Writing a terse résumé of his life, novelist James Jones once devoted only one thin line to his World War II career: "Aptd Cpl 13 May 42 red to Pvt 3 Dec 43; Aptd Sgt 1 Mar 44 red to Pvt 20 Mar 44." Now, nearly 20 years after he was wounded at Guadalcanal, he has gone back to the silent gap between From Here to Eternity (which ended with the bombing of Pearl Harbor) and Some Came Running (which picked up the khaki thread of the veteran's life immediately after V-J Day) to complete his sanguine saga of the soldier with The Thin Red Line, possibly the finest combat narrative since The Red Badge of Courage. Understandably, we share Jones' sense of completion and take pride in launching the first published portion of this important work. The full-length book version will be issued by Scribner's later this year. Lest you fear the windup of his warrior works will leave Jones without a theme, we are happy to report that he is now in Jamaica, working on another novel. His new project involves scuba diving (at which he is an expert), but just how and why, he says, must remain for the nonce a subject for speculation.
Playboy, August, 1962, Vol. 9, No. 8. 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 and $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, CL 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.
We watched with interest recently as a friend of ours ripped the blue sealing stamp off a pack of Salem cigarettes, looked intently at the little white space thereunder, then muttered something about too many Cs. When we asked what this ritual was all about, he explained that under each stamp the Salem people printed a code letter -- either a C, an A, an s or an H -- and that if you could find all four letters on four different packages (and thus spell Cash) you could send them in to the company and they would send you $25,000 in cash.
Three of America's brighter literary lights, who have recently illuminated Playboy's pages, are currently represented between hard covers. Contemporaries (Atlantic-Little, Brown, $7.50) brings together 70 of Alfred Kazin's essays on modern literature. Kazin is an acute guide to the greats, near-greats and downright frauds among this century's literati. Hardly a writer of note on today's scene, whether it be C. P. Snow or J. D. Salinger, N. Mailer or N. Algren, escapes his cogent comment. A few of these pieces, most of which appeared originally as book reviews, seem rather slight now, but the longer sections -- such as those on Freud and Faulkner -- are demonstrations of an intelligence of a high order at serious work. The lights that Leslie A. Fiedler strings in his collection of eight short stories, Pull Down Vanity (Lippincott, $3.95), are mostly off color. The atmosphere of Fiedler's imagination is one of brooding brutality and loveless loving. The best-known story of the batch, Nude Croquet (which, the author tells us, may soon be made into a low-budget movie), brings together a groping group of bored and angry "friends" for a dinner party that winds up as a boozy, bourgeois orgy, where souls as well as bodies -- none of them very pretty -- are bared in the course of "play." Fiedler has an intellectual's penchant for writing about other intellectuals, but his bizarre, uninhibited visions may leave you with some strange visions of your own. Ray Bradbury's first non-science-fiction novel, Something Wicked This Way Comes (Simon and Schuster, $4.50), starts off in a deceptively Penrod-and-Samish manner, as a lighthearted lark of two lighthearted 13-year-olds, Jim Night-shade and Will Halloway. But the shadows soon gather. One night a carnival arrives in their small town, with a macabre mirror maze and a murderous merry-go-round in tow, and the pair are plunged into a morality drama heavily tinged with horror. Bradbury's cast of creepy sideshow characters includes a demoniacal dwarf, a skin-tingling skeleton, a wizened witch and the hardhearted masters of the menagerie, Mr. Cooger and Mr. Dark. The latter, to the certain delight of all Bradbury fans, is the author's flesh-and-the-devil favorite. The Illustrated Man. These soul-snatching sorcerers match wits with Will's father, a well-read library janitor, who strives to save the boys from an evil, evil end.
