Half the fun of receiving Christmas presents is the surprise of discovering what lies hidden behind the gift wrappings. We trust you were pleasantly surprised when you opened this special Ninth Anniversary and Christmas Gift Issue and beheld the hidden half of cover girl Sheralee Conners. If you were also surprised by the apparent absence of our traditional Playboy rabbit on the front cover, just a bare bit of hindsight is sure to reveal him. Yes, there are indeed two sides to this issue, although it's a heads-or-tails toss-up as to which is most attractive.
General Offices: Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio Street, Chicago 11, Illinois. Return postage must accompany all manuscripts, drawings and photographs submitted if they are to be returned and no responsibility can be assumed for unsolicited materials. Contents copyrighted (c) 1962 by HMH Publishing Co., Inc. Nothing may be reprinted in whole or in part without written permission from the Publisher. Any similarity between the people and places in the fiction and semi-fiction in this Magazine and any real people and places is purely coincidental. Credits: Cover Design by Arthur Paul, Photos by Robert Hart, Pompeo Posar, Furs by Evans, Chicago; P. 3 Photos by Playboy Studios, Ken Heyman, Mario Casilli; P. 4 Photos by Sam Shaw, Mort Shapiro, Don Bronstein; P. 63 Photos by Burr Jerger; P. 87 Photo by Friedman-Abeles; P. 88 Photo by Lyle Mayer; P. 89 Photos by Bronstein; P. 107 Illustrations by Ralph Creasman; P. 126 George Chakiris by William Claxton; P. 127 Photo by David Gahr; P. 134 Photo by Patrick Morin; P. 135 Photos by Ormond Gigli, Sam WU; P. 136 Photos by George Michalke, Casilli; P. 137 Photos by Mike Shea, Don Ornitz, Casilli; P. 138 Photos by WU, Ornitz, Russ Meyer; P. 139 Photo copyrighted (c) 1956 by M. Pallas, R. Seaver; P. 140 Photos by Henri Dauman, Frank Schall wig; P. 147-155 Photos by Playboy Studios.
Playboy, December, 1962, vol. 9, no. 12, 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, C1 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.
With the boom in night-club and TV comics at an all-time high, we can't understand why some enterprising entrepreneur hasn't sliced himself a piece of the action with a surefire bit-of-business: a Do-It-Yourself Comic Kit. In addition to a selection of assorted shticks (stool, imaginary telephone, folded newspaper, sweater with pushed-up sleeves, cigar, cello, violin, horn-rims, bamboo cane, derby and a blonde named Irving), it would contain profusely illustrated directions on how to perform the Gleason cutaway, the Benny stare, the Skelton stagger, the Burns cigar bit, the Berle instep walk, the Leonard aching-side gambit and the Joe Besser fairy slap; a demonstration record explaining how to impersonate Mort Sahl's "Onward," Bert Lahr's "gnong, gnong, gnong," Morey Amsterdam's "yokapuk," Ed Wynn's giggle, Billy Gilbert's sneeze, Jackie Mason's cantatorial Bronxese, Jack Benny's "Well!" and Jonathan Winters' flying-saucer launching; plus, as a special bonus, a Basic Boffo Routine suitable for all occasions. It might go something like this:
Mark Twain's view of life had two very different sides to it, and in Letters from the Earth (Harper & Row, $5.95), the twain meet. Devotedly edited by the late Bernard DeVoto, these assorted essays and fantasies were ready for print in 1939 but were squelched by Mark's daughter, Clara, on the grounds that they presented a distorted picture of his views. Finally cleared by Clara, the book shows Sam Clemens' inclement face. The title essay purports to be a series of letters written by Satan – who is enjoying a short but thrill-packed stay on earth – back home to St. Michael and St. Gilbert. "Man is a marvelous curiosity," he writes. "...He has imagined a heaven, and has left entirely out of it the supremest of all his delights ... sexual intercourse!" Satan decides that "Many of these people have the reasoning faculty, but no one uses it in religious matters." Something About Repentance puts forth the idea that most people repent of their good deeds more strenuously than of their sins. In The French and the Comanche, Twain calls the Frenchman "a higher being" because he is more ingenious in methods of cruelty: consider, for example, the massacre of St. Bartholomew,"... unquestionably the finest thing of the kind ever devised and accomplished in the world. All the best people took a hand in it ..." Along with these cynical sentiments go some charming pieces in quite another Twain vein, such as A Cat-Tale, a playful bedtime story written as if it is being told to his two little girls. "You must know a wonderful deal, Papa," says Susy worshipfully. "I have that reputation – in Europe," Mark remarks. "But here the best minds think I am superficial."
