Our own rabbit's bussed cheek comes with the compliments of December's puckered Playmate, Donna Michelle, who has thrown a kiss his way in honor of the first of two special issues celebrating Playboy's 10th birthday. The diecut double cover is a unique portent of the king-sized offering of Christmas goodies within its gold-trimmed wrappings. On the inside, Playboy has placed an eye-catching gift assortment of well-chosen words, jewel-bright photos and fine artwork.
Playboy, December, 1963, Vol. 10, No. 12. 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-B790. Stanley L. Perkins, Manager; San Francisco, Ill Sutter St., YU 2-7994. Robert E. Stephens, Manager; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N. E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
Instead of placing still more names in nomination for our ever-lengthening list of Unlikely Couples, we've decided to introduce a brand-new — and we hope no less pleasantly pointless — parlor game this month. Linking names is still the game, but this time the idea is to string them together into a single multisyllabic monicker of interlocking first and last names. For example: Santa Claus Fuchs, Billie Sol Estes Kefauver, Danny Thomas à Becket, Bruno Walter Winchell, T. S. Eliot Ness. When you've whipped up a few of these elementary dual combinations, you'll be ready to try your hand at something a bit more ambitious: trios (Meg Myles Davis Grubb), quartets (John Vivyan Leigh Hunt Hartford), quintets (Malcolm X-Ray Anthony George Montgomery), sextets (Beau Jack Barry Nelson Eddy Albert Schweitzer), and so on ad absurdum. When you've gone as far as you want to go with this gambit, you may want to add the refinement of a word-play capper, as in Ann-Margret Truman Doctrine and Steve Allen Dulles Dishwater. Then you'll be qualified to graduate to the big leagues with such freight-train appellations as Harold Lloyd George Washington Irving Berlin Airlift, Benjamin Franklin Roosevelt Grier Garson Kanin Able and the mouth-filling Little Eva Marie Saint Paul Douglas Dillon Thomas Mann Ray Charles Atlas Shrugged. Happy name-dropping.
There may be an eclectic Eskimo or simple Bushman who does not yet know that Jean Kerr is a witty woman, but the rest of us have been gratefully broken up some time or other by Kerr cracks. Mary, Mary, her supersmash, is less a play than a playground for her pleasantries and pungent unpleasantries, and screen adapter Richard L. Breen has wisely kept out of the way so that, more or less, we get the original script on film. But director Mervyn LeRoy and film editor David Wages have not been so unobtrusive. Some pay-off lines are stifled by the staging or the cutting. Example: "This man writes like a sick (Cut from one shot of Mary to another) elf." What line could lick that kind of treatment? Still, as the picture progresses, the laughs crackle out of this chronicle of how the visit of a headstrong young divorcée to her publisher ex-husband to settle some tax matters results in his renunciation of a new fiancée and their remarriage. Wee Debbie Reynolds is somewhat short on high-comedy technique; she wrestles with Mary whereas Barry Nelson, who played the husband on Broadway, has more than a half Nelson on his part. Hiram Sherman is a quiet, drolly-poly lawyer, and Michael Rennie has moderate comic competence as the mature menace. Diane McBain, as the fiancée, is an all-out mistake.
The idle rich who idle on the stage in Jean Anouilh's The Rehearsal indulge in a novel double standard. Infidelity is encouraged, but only within one's own class — in this case, the uppermost. The hero of this stylish exercise, a French count named Tiger (Keith Michell), has the heart of a hedonist, a tart-tongued wife (Coral Browne), and a snooty mistress named Hortensia (Adrienne Corri): the countess has a priggish lover. Each savors the other's escapades (except for the prig who is always challenging somebody to a duel). In pursuit of still further pleasure, the insatiable Tiger dallies with a hired girl, a governess, and a virginal blonde nymphet (Jennifer Hilary), which causes the caste-conscious countess to proclaim to Hortensia, "If I were Tiger's mistress, I wouldn't let him make a fool of me." Actually, for most of this charade, which has to do with the rehearsal for an 18th Century play about inconstancy that the count is staging, Tiger makes fools of everyone — except his old school chum Hero (Alan Badel). It is this boozy self defeatist who, in the play's most moving scene, disillusions the maiden about her grand passion and does the lower-case hero in. The end is sudden, rueful and apt, but The Rehearsal begins slowly, with seemingly endless variations on the permissiveness of the aristocracy. Fortunately, the main business — the limits of pleasure, the pains of love — eventually comes out of rehearsal and into play, and the result is urbane, ironic, literate theater. At the Royale, 242 West 45th Street.
