As this issue goes on sale, the annual cries of outrage concerning the commercialization of Christmas will be at their height. By the time it goes off sale, the ululations will have peaked out -- for another year. What better time to solve the problem, permanently and painlessly? This is a rhetorical question requiring mere assent; we have the solution and propose to present it, not as a Christmas gift, herewith.
I am falling in love with a girl who has a very bad reputation. She is "known" not only among my friends but, as I have recently discovered, by most everyone in town. Even though I have found that the rumors about her are, unfortunately, true, my feelings toward her are still the same. But I'm afraid that when and if I marry her, I will be laughed at by my friends and maybe even given the cold shoulder by business associates. What do I do? Ignore everyone else and continue to court her, or give her up as a lost cause? -- T. A., Tampa, Florida.
One of the brighter ideas of March is to turn it into a month of sun days spent far from habitual haunts -- there's no better time to shake off late-winter doldrums. While selecting your vacation site, we suggest you pay particular heed to the blues-banishing climate and palm-fringed benefits of the Hawaiian Islands, whose scenic beauty is abetted by cherry blossoms during March. Here the outer Neighbor Islands are becoming increasingly "in," as more and more knowledgeable journeymen bypass honky-tonk Honolulu in favor of less publicized, more pleasurable watering spots.
Playboy has become an increasingly popular topic of conversation over the last year or two, and comment on our success has often included discussion and debate on our doctrine and our editorial point of view -- in the popular press and various journals of opinion, as well as around the office water cooler, at fraternity bull sessions, at cocktail parties, club gatherings and wherever else urban men and women exchange ideas. Having heard so many others explain what Playboy is all about, we've decided it's time to speak out ourself on what we believe in, and what we feel Playboy represents in present-day society, permitting ourself a few personal asides on society itself along the way.
A prime example of ice sculpture she was, the glacial beauty in the come-on red dress, holding her own party in the corner of the room. Daniel inspected the attraction over the heads of her male admirers; fortunately, he was the tallest man in the crowd. For a moment, their eyes met and conducted a brief conversation. He got himself another drink and waited for an opening.
Of all the formulas concocted to cast off the post--New Year's Eve pall, none is more likely to recapture the previous night's comradery and smooth the rumpled feathers of the late-rising night owl quicker than a festive early-afternoon array of good food and drink. If you're the host of a holiday brunch, you're in the particularly attractive position of being able to stick close to your own glowing hearthside. Don't let your open house be too open; you'll want only those of your confreres and confidantes with whom you honestly enjoy eating and drinking. They should come as they are with no particular protocol for dress or diversion. A few may arrive at your door exhibiting a slight under-the-weather-beaten look. But after the first round of frozen screwdrivers, their listlessness will dissolve into spirited note-trading on the previous night's itineraries. This urbane renewal of the year-end's wassailing has its roots in history. In the days when New York was Nieuw Amsterdam, Dutch bachelors on New Year's morning always called on young Nieuw Amsterdamsels. After eight or ten stops and eight or ten punch bowls, the average young Dutchman would begin Zuider Zeeing things, and would then have to be carefully guided home on the arms of his nearest Dutch uncle. After your second or third round of drinks, the Japanese New Year's celebration lasting an entire week begins to make more and more sense. The proper milieu for your brunch is, of course, the inviting expanse before a blazing log fire, close enough to the buffet table to savor the fragrance of scrambled eggs and truffles, of finnan haddie and capers, of sausages sizzling in a chafing dish. Although your agenda may be vaguely scheduled for a noonish kickoff, the whole day's docket should be as flexible as possible. Brunchers, always a law unto themselves, are entitled to the privilege of eating when they're hungry and drinking when they're dry in either order. Only one exception comes to mind. If there's to be revelry around a bowl of creamy eggnog, this event is best billed after the food is offered. The same counsel holds for sherry flips or port flips, both of which are quasi desserts and are best enjoyed after eating. Every pick-me-up should produce the glowing effects of a hot-and-cold shower, alternately soothing and stimulating. When you mix the bloody marys, there should be an extra dash of Tabasco, an extra squirt of lemon juice. Let the jigger runneth over when you pour the cognac or kirsch on the rocks.
