It gives us a gold-our name in lights (284 of them, in fact) shining over our cover announcement of this issue's special On the Town in New York feature. The Broadway lights-motif is particularly appropriate since this is the month when our own seven-story Playboy Club will blaze into reality in Manhattan. You'll find a brief description of this fabulous fifth link in our-ever-lengthening key club chain in our On the Town tour, but you'll have to see it to believe it. As for the rest of the best in Gotham, several of our editors spent weeks wining, dining and dating in The Big City to select the finest in urban entertainment. And if you think for one moment that all that glitter and excitement, night in and night out, was fun, you are absolutely right. It was even fun for Jerry Yulsman, our New York staff photographer, who told us that he found capturing the gleam of the Big Apple more challenging than his previous On the Town assignments in Tokyo. Paris, Acapulco and Las Vegas.
Playboy, November, 1962, Vol. 9, No. 11, 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; South-Eastern, Florida and Caribbean Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont RD., N. E., Atlanta 5, GA., 233-6729.
A spy of ours chanced upon a poignant tableau not long ago at the bar of Manhattan's Yale Club and has given us a full account of the experience. As he recalls it, a group of old-line copywriters were propped against the mahogany, commiserating darkly with one another about those nonsensical, nonsingable TV commercials for which Mad Ave jingle-smiths are now being held accountable by the rest of the nation (Sample: "Double your pleas-Zhure, double your Fuhnn, with Double-good. Double-good, Doublemint GHUMM!"). Suddenly, our man recounts, one of this tatterdemalion crew, overcome with nostalgia, burst into the lyrics of that haunting old roundelay:
Requiem for a Heavyweight deals last rites to the jaw of a lightweight script. Ever since Rod Serling's play was televised, we've been hearing that it was TV at its best. This may be true. Now flabbily fleshed-out into a film, the script shows a skeleton of sententious sentimentality. A punched-up pug is told by the docs to quit boxing and immediately gets desperate for a job. A female state employment agent becomes personally involved with him after one brief meeting, and tries to place him as a camp counselor. Instead, he finishes up as a phony wrestler to save the hide of his manager who is in hock to gamblers. The ultrarealistic camera work, which is meant to touch the tale with truth, only X-rays the film's falsity, and Ralph Nelson's direction is strictly 21-inch in scope. Anthony Quinn, as an incarnation of Carnera, is too good for this goo. Quinn makes the fighter a taciturn tower of mauled man, slow but sincere, with simple honor in a world that is simply dishonorable. Jackie Gleason, the mouthy manager, does his best screen job yet -- more crafty than in The Hustler, less cute than in Gigol. Mickey Rooney, the trainer, pulls out all the soppy stops; and Julie Harris, the employment agency angel, does nothing for the part and vice versa. The producer was David Susskind, TV's tribute to intellection, which may explain a good deal, not only about television but about this pretentious pile of platitudinous playwriting.
Unpretentious jazz at its best is to be found blanketing both sides of The Gerry Mulligan Quartet (Verve). Gerry, in concert with his perfectly matched musical partner, bone vivant Bob Brook-meyer, and aided by bassist Bill Crow and drummer Gus Johnson, wanders effortlessly through a half-dozen oldies and originals. Mulligan puts aside his baritone for one of his occasional piano efforts on Piano Train, but the high points are to be found in the exemplary exchanges between his deep-throated horn and Brookmeyer's tongue-in-cheek tramming.
Twenty-three years after its first publication in Paris, Henry Miller's Tropic of Capricorn (Grove, $7.50) comes home to roost. Last year Grove gave first American publication to its autobiographical mate, Tropic of Cancer, which tells how Miller, nearing 40, moved to Paris and welcomed his new life with, among other things, open arms. Capricorn, written later, recounts his earlier life in Brooklyn: his boyhood, upbringing, wife and child (mentioned often but never really drawn), his surrealistic career as personnel manager for the Cosmodemonic Telegraph Co. Mostly the book deals with his furious inner life -- stoked by hatred of his existence and a fever to escape and write -- and the refuge he sought in sensational sex. In four-letter language and four-color detail as frank as Cancer, Miller shows us how a spree grows in Brooklyn. Much of the book gushes on like a cross-pollination of Wolfe, Whitman and Baudelaire. Few of the sweeping condemnations of civilization sweep much with them, and all the hoopla about la vie bohème is pretty vieux chapeau. Still the book must be read with some care, for among the post-adolescent dithyrambs there are some staggering paragraphs, brilliantly alive gems in a junkyard of faded literary attitudes. Occasionally, a sex passage is done with such fire that it becomes a rhapsody in very blue. It is not necessary to think that the author is as great as he's been called. But foolish as large parts of the Tropics are, Miller was no fool to think his life misspent until he became a writer.