A pair of nonpareil jazz practitioners get together on Ella and Basie! (Verve) and the results are exactly as one would expect them to be — splendid. Although Ella and the big Basie sound are completely compatible, our favorite tracks find Miss Fitz in the select surroundings of the Count and a Kansas City Seven— size group as they do Them There Eyes and Dream a Little Dream of Me, both free and easy offerings. The orchestrations are by Quincy Jones.
After a long lapse into the novel, Bernard Malamud again gives us a book of both amusing and compassionate stories, Idiots First (Farrar, Straus, $4.50). Four of the pieces are set in Italy, four are about the life of Jews in New York; these, the other three stories and the scene from a play in progress all show Malamud's double gift for fantastic humor and for re-creating the hidden grind of private unhappiness. Still Life, the story of an inept seduction, begins as a shrewdly funny portrait of two young painters, touches the reader with their confusion and frustration, and ends as a wild comedy of crossed sexual and religious fervor. Also involving a painter is Naked Nude, which ran in Playboy last August and concerns an impoverished expatriate, awash among the latrinas of Milano, who, forced into an art swindle, dauntlessly double-crosses his fellow conspirators. The German Refugee is pure reminiscence, pure portraiture. This is Malamud's greatest power, the making of portraits that smell at once of life and imagination; unfortunately, sometimes he seems not to know where to go once the central figure or situation has been drawn. The failures of the volume are the forced or inconclusive endings of some of the stories. The Death of Me, for example, is about an Italian tailor and a Polish presser whose feud finally causes the death of their boss in a scene of arbitrary melodrama that does not carry the symbolic weight the author seems to assign to it. A Choice of Profession is a subtle account of the collapse of love between a teacher and a student he discovers is a former prostitute; but it trails off disappointingly at the end. In spite of these occasional lapses though, each story keeps one listening for more of the author's voice — not wide in range, but clear, ironic and tender. Malamud's prose is accurate and spare — another of the many modest virtues that together make Idiots First a wise man's choice.
I would like your opinion on a unique experience. Recently, I had a blind date with a divorcée, arranged through a mutual friend. As I was taking her home — after an evening of wining, dining and dancing — she informed me that I would have to pay her baby sitter. I felt justified in not paying the sitter, but she didn't see it my way. She said that if I was to have the pleasure of her company, I should be prepared to cover all expenses. I finally agreed to pay half the sitter's fee, but I was damned displeased. Do you think that my companion's demand was proper? — H. F., Dallas, Texas.
Over the past year, we have attempted a general evaluation of a number of our society's strengths and weaknesses: we have discussed the importance of the individual in a free society, the overemphasis on conformity and security, and the need for a revitalization of both our democracy and the free-enterprise system through greater stress on the uncommon man, and uncommon endeavor and accomplishment; we have considered the importance of the separation of church and state to a democracy and pointed out how, throughout history, whenever government and religion were not kept apart, an erosion of man's liberty was certain to ensue; we've discussed censorship and how a free society cannot long remain free without the full protection of free speech and press, and the uninhibited expression of even the most unpopular and, to some perhaps, objectionable ideas; we've analyzed obscenity and demonstrated how a single suppression of free expression can be used to outlaw a wide variety of unpopular opinions and actions; we have documented the historical sources of many of our antisexual concepts, considered America's own puritanical heritage, the current Sexual Revolution and our society's search for a new sexual morality.
Those of You who prefer not to partake of February's winter wonderlands might try the nearby tropics for sunny contrast. If you choose to do so, you can rent an entire island for $100 a month. Just off the coast of St. Vincent, British West Indies, one island we know of has a house and a beach cottage, either of which can be rented separately — the 6-bedroom house for $36 a month or the 2-bedroom cottage for $18. A furnished 3-bedroom cottage, with sitting room and patio, can be had for $18 a week on Bequia, served daily by schooner from St. Vincent, or you can stay at the Sunny Caribbee Hotel where rooms with meals (including afternoon tea) are $8.40 single, $15 double.
