The Evening-Gloved caller at our rabbit-escutcheoned portal on this month's cover has but to knock and it shall be opened to her. Both she and you are invited to explore the great indoors of the posh new Playboy Town House, our modishly swinging manse for the male of independent ways and means. Blending the convenience of the metropolitan milieu with the expansiveness of an exurban retreat, this opulent four-story abode affords its owner all the appurtenances of modern living in an atmosphere of unhurried serenity and traditionally accented contemporary decor. Join us on our nine-page housewarming tour from carport to sun deck -- rendered with elegance by architectural illustrator Humen Tan from the original designs of Chicago architect R. Donald Jaye, who has previously blueprinted both the Playboy Office Building and The Kitchenless Kitchen (Playboy, October 1959). Then turn to the climactic conclusion of The Wonderful Clouds, a condensation of the new novel by Françoise Sagan, France's consummate chronicler of ennui and eroticism among the international set, as she resolves the subtle torment of a young couple seeking self-knowledge and a rediscovered union. Ken W. Purdy tops our short-story lineup with For the Rich They Sing -- Sometimes, a hauntingly ironic tale of love at second sight. J. Paul Getty, our Consulting Editor on Business and Finance, reveals What Makes an Executive? with a sapient delineation of the criteria by which an aspiring captain of industry may gauge his chances for advancement. And Ben Hecht continues his Playboy memoirs of an early career as a Chicago reporter with Queen Dido, the vividly etched portrait of a dream-driven night-club singer whose vision of fulfillment turns to dark despair beneath a hangman's noose. Debuting in this issue: Fortune regular Spencer Klaw with an eye-opening exposition of The Master Swindlers, a hall of ill-famed bunko artists in the hundred-grand manner; science-fictionaut William Sambrot with Control Somnambule, a suspenseful spaceflight-of-fancy revolving around interplanetary abduction and detection; and novelist Harry Mark Petrakis with The Miracle, a touching evocation of empathy between a death-wishing priest and a dying reprobate. Manifesting his accustomed sicker-than-thou attitude, Playboy cartoonist Howard Shoemaker proves we've nursed a viper to our breast with a snakepit full of facetious serpents. With The Bonapartes Are Phffft! join satirist Larry Siegel on a tongue-in-cheek tour through history as reported by a gaggle of gossip columnists. Thrill to The Villain Still Pursues Her, our latest chapter in the saga of Hartog Shirts' girl-garnished ad campaign, as a bevy of distressed damsels plug the product en déshabillé. Climb aboard for Fashion Director Robert L. Green's Ship to Shore logging of maritimely cruisewear, trimly limned by Ben Denison. Then lamp a Valentine Revisited by popular mandate: champagne-tressed Cynthia Maddox, the fetching February cover girl who adorns our Chicago offices as receptionist-secretary. And finally survey the shipshape rigging of Marya Carter, who gives the sun season a splashy send-off as our water-spritely Miss May.
Playboy, May, 1962, Vol. 9, No. 5, Published Monthly by HMH Publishing Company, Inc., Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio St., Chicago 11, Illinois. 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 Foreign postage. Allow 30 days for New Subscriptions and Renewals. Change of Address: Send both old and New Addresses to Playboy, 232 E. Ohio St., Chicago 11, Illinois. And allow 30 days for Change: Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director. Jules Kase, Eastern Advertising Manager, 720 Fifth Ave., New York 19, New York, CI 5-2620; Branch Offices: Chicago, Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio St., MI 2-1000, Joe Fall, Midwestern Advertising Manager; Los Angeles, 8721 Beverly Blvd., OL 2-8790, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager; San Francisco, 111 Sutter St., YU 2-7994, Robert E. Stephens, Manager; Detroit, 705 Stephenson Building, 6560 Cass Ave., TR 5-7250: Southeastern, Florida and Caribbean Representative. Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N.E., Atlanta 5, GA., 233-6729.
