as carefully chosen as those shown here. Smallest of its kind,the Sony transistor TV set has an 8" screen,works on batteries, 12-volt DC, or AC, $250. Clockwise from it: Globe Pocketphone, transistorized walkie-talkie has onemile range, $125 the pair.Essway collapsible silver-plated cups,leather case, $15. Iwan Ries walnut cigar humidor, $13; Walnut tobacco humidor, $6; Pipo pipes,from $5 to $18.Sonar transistorized depth indicator, $115. RCA auto-marine phonograph, $52. Alfred Dunhill antique-leather book bar, $85. Leica 35mm camera with Visoflex ll, reflex housing and 90mm f/2 Sum-micron lens, $531; extra lenses – 35mm f/2, $174, 50mm f/1.4, $198. XAM-l stereo speaker system gives remarkable sound for its small size, two woofers, two tweeters,in walnut, $127. Italian leather-covered hangers, $14 each. Gerber stainless steel steak knife set, walnut case, $38. Caltier 's calf belt,gold buckle, $135. lndividual espresso coffee pots, $10 set of four. Schmid lnternational espresso cups and saucers,$8 set of six.Salem barometer,polished brass, $30. Mohawk Midgetape Professional 500 transistorized tape recorder, $360 with microphone. Portuguese cordial, cocktail, dinner wine glasses, $8 set of 8. Tiffany's 15-jewel clock in clear plastic, $55. Shure Professional M232 tone arm, $30. Hamilton automatic and electric wrist watches, $375 with gold band, $150 with leather band.Cartier's Ultra-thin evening watch, $500. Silver and teak cuff links, $15. Cartier's gold cuff links, $130. Rubeck's leather cigaret box and table lighter, $35.
We First Met British Beauty June Wilkinson back in the summer of 1958, when she dropped by the Playboy Building in Chicago to say hello. We were so taken by her English accent and her staggering configuration (43-22-36) that we promptly called in our photographers to shoot the first picture story on the then-teenage temptress to appear in a U.S. publication (The Bosom, September 1958), in which we proclaimed her frontage "the first Bosom worthy of a capital B." Soon after her initial trip Stateside (she'd come over on a short-term visitor's permit), June returned to America and this time transported her magnificent measurements to Hollywood, where she discovered her fame had preceded her in the form of the Playboy photo feature. She promptly became the most photographed pinup girl in America, a featured actress in several films (including Thunder in the Sun and Macumba Love) and subject of a second pictorial survey by Playboy (The Bosom in Hollywood, August 1959). The Bosom thus busied herself with ever more movie, television and personal appearance assignments, but she didn't forget her friends in the Windy City and she stopped by to say hi again recently during a publicity tour through the Midwest for one of her latest flicks; then she took time out to repay Playboy for past favors by welcoming guests for a week at the newly launched Playboy Club and appearing on Playboy's Penthouse. June had a ball the entire time. And, as these photos suggest, so did we.
Largely speaking, there's nothing like an outsize gift to brighten Christmas giving. Largest of its kind, Sidney Rubeck's giant pepper mill stands a full 571/2 inches tall; the top half does the peppering job, the bottom half serves as a floor stand; made of Philippine mahogany, $75.
This season of the year, "when churchyards yawn and Hell itself breathes out contagion to this world," when the quick-of-eye can glimpse gaunt forms on broomsticks etched against the baleful yellow moon, we thought it appropriate to ask our master of the mirthful macabre, Gahan Wilson, to view the remains & – and lively remains they are & – of a kindred spirit, Edgar Allan Poe. The gloomy Mr. Poe & – renowned the world over as the author of The Tell-Tale Heart, The Murders in the Rue Morgue, The Cask of Amontillado, The Gold Bug, The Masque of the Red Death, The Pit and the Pendulum, A Descent into the Maelstrom, The Fall of the House of Usher, etc., and as the most unimpeachable authority, living or dead, on all things fiendish, living or dead & – proved gaily grisly grist for Gahan's mill, as you can see for yourself.
