According to the Chinese calendar, this is the Year of the Rabbit, a fact which we celebrate with a full report on The New York Playboy Club -- the sixth and largest link in our ever-lengthening key chain. When we opened our first Club three short years ago, we had only 31 Bunnies (including cover girl Kelly Collins). But Bunnies -- like Playboy Clubs -- proliferate and we now have 404 of them in our Clubs in Chicago, Miami, New Orleans, St. Louis, Phoenix and New York. Still more Bunnies are in training for our upcoming Clubs in San Francisco, Washington, D.C., Detroit, Baltimore and L.A. All of which keeps Kelly (now our chief Training Bunny) hopping -- via jet.
Playboy, April, 1963, Vol. 10, No. 4, 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. Chance 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; Detroit, Boulevard West Building, 2990 West Grand Boulevard, TR 5-7250, Joseph Guenther, 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; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N.E., Atlanta 5, GA., 233-6729
If those of you who are planning to visit the New York Metropolitan area are ready for our third annual tourist report, we shall proceed. Now then, the New Jersey Briar Pipe Company is at 18 E. 54th, in New York. The New York Cutting and Gumming Co. is in South Hackensack, N. J. Looking for a town called West New York? That's in New Jersey, too. The Times Square Window & House Cleaning Company is just off Union Square: while the Union Square Painting Company is at 152 W. 42nd, in the heart of Times Square. Be honest now, wouldn't you like to visit the Harlem River Produce Company? Fine. Start at the Harlem River and head south, go about 10 miles, and in a building somewhere near where the Hudson and East Rivers meet, you'll find it -- at 59 Pearl Street. The Bronx County Dental Society is at the Hotel Statler, in Manhattan. Manhattan College is at W. 242nd St., in the Bronx. The Brooklyn Foundry Company is in Long Island City, in Queens, while the Queens Machine Corporation is at 280 Starr Street, in Brooklyn. What was that? When you get to New York you'd like to buy a new Rambler? Go see one of the largest Rambler dealers in town -- Charles Kreisler, at 241 Park Avenue.
Most of America's low-budget movies have been low in quality, too. But now comes David and Lisa, a simple but not simple-minded story about a boarding school for emotionally disturbed adolescents. David is a high-strung teenager of high intelligence who cannot bear to be touched by anyone. Lisa is a shy, affection-hungry schizophrenic with the schizo's oft-observed compulsion to speak in rhyme. These two, mutually attracted, become firm friends; they are able to trust and help each other because they're both afflicted -- as if their psychoses were their means of communication. It's their movie, and in the main, Eleanor Perry's script and Frank Perry's direction sympathize, dramatize and realize. Keir Dullea (the young convict in The Hoodlum Priest) and Janet Margolin make the distressed duo truthfully touching. The 1962 Venice Film Festival voted David and Lisa "the best picture by a new director," and it wasn't talking through its Grand Canal.
Bert Lahr speaking S. J. Perelman's lines, as he does in The Beauty Part, provides a gaggle of laughs. Perelman has forcibly sewn the play together from a series of New Yorker pieces in which he panned America's cultural "awakening" -- the deception that anyone can paint, sculpt, make music or write New Yorker articles -- and in it he follows the progress, onward and downward in the arts, of a naive young Yale lad named Lance Weatherwax (Larry Hagman). Lance encounters at least five Lahrs; you never know behind which potted palm he may be lurking next. Bert plays: Milo Leotard Allardyce DuPlessis Weatherwax, Lance's father and a notorious Park Avenue lecher; Hyacinth Beddoes Laffoon, the manly lady publisher of a string of horror magazines; Harry Hubris, a big Hollywood movie mangler (and he poses -- don't ask why -- as the father of a Cambodian houseboy); Nelson Smedley, the richest, crankiest, creakiest old gink in the world; and hammy Judge Herman J. Rinderbrust, who has one eye on the TV cameras and the other on a defendant accused of "conspiracy to come out of a pie and dance with a gorilla." Perhaps the nuttiest thing about this nutty show is its title, which is good for one gag and has nothing whatever to do with anything else on stage. But then not much on stage has anything to do with anything else on stage. The beauty part is, who needs sense when you have such funny foolishness? At the Music Box, 239 West 45th Street.