With its motley assortment of gallons, inches, rods, drams, pecks and gills, America's system of weights and measures is so complex that few of us can claim to fathom it fully. We found ourself reflecting recently on the tortuous mental gymnastics to which its intricate illogic must subject our European friends -- accustomed to the pristine simplicity of the metric system -- in their efforts to master the subtleties of a language steeped in everyday references to nonmetric measurements. The following essay is offered to our Continental readers as an aid not only in maturing their judgment of our way of life but in comprehending the metric meaning of our statistically sprinkled lingo. Many Americans wear Texan 37.853-liter hats, don 33.81-kilometer boots, put their best .305 meter forward, then walk 1.6093 kilometers for a Camel. Others wouldn't touch one with a 3.048-meter pole, however, believing that 28.35 grams of prevention are worth 453.59 grams of cure. Catching their offspring smoking, permissive parents spare the 5.029 meters and spoil the child -- turning him into a veritable 8.809 liters' Bad Boy with a predilection for girls measuring a perfect 91.44-55.88-91.44 centimeters and an insatiable appetite for such suggestive literature as God's Little 4047 of a Hectare. Give them 2.54 centimeters, we always say, and they'll take 160,934.4 centimeters.
A new Billie Holiday tribute, perhaps the best of the lot -- Lover Man (Columbia) -- features Carmen McRae giving Lady Day her full due. Her backing is first-rate, with Mundell Lowe, Nat Adderley and Eddie Davis contributing sparkling support. Carmen, who has attained top-rank status as a jazz vocalist, is superb as she gets to the core of Miss Brown to You, Trav'lin' Light, the title tune, and other Billie-based ballads. Anita O'Day, whose Billie Holiday reprise was reviewed in January 1962, has an equally fine follow-up: All the Sad Young Men (Verve) is twice-blessed by the presence of the Gary McFarland Orchestra. McFarland's fresh and fanciful charts -- a major asset to the outing -- encompass several McFarland originals and an assortment of hip hoedowns ranging from Horace Silver's Señor Blues to a ballad-tempoed You Came a Long Way from St. Louis. Julie London, whose voice is a blatant invitation to unexpurgated flights of fancy, continues to project the image on Sophisticated Lady (Liberty). In addition to the title tune. Julie drifts dulcetly through You're Blasé, Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most, and When the World Was Young, among others. Carol Lawrence, a multitalented young lady, exhibits on This Heart of Mine (Choreo), a newly polished vocal facet, having made the transition from the more declamatory requisites of the stage to the intimate approach of the recording studio in splendid fashion. The tunes tendered are, with few exceptions, standards uncursed by overexposure. They include two lovely Wolf-Landesman efforts, Tell Me Lies and The Year Turns 'Round.
"This book is for Ricky Nelson, Gary Crosby and Jack Kennedy -- three kids who really made it on their own." So reads the dedication to The Happy Sadist (Doubleday, $3.50), the alleged autobiography of one Boswell Spavins, written by one Robert Newton Peck, a below-peak Max Shulman. The humor is as broad as the backside of Ecstacy Proneville, Boswell's first love: "From the rear, her tight skirt gave the illusion of two melons fighting in a burlap bag." Boswell, dressed in a suit of armor, takes Ecstacy to a costume ball and woos her with quotes from Ivanhoe, only to lose, at the crucial moment, the wrench he needs to unbolt himself: "If it was mislaid," he tells us, "then so was I." He embarks on a career as Assistant Mail Boy at the ad agency of Pearl & Swine, where he soon advances to Junior Account Executive on Leaky Septic Tank. Newly affluent, he rents a Rolls-Royce and goes home to impress the folks back in Weedville. After a hot session in the front seat of the car with Cashmere Holstein, they "lay back, panting, until finally we were still. The only noise that could be heard was a ticking on the dashboard. 'The Rolls-Royce people really ought to do something about that damn clock,' Cashmere said." And so it goes, with more sophomorism than subtlety (Boswell becomes editor of The Saturday Post-Nasal Drip) about the Mad Ave scene. There's a lot of wild swinging here and few home runs, but now and then Peck connects -- for a solid double-entendre play, anyway.