Pie need not be in the sky – that is, crusty creations warm and aromatic from the oven are not unattainable to the male host and need not involve him in that nightmare of rolling pins, aprons and flour-whitened hands one remembers from the dear old days in mom's kitchen. Hearty pies with flair, zest and a unique personal touch can be yours with an absolute minimum of effort; and let's say this right at the outset – few foods are more satisfying than good pie. It is not without reason that it's been glorifying man's table for more than six centuries, since the monarchs. merchants and maidens of medieval England first framed filling with crust. In those days, apples, blueberries and the like hadn't invaded the pie realm: in fact, pie wasn't the dessert staple it's become to contemporary chefs. It was a main dish. Fourteenth Century chefs baked their pies – huge affairs with just an upper crust – in rectangular shapes. All manner of flora and fauna were tucked into the "trap," the pie pan of its time, by cooks with unbridled imaginations. A typical recipe, circa 1394, lists pie ingredients including: pheasant, bear, capon, partridge, pigeon, rabbit, chopped liver, heart, sheep kidneys, eggs, pickled mushrooms, salt, spices and vinegar. In the Seventeenth Century, Charles I set some sort of a British standard by demanding a pie that blended frogs, eels, pepper, nutmeg, ginger, currants, gooseberries, grapes, raisins, pineapple, orange juice, sugar and butter – in three layers topped with pastry and iced with confectioners' frosting. Two hundred years later. The Good Huswife's fewell noted a more modest pie creation requiring boiled and strained quinces, vegetables, roots, yolks of eggs, sparrow brains, wine and spices. Never quite satisfied, the English urge for pie novelty led to the debut of the "surprise" pie. It was brought to the table with meticulous fanfare, opened ceremoniously and rarely forgotten. Out of the pie leaped live frogs. squirrels, terriers, foxes and, as we all know, four-and-twenty blackbirds. On at least one occasion, a dwarf – armed with sword and buckler – popped out to run the length of the banquet table, dueling an imaginary foe along the way. The serving of pie continued to be a gala affair for years, with pie-baking a basic part of every holiday celebration. All was serene in the dough domain until Oliver Cromwell came into power. In a puritan outburst, he banned the eating of pie as an obvious form of pleasure verging on idolatry. For sixteen years pies were bootlegged at best, until 1660 when the Restoration leaders lifted the ban. Eager to resume pie-producing festivities, the English devised a brand-new pie – baked in a round tin with all ingredients "minc'd." This was the pie that made its way to America aboard pioneer ships. The pastry and pie fillings were oldEnglish style, but early American cooks soon introduced key innovations. George Washington's cook, according to the President's (Continued on page 118)Pie (continued from page 69) testimony, turned out scrumptions apple pies. And Washington Irving spoke affectionately of recognizing his "old friend," mince pie, at the holiday board. The apple and mince varieties, as a matter of fact, were early American staples. It wasn't until the early Nineteenth Century that tart fruit pies made their debut. Pie fanciers discovered the joys of sour cherries, rhubarb, lemons and blackberries as fillings; the partiality for these pies became so great that when fresh fruit wasn't available, cooks invented the vinegar pie – stuffed with vinegar, molasses and spices – to replace them. Through the years, American bakers have made the fruit pie their private property. You can shop in the most expensive patisserie in the world and you won't find a serious challenge to this native gastronomical feat. In fact, any European who wants to learn the art of the American fruit pie must indenture himself to a native pie maker for two or three years before he can meet the high standards of American pie culture.
"Orgy of sex in print" were Words uttered not long ago by an elderly educator who was denouncing, of all things, current science-fiction. Avoiding, for the nonce, the question of what's wrong with an orgy of sex in print (other than its being a poor second-best for an orgy of sex in the flesh), this fragment of the educator's jeremiad must have caused considerable scratching of heads on the part of science-fiction addicts under thirty, or in the neighborhood of thirty, or in the Congressional District of thirty. Everyone knows that science-fiction today is about as prurient as a thesis on quantum mechanics. Just this year, Kingsley Amis, in his survey of science-fiction, New Maps of Hell, want on record as deploring the puritanical tone of the genre and honing for a few stories in which Topic A might raise its lovely head.
