Gentlemen, consider the gifts at hand and be glad. Playboy this month is as full to bursting as was the first Thanksgiving table, with fine features, appetizing pictorials plus an appropriate sampling of things of interest to the urban male.
Playboy, November, 1966, Vol. 13, No. 11, 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.
Amid the mounting official and editorial outcry against the perils of LSD, we came across a column -- by humorist Arthur Hoppe of the San Francisco Chronicle -- that takes a refreshingly fresh and funny view of the psychedelic syndrome. For the edification of interested readers, we reproduce it here:
The Warren Commission was supposed to establish the critical facts in the assassination of President Kennedy. How good a job did it do? Three recent books give the inquiry marks ranging from poor to abysmal: Inquest, by Edward Jay Epstein (Viking), Rush to Judgment, by Mark Lane (Holt, Rinehart & Winston), and The Oswald Affair, by Leo Sauvage (World). While these works vary in perceptiveness and persuasiveness, they all agree that the contents of the 26 volumes of evidence behind the Warren Report often contradict the contents of the Report itself; the Commission frequently included only evidence that supported its conclusions. The study by Epstein, a young political scientist, is likely to have the greatest impact, because it is so carefully reasoned, because so much of it is based on extensive interviews with Commission personnel and because it focuses on a few key issues in questioning the Commission's premise that Lee Harvey Oswald slew the President unaided. Epstein's thesis, with its enormous implications, comes down to this: Psychopathic Oswald was incontestably guilty, but the case for singlehanded guilt is woefully weak. For example, how many shots were fired? Although only three shells were found in the Texas Book Depository, considerable evidence suggests there were four shots. The commissioners could not agree that the evidence for three was "compelling"; they settled for "persuasive." But to sustain their hypothesis, they had to assume that one bullet that struck the President left his body and then wounded Governor Connally--a highly controversial assumption. The Commission also decided, by dismissing testimony from witnesses, that no shots came from the famous grassy knoll located ahead of the Presidential motorcade, since such testimony conflicted with the thesis that Oswald and Oswald alone, from a point behind the procession, was the assassin. Therein lies the crux of the Epstein argument--that the Commission strove to "protect the national interest" by dispelling damaging rumors of a conspiracy. Committed to this "dominant purpose," he says, it picked and chose among pieces of evidence to obtain support for a tranquilizing theory. Attorney Mark Lane (who tried to represent Oswald before the Commission) takes a more radical point of departure: He contends that the evidence was grossly insufficient to convict Oswald under normal legal procedures, and he questions not only the Commission's methods and conclusions but its motives. Lane adds substantially to doubts that are enveloping the Report, but along the way he hurts his own case by being annoyingly selective as regards the evidence. Leo Sauvage, American correspondent of Le Figaro of Paris, has exceeded Lane by writing an even broader attack on the Commission and on the sloppy procedures of the Dallas police. He lends logic to the possibility of two Oswalds (the second a look-alike), but while many of his blows rattle the underpinnings of the Warren Report, his unrelenting querulousness blunts the force of his attack. The three authors are unanimous in concluding that a new investigation is decidedly in order, an investigation free of preconceived theories or of a need to find anything but the whole truth. If books influence history, the official version of President Kennedy's assassination is in trouble.
When it comes to filming the Bible, one picture is not worth ten thousand words; in fact, it takes a good many frames to equal a dozen. But director John Huston has done better than most film makers who have ventured into this alluring domain, resorting to little extravagance and less sentimentality. The Bible, in Christopher Fry's screenplay, spans the first 22 chapters of Genesis in just under three hours and breaks up into three main segments: Adam and Eve from Eden to Cain's fratricide; Noah and the Ark; and Abraham from his entering Canaan to his offering of Isaac in the mountains of Moriah. The most impressive single element in the movie is Huston himself, not only as director but as narrator and, most emphatically, in the role of Noah. His readings from the Old Testament are astonishingly successful, grave without being pompous and utterly free of rhetorical excess. As a performer he walks away with the show; his Noah, a patriarchal Pied Piper piping his zoo into the ark in a column of twos, is a charming conceit. When the lions lap up milk or Noah tips a bucketful into the jaws of a happy hippo, there is a sense of faith and animal innocence that recalls the English miracle plays, which were also particularly successful with the Noah story. The first seven days Huston dispatches with out-of-focus shots, pictures of cloud and smoke, close-ups of lava, panoramas of sea or grassless plains or barren escarpments. He shot the film in North Africa, Italy and Sicily, and he has taken pains to match mood to episode, blissful or bleak. When Cain (Richard Harris) tears off in fright after killing his brother, Huston puts him barefoot on a slope of what looks to be volcanic ash. But even Huston's eye cannot find an Eden. After all, Adam and Eve gave John Milton trouble, and the feeling for naturalism that has always been a strong point in Huston's work is simply not suited to Paradise. The absolute ideal that we must assume Eden to have been can't be rendered by any one piece of real estate, even in Italy. As for Adam (Michael Parks) and Eve (Ulla Bergryd), Huston has not indulged in either suggestiveness or prissiness. George C. Scott's make-up as Abraham is good enough to give one a start when his familiar voice breaks through the unfamiliar beard. He carries off the crucial scenes with becoming dignity--although he might have resisted some excessive emotionalism as he wrestles with the Lord's demand that he sacrifice Isaac. Ava Gardner (now there's a Gardner of Eden) plays Abraham's Sarah with due restraint. The Bible attempts the nigh impossible and does not altogether fail. Huston's readings put a scaffolding under the weaker portions, and his jaunty Noah makes the whole trip worth while.
