Last July, in our pictorial on The Bunnies, we mentioned that Teddi Smith, a former Playmate-Bunny (July 1960), had switched to a receptionist's post in our office and was taking writing courses in hopes of breaking into print. This month, Teddi breaks into Playboy -- photographically, that is -- no less than five times. For an opener, she's the bounteous bathing beauty on this issue's cover. On page 111, she's the doll in the middle of the doorway in our annual Fall and Winter Fashion Forecast. And, in the same feature, she pops up again in a Rolls-Royce rumble seat on page 113. Then, on page 133, she becomes a potential corpse in the dramatic illustration of It Didn't Happen, Fredric Brown's suspenseful tale of a man who went beyond reality. Ultimately, on page 159, she shows up as a guest in the VIP Room of her old hutch-haunt, the Chicago Playboy Club, in a nine-page tour of our own Disneyland for Adults. (In the same feature, you'll find news of the first overseas link in our international key chain as well as sketches of several Clubs to come.)
Playboy, October, 1963, Vol. 10, No. 10. Published monthly by HMH Publishing Company, Inc., Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio St., Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the U. S., Its possessions, the pan American Union and Canada, $17 for three years, $13 for two years, $7 for one year. Elsewhere and $3 per year for foreign postage. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, 232 E. Ohio St., Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director, Jules Kase, Eastern Advertising Manager, 405 Park Ave., New York, New York 10022, MU 8-3030; 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.
Elsewhere in this issue, Playboy readers will find the initial installment of Lenny Bruce's autobiography, How to Talk Dirty and Influence People, a title which permits us to segue to the fact that playboy itself has done no little influencing of people over the years. Our latest leadership ploy was the pioneering in print of the by-now-renowned Tom Swifties (Playboy, February 1963). playboy has not rested on its Swifties laurels. We've been busy -- refining, polishing, supplementing -- until at last we think we've carried Tom Swift and His Jet-Propelled Adverbs to a new dimension of unabashed urbanity. To touch off what we predict will be a New Wave of Tom-foolery, we offer the following Swift switch, which we've christened Tom Dirties: "You sure look good in that sweater," said Tom pointedly; "We'll park here for a while and just look at the moon," said Tom feelingly; "I love those mirrors on the ceiling," said Tom reflectively; "This is the last time I'll ever spend the night with a nymphomaniac," said Tom limply; "I've developed a strange attachment to my trombone," said Tom hornily; "I'm afraid the contraceptive was defective," said Tom paternally; "You have unplumbed depths," said Tom shortly; "I made it with a girls' baseball team last night," said Tom asininely; "It certainly messes up a fellow's sex life being out here on the farm without women," said Tom sheepishly; "There's something I should have told you before we went to bed," said Tom infectiously; "There's more than one way of making love," said Tom doggedly; "We were made for each other," said Tom fitfully; "You know I would never take advantage of a virgin," said Tom penetratingly; "Well, it's time we changed the bed linen, anyway," said Tom aimlessly; "I learned a lot during my visit to Paris," said Tom indifferently; "And that's why I call it my six-shooter," said Tom repeatedly; "I'm not particularly interested in bosoms," said Tom cannily; "That's the last time I ever go to a brothel," said Tom crabbily; "You used that excuse last month," said Tom periodically; "It isn't easy making love in a canoe," said Tom tipsily; "I always feel like going to sleep afterward," said Tom piecefully; "I don't think I can make it again," said Tom softly.
Newest of the improvisational theaters is The Committee, administering satire, alcohol, coffee and food in spanking-new, Arab-blue quarters at Columbus and Broadway in San Francisco's jumping North Beach. Directed by Alan Myerson, who previously directed for The Second City, The Committee's staff includes Bobby Camp, ex-folk singer, ex-Second City mummer, the wild voice of the id of the group; Garry Goodrow, who is best known for his cool and mean Ernie in both the stage and film versions of The Connection -- he brings, along with a radiantly insane face, a gift for parody of the beat poets and the coolest of cats; Larry Hankin, a stand-up comic who stands up very tall, and excels in a lecture on the virtues of garbage ("That ain't garbage, son, that's refuse! Take some home to your child!"); Scott Beach, a former professor and disc jockey who can do rock-'n'-roll and oratorio singers, senators, and the horrid, hidebound square, with equal felicity; Kathryn Ish, a very handsome young lady; and Irene Riordan, who uses both bosom and crisp wit in a suburban-cocktail-party scene ("I'd like you to meet Mr. Jones, everybody. He's a Negro."). The group's combination of literate social and political satire, savantly admixed with plain joy in clowning, has been an immediate success in San Francisco. Its weakness thus far is that its members have not worked together long enough to find a steady level in their improvisations, but if Myerson cracks the whip on them hard enough, they threaten to equal Compass and Second City at their best. Director Myerson, a shrewd chap, has also provided food, drink, and pretty waitresses to supplement the satire. There are two shows nightly except Monday.
