A Positive Approach to placard wielding is demonstrated by our redoubtable Rabbit impeccably proclaiming on the cover just a few of the good things to be found inside this issue. Garson Kanin, a man of many theatrical seasons, director-playwright-author, former actor, has contributed our lead fiction this month--Buddy-Buddy, a sardonic tale of a two-timing husband told with wit and vitriol. Not one to rest on past laurels--” which include the directing of Born Yesterday (which he also wrote), The Diary of Anne Frank and Funny Girl, and the screenplays for two of screendom's happier comedies, Adam's Rib and Pat and Mike (on both of which he shared credits with his wife, Ruth Gordon)--Kanin is solidly booked for the months ahead. Soon to be published by Atheneum is his Remembering Mr. Maugham; he's directing the dramatization of Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived in the Castle, due to bow this month; he'll be staging Die Fledermaus at the new Metropolitan Opera House, with his own libretto; come January, he'll direct his latest play, The Spitting Image. Visually enhancing Kanin's words is a phantasmagorical assemblage by Chicago artist Carl Schwartz, whose works have been exhibited in museums and galleries across the country and who has walked off with a fistful of prizes along the way.
Playboy, September, 1966, Vol. 13, No. 9. Published monthly by HMH publishing Co., Inc., Playboy building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., 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, playboy building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, advertising director; Jules Kase, associate advertising manager, 405 park Ave., 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 Rd., N.E., Atlanta, Ga. 30305, 233-6729.
While we bow to none in our admiration for things English (the opening of the London Playboy Club will be featured in our December issue, along with a picture-and-text On the Town takeout on what's happening in that switched-on cosmopolis), we stop short of the wide-eyed, wholesale Anglophilia that seems to be snowing some of our national publications. As we go to press, correspondents for half a dozen American newspapers and magazines are covering London like a fog--making the superfab Carnaby Street scene and competing for fast-breaking news on the latest fad, phrase or fashion from Britain's pop-op in-crowd. So avid and ingenuous is this editorial army that one amused Englishman of our acquaintance, writer Michael Frayn, has seen fit to skewer them, for the London Observer, in a surgically neat satire entitled "At Bay in Gear Street":
John Barth's first two books, The Floating Opera and The End of the Road, besides being good stories, went into the question of suicide quite as deeply as Camus' The Myth of Sisyphus. It was not, however, until The Sot-Weed Factor, Barth's third and most remarkable book, that what he was getting at became plain. Barth, who teaches English at the State University of New York, likes to run ideas through a story to see if they'll get raped--and they usually do, being weak, defenseless things against the march of plot. The Sot-Weed Factor was phenomenally long; his new book, Giles Goat-Boy (Doubleday), is not much shorter. Barth has chosen the late 20th Century for his religious allegory of ultimate unconcern. It is an awesome book, and an awful lot of fun. It has to do with the birth of a new Messiah. Only, since the world is a university in this allegory, the Messiah, the Goat-Boy himself, is called a Grand Tutor. Salvation is Commencement. The U. S. A. is New Tammany College (Barth must have started the book during J.F.K.'s Administration). The Russians are Nikolayans; Communists are Student Unionists; World Wars One and Two are Campus Riots One and Two; and A-plus is Amen. The Goat-Boy is, in fact, the son of WESCAC (West Campus Automatic Computer), which is running everything on West Campus, having been programed to make policy during the early years of the Quiet Riot (Cold War). Giles, the son of this god, is sent out to live with the goats, to be a goat; and he realizes he's a genuine human student only in his 14th year, when he goes gimping off to fulfill his destiny. There is so much in these pages to enjoy, so much hilarity and bawdiness, that one quickly suspects it's a grand spoof by a grand tutor--which may be right, but then again may be wrong, since the spoofing is so way out as to be serious. The best thing to do is relax and laugh along with John of Barth, who manages to be the bawdiest novelist of the decade without resort to conventionally sexy passages--quite an achievement even for a Grand Tutor. Quite an achievement also for Professor Barth, who must now be recognized as among the most original and compelling writers in the land.