Keeping pace with today's trend toward the king-sized product, be it cigarettes or soap flakes, teacher-turned-entrepreneur Bob Hare seems to have tapped a bonanza with his Supermarket of Culture, the Insomniac (53 Pier Avenue, Hermosa Beach, California). Here, Los Angeles' levi-ed and lank-haired literati, like lemmings heading for the sea, flock for books, art, music, food, drink and an atmosphere that is evidently therapeutic for the neobeatnik breed. Two years after starting it as an art gallery in 1956, Hare added the "oldest and largest European-type coffeehouse in the United States," and a bookstore that stocks over 8000 paperback titles. There is also a gift shop that is more often than not filled with an eyebrow-raising array of tin cans, baskets, trays and unidentifiable objects done up in gold leaf by Tweeki Pettyjohn. The art gallery leans toward such visual exotica as a recent exhibit of paintings by nutrition expert Adele Davis, done under the influence of the drug LSD. Activity abounds in the bookstore-gallery-sidewalk café areas from 9 A.M. to 6 A.M. (seven days a week) – with patrons brooding over a chess or checker board, sipping espresso or arguing about Ionesco to the unfettered singing of an "in" folk duo. Artist Bill Smith charcoal-sketches patrons at $2 per. Another persona grata is Jack Phillips, an ex-newsman who'll paint a word portrait of you on his Smith-Corona for 50¢. The long, skinny Club Room packs in 350 insomniacs – at $1.25 a nonsleepyhead – on its makeshift benches, around its coin-sized tables and against its postered walls. The room is dark, the decor impoverished, and both enhance by contrast the youngish waitresses darting around in black leotards and brief aprons. Entertainment commences nightly at 7 P.M. with silent movies. From 8:30 P.M. until 3:30 A.M. there are four shows (five on weekends). Long on folk groups, the Insomniac has showcased Inman & Ira, the Wayfarers, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee. Food and drink (nonalcoholic, Charlie) – varieties of hot and cold coffees or nectars, sandwiches, desserts – are always available. Favored are Cappuccinos, Mochas and Frutta Farcita – an array of fresh fruits in finely shaved ice reset into their natural skins. In addition to the thongedsandal throng, frequent guests include Kim Novak, semanticist S. I. Hayakawa, Edie Adams, Jack Kerouac and Lenny Bruce.
The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner is one of the best films of the year. Alan (Saturday Night and Sunday Morning) Sillitoe wrote the screenplay from his short story of the same evocative name, and the result is another top-class film of English lower-class life. Colin Smith, an 18-year-old slum product, commits robbery; he is sent to a reformatory whose warden thinks sports will cure everything. Colin shows ability as a distance runner and is trained for the reform school's first meet with a posh public school – which meet is a feather in the warden's class-conscious cap. While Colin is jaunting around the countryside in training – at first under supervision, later on his honor – long flashbacks, illuminate the life that led him here: ignorant father, loose mother, crowded home, bullying cops, general frustration, all adding up to a great gulf between "us" (the Colins) and "them" (the Establishment). Colin knows that you can't reform a Tory. On the day of the meet he has the other team's star beaten easily, but a few yards short of the finish, Colin stops and, with an ironic bow, let's the upper-class boy win, thus making his gesture of contempt for the warden and the society he represents. Some of the social thinking is blatantly black-and-white, and much of the Midlands misery is par for the coarse. But Tony Richardson does a fairly direct directing job; newcomer Tom Courtenay is Colin to the grimly set teeth; and Michael Redgrave (the warden), Avis Bunnage (the meandering ma) and an actress with the nutty name of Topsy Jane (Colin's girl and no misprint) are wizard, mates.