In the wide, and sometimes weird, world of publishing, 1962 may well be remembered as The Year of the Coloring Book. Who before then would have guessed that droves of adults would pay loot for the privilege of seeing their foibles parodied in sprightly facsimiles of children's entertainment? Who indeed but three Chicago advertising copywriters-Marcie Hans, Dennis Altman and Martin A. Cohen-who started the fad with The Executive Coloring Book. To date, it has sold nearly 300,000 copies and has spawned scores of successors, including The Businessman's Coloring Book, The Corporation Coloring Book, The Psychiatric Coloring Book, The JFK Coloring Book, The New Frontier Coloring Book and-so help us-The Radio Time Buyer's Coloring Book. Angered at first by their imitators, Executive's execs filed a fistful of suits, but-perhaps mellowed by moola-they have since desisted, in favor of issuing a second offering of their own- The John Birch Coloring Book. At the height-or depth-of this growing glut, The Realist, a one-man gadfly journal, got into the act when its razor-witted editor, Paul Krassner (who is also a Playboy Contributing Editor), suggested several icon-tumbling, taste-defying, stuffed-shirt-pricking coloring-book titles. Among them are The U.S. Sailors Rendered Impotent by a Six-Month Cruise on a Nuclear Sub Coloring Book, The Braille Coloring Book for Use with Finger Paint and The Police Kicking S--t Out of Non-Violent Ban the Bomb Demonstrators Coloring Book. Eying all of this activity-color our eyes jaundiced-we realized we'd be remiss if we did not offer our readers a New Year's chance to flex their crayons with their own Playboy Coloring Book.
Atop our sartorial ski poll, I to r: bulky-knit Icelandic-patterned boat-neck lamb's-wool pullover, by P & M Distributors, $27.50; hand-loomed cable-knit wool-nylon pullover with slit collar, silver link-chain closure, by Kingstone, $30; Norwegian-patterned brushed-wool cardigan with convertible turtleneck collar, zip front, by Alps, $18.
When elizabeth taylor applied a six-inch Egyptian asp to her snowy bosom in Rome last summer, and thereby brought to a close the celluloid life of Cleopatra, the gesture was fraught with symbolic irony: While she dispatched the Nile Queen, Liz was also writing finis to the costliest movie opus in history, 20th Century-Fox's nearly calamitous Cleopatra. Bedeviled by Elizabeth's illnesses, hamstrung by pyramiding production costs and plagued by the offscreen antics of its principals, the epic will start its run this spring a hefty $37,000,000 in the red, with the future of Fox's fortunes riding squarely on its box-office take. When the first flack-happy press releases appeared announcing that Queen Liz had been signed to play Queen Cleo, the role-call struck most observers as an auspicious, even inevitable, choice. Soon after she had made it into Hollywood's big kleigs in National Velvet, Liz began garnering praise for her near-flawless feature attractions and her voluptuous body; with maturity and experience her thesping expertise developed apace, and in such films as Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Butterfield 8 (for which she won an Oscar) she gained wide respect. It seemed logical that the lovely and talented Miss Taylor should want to essay a role traditionally coveted by other gifted actresses (some past Cleos of stage and screen: Helen Hayes in Shaw's Caesar and Cleopatra, Vivian Leigh in the film version, Tallulah Bankhead in Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra, Claudette Colbert in DeMille's Cleopatra). Too, there seemed an uncanny parallel between the historical Cleo and the new pretender on her throne: Both were renowned as young beauties, both flopped in their first two marriages (Cleo couldn't make a go of it with either of her two kid brothers; Liz shucked Nicky Hilton, then Michael Wilding), both were then snowed by an older Caesar-type who was fated to die violently (Cleo had the real McCoy, Liz the imperial impresario, Mike Todd), both then snared new regents and were accused of swiping them from sweet, defenseless wives (Cleo got Antony from Octavia, Liz got Eddie Fisher from Debbie Reynolds). Despite the happy omen of such carbon copy typecasting, Cleopatra came a cropper soon after filming began in London in 1960; Liz first contracted meningitis, then a near-fatal case of double