Boccaccio '70 is an Italian film in several parts, featuring Anita Ekberg, Romy Schneider, Sophia Loren and their several parts. The first of the three stories, directed by Federico (Dolce Vila) Fellini, is a freewheeling fantasy about a professional prude who voices his objections to a big billboard on which Anita's anatomy outtops the Seven Hills of Rome. In a brilliantly baroque dream sequence, the giant Juno steps out of the poster and makes a bosom pal of her enemy. The second story, directed by Luchino (Rocco) Visconti, has to do with a rich young wife (Romy) whose husband likes callgirls, so instead of leaving him, she allows him to pay her. After this we come to Part Three -- directed by Vittorio de Sica, who needs no identity tag, and starring La Loren, who carries her own. She's a carnival girl who sells lottery tickets in each town she visits, the prize being a night in her caravan -- and the story is about a young buck who really upsets her wagon. De Sica will win no new prizes with this bagatelle, but Sophia is, as always, a Loren to herself. The color photography throughout is somewhat less than brilliant and all three scripts are surprisingly unsurprising, with Visconti viscous and De Sica just mildly diverting. But Fellini's Freudian fandango is cast, cut and conducted with scalp-thingling skill.
Countdown -- Time in Outer Space (Columbia) is the third LP in the Dave Brubeck Quartet's highly successful series of explorations into time signatures not normally associated with jazz. Drummer Joe Morello performs yeoman service (in keeping with the growing emphasis being placed on him within the group). Although the connecting link may be wearing a trifle thin after three gorounds, Brubeck & Co.'s time probes are still inventively rewarding.
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum is a soi-disant musical that is low on tunes, sets and a conventional chorus line, but high on lyrics (Stephen Sondheim's), gags, pratfalls, togas, tunics, eunuchs and houris on navel maneuvers. Authors Burt Shevelove and Larry Gelbart concede candidly that they copped their Roman rumpus from Plautus, a big-box-office playwright circa 200 B.C. They copped little else. There is no plot to speak of, which matters little since the laughs come too fast for logic. Zero Mostel, looking like a seal out of season, plays an antic slave who hopes to gain his freedom by arranging a marriage between his young master and a beautiful, if certifiably cretinous, Cretan. Zero fills half the stage, but he doesn't hog it -- it's a Forum of Four Comics. John Carradine, looking like Hamlet Revisited, parades the piazza as a purveyor of imported pulchritude; David Burns, a brashbound copy of W. C. Fields, is a grand fraud at lechery; and Jack Gilford, as a fall guy who is decked out in drag for a gag, somehow makes this creaky Charley's Aunt-ic seem freshly hilarious. Under George Abbott's manic direction, Rome's Senate behaves as though it were the brainchild of Mack Sennett. Funny things are happening on Broadway. At the Alvin, 250 West 52nd.
I know for a fact that my girl spent a pretty wild night with another guy she met at a party which I had to leave because I had to catch a midnight flight for a business conference in another city. I haven't asked her for the details and I don't want to know them. She is apologetic and reminds me that she offered to come to the airport with me and that I told her to stay at the party and enjoy herself, but she doesn't reproach me with this. She just says it is proof of her devotion and that she misbehaved on impulse. Maybe so -- but as I have pointed out to her, how can I be sure the same impulse won't overcome her again? She assures me it won't, but my doubts are aroused by a recollection of how I first got together with her, a fact I haven't taxed her with. -- H. V., Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Italians positively relish disagreeing about food. There are northern Italians in Piemonte and Lombardia, for instance, who cherish their daily risotto yet shun all of Italy's 300-odd kinds of pasta. All unite, however, in shouting a resounding bravo when it comes to salads. The reason is obvious. So wide and deep is their salad bowl, and so completely unbound by convention, that the possibilities are unlimited.
