Lisa Baker, who wears the Playmate of the Year diadem on our cover and who crowns the issue itself with six color pages inside, is the third Playmate selected by our readers as the year's best after an editors' deadlock. In winning her title, Lisa overcame the formidable competition of Tish Howard and Susan Denberg (see April's Playmate Play-off) as well as the nine other comely centerfolders of 1966, all of whom garnered a number of write-in votes. (There was also a scattering of sentimental ballots for pioneer Playmate Janet Pilgrim--and a single, surprising Yea! for string-bean Mod mannequin Twiggy, which we finally decided must have been misrouted from Vogue or Boys' Life.)
Playboy, August, 1967, Vol. 14, No. 8, 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, New York 10022, MU 8-3030; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 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.
At long last, it would seem, homosexuals and transvestites have attained some small degree of social acceptability in our straight-and-narrow society. Not long ago, New York's stately Town Hall played host to The Miss All-American Camp Beauty Pageant, a no-boys-barred showdown in which the winners of local female-impersonation competitions across the country bucked for the honor of being chosen "Miss All-American Camp." Originally intended as a benefit for muscular dystrophy, the drag contest ended up being sponsored by the Nationals Academy (an organization hastily formed so that the show could go on), when top-level M.D. execs uncharitably withdrew support after belatedly learning that girls in the pageant would really be boys. With the sanctioning of this heretofore subterranean activity, it seems logical that gay blades around the country will turn bust into boom and recast other heterosexual-dominated institutions in a soothing lavender glow. Radio and TV shows such as the long-neglected Queen for a Day and the recently popular I've Got a Secret will take on scintillating new formats. Of course, the declaration of a national "Take a Drag Queen to Lunch Week" is virtually assured. And such organizations as the United Fruit Pickers of America will have to hire extra help in order to answer the deluge of mail from new applicants. With homophilic emancipation no longer swishful thinking, various establishments such as publishing firms are already beginning to swing aboard the gaily painted band wagon. As a service to its readers--regardless of race, creed or sexual persuasion--Women's Wear Daily, the New York female fashion sheet, sent reporter-columnist Chauncey Howell to the Camp Beauty Pageant. He reported:
The plot couldn't be more of a cinematic cliché: A dozen court-martialed American Army prisoners--most of them awaiting execution--are to be taken from their stockade in England and trained for a delicate, deadly mission behind Nazi lines. Few, if any, will return, but those who do will have their sentences commuted. This time around, the film (and the collection of prisoners) is known as The Dirty Dozen--and it is easily the most exciting and entertaining war epic since The Guns of Navarone. Heading up a big, well-chosen cast is Lee Marvin as the hard-bitten, cynical major charged with training and leading the GI convicts. Marvin dominates the proceedings with a performance that tops his Cat Ballou Oscar-winning theatrics. John Cassavetes, who portrays a wisecracking Chicago hood turned hero before the film is done, may well wind up with an Academy Award nomination for best supporting actor. The Dirty Dozen is stockpiled with laughs (credit screenwriters Nunnally Johnson and Lukas Heller) and acting surprises: Jimmy Brown, who quit the Cleveland Browns at the apex of his pro-football stardom to become one of The Dirty Dozen, is as stylish on screen as he was running end sweeps; he's found himself a new career. Clint Walker (star of TV's Cheyenne), singer Trini Lopez and Telly Savalas, as a psychopath, are all above average. And Richard Jaeckel--that blond, crewcut kid of World War Two films who made a career of searching out Pat O'Brien to ask, "Is everybody scared, Padre, or is it just me?"--turns in a strong performance as an MP sergeant. Director Robert Aldrich has imbued the action with imagination and invention; The Dirty Dozen should be one of the big screen success stories of 1967.
