Six centuries ago, Geoffrey Chaucer began The Canterbury Tales with a lyric celebration of April's "sweet showers," and poets ever since have waxed lyrical over this vernal harbinger. But we doubt that such paeans have ever been penned about the spring flood of tax money that pours into the Federal Government's coffers during this soggy season. Among those least likely to praise April 15th--poetically or otherwise--are America's many million bachelors, who enjoy the dubious distinction of being the most maltreated bloc of taxpayers in the country. Philip Stern's Tax and the Single Man examines the confiscatory price they pay for their unmarried status and proposes Federal legislation to rectify these inequities. No stranger to the ways of Washington, Stern has served as a Deputy Assistant Secretary of State, a campaign aide to Adlai Stevenson and publishereditor of Arlington's Northern Virginia Sun. Now enjoying a successful writing career, he has already shown his familiarity with the catacombs of the IRS in The Great Treasury Raid, his best-selling book on tax loopholes.
General offices: Playboy building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago. Illinois 60611. Return postage must accompany all manuscripts. Drawings and photographs submitted if they are to be returned and no responsibility can be assumed for unsolicited materials. Contents Copyrighted (c) 1968 by HMH publishing co. inc. All rights reserved. Nothing may be reprinted in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher. Any similarity between the people and places in the fiction and semifiction in this magazine and any real people and places is purely coincidental. Credits: Cover: Model Dolly Read. Photography by Pompeo Posar. Other Photography by: Mario Casilli, P. 3; David Chan, P. 3; George De Vincent, P. 3; Charles Fritch, P. 3; Larry Gordon, P. 3 (2), Carl Iri, P. 3; Marvin Koner, P. 3; Thomas Lowes, P. 3; Stan Malinowski, P. 119; Fred Maroon, P. 69; Pixie-Burger, P. 3; Alexas Urba, P. 97, 103, 117, 118; P. 138-149 from the collections of: Bill Arsenault (6). Claude Azoulay, Maurice Bessy (3), Frank Bez, Denis Cameron (3), Bert Cann, Mario Casilli, William Claxton (2), John Hamilton, Bill Kobrin, Landau/Unger co. inc. (2), Terry O'Neill, Orlando, Penguin Photos (3), Willy Rizzo, John Schmitz (2), Larry Shaw (3), Shaw/O'Neill (5), John Springer (2), Phil Stern (2), R. R. Stuart, David Sutton, Jay Thompson (2), Mel Traxel, Maynard Frank Wolfe (3).
Playboy, April, 1968, Vol. 15, No. 4. a Published Monthly by HMH Publishing Co. INC., Playboy Building, 919N. 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. Ledered, 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.
So many people are convinced that these United States are headed for hell in a hand basket that we feel called upon to provide some historical reassurance. Though we're far from sanguine about the gravity of the crises that beset us today, you will be happy to learn that Americans were just as unruly and anarchistic in the last century. There is nothing original, for example, about the "Hell No, We Won't Go" movement; during the Civil War, thousands of men rioted in New York City to protest the draft, and another group (known as "the Skedaddle Army") hiked to Canada to avoid military service. Modern flag burners, furthermore, go not a jot beyond William Lloyd Garrison, who burned the Constitution in public on July 4, 1854, trampled the ashes underfoot and proclaimed grandly: "So perish all compromise with tyranny!" (He was peeved about the Fugitive Slave Law.) And long before Dr. Leary, there was another Harvard psychologist who experimented on himself with mind-altering drugs and claimed to find religious meaning in his trips. His name was William James and his books, Pragmatism and The Varieties of Religions Experience, are now considered classics.