<p>In a modern version of <em>Aladdin</em>, performed by a mime to the high appreciation of a Greenwich Village coffeehouse audience, Aladdin spills oil from his lamp on the ground and a tall, green plant quickly grows. Aladdin pulls a leaf from the unusual plant, rolls it, lights it, takes a deep puff, and his face brightens with ecstasy. The audience breaks into laughter, for no one needs to be told the name of the magic plant. It is known by many different names to many different people - to scientists <em>cannabis sativa</em>, to Persians <em>beng</em>, to Russians <em>anascha</em>; it is <em>kif </em>to Algerians, <em>ma</em> to Chinese, and <em>churrus</em>, <em>ganja</em> and <em>bhang</em> to Indians. Among the more than 200 names that it travels under throughout the world it is known in America as pot, charge, tea, hemp, gauge, grass, weed, Mary-Jane and marijuana. It is ranked the second most popular intoxicant of the human race, following only alcohol. It is (depending on the preparation and, even more important, the person who takes it) euphoric, relaxing, inspiring, depressing, exciting, frightening, soothing -- and, in most countries, illegal.</p>
When Playboy presented a photographic forum on The Girls of Rome last February, readers responded with overwhelming enthusiasm. But among the vivas and bravas, one name rang loudest and clearest of all. The signorina bella who won the lion's share of applause was a lion-tressed starlet named Gesa Meiken. "Pleesa, more Gesa!" wrote one smitten reader. "Gesagain!" demanded another. Gist of the scores of other letters on Gesa: "Encore!" Happily yielding to all this Meikenmania, we returned to Rome and uncovered Gesa at the sprawling Cinecitta studios where she had not one but three parts in Federico Fellini's segment of Boccaccio '70. (Although German-born, she plays an Italian secretary, a French starlet and an American turista.) She also plays an Egyptian handmaiden in Cleopatra and has been signed for parts in Warner's Panic Button and in two Italian films. Only recently a Roman, 23-year-old Gesa stormed the Eternal City two years ago via the Sorbonne and Paris fashion circles. She counts down at 5 feet, 7 inches, and measures 95-60-92 (centimeters, of course). With tousled head on tousled bed, Gesa told us, "My ideal man? I love men and that's what worries me." Most of all, she confesses, she loves American men "with crazy-colored eyes." Next stop: "America, I hope."
Dee And Gerald (in matching robes and pajamas) perched side by side at the breakfast bar in their kitchen, sipping coffee from monogrammed mugs. An average-looking young couple, except for an unused air about them. They were childless. They were healthy and gay. This morning Dee, her sun-streaked hair in a wanton tangle, had given it a lick and a promise with the brush, then capriciously tied it back with a large droopy bow of wrapping twine.
In the two-plus years since the first Playboy Club bounded boldly onto the entertainment scene in Chicago, 24 of this magazine's prettiest Playmates have taken the bountiful Bunny trail to fun, travel and excitement as highly paid hostesses in our ever-lengthening chain of luxurious key clubs. With this issue we present a neat twist on the customary Playmate-to-Bunny progression: she's ingenuous Jan Roberts -- the first (but undoubtedly not the last) Playmate to be discovered among the hutch honeys already decorating club premises. Like hundreds of beauties from every part of the U.S. and several foreign countries, Brooklyn-born, Toledo-bred Jan stormed Chicago specifically in hopes of landing a job at the Playboy Club. Her credentials (executive girl Friday for the Juhl Advertising Agency of Elkhart, Indiana, and honor graduate of a two-year medical technology course in the same city) were impressive enough to earn her a Bunny berth. Although the lissome (39-23-35) arrangement of her 120 compact pounds on a five-foot-five frame tends to belie it, Miss August prefers mental exercise to physical; she thrives on chess and bridge bouts, reads omnivorously (mostly books on mathematics and theology), dabbles in graphology, and earnestly paints landscapes which bear, she believes, "an unfortunate resemblance to my favorite foods -- spaghetti and cheese blintzes." She can't abide a sloppy pad, views beatniks with suspicious brown eyes, loves shoot-'em-up war flicks, feminine frills and Louis XVI antiques. Affectionate by nature, she is apt to greet friends with warm hugs and double-cheek kisses. Jan regards her current welcome-to-the-club duties with honest satisfaction. "I'm interested in a show business career," she says. "As a Bunny, I'm already leading a show biz kind of life. It's a big step on the way up." For a fetching view of rising and shining Jan, consult the foldout where our breakfasting Bunny-Playmate is shown starting her day -- and brightening ours -- with an r.s.v.p. smile.
While down South on a visit, the young Yankee made a date with a local lovely. When he called for her at her home, she was clad in a low-cut, tight-fitting gown. He remarked, "That's certainly a beautiful dress."
Most of the Energy expended in the history of the world has been used to move things from one place to another. For thousands upon thousands of years, the rate of movement was very slow -- less than two or three miles an hour, the pace of a walking man. Even the domestication of the horse did not raise this figure appreciably, for though a racehorse can exceed 40 miles an hour for very short periods, the main use of the horse has always been as a show-moving beast of burden and a hauler of vehicles. The fastest of these -- the stagecoaches immortalized by Dickens -- seldom traveled at more than 10 miles an hour on the roads that existed before the 19th Century.
