Our fetching cover girl, Sharon Rogers (one of our Club Bunnies), prettily keynotes the theme of this issue's two featured photo extravaganzas. The first is Skiing U.S.A., an 11-page pictorial-cum-text which shows that skiing can be the most convivial of sports, and that's no snow job. The second is our 12-page tribute to The Girls of Canada. Our Canadian caper, we suspect, will go a long way toward melting any snowbound images associated with our neighbor to the north. The summer days are long and lovely there, and so are the girls. In fact, two of last year's most popular Playmates -- Pamela Gordon (Miss March 1962) and Unne Terjesen (Miss July 1962) -- were discovered by us during a north-of-the-border expedition.
Playboy, November, 1963, Vol. 10, No. 11. 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 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, 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, GA, 30305, 233-6729.
For many years it has been thought that the mysterious proliferation of wire coat hangers in dark closets has been the result of their rapid rate of reproduction. Recent studies, however, have uncovered a remarkable connection between this fecundity and the well-known fact that it is almost always impossible to find a beer-can opener when you want one. This scientific break-through reveals that the beer-can opener is in reality the larval stage of the wire coat hanger. While you're scratching around for it in kitchen drawers, it's quietly pupating somewhere, to emerge a few weeks later as an adult coat hanger, ready to deposit its rust on your linen jacket.
The Cincinnati Kid by Richard Jessup (Little Brown, $3.95) concerns a studpoker pro, a "three-river man" -- which means he has played in all the important places for a card man to play. But the Kid is still number two and he wants to be number one. "We all gotta know," the Kid's mentor tells him. "Some time or other, we gotta find out how much juice we got." And so Jessup sets up the classic confrontation -- the grizzled gun-fighter vs. the smooth-faced boy, the young challenger against the heavyweight champ. As a whore once warned the Kid about number-one man Lancey Hodges: "The sonsabitch is cold. I seen him get a feller with a futh card and rattle him s' bad, the feller quit ... and went square." We won't tell you how it turns out for the Kid, except that after the Big Hand, he realizes "that for every number-one man, there is a number-two man, and that because of this a man cannot retreat from life." That is, if you can't be a winner, be a philosopher. Jessup attempts to do for stud poker what The Hustler tried to do for pocket billiards. There is, in fact, no small resemblance between the two books--in style and temperament, in the dealing in of a superfluous love all air, and in the expectation of a motion-picture sale. Which is all right by us.
One of the giants among jazz singers, Joe Williams on Jump for Joy (Victor) displays the phrasing and punch that brought him fame in his Count Basie days. Particularly pleasing are his performances of Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams. Just a-Sittin' and a-Rockin' and the title tune. The arrangements by Jimmy Jones and Oliver Nelson add luster to the outing.
En route to the screen, The Leopard has changed few of its spots -- maybe fewer than it should have. Luchino (Rocca) Visconti marched at the head of the column of screen writers who invaded Di Lampedusa's lustrous novel, and he also directed. Like most of his work, the result is both talented and tedious. The plot turns on a turning point in history: from Garibaldi's invasion of Sicily in 1869 to the resulting plebiscite. Visconti has tried to capture epic sense rather than whoop it up with movie epic -- and sometimes he succeeds. His battles, startlingly staged, are the savage, small-scale lights that dethroned dynasties. His color camera splashes the screen with Sicilian splendors. His costuming and make-up create portrait galleries that come impossibly to motion. To motion, yet not to life: the film's nuances are too novelistic, its cutting leaves things cloudy, the dubbing is often disastrous, and the casting of the Prince is catastrophic. Burt Lancaster, well-wigged, looks lordly, but when he speaks or moves, he is just plain folks. It is only right that he should pronounce "Bourbon" like the whiskey. At the start Alain Delon, as his nephew, has youthful dash, but he gets dotty. Claudia Cardinale, an uncommon commoner's daughter, smiles, scowls and wiggles at appropriate times. Further condensation would only add further confusion to this almost-three-hour chronicle. It's simply not a filmic drama, though some chunks are very dramatic film.
For two years I have been dating -- on and off -- a girl whose nose resembles that of a boxer. Behind that nose is a sweet, lovable, understanding human being. But the sight of that sniffer puts me off. Should I accept her as is, try. to tell her in a nice way to somehow correct this defect, or simply forget her? -- W. S., Chicago, Illinois.
A most suasive reason awaits those who may be tempted to holiday in Europe this winter: a chance to witness the spectacle of the 1964 Winter Olympics, which will be getting under way in late January at Austria's Innsbruck. Included in the Olympics' glittery main attractions will be skating events in the city itself at a slick new ice arena and at the Messehall Rink, ski jumping at the Bergisel Jump (five minutes by car from the heart of town) and bobsledding, tobogganing and men's downhill ski racing at Igls just outside of town. The local Tyrolean night life will be jumping, too -- though not on skis -- as the assembled international winter set dedicate themselves to the celebration of victories and the drowning of sorrows.