Albert Schweitzer is a quadruple doctor — of music, theology, philosophy and medicine. He had authored several definitive religious texts and had been named principal of Strasbourg Theological College before he reached 30. He was also — and still is — recognized as the world's foremost authority on organ architecture, as an eminent Bach scholar, and as a celebrated interpreter of Bach's organ music. At the age of 38, in the full maturity of his multifaceted intellectual powers — culminating an eight-year period of spiritual stock-taking — Schweitzer elected to renounce the personal rewards and material blandishments of the Continent for a life of dedication to the sick in the jungles of French Equatorial Africa. Today, at a vigorous 88, he is acknowledged as one of the foremost philosophers of our age — and perhaps its most controversial medical figure.
Before ringing his christmas belles to announce he's Santa sans pareil this year, the knowledgeable gentleman will be pretty particular in the presents of each particular pretty. The golden yule calls for recognition of each playmate's individuality, for the gift that's uniquely hers. Even if present company includes a wide range of deserving recipients and shopping time is limited, you can still find the favor that fits and reap holiday dividends all through the year.
It was a day as fresh as grass growing up and clouds going over and butterflies coming down could make it. It was a day compounded of silences of bee and flower and ocean and land, which were not silences at all, but motions, stirs, flutters, risings, fallings, each in their own time and matchless rhythm. The land did not move, but moved. The sea was not still, yet was still. Paradox flowed into paradox, stillness mixed with stillness, sound with sound. The flowers vibrated and the bees fell in separate and small showers of golden rain on the clover. The seas of hill and the seas of ocean were divided, each from the other's motion, by a railroad track, empty, compounded of rust and iron marrow, a track on which, quite obviously, no train had run in many years. Thirty miles north it swirled on away to farther mists of distance, thirty miles south it tunneled islands of cloud shadows that changed their continental positions on the sides of far mountains as you watched.
Nothing pleases the amateur barman's ego as much as inventing — or serving — a new drink that is enthusiastically received by his guests. All year long he's correctly given credit for his fine wines and brews, his gins and whiskies and rare brandies. What his bottlemates are actually praising, however, are brewers, distillers and vintners rather than the host himself.
They say that the day will come when we shall all be masters and there won't be any servants. They say that the occupation of a servant is unworthy of a man who is a man because one man ought not to serve another. They say that the day will come when we will do everything for ourselves, without any servants, like savages. I'm not disputing it: man never stands still; he feels a need to make changes in everything that exists, and very likely the changes are for the worse, but he is bound to make them and then, to comfort himself, he calls them progress. But there's one thing I'm sure of: out of ten men — as far as I know, anyhow — two, perhaps, are born masters, but the others are born servants. The master who is a born master likes to give orders from the very cradle; but the others are not content until they have found a master to give orders to them. Well, well, men are all different; and in spite of all sorts of progress there will always be masters and servants, only they'll call them by another name; as we all know, words, to men, are everything; and the man who is offended at hearing himself called "porter" will no doubt run up eagerly if someone shouts "luggage carrier" at him.
As a man long Identified with the great-books movement — indeed someone once called me "The Great Bookie" — I am painfully aware that many of the great works of thought and imagination I have been talking and writing about for 30 years are not read by those who might enjoy them most. A generation entertained by C. S. Forester, Herman Wouk, Georges Simenon and J. D. Salinger finds the works of Homer, Virgil, Dante and Shakespeare practically unreadable.
Stars bright shine with different light — thus, Susan Strasberg, theater-bred (father Lee heads Actors Studio), has been a stage-movie-TV triple threat since her Broadway debut (at 15) in "The Diary of Anne Frank." Brunette, brown-eyed and a wispy 5', Susan (now 24) will next be seen in the Italian film, "Kapo." Her last play, "Camille," failed financially, but Susan's admirers are rewarded by these nudeworthy photos, inspired by the classic drama.
I like John Fitzgerald Kennedy; I think his wife Jackie is a very pretty girl of the kind of pretty I don't much care about; I am as fond of Caroline as any middle-aged but middlingvigorous paterfamilias is of anybody else's small girl child, namely, not so's you could notice it; brother Bobby seems to me to earn his keep well if a trifle eagle-scoutishly, and brother Ted is a matter strictly between brother Jack and the electorate of Massachusetts, and absolutely none of my business.