"For my part," wrote Robert Louis Stevenson, "I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move." Whatever their wont, idyl-worshiping Americans in growing numbers seem to feel the same stirrings of wanderlust for the open road as the place to spend their holidays -- sampling the pleasures of peregrination from beach to bosque, from mountain to metropolis. Thanks to accelerating advancements in automobile design and engineering, to the mushrooming of luxury motels from coast to coast, and to the proliferation of high-speed turnpikes which have brought the scenic side routes of eye-filling but hitherto inaccessible areas within easy reach, the road to summertime sojourns by car has never been so high, wide and handsome. Neither has the wardrobe of the travel-wise male motorist -- as evidenced by the sartorial tour (concluded on page 106) Geared for Touring (continued from page 73) de force of which amiably amateurish mementos adorn pages 72-73: a suitcaseful of freewheeling fashions selected for style, sturdiness and versatility. With the emergence of lightweight and wash-and-wear fabrics in everything from socks to hatbands, touring attire has become as lightly, brightly care free as the spirits of the wayfaring motorist. Available in an unprecedented variety of styles, this cleanly designed line of car wear enables the vacationer to rack up maximum mileage -- socially and scenically -- and to arrive fashionably fresh at rustic lodge and beach-front caravansary. For a one- or two-week expedition, a single three-suiter suitcase of rugged nylon (monogrammed or distinctively patterned for easy identification) should be large enough to meet all your sartorial needs on or off the road -- yet small enough, if your playmate is the roving kind, to leave room in the trunk for the luggage of a traveling companion.
Just last week I attended a session of the Manhattan District Chapter of the F.E.N.D. I am the first journalist, and indeed, the only outsider, ever allowed into a meeting of this fast-growing organization; and I can report that never have I felt more uplifted than by the F.E.N.D. program.
The Infinite Culinary distance that separates "Filet Mignon Augustus with a Rising Crown of Pâté and Triumphal Laurel Wreath" from "Hamburger on a Toasted Bun" has been bridged in impressive fashion by Jerome Brody, a 39-year-old ex-Ivy Leaguer now in the bistro big leagues as president of New York's Restaurant Associates, a comestible complex that last year grossed $20,000,000. At 25, Brody took over the helm of Riker's, a chain of eat-and-run lunchrooms controlled by his wife's family, wisely decided there were greener pastures in haute cuisine than in hash. Newark Airport's Newarker, R-A's first venture into better boites, stood in marked contrast to the company's ham-'n'-eggs bedrock. Restaurant Associates in the last five years has opened a cornucopic array of dining salons: the romantically Roman Forum of the Twelve Caesars; the super-elegant Four Seasons; its 24-hour-a-day Seagram Building mate, the Brasserie; the gustatorially good neighbored La Fonda del Sol in the Time-Life Building (which also houses R-A's posh Tower Suite restaurant); and has taken over what may be the world's top-volume restaurant, Leone's, and the Central Park landmark, Tavern-on-the-Green. Branching out from urbia, R-A is also running the veddy English John Peel's in Westbury, Long Island, and a full-fledged hostelry, the Motor Inn, in Stratford, Connecticut. In the offing are a Newarker-type restaurant for LaGuardia Airport and eateries for Gotham's Pan-Am Building. Brody, whose grandiose cafés display the works of Picasso, Miró and Jackson Pollock as decor for such esoteric gourmandial productions as "Violets in Summer Snow," analyzes R-A's success as simply the ability to capture "the elegant side of contemporary New York."