The fact that Art Carney is a good acting bet across the board is happily demonstrated in Take Her, She's Mine. It's a life-with-fatherish little comedy about a California businessman who ships his doted-on daughter off to a New England college, only to suffer Freudian fantasies of her succumbing to wolf calls from the hungry Harvard, Yale and Dartmouth packs in the surrounding woods. That Father's worst fears have some basis in biology is speedily revealed as director George Abbott shuttles the action between home and Hawthorne College for Women. There the intellectual freshman is neglecting her studies to fend off callow collegians on the make and taking up various causes, including an overripe professor of poetry. Mother (Phyllis Thaxter) knows best (don't they always in plays of this sort?), suggests just the right therapy, which is lucky for the audience, because it gets Carney to practicing his rumba with a chair balanced on his head, and daubing paint on canvas à la Mondrian, with the kitchen linoleum as his inspiration. Authors Phoebe and Henry Ephron have kept the dialog perky and the action plausible. As Daughter, Elizabeth Ashley manages to be unaffectedly lovely even when she comes home for Christmas got up as a femme fatale who would send Marlene Dietrich to the showers. Nonetheless, Take Her, She's Mine would long since have been taken away without artful Carney as anchor man. At the Biltmore, 261 West 47th Street.
Low-budget independent production gets a big boost from The Intruder, Charles Beaumont's story of a racist on the rise who comes into a Southern town and tries to tag onto the school-integration issue. It was shot on location with an accuracy of detail and facial type that is downright scary. (The crew and cast nearly got beaten up at one point for arousing Southern discomfort.) Despite a touch of pastness in the windup, this agonizing tale of race hatred and exploited ignorance is a courageous work which reminds us that, in our own country, today, a man can get his skull cracked open for obeying the law. The ugly epithets in the dialog have aroused some objections; it may be too bad that such language is used in life, but its use here is essential. William Shatner does his best acting job to date as the Kaspertype menace. Photogenic author Beaumont, a long-time Playboy favorite, puts in an appearance as a gentle high school principal. Roger Gorman's direction is well integrated, and Herman Stein has supplied a taut, topnotch score.
My girl and I are having fairly frequent flare-ups about dating others. I agree with her completely that if I do, she should be allowed to also. I agree with her intellectually, but not emotionally. My feelings are, bluntly, that I don't like it a bit. She says this is unfair and I say, "How right you are. I'm selfish and illogical. But I don't feel guilty when I'm dating other girls and I do feel unhappy when you're out with other guys, and you've told me you want me to be totally honest in our relationship." Et cetera. Then she cries or rants and I clam up and the evening is ruined. Last time it happened, I got mad enough to say, calmly and controlledly (or, as she puts it, coldly) that she could take it or leave it, we weren't married and had no obligations to keep seeing each other. My point was -- and is -- if I can't have the relationship on my terms, I'd rather do without it, though I'd far prefer to sustain it. Her point was -- and is -- that any third party would see things her way. As a third party, do you think she is right? -- A. B., New York, New York.
In the preceding installment of Mlle. Sagan's new novel, Alan, a neurotic young American of inherited wealth, and Josée, his equally neurotic French wife, were seen in the act of tormenting each other -- Alan by his unremitting, compulsively jealous probing of Josée's bohemian past; Josée by her relentless reaction of infidelity and small, intimate cruelties. Driven by desperation, Josée, hotly pursued by Alan, fled back to France. Now, as the novel's conclusion opens, Alan has persuaded her to see him; their sexual struggle resumes.