On any evening at Manhattan's The Improvisation (358 West 44th Street), from about midnight on, you are liable to be sitting next to Judy Garland or Cab Calloway, watching either an unknown performer teetering on the brink of discovery or an established star entertaining just for the kicks. What you'll see and hear for your money is rather like a showbiz version of Russian roulette. It's a casually unfettered establishment that performers of all magnitudes of brilliance find as comfortable as an old soft shoe. There was the night, for example, that Christopher Plummer and Dudley Moore played piano, Albert Finney the bongos, Tuesday Weld just sat on the piano and Jason Robards, Jr., did the vocals. It was not, according to proprietor Budd Friedman, very much different from other nights. The Improv is a coffeehouse type of restaurant and café (although booze is now available) that was started to give the theater crowd a place where it could relax and perform if it felt like it--a jam session for actors, singers, comedians, spotlight-seeking celebrities, and beginners. Before she became a star, Liza Minnelli used to sing there regularly. Ron Carey is the current comic in residence, working out whenever the mood is upon him, which is understandable since nobody gets paid except the regular piano player, who is excellent. It's an intimate room, which is good, because if it weren't, they'd need a microphone. If they got a microphone, then the next thing you know they'd be getting a cabaret license, and Friedman doesn't believe in wasting money on anything that would change the pleasantly extemporaneous atmosphere. The food is priced for middleincome actors--a one-pound sirloin goes for $4.50. Drinks are all under a dollar. There is a two-dollar minimum on Friday and Saturday. Dinner is served until ten, after which all food is à la carte until six A.M. A rare kind of place.
Several years ago, when off-Broadway was booming, producers exhausted the supply of existing theaters. Like an army of carpenter ants, they swarmed into lofts, basements, restaurants, storefronts, churches and movie houses, and turned them into theaters. Today, off-Broadway is almost defunct. Fewer and fewer plays are produced there, and more and more of those few fail. What little dramatic experimentation survives these days is mostly off-off-Broadway--in coffeehouses or in classrooms or workshops. Surveying the desert that is off-Broadway this year, one can find very few successes, and a great number of empty theaters. Any day now, some wise promoter will turn them into lofts, basements, restaurants, storefronts, churches and movie houses. There are, of course, a few exceptions.
For a long time Edward Albee refused to sell movie rights to Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? unless he could retain script control, casting control--in fact, total control of the production. But nobody would make that deal with him, and finally, out of fatigue and perhaps for the money, he sold his abrasively potent tragedy to Ernest Lehman for half a million dollars, lock, stock and barrel. Albee would never have cast Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton as Martha and George--she's too young to play "the slashing, braying residue," he's too strong to play the "bog." Mike Nichols, who had never directed a movie, was an outside choice to translate the play to the screen. And no producer could be expected to preserve the dialog, the vicious, destructive malice of the mouth that is the essential stuff of the play. But Edward Albee probably has been better served in Hollywood than any playwright ever bought, for Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? is a superb motion picture in every particular. If Lehman, who also wrote the screenplay, had had any less respect for the play itself, these kudos would not accrue. But in his hands the play has moved almost intact to the screen, where the vivid immediacy of the medium adds immeasurably to the impact of the language. The four desperate characters, destroying one another on a drunken off-campus evening, come into painfully sharp focus; each is equal to his role. Of course, it's impossible to take one's eyes off Elizabeth Taylor as she gives the performance of her career in one of the juiciest roles of the contemporary American theater. With almost equal fascination we watch Burton, Sandy Dennis and George Segal, all excellent, as hopeless people helplessly playing three apocalyptic games: Humiliate the Host, Get the Guests and Hump the Hostess. Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? will almost certainly leave you with a deep sense of horrified exhaustion. It's that good.