Truman Capote was still a schoolboy when Emlyn Williams became intrigued by the labyrinthine psyches of people who kill in cold blood. The versatile Welshman wrote (and acted the lead in) Night Must Fall, the classic play about a nut who carried his victim's severed head around in a hatbox. Now, a generation later, Williams returns to murder in the macabre. In Beyond Belief: A Chronicle of Murder and Its Defection (Random House), he provides a chilling reconstruction of one of Britain's ghastliest contemporary crimes. The day after President Kennedy was assassinated, Ian Brady, a 25-year-old clerk, picked up a 12-year-old Manchester boy he had never seen before, drove him out to the peat bogs and, without apparent motive, killed and buried him. Ian's loving girlfriend, Myra Hindley, who accompanied them, passed the time in the car, reading a ladies' magazine. Twice again over the next two years, the sequence was repeated--once with a girl, once with another boy. After Ian and Myra were arrested, tried (they pleaded not guilty) and sentenced to life imprisonment (capital punishment having been abolished between their crimes and their conviction), Williams set out to re-create their lives from the cradle and to puzzle out where the cogs in their mental clockworks had been dented. Since the pair remained mostly mum, it is impossible to judge whether he unraveled the puzzle to its final strand; but his explanation is convincing--despite its short cut along some psychiatric easy streets. Williams describes Brady as an illegitimate, introverted, shucked-off Glasgow boy whose mother took him in only when, as a late adolescent, he had already made the court scene three times for petty crimes, wrecked a house and found fun in burying a cat alive. The loner's feelings of inferiority and "outness" culminated in a steadily growing fantasy identification with "enemies"--in Brady's case, the Nazis (he collected swastikas, recordings of Hitler speeches and other clutterbuck). An avid reader of the Marquis de Sade (in whose early life Williams finds parallels) who took pornographic photographs of both Myra and his girl-child victim, he felt always a persecuted misfit, and these aberrations climaxed in the killings. Williams coaxes the patness of this diagnosis into believability but does much less well when he finds a link between the death of John Kennedy and that of John Kilbride, Brady's first victim, the next day. As for Myra Hindley, what can be said about a girl whose reaction to her dog's death, after her own arrest, was to charge the police with murder.
Arthur, spawned in New York, has vaulted the Rockies to find a California home on L. A.'s Restaurant Row in the former stylish Oyster House (La Cienega and Melrose Place). Its recent christening was well attended by the high-powered names who own a piece of the action. Not all 80 investors turned out opening night, to be sure, but enough of them and other flicker folk--Roddy McDowall, Edie Adams, Zsa Zsa, Henry Fonda, Martin Landau, Sharman Douglas, the Leslie Bricusses--did to ensure a successful launching in the public prints. This West Coast edition of Sybil Christopher's super-"in" discothéque isn't a private club, but the Pub Room, adjoining the go-go chamber, has an atmosphere of privacy, almost intimacy--invaded only peripherally by the boogaloo leakage from the main room. In the Pub Room, the limited menu features the customary steak/lobster/chicken fare ($7/$6/$5, respectively). Though the food is merely satisfactory, a good trade seems assured by the shing-a-ling action out front. The discothéque is low-slung and dark. Along the walls, the black upholstered benches barely manage to clear the floor. At the small tables, the round stools are similarly scaled, as though the seating is specifically geared for instant abandonment: Squat (down), leap (up), dart (to the dance floor). Kent and the Candidates, a quartet of drums, organ and two guitars on hand for the opening, practice only the politics of rock. And while a latticework of flashing bulbs--red, blue, green--competes for visual attention with the large glass mural Mondrianically glaring from the wall, one's aural sense is dominated by the incessant throb of electroic rock to spur writhing arms and hips. This may not be poetry in motion, but it can get pretty exciting, given the right set of hips. In the main room, Arthur exacts a tribute of $5 per person from patrons who have not been stoked in the Pub Room. In addition to vice-president McDowall, Arthur boasts the secretariat of Natalie Wood, the treasurership of designer Gustave Tassell and the diligent overseeing of personable maître de John Bedford who has his hands full, what with the press of the Modding crowd of mostly young and youngish fashionables. But Bedford is going to have to learn to live with the happy problem of trying to find room for everyone. Clearly, Arthur has gone West. Open Tuesday through Sunday, 8 p.m. to 2 a.m.