The last revue housed at Chicago's Happy Medium stayed two years, but, Put It in Writing, based on the relative merits of the two, may yet eclipse the marathon run of the cabaret-theater's former occupant. Of its 24 sketches, our box score lists a dozen as superior, and a .500 batting average in this precarious line of endeavor is strictly major league; in only a few instances do cast and creators strike out. Unfortunately, these are concentrated in the second act, so one's memories of the show may not be as happy as is warranted. In this respect, Bill Penn performs a directorial disservice to comics Tom Williams and Bob Dishy and comediennes Jeanne Arnold, Dodo Denney and Barbara Gilbert, whose overall antic accomplishments are first-rate. The revue (held together by a tenuous thread tied to today's literary world) is at its best in a sharply honed hoedown honoring Billie Sol Estes, a hoboes' lament to the ill-starred advice of Messrs. Merrill Lynch, Pierce, Fenner and Smith, a barroom ballad tuned in on Liz Taylor's Appian ways, and a Freudulent farce delightfully reminiscent of the broad lunacies of Smith and Dale's Dr. Kronkite classic. Rounding out the cast are Jack Blackton, Anne Jones, Will Mackenzie, and an attractive Aussie, Deidre Green. Let us put it in writing: P.I.I.W. is a lovely way to spend an evening.
The Sammy Davis Jr. All-Star Spectacular (Reprise) is a thumping three-ring circus that features Sammy in every ring. Side one is the main attraction – a miming romp through a half-dozen standards. Davis takes off on such divers luminaries as Al Hibbler, Mario Lanza and Bela Lugosi. But for sheer devastation, we have to vote for a Vaughn Monroe vocal vignette that is outrageously accurate. Side two is Davis as Davis, which is fine with us. If you can stumble through its title, Sammy Davis Jr. Sings What Kind of Fool Am I and Other Show-Stoppers (Reprise), you'll find an array of aural delights on this LP, including the title tune and three others from Anthony Newley's British import, Stop the World – I Want to Get Off. Also on hand is a trio of vintage show tunes that have improved with age – Can't We Be Friends from The Little Show of 1929, My Romance from 1935's Jumbo, and Thou Swell from A Connecticut Yankee. Ira Gershwin's long, and oft-neglected, verse to the latter is happily and hiply reprised by Sammy.
What sort of responsibility, if any, does a young man have toward the object of his first deeply physical love affair? The girl and I, quite frankly, were both virgins at the time and fully expected that we would get married, so everything seemed all right (we were both 17). As often happens, we went away to different colleges and, after a few tearful and passionate reunions during holidays, the inevitable took place and we saw less and less of each other. I learned two years ago that she got married (I have yet to tie the knot) to a guy on the opposite coast, so I was surprised to get a letter from her not long ago saying that the marriage went on the rocks and that she was returning to this city to take up where we had left off. Her letter stated in no wishy-washy terms that she was looking to me for love and understanding, since I was the number one man in her life and owed her this. Frankly, I don't agree but I don't quite know how to handle the situation. I am not in love with the girl at all. – B. R., Boston, Massachusetts.
Short on days, but long on opportunities for change of scene, February wins our nod as one of the choicer months for the traveling man. Cold diggers will find the winter sports arenas in full swing across the Northland, while those weary of winter's wrath will encounter a warm reception in a balmy variety of resorts to the South. Whichever temperature suits your temperament, you should make plans now for a relaxing and revitalizing winter vacation either on the snow or under the sun.