Sammy Davis, Jr. / Buddy Rich / The Sounds of '66 (Reprise), recorded live in Las Vegas, is a pressure cooker from start to finish, with drummer Rich and his band pushing Davis to the outer limits. The high point of the session is a riotous rendition of I Know a Place, which Davis converts into a Ray Charlesian blues shout of the first order. Close behind it in joie de vivre are What the World Needs Now Is Love and a dilly of a Ding Dong the Witch Is Dead.
I have been married for two years. My wife and I go to different schools and we see each other only once a month. I have reached the stage where I need more sexual satisfaction than I can get from one of my wife's letters. How do I begin solving this dilemma? -- S.B.D., Storrs, Connecticut.
The Vacation Village run by the Club Méditerranée at Agadir on the southern coast of Morocco is the first of the club's complexes to operate year-round -- and the first that provides bungalow accommodations. There's always plenty of action going on -- sailing, deep-sea fishing, swimming, skindiving, tennis, riding, dancing barefoot on the beach, listening to stereo under the stars along with fine French cuisine -- but no regimentation. Most of the club's gentils membres, or nice members, as they are called, tend to wear the now-standard pareu with a necklace of Pop-it beads that serve as money on the club premises. It's impossible to be lonely at club villages: such touches as never serving a meal until each eight-seater table is filled help initiate new visitors into the social circle. If you can tear yourself away, excursions are available that take you from Agadir to Marrakech and on into the Sahara Desert. The all-inclusive rate for a two-week stay at the club is approximately $120, and it's more than worth that low price, as the ratio of females to males is usually about 60 to 40. Other Club Méditerranée villages are scattered around the world, from Spain to Israel, to Tahiti, and three more will soon be set up: Martinique; Isla Mujeres, Yucatán; and Acapulco. A fairly recent innovation is winter villages in the Alps -- where the $135 tab includes train fare from Paris, one week's lodging and good food (with table wine served at each meal), ski instruction and a wide range of after-ski activities. The club also maintains two luxury hotels at St.-Moritz. The Hotel Princesse-Victoria accepts only single people as guests, so it jumps more than the other hotel, the Roi-Soleil.
For more than half a century, Norman Thomas has devoted his considerable energies to protest--in word and deed. Almost totally blind, his tall frame slightly stooped, he is still the ubiquitous dissenter--writing, chairing a broad range of protest groups, addressing civil rights rallies and peace demonstrations. "The years have given a cavernous austerity to his patrician face," A. H. Raskin wrote recently in The New York Times, "but the wrinkles of laughter still hold their own against the wrinkles etched by time. His pale blue eyes glow ... and ideas tumble from his thin lips with the easy eloquence that used to make his campaign speeches entrancing to conservatives as well as liberals."
Alvah Gershon, M.D., specialist in dermatology, had been legally divorced for exactly one day when, from an unknown informant, he received news which implied the possibility of murdering a man he had never met. He had never laid eyes upon the man he might be obliged to kill. So far as he knew, the man had never seen him, nor had reason to.
The first to arrive was Haskell, the Eng. Lit. man, a specialist in the Elizabethan period. He had made full professor just the month before, and already he was cultivating the longish hair, the briar, the tweediness and the abstracted gaze he felt his role required. The briar kept going out. Obscenely sucking and smacking at it under a match flame, he said, "Hullo, Fairbank. Am I early?"