To judge from outward appearances, James Riddle Hoffa would, seem to be no more or less than a respectable, if somewhat colorless, citizen. Aged 50, height 5'5 1/2", weight 185 pounds, he has lived for 24 years in an unfashionable neighborhood of suburban Detroit in an unpretentious brick home which he originally bought for $6800. Father of two children, a boy and girl, he neither smokes nor drinks and is said to be a devoted family man. His only passion, beyond a modest predilection for playing the horses, would seem to be his job -- as president of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters, the largest and wealthiest labor union in the world, and an organization which Attorney General Robert Kennedy has called "the most powerful institution in this country -- aside from the United States Government itself."
George Bernard Shaw wrote, "All censorships exist to prevent anyone from challenging current conceptions and existing institutions. All progress is initiated by challenging current conceptions, and executed by supplanting existing institutions. Consequently, the first condition of progress is the removal of censorships."
Now, once upon a time there was a young lion and his name was -- well, I don't really know what his name was because he lived in the jungle with a lot of other lions and if he did have a name it certainly wasn't a name like Joe or Ernie or anything like that. No, it was more of a lion name like, oh, maybe Grograph or Ruggrrg or Grmmff or Grrrrr.
A few months ago I had my first experience with LSD 25. A 12-hour session with the mind-dilating compound dispatched me on a trip through the cosmos inside my head. LSD enables everyone to become an astronaut of himself. During this flight beyond time into the depths of consciousness, each of us can explore an inward universe filled with both violent and peaceful revelations.
Between culture and the individual the relationship is, and always has been, strangely ambivalent. We are at once the beneficiaries of our culture and its victims. Without culture, and without that precondition of all culture, language, man would be no more than another species of baboon. It is to language and culture that we owe our humanity. And "What a piece of work is a man!" says Hamlet: "How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! ... in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god!" But, alas, in the intervals of being noble, rational and potentially infinite,
"... Our normal waking consciousness, rational consciousness as we call it, is but one special type of consciousness, whilst all about it, parted from it by the filmiest of screens, there lie potential forms of consciousness entirely different ... No account of the universe in its totality can be final which leaves these other forms of consciousness quite disregarded. How to regard them is the question ..."
The question of what is bringing so many ski-happy Mohammeds to the mountains has begun to intrigue motivational-research men and psychiatrists, who are especially interested in skiing's allure for single men and women. Dr. James Knight of Tulane Medical School describes it as "A philosophy of living with, and not against, the elements." Dr. Knight adds to this the observation (apparent even to those not oriented psychiatrically): "Girls dress in very seductive fashions and exhibit their sex in stimulating ways."
In a World overpopulated with would-be career girls, we were cheered recently to uncover a capable young lass who desires only happiness -- despite a sparkling array of talent which could kindle fiery ambition even in a less volatile framework. This take-life-as-she-finds-it girl is umber-tressed Terre Tucker, our November Playmate, an emerald-eyed 19-year-old who ripened under Arizona sunshine and emigrated to Chicago via Beverly Hills and Las Vegas. Though peripatetic Terre (pronounced "Terry") is an accomplished guitarist ("My playing has a long way to go -- but it's sufficient for now"), who will provide her own vocal accompaniment at the drop of a chord ("I think I have a good voice -- in fact, I'm proud of it"), she aspires to a performing career only tentatively. "Some day I may have to work steadily," she admits, "and if that day comes I would enjoy acting and singing." Currently between jobs and living on savings, our Miss November has turned in creditable performances in multifold métiers: she played salesgirl for several months at O'Brian's Casuals in Phoenix, won her wings as a Transcontinental stewardess, and enhanced the summer scenery at a Phoenix watering spot as Arizona's most lissome lifeguard. Rescue and resuscitation techniques being what they are, it's not surprising that the number of near-drownings in Terre's territory rose alarmingly. A compulsive gin-rummy player ("I'm really hooked on the game") who has been known to manipulate both cards and guitar simultaneously, Miss November is a folk aficionado and Baezophile who finds chain-gang songs irresistibly captivating. On a typical day, Terre may snooze out the forenoon before rising for a troubadour stroll down North State Parkway with roomie Sharon Rogers (this month's cover girl), during which the two may tarry for a song or a hand of gin, either in the park or at a nearby pizzeria. Some nights, Terre goes to The Happy Medium, a theater-café, to visit friends appearing in the show. Until she finds the man in her life ("Tall, intelligent, ambitious and thoroughly in love with me"), Terre -- admittedly an ingénue -- is content with her guitar-and-gin-rummy days as a bachelor girl. For an eyeful of Terre at her ingenuous best, see gatefold.