Words such as millionaire, multimillionaire and billionaire carry a magic and compelling ring. Understandably enough, many people are mesmerized by those words, by what they think those words imply — and by the thought of piling up a personal fortune as an end in itself.
I've noticed that as you get older most of your friends fall out like hair, or decay like teeth. Usually, though, there's one that you keep. You need him as a witness to what you once were — a nice-looking kid with fast hands — and eventually as a pallbearer. I had thought I'd keep Milton, but as he himself said, I always did think too much.
Almost every yuletide feast bit or little, roisterous or suave, brings forth a roast. In the past'men' have celebrated holiday .junkets with roasts as small as quail, a succulent bird that literally fits in the hand, and have wassailed around whole oxen, turned by a pitchfork beside a ton of glowing coals. There are flamboyant roasts like baron of beef, a bridge-shaped double loin from the best part of the steer, and modest roasts like young guinea hen. At beerfests, the crackling goose hangs high and the brown suckling pig is a succulent sight to behold. Even the most jaded gourmet's pulse quickens at the sight of roast filet of beef, or ribs of beef, orrost saddle of lamb carried on the holiday plarier.
The familiar hollywood saga of child stardom – all too often ending in both real life and reel life with a fast fade-out when adolescence rears its ugly head – has been refreshingly rewritten by Donna Michelle, the azure-eyed 18-year-old who adorns our December gatefold. In the years since her triple flowering as a grade-school piano prodigy, drama-contest winner and bantam ballerina with the New York City Ballet, Donna has ripened under the Southern California sun into a mature mistress of her performing arts – and an offbeat beauty with a style and a mind emphatically her own. An honor graduate from L.A.'s Reseda High School, she enrolled this fall at UCLA for an ambitious 18-hour curriculum running the academic gamut from art history to abnormal psychology. "It's a scholastic smorgasbord," she admits, "but with my appetite for learning, I don't think I've bitten off more than I can chew." In the category of between-meal snacks, Donna's varied diet of recreational reading ranges currently from Dante's Inferno ("La Dolce Vita with central heating") to Atlas Shrugged ("After the second chapter, so did I"). Equally discerning, if a bit more impulsive, in her choice of beaux, she digs the kind of guy "who's been around and looks it, who's worldly-wise without being world-weary, articulate and affirmative, but somewhat skeptical about the holiness of sacred cows." Most important in a man, feels Donna, are two qualities: the courage to demand the right to be himself, and the grace to grant the same privilege to everyone else. "But I can't ask what I can't offer," she confesses. "I'm afraid I have a long list of third-class males who really set my teeth on edge – especially the moral Milquetoast who continues to obey unquestioningly the outmoded codes decreed by society's die-hard guardians of Victorian decency. Fortunately, you can't hold back a flood for long with a dike that's so full of holes. When it finally gives way, maybe we'll begin to understand, accept and, who knows, even rejoice in our sexual identities." We'll drink to that. A Christmas present perfect – triple-featured herein as our holiday Playmate, double-cover girl and one of the 10 pretties we've picked as our favorite Playmates of the decade – Donna herself is reason enough for just such a celebration of feminine physiology.
Seated one day at the table next to a teenage nephew, I soon ran out of topics that bridged his generation and mine, and a painful silence settled over us both. Suddenly I thought of a subject that I knew we would have in common.
All day today (said Antrobus), I have been addressing Christmas cards, an occupation both melancholy and exhilarating; so many of us have gone leaving no address. They have become "Bag Room Please Forward," so to speak. Some are Far Flung, some Less Far Flung, some Flung Out Altogether, like poor Toby. It is a season which sets one to wondering where Diplomatic Dips go when they die, old man; do they know that they can't take it with them, or is there perhaps a branch of Coutts' in Heaven which will take postdated checks? And if they live on as ghosts, what sort of ghosts? Is there a diplomatic limbo — perhaps some subfusc department of the UN where they are condemned perpetually to brood over such recondite subjects as the fishing rights of little tufted Papuans? Ah me! But perhaps it would be more like some twilit registry where a man might yet sit down to a game of cooncan with a personable cipherine....
