Allison Parks, Playboy's contribution to our national physical-fitness program, is a professional swimming instructress and amateur aviatrix from Glendale, California, who served fetchingly as last October's Playmate. She returns to our cover (her cover debut: the reclining charmer who welcomed you to last December's holiday issue) as our seventh Playmate of the Year, succeeding Jo Collins, who recently returned from South Vietnam after flying halfway around the world to boost the morale of the officers and men of Company B, 2nd Battalion, 503rd Infantry and the 173rd Airborne Brigade. Her mission: to personally deliver, at the behest of Editor-Publisher Hugh M. Hefner, a lifetime Playboy subscription to men of the company and brigade. You'll find the details of her overseas adventures in an eight-page spread within. In our gatefold, we present Dolly Read, our first Playmate from London's Marylebone, where Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson once stalked archcriminals Professor Moriarty and Colonel Sebastian Moran. Dolly, who will soon be helloing keyholders in our new London Playboy Club, is one of six English lasses trained in Chicago for British Bunnydom. The others—Doreen Allen, Kathleen Bascombe, Joan Findlay, Catherine MacDonald and Maggie Adam—are also fetchingly on hand as Dolly's supporting cast. Dolly is an outstanding example of the beauty that abounds in the Tight Little Isle, and is also typically British in her frankness. Asked, in the preliminary questionnaire customarily sent to prospective Playmates, to describe her particular peeve, she replied with prompt and commendable candor: "Filling out forms like this one." Dolly's own form is a well-filled-out 37-24-37.
Playboy, May, 1966, Vol. 13, No. 5, Published Monthly by HMH Publishing Co., 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 & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Road, N E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
Russian and U.S. space officials will be disappointed to learn that the sun, Mercury, Venus (despite the Russian rocket hit), Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto, their satellites, and all other celestial bodies in the solar system are the exclusive property of two foresighted New Yorkers. Via a public notice published in a recent issue of The Village Voice, Hugo Koch and Fredrick J. Pohlman also laid claim to "all galaxies so far known to man in their entirety." Bigheartedly, however, they made no territorial claims on passing meteors.
Now that Tony Bennett has found a niche for himself in Hollywood via a role in The Oscar (see page 30), it is meet and proper that his current LP is The Movie Song Album (Columbia). It includes Maybe September from The Oscar, and much musical flicker fare arranged and conducted by the composers: Johnny Mandel's Emily and The Shadow of Your Smile (from The Sandpiper), Quincy Jones' The Pawnbroker and David Rose's Never Too Late. Top jazz instrumentalists Zoot Sims and Tommy Flanagan chime in on occasion and Luiz Bonfá's bossa-nova guitar backs up his own compositions, The Gentle Rain and Samba de Orfeu. Tony's choices are, in the main, first-rank, and the Bennett baritone was never in finer fettle.
It's a ten-minute drive from downtown Dallas to Danny Russo's Dominique restaurant (7713 Inwood Road), and Texas Continental-cuisine fanciers have been steadily beating a path to its doors. Steaks, the groaning-board bulwark of the Southwest, are merely afterthoughts on a menu that might grace the finest table anywhere. Following his service in the Marines in World War Two, Russo spent many years learning kitchen and dining-room management under the watchful eye of uncle Mario Vaccaro, who had established a restaurant of high repute in Dallas. In 1962, Russo decided to express his own culinary predilections and opened Dominique (his non-Anglicized first name). The local gentry was quick to discover the excellent fare in a menu that offered dishes reminiscent of Rome, Paris, New York and San Francisco. Travelers, too, learned of the new establishment. Within a year, the 100 place settings were taxed to accommodate patrons. A year later, the capacity was doubled. Dominique's elegant decor is of Rome, but there is the warmth of the Southwest, too, in the genial greeting of the rotund Russo or his maître de. Russo reaches out all over the world for dishes that make dining at Dominique a pleasant adventure. From northern France is flown tender turbot, from Pakistan come the giant shrimp for his Scampi Dominique. His Tortellini Burro is a rare treat in this land of steaks, and many more similar specialties of the house give the wide-ranging menu an enticing air. A culinary high point at Dominique is the five-course Festin de Roi (Feast of the King), which offers a choice of Canard au Pêches or Tournedos Chambertin for the entree and includes champagne, coffee served in a regal Roman gold cup, and a liqueur, for a modest $7.50. If one must have an à la carte steak, and can't find what he wants among the variety of tournedos offered, there is always the charcoal grill. But it seems a pity to resort to such basic fare in one of Texas' best Continental oases. Dominique is open from 6 p.m. to 11 p.m. seven days a week.