Perhaps it is cruel and unusual punishment to learn that the President of the United States holds his dish of melon balls up close to his chin as he eats breakfast and that he "does not dawdle" in the bathroom. Such intimacies, however, are par for the coarse these days. Jim Bishop, who did the blow-by-blow on Christ, Lincoln and Kennedy, lowers his sights in his newest book to A Day in the Life of President Johnson (Random House). He compresses the events of 11 days he spent with the Johnson family, in the White House and at the L. B. J. ranch, into one composite, "typical" day, organized on an hour-by-hour basis. It is easy to derogate the simplistic, reverential Bishop approach, yet these pages are not without interest. For instance, it is commonplace to talk of the "strains" of being President; but this book makes it painfully vivid just how intense those strains are, not in the glamorous terms of carrying the burden of nuclear reprisal but in the unrelenting pressure of a 17-hour workday. It is fascinating, too, to see how much manpower and brain power is mobilized to prevent the President from having to waste even 30 seconds of his time or a few ergs of his energy. And there is the shock of learning that the letter openers on the President's desk are Geiger-countered as part of each morning's routine to make sure that no holes have been drilled into them and filled with radioactive material. But, finally, Bishop manages to collect more trivia about President Johnson than anybody is likely to want to know (for instance, that he will gorge upon tapioca pudding if permitted), without revealing enough about the inner man.
Hallelujah, Baby! is the collective invention of four previously proven theatrical talents--author Arthur Laurents, lyricists Betty Comden and Adolph Green and composer Jule Styne--but it is no cause for jubilation. The evident intention was to write a musical-comedy chronicle of the American Negro; the result is a compendium of colored clichés. The group show begins with someone's-in-the-kitchen and yassuh-nosuhs its way through Aunt Jemima, the shuffling Pullman porter, the watermelon-smiled buck-and-wingers, the locomotive-rhythmed recruits in the all-Negro regiment and The Star In Spite Of Her Color. The jokes are on the level of "You're lucky, baby. On you a black eye don't show." The focus of this Uncle Tomfoolery is a Lena Horne-ish singer, played by Leslie Uggams. The gimmick is that she remains 25 throughout the show, although the scenes span a sketchy 60 years, about 50 of which are in "the wrong place, the wrong time" for her to make it. Finally, in the middle of the second act, she gets to the 1950s, and it's the right time for the character and for the actress. Miss Uggams, allowed to shed the Topsy bit, belts out the title song, and it's Hallelujah, baby! twice over. In spite of her platitudinous role, luscious Leslie is a star in her first try on Broadway. At the Martin Beck, 302 West 45th Street.
Across the street as it is from the Fisher Theater and named as it is to sound like the logical place to go after the third-act curtain, Detroit's Act IV (2990 West Grand Boulevard) might mislead the unacquainted to think it's just a spot for theatergoers who like their after-show drinks conveniently near at hand. But that's only a small part of the plan. Act IV is a compleat supper club, one of the most elegant and gastronomically rewarding, in fact, within a long, long drive of Motor City. It's just as handy for dinner before that pre-Broadway unveiling at the Fisher, of course, and provides its own high-level entertainment for the unperipatetic. The seating is spacious, though it conveys an aura of intimacy, and the decor is old-fashioned lavish, with antique mirrors all over the plush gold walls. The service is splendid; poised unobtrusively nearby while you examine the menu, the waiter steps up to take your order at the very moment you become ready to give it--a nice ESP touch. The menu is a Broadway production in itself. Mounted elaborately in three acts, it begins by presenting in Act I an array of hors d'oeuvres and soups, including a lobster bisque fit for a command performance. Act II gets to the meat of the meal--or the fish, if you wish--with a resplendent repertory of 15 feature attractions and 47 other main-course entrees accompanied by a superb supporting cast of salads, side dishes and supernumeraries (special sauces and salad dressings). The cuisine, say the local cognoscenti, is equal to any in town; and if the succulent Plaque D'Or (prime steak) for two, Veal ala Act IV (with crab meat), Irish Sea Prawns and enormous K. C. Sirloin are reliable examples, they're in close touch with reality. Act III tops off the feast with either a cheese or parfait for a straightforward happy ending, or with something like French Fried Ice Cream Tia Maria for a rousing culinary curtain call. The floorshow usually headlines such solid stars as Mel Tormé, Fran Jeffries, Jackie Vernon, Phyllis McGuire, Jack E. Leonard and Irwin Corey. Open 11 A.M. to 2 A.M. weekdays, 4:30 P.M. to 2 A.M. Saturday. Closed Sunday.
A soul singer par excellence is Aretha Franklin. There are two current LP examples of her extraordinary craft: I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You (Atlantic) and Take It like You Give It (Columbia). Of the two, the Atlantic recording has the edge in the electricity that's generated, possibly because it hews closer to the soul-gospel bag that Miss Franklin does so well; but the Columbia offering is a delight in its own right.