Howard was still half-asleep when he heard the buzzing. It was a faint, persistent drone, balanced delicately on the very threshold of consciousness. For a moment Howard wasn't sure whether the sound came from the sleeping side or the waking side of his mind. God knows, he'd heard plenty of strange noises in his sleep lately; made them, too. Anita was always complaining about how he'd wake up in the middle of the night, screaming at the top of his lungs. But he had reasons to be upset, the way things were going, and besides, Anita was always complaining, period.
We realize we're leading with our collective chin by declaring the "best" of the more than 100 Playmates who've enlivened our centerfold in our first 10 years, but even among Playmates, we feel, some girls just stand out. Disagreement with our selections is bound to arise; there are undoubtedly as many individual lists possible as there are readers with adequate eyesight. To preclude having our office picketed by irate partisans, therefore, we are willing to make a deal: Promise to view our editors' choice with an open mind, and we in turn will — in the issues subsequent to this one — feature, each month, the Playmates of one year of the past decade. We invite your votes on them by mail. Then, next December, at the end of our 10th Anniversary Year, we'll print a Readers' Choice of Playmates, and see how your preferences compare with our own. Be apprised, however, that this month's compilation — judging from the amount of fan mail each Playmate's initial appearance evoked — is close to being the choice of readers as well as of our editors. Surprisingly, our more famous Playmates such as Stella Stevens, Jayne Mansfield and our first and most memorable Playmate of all, Marilyn Monroe (to whom Playboy devotes an entire feature next month), are not in this grouping. The possible reason for this is that the photographic charm of these lesser-known beauties (now the pin-up queens of the nation and the world) has overcome any inclination we might have had to judge by standards of fame alone. In short, we think our selections are just plain terrific, and if you'll take a look, we'll rest our case.
A noble and famous knight of our realm once fell in love with a fair damsel and advanced himself in her graces so that she refused nothing he desired. But finally it was necessary for him to go away to the wars to serve his king in Spain and in many other places. He conducted himself so well in battle that his return was received with great celebration.
scene of spectaculars ranging from political rallies to the circus, from an Ed Sullivan show to Elizabeth Taylor riding an elephant, means but one thing to the professional prize fighter: the ultimate arena. As the old vaudevillians aspired to the Palace Theater, so the boxer to the Garden. "Here, centered in this vast, dark bowl in a pyramid of stark white light, two opponents will meet in clashing combat, weaponless save for the thick muscle and jarring bone of bodies rehearsed and prodded and strained into maximal aggressive potential; here, urged and badgered by the relentless roaring of the tiered spectators, leather-shielded fists will thrust and strike and punish until a victor can be declared," says artist LeRoy Neiman. The smoke-filled atmosphere, the wet gleam of naked flesh, the lightning action, are all plucked out of time at the instant of existence and portrayed here from the swift march down the aisle to the empty ring, through the ferocious initial onslaught, to the final wrap-up in the victor's dressing room. Besides the savage scenes of the fight itself, Neiman also limns herein the seldom-depicted respect that exists between the contestants beyond the final bell, their controlled nervousness as they pace the canvas awaiting the decision of the judges, and the brief tending of a wound by the concerned handler which may later require a doctor's stitching. Even at the moment of his opponent's proclamation as victor, the defeated fighter's congratulations are embodied in his stance as he springs forward to clasp the other's gloved hand.
Today, 16 years after the debut of the Polaroid camera, an event that altered both the progress and the pursuit of amateur photography in the United States, its creator is the possessor of a personal fortune of more than $100,000,000. In 1947, Edwin Herbert Land was chairman of the board of a company operating at a loss of more than $100,000 a year. Yet he prefers not to speak of this remarkable change in his personal fortunes. He is a camerashy, self-effacing man dedicated to avoiding the public eye at all possible costs. Indeed, when last August his company introduced a new compact (2-1/2-pound) Polaroid, designed for faster, more maneuverable home photography, Land took off for Venice. "I'm in no mood to talk about these things now," said he. Nevertheless, uncommunicative 54-year-old Edwin Land could talk big if he so chose — for his success, by any standard in any field, is substantial. He began his experiments with polarization at the age of 17 while a precocious student at Harvard. He then quit school and founded the Polaroid Corporation in 1936. He perfected the one-step photography process 11 years later and immediately became a favorite of fortune. His camera was a singular success: its stock climbed from 96-1/4 in 1950 to 216 a year later (it now sells at about 200). In 1952 came the ultimate tribute: the Russians copied the Polaroid and, expectedly, claimed they had invented it. Away from his office, Land, hearth-loving and the father of two, has tenaciously guarded his private life from public view. His interests rest in the field of scientific experimentation and education. Although he never graduated from Harvard, he is a member of three of its visiting committees (astronomy, chemistry and physics). He is also an institute professor at M.I.T. and holds six honorary degrees. But most of his time is spent in his lab, where he works 15 hours a day and where he spent 10 years working on 10-second development and 5 more perfecting Polaroid color film, a development that had shutterbugs snapping to attention upon its introduction last summer when they realized that home photography had new delights in store for them: Now they could click their chicks not only in black and white, but in Playmate pink as well.