Nattily bedecked in loafers, dark blue slacks and an eye-searing tomato-red cardigan, the gifted comic-composerconductor-actor-occultist-egotist who calls himself "The Great One" – otherwise known as Jackie Gleason – sat like a beached whale on the lawn outside the clubhouse at the Shawnee Inn in Pennsylvania's Pocono Mountains. Though he had fared poorly that morning in a golf tournament (he generally shoots in the low 80s), Gleason greeted Playboy with hale-fellow expansiveness, possibly gladdened by contemplation of his equally expansive career. In the wake of his powerful performance as the imperturbable pool shark, Minnesota Fats, in "The Hustler," two of his latest movies – "Gigot" and "Requiem for a Heavyweight" – were in the can and ready for world-wide release; and still another film, "Papa's Delicate Condition" (in which he performed as producer and director as well as star), was being scored and edited. Meanwhile, back in Manhattan, his office staff was keeping busy filing offers for him to produce, direct and star in dozens of new screenplays. His syrupy but salable mood-music albums were grossing to a six-figure tune; in "Take Me Along" he had demonstrated delightfully that he could also pack a theater in a Broadway show; and CBS was paying him $100,000 a year to keep him exclusively theirs. A millionaire many times over, he could have spent the rest of his life there on the fair ways or in the Gleasonian splendor of his $650,000 home near Peekskill, New York, rousing himself occasionally to shoot a game of pool, to partake of strong waters with his cronies, or to sit back and watch the residuals rolling in on one of his three television sets with reruns of his old "Honeymooners" series. But he was just taking a breather before returning to the medium which made him a star, this time with a live weekly variety show. Early in our interview, we bowed to the Gleason ego and infectious logorrhea, abandoning the role of probing questioner in favor of playing straight man and using our questions as cues to keep The Great One talking. Our first cue concerned his reputed monumental self-esteem, our notion being to test the myth against the reality.
To earn a glowing reputation as a Santa Sans pareil among his pretty paramours, the gift-wise guy need not emulate that overzealous suitor who inundated his inamorata with 12 drummers drumming, 11 pipers, piping. 10 lords a-leaping, and so forth down – or up – to a partridge in a pear tree. If you've ever bedazzled a damsel with bonbons, poetry or flowers you know that munificence is less a measure of successful gifting than the sentiment embodied in your token of esteem.
Exactly nine years Ago this month, the first issue of playboy was published, with a personal investment of $600 and $6000 begged or borrowed from anyone who would stand still long enough to listen to "a new idea for a men's magazine." Now something of a collector's item, that issue – forged with much youthful zeal by a small group of dedicated iconoclasts who shared a publishing dream – seems almost childishly crude when compared with the magazine you hold in your hands. We have come a long way since then, in editorial scope and polish as well as in circulation, and we are mightily pleased whenever we are complimented on the fact. But when well-wishers sometimes praise us for the way in which our magazine has changed, we much shake our head in disagreement. The fact is that in its basic concepts and its editorial attitude, in its view of itself and its view of life, its feelings about its readers and – we believe – their feelings toward it, the magazine called Playboy is the same today as it was nine years ago. Improved – yes, we like to think. Altered in its aims and outlook – definitely no.
The Headache Occurred on a rainy Saturday afternoon in early November, shortly after Norman Cross came back down from his wife, or more properly his ex-wife, Connie's apartment. He would not have been up there, ordinarily, the divorce proceedings being in their fourth month, but Connie had called and said she had the flu or some kind of a virus, and nothing in the house to eat, and asked him to pick her up some soup and a carton of milk and a dozen eggs. Norman was living just half a block down the street, so it wasn't much trouble for him to go around the corner and get the groceries and take them up to Connie.
January had rolled around in the second year of what someone had dubbed the Soaring Sixties. With the East and West brandishing bombs, the big ones, I hoped it would not become the Searing Sixties. I was beginning '61 in a way I have cherished for years – sopping up the sun on my hilltop in Hollywood and generally taking it easy between night-club and hotel dates.
Building a lusty yule log fire and taking your winter evening's ease with a hot punch are among the more gemütlich gambits of the holiday season. But nothing warms the culinary cockies of an epicurean's heart as much as the festively flavorsome pyrotechnics of setting good food ablaze. Mastery of the blue flames that burn below and above a chafing dish was once thought to be the exclusive craft of dining-room captains and incorrigible show-offs. Actually, Continental chefs working at their ranges were blazing foods long before cherries Jubilee were kindled at the Carlton in London. To this day in the kitchens of any busy bistro you will see beacons of light constantly flaring above the sauté pans as chefs prepare lobster Americaine, chicken with Armagnac and countless other dishes of the classic cuisine. To cook without blazing spirits would be like cooking without butter or cream or stock.
Having long observed from afar the admirable architecture of Arlene Dahl, Playboy now dollies in for a Christmas close-up of moviedom's most ravishing redhead – in a gallery of tastefully tantalizing pictures shot exclusively for us in the satin seclusion of her Beverly Hills boudoir.