Sensibly Hedonistic guys should now be making one farsighted resolution to be carried out in full: the careful charting of a January jaunt to a fresh and revivifying clime. If you're a slalom bug, pack up for the Austrian Tyrol where far-advanced preparations for the 1964 Winter Olympics have fashioned a glistening new ski area just southwest of Innsbruck. Located in a snow bowl dubbed the "White Roof in Innsbruck" by lyrical locals, the Axamer-Lizum terrain now boasts one of the Continent's most extensive trail-and-lift networks: proximate snow-business facilities include the Berg Isel Jump and an enormous ice-skating stadium in Innsbruck, cross-country skiing in the Seefeld area (where pro Toni Seelos will help you organize skijoring and cross-country Spaziergangen) and, at Igls, the steepest and swiftest bobsled run for your money in Europe. While Seefeld is the poshest of the area's resorts, we prefer a pad at an Innsbruck inn: the entire ski scene is readily accessible, and the night life -- i.e., the Goldener Adler's zither dither, and the thigh-slapping Schuplattler dancing and back-in-the-old-choral harmonic groups at the venerably lush Maria Theresia Hotel -- will add life to your party. You should stay at the modern Tyrol or the Mariabrunn, a hilltopping hostel overlooking the city.
What can you do about a girl who wants to know everything about your past sex life? I'm dating a sweet young chick who is very liberal-minded about such things--she says there must be no secrets between us. and that unless she knows all about my past affairs she can't possibly enter into a mature and understanding relationship. But I'm damned if I want to air my past escapades, either for her or for anyone else. How can I cope?--F. D., Louisville, Kentucky.
Barbara-Girl Jones, who disliked the name Barbara-Girl, believed that to be called by her right name would be a great good, but it seemed to be a good which would follow only from circumstances and a state of being. Therefore she frequently put up with the name Barbara-Girl, biding her time until she could enforce her real name upon the turbulent making, unmaking and remaking universe of Manhattan. She studied, watched, waited and bided her time. She had learned to smile and she had learned to listen attentively and she was gracious by nature, and so she had merits to compensate for her secret judgments of herself. For she gave herself only a B- in Conduct of Life.
Ever since the distant day in 1524 when a Florentine captain named Giovanni da Varrazano dropped anchor in the Hudson and thereby became Manhattan's first out-of-town visitor ("A very agreeable situation," he penned approvingly of the harbor), the idea and the fact of New York City have sparked the dreams of explorers -- from the original robust advocates of adventure and independence to latter-day Jasons on age-old quests for power and pelf, status and fame, balm and sensual pleasure. And, in the three and a half centuries that have elapsed since the trading post of the West India Company of Amsterdam began its startling metromorphosis into today's glittering panoply of marble, steel and glass, the city has burned its image on the national psyche and made itself known, through legend and song and accomplishment, as the most remarkable and magnificent metropolis in the world. Today, the cachet of quality is more persuasively persistent than ever: in the minds of most knowledgeable travelers, modern New York offers the wayfaring male the most sophisticated and elaborate buffet for the senses ever assembled.
In my youth during the Twenties, not much was known in our Chicago newspaper circles about fairies except that they existed -- chiefly in New York. Visiting New Yorkers wore derbies, carried canes, smelled of cologne, spoke with a lisp and were loud with boasts of famous ladies they had toppled. I had read Havelock Ellis and such details stirred suspicion.
Both warm and wise atop the noggin this winter: nappy new lids that prove that the fur look in headgear is far from old hat. Synthetically fibered facsimiles of luxurious Karacul and Persian lamb, they'll fit you to a fur-thee-well, in sylvan glade and on urban boulevard. Sahib at left flips traditional lid in favor of black Orlon-pile Pakistani hat with black quilted satin lining, by Stetson, $6. Other gent sports gray Orlon-pile fedora with black braid band, center crease, narrow brim, by Flip-It, $5.