Someone said of one of the great merchant barons, many times a millionaire before he was 30, "He had the cunning of the very rich, who are hunted all their lives," and so had Miles Flynn. Miles had native cunning (not to be confused with intelligence) and the cunning aforesaid (even less to be confused with intelligence) and in addition he'd been conditioned: he was married, the first time, five days after his 18th birthday. One Charles Courtney Batt, chief of the legal hierarchy that managed the Flynn estate, had had the marriage annulled, which was easy, but first miles had to be convinced, and that was hard. He was stubborn. Even after they'd shown him the girl's record he wanted to keep her. The marriage lasted five months and 16 days. His second wife was Terra Louise Traut. She was pedigreed, beautiful, certified by the best American and Swiss schools, loved by one and all. Miles was 23 when he and Terra were married and 19 months older when she divorced him. Terra hadn't been able to stand the sight of him, ever, an aberration which rather distinctly set her apart from the herd. She had been in there for the sole purpose of looting the vaults and that she did very well: the settlement for her, and the baby, had been over half a million in cash, and the alimony agreement stipulated no cutoff in case of remarriage -- it went on forever. Her lawyers felt that she was a brave girl and deserved all of it. To get the pictures of Miles knocking her down, for example, she had had to make him fighting drunk -- he was not a big drinker -- and bring him to the climax of weeks of goading. He might very well have hurt her, or even have killed her. As it was, he loosened two lower teeth when he hit her, but that was an advantage; her dentist was her most effective witness.
Some of our Readers, we are informed, have been circulating the story that Playboy's Chicago offices are garnished with girls at least as ravishing as those who populate our pages. We propose to quash this rumor here and now with a categorical affirmation. As proof positive, behold 21-year-old Cynthia Maddox, the voluptuous valentine who figured prominently on our February cover. During her three years as a Playboy receptionist-secretary, this beauteous blonde has also modeled for Playboy Products, journeyed widely as a good-will emissary, conducted Playboy visitors on spectacularly scenic (38-22-36) office tours. Despite vocational versatility, she nurtures no wanderlust, has emerald eyes instead for strolling her city's lakefront -- as admirable an adornment for its skyline as for our fortunate staff.
The most Beautiful Female I knew in my youth was a Negro girl named Dido De Long; the most beautiful and the most loving. I never witnessed nor read of a devotion more unremitting than Dido had for her man. He called himself Prince Ephraim. But he was hanged in Chicago's Cook County jail as Howard Givin, a Negro dentist who had murdered two mounted policemen. Dido's love survived the breaking of her Prince's neck. For how long, I don't know. But my guess is forever.
Thawed for today: A cold mine of freezer gourmandise it wasn't too many years ago that a man had to pay an exorbitant price to whip up a beef stew or chicken cacciatore. Not in dollars and cents, mind you, but in a far more precious commodity: time. Whether the time put in was debited as toil or credited as fun, it was still measured in hours, not minutes. For the busy bachelor, the man-hours consumed in concocting a bouillabaisse, for instance, put its gourmandial delights beyond his reach. Long before the actual cooking began, there just weren't enough hours in the day to forage for the dozen or so different kinds of fish and seafood destined for the pot. And it's precisely in this domain of fine eating -- among the rich, classic peasant casseroles as well as the intricate hors d'oeuvres and opulent desserts -- that the latest frozen luxuries offer such an effortless modus operandi for the male host today. The supposed inferiority of things frozen has been pronounced so often and for so long that many otherwise hip hosts still cling to some ice-age misconceptions about freezer-fostered haute cuisine. Everybody remembers when thick shell steaks, prime filets mignons, squabs, pheasant and calves' sweetbreads were the hot monopolies of a few exclusive bistros and supper clubs. Now with no more expenditure of time and energy than it takes to slip into a gourmet shop and reach into its frozen vaults, cosmopolite cliff dwellers have at their fingertips the whole field of epicurean eating. The almost endless ice floe, both raw and cooked, starts with frozen hors d'oeuvres and builds up through potages, seafood, meat, game, legumes, soufflés, garlic bread, croissants and even crepes suzette. Although gourmets for some time have been writing their own ticket for the best prime beef east or west of the Chicago stockyards by simply sending a postcard to any of a long list of frozen gourmet meat centers, it is equally true that until recently few frozen provisions stood on a plane of social equality with their fresh counterparts. It was an undeserved status in many instances, because some of the frozen provender always outranked the fresh. Patty shells, baked from frozen dough, have invariably taken the honors away from patty shells baked from the same dough while fresh. From the standpoint of tenderness, frozen beef has always been several cuts above the fresh, unless the latter is aged six weeks -- a prerequisite that puts most beef out of the running. In other cases, the frozen-versus-fresh debate has been purely academic, because the fresh versions simply aren't around at any price. For years the entire Long Island duckling crop has been frozen. Rock Cornish game hens (the original birds bred in Connecticut -- not the numerous impostors now on the market) have always been processed frozen. And, incidentally, where are tons of Rock Cornish game hens shipped to every year? To the Continent, where gastronomes rail against the deviltries of the deep freeze on the one hand, and consume the succulent birds from America by the tens of thousands, on the other.