Joni mattis isn't the sort of voluptuous female we usually choose as Playmate of the Month. She has that young and fashionable look you'd expect to find between the covers of Seventeen or Glamour, which is understandable, since these are just the sort of magazines in which Joni makes her living as a model. But petite Miss Mattis (she's 5' 2" tall, weighs less than 100 pounds, and looks like a sixteen-year-old, though she's actually twenty-one) possesses one of the most provocatively perfect faces ever to pass through Playboy's portals, and a personality to match, so we simply couldn't resist this change-of-pace Playmate. Joni makes her home in Chicago, appears regularly on Playboy's Penthouse, and also works part time as a Bunny at the Playboy Club. We feel confident that readers will welcome Miss Mattis' little-girl freshness and charm as a small but wonderful Miss November.
On TV's The Untouchables, Eliot Ness and his fellow feds are attired each week in what was practically the civilian uniform of the big, bad Twenties – the three-piece wooly suit with matching vest. Feds and felons alike wouldn't be caught dead without a properly-buttoned vest, and it was indeed a sartorial hallmark of the era. Gathered here for a special Playboy shooting, Robert Stack and a couple of cronies model the new breed of vests: elegantly contemporary, eminently non-matching and damned good looking. Stack's own is a wool weskit by Hylo, $12. The shotgun-bearer sports a checked number by Carroll & Company, $25. The machine gunner's vest is a foulard by Moss Sportswear, $9.
Maybe You've Seen It on the late show: Betty Grable (remember her?) is a secretary from, say, Trenton, Ohio, enjoying one week's vacation south of the border. Before the first musical number is quite over (Carmen Miranda, in a hat made of bananas, avocados, a cheese blintz, hibiscus and parrot feathers, singing a lyric that seems to consist exclusively of the sound chee-chee-chee-chee), Betty is hopelessly enmeshed in an ambivalent relationship with a rich Latin gigolo played by Cesar Romero or possibly Don Ameche with gray stuff at his temples and an inappropriate George Givot accent. George Givot may be on hand, too, to provide comic relief, and José Iturbi is sure to pound out the Ritual Fire Dance on a lit-up piano, unless Xavier Cugat and Lina Romay happen to be operating that side of the street. By the final fade-out, Betty is in the arms of Romero/Ameche and the whole cast is singing, "If you're romantic, chum, pack up your duds and come to Acapulco ..."
A Bar Bet is a bet that you make with somebody at a bar. The purposes of a bar bet are: (1) to show what a clever and engaging chap you are; (2) to get the other fellow to pay for your drinks. Since jovial bonhomie and good fellowship are important ingredients of social drinking, you do not try to make a substantial killing with a bar bet. Of course, if you don't care about niceties of that sort, go ahead, get yourself punched in the nose after a nasty argument with a lush.
It used to be that European film makers had pretty much of a monopoly on cinematic nudity and sex. Their products – good, bad or indifferent – have long held the world-wide reputation for revealing far more of the female form than anything produced here. No more.
One day, Woman and the Devil were fighting tooth and nail. The Divinity, hearing this battle, said to his lieutenant, "I am acquainted with the natures of these two well enough to know that they will not quit until both of them are utterly destroyed. Go quickly and try to separate them."
The Top Ratings you've awarded our three previous Teevee Jeebies have inspired us to sponsor yet a fourth! The method to our madness has been, and still is, to tune down the sound on our set and tack on our own outrageous dialog to the vintage film fare that flits across the screen. The more ludicrously improbable the captions (and this batch takes the Emmy), the more fun for all – as you'll see in these samples from some typical late-night movies.
Do you prefer vin chaud to hot choco-late between runs on the ski slope, and chicks who speak something besides English around the ski lodge fire? Then what are you doing here? You should be in Europe this winter, at Klosters or Davos, Chamonix or St. Anton, or other Alpine snow-sport centers for the international smart set, or, when the world is too much with you, traveling the less-trammeled ski slopes of Spain.