The man stared at the paper in his typewriter with the bleak look of a rain-soaked spectator at a dull football game, and then ripped it out of the machine. He lit a cigarette, put another sheet of paper in the wringer, and began a letter to his publisher, without salutation: "Why you imbeciles have to have a manuscript three months ahead of publication is, by God ——" And out came that sheet. Somewhere a clock began striking three, but it was drowned out by a sudden upsurge of Paris night noises.
Many Holidays ago it was the Custom at New York's then-posh Hotel Astor for bar stewards to walk down the line emptying every open bottle in sight, including wines, whiskeys and liqueurs into a mammoth punch bowl. The Astor's punchmakers always compounded a delectable mixture by following an old axiom of bartending: You may use anything from arrack to zinfandel, ad-libbing as you please, as long as you're loyal to the accepted balances between potent and mild, sweet and tart. Punch should be strong enough to lift, not (continued on page 201)(Continued from page 101)throw, you. Any punch made with a fruit liqueur or sweet fruit juice must be accented with something tart – freshly squeezed lemon or lime, for example – a rule that was noted even in Addison's day when he described, in The Spectator, a sign near Charing Cross showing two angels hovering over a punch bowl and squeezing the juice of Jemons into it.
Probably no business has inspired as many heartwarming and uplifting stories as show business. Our own dowdy lives seem to be happier when we read about the struggles and successes of those who spend their lives in the theater, the movies and on television entertaining us and making us forget the cares of the day. There are many familiar stories about show business, and yet there are many stories still untold.
Updating Charles Dickens, we hereby nominate December Playmate June Cochran as this season's most endearing embodiment of the Spirit of Christmas Present. June's Yuletide credentials are disarmingly self-evident: a smile as warming as a rum toddy, blue-green eyes that are a blend of mistletoe with a girlish enchantment, a personality as sentimental as a crackling fireside, and the glowing health of an apple-cheeked caroler. A part-time model and full-time beauty back home in Indiana (born and raised in Indianapolis, she lives there now with five younger sisters and one younger brother), our 20-year-old Hoosier honey's superbly packaged presence has already won her a wassail bowlful of beauty contest awards, including the title of Miss Indiana in this year's Miss World Beauty Pageant. Playboy's snow belle loves twisting and miniature golf, Corvettes and shish kebab, admires males who get as big a boot from life as she. Our holiday suggestion for the man who has everything: the girl who has everything, Christmasy Miss December.
A Winter Of a Single Wind has driven snow against the ads that once offered baby talcum and Log Cabin Syrup. But no el stops here anymore. Rains have ripped the ad that promised dancing lessons at the Merry Gardens, its tatters are less merry now. Waltz king and waltzers alike are gone. The 12th Street beau with cap tipped for love in Garfield Park, the Monday-morning salesgirl with lashes still Maybellined by Sunday night, the Mogen David wino with Happy New Year snow on his shoulders, none get off here anymore. Only a rail of rounded iron guards a peanut machine whose glass is cracked and its peanuts long vended. Snow shadows race like children in the blood-red glow cast by two railroad lamps; up the drift of snow against the rail and then tobogganing down. They stop to rock the platform, lamps and all, when the midnight B train passes, and the lamps dip and tip like flares left burning on a raft abandoned at sea. The B train's echo trails the B train. Then a fog shot with neon closes down, the coldest that ever fell. Yet riders of late winter (continued on page 186) Father & Son Cigar (continued from page 121) locals sometimes hear a piano playing faintly somewhere below the ties, like a piano out of times long gone: on a night when tavern doors were opened to the street for the first night of the year.
When Bemelmans' last book, "The Street Where the Heart Lies," is published early next year, its heroine, incurably honest, infinitely beautiful, forever hungry Gala, may well take her place – along with Lili, Fanny and Gigi – among the wispy wonders of French fiction. The loveliest of all strippers, Gala is the creation of fiery Miomo Corti, proprietor of the Relaxes Vous night club, who, insanely jealous of her beauty and well aware of her commercial value, married her when she was still in her early teens. So absolute is Corti's domination that he keeps her on a near-starvation diet to preserve her precious figure. Ordinarily, Corti never lets Gala out of his sight, but his desperate need for a loan from Vittorio Vivanti, a lecherous Milanese millionaire, finally forces Corti to allow Vivanti to take Gala out for an evening in Paris. As the story opens, it is the morning after that fateful night.