Women of the World is the second global tour conducted by Gualtiero (Mondo Cane) Jacopetti, in which he covers a lot of globes -- white, brown and black. He has Technicolored some 40 sequences about the ladies, focusing on oddity and paradox. In the former group: the 84 native wives of a wizened old Scotsman who is the only male on an island off New Guinea; the tattooing of Borneo belles; the annual meeting of a Singapore floozies' union; Paris clubs for queers and queeresses; Tahitian dancers getting hip to their hips; and secret shots of the Forbidden Street in Hamburg, with the notorious women in the windows -- for those who like their Hamburgers very, very well done. Among the contrasts: European women in a "painless childbirth" clinic -- and Maori men compelled to simulate labor pains while their wives deliver in the next room; a "false" factory in Los Angeles -- and a Malayan father playing wet nurse with half a coconut shell. Some of the scenes are obviously staged -- the bikinied babe at the film festival showing off her Cannes, the police raid on the Hong Kong floating brothels. And some are just jarring -- the stitching of Japanese women's eyelids, Bedouin women daubing themselves with camel dung, rich Swiss babes having their old face skin chemically burned off. Peter Ustinov's commentary tries to give the film an urbane tone, but it all adds up to less sophistication than sensation.
The Dave Brubeck Quartet at Carnegie Hall (Columbia) is a two-LP delight. All concerned, throughout the hour-and-a-half delineation of a dozen numbers, seem to have been at the peak of their creative powers -- from the opening St. Louis Blues to the group's hit closer, Take Five. Except for Castilian Drums, a 13-minute effort featuring Joe Morello (and we have an admitted prejudice against extended drum solos), the concert held us in rapt attention with its amazing inventiveness.
It is appropriate that Le Café Chambord should refer to itself as French Provincial, since there is really no one more sophisticated, foodwise, than the provincial Frenchman. Let us note here that Chambord has disappeared from Manhattan's 3rd Avenue -- much like the vanished el under which it stood for so many years -- and moved lock, stock, chef (Fernand Despans) and wine cellar in with La Côte Basque (5 East 55th Street), which bills itself as a French-seafood restaurant. The result is a fittingly prestigious backdrop for the highest of haute cuisine. The room is bright and cheerful, replete with wormwood and Tudor decorations as well as magnificently executed murals of the French seacoast, but everything fades before the food. There are specialties of the house that you are not likely to have at anybody else's house -- although, by some mysterious Gallic alchemy, the staff is capable of performing culinary miracles with the simplest of dishes. The menu reflects the restaurant's split personality, with Chambord's provincial cuisine à la carte on one side and Côte Basque's prix fixe dinner ($9.50) on the other. If your appetite and resources are as big as your eyes, you can eat your way from the coast to the provinces and back again. Crepe Farcie (crab meat with a cheese and lobster sauce) possesses a seductive flavor that is almost aphrodisiac. If you are in the mood to pique your taste buds with something more down-to-earth, try Côte Basque's Coulibiac de Saumon Basque (salmon, mushrooms, eggs and truffles in a cold loaf). The salmon we had was so delicate in flavor, we're convinced it never had to endure the hardy rigors of the sea. Le Homard a l'Amoricaine is a lobster in a startlingly quixotic brandy sauce which will arouse the interest of even the most blasé diner, and as routine a dish as duck in orange sauce in Chambord's knowledgeable hands does more for the bird than Audubon has done for the entire species. Vegetables, of course, are presented as if they were crown jewels. The wines served at the recommendation of the solicitous and notable sommelier, Marius Roussin, are from what is undoubtedly one of the world's premier cellars. The maître de is Ernest, and you are living dangerously if you dine à deux with less than $50 in tow. Closed Mondays, Le Café Chambord at La Côte Basque is open for lunch, with dinner served until 11 p.m.