A plaintive ballad by Donovan establishes the mood of Poor Cow, with "Be not too hard, for life is short--and nothing is given to man." From there, the road leads straight to the heart of London's grimiest slums, filmed in rainy-day color. Don't go away, though. Based on a novel by Nell Dunn, the movie not only burgeons with promising talent but avoids the usual style of misery among the lower classes by recording some deeply sympathetic observations about the lot of a barmaid (Carol White) whose chances for happiness are almost nil. Pregnant at 18 and married soon afterward to "a right bastard," she sees her insensitive husband (John Bindon) sentenced to prison for armed robbery, takes up with one of his mates (Terence Stamp) and discovers a capacity for tenderness she never knew she had. Eventually, her lover also gets 12 years for felonious assault, and Joy (yes, that's her name) is left with her toddler son and a sleazy aunt who nightly goes a-whoring. The ways in which Joy learns to survive by living one moment at a time are strikingly charted by director Kenneth Loach. Because she is basically a decent girl, Joy refuses to sell the favors she would rather give away to the goodly number of chaps who inspire "this funny little throw in me stomach." Poor Cow minimizes plot in order to sum up a mode of existence for the female of the species, and this it does vividly--catching the mockery of pop tunes bleating Love and Beauty from the radio, or showing up the ubiquitous dirty old men in a modeling sequence aswarm with amateur peekaboo photographers. The film's chief antidepressant is blonde Carol White--the most beguiling bundle from Britain since Julie Christie.
A slew of premier male vocalists proffer their wares this go-round. Tony Bennett/For Once in My Life (Columbia) is an almost unalloyed joy from beginning to end. Taste reigns supreme as Tony takes up They Can't Take That Away from Me, Lullaby of Broadway, Sometimes I'm Happy (our favorite) and others of similar ilk. The backing is impeccable, making it a good show all round. Love, Andy (Columbia) is another winning LP. Working off arrangements by Nick DeCaro, Andy Williams alchemizes a batch of golden vocals--Watch What Happens, Can't Take My Eyes Off You, The More I See You, among others--that offer the ne plus ultra in easy listening. More of the same is to be found on The Damone Type of Thing (Victor), wherein the velvet-voiced Vic grooves a goodly number of oldies but goodies: Time After Time, I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good, Gone with the Wind and The More I See You. The more contemporary items aren't as luminous, but Damone gives them more than their due. Jack Jones / Our Song (Kapp) is not quite in the same league as the above, but the Jones boy's batting average is still high as he tackles a brace of ballads from Doctor Dolittle, the Lennon-McCartney lovely Michelle, Casablanca's As Time Goes By and assorted lesser lights.
The Scottish schoolteacher Jean Brodie is, on the one hand, a farsighted freethinker who believes that education means a "leading out." not a "putting in." On the other hand, she is a short-sighted fanatic, perhaps even a bit of a fascist, who attempts to mold her schoolgirls into fantasies of her own invention. The girls are impressionable and Miss Brodie, as she tells them about her love affairs, is a supreme impresser. The question is whether she is an oppressor as well. This complex character, well-meaning and malicious, intelligent and blind, outgoing and ingrown, is the heroine of Muriel Spark's short novel The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. In Jay Allen's somewhat awkward yet compelling stage adaptation, she comes leaping to life. The cast is excellent, but the evening ends as something of a one-woman triumph. Zoe Caldwell in the title role (created in London by Vanessa Redgrave) is, quite simply, marvelous. She finds even more in Miss Brodie than Miss Spark did. She is uproarious, ridiculous, pitiable and moving, often in quick succession, without ever making it seem like a performance. Even in the beginning, when she is the sympathetic schoolteacher exhorting her charges to greater intellectual and emotional heights, one already feels her own mixed motives beneath the dedication and sacrifice. As an actress. Miss Caldwell is very much in her prime. At the Helen Hayes, 210 West 46th Street.
I recently tried the Eskimo version of kissing--rubbing noses--with my girl. We got no kicks from it. Would you fill me in on the proper method of doing it and tell me what reaction we should expect?--A. H., Brooklyn, New York.