In the dark and desolate novelistic wasteland created by the 38-year-old bachelor, James Baldwin, men and women wallow in suspicion, fear, hate and lust, searching helplessly for a sanctuary from suffering that their creator himself has not as yet been able to find or fathom. For James Arthur Baldwin comes from the same clay as the damned and defeated spiritual nomads who populate his novels: Go Tell It on the Mountain, Giovanni's Room and Another Country. A Harlem-born preacher's son, he began to teach the Gospel himself at the age of 14. Graduating from high school three years later, he met author Richard Wright who was to become his literary mentor ("I was broke, shabby, hungry and scared. He read my first novel ... and his support helped me to win my first fellowship."). With proceeds from this and other awards, Baldwin deserted race-conscious America for race-tolerant France, where he spent the following ten years in self-imposed exile. But despite the refreshingly color-blind climate of Paris, the taproot to home could not be uprooted ("I realize now that if I was preparing myself for anything in Europe, I was preparing again for America"). Returning to New York, he became at once a militant campaigner for civil rights and, in Nobody Knows My Name, a bitter antagonist of the white community. But lately he has mellowed somewhat, realizing perhaps that black hate is no less poisonous than white bigotry, and like his prophetic spokesman in Another Country, he seems to cry out: "The world is hard enough and people is evil enough without all the time looking for it and stirring it up and making it worse." Although this newfound tolerance has alienated many of his own race ("I speak for some people, but there are others who look upon me as a traitor"), Baldwin insists that "the facts of Negro oppression must be stated, but being oppressed doesn't necessarily make one individual better than another." Today, he is concerned mainly with moral and aesthetic reforms on both sides of the racial fence: "The big issue of racism is not housing or civil rights. It is hate, private human hate where there should be love."
By Movieland Standards, 29-year-old George Chakiris is an ascetic. His clothes can be crammed into one suitcase, his car is second-hand and he shares an apartment with his parents, sister and brother. He does, however, own a small gold statuette for which half the high priests of Hollywood would swap their swimming pools, saunas and screening rooms. No newcomer to the movies (he had a bit part in 1954's White Christmas), George was a long haul from stardom when Jerome Robbins tagged him for the role of Jet captain Riff in the London company of West Side Story. Twenty months later, Chakiris was drafted from the West End West Side for the film version to portray the Sharks' satrap Bernardo. Oscar night, 1962, made George a Big Man on Camera. Since his Oscar, singer-dancer-actor Chakiris has hopped to Hulaland for Diamond Head, etched an LP for Capitol and nipped off to Nippon for Flight from Ashiya. He is unimpressed by the cinematic spotlight, states modestly: "An actor is only as good as his last time out; I've still got a long way to go."
Publishing's Pessimists were already issuing Post-mortems when patch-eyed (since the Battle of the Bulge) Matthew J. "Joe" Culligan arrived in Philadelphia this summer to take command of the Curtis Publishing Company's tottering magazine empire. Out of touch with the changing tastes of its dwindling readership, burdened by overpriced advertising and cut-rate subscriptions and confused by superficial face-lifting efforts, Curtis' Satevepost, Journal, Holiday and American Home had dropped more than $9,000,000 in ad revenues in the first half of the year. But for 44-year-old Culligan, this dismal picture had all the upbeat promise of a Norman Rockwell cover scene. As a job-hopping, ad-selling troubleshooter he had already rebuilt the Home Building department of Good Housekeeping, pulled NBC Radio out of the red and was on the board of Madison Avenue's Interpublic Incorporated, when he got the Curtis call. Accepting a cut-rate salary of $120,000 plus fringes, he pronounced the foundering firm in need of "flaming leadership," forthwith burned away much editorial deadwood, replaced it with top literary timber pirated from other publications, sent the failing "new" Post scurrying back to its old, familiar format, but updated its contents with big-name fiction, more readable articles and less syrupy interviews. "I want the Post to be the conscience of America," says Culligan conscientiously. Having thus shored up the shop, Culligan barnstormed the country for six weeks, returning to Philadelphia with $37,000,000 in new ads, $22,000,000 in bank pledges. Perhaps his biggest move so far was engineering a decision of Curtis's new, nonfamily board members to shift SEP's offices out of staid Philadelphia and into the industry's main line – New York. For his efforts (he thrives on a "psychotic" 15-to-20-hour workday), Culligan predicts "dramatic improvement" by year's end, breakeven by mid-1963 and profit by 1964. Still, after years of Curtis' conservative Philadelphian management, which kept Independence Square, it remains to be seen if Culligan's removal of the Post from Philadelphia will also remove Philadelphia from the Post.