Is Harper the last, lonely flowering of the private-eye genre, or could it be the harbinger of a renaissance in a form Hollywood has neglected for over a decade? It's hard to say, but it is easy to recommend this long, smart-mouthed, tough-guy tale. Based on a novel by Ross MacDonald, whom many consider the only logical heir to the late Raymond Chandler, the film is bound to remind you of such Hollywood classics as Murder My Sweet and The Big Sleep. The setting is Los Angeles, the plot serpentine, the characters drawn from society both high and low. Paul Newman, in the title role, is just as hard as you please, spinning off wisecracks, administering and absorbing beatings and registering weary disgust at the corruption that surrounds him as the tries to find a kidnaped millionaire. Along his beat he encounters a couple of fine actors apparently enjoying a slumming—Julie Harris as a junkie jazz pianist and Arthur Hill as a lawyer too true to be good. Newman also turns up a connoisseur's collection of personalities speaking strangely and carrying their customary big shticks—bitchy Lauren Bacall, nasty Robert Webber, frowzy Shelley Winters, vapid Pamela Tiffin, pretty Janet Leigh and prettier Robert Wagner. All their limitations are virtues in the hands of director Jack Smight who, contrary to current fad, insists that everybody play it straight, thus allowing the audience to figure out for itself that all this is good, dirty fun. There are no weapons in Harper weirder than a police .38, no gimmicks odder than a nut religious temple. The hero's sports car is rusty, he makes love only to his wife, and when Webber settles down to torture some information out of Miss Harris, he uses nothing fancier than a lighted cigarette applied to the soles of her feet. But there is much old-fashioned entertainment here, despite the lack of gadgetry.
Gwen Verdon is a miracle of mobility. She soars like Fonteyn, struts like Astaire and swaggers like a Chaplinesque sailor, and all in about the space of a number and a half. She sings a little like Channing, but is more lifelike; a big musical-comedy star, but with a peculiar nearness and touchability about her. Her new musical, Sweet Charity, is based on Nights of Cabiria, Federico Fellini's bittersweet film of a few years back. But Cabiria into Charity is a misguided metamorphosis. Instead of the Roman tart with a Heart Of Gold, we now have a Manhattan dance-hall hostess with a H. O. G., and she is too little bitter and too much sweet. The rather random book is credited to Neil Simon, but he has done his work absent-mindedly. Mostly the lines read like valentines: "Without love, life has no purpose." What simple Simon needs is a get-well-soon card. Cy Coleman's music and Dorothy Fields' lyrics serve as a good backdrop for the dances, and in Sweet Charity, the dances, the dancers and the dancer are the thing. Bob Fosse, Miss Verdon's husband, as choreographer and director, has been lavish with his imagination. And then there's Gwen, delightful whether marching gaily through a long chorus line on a long stage or hidden in a tight little closet in the bedroom of an Italian movie star, while he is consorting with his current love in a nearby bed. Alas, Sweet Charity is no triumph, despite the valiant battle of Verdon. At the Palace, Broadway and 47th Street.
What would happen if you crossed Sophia Loren with Barbra Streisand? Well, if you were lucky you'd get a girl with Loren's build and Streisand's vocal equipment, which is a fairly close approximation of what Lainie Kazan has going for her. We audited and admired the bel-cantilevered Miss Kazan at Chicago's Mister Kelly's (just before it was hit by a disastrous fire last February), where, semiclad in a plunging pink gown, she handled with star-style aplomb a lengthy set arranged by pianist Peter Daniels, whose occasionally complex charts gave her a chance to exhibit—among other things—her vocal wares. And, like other things, they were considerable. The curvilinear Miss Kazan opened with a rocking rendition of Blues in the Night, wherein she displayed a marked ability to change from one key to another with nonclinkerish ease. She then showed a courage above and beyond the call of duty by tackling the Streisand Funny Girl blockbuster Don't Rain on My Parade. Miss Kazan came off to favorable advantage. From there on, Lainie interspersed a batch of standards with such special items as Peel Me a Grape and Ouzo, an ode to the Grecian booze. It was a fastmoving session, but at its end Miss Kazan wasn't even breathing hard. Which was more than could be said for some of the males in the audience.