pneumonia, and the entire production had to be halted while she recuperated. This ill-starred beginning drained Fox coffers of $5,000,000, and resulted in the ash-canning of hundreds of thousands of feet of film. With Liz again back in shape in the fall of 1961, cameras once more began to roll -- this time in sunny Italy, where Liz and husband Eddie were housed in a 14-room villa off the Appian Way. Cleopatra then lurched forward on its costly hegira (decorative touches like the reconstructions of the Roman Forum and Cleopatra's Alexandrine palace near Anzio added to the general fee-for-all), only to run into a new kind of trouble when Welsh actor Richard Burton was welcomed to the pyramid club to In the much discussed but hitherto unseen nude scene from Cleopatra, Elizabeth Taylor reclines regally beneath the ministering play Mark Antony. Eddie, Liz and Richard started their triangle in friendly enough fashion, even making the night-club scene in Rome on New Year's Eve as a threesome. Soon, however, it was rumored that Richard and Liz were pursuing their two-on-the-Nile duet off-camera, a suspicion strikingly confirmed by Liz and Richard during late-hour dancing and nuzzling in the Eternal City's publican pubs. (Pestered by the flash cameras of the predatory paperazzi, the two turned elsewhere for privacy, found that where there's a villa, there's a way.) This revelation set off a Roman scandal whose repercussions were gleefully reported by the world's press. The comedy of eros unfolded with memorable confusion: Eddie flew to Manhattan for a checkup in a private psychiatric hospital, where he called reports of a marital crack-up "ridiculous and absolutely false"; hands of a masseuse and in one memorable moment of Egyptian mummery proves that she is indeed a dish fit for the gods.
Did you ever think, while mulling resolutions for the coming year, how the tide of history might have changed if, just a year ago, some famous folk had made a few unusual New Year's resolutions and stuck by them? Just for the fun of it, and with the help of 20/20 hindsight, we've done it for them. Here's our annual list of resolutions some famous people might have made a year ago -- but didn't.
That dusty cliché about good things coming in small packages was given pleasant new life for us on a recent trek to California when we were introduced to a petite brunette named Judi Monterey, an all-girl girl who stands just 5'1" in her Capezios and whose weight rounds off at 100 pounds. Pert Judi so impressed us with her Playmate potential that we asked her on the spot if she would help us start the new year in style as our Miss January. Judi's response, like her, was short and sweet: She said she'd be delighted. A fun-loving peach who turns 19 this month, Judi has been ripening in the California sun all her life -- born in Bell, she was raised in nearby Santa Barbara where she now lives, with roommate, in a newly constructed apartment building. Out on her own in the warm, affable world after graduating from Santa Barbara High, young Miss Monterey first tried working as a governess, lasted one unrewarding week ("I detest domesticity and kids," she says firmly, then adds, "at least for the time being"); she then found a more logical métier modeling for the local Brooks Institute of Photography. A dedicated slugabed, she usually chooses to snooze till noon in her white-walled bedroom, which is modernistically decorated with black ceramic plaques, black wrought-iron stands and one large red stuffed hound dog. Afternoons she customarily carries out modeling assignments, then strolls through Santa Barbara on long, lazy window-shopping sprees, or perhaps has an obliging male take her on a top-down sight-seeing spin through the countryside. By nightfall, Miss January's compact motor has been fully energized, and she is ready to be whisked away to dinner (filet mignon, heavy on the mushrooms), thence to a movie (preferably with Paul Newman or Frank Sinatra on the marquee) or the dog track ("The ones with the saddest eyes always win"), and, if she can wangle it, a late-in-the-date scoop of banana ice cream. On dateless nights she scrunches up in a big leather chair to watch Casey or Dillon on TV, or catches up on her reading (she's currently perusing two popular tomes: The Carpetbaggers and The Fountainhead), or earnestly putters with her two-year-old stamp