Scoring a major breakthrough on this month's appropriately Playmate Pink cover is Playmate of the Year Jo Collins. Our past December's gatefold girl proved to be an overwhelming favorite with our readers in April's Playmate Play-off, despite keen opposition from runners-up Astrid Schulz and China Lee. Her beauteous bona fides are delectably displayed within.
Playboy, August, 1965, Vol. 12, No. 8. 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, $20 for three years, $15 for two years, $8 for one year. Elsewhere add $4.60 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, Associate Advertising Manager, 405 Park Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10022, MU 8.3030; Joseph Fall, Advertising Manager: Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 155 E. Ohio Street, Chicago, Ill. 60611, MI 2-1000. Detroit, Joseph Guenther, Manager, 2990 West Grand Boulevard, TR 5-7250; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard, OL 2-8790; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter Street, YU 2-7994; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie a Brown, 3108 Piedmont Road, N. E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
It had never occurred to us, until we saw an ad for Kellogg's Rice Krispies in a Danish magazine, that this crunchy breakfast cereal is not only noisy but multilingual. When doused with milk in Denmark, according to the copy, it goes "Pif! Paf! Puf!"--which we gathered is Danish for "Snap! Crackle! Pop!" Fascinated by this feat of granular linguistics, we wrote to the Kellogg people in Battle Creek, Michigan (remembering the address from our boyhood box-top days), for an explanation. Though it was not forthcoming--the process involved, they said, was a dark trade secret--they informed us that Rice Krispies, which are marketed world-wide, speak any number of languages besides Danish and English. In Norway and Sweden, for example, if you lean close to a bowlful, you'll hear it muttering a subtle variation on the Danish: "Piff! Paff! Puff!" In nearby Finland, by contrast, it rather belligerently shouts "Poks! Riks! Raks!"; and we were impressed to learn that in South Africa it speaks perfect Afrikaans: "Knap! Knaetter! Knak!" Somewhat more soothingly, Mexico's Rice Krispis murmur "Pim! Pum! Pam!" presumably with a mariachi beat. French-Canadian crispies, on the other hand, strike us as a bit too peremptory with their curt "Cric! Crac! Croc!" Less brusque, but even more disquieting, we feel, are the guttural exclamations uttered by Rice Krispies in Germany: "Knisper! Knasper! Knusper!"--which, if true, is as persuasive an argument as we can think of for sticking with bacon and eggs at the breakfast table. At least they have the civility to sit there quietly on the plate.
Ship of Fools, as readers of the Katherine Anne Porter best seller will recall, takes place on a German ship Europe bound from Veracruz in 1933; and the cast is a cross section of some crossed-up sections of the Western world: an American divorcee, two young American lovers, a troupe of Spanish dancers, assorted Germans, including a Jew. Besides the national colors, there are character contrasts: hateful and hated, hopeful and hopeless--all living in first-class luxury over a hold full of impoverished Spanish workers. As if the symbols didn't bang out like cymbals, a German dwarf explains directly to us that this is a ship of fools, and darned if each of the principals, likable or not, doesn't show some bit of foolishness en route. The most absorbing story strand concerns La Condesa, a woman of several worlds, played by Simone Signoret, and the ship's doctor, played by Oskar Werner, the Jules of Truffaut's Jules and Jim. Miss S., though plumper, is still appealing, and Werner may prove the biggest Continental bombshell since Boyer: quietly and quickly credible and sympathetic. Vivien Leigh plays the divorcee in a familiar key; Elizabeth Ashley and George Segal squabble and squeeze as the young lovers; Lee Marvin is wasted as a washed-up ballplayer; José Greco is serpentine as the dancers' king cobra; and another José--Ferrer--is appropriately dreadful as a dreadful German. Heinz Ruehmann is charming as a gentle German Jew, and the dwarf is finely done by Michael Dunn. Stanley Kramer produced and directed with devotion and some skill, but with one pace for everything and pathetic gullibility about the depth of what he was saying.