I'm a good-looking young secretary in love with a middle-aged, married man. I met him last year at my company's Christmas party (he was a new client) and since then we've seen each other steadily. He is 19 years my senior, successful in business and has three children. He says he plans to divorce his wife and marry me, but he keeps insisting it "takes time." I know that a divorce would hurt his business career. Should I wait for him or not?--Miss B. P., Akron, Ohio.
Portugal, the verdant 350-mile-long, Indiana-shaped archway to western Europe, will come into its own this fall as the international set's Continental headquarters. The reasons are as simple as they are spectacular: Portugal's increasingly cosmopolitan capital, Lisbon, has become one of the world's great pleasure cities; the nation's autumnal climate rivals Spain's as Europe's warmest; and well-sanded beaches along Portugal's western and southern coasts are quickly being dotted with luxury hotels. Add the fact that Portugal is still off the wellbeaten trail of the tour packagers, and its attraction for knowledgeable travelers is easy to understand.
In a profession where the lives of men depend squarely, and often solely, on an attorney's knowledge, nerve and persuasiveness, Francis Lee Bailey is a giant at 34. This colorful and aggressive advocate, who has defended three of the most celebrated clients in the recent history of criminal law--Sam Sheppard, Carl Coppolino and Albert DeSalvo--has become, in only six years of practice, perhaps the most sought-after and controversial trial lawyer in the country.
I could swear that my secretary, Miss Minihan, addressed my boss as Colonel Carter this morning. And did I hear him say to her, "Thank you, Corporal?" Having just assumed my new job as quality-control manager, I don't wish to seem too inquisitive.
Time was when the gran turismo car, the grand touring car, was just that: a motor vehicle in which to embark for distant places, adventure sure to be found on the way. In those days, around the turn of the century, one of the first things the tourist was likely to do, safely back home (whether he'd gone 100 miles or halfway around the world), was to leap for pen and paper, to let lesser folk know what life was like Out There. Hear one of them, Claude Anet of Paris, in Through Persia in a Motor Car, published in 1907:
These Days, unless you can talk about science, you are out of it--sidetracked in conversations and frowned upon when you try to get the subject around to something you are up on, such as sex. Hence this historical survey, which I hope will prove helpful.
Hollywood has long had a reputation for devouring its young: Most child stars enjoy success when small and then quietly disappear at adulthood, along with their dimples. Because television is still in its infancy, predictions can't be made about whether its own child stars await similar fates. But now, at least one TV tot has come back: Her name is Sherry Jackson, and she is video's first freckle-faced juvenile to flower into a full-fledged femme fatale.
The all-time longtime loser of the world was a completely forgettable salad chef named Paul Greer. He blamed himself for his two divorces; he was a slack conversationalist; he had grating habits such as cracking his oversize knuckles in public and cleaning the fingernails of one hand with the fingernails of the other. The only telephone calls he received were wrong numbers due to the hazards of direct dialing, and his skimpy mail consisted of solicitations from friendly Miami loan companies and an occasional blunt, overdue alimony notice from his second wife's Legal Aid representative. For six weeks he had been growing a pencil mustache, changing his face from a zero to a zero with at least a line in the center.
"Fair and softly goes far"--a lilting English proverb six centuries old--doubly describes DeDe Lind, our perky August Playmate. Diminutive in inches and pounds (62 and 98, respectively), DeDe has a woman's figure and a fall of bright blonde hair as alluring as Lady Godiva's. And she's soft-spoken to the point of charming shyness. "I wish I weren't quite so quiet," DeDe says. "I really do like people and wish I could meet them more easily."
To brighten up your summer wardrobe, shed the staid and dated fashion formula that calls for a patterned shirt to be coupled with a solid-color tie (or vice versa). It's a perfect time to stylishly alter your image by tastefully mixing and matching pattern with pattern. However, while picking your pairings from among the many new styles in shirts and ties now on the market, you should familiarize yourself with a few of the ground rules. Patterned shirts, for instance, always communicate one solid background color, regardless of how complex the design. For best results, coordinate this single shade with the background color in a patterned cravat (we recommend the upbeat new styles in three- or four-inch widths). Also check to see whether the shirt and the tie balance each other; a bold plaid or stripe in the shirt is complemented by a tight tie pattern. Remember, too, that the busier the pattern of the shirt, the more ground there should be in the tie. Your goal is to achieve a bright new look, one in which shirt and tie complement--but do not overpower--a suit or sports coat. The latest offerings in shirt colors range from fuller hues (deep blues, browns and oranges) to new dimensions in patterns (wide-track gray stripes on pink). The immediate future of neckwear includes the revival of bold club figures and the appearance of East Indian abstract designs. By wisely coordinating the colors and patterns in both shirt and tie, today's man easily becomes a great mixer.