Evan S. Connell, Jr., is one of America's most talented, most versatile and least noticed post-War writers. His new novel, The Diary of a Rapist (Simon & Schuster), is one of his better efforts—not quite as good as Mrs. Bridge, but then, that was a masterpiece. The rapist is Earl Summerfield, in his 20s, married to frosty, ambitious Bianca, who wants to make assistant principal and who reads the financial pages in bed, leaving little room or time for Earl in or out of bed. Earl is filled with resentment against Bianca, against his superiors and coworkers at the state employment office and, most especially, against all those girls he sees or reads about every day, flaunting their stuff, teasing and tantalizing him. No wonder, Earl concludes, there are so many rapes and sex murders; no wonder, too, that the diary he keeps (the novel is entirely in diary form) is filled with references to violence—murders, muggings, Russia and the U.S. rattling their nuclear bombs at each other. For Earl, it's a world of menace and also a world of pleasures that are denied him. He becomes a hater, and his hate settles on one beauty contestant he has seen at an amusement park. The girl is respectable, lives with her mother, but Earl imagines her as "the whore of Babylon"—if not, how could she make him think all those dark thoughts? There's a blank entry for July Fourth, and that is when Earl rapes her, in an alley near a church. The succeeding diary entries show him becoming a nocturnal creature, wandering around his neighborhood in San Francisco, going into people's houses, violating their privacy as he violated his "whore of Babylon." He grows preoccupied with newspaper accounts of convicted murderers in death row, with the details of the executions themselves. He senses kinship with the murderers—they know something the rest of the world doesn't, and what a joke it all is! Earl Summerfield comes off as a twisted saint of our times, seeking what appears to be real penance at the end. An uneducated man, his words often have the eloquence of hopelessness and agony. "I'm free but it doesn't interest me," he writes. "Maybe I'm free against my will." This book, with its taut writing, compressed structure and the good taste with which it handles its inherently sensational subject matter, should win the neglected Connell his widest audience yet.
Though my sexual experiences are limited, I have often wished that occasionally my girlfriend's and my roles in the sex act could be reversed—she being the seducer and I the seduced. Can you think of a tactful way to suggest such a change?—E. P., Eugene, Oregon.
There's Good Living and new luxury amid the ice fields and tundras of Alaska—an off-trail escape from the summer heat of the city. Places such as Williwaw Lodge on secluded Lake Wasilla near Anchorage, the Cripple Creek resort just outside Fairbanks, Tongass Lodge in Juneau and rustic Camp Denali in the wilderness area of Mt. McKinley National Park all offer a welcome chance to cool it along the outer edges of the nation's frontier. You can try your hand at midnight swimming parties under a bright sun, athletic glacier scrambles, or camera-stalking everything from giant king crab to Kodiak bear.
Of the 90-odd books written about John Fitzgerald Kennedy in the 30 months since his death, many have been inane, unabashed eulogies with little to recommend them other than their charismatic subject. And more than a few have been morbid, commercial quickies—mostly about the assassination and its aftermath—designed to cash in on the nation's grief for its late President. Only a handful of the Kennedy books can be said to have revealed, with any measure of eloquence or insight, the depth and dimension of the man behind the myth; and the best of these, in the opinion of most critics, is the longest of the lot—amonumental 1031-page volume called "A Thousand Days: John F. Kennedy in the White House." It isn't difficult to understand why it's become the best selling of the many best sellers on Kennedy, for the author—a history professor named Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr.—brought to his task a unique blend of personal experience and professional expertise: At the late President's request, he served as a top-level White House advisor and confidant throughout the Kennedy Administration. No less uniquely, he also brought to his task a reputation as one of the world's great historians—and a degree of national notoriety (despite his deceptively mild demeanor) as one of the stormiest political petrels in American public life. The reasons for both his reputation and his notoriety were reaffirmed by the product of his arduous 14-month labor: not merely a chronicle of the Kennedy years, but a compelling portrait of a man all too often idealized into pasteboard sainthood since his death. On another level, the book offers an astute assessment of the ideals Kennedy articulated, the blunders he committed, the victories he won, the goals he set but never lived to reach, and the legacy of renewed national purpose that he left behind; and an incomparable insider's view—brought dramatically to life with intimate, often disquieting and occasionally damning eyewitness glimpses behind hitherto closed doors—of the process of history in the making.
Things were looking up for Simon. He had finished ghosting another book for Pandro Harlow the sexologist around the Pandro Harlow thesis that an outlet is an outlet is an outlet. It was the peppiest broadside yet against the bigots who favor one orifice over another, and Pandro was pleased.