The Roar of the Greasepaint--The Smell of the Crowd is a musical about which it must be said the original-cast album is better. The score is full of big balcony-shatterers like Who Can I Turn To, the kind that tax Anthony Newley's tremolo. The only thing wrong with the songs is that some of them are reminiscent of those in Newley's last show, Stop the World--I Want to Get Off. (Actually, a lot of Trotg--Tsotc is reminiscent of Stw--Iwtgo.) But the book is stupefyingly bad. Star, director, co--author-composer (with Leslie Bricusse), Newley is playing a plotless, witless game of life on a Sean Kenny--designed multicolored game board, surrounded by multileveled disks. Newley as Cocky, a trod-upon little common man, goes up against big Sir (Cyril Ritchard), an upper-class gent who invariably wins. Ritchard, decked out in tails like a tattered, beardless Uncle Sam, preens, frets and prances, while Tony minces, trying to mime like Marceau and waddle like Chaplin, and doing a fair imitation of Jerry Lewis. Poor chap! Always losing--until, in the middle of the second act, he gets tired of it (about one act later than the audience), and talks back. Newley wins! The game, not the show. The dialog is a mixed bag of prosy oaths ("By the sacred bulls of Barnum and Bailey") and forced plays on words ("Are you manna from heaven?" "No, I'm from Manny's gymnasium."). Newley is trying to have it all ways--old, new, borrowed, blue, a big serious play filled with bad low comedy. He promises everything, but, except for the songs, delivers almost nothing. At the Shubert, 225 West 44th Street.
Jack Jones / My Kind of Town (Kapp) is his best release to date, which takes in a pretty fair amount of territory for the Jones boy. In addition to the swinging title tune, and his country-and-western hit, The Race Is On, the LP is filled with all manner of aural goodies--Somewhere Along the Way, Travelin' On, a fine, fast-paced Yes. I Can, and the beautiful ballad Time After Time. The charts are by Marty Paich, Don Costa and Glenn Osser, a trio of top-grade arrangers, all of whom have a right to be proud this time around.
To the question "How often can an author use the same material?" Henry Miller replies, "Shaddap!" Tropic of Capricorn and Black Spring both chewed over much of Miller's pre-Paris life, and just when we thought he hadn't left a stern unturned, we get the American publication of Sexus (Grove Press). This first, thick volume in an autobiographical series called The Rosy Crucifixion was written in the U. S. during World War Two, was first published in Paris in 1949, and overlaps some of the dames and flames we have already met. Here is Henry back again working at the Cosmodemonic Telegraph Company, married and miserable in Brooklyn, writhing to write, and meanwhile laying much pipe. Of course his true love is not his wife, but that doesn't bother him when he's in bed with her or any other sweetmeat. Someday there'll probably be a scholarly analysis of the number of times and ways Miller makes it. A taxi and the upper deck of a bus are only two of his trysting places, and his tales of tail are as detailed as ever. In fact, there's less philosophical filler in Sexus as he progresses from piece to piece, and some of the writing is really ripe. A girl in ecstasy: "Her face went through all the metamorphoses of early uterine life, only in reverse. With the last dying spark it collapsed like a punctured bag, the eyes and nostrils smoking like toasted acorns in a slightly wrinkled lake of pale skin." And most of the heady deep-think is mostly home-brew. But the charmless Miller charm works again. Like a good silent movie--which, corn and all, finally conveys conviction--Miller manages to create a sense of freedom, of full commitment to the living of life, that overcomes the ridiculousness of the ribald rioting and the wind of most of the wisdom. This is not the strongest of his autobiographical books, but, like the others, it leaves the impression that Miller is a gifted and important gossip.
Even though I'm only 25, I've packed a lifetime into the last two years. Luckily, when I was graduated from college I received a handsome bequest from an aunt, and that, added to a better-than-adequate income as an engineering salesman, has given me all the wherewithal I need. But here's the rub: I don't suffer any ill effects from my boozing, wenching and other living it up--I just received a clean bill of health from my M. D.--but I'm beginning to worry whether I'm doing the right thing. Having recently leafed through Songs of Fairly Utter Despair by Samuel Hoffenstein, I came across the following couplet: "I burned the candle at both ends/ And now have neither foes nor friends." Well, I've still got lots of friends and foes--not to mention some damn good times--but must I settle down to keep them? Have you any words of wisdom on this subject?--H. M., Los Angeles, California.
Falling neatly between the close of the summer season and the opening of winter sports and resorts, October is a nifty month to visit unconventional spots. For languidly sun-filled days and swinging Arabian nights, you needn't go farther than the kingdom of Morocco, a recent contender, with the French and Italian Rivieras, for Mediterranean resort honors, and now easily accessible via direct once-a-week flights from the United States. The best hotels, all combining the advantage of metropolitan and beachside proximity, are Le Rif at Tangier, El Mansour at Casablanca and La Tour Hassan at Rabat. All are in the superluxury class despite low rates.