It should have been one of Anson's last operations. He was doing a book, for which he had received and spent an advance from an American publisher, and he figured he needed only three more stories to finish it. He wanted something on the Koreans, his section on the Special Forces wasn't complete, and he wanted to ride those new air-cushion boats, the PACVs, that they're using down in the Delta. Then he was going back to England; he'd even bought his plane ticket. He was hoping for some sort of part-time arrangement with Time-Life, but said he was going home whether it came through or not.
The More Torrid the outside temperature, the more fun it is to feel the first exhilarating tingle of a planter's punch, to reach for a tom collins as tall as a glacier or for a julep that's Klondike cold. Drinks made with cracked or crushed ice need not be elaborately constructed addenda to sedate lawn parties. Some of the best known are made by merely pouring liquor over coarsely cracked ice. A perfect example is ouzo, the Greek aperitif liqueur. Like the French pastis and other Mediterranean members of the anise family, it turns a glacial white when churned with ice or water. It's sipped with equal gusto before the meal or after the (continued on page 173) Ice & Easy (continued from page 102) demitasse as a highball, and has the uncanny ability to almost instantly counteract the dehydrating effects of a long summer's game, a drive or a swim.
Charles Shelton had been a desk clerk at the Hotel Madison for almost 30 years. He had watched it deteriorate from one of the finer hotels in the city to its present condition, just a shade better than a flophouse.
"Hi, Beautiful," began a typical fan letter to Lisa Baker from a company of Gls in Vietnam. Their to-the-point salutation sums up our readers' response to soft-spoken, speed-loving Lisa, who outstripped her able-bodied competition in our April Playmate Play-off by a margin that surprised only herself: "I'd been afraid even to get my hopes up." At presstime, Lisa's friends hadn't yet accustomed themselves to her prestigious new title ("I just told them to wait and see"), but her own astonishment was quickly erased by the Playmate Pink Plymouth Barracuda (left) that heads the list of her regal rewards. Lisa's harvest of gifts, a queen's ransom (text concluded on page 142) Playmate of the Year (continued from page 109) worth over $12,500, also includes a Playmate of the Year wardrobe in Playmate Pink (an original tint premiered in 1964, when our bonus program for the Playmate of the Year was inaugurated), from Terry Kaplan Boutique (Chicago), by E.T. California, S. Howard Hirsh and Boul' Mich; a rabbit ski jacket from Alper Furs (Chicago), a black mink coat from Barlan Furs (New York), an Exquisite Form lingerie wardrobe, Revlon cosmetics, Renauld of France sunglasses, and a Lilly Dache hair fall from Kayko Products (Chicago); for a bit of supplementary sparkle, Lady Hamilton has supplied a 14-kt.-gold and diamond wrist watch; and from Maria Vogt (New York), Miss Baker acquires a 14-kt.-gold Rabbit Pin with a diamond eye.
Any man who had seen the courts of our Kings François and Henri II, even if he had seen the whole world, would be sure to say that he had never beheld anything so lovely as our queens and ladies of the court. And one of the things he might have observed about them is that they follow the description by Lord du Bellay, who spoke of his mistress as "sober of speech but brisk in bed."
Cochon! Why don't you look where you're going?Mais certainement! I am looking! I am going directly into your car!Cherie, Mon Amour, remember that romantic spot over on the corner? Naturellement! How can I forget, Mon am I? that is where we killed our first American tourist. Oh, Mr. Battbarton, isn't Paris Too much? ... I arrived here this morning with my travel-tour group, but I lost them while running through the Louvre. Right now they're either in Copenhagen or Addis Ababa. ...Here I was all alone! who'd of thought I'd meet you here? J. Walter Huckster sent me here to hypo the foreign blivit campaign. fascinating city... Paris. Too bad, though, that their morals are so loose here! All that kissing in the streets. ...Would you believe all that kissing in the streets?!!