The name of the game is blackjack; the object is to draw a higher total than the dealer but not to exceed 21. Simple enough -- except that even the most wishful fish knows that the house would not play unless the house expected to win. But that was before Beat the Dealer (Blaisdell, $4.95) by Edward O. Thorp, a remarkable inquiry into the laws of probability as they have never been applied to the game before and will never need to be again. Dr. Thorp, a mathematics professor at New Mexico State University, did his investigating with the aid of an IBM high-speed computer which, in a few brief hours, looked into the possibilities of some 10,000 man-years of hitting, sticking, splitting pairs and doubling down -- and showed that the house can be taken. His basic strategies, too complex for casual summary, demand days of study by even the most math-minded gamester. What they boil down to is a rapidly careful card count, by which the player becomes aware of certain decisively favorable situations when he should bet the limit. But they also boil down to several dozen complex charts, graphs and tables, a number of which the would-be expert must memorize cold. (Not by accident is the book issued by a publisher who usually handles texts.) Is it worth all the effort, or are we faced here with some academic hypothesis that will fall apart atop the tables, green baize before the dealer's baleful gaze? It is, and we aren't. Backed by two millionaires, the professor himself went to Nevada and put his calculations to the test. He ran a $10,000 bank roll up to $21,000 in 30 hours before the bell rang calling him back to class.
Detonations in varying degrees may be found on Explosion!/Terry Gibbs and His Exciting Big Band (Mercury) and Explosion! The Sound of slide Hampton (Atlantic). The Gibbs gig is just what the title implies. With Terry's torrid vibes in the van, the troops jump frenetically into the fray. The battleground is almost evenly divided between originals and vintage reprises, with the Gibbs gang stirring nostalgic memories of the great Herman Herds and Kenton contingents. Hampton's horde, amplified from his familiar Octet into 10 (or 11 when Latin percussion is added) men, is still founded on funk. Their unison riffs are very much soul-inspired, whether the base of operations is a Latin lilt, a show ballad such as Maria or the country-and-western-ish Your Cheatin' Heart.
Every time I get down to basics with my girl she insists that our affection find its deepest expression in pitch darkness. Since I personally would prefer to have at least one light on, these pleas for complete obscurity are beginning to bug me. I mean, is there something basically wrong with having a bit of illumination? Or is there perhaps something wrong with her? -- O. T., Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Within the past year, a Los Angeles advertising woman who used to spend most of her time tub-thumping bras and pancake make-up has metamorphosed into a pundit for millions of lonely and bewildered American women. With the publication of "Sex and the Single Girl," Helen Gurley Brown became the first in a new school of lovelorn literati to parlay sexually candid advice into a hefty bank account. Her little Baedeker of bedmanship, 267 pages of beauty hints, recipes and pithy exploration of male-female relationships, has sold 150,000 hard-cover copies. Warner Brothers paid $200,000 for the right to transform this grab bag into a Technicolor, career-girls-in New York film, the second highest price Hollywood has ever delivered for a work of nonfiction. An LP titled "Lessons in Love," with the 40-year-old author reciting breathless homilies on how to love a girl and how to love a man, was one of the Christmas season's heavier sellers. Her new syndicated newspaper column, "Woman Alone," dissects sex for spinsters in the boondocks. Her happy husband quit his film-producer job to counsel and advise her. She, in turn, left the ad agency to write more books. The next in line, "Sex and the Office," appears in the fall. Pocket Books shelled out $125,000 for its reprint rights after seeing a bare, 20-page outline.
When we first began writing this editorial statement of our beliefs and purposes, we had no intention of still being at it in the early spring, but there are buds pushing up through the sod and we've just seen our first robin redbreast. What better time to be writing about Puritanism, sex suppression, lawlessness, censorship, divorce, birth control and abortion?
Part I It was one of those Septembers when it seemed that the summer would never end. The five-mile promenade of Royale les Eaux, backed by trim lawns emblazoned at intervals with tricolor beds of salvia, alyssum and lobelia, was bright with flags and, on the longest beach in the north of France, the gay bathing tents still marched prettily down to the tideline in big, moneymaking battalions. Music, one of those lilting accordion waltzes, blared from the loudspeakers around the Olympic-size piscine and, from time to time, echoing above the music, a man's voice announced over the public address system that Philippe Bertrand, aged seven, was looking for his mother, that Yolande Lefèvre was waiting for her friends below the clock at the entrance, or that a Madame Dufours was demanded on the telephone. From the beach, particularly from the neighborhood of the three playground enclosures -- "Joie de Vivre," "Hélio" and "Azur" -- came a twitter of children's cries that waxed and waned with the thrill of their games and, farther out, on the firm sand left by the now distant sea, the shrill whistle of the physical-fitness instructor marshaled his teenagers through the last course of the day.