The stern reward of Mary McCarthy's virtues is that if she writes what is merely a pretty good novel, it's a disappointment. In The Group (Harcourt, Brace & World, $5.95), she takes eight members of Vassar '33 from their graduation to 1940. The cast is assorted: an ambitious Westerner, and a romantic Bostonian; a pallid gal, and a frankly sexy one; a beau monde Lesbian, and so on. Their husbands and lovers include a playwright, a fund raiser, a painter, a doctor, an editor, a refugee. The themes are predictable, too: New Dealism, psychoanalysis, Hitler, Spanish Civil War, Leftist theater, sexual freedom, etc. The letdown is not in the choice of characters and themes -- what else could a Thirties novel of college grads in New York be about? -- but in the use of them, which, by McCarthy standards, is superficial. Instead of recreation, there is detail. ("Veal kidneys done with cooking sherry and mushrooms, and a marvelous jellied salad called Green Goddess, made with lime gelatin, shrimps, mayonnaise, and alligator pear, which could be fixed the night before in ramekins and then unfolded on lettuce cups.") Instead of wit, there is cute kidding. ("Libby MacAusland had a spiffy apartment in the Village.") Instead of characterization there is dossier. (Too long to quote.) The structural method is the set piece: a girl's sexual initiation and purchase of a diaphragm: a character vignette of a butler; a party that ends in a near rape. It is good social chronicle in the O'Hara mode, and various sections are eminently excerptable. But the novel we had a right to expect -- a book that combines the sociopolitical grasp of a Koestler with the precise bite of a Waugh, a marriage of extraordinary intellect and humanity -- that novel it isn't.
The following two-part question, which evolved from a late-night bull session, is merely theoretical but we'd like to get the playboy view on it. Here goes: (A) Suppose you are going to the races and a friend gives you $20 to bet on a particular horse. You get to the track and make the bet, but after the race is under way you discover that you've bought the wrong ticket. As fate would have it, the "wrong" horse wins and the ticket which you bought by mistake pays $670. Now what, ethically, should you do? (B) Same situation, except that the "right" horse wins and the ticket which you should have bought -- but didn't -- pays $670. Now what? -- B. A. and H. L., Miami, Florida.
Anyone who has ever tried to catch 40 winks knows how elusive the rascals can be; in fact, most people don't even know what they look like. Many a man has overlooked a slight simply because he did not recognize one. And can any general who has ever mounted an offensive display one in his trophy room? We doubt it. To remedy these quandaries, we crossed the wide semantic, trekked intrepidly into the land of duck-billed platitudes and lesser kudos, and there bagged the absolute limit in conversational creatures. Herewith, the results of our cliché safari: a prize collection of those beastly utterances with which all of us animate our discussions from time to time.
During the eight years that have elapsed since Elsa Martinelli untied her barmaid's apron in a Florentine trattoria and set out for Hollywood (via Rome, Paris and New York), she has been bussed by the best in the business (see below). But in Rampage, her newest flick, she is bussed as never before. Elsa, who is also the Contessa Mancinelli Scotti, is one of nine children of a waiter. Eventually she became a barmaid in a small café frequented, fortunately, by dress designer Roberto Capucci, who spied beneath her apron the assorted charms that have since made Elsa the subject of as much cinematic smoochery as any other star of our time. Capucci sped her to Rome where she became a model. Later she invaded Hollywood and has appeared in more than 20 films, although never before in such a delightful state of altogetherness as in the Seven Arts production of Rampage (see following pages).
We warmly endorse a trek south of the border this yuletide season into Mexico, Central or South America. In Mexico City, Xmas marks the spot with decorative pageantry and a hyperactive night life that runs the gamut from black-tie affairs to traditionally informal cantina hopping. Many of the top night-club acts here are freshly arrived from the international film festival at Acapulco, A gaudy beach ball well worth a look before its early-December closing. Among the less touristed Mexican locales that assume a special seasonal glow with candlelit posada processions are cobbled Guanajuato and San Miguel de Allende, both of which memorably fuse the feel of colonial Spain with ageless Indian beauty. If you're motoring through Mexico, you'll find excellent accommodations ranging from small country inns like the Hacienda Chorillo at Taxco and the Villa Montaña at Santa María near Morelia to the big country resorts like Ixtapan de la Sal and San José Purua; the latter boasts sparkling mineral-water baths in private pools just big enough for two.