Bachelors have come a long way in the world of fine holiday cookery since America's first feast -- that three-day eating and drinking session in Plymouth in 1621. Not that Thanksgiving got its start in Massachusetts. Long before the Pilgrims' bash, there were all kinds of thanksgivings not only in England and on the Continent, but even in pagan times when unbridled thanks were offered to Demeter, the Greek goddess of fruitfulness. Any modern-day bachelor intimately sharing his holiday food and drink governs himself by a happy principle laid down during the reign of the Elizabethan Queen Elizabeth, who decreed that during days of thanksgiving there should be no servile labor permitted under penalty of harsh punishment. A bachelor's normal resistance to hard labor at the range asserts itself particularly around the fourth Thursday in (continued on page 184)Thanksgiving Dinner(continued from page 117) November. It's an aversion that happens to be one of the best possible guidelines for any holiday menu.
He stood hesitantly inside the door. He was wearing the coat to the blue suit and the pants to the brown suit because the coat had gone of the one and the pants of the other. The shirt was a pale blue, a different shade from the coat, and he hoped that no one would notice that he was not wearing socks. He couldn't bear socks with holes in them; he didn't have any other kind.
Canadian Champagne is sweeter than American, and it soothes the palate with a slightly softer touch. So, too, the girls of Canada. Though their eye shadow tends to be by Helena Rubinstein and their small talk by Dorothy Kilgallen, these exemplary examples of North American womanhood seem to ripen on more pliant vines than the American growth -- and to the connoisseur their bouquet is perceptibly sweeter and softer. In short: If the ambition of the American variety is to capture a man and use him, the inclination of the Canadian variety is still, as often as not, to capture a man and let him use her.
A certain lady in Ephesus loved her husband so dearly and was so faithful to him that people came from far and wide to gaze upon her. Delegations of matrons traveled from foreign lands for inspiration; maidens from all Greece and Asia Minor vowed to emulate her; young men in search of wives compared her with their sweethearts; and pilgrims who visited the city to see one of the Seven Wonders of the World, the Temple of Diana, went home insisting that in that wife they had seen the Eighth.
Synopsis:Last month, in Part I of his autobiography, Lenny Bruce detailed the crazy quilt of childhood experiences that influenced his development into the most controversial comedian of our time. He described his Depression- and divorce-sundered family; his awkward introduction to sex; his two happy years with a hard-working farm family and the disillusionment that followed his discovery that his self-adopted "family" considered him just another hired hand. He told of his enlistment, at 16, in the Navy during World War II; of his preference for battle over boredom on the U.S.S. Brooklyn: and of winning a speedy discharge at war's end by masquerading as a WAVE. Finally, he recounted his first onstage encounter with show business -- as emcee for his mother's dance act. Beginning Part II, we find Bruce, in 1945, unsteadily perched on the bottom rung of vaudeville's rickety ladder to fame.
The Man of Sartorial savoir-faire is known no less for his receptivity to correct new styles than for his adherence to fashion traditions. Believing our readers to fit this description, we predict they'll approve a refreshing departure from formal-wear tradition, designed by Playboy's Fashion Director Robert L. Green: the separate dinner jacket, worn in co-ordination with any regulation formal trousers. Tastefully tailored to fit the lean physique and contemporary tastes of the style-wise urbanite, it's unmistakably individual, unimpeachably correct in black plaid-weave Italian silk with one-button front, natural shoulders, satin-piped notched lapels, sleeve cuffs, black-silk lining, double-piped pockets, no vents, $90, matching formal tie and waistcoat with three-button front, satin piping, two pockets, $25, all by After Six. No less impeccable are his finely pleated English-cotton-voile formal shirt with modified-spread collar, by Sulka, $23; black patent-leather formal shoes, by Bostonian, $21.95.
Moviegoers Should Not be bothered by the fact that Cleopatra, a Queen for Caesar was produced on a smaller budget than the current Liz Taylor vehicle, especially when they view the effect of cost cutting in the costuming department. Though there's plenty of epidermis in 20th Century-Fox's Cleo, with Liz all but busting out of her gowns and going all out in the massage-table sequence we showed you last January, the historically accurate nudity in the rug-rolling first meeting between Cleo and Caesar inexplicably found Miss Taylor fully draped. Not so in the Italian version, enacted here by Pascale Petit, who gives onetime Tarzan Gordon Scott something to really beat his chest and howl about, as she rises nimbly from rug to riches. Feeling that too much exposure never hurts an actress' image, Pascale easily outstrips Liz and amply demonstrates that the biggest wheels were won over, then as now, by rolling out the carpet.
Annie, if they don't allow men on the premises, who is he? ... And why is he talking to the lamppost?Oh, they allow Mr. Backus the handyman because of his eyesight ... and he thinks he's talking to Mrs. Suffrage!