Only a decade ago, traveling for pleasure behind the Iron Curtain was a contradiction in terms. More often than not, Communist state travel agencies seemed to specialize in bureaucratic bungling; in addition, visitors' facilities were few, far between and usually ill equipped. During the Sixties, however, Red tape has shrunk considerably when it comes to welcoming Westerners. To help fulfill two needs--obtaining hard currencies and constructing holiday havens for their own citizens--Eastern-bloc governments have built up seacoasts rivaled for beauty in Europe only by the Mediterranean strands of Spain and Portugal.
The real-life incarnation of the legendary all-American hero--a poor but honest young man who earns fame and fortune through gumption and stick-to-itiveness--has seldom been more arche-typally embodied than in the blue-eyed, clean-jawed person of 48-year-old Charles Harting Percy, the junior Senator from Illinois. From an impoverished boyhood--at one point during the Depression, his family was on relief--he rose before turning 30 to head a major camera company and become a millionaire many times over. In politics, he's zoomed ahead even faster, from fundraising front man in the late Fifties to red-hot Vice-Presidential--or even Presidential--prospect in 1968. Despite his own disclaimers and the fact that he's spent just over a year in his first elective office, politicians, pundits and pollsters now uniformly rank Chuck Percy right along with Richard Nixon, George Romney, Nelson Rockefeller and Ronald Reagan in the 1968 sweepstakes. Their reasons are sound: He is abundantly endowed with all the essentials for success in the political big time. These days, for better or for worse, a man's image is powerful political capital; and young, handsome, personable Chuck Percy is every inch the ideal politician--just as his photogenic wife and children look exactly like the proper family. On television, he comes across smoothly; with his deep, resonant voice and pear-shaped articulation, he pours forth thoughtful and polished phrases on almost any topic.
Everyone expected a formal reading of the will, but nothing of the kind happened. Three days after Ernest Curtin's unforeshadowed death from a heart attack, his son Christopher opened the safe-deposit box and found it, wedged between some A. T. & T. certificates, ridges of U. S. Steel, a pile of Du Pont, Government bonds. The estate was in a very viable condition. There were also some old school report cards, some out-of-date family jewelry, lists of holdings, financial footnotes.
There is no question: The tax laws of the United States are the result of a fiendish conspiracy among the AMA, the NAACP and the ADA, using the powerful medium of CBS and with potent, behind-the-scenes backing from HUAC. To anyone with a decent respect for bachelorhood, these initials stand for, respectively, the American Marriage Association, the National Association for the Advancement of Connubial Profit, the Abolish Divorce Association, a newly formed group named Chastise Bachelors and Spinsters and, finally, a powerful but covert organization called Housewives United Against Cohabitation. For the fact is that the tax laws of the United States of America discriminate flagrantly and massively against unmarried citizens. For example, if you are a $12,000-a-year bachelor with a taxable income of $10,000, you are paying $502 more in taxes each year than the bridegroom in the apartment down the hall. The fact that your newly married neighbor has just acquired a dependent, allowing him to claim another $600 exemption, accounts for $132 of that amount in his 22-percent tax bracket. But almost three quarters of his tax saving--$370--is the result of a myth, embodied in Section 2 of the Internal Revenue Code, which permits any married couple in the United States to pretend, in computing their taxes, that half their income is earned by the wife. She may be as indolent as Scarlett O'Hara, but in the eyes of the friendly tax collector, she is responsible for half the family income.
A Little over a year ago, Playboy announced, "There is a full-scale revolution taking place in men's fashions." Our forecast has proven uncannily correct. Since then, the locked-in look of sartorial traditionalism that repressed--rather than developed--the wearer's individual fashion image has rapidly faded from the urban scene and a bold new breed of American and European designer-inspired styles is becoming the clothing order of the day. For the warm months ahead, we see a continuing trend toward bolder shades, trimmer tailoring and lighter, more luxurious fabrics. Categories of clothing are disappearing; once-sporty accessories, such as the turtleneck, now can be coupled with suits and formal-wear for a sophisticated yet casual look.