collection while Sinatra or Buddy Greco croons softly from her phonograph. Judi's appealing aura of freshness and glowing health is abetted considerably by her pet luxury: Every day she indulges herself with long and fragrant bubble baths. Though her suitable-for-framing frame (34-22-33) is admirably mature, Judi's youthful visage causes many to underestimate her age, a tendency she claims does not bother her a whit. Her chief gripe with mankind at the moment is those conceited members of the vigorous sex who assume they are irresistible. Judi is sold on the Golden State, proves her stay-put devotion by pointing out that she has never traveled anywhere by plane, train or boat. "Why travel," she asks, "when everything is right here?", a rhetorical query of unassailable logic. She admits to a warm regard for the big-band sound of Count Basie, likes old James Dean flicks, dancing, lobster, skating, and the kind of a man who reads Playboy. We are confident the attraction is mutual.
I welcome Mr. Mailer's interest in the American Right Wing. On behalf of the Right Wing let me say that we, in turn, are interested in Mr. Mailer, and look forward to co-existence and cultural exchanges with him in the years to come. I hope we can maintain his interest, though I confess to certain misgivings. I am not sure we have enough sexual neuroses for him. But if we have any at all, no doubt he will find them, and elebrate them if not here tonight, certainly in a forthcoming political tract, perhaps in his sequel to the essay in which he gave to a world tormented by an inexact knowledge of the causes of tension between the Negro and the white races in the South, the long-awaited answer, namely that all Southern politics reflects the white man's resentment of the superior sexual potency of the Negro male. Mr. Mailer took his thesis--easily the most endearing thing he has ever done--to Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt, to ask her benediction upon it. She replied that the thesis was "horrible," thus filling Mr. Mailer with such fierce delight that he has never ceased describing her reaction, commenting that he must be responsible for the very first use of that overwrought word by that lady in her long, and very talkative, career.
Many years ago, I hired a man -- call him George Miller, it's close enough -- to superintend operations on some oil properties I owned outside Los Angeles, California. He was an honest, hardworking individual. He knew the oil business. His salary was commensurate with the responsibilities of his position, and he seemed entirely satisfied with both his job and the pay he received. Yet, whenever I visited the properties and inspected the drilling sites, rigs and producing wells, I invariably noted things I felt were being done in wrong or inefficient ways.
Apart from priests and lawyers, anybody who claims to have had heart-to-heart conversation with Sonny Liston is either a ventriloquist or a liar. He has no inclination to talk and if he had he couldn't. Hence, practically every word he has ever said in public has been taken down and treasured, quoted and requoted. "All I want is a referee who can count past eight" has been translated into 36 languages. So has "In this business you go into the ring to beat the other fellow." As for "Cawfee? You go ask Patterson for cawfee. I ain't got no cawfee. I can't afford no cawfee. You ask Patterson for cawfee!" -- that swept the world. It was one of the longest speeches Liston had ever made, and there was passion in it; some said a kind of wild poetry.
The contest between the heavyweight champion of the world and his logical challenger has drawn me to ringside since the days when Joe Louis was taking his first giant steps. I flew from California to New York in the slow prop days to watch Billy Conn move smartly around the impassive Bomber, with upset fever mounting until the champion caught up with the cocky light heavyweight from Pittsburgh in the 13th round. Prizefighting is a brutal sport; I have been involved in a love-hate relationship with it since my childhood days when I kept scrapbooks of my boxing idols, Benny Leonard, Fidel La Barba, the Negro mammoth George Godfrey, Mushy Callahan, whose autographed boxing gloves hung in a place of honor over my bed after he defeated the West Coast Battling Nelson, Ace Hudkins, destroyer of Ruby Goldstein.