While Chicago is Touted as a convention city, we've always found its unconventional side much more interesting -- especially as personified by an eyecatching iconoclast like Avis Kimble, our bountiful bohemian November Playmate. Auburn-haired Avis, a Windy City citizen by birth and inclination, is artistic both in temperament and topography (39-22-36); she paints striking water colors and oils, is a budding ballet dancer and a poetess who happily celebrates self-expression in lieu of carbon-copy conformity. Blessed with catholic tastes, our 18-year-old maverick miss gets a boot from square-dealing artist Piet Mondrian. movie director Ingmar Bergman and the rich prose of novelist Ayn Rand; she gulps vast quantities of artichokes for lunch, will lend her ear at any hour to Chopin or Odetta, loves to wear Italian knit dresses, long-gloves and floppy Greta Garbo hats, and digs dating unpretentious guys who don't knock themselves out trying to impress her with their wealth and wisdom. More upbeat than beat, Avis is sensibly stashing away her earnings as a photographer's stylist (she sets up props, puts makeup on models, helps with photo composition) to pay for courses at Chicago's Art Institute, and has her beguiling blue eyes firmly focused on a career as a fashion designer. For a design that will never go out of fashion, flip to the foldout where our poetry buff relaxes by scanning a choice collection of lyrical lines. We suggest that you do the same.
In the most salubrious sense, the brisk weather of midautumn is definitely for the birds. Loyal beefeaters, the kind who are the first to admit they wouldn't recognize a live woodcock if it flew right into their whiskey sours, are now eagerly awaiting roast guinea hen and plump capons stuffed with truffles. Certainly, if France's Henry IV were alive today, he'd feel foolish suggesting a mere chicken in every pot. His fiat would include boneless chicken à la Kiev, rock cornish game hens, hazel hens, squab, grouse and fresh and smoked pheasant, to cite only a partial roster of the rich -- and richly various -- poultry fare which is now any man's for the asking.
At a few minutes after four on the morning of August 7, 1864, Trooper Robert Gibboney of the irregularly organized brigade known as McCausland's Cavalry pitched abruptly out of his blanket roll, suddenly and completely awake. A moment before he had been sleeping dreamlessly, his body so exhausted from weeks of hard riding that he had been almost unaware of the rocky ground beneath him; now every nerve and muscle strained against the darkness. He did not know what had awakened him; apparently it had left the others undisturbed. Clumped together beneath the thick willow trees that lined the riverbank, they slept on, silent, oblivious, untroubled.
It is related that Charlemagne had a beautiful daughter whose name was Emma, fairer than all women. She expressed a desire to learn Latin, and the King acquiesced to this wish, little suspecting that she desired the teacher far more than the language. His name was Ebinhart, and he was young and handsome. From time to time they were able to steal a kiss or a quick and stealthy embrace: but nothing more was ever possible: the majordomo. the Empress or even Charlemagne himself seemed always in the vicinity of the study when Ebinhart was teaching.
For the 36-year-old editor of the nay-saying National Review, the author of a newspaper column syndicated in 46 U.S. communities, and the acknowledged oligarch of articulate archconservatism in America, a return to the political posture of, say, the Taft Administration is a first imperative to the national welfare. By his own definition, William F. Buckley, Jr., is a "radical conservative" with contentious convictions -- mostly negative -- on practically every institution from the popular vote ("The idea that everyone is qualified to vote is one of the greatest delusions of democracy") to liberal intellectualism ("I would rather be governed by the first 2000 people in the telephone directory than by the Harvard University faculty"). Additionally, he is implacably opposed to: Federal housing, farm subsidies, graduated income taxes, mass education, "eleemosynary" foreign aid and integration in the South. Such righteous Rightism, not surprisingly, has won him the esteem of Senator Barry Goldwater -- plus a circulation of 90,000 for the Review and 8,000,000 readers for his newspaper column. Despite this hard core of disciples, however, Buckley has managed to earn the enmity of not only most liberals, but a substantial number of conservatives and middle-roaders as well -- a disaffection which finds such disparate disputants as Nelson Rockefeller, Richard Nixon and Robert Welch in rare accord, and which Buckley returns with interest. While the Review and its fractious field marshal reluctantly supported Nixon against JFK in 1960 ("But don't think we like Nixon's brand of Republicanism. We don't."), they take a decidedly dim view of such gubernatorial candidates as Rockefeller in New York and George Romney in Michigan. Out of the editor's chair and down from the battlements, Buckley is quietly candid and engagingly unassuming. But once he charters a Cause, the razorsharp Buckley rapier -- his nimble wit and mastery of history make him a lethal opponent in debate -- is drawn to skewer the liberals with crusading zeal. "Our job," he has said, "is to stand athwart history yelling 'Halt!'"