In 1914, just 52 years ago, in Cincinnati, the last passenger pigeon died. It was a female, and her life in the zoo kept extant for 14 years after the final sighting of free birds the most numerous game-bird species ever known. Long before that -- I don't suppose anybody knows or cares just when -- settlers from Europe had begun to import rock doves, distantly related birds of about the same size, which we now call domestic pigeons. They were brought in for various uses: for farm flocks, for fanciers of the ornamental strains, for shooting and racing and even message carrying. And perhaps these pigeons were sometimes brought over in much the same spirit as were English sparrows and European starlings -- the human urge to introduce an old, familiar species in a new land, an adult from of homesickness. Though we still have farm flocks and fanciers around, as well as men who keep pigeons to race and to use in training dogs and falcons, most domestic pigeons are no longer domestic. They are in the stage between domestic and wild called feral, and many have gone beyond that into true wildness--that is, a state in which their existence no longer depends in any way on man, his structures or the products of his cultivation; these live in cliffs and feed on open ground. The majority of pigeons, of course, live the feral life, nesting in barns or on building ledges, feeding on waste or sharing handouts with regular farm creatures when the farmer's back is turned. They are wary, sharp-eyed, bold and furtive by turns--necessary qualities for adapting to the raider's life. As a consequence, having wiped out our native wild pigeon, we find ourselves with what is essentially a new wild pigeon of very different characteristics. It is one of those ironies of nature which, because it took a century to develop, nobody much noticed.
Daphne Bigelow and the Spine-Chilling Saga of the Snail-Encrusted Tin-Foil Noose
Why does a man become a revolutionary? Just when is that precise instant of stark realization when he perceives with unmistakable clarity that he is but a humble tenpin in the cosmic bowling game of life? And that others are balls in that game? Look closely into the early private life of any great revolutionary and you will find a girl. Somewhere along the line, a pair of elfin eyes put Karl Marx down so decisively that he went home and wrote the first words of his Manifesto. I well remember my own turning point. Like most pivotal moments in our lives, it came unexpectedly and in the guise of rare good fortune. Her name was Daphne Bigelow. Even now, ten light-years removed from the event, I cannot suppress a fugitive shiver of tremulous passion and dark yearning. Her skin was of the clearest, rarest form of pure, translucent alabaster. She had no "eyes" in the mundane sense, but rather, she saw the world, or the world saw her, through twin jade-green jungle pools, mirrors of a soul that was so mysterious, so enigmatic as to baffle ninth graders for yards around. I hesitate to use such a pitifully inadequate word as "hair" to describe that nimbus of magic, that shifting cloud of iridescence that framed a face of such surpassing beauty that even Buddha would have thought long and hard before staring straight into it. Why I go on with this self-flagellation I do not know. Nevertheless, I cannot but continue.
A few Months Ago, I was interviewed by a correspondent for a European business publication. After asking a great many questions about my business career, he paused, shook his head sadly and declared, "It is a pity your countrymen of today do not enjoy the same opportunities to achieve success as were present when you started in business."
One of the Facts of Cold War life is the repeated use, as spies, of American and Soviet civilians traveling or doing research in foreign countries. Often the spies are recruited by coercion--sometimes subtle, sometimes savage.
We were all of us little kids then, or crazy little kids, as the older people liked to put it, each of us a friend to the others but at the same time a kind of rival, unspoken though the rivalry may have been, nobody really sure of who he was or what he wanted to do, but in a few of us the beginnings of identity and purpose showing themselves, generally by accident and more of a surprise to the boy himself than to any of the others--who to be, what to do, who really to be, what really to do.
Wandering the Groves of academe for four years too often leaves a graduate scholastically but not sartorially well suited for that trip up the ladder of success. His first step, therefore, is to stock up on the latest and best in career clothing; apparel that separates a former Joe College from his competitors--the other Joes with no sense of style. Whether he chooses a double-breasted dark suit or a two-button twill, the wearer is recognized as a man who is confidently at ease in the worlds of business and leisure. The summa-cum-fashionable gentlemen at left wear ensembles that are right on the beam.
On a bright, hot Saturday in August 1965, a young iconoclast from New York named Jefferson Poland strode into the chilly waters of San Francisco Bay accompanied by two girlfriends. The crowd of tourists and sun bathers in Aquatic Park cheered lustily; many shouted words of encouragement. The cause of the crowd's enthusiasm was plain: Poland and his friends were stark naked.