A haunt of the Beverly Hills and movie set for the past seven years, Andre's (8635 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills) is the culinary creation of Don Medica and Dominic Andreone. Though not a dinner is priced above $5, Andre's makes it with the sophisticated affluent, those who know it's "in" to get one's money's worth. Andreone, the chef half of the partnership, is as talented with the Coq au Vin Rouge or Frog Legs Provencale as with the more down-home Mediterranean Steak Pizzaiola. A firm favorite is Scampi Andre, jumbo shrimps succulently bathed in oregano and garlic sauce, baked and served on the half shell. The wine cellar is varied and versatile: There are fine Italian vintages shipped from Barone Bettino Ricasoli; but if your palate inclines toward the Gallic (as did ours with Frog Legs), try the Pouilly-Fuisse. The assorted antipasto trays groan with spicy delights of Italia. And there are delectable desserts ranging from the Profiterolle au Chocolate to the Pear Flambé--all topped with a hearty cappuccino bolstered with cognac and créme de cacao. Not for the faint of appetite, Andre's typical dinner is dandily bolstered with a hearty salad, a cupful of lusty French onion soup garnished with cheese, and an almost mandatory side dish of Fettucine Verdi with authoritative meat sauce. Add to this a super spécialité de la maison: the service. Supervising immediate details of the 260-capacity establishment is maître de Jeno (pronounced Yay-no), an internationalist fluent in ten languages. Jeno plies his expertise daily except Monday (chef's night off), from luncheon to midnight. Weekends, however, lunch is skipped; Andre's then opens at four P.M., closes at one A.M.
Bobby Darin Sings the Shadow of Your Smile (Atlantic) and--in addition to the 1966 Academy Award winner--tackles, on side one, the four other contenders. Side two is a mélange of standards, given added spice by a Darin original and a similar creation of Neal Hefti's. The Oscar side has been scored by Shorty Rogers, the rest by Richard Wess. The swinger of the session--surprise, surprise--is the Sigmund Romberg-Oscar Hammerstein antiquity Lover Come Back to Me; but What's New Pussycat? doesn't trail too far behind.
The Cool Season now moving gradually south through India will make November an ideal month to enjoy the subcontinent at its mystic best. Clichés aside, India is, indeed, all things to all men and can be seen and savored at any speed to suit any taste.
<p>On a sunny Saturday afternoon in 1960, beside the swimming pool of his rented summer villa in Cuernavaca, a 39-year-old American ate a handful of odd-looking mushrooms he'd bought from the witch doctor of a nearby village. Within minutes, he recalled later, he felt himself "being swept over the edge of a sensory niagara into a maelstrom of transcendental visions and hallucinations. The next five hours could be described in many extravagant metaphors, but it was above all and without question the deepest religious experience of my life."</p>
Jocelyn Lane, as she walks barefoot in the soft grass of her hilltop estate in Hollywood, is heading serenely toward stardom. She inherited both beauty and wealth, and from those fortunate beginnings is fashioning a solid film career--to date, a baker's dozen roles capped by one opposite Elvis Presley in Tickle Me. Born in Vienna and brought up in a New York exurb, Jocelyn is an English citizen and the happy mistress of a French poodle, a Hungarian puli, a Russian borzoi, a fur-strewn glass house in Beverly Hills, a London flat, and is building a Spanish villa. At 18, traveling with her widowed mother in Europe, Jocelyn found a beautiful village on the Costa del Sol, unspoiled by tourists, and promptly bought three acres overlooking the sea. Now her castle in Spain is almost finished, and her next-door neighbors are the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Meanwhile, her investment holdings have sex-tupled in six years, and so has her career, as witness a string of English, Italian and American films and Stateside TV appearances (highlighted by a starring role on The Bob Hope Theater). Jocelyn now thinks she's earned the right to choose, and has turned down four film offers in a row, waiting for the right one. The tanned, lithe international actress is also waiting for the right man. "I trust men, completely. I've never had problems with men, mostly because I don't believe in problems. I do believe in the stars." And we --it goes without saying--believe in Jocelyn.