When the history of the western world is finally written -- that is, if anybody survives to set it down -- one type of person will be noted as the perfect symbol, if not a major cause, of the dreadful and ridiculous dilemma of this age of cowed men and bullish women. That figure will be no ruling male, no president, hero, genius, statesman, athlete or other such pants-wearing Influence as has usually swayed the tides of human affairs. It will be a woman, a woman of a special kind -- if the term woman may be stretched beyond natural compass to include sub-humanoids whose main function is to sabotage sexuality.
Mort Sahl has long been one of Playboy's favorite comedic commentators on the contemporary scene. During the year just past, he had some amusing things to say about the magazine and the key club that Playboy's editors felt readers would enjoy, so Mort consented to putting them, down on paper, just the way he said them in his night-club act. For this reading, imagine you're in your favorite club: Mort is onstage, in his familiar sweater and open-necked shirt, but instead of the usual newspaper, he is holding Playboy.
No man can ever reveal me to the world more vividly than I have chosen to reveal myself. No man can conceal himself from his fellow men, for everything he fashions and creates interprets him. I tell people all about myself in my books.
The new year, wrote poet Edward Fitzgerald, is a time for "reviving old desires." So it is with New Year's resolve that we now recall the joys -- or rather, the Myras, Lauras, Robertas and Junes -- that unfolded before us in our past 12 Playmate-of-the-Month features. The happy and obviously rewarding search for our perfect dozen took us this year to the north woods of Canada (for two Playmates), to the sound stages of Hollywood (for two more), to a country club, a department store, a riding stable, and -- not surprisingly -- to our own Playboy Clubs. Conjuring up the pleasures of the not-so-distant past, our sentimental journey begins with a return to languid Laura Young, whom we first met on the rolling green of a golf course where she carded an impressive 36-25-36. Since appearing as our Playmate in October, Laura has attracted a national gallery as a fashion model.
A Garrison had been set up in Turino for the purpose of providing quarters for the wives of Italian Army officers on the march. Named to the detail in charge of this garrison was a youthful sergeant, known among his comrades for his ability to enjoy even the most adverse circumstances.
If you are still with us we will assume you have decided to get married. Your problem, then, will be to select your first wife, and to marry her quickly, since she will not have the qualities that make for a suitable fiancée.
Santa Claus! ... Why this is a Surprise! What ever are you doing here Tonight?Hohoho, Annie Fanny...It's a very special night Tonight ... A Holiday Night.! Do you know why I should not come bearing gifts on this night?New Year's Eve?
PLAYBOY, JANUARY, 1963, VOL. 10. NO. 1, PUBLISHED MONTHLY BY HMH PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC., PLAYBOY BUILDING, 232 £ OHIO ST.. CHICAGO 11, ILLINOIS SUBSCRIPTIONS: IN THE U.S., ITS POSSESSIONS, THE PAN AMERICAN UNION AND PLAYDOV. 232 E. OHIO ST.. CHICAGO 11. ILLINOIS, AND ALLOW 30 DAYS FOR CHANGE ADVERTISING; HOWARD W. LEDERER. ADVERTISING DIRECTOR. JULES KASE, EASTERN ADVERTISING MANAGER, 7 20 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK 19, NEW YORK, Cl 5-2620; BRANCH OFFICES: CHICAGO, PLAYBOY BUILDING, 232 E. OHIO ST., Ml 2-iOOO, JOE FALL. MIDWESTERN ADVERTISING MAN-EASTERN, FLORIDA AND CARIBBEAN REPRESENTATIVE, P1RNIE ft BROWN. 3I0B PIEDMONT RD., N.E., ATLANTA 5, GA., 233-6729.