Conceived in 1865 by a band of idle young Confederate veterans, the Ku Klux Klan began as a harmless social club--complete with such fraternal folderol as secret words, mysterious rites and outlandish costumes made from bedsheets and pillowcases. When these juvenile mischief-makers discovered that their nocturnal frolics frightened superstitious Negroes, however, the fun turned ugly, and the Ku Klux Klan (derived from the Greek word kyklos, meaning circle) quickly evolved into a terroristic secret society dedicated to depriving the newly freed slaves of their citizenship rights. Floggings, castrations, live cremations, shootings and lynchings of "uppity" Negroes and "nigger-loving" white moderates soon became so repugnant to civilized Southerners that even the first "Grand Wizard of the Invisible Empire," former slave trader Nathan Bedford Forrest, resigned from the Klan in 1869 and urged its dissolution. But the K. K. K. continued to grow--and to commit atrocities--until the forces of racial equality were vanquished in 1876 and white political supremacy was reestablished throughout the South. With the Negro again reduced to semislavery, the Klan no longer had a raison d'etre and, to all appearances, died of inanition.
Before I knew which end was up and could stand for my honorable instincts, Truffi had us talked into it. He'd called the meeting; we sat around a table in a corner of the plaza, nobody else around us, all the waiters shooed off.
High amid the towering spires of New York, free-lance photographer Pete Turner combines an office and a home into a top-floor bachelor-pad apartment ideally suited to his jet-propelled life as one of the busiest camera artists on the international scene. Tucked away in the caverns of Gotham, these colorfully compact yet supremely functional digs, commanding a panoramic view of Manhattan from every window, make a perfect pied-à-ciel for a globe-trotting lensman like Turner.
My fingernails dug into concrete as I clung to the narrow ledge 30 stories above Fifth Avenue. It was a windless night, thank God, the slightest breeze off the river would have blown me into eternity. Somehow, I negotiated my way to the next window and managed to kick out the glass with my heel; the pane shattered in big, shiny pieces. I almost cried with relief once I was inside and saw that by some miracle I had crashed my own apartment. A second later, I knew there was no worse place to be that night. Questikian would be waiting for me.
Unable to decide which of three similarly striking 1964 Playmates--Jo Collins (Miss December), China Lee (Miss August) and Astrid Schulz (Miss September)--should reign as the current Playmate of the Year, we appealed to Playboy readers last April to help us solve our dilemma by casting their votes for the candidate of their choice. In a down-to-the-wire race for centerfolddom's highest honor, the final tally revealed that 20-year-old Jo Collins had garnered the lioness' share of your ballots, which would seem to indicate that December is truly the "fairest" month of all--weather notwithstanding--since Jo is the third consecutive yuletide Playmate to be so honored. We were even more convinced of the pervasive power of the holiday season when Jo informed us that her initial appearance in these pages had helped her get a shapely leg in the door at American International Pictures, where she recently made (text concluded on page 156) In addition to her new United Artists movie role and other Playmate of the Year prizes pictured at left, Jo's munificent cache also includes a 10-speed Schwinn bike, four-piece Ventura luggage, Armac bumper-pool table, Smith-Corona portable electric typewriter, swimsuit wardrobe by Jantzen, Thompson water skis and aquatic accessories, lamé stretch pants and shirt by Levi-Strauss, sweaters and knit pants by Catalina and a Honda motorcycle--all in Playmate Pink; plus a white mink cape by Alper Furs (Chicago), Lady Hamilton gold wrist watch, Argus "Super 8" movie camera and projector, 12 bottles of Sea and Ski suntan lotion, LP libraries from Capitol, Mercury and Chess Records, Celui perfume and parfum de toilette by Jean Dessés, platinum-blonde wig by Fashion Tress, case of Almaden pink champagne, gallon bottle of Kahlua, pair of Sony Tapemates, 14-carat-gold Rabbit Pin by Maria Vogt (New York), Lady Norelco professional hair drier and beauty sachet kit, complete set of art-studio materials by Grumbacher (New York), and a day at a Garrison-Ramon Beauty Salon. In all, a queen's ransom befitting any Playmate who can claim so many loyal subjects. Playmate of the Year(continued from page 71) her cinematic debut in a trio of teenage titles--Ski Party, How to Stuff a Wild Bikini and Sergeant Deadhead. Jo's acting ambitions will soon be more substantially enhanced, however, when she receives a United Artists contract to play a part in Blake Edwards' forthcoming film What Did You Do in the War, Daddy?, as part of her Playmate of the Year booty.