Culture used to be a very simple proposition. When exposed to it, all you had to do was say you didn't know much about it but you knew what you liked. It is no longer socially acceptable when speaking of culture either to know nothing about it or to know what you like. Culture has become de rigueur; and though it's still not necessary to actually be cultured, it is mandatory to look, sound and act as if you are. The following is a handy guide to building an appropriate personal image at most of the cultural events you are likely to attend.
When Gaye Rennie appeared at the Glendale, California, studios of photographer Bill Figge less than a year ago to sit for her high school graduation pictures, Bill decided to offer her the chance to become a Playmate. "The moment I looked at her," frequent gatefold-girl finder Bill told us, "I felt a quality that I was able to define only later. It's the Thirties' film-star quality Jean Harlow epitomized--an ultimately stylish, glamorous essence. It's a matter of face and hair and figure, of course, but also something in the smile and the voice--and Gaye has it." Soft-spoken Miss Rennie smiles at Bill's reaction while disclaiming any ambitions to make that quality more real by working for a film or stage career. "What I do want," says Gaye, "is to follow up my Playmate appearance with more modeling. I feel wonderfully at ease in front of a camera and have had an interest in fashion for as long as I can remember." Waiting for the break into fashion modeling that she hopes her centerfold stint will bring. Gaye has been employed since graduation last June as a receptionist at Marilynne's City of Styles, a Glendale beauty salon. "The job is a great way to keep myself solvent and yet have time to do what I want," says our lady in waiting, for whom doing what she wants means reading, painting and leading an active social life. "I'm pretty much a fun-and-games person on dates, whether it's slot-car racing in the evening or an exhausting afternoon of tennis. The quietest moments I leave myself are those when I go off to sketch." Poised on the threshold of her career but still free enough to enjoy social evenings and afternoons alone with her pastime, Gaye Rennie makes a thoroughly model Playmate.
"There is no such thing as heat lightning," Bobby Norton told his wife. "The illuminations of a hot summer evening, flashing and flashing again, with no following sound, are actually made by lightning strokes in electrical storms so far away that the thunder dies in the air long before it can reach the ear of the observer. While a lightning stroke is destroying something somewhere, it is flickering, you see, like the aurora, somewhere else. A thunderstorm over Washington can cause 'heat lightning' to appear in rainless skies in Connecticut. A thunderstorm over central Florida can produce 'heat lightning' that brings a second of daylight to a ship in darkness two hundred miles at sea."
"As he brews, so shall he drink." Bibulous Ben Jonson's words have a special ring of truth in the age of the side car, the stinger and the rusty nail--all typically colorful names for cocktails compounded with liqueurs. The latest, the rusty nail, is also one of the most mellow--a simple libation of Scotch on the rocks with a float of Drambuie.
The problem of how to select the right men to fill executive jobs has been occupying --and, in some instances, preoccupying--many individuals in the business world for quite some time. Fully aware that no company can be any better than the people who run it, businessmen are ever hopeful of building management staffs made up of men who are paragons of all known or suspected virtues. Theoretically, there should be an ideal man for every position; but, in practice, this is seldom, if ever, the case. No one is without flaw. The perfect man--or, if you prefer, the compleat executive--may be born someday in the distant future, but I am inclined to doubt that he will make his appearance in my lifetime or in that of anyone who reads this article. Hence, the selection of executive personnel boils down, as do just about all things in life, to accepting the fact that although perfection may be a goal, it is seldom attainable. Instead, one must find the most promising compromise, seeking out the man who seems best qualified for any given opening and who is thus the right man for that job.
If some enterprising chap were to reprise Bing Crosby's best-selling disc from the 1940s and croon into a contemporary chick's shell-like ear, "Oh, would you like to swing on a star?," her answer more than likely would be a fervent "I'll go all the way, mac--if it's in the zodiac." Astrology, that age-old quasi science, is back with