The first-nighters were lined up four abreast on the twin stairways leading to the imposing main entrance -- and halfway up and down the block toward Fifth and Madison Avenues. They had come in limousines and taxis and some even walked, in the blistery 25-degree cold and the swirling winds. They were the biggest names in the performing arts, converging (along with hundreds of only slightly less-illustrious folk) for the preview premiere, on December 8, of the New York Playboy Club at 5 East 59th Street, just a Bunny hop from Central Park and the Plaza.
Shaking his Feathery gray head over my old whipcord trousers, suppressing a sigh in the manner of a family doctor at the deathbed of a difficult but time-honored patient, Mr. Vara, the Demon Tailor of Columbus Avenue, said, "We must face it." He was kind but firm. "I should be the last man in the world to belittle first-rate stuff somewhat the worse for wear---"Here, he pushed up his spectacles and looked at his reflection in the fly-speckled mirror. "But if I draw any more thread out of the waistband to invisibly darn the bottoms, and vice versa, there will be nothing left of this garment but a G string and a pair of spats. I am sorry." He shrugged.
As difficult as jazz popularity is to achieve, it is even harder to sustain over a long period of time. New comets continually invade the firmament; new listeners are added each year and their quick enthusiasms alter the popularity scales. Yet, after 11 years as leader of his own quartet, Dave Brubeck is more firmly entrenched than ever in the often mercurial esteem of the jazz public.
Cheese Speaks many languages -- from the redolent gratings of parmesan floating atop French onion soup to the regal refulgence of a moist and plump cheesecake. Discriminating gourmets, accustomed to their cheese at the end of a meal, hardly need an interpreter to explain that roquefort from France, blue from Denmark, stilton from England and gorgonzola from Italy are all branches of the same aristocratic blue-veined family. Cheese's richest idiom, however, is on the fire -- melted down with kirsch, bubbling with ale, fried in crunchy croquettes, tossed into big onion pies. You may take your virginal emmentaler or gruyère for granted, but the first time you dip a heel of French bread into a hot Swiss fondue, your palate is ushered into a vast new velvety field of flavor, an experience possibly the aesthetic equal of seeing an alpenglow for the first time.
Though Brown-Tressed Sandra Settani doesn't know a ship's Plimsoll mark from a porthole, in the past year she has become one of Miami Beach's most sought-after deck hands -- for the same pleasantly see-worthy considerations that have led to her selection as our April Playmate. Born in Wisconsin and raised and schooled in Illinois (she was a psychology major for two years at Southern Illinois University), Sandra first visited Miami Beach on a vacation trip, and liked the local view of the good life so much that she stayed on to work as a secretary in a real estate office; she now shares quarters with another ex-Illinois girl in a pink-and-white apartment "brimming with clothes and mirrors" which overlooks the bay and a panorama of the glittery hotel strip. A refreshingly friendly and happy-go-lucky girl, Sandra thinks the keynote of her character is an insatiable curiosity about "the mechanics of everyone's personality," and admits that her main shortcoming is a penchant for procrastination ("Just call me the original disorganization girl"). Being a tall (5' 8-1/2"), green-eyed head-swiveler, she naturally receives her share of attention from date-minded local bloods, and has developed a philosophical attitude toward the necessity of keeping the wolves from her door: "I just try to be tactful, and hope that they respect me for being courteous to them. As to men in general, my favorites are all well read, unassuming, self-made types, and -- most important -- fun to be with." Sandra is a moderately active outdoor girl, and like most young beachniks is fond of swimming, sunbathing and riding in power boats with masculine company on balmy weekend afternoons. "Nighttimes," she confides, "my idea of the ideal date is a long and leisurely dinner in a Polynesian restaurant, followed by a quiet get-together with either his friends or mine, followed by a late visit to a small, romantic night spot where there's good music and dancing and talk." On dateless evenings Sandra likes to eat out ("Why should I punish myself with my own cooking?"), then retire at 9:30 onto her gigantic bed, there to lazily read herself to sleep (via Ayn Rand, John Steinbeck or Kahlil Gibran). Her daydreams are as unclouded and euphoric as the local weather reports: "Mostly, I just let events come as they may, with the only goal in mind of having a good time. However, someday I'd like to finish college -- maybe in Europe -- and then travel like those lucky girls in the steamship ads, going to every exotic place there is. After that, I'd like to settle in Hawaii and live in a bikini and muumuu." For an unclad glimpse of our extraordinary seaman, yachtsmen should turn forthwith to the gatefold, where sleepy Sandra is shown playing it cool, wearing nought but a sultry expression beneath her nautical hat.