The Company tried to persuade me to take a long holiday when Helen was drowned, but in the end they accepted my argument that I needed work more than rest. They put the proposition up again six months later. I was asked to spend the weekend with the Ashtons outside London, and along with hospitality, Freddy and Paula applied friendly but persistent pressure. My initial prescription had, they agreed, quite probably been right. At the same time the body, like the mind, had limitations, and I had been driving mine too hard. What I was heading for, Paula pointed out gently, was nothing romantic: merely a coronary and years of enforced idleness, possibly helplessness. By this time, of course, things had changed with me. The wound, once viciously tender, had scarred over. The scar ached, but bearably. Freddy told me they had booked me for a (Cont. on page 148)Rendezvous(continued from page 123) cruise to the Cape in ten days' time, and I did not argue with him.
What in the name of naturopathy is this? A hotel for reducing and toning? Superhealth training for senior narcissists? More than $400 a week to be starved and steamed and advised to give up the sauce? Well, yes. This beautiful blonde Swedish chiropractor with her staff of beautiful Swedish and Norwegian instructors is busy cajoling, begging, teasing, flattering, insulting, bouncing, singing, grunting and altogether urging a coed group of affluent senior citizens, junior senior citizens and senior junior citizens to put aside unhealthy ways and take up whole-grain cereal, dancing to jazz, stretching and limbering and improvement of body, lower back and soul.
For a Moment Matsoukas absorbed the suspensive beauty of the warm and cloistered room, a windowless nest secure from the world. In the center of the room a large round table of walnut, the green felt surface lit under the beam from a drop-cord light in the ceiling with a fan shade around the bulb.
When Gottlieb Daimler introduced the world to combustion-engined transport by taking two-wheeled tours of Cannstatt in the late 1880s, motorcycles were at best a pretty chancy business. In fact, most pioneering motorists insisted on a third wheel for security's sake, which no doubt helped account for the eager acceptance that greeted the cycle's fin de siècle four-wheeled substitute--the automobile. Down through the years, however, there remained a hard-core clan of loyal cycling enthusiasts who preferred the freewheeling feel of the road beneath them and the wind in their faces to the more claustrophobic comforts of a common motorcar. To them, 1908 was the year of the Rex, not the Model T. And while American auto enthusiasts extolled the virtues of such stalwarts as the Maxwell, Essex, Hup-mobile, Peerless and Model A, better-balanced motorists made their way through the century's first three decades astride their Rudges, Nortons, Reynolds Runabouts, Royal Enfields and Triumph Model Ps.
Four O'Clock on a pleasant May afternoon in 1964. Screams freeze a crowded Bronx street. And there she is, in a doorway, naked: a slight young woman trying to fight off a rapist who had begun his assault on the floor above--her eyes blackened, bruises on her neck, blood running from her mouth. Part of the crowd bestirs itself. Some 40 people move closer to the doorway to get a better look. The rapist starts dragging her up the stairs. No one else moves. Until finally two cops appear and race to the rescue. The next day, a businessman on the street, who had watched the event, shrugs when asked why he hadn't intervened. "You look out for yourself today," the citizen says.
With September signaling the return of many a comely coed to the campus scene, it's only logical that our lensmen focus their attentions on academe's perennial supply of potential Playmate attractions. The most recent case in point is this month's centerfold miss, Dianne Chandler, a 19-year-old University of Illinois undergraduate currently pursuing a curricular career at the Champaign-Urbana campus. A drama major who readily admits she has "no desire to act," Dianne is content with the vocational view from the wings and plans a post-collegiate career as a set designer. "Like most college drama majors," she told us, "I was bitten by the acting bug in high school. In fact, during my senior year I made a pretty fair Laura in The Glass Menagerie. But by the time I entered my freshman year at Illinois, I was well aware of the fact that I'm basically too shy to ever really go far in acting. On the other hand, technical drama--the sets, costuming, sound effects, lighting and everything else that goes on behind the scenes--absolutely knocks me out."