There isn't a human being who can be right about all things at all times--and this is at least as true of businessmen as it is of bartenders, biologists or bus drivers. On the other hand, there are times when a businessman makes what prove to be exactly the right decisions and takes what are precisely the proper courses of action in certain situations. It is at these times that he achieves the major successes that form the milestones in his business career.
Swinging along the great white way, four guys and their dolls make the long hot summer look like a breeze. How? Colorfully coupling white slacks with an assortment of bright tops, the men have boosted a classic summer stand-by into an all-purpose sunshine special, perfect for deck or dance floor. From left to right: A red Orlon V-neck sweater, by Himalaya, $25, topping off Dacron-and-poplin wash-and-wear slacks, by Asher, $11, and llama-finished calf shoes, by Winthrop, $16. A wool cardigan, by Lord Jeff, $17, complemented by paisley-patterned silk ascot, by Handcraft, $5, Arnel and rayon oxford-weave trousers, by Esquire, $17, and grained glove-leather loafers, by Renegades, $17. A yellow cotton-velour pullover, by Robert Bruce, $8, worn over Arnel and Avron flannel slacks, by YMM, $20. and soft-grained shoes, by Renegades, $15. A wool-hopsack blazer, by PBM. S45, with a Dacron-cotton shirt, by Truval. $5, wool-challis tie, by Berkley, $3.50, pocket square, by Handcraft, $3, lightweight slacks, by Corbin, $18.50, and calf slip-ons, by Roblee, $16.
Alec Barr often told himself years later that he had never really intended to do anything serious at all about Barbara. He had embarked on a lecture tour starting in Chicago, just after the birth of a new book, had got himself drunk because he hated what he was doing, and he was wearing such a crashing hangover on the plane that it was an hour before he noticed his seatmate, who had settled in a sort of blonde mist beside him.
Although our continuing search for Playmate candidates may take us anywhere in the world, we're never averse to finding fair damsels right in our own back yard. In the case of our august beauty for August, 24-year-old Lannie Balcom, the back yard we refer to is our Chicago front office, where this blonde and gray-eyed eyeful does her daily nine-to-five duties as the Assistant Manager of Playboy's College Bureau. "I've had lots of interesting jobs before--dancing teacher, stewardess, dental assistant and secretary," says Lannie, "but my present position is by far the most demanding of the lot. I'm the sort of person who's not happy unless I'm busy all the time, and with my current responsibilities to the magazine's more than 450 campus representatives, in addition to working on college surveys, subscriptions and correspondence with students and local advertisers, I hardly have time for a coffee break. Don't get the idea that I'm complaining, though, because I wouldn't have it any other way. In fact, I'm looking forward to adding the upcoming Playmate promotion tours to my schedule." Celebrating her first anniversary as a Playboy employee, centerfolddom's favorite campus correspondent initially graced these pages last August as one of the Bunnies of Chicago and subsequently adorned our April cover, meanwhile trading in her cottontail for a career in publishing. "I enjoyed being a Bunny," she told us, "but when I found out the magazine was looking for an editorial receptionist, I decided to throw my hat in the ring. I never dreamed I'd come up through the ranks so quickly, but that's the way things are around here--fast and furious." Lannie currently shares an apartment with two of her former cottontailed colleagues at the Playboy Mansion, and, although she still gets homesick for her native Phoenix--where she recently returned for a vacation--she now considers herself a confirmed Chicagoan. "The Balcoms are a very close-knit family by nature," Lannie confided. "I guess that comes from their history of frontier living. One of my ancestors, a distant aunt named Elizabeth Balcombe, struck up more than just a nodding acquaintance with Napoleon and, as a result, the Balcoms had to leave Europe in a hurry after Waterloo. Most of them headed for Australia, but our branch of the clan settled in what is now Clarkdale, Arizona, and kept fighting Indians until their tenancy rights were no longer questioned." On her few dateless nights, Lannie prefers good books to bad video ("Steinbeck, Fleming and Tennessee Williams are my favorites"), or brushes up on her culinary capacities ("I specialize in Mexican dishes, but my homemade cheesecake is the most"). And so is Lannie.
Aesop's Fabled Shepherd boy, the one who fooled the neighbors with so many false cries of "Wolf!" that they simply went back to sleep when a real wolf finally appeared, evokes little sympathy. Most people feel he got exactly what was coming to him (the wolf, a good trencherman, ate him along with the sheep), but today there is concern that the same thing could be happening with the Surgeon General's 1964 report linking cigarette smoking with lung cancer. The concern is justified, whether or not one personally accepts the report as a genuine cry of wolf--and there does exist a considerable body of informed opinion that is dubious on the point. There are those, too, who believe the report, just as they believe the annual statistics on motor-vehicle mortality, but they have no more intention of giving up cigarettes than they do of abandoning the pleasures of motoring for pedestrianism.