Walter Winchell ... The Bonapartes are phffft! His latest is Austrian looker Marie Louise, an Archducky (dot's nize) ... Lover-boy ivory-tickler Frank Liszt and the Comtesse d'Agoult, an eye-filling hunk of Swiss cheesecake, are closerthanthis ... Don't invite Aaron Burr and Al Hamilton to the same shindig ... White House insiders are tsk-tsking the carryings-on of Dollicious Madison, the Prez' frau.
A top a pedestal in a small Parisian park stands the statue of a chubby cherub which may yet become a shrine for the downbeat generation of mid-century France. Its unlikely model, posing for his sculptor father at the age of two, was yam-nosed, satchel-mouthed Jean-Paul Belmondo, today a 29-year-old ex-pug ugly who has become, with his ferally masculine portrayal of the icy killer in Breathless, the overnight antihero of the nouvelle vague in Gallic moviemaking, and the unwilling demigod of an aborning cult: le belmondisme. Dubbled variously as the French Bogart, the skinny Brando and the second Gerard Philipe for his explosive mixture of cynicism and sensuality, Belmondo distresses his disciples by neglecting to embody his iconoclastic public image: he lives a quietly civilized life off screen as the happily married father of two. But the handsomely homely actor hopes to confound his Breathless followers further with an oncoming flood of vastly varied roles. Among them: an alcoholic writer, a visionary peasant, an ill-fated factory worker, a comic nobleman and an amorous priest. Withal, he confides, "I want to do Shakespeare, the big roles. But first I'd like to do a movie in the States ... a Western."
In Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, Britain's lavishly praised man-bites-dogma story of a young rake's progress at sabotaging is society's large-bore canons, the protagonist is played with elemental eloquence by Albert Finney, the brass-bold, porridge-plain son of a Lancashire bookie. Improbably enough, Saturday's hero has also been acclaimed as the finest new Shakespearean actor since the debut of Sir Laurence Olivier. A versatile veteran of two seasons with the prestigious repertory theater at Stratford-on-Avon, 25-year-old Finney is a man of many parts indeed: master of a Methodically naturalistic acting style and a range of dicition from Cockney to King's English. Unequivocal on the subject of success, he relishes the bread but not the baloney of matinee idolatry, shuns night life, owns little more than the wardrobe on his back. A rebel with but one cause, the solitary actor is committed to his craft with missionary zeal, will soon doff the sackcloth of Martin Luther (in John Osborne's latest London play) for the velvet of Tom Jones, a color filming of Fielding's ribald classic. Then back to the Bard for another season on the boards. "When I'm old," he says, "I want to be sorry for what I've done, not for what I haven't done."
Long before his kook's tour of La Dolce Vita's wilted garden of Hedon earned him the symbolic status of a male MM (a capital distinction previously reserved for Marilyn Monroe), the sweet smell of sexcess had begun to pall on Italy's Marcello Mastroianni. Vita, as the onetime Roman roustabout and Shakespearean player is quick to point out, was his 45th flick in 10 years of self-admitted service as a passive, world-weary seducer. Despite such prima-facie evidence as his finely dissipated good looks and can't-miss bedside manner, Mastroianni firmly insists that this stereotyping is undeserved. He is a stranger to the Via Veneto, Rome's sexual supermarket, has been married for the past 12 of his 36 years and, while making A Very Private Affair with Brigitte Bardot, refused to oblige Rome's wolf-pack press with a public sequel. Intelligent but not intellectual, Mastroianni relies heavily on his directors for characterization -- a shrewd dependence that will soon lead him once again down the primrose path to box-office heaven as star of The Labyrinth, Federico Fellini's extension of La Dolce Vita. But the role that pleases Marcello most is that of a sweaty, mustachioed Sicilian in Pietro Germi's forthcoming brute farce, Divorce, Italian Style. "The public certainly doesn't think of me that way," says celluloid's sated stud, "and that is what makes it interesting."