In dozens of missives received by party officials during the 1960 political conventions, the same write-in running mates were nominated on the Democratic and Republican tickets: Chet Huntley and David Brinkley. As nonpartisan commentators covering the events for NBC, both men were compelled to decline the honor, but these tributes served to certify a landslide victory for their own informally informative reporting style over the old school of gloom-and-doomcasters. Among the repercussions: the largest audience of any free-world newscast for their Peabody- and Emmy-winning Huntley-Brinkley Report; their unprecedented (and for them, unwelcome) new status as TV stars. Brinkley in particular shrinks from the limelight; as the pithy half of NBC's Damon and Pythias, however, he has emerged as the diatribal chieftain of video newsmen, and the namesake of a new addition to the language: Brinkleymanship, a game played by rival commentators bent on emulating his brilliantly dim view of current events. Hyphenated with Huntley at the 1956 conventions, bristly Brinkley has been gadflying in the face of conventions ever since -- on a provocative series of personally guided tours de force (Our Man in Hong Kong and elsewhere), and on David Brinkley's Journal, a weekly scrapbook of mordant observations on subjects ranging from the perils of installment buying to the puerilities of rock 'n' roll. Though Journal has lapsed occasionally from honest editorials to cynical editorializing -- as when, in a recent show on the impact of proposed postal rate increases on the magazine industry, an interview with Playboy Publisher Hugh M. Hefner was so edited as to distort the meaning and motivation of his words -- it remains an entertainingly edifying experiment in outspoken video journalism, and Brinkley retains his status as the laconically eloquent voice of dissent on an all too timorous medium.
A young man poised on the brink of the big time, 35-year-old jazz singer Armando "Buddy" Greco cut his first record, Ooh, Looka There Ain't She Pretty, when he was 19. It was a spectacular smash, sold 1,500,000 copies -- and netted him slightly more than $30 (the record company folded before Buddy could reap the financial harvest). A triple-threat pianist-arranger-singer with the Benny Goodman band of the early Fifties, Buddy left Goodman to be his own man, touring the country's better lounges as a tastefully rocking pianist-vocalist. After a number of years of garnering rave reviews, a comfortable living -- but limited audiences -- in such intime rooms as Chicago's Le Bistro, and spurred on by the success of his belting recording of Around the World, Buddy decided to take a bold giant step: he scrapped his old act and debuted as a swinging stand-up single before a hard-driving house band at Las Vegas' Riviera. It was a wailing success. From the Riviera, Buddy has moved on to such king-sized clubs as Frank Sinatra's Cal-Neva Lodge, London's Bal Tabaria, San Francisco's New Fack's and New York's Copa; a flock of TV appearances; and a burgeoning list of best-selling LPs. Greco considers Sinatra the sine qua non of today's singers ("The old pros like Frank are still too much. He sings a lyric the end."). So, for that matter, does Buddy.
Ever since the half-draped daughter of Mongo's merciless Ming first had eyes (just two) for fearless Flash Gordon, Earthmen have mooned over the pleasant possibility of high life on other planets. But now that space travel is but a few orbits from reality, it's time for some serious thinking anent existence of exotic extraterrestrials. If there actually are gals out there in our galaxy, how will the Playboy of, say, 2000 A.D. fare with them on terra firma? Certainly, extreme variations in environments would make interplanetary playmates a far cry from the fair sex as we know it today. (A jane from gigantic Uranus, for instance, might measure a perfect 36-22-36 -- feet, not inches.) With such differences -- and associated difficulties -- in mind, far-out photographer Jerry Yulsman herewith portrays some additional problems that may well confront any Earthly males contemplating amour with heavenly bodies.
Las Vegas, Nevada, is a city -- or rather, an improbable idea -- based on the principle of random motion. From its round-the-clock marriage parlors (which logged some 29,000 five-minute ceremonies last year) to its green-felted gaming tables (over which more than a billion dollars changes hands annually), life in Vegas revolves about the unbiased bearings of chance. The promise of bonne chance and the cool green glow of money are the lures that draw both gamblers and gambolers into the desert toward the verdant oasis of high living and long odds.
The mayor's wife had become interested in a youthful composer who stopped from time to time in the town square, and when finally she made conversation with him and found him to be a most engaging fellow, she longed to share the ultimate pleasures with him.
Dictionaries define Orient as "The East ... the countries of Asia generally." In our book, the word evokes far more: it spells exotic adventure and sensuous charm. For a sampling of these, there's no better month than October -- when the temperature is temperate and the monsoon season has not yet begun -- for the pelf-sufficient man to go Asiatic in satisfying style.