Golf is a gentlemen's endeavor which began during the Renaissance and engaged the mind and body of civilized man 300 years before he first tried to play the piano. The keyboard has been largely mastered, but golf remains elusive and distant, withstanding the best efforts to bring it to terms.
What's new, pussycat? marks my filmic debut--both as an actor and screenwriter--so I suppose I shouldn't admit that I wrote the whole thing as a joke, never once believing that the Charles K. Feldman who commissioned me to do the script was actually the Charles K. Feldman, or that anyone in their right mind would ever produce such a film. The final version of Pussycat is the result of a 200-page filmscript that blew out of a taxicab window and was never put back in its original order after its retrieval from a passing chestnut vendor's pushcart, my typist having forgotten to number the pages. That Peters O'Toole and Sellers agreed to play the lead roles in the film is a miracle, and I'm certain that neither would have touched it in its original form. Therefore, credit must be given to the cabdriver who helped me put the script into its present order--especially since the loss of certain pages provided the plot with just the proper shade of incoherence. My initial story described the search of a psychotic gynecologist and a Lithuanian jockey for stable values in a world threatened by the influx of bad singing groups--with Romy Schneider, Capucine, Paula Prentiss and Ursula Andress cast as the 1936 Notre Dame backfield. United Artists felt this was a little too "offbeat," and made a few subtle changes. The present plot involves a Paris fashion editor (O'Toole) and a horny Viennese psychiatrist (Sellers) in search of Romy, Capucine, Paula, Ursula and a clutch of strippers from the Crazy Horse Saloon--with a special role written in for me to give the film an earthy appeal.
The empire state building is bounded by Fifth Avenue and the Avenue of the Americas and by 33rd and 34th Streets. He saw this little cluster of fact drop into focus in his mind, precious, a thing beyond value; it hung, a gold-wire mobile, just behind the curtain of his eyes, swinging in a black velvety cylinder. So, he said aloud, that's the top of the Empire State, there beside the moon; I know that, and therefore, I know where I am and I can get back to Betty's. Now, where am I? He didn't know. He leaned against the bricks of the building behind him, full of fright, worse than fright, terror, and wondered why he didn't know. It came to him after a while. He couldn't know where he was because he didn't know from which of the four primary directions he was seeing the Empire State Building. Half of me, he said, is blind drunk; the other half might as well be living inside an idiot.
The Giraglia Yacht Race, an annual regatta running 243 whirlwind miles from San Remo, Italy, to Toulon, France (and vice versa during alternate years), is the nautical apogee of the summer for the Riviera set. Following a round of on-shore parties, as many as 80 skippers from a variety of nations point their yachts at the tiny island of Giraglia (off the northern tip of Corsica), circle it, and race for their trophy. "The Giraglia is always up for grabs, with no favorites," observed artist LeRoy Neiman from his vantage point aboard an Italian fishing boat in the spectator fleet. "Anything can happen because of the vagaries of the wind, with strong mistrals blowing up to 100 kilometers an hour. One year, 35 percent of the entries had to abandon the competition and return." Augmenting his appreciation of the sight of sun-dappled Mediterranean waters and of colorful pennants and burgees was the electric atmosphere of pre-race excitement. Neiman noted: "What could be more enjoyable than to see the start with all its pageantry, enjoy a cool drink, then hop into your car for a leisurely drive to Toulon for the finish, with stops at palmy spas like Monte Carlo, Nice, Juan-les-Pins, Antibes, Cannes and St.-Tropez? This puts you in a perfect frame of mind for the thrilling moments of the finish watched from Fort Saint Louis."