An ingenious artist-friend of ours recently gave us a foolproof method for sculpting an elephant: "First, you get a huge block of granite; then you chip away everything that doesn't look like an elephant."
Emancipation and Eclecticism are the keynotes of the spring and summer silhouette: emancipation from the conservative tradition of male attire, eclecticism in the vast variety of liberated styles that promise to infuse vernal fashions with a mood of upbeat iconoclasm, a look of offbeat innovation. From lids to loafers, sportswear will dominate the sartorial scene with the boldest burst of new departures in a month of sun-days -- via styles sparked with uninhibited shades, unorthodox patterns and unconventional fabrics. In the shape of things to come, the tailored lines of Ivy will be trimmed to an ultraslim outline in every realm of casual wear. Only suit styles (text continued on page 107) will attempt to preserve some semblance of tradition in tone and profile. Retaining the tasteful restraint of natural shoulders, center vent, seat-length jacket, full chest expansion and pleatless belt-loop trousers, three-button models will remain indisputably in charge -- some with lapels rolled to the middle button in emulation of the two-button look. With slightly shaped shoulders and gently indented waistline, this Presidentially inspired style will continue to find favor among Jims slim enough to do it justice. Though last year's renaissance in double-breasted suits has since played itself out, the venturesome one-button model will be back in force with conservatively squared shoulders, Continental coat lengths and enough waist indentation to show light between the sleeves and jacket body. In quiet contrast to the unfettered shades and patterns which prevail in both dress and sportswear, suits will be setting a stylishly subdued pace in glen plaids of medium gray, moss green and tan; in nailhead and shepherd checks of putty and black, olive and navy, gray and olive, navy and gray; in hairlines and pin stripes of medium gray on black or blue, and light gray on charcoal; and in classic solids of black and navy. Materially speaking, bantamweight wool tropicals, gabardines, Dacron mixtures and polyester-worsteds will predominate; (text continued on next page) but watch for seersuckers to offset the low-key look with pronounced pencil stripes.
April 11 -- I'm wondering whether what I'm feeling is shock, fear or wonder that the rules might be different, the other side of the glass. Morality, I'd always thought, was a constant. And it must be; two sets of rules wouldn't be fair. Their censor simply slipped up; that's all it could have been.
From the imperious Queen of Sheba to pert Juliet Prowse, the African female has never ceased to arouse wanderlust in even the most worldly outlanders. Julius Caesar, Mark Antony, even wise King Solomon -- the number who have fallen victim to the sensuality of African women is legion. (And the legions range from Roman to Foreign.)
Ribald Classic: A Sackful of Truths--and Surprises
There Once Ruled in France a king who had a most unusual daughter. Not only was she exquisitely beautiful, but she had an almost uncanny skill in solving riddles. When she came of age, it was proclaimed throughout the kingdom that the Princess would marry the man who could pose a riddle too difficult for her to unravel; in the event, however, that she discovered the answer, the penalty for the unfortunate suitor would be death.
Those of us who recall the great old boxing films of the Thirties and Forties and who have been having our memories refreshed by the TV late shows are naturally quite caught up by what could be a current growing trend. As we all know, Kid Galahad has been revived on the screen and a new Broadway musical version of Golden Boy is on tap. This might very well be the start of a revival cycle which will include The Champion, Body and Soul and a whole gaggle of other old ring films.
Don't let this Annie's looks fool you, Folks. Take away her blonde hair and what have you got left?The sexiest bald-headed girl in the world!I tell you this kid's I great! ... A clean, healthy, simple type of comic the public wants today.Not her! Him!I like the kid's shape too, Solly.
In June, the South American ski season will be heading toward its peak -- and you'd do well to follow suit: head for the peaks that thrust upward in the snowgirded uplands of Bolivia and Chile. An overnight jet ride will waft you within range of such diverse accommodations as the Bolivian resort of Chacaltaya, 18,400 feet above sea level (where a remarkable 30¢ a day will purchase a room, three square meals and tow rides) to the $15-per-diem refinements of Chile's plush Hotel Portillo, where the business is going downhill in high style.