With Lightning Strides, a 27-year-old sheep-raising Scotsman is rapidly approaching the now-retired Stirling Moss' near-magical ability to extract maximum performance from those fleet but fractious road runners, the Formula I machines of Grand Prix auto racing. Driving a Lotus-Ford — minuscule by American standards but incredibly nimble compared to the cumbrous Indianapolis cars — Jim Clark pioneered what will shortly turn into a racing revolution by finishing second in the Indy 500 (missing first place by the margin of loudly disputed winner Parnelli Jones' speed-cutting oil leak in the closing laps), and breezing in ahead of much the same field in the Milwaukee 200. These two performances, sandwiched in among four straight wins on the European Grand Prix circuit (Spa, Zandvoort, Reims and Silverstone), offered emphatic evidence that Moss' heir apparent was more than ready to assume auto racing's throne. Carrying into this season's competition a reputation as the fastest driver extant, Clark has now coupled his innate aptitude with a knowledgeability that marks him for greatness. Besides the 1963 World Driving Championship crown which he donned after an impressive win at Monza (he had lost the 1962 championship when a bolt in his Lotus worked itself loose in the final laps of the last race of the season after he had piled up a formidable lead), Clark also wore the warm mantle of ungrudging acknowledgment by his confreres that he was in a class by himself — an accolade which appeared preordained ever since nonpareil Moss' prophetic observation that the unassuming racer was "the greatest natural talent driving today."
The World of Runt-size superschlepp Woody Allen is bounded on all sides by the 27-year-old comic's heroic one-downmanship; he counts survival as a supreme accomplishment. Woody, who operates behind owlish glasses and a Roger Price hairdo, tells his audience-cum-analyst about his problems with his family ("My mother used to say, 'If a strange man offers you candy and asks you to go for a ride in his car — go!' And I'd go.... I have this magnificent pocket watch which my grandfather, on his deathbed, sold me."), the opposite sex in general ("I sold the memoirs of my love life to Parker Bros.; they're going to make them into a game"), his ex-wife in particular ("My wife was immature; I would be taking a bath and she'd come in and sink my boats"), and society in toto ("I was kicked out of college for cheating on a metaphysics exam; I was caught looking into the soul of the person sitting next to me"). An erstwhile out-of-sight gagwriter for such laugh luminaries as Sid Caesar, Herb Shriner and Garry Moore, Woody took the billing by the horns two-and-a-half years ago and broke in his own act at New York's Duplex ("I worked for no salary to no people"). Allen's audience in the past year has burgeoned following a four-month stint he did at Greenwich Village's Bitter End, a coffeehouse that Woody turned into his own Sanka sanctorum. Since the Bitter End's happy beginnings, Woody has almost been able to call his shots — the hungry i, Mister Kelly's, the Blue Angel, the Crescendo; he's taped three Candid Camera shots, has made a TV pilot film, and has a movie-script deal percolating. Why does he drive himself so hard? Woody, with deadpan sincerity, explains: "I don't want to be just another pretty face."
I often wonder if the things I remember are true. I don't mean about the deviltries of youth. No man can remember himself accurately. The best he can do is locate the windings of a dried river bed, and invent the water that once flowed in it; invent the swift current, the rapids, the alluring swimming holes.
Gee, Mr. Battbarton, I know the typical office party is supposed to be care free and uninhibited, but isn't this carrying things a bit too far?Isn't it fantastic, baby? — mother-henned the idea myself! — took the ball away from Huck Buxton of "sales" — which puts me one-up on buxton! but to quote byron: "On with the dance! let joy be unconfined, no sleep till—"Battbarton! you didn't tell me Annie was here!