"Advertising is no business for grown men," says 45-year-old Howard Luck Gossage, relaxed and ingenious San Francisco adman who has won the allegiance of an army of enthusiastic campaign followers by hueing to a satirical cry. This year, for example, Gossage-written ads urged culture-loving Americans to send 84.50 to a West Coast ale brewer in order to "Be the First One in Your Peer-Group to Own a Beethoven, Brahms or Bach Sweatshirt." Nearly 200,000 did. Further Gossage gimmickry has elicited requests for: 50,000 "Pride" and "Profit" badges (to promote Irish whiskey); two kangaroos and 7500 explanations of why there is no "u" in Qantas (to aid an Australian airline); 25,000 "Repeal the 19th Amendment" buttons (to sell a "masculine" ale); and 11,000 pocketed, buttonholed cloth squares called "shirtkerchiefs" (to starch a shirt firm's wilting image). It was Gossage, too, who gave the world a new high in low-pressure slogans: "If you are driving down the road and you see a Fina station and it's on your side so you don't have to make a U-turn through traffic and there aren't six cars waiting and you need gas or something, please stop in." Educated in philosophy and sociology at the universities of Kansas City, Paris and Geneva, Gossage strolled into advertising after hitches in the Navy and CBS-TV. With his partner, Joe Weiner, he headquarters in an ex-firehouse in S.F., whence, in addition to their work, they fend off new clients who'd force a move to lessquaint quarters, to say nothing of requiring more work than this happy duo desires. This fall, Gossage is carrying his gospel of ads-for-adults to Penn State U., in a series of lectures on "The Nature of Paid Propaganda."
His Craggy face a ravaged bas-relief from a Roman coin, Italy's Raf Vallone radiates an elemental masculine magnetism matched by few men on or off the screen. Starring in the screenplay of Arthur Miller's Greek-tragic View from the Bridge earlier this year, the 43-year-old actor electrified American audiences with the feral potency of his performance as Eddie Carbone, a Brooklyn longshoreman consumed with carnal hunger for his nubile niece. More recently, portraying the brawny blacksmith who forges a fiery union with Sophia Loren in Two Women, he forcefully fortified an untamed male-animal image which has lost none of id's primal appeal in 14 years of European matinee idolatry. As improbable in the role of movie star as that of sex symbol, Vallone -- the erudite owner of two doctoral degrees -- initially a corporation lawyer, fought with the Italian underground during World War II, returned to civilian life as drama critic for a national newspaper. It was on an interview in 1948 with movie mogul Dino De Laurentiis that the prolific producer discerned a diamond in the Raf and persuaded the classically handsome young journalist -- who had performed previously only in a single Pirandello play -- that his richest creative gifts would bear fruit not in the literary vineyards but in the klieg-warmed incubator of newborn neorealism. Soon after, De Laurentiis awarded his unlikely discovery the lead in Bitter Rice, launching the erstwhile critic on a movie career which introduced him to English-speaking audiences as Charlton Heston's nemesis in El Cid. Spiciest new slice of imported Vallone: as a Greek shipowner cuckolded by his incestuous spouse and son in Jules Dassin's phallic Phaedra (Playboy After Hours, September 1962), he projects dignity and despair with an adamantine power which ranks him as the noblest Greco-Roman of them all.
Annie, Darling... I'm mad about you! Let me do things for you! Ask whatever you want, Darling! No favor... No sacrifices is too great! I'm yours to command... If you'll just give me a tumble!Not now, Mister Avacado... I think I'm coming down with a virus!