He Was Weary of Tears and Laughter. He felt perhaps he had been a priest too long. His despair had grown until it seemed, suddenly, bewilderingly, he was an entity, separate and alone. His days had become a burden. The weddings and baptisms which once provided him with pleasure had become a diversion, one of the myriad knots upon the rope of his faith. A rope he was unable to unravel because for too long he had told himself that in God rested the final and reconciling truth of the mystery that was human life. In the middle of the night the ring of the doorbell roused him from restless sleep. His housekeeper, old Mrs. Calchas, answered. Word was carried by a son or a daughter or a friend that an old man or an old woman was dying and the priest was needed for the last communion. He dressed wearily and took his bag and his book, a conductor on the train of death who no longer esteemed himself as a puncher of tickets. He spent much time pondering what might have gone wrong. He thought it must be that he had been a priest too long. Words of solace and consolation spoken too often became tea bags returned to the pot too many times. Yet he still believed that love, all forms of love, represented the only real union with other human beings. Only in this way, in loving and being loved, could the enigmas be transcended and suffering be made bearable. When he entered the priesthood 40 years before, he drew upon the springs of love he had known. The warmth of his mother who embodied for him the home from which he came, bountiful nature and the earth. The stature of his father as the one who taught him, who showed him the road to the world. Even the fragmented recollection of the sensual love of a girl he had known as a boy helped to strengthen the bonds of his resolve. He would never have accepted his ordainment if he did not feel that loving God and God's love for all mankind could not be separated. If he could not explain all the manifestations of this love, he could at least render its testaments in compassionate clarity. But with increasing anguish his image seemed to have become disembodied from the source. He felt himself suddenly of little value to those who suffered. Because he knew this meant he was failing God in some (continued on page 111)
If our Judgment runs true to form, the most disconcerting hazard to navigation on the California coast this spring will prove to be willowy Marya Carter, a lass who is both a budding actress and our mermaiding Miss May. Like many another angelic Angelino, this bouncy beachnik goes near the water as often as she can for a liquid diet of scuba diving, water skiing and attendant surfside rompings. Endowed with flowing brown tresses and an eminently suitable fuselage (37-23-36), she has high hopes of eventually making a big splash in showbiz, preferably in dramatic roles. While awaiting the tide in her affairs that will lead on to starry heights, our 20-year-old Playmate works hard at thesping studies, relaxes with the many boat-swains who find her a shipshape date to remember (though quick to put the damper on overly opinionated guys who talk at length, she gets along swimmingly with more considerate types). For an exclusive showing of our featured aquatic attraction we invite you to join us in welcoming marvelous Marya.
From Balboa to bar harbor, some 39,000,000 pleasure craftsmen will be cruising the country's waterways this summer. Bedecked in the trim new lines of boating attire, this record show of hands will be functionally garbed for high-sea wear and suavely suited for the social whirl ashore. These two wardrobes share a versatility tailor-made for the limited storage space available on even the stateroomiest yacht. What's more, neither wind nor rain nor chill of night will stay these styles from their appointed rounds; cut with clean-limbed simplicity in shades both offbeat and upbeat, most are compounded of featherlight cottons and squall-proofed wash-and-wear synthetics that ignore inclemency, warm weightlessly, resist wrinkles and keep their crease in models equally appropriate for cockpit libations or on-deck action.