"When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder's in the shock," to quote a high-camp poet named Riley, gin and tonic on the patio is replaced by bourbon in a flask, lap blankets and school blazers are unpacked, and several million otherwise sane people converge on football stadia all over the country to savor a hallowed Saturday ritual. Roast squab and champagne are served from the tail gates of station wagons, beer busts prevail at fraternity houses, and do-or-die alums in Tyrolean hats haggle with school-of-hard-knocks ticket scalpers. At half time, gaudily attired marching bands play infinite variations on 76 Trombones while long-legged blue-eyed blondes twirl batons. The prospect of a national ranking or a Bowl bid or even a delicious upset adds the tingle of anticipation to the scene, and if a favorite halfback gets away on an 80-yard run, tens of thousands of rabid partisans dutifully abandon themselves to mass hysteria.
A Bachelor's Pantry tends to be the most undernourished part of his kitchen. Shelves seem to have a way of filling themselves up with miscellaneous foodstuffs so haphazardly that the busy bachelor prepping for a party or just taking care of a few unexpected drop-ins too often finds himself with a tin of anchovy paste and four bottles of champagne. Not a bad start, but nothing he can do much with. So our man finds himself out shopping when he should be home sipping with his guests. Ideally, a larder should be like a gastronomic computer--ready to come up with the answer to any cuisine problem no matter how sudden or complicated. To help get your culinary collection properly started, we've separated into seven categories the basic foodstuffs with which an epicurean-minded bachelor should begin--hors d'oeuvres, cocktail snacks, soups, fish and seafood, meats and poultry, gourmet vegetables, cheeses and desserts.
The Thing was (said Antrobus upon his return from our Vulgarian Embassy) that Professor Regulus was sent to us by Protocol as the Embassy sawbones. He was a nice compact little man with pince-nez and a fine reputation for the full syringe. Moreover, he was very pro-British, unhealthily so, as it turned out. He kept closely in touch with Home Affairs, borrowed my Times and so on; and this was how he got to learn of the P. M.'s gout. I expect you remember the time it got so bad there was talk of a Day of National Temperance and Prayer, a special service in Paul's and so on. Well, Regulus took it much to heart, and one Monday he tapered up to the Mission holding a bottle of something called The Regulus Tincture--his own invention, he said. He set it down on my desk and gave me a brief insight into gout. It was, he said, just a sort of scale which collected on the big toe like the scale in a kettle. His Tincture, which was made of a mixture of arrowroot and henbane on a molasses base and macerated with borage--his Tincture simply dissolved the scale and liberated the shank. It had a funny sort of color; when you shook the bottle it kind of seethed. I took it in to show Polk-Mowbray, who was very touched by this proof of Anglophile concern. "By Gad," he said, "we shall pack it off to the P.M. Perhaps there's enough for the whole front bench. What a fine fellow Regulus is. Stap me, but I'll put him up for a gong."
The very word has tonnage to it. It has, in its bare three years of life, escalated from contentious fad to accepted institution, from dernier cri to de rigueur, a lasting if litigated part of the American landscape, an uncertain icon. Uncertain because topless still shocks self-appointed guardians of the public weal, outrages liquor licensers, scandalizes wives and girlfriends, sends strippers to the poorhouse. It also mesmerizes males, young or old, married or single, from Miami to Malibu. But one thing is sure: In a decade of evanescent fashions, its success remains an authentic force in shaping, for better or worse, the manners and mores of what the Eastern taste makers call--with a shadow of envy--The New Life Out There. For only along the golden littoral of the far Western reaches of the U.S. is it ogled openly and almost hourly in all its undulating, aureate glory; but then the circumpacific belt is where most of the world's earthquakes have occurred--though this one is unlikely to be recorded on the Richter scale.