Even before encountering sex, most students are introduced to the symbols for sex—the circles, with arrow or cross attached, that serve as a biological shorthand for man ♂ and woman ♀. The notebook of the scientist records only two such symbols, but life in all its manifestations includes a great many more variations on the theme, and we offer, herewith, some suitable symbols of our own for a fuller glossary of these modern hieroglyphics.
While Playboy's most famous feminine friends have traditionally been the popular Playmates who grace our centerfold each month, through the years we have also featured an arresting variety of beautiful girls in non-Playmate picture stories. With these other girlfriends very much in our reminiscent thoughts, we've decided to depart from our usual birthday custom of passing in review favorite Playmates of the Past to share with you instead an affectionate and nostalgic Ninth Anniversary-toast to the most memorable and decorative of the Playmates' comely compatriots. Many of them are stars, most are in some phase of show business, and all, we aver, are worthy of this slightly sentimental, completely admiring Anniversary encore.
You may now ask the question which is on every lip: "Why marry?" The reasons are countless. Not every reason, however, would suit you. Perhaps we should thumb through a working checklist. Write down any reasons that appeal to you.
There was once a young shepherd in Castile who was both the most handsome and the most foolish lad in the region. They called him Silly John and only the cleverness of his mother kept him out of trouble.
An Extravaganza of exemplary Xmas largesse. Opposite page, clockwise from 11: vinyl overnight bag, magnesium frame, by Samsonite, $30. Fish-O-Therm, has temperature sensing element at end of 60-foot wire, by Minneapolis-Honeywell, $29.95. Hand-woven wool throw pillows, from America House, $25 each. English Leather lotion, 16 oz., by Mem, $6.50. Battery-operated Sound/Conditioner produces continuous background of natural sound effects, from Hammacher Schlemmer, $70. Tele-Sonic 8mm movie projector has remote control, automatic film threader, by Bell & Howell, $299.95. Matte chrome double casserole, with teak trim, by Maison Gourmet, $37.50. Maroon velvet host jacket, black satin trim, $49.50; olive-and-black imported silk jacket, black satin trim, $125, both by After Six. Flameware glass canapé warmer, from Abercrombie & Fitch, $10. Brass and steel sundial has sun-detonated cannon, by Abercrombie & Fitch, $125. Illuminated globe, has walnut stand, solid brass meridian, by Replogle Globes, $650. This page, clockwise from one: Big Ear listening device makes distant sounds audible, by Bell Products, $18. Suede shirt, by Cezar, $165. Imported Labyrinth game, from Abercrombie & Fitch, $8.50. Reindeer driving gloves, by Countess Mara, $20. Stereo table-model radio, AM-FM, shortwave, by Norelco, $156. Brushed stainless steel desk set: carafe with tray, round ashtray, lighter, cigarette box, $125; also note pad, $24; scissors-letter opener, $18; calendar holder, $17; desk blotter holder, $34; fountain pen holder, $26; cigar ashtray, $15; daily reminder, $24; by Smith Metal Arts. Calf pipe case, by Alfred Dunhill, $20 (without pipes). Pigskin-covered dice game set, by Dunhill, $85. Tray of jacaranda wood, by Dansk, $25. Eckel steel ski poles; Red Blizzard laminated cross-country skis, Kofix plastic bottoms, steel edges, Eckel bindings, from P&M Distributors, poles, $14.50; skis, $85; bindings, $16. Below skis: Cosmi 12-gauge, 8-shot automatic shotgun, stainless steel action, Italian walnut stock, from Abercrombie & Fitch, $750. Slim 3-way speaker system, oiled walnut finish, by Jensen, $89.50. Barrel of 16 live lobsters and one peck of clams, from Saltwater Farm, $29.95 (other quantities available).