Since the start of the 20th Century, Americans have been preyed on by more swindlers, and have supported them in better style, than any people in history. Billions of dollars have been stolen, in varied and ingenious ways, by men skilled at inducing in their victims what Samuel Taylor Coleridge called the willing suspension of disbelief. (Coleridge was describing the effects of poetry, but the phrase applies equally to the swindler's art.) Investors have been persuaded to put money into enterprises that turned out to be wholly imaginary. Real corporations have been taken over by swindlers and stripped of their assets while the stockholders were looking the other way. Thousands of bankers and businessmen have been trimmed, sometimes without even realizing it, in bogus brokerage offices operated by confidence men and known in the trade as "stores." Worthless and near-worthless securities have been sold to the public, in unprecedented volume and with an efficiency unknown to stock-jobbers of earlier times, through retail outlets called boiler rooms, where securities are hawked by batteries of telephone salesmen known as loaders or dynamiters.
The discerning city-dweller of individual ways and comfortable means is turning more and more to the superb outlets for decorative and architectural self-expression inherent in the town house. He is beguiled by its intrinsic advantages of privacy and spaciousness coupled with a metropolitan location just a shift of the gears away from myriad urban attractions. Recognizing this, playboy has taken a city lot in a typical brownstone neighborhood and transformed it from street to stern into a modishly swinging manor for the modern man. The requisites we set for architect-designer R. Donald Jaye in laying out the Playboy Town House were many; the limitations (except for those imposed by the necessarily constricting 25-foot width of the normal city lot) were few. Our urban home was to offer the expansive, nonconfining elbowroom, legroom and luxurious living room usually identified with an exurban retreat, and have the relatively carefree conveniences that an on-the-go bachelor could maintain with a minimum number of servants beating about the preserve.
The Oxford-Cambridge Race, a waterborne ceremonial rite, has been practiced yearly with few interruptions since 1829. When the fragile nine-man shells are set down on the Thames at Putney in the still-chill early English spring, and the iron-muscled young university men bend to their oars while the coxswains adjust their megaphones, the air is electric with the tension built up over months of tedious, rigorous practice. Old Blue alumni of both persuasions crowd the launches hovering behind the shells at the starting line (the less fortunate fringe the shores) to root their chosen shell home all the way down the winding, four-and-a-half-mile course. After the winning shell, its crew still adrenally erect, has swept across the line at Mortlake, and the losers, slumped over with exhaustion and frustration, have drifted by, the renowned British reserve turns into an old wives' table as near hysteria breaks loose among old grads and undergrads alike. Playboy artist LeRoy Neiman passed up an observation post midway at Chiswick ("One of the best vantage points ashore, because the crew that's in the lead this far along generally manages to stay there") for deckside sketching aboard a converted barge anchored in the Thames ("There's generally a genial host aboard who has laid in bountiful rations of Scotch, cocktails, tea and hors d'oeuvres to add fuel to the fire of victory or dilute the despair of defeat"). In less than 20 minutes, the long preparation and anticipation is climaxed (of the over-100 meetings of the two schools, only the 1877 race ended in a dead heat). But whatever the outcome, The Boat Race (an Englishman requires no further identification), though resolutely British, is riotously exciting.
There lived in Baghdad a powerful caliph with a daughter as fair as the dawn. He showered her with blessings and even allowed her to wander through the city and in the gardens beside the river. His only proviso was that on each excursion she travel with a different trusted servant, lest habitual propinquity lead to temptation. On this sole precaution he based his peace of mind.
Lovers of vintage melodrama should be as delighted as we to learn that the fine art of cliff-hanging is not yet dead: diabolical filmflammery is enjoying a lively revival in a monthly series of Hartog shirt ads now peppering the pages of the trade publication "Men's Wear." The real hero of these epidermal episodes is the Carson-Roberts ad agency, which is continuing its nine-year-old tradition of serving up a spicy admixture of pretty chicks keeping their shirts off for Hartog (a soft sell we first reported in our fourth--March 1954--issue). Playing the mustachioed heavy who seeks to wreak foul mayhem on his fair prey is agency copy supervisor Ken Sullet; the nifty serial numbers are shot by Hal Adams, who has also lensed a goodly number of our Playmates.
International Voyagers are well aware that the U.S. is not the only country to treat itself to national and local celebrations in July: the globe is liberally sprinkled with fêteful events that offer balm to the vacation-minded man. In view of which, we feel you'll be well advised to declare your own independence with an expatriate tour of these inviting worldly revels.