The Shootings of Weddings, graduations, bar mitzvahs, et al., are among the more mundane aspects of the workaday world of Los Angeles photographer Bill Figge, a regular contributor to gatefolddom. But that phase of Bill's job took an exciting turn recently when, while out on a middle-aisle assignment, he struck up a conversation with one of the bridesmaids, Lisa Baker. Figge, who knows a potential Playmate when he sees one, soon had test photos of the lissome Lisa winging their way to Playboy in Chicago, where the editors echoed Bill's enthusiasm. Not only did Figge find a Playmate, he also recognized Lisa's secretarial talents, hired her to man his typewriter and telephone. Lisa, a native Texan who switched to the Golden State four years ago, commutes to the Figge studio from her suburban Culver City digs. Never at a loss for roommates back at the Baker homestead--her siblings number a lucky seven--she had surprisingly little difficulty adjusting to her first apartment apart. "You can't imagine what a kick it was," she recalls, "to have no line outside the bathroom in the mornings and a place all my own to decorate in any way I wanted." Banking on a little between-families fun before settling down, the tall (5'8") 22-year-old eschews the idea of following in her parents' progenerative footsteps. "With eight kids around, Mom and Dad could hardly keep track of our names," explains Lisa, "much less our whereabouts."
If you like your mountains high, your trails covered with fluffy powder or hard pack; if you prefer variety in people, ski terrain and uphill transport, plus the odd, challenging and mad mixed with the traditional and the quaint. you will find European skiing irresistible. Men such as Snowshoe Thomson and the late Hannes Schneider helped popularize skiing in the States, but the sport's development took place on the Continent For many Europeans, glinding over snow is a much anticipated annual two or three-week joy ride.
Sam Thompson, a Negro handyman, was in a Louisville café waiting for a bus. Putting a dime in the jukebox, he began to shuffle to the music. Two policemen promptly arrested him for loitering. When Thompson protested, they added a charge of resisting arrest. He was convicted on both counts.
The Bikini celebrated its 21st birthday this year--virtually unnoticed. What with milady's hemline going from mid-thigh to just below the crotch (as the microskirt replaces the miniskirt), Paris fashions featuring transparent dresses, banded with beads in the critical zones, and Roman models wearing harem pants slit up to the waist, today's feminine finery has made the bikini about as controversial as the muumuu. The revolution that started when the first crop of bare bosoms popped up (and out) in 1964, after Californian Rudi Gernreich took the top off the swimsuit, proved no flesh in the pan. The suits were soon being worn in public, provoking both cheers and police action. Topless evening gowns put in appearances from London to Hong Kong, and the wave of the future was plain to see. The far-out fall fashions of 1964 featured acres of openwork, often filled in by flesh-colored linings. By December, the linings had given way--in some cases to fish nets, in other cases to flesh. Although Playboy first apprised its readers of the fashion ferment in The Nude Look (November 1965), much has happened since then. Today, with garments of linked metal or plastic disks, a beach belle can easily emulate a patch of water lilies. Do-it-yourself kits permit a creative creature to arrange her own plastic cutouts over a basic dress form of see-through vinyl. Dresses of detachable leather strips allow for exposure up to what the traffic will bare. Some designers have even put the woman outside her clothes, by imprinting the nude female form on the fabric. Couture conservatives, bucking the trend toward minimal styles, were predicting a return to "normalcy." Happily, the Upbeat Generation was proving them poor prognosticators as it continued to jump on the bare band wagon. Unshackling a shapely shape is nothing new, of course; bare-breasted beauties abounded at royal courts from that of ancient Minos to that of Louis XIV. Today's woman, to the delight of males who suffered through the femme-concealing fashions of the Fifties, has rediscovered that sex and style can be synonymous.
In old provence an aging widower took to wife the nubile Mistinguette, but ill-mated were they, for her husband soon wearied of her laughter, her interest in masques, balls and parties, and her roving eye. She, in turn, despised his tepid passions and his constant doting upon his six-year-old daughter, the bowlegged brat Camille. She was happy only during the first week of each month, when business took her spouse to Paris. Then she and her maidservant Perette would laugh and caper in the gardens.
By 1950, Hollywood had become painfully aware that it was no longer the principal purveyor of entertainment to the American public. That dubious honor now belonged to the burgeoning television industry, and it became crystal-clear to even the most myopic film tycoon that, as television antennas sprouted across the land, box-office takes from the cinemas were shrinking accordingly. For a time it appeared that the magic box in the parlor would provide some rival sexual titillation, too--at least until the new industry adopted regulatory practices of its own. Millions of early male viewers ogled the extensive cleavage of Dagmar and Faye Emerson, while housewives thrilled to the unctuous accents of a chap called The Continental, who invited female viewers to visit his luxurious bachelor apartment and sample the delightful preliminaries to what was, presumably, a vicarious seduction.