The America's Cup, yachting's oldest and most coveted crown, is a baroque sterling ewer that has come to stand for the epitome of seafaring excellence, and the race for which it is awarded may well be the single event most responsible for the past century's major advances in yacht design and helmsmanship. An American possession since 1851, when the 100-foot schooner U. S. S. America left the entire British Royal Yacht Squadron in its wake racing around the Isle of Wight, the Cup has inspired 19 unsuccessful challenges from British, Canadian and Aussie contenders. The advent of the J boat in 1930 standardized the size and racing features of future Cup entries and turned the tiff into a traditional best-of-seven races off Newport's rock-bound coast; today, its 12-meter successor rules the waves over which the Cup contenders vie. On hand for the most recent Cup duel between America's Constellation and Britain's Sovereign, LeRoy Neiman noted: "The '12s' were symmetrical perfection, tacking and running through the seas like a pair of finely honed knives. Newport had turned out in full Cup regalia to watch the watery clash from vantage points aboard a spectator fleet of power launches, Navy cruisers and private yachts of every description, or behind high-powered telescopes set up on the plush lawns of baronial coastal estates. But the Cup's real color was to be found aboard the 12s themselves, where alert crewmen's split-second timing would spell success or failure in the grueling two-boat bouts. This was no Dufy-like Sunday-afternoon regatta but rather a sportsman's ultimate test, boat against boat, skipper against skipper, crew against crew--and man against the fickle sea."
In Ancient India there lived once a dull-witted wheelwright, Mandamati by name, who in time arrived at the suspicion that his comely wife was often presenting him with a cuckold's cap. To give proof to the matter, he made a show of departure from his house one day on a journey o'er a night, then returned home in secrecy by a circuitous route.
As The Long Shadow of the swastika cast its pall over Europe in the first half of the Forties, every aspect of life was affected, and the movies by no means least of all. In occupied France, one of Dr. Goebbels' first moves was to take over the studios and theaters; throughout the War years, his Propagandastaffel rigorously controlled every picture made or shown in that country. In Italy, production was so disrupted and the industry so demoralized that, by 1944, as the Allied armies swept over the land, the total output for the entire year was only 17 features. England, straining its resources to the War effort, mobilized its films as well; production was centered almost entirely on pictures for educational, propaganda and morale purposes. And in Germany, whose studios concentrated on escapist entertainment, movies suddenly became so popular as to constitute a major problem. In some cities, only soldiers and workers in vital war industries were permitted to attend. Tickets, sold far in advance, were in such demand that Goebbels finally banned their use in order to free the printers for war work.
The education explosion continues and brings with it a sartorial question for undergraduates: how to stand out in a swarm of gentlemen and scholars and avoid being just one more face in the registration line. The solution for those aspiring to the status of Playboy Man On Campus is to select a wardrobe that's distinctively right not only for you but for your own collegiate area as well. To help you stock up on appropriate wearables, Playboy once again presents its annual back-to-campus clothing guide, a regional rundown of P. M. O. C. styles making the academic scene from Amherst to UCLA. But first let's take a look at over-all campus trends.
Since Boarding the Bondwagon in 1963, when he capped off his first year as a film-score writer by landing the musical directorship of Dr. No, 32-year-old John Barry has become Britain's foremost cinematic composer by virtue of his far-out handling of the scoring honors for such super celluloid successes as Goldfinger, Thunderball, The Ipcress File, Séance on a Wet Afternoon, The Knack and Born Free. Not content to rest on his movie-maestro laurels, however, the sideburned staffsman is currently expanding his composing carrer to the tune of several British video commercials and a forthcoming London musicomedy version of Graham Greene's Brighton Rock. Barry, the son of a York movie-theater owner, quit school at 15 and spent the next four years working as a projectionist for his father ("Needless to say, I became an avid filmgoer") before winding up as first trumpet with a regimental British army band on Cyprus. It was there that he engaged in the only formal musical education program of his career--a correspondence course from America run by contemporary composer -- mentor Bill Russo. "I've never taken a musical exam and would probably flunk if I did," says Barry. "I have to go at my own pace with my own ideas, not have someone tell me what's right and what's wrong. Besides, the composers I admire most generally break all the accepted rules of composition." When he's not busy punctuating scenarios with a kicky brand of instrumentalism he refers to as "a certain smell that unifies" or cutting his latest Columbia LP for stereophiles who prefer the Barry sound sans screen, filmdom's new rebel clefsman shares a Chelsea pad and an E-type Jaguar with his E-type wife, actress Jane Birken. Future plans: "Who plans?"