In The Beginning there was Robert Ruark. North of Barcelona, in the Palamós of the early 1950s, he found an escape from modern civilization and wrote Something of Value. The only Spanish resort anyone had ever heard of then was San Sebastián on the Atlantic coast, and that was celebrated largely because of its proximity to Biarritz. On the beaches even the men were forbidden to wear topless swimsuits. Unmarried girls swam a discreet distance from the opposite sex, while hawk-eyed duennas patrolled the sands to see that the twain didn't meet.
There she was again. Joe Kelly watched the sleek red hovercar snake past and disappear into the London mist. He drank another toast as he saluted his wife for the ninth time that afternoon. The liquor tore at his raw throat. He frowned at the label: more cheap sour-mash pineapple from the Philippine Empire.
Once upon a time, American vinophiles looked upon the U.S. as a great place in which to live, but you wouldn't want to drink its wines. Wines for winos? Of course. And wines for cooking? OK. But wines to talk about in the same breath with the prestige products of France and Germany? You're kidding. But that was once upon a time. Wine drinking is the most steadfast of pleasures, but wine making is the most fluid of arts (no pun intended), as we shall see.
We Went down to Worcester for the Eastern Sprints on Friday, the day before the rates. The bus was scheduled to leave from Newell Boat House at 11, and I started there from Adams House a half hour early to pack ray gear. It was a warm sunny morning in mid-May, and I walked slowly, enjoying the sun and following a Cliffie with good legs. She was wearing a yellow springdress, and she carried a bottle of Sea & Ski in one hand and a green book bag slung over her shoulder. I was feeling easy and smoodi, the way you do when you are tough and hard and in top condition, but a hint of pre-race tension was fluttering in my stomach. The Eastern Sprints is an all-or-nothing race for a lightweight crew—to win is lo be best, to lose is to have a bad season—and I couldn'i help being nervous. I had been rowing for sixseasons by then, in prep school and Allege,.but nobodyHire'v ei really calm for the big ones.
Britannia's first Bunny-Playmate, Dolly Read, recalls excitedly the night she was spotted by staff photographer Pompeo Posar during her training stint as a Chicago Club bumper-pool Bunny. "He asked me if I would like to consider becoming a Playmate, and I thought it was a smashing good idea," says Dolly. "But, like any well-bred British girl, I had to clear it with my parents first." Born in Bristol, a coastal city near the Welsh border, the former Miss Bristol Teenager had a budding stage career before opting for Bunny satin instead. She entered the Eleine Hartley Hodder School of Drama at the age of eight and emerged an aspiring actress some ten years later ("That's when I packed my trunk and got aboard the London train in search of fame and fortune"). Renting a flat in the Marylebone section of London, centerfolddom's latest Commonwealth import saw several workless weeks before landing her first acting job in a local TV series called Compact. "It was sort of a feminine version of your own Valentine's Day," says Dolly. "All I had was a walk-on part, but it seemed like the greatest role since Lady Macbeth to me." Soon after, she was signed for her first film role, in The Kiss of the Vampire, and went on to play a number of "rather prosaic" video roles until Bunnydom beckoned.
The Young Man returning from lunch pauses at the window of a camera store and is caught up by the display. Stretched before him are examples of the precision workmanship evident in cameras today: the compact ruggedness of metal bodies sheathed in black, pebble-grained leather; the gleam of wide-eyed lenses; the glisten of polished or satin chrome; the knurled knobs, the assertive levers, the dials etched with numerals. He reflects upon what he would like to have photographed—the wondrous places he's been, the people he's known—and with the days stretching to summer's length, he knows there will be much more.
My First Love was at the age of 11, in 1922, for Gina "the African," the young wife of old Hercules Santi, the image maker and sacristan of our church of San Rocco. Gina was called the African because her skin was a deep tint of greenish-brown hue, seeming of smooth lava or lignum vitae. Hardly more than a girl, she stood out among the Hoboken peasant women as a shining figure of precious substance. Her heavy hair, draping about her shoulders, was the bluest black. Her eyes were radiant light purple, her features perfect and her body that of a full-blossomed nymph.
The Lord Chief Justice wondered if the death penalty might not be a trifle severe in view of the prisoner's age. The trial judge argued against mercy on the grounds that William York's punishment would be an example deterring others from a life of crime. So William York was hanged for stealing a shilling from the man to whom he was apprenticed. He was ten years old. The place was London. The time was 1748.
Having Promulgated two fashion innovations—the sportive shirt jac (The Playboy Shirt-Jacket, March 1963) and the elegant formal separate (The Playboy Dinner Jacket, November 1963)—Playboy now introduces another original adjunct to the well-equipped wardrobe, the spring tweed blazer, which just goes to prove the truth of the adage that good things happen in threes. The blazer, once worn only during the summery months or in the tropics, now comes on as an all-weather favorite. Tweed, traditionally a coldweather fabric, is now a material for all seasons. We wanted the best of both possible worlds and—by combining these two fashion staples—we have created a single stylish standout that can add a touch of sartorial elegance to any casual occasion. Tailored from lightweight classic tweeds, our new double-breasted blazer is the perfect coat to sport on spring nights when the temperature is on the chilly side, and it offers the weekend voyager a heftier style to wear when cooling it in the mountains or by the ocean shore.
I Am a Qualified Faquir—or, as we professionals term ourselves, a jadoo-wallah. Stain me brown, equip me with a turban from Dazian's Costume Emporium, and I'll guarantee to duplicate any of the mysteries of the East except how those taxis manage to drive 60 mph through the Chandni Chowk without hitting a sacred cow.
High-Fleming Allison Parks, last October's Playmate, student pilot and swimming instructress, received a stunning reception from our readers for her fall debut and equally enthusiastic accolades after January's Playmate Review; retrospectively, Playboy's vax populi proved to be omnisciently on target as the editors weighed Allison's attributes, which tipped the scales of pulchritude overwhelmingly in her favor. Picking her as Playmate of the Year was one of our most pleasurable tasks, requiring no readers' runoff (as in 1963 and 1965) to help us make up our mind. Since her October appearance, Miss Parks has been a girl very much on the go. What with piling up hours aloft toward her pilot's license, lending a green thumb in her father's Glendale, California, nursery, continuing to teach swimming to Glendale's pre-school moppets, studying acting on the 20th Century-Fox lot, starting to decorate video commercials and—as a result of her gatefold bow—zipping across the country on Playboy promotion tours, Allison is up to her bright-blue irises in activity. Yet her ascendancy to the Playmate of the Year throne will accelerate her whirlwind pace still more. Among the new vistas opening up for Allison as a result of her Playmate of the Year selection: a movie role in one of producer Henry Saperstein's Benedict Productions; a screen test arranged by Filmways' executive producer Martin Ransohoff (says Allison of the filmic prospects before her: "I only hope I do half as well in the movies as my predecessor, Jo Collins. I saw Jo in Lord Love a Duck and she was fabulous."); and an upcoming audition for Monument Records for a recording contract (if her audio equipment comes anywhere near matching her visual effect, she's a hi-fi cinch). In addition to affording our golden-haired girl of the West movie and recording opportunities, her Playmate of the Year laurels carry with them cornucopian quantities of largess the value of which runs into thousands of dollars.
Ribald Classic: The Cunning of Khalbas the Cuckold
There Once Lived in Persia a hearty fellow, Khalbas by name, who, out of smugness and bombastic esteem of his own worth and wit, was of entire belief that no man might make him a cuckold. How mistaken was the dolt. For he knew not that entertaining a particular passion toward his comely wife was a rascal possessed of no less cunning than he.
Most military strategists agree that, aside from actual firepowder, nothing means more to an army than the morale of its men. And since the days of GI Joe, the American fighting man has seldom appeared on the frontiers of freedom without an abundant supply of that most time-honored of spirit-lifting staples: the pinup. From the shores of Iwo Jima to the jungles of Vietnam, the pinup queen has remained a constant companion to our men at arms; but the long-legged likenesses of such World War Two lovelies as Grable and Hay-worth have given way to a whole new breed of photogenic females better known as the playboy Playmates. It was only a matter of time, therefore, until center-folddom's contemporary beauties would be asked to do their bit for our boys in uniform. That time came last November, when Second Lieutenant John Price—a young airborne officer on duty in Vietnam—sent Editor-Publisher Hugh M. Hefner the following letter:
No, Solly! I Will Not Take My Life's Work, "The Abraham Lincoln Story," To A Television Network! I've Got Something To Say To The People And I Know What They Do To Works Of Great Depth And Insight! I Read "Only You, Dick Daring"!Salinger, Baby...With Your Script And Annie In The Starring Role, We Can Make Millions On A TV Series. And, Sweetie...Think Of The Rerun Royalties!...I Think I May Even Talk Them Into Running The Reruns First!!