Onetime chicken farmer, former race driver (SCCA National Champion in 1956 and 1957) and current auto entrepreneur, ex-Texan Carroll Shelby--whose stock in trade is a corralful of ornery Mustang GT350s and a basketful of deadly Cobras--is taking dead aim at international motor sport's World Manufacturers' Championship for Grand Touring Production autos. Heretofore the Holy Grail of the bolide builders has been won with monotonous regularity by Italian auto wizard Enzo Ferrari. But Shelby American, Inc., has traveled very far very fast from the day early in 1962 when a British AC body was mated with a Ford 260-cu.-in. V8 and gave birth to the Cobra. With Ford's hot engines under his Cobras' hoods and Dearborn's engineering staff lending staunch support, Shelby--who looks like he just stepped out of a "Marlboro country" ad--came bumper close to heisting the hardware from Il Commendatore in 1964. That season, Carroll's Cobras started off with a whoosh by coming in one-two-three in the Grand Touring class at Sebring's grueling 12-hour grind. By season's end, however, Ferrari's long experience had paid off, but 1965 may prove to be a horsepower of another color. February's Daytona Continental found Cobra GTs again one-two-three in class. Sebring, next on the agenda, piled up more points for the Shelby shock troops, as a Cobra GT finished first in class (the Ford GT40, also under the Shelby aegis, knocked off the Ferrari prototypes in this one, too). The 42-year-old Shelby (who has long since discarded the bib overalls and basketball sneakers that were trademarks in his more carefree driving days) is a man with a mission ("I think we've paid homage to European ideas in international racing for too long"); if Ferrari's all-powerful Prancing Horse succumbs to Cobra venom, and Carroll jets back to his Los Angeles home base with the United States' first World Manufacturers' Championship in tow, he will indeed have gone a long way toward convincing those in search of superior motorracing machinery that their best bet is to See America First.
When Edward Brooke ran for the office of attorney general of Massachusetts last year, he had every portent of disaster going for him. He was a Republican running in a solidly Democratic state during Lyndon Johnson's blitz. He was a Protestant in one of the most heavily Roman Catholic states in the country. He was a Negro in a state that is 98-percent white. In spite of these staggering political millstones, he romped home an easy winner and became the first Negro to hold such a high state political office in America since the Reconstruction era. A Bronze Star infantry veteran of World War Two campaigns in North Africa and Italy, the state's top legal officer represents a break from the typical Negro politician of the past, who dealt primarily in racial problems. Brooke seeks and gets votes on the basis of broad-based political issues, not color. "I didn't run to be the first Negro attorney general," Brooke says, "I just wanted to be the attorney general of Massachusetts." Campaigning on a straight antimachine, crime-busting platform, Brooke drew support from the left and right wings of both parties. After his election, he moved swiftly to secure indictments against moguls on both sides of the political fence: A consulting state engineer, an attorney, a judge, a Government councilor and a waterways director have all been nailed in Brooke's far-reaching cleanup of Massachusetts' odiferous political dumps. A vigorous civil rights advocate, but admittedly not a "militant," Brooke is active across the political spectrum. "Today, the Negro has to be broader in his vision, in his participation in public life and in his total responsibilities," Brooke says. He labors 18 hours a day at his job of attorney "for all the people--the guilty as well as the innocent," but many pundits in a resurgent Massachusetts G. O. P. are looking further ahead. To them, the most vigorous vote getter in the state looks tailor-made for the governor's chair.
Unlike most child prodigies in the performing arts, whose careers are usually characterized by too much notoriety too soon and early relegation to artistic oblivion, Thomas Schippers, the 35-year-old boss baton of the Metropolitan Opera and current musical toast of two continents, has yet to miss a beat in his rise to the apogee of international acclaim since his debut as a concert pianist at the age of six. Schippers, an athletically built six-footer who could double for Maximilian Schell, took his next step up the musical ladder of fame when, at 13, he was accepted at Philadelphia's famed Curtis Institute as a budding concert pianist and organist. In his typically precocious fashion, Schippers arrived at the major turning point in his career shortly after his 18th birthday, when he entered the Philadelphia Orchestra's annual International Young Conductors Contest and took second-place honors despite his lack of any previous conducting experience. His musical métier thus established, he made his professional podium debut the same year with New York's Lemonade Opera, and two years later premiered Menotti's The Consul on Broadway. Since 1955, when he became the youngest American ever to conduct at the Met, Schippers has spent his working year shuttling back and forth between his job as Met maestro and the top opera houses of Europe, where he has reigned as artistic director of the Festival of Two Worlds at Spoleto. Italy, for the past eight years. Currently honeymooning at his summer home on the island of Corfu, Schippers will lead the Israel Philharmonic in a concert series next month before returning to open the Met's 1966 season. He hopes to have his own orchestra someday which will be "one third Jewish for sound, one third Italian for line, and one third German for solidity."
"Afternoon In Andalusia"--The writer and the movie star looked forward to participating in the sophisticated Tienta, but weren't prepared for the barbed courtesy of their punctilious host-- by Robert Ruark