Probably the most colorful entrepreneur in broadcasting today is a 45-year-old larger-than-life Texan named Gordon Barton McLendon, who turned near bankruptcy into an empire that now includes radio stations, oil wells, drive-ins, night clubs and a 200-acre movie production lot on Lake Dallas that turns out the only feature-length films being made between New York and Los Angeles. Son of the owner of a stable of Texas movie theaters, McLendon served in Naval Intelligence during World War Two, married the daughter of a former Louisiana governor and conceived a Dallas-based music-sports-news radio format in 1951 that featured major-league baseball games re-created via Teletype, sound effects and plenty of ingenuity. In fact, his broadcasts were so convincing that his audiences often assumed they were hearing on-the-spot reportage. With little cash but lots of guts, creativity and personal charm, McLendon expanded this single station into a baseball broadcasting network servicing 458 outlets. When his sponsor threw him a curve and canceled out, the Old Scotchman--as his radio fans knew him--completely revamped his broadcasting pitch so that his station programing soon became as diversified as his own personality. Today, his Dallas, Houston and Buffalo outlets are essentially Top 40; X-TRA NEWS, beamed from Mexico, and WNUS in Chicago stress a 24-hour news format, while KABL in San Francisco makes motions toward Mozart and Bach. McLendon (who made a fast but futile motion toward a U. S. Senate seat in 1964) has as his credo: "Get an idea. Be sure you're right or wrong, then go ahead. Either way." For most, a paradoxical program such as this would spell disaster; for McLendon it has spelled success.
A Theologically Inspired graffito has it that "God is alive--but He just doesn't want to get involved." One man trying to change all that is Edward Keating, a controversial convert to Catholicism, from Menlo Park, California. As publisher of Ramparts magazine, an acid-etched monthly of liberal Roman Catholic discussion and sometimes accusation, Keating has been creating the biggest anti-establishment furor within the Church Triumphant since Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses on the church door at Wittenberg. An admitted bishopbaiter, Keating maintains, "I love the Church, the Mystical Body of Christ. But I see grievous faults being committed by members of the Church's corporate structure." With a half-million-dollar investment and what one critic called the gift of "a capacity for moral outrage," Keating has been cheerily hacking away at the administrative superstructure of the Church ever since. When not engaged in battles over Church affairs, Keating finds plenty to keep him occupied in the secular world. Ramparts' recent exposé of the CIA's use of a Michigan State University project in Vietnam as a cover for its agents caused a nationwide flap. In a run for Congress, Keating lost the state primary last May by an eyelash, polling 47 percent of the vote. "But I'm in politics to stay," vows the dapper liberal. His chief aim, however, is to remain a gadfly to the Church--in which capacity he has lashed out at Pope Paul, calling him a dangerous combination of cool diplomacy and icy intellectualism; at the "computer mentality" of the Curia; and at what he calls "the scandal of silence" that has kept the Church mute on today's flaming social issue of civil rights. Keating claims no desire to bring others into the Catholic fold: "If I have a mission," he says, "it is to convert Catholics to Christianity."
Boy... Talk about your insecurity. And that's her Husband!Simon says hands on head. Simon says hands on hips. Simon says hands on shoulders- I lead you on. I let you make love to me. It's nothing but fun for you! ! Fun! Fun! Fun! But what about me? are you going to see me in the city? huh? huh? Marvin! Shame!That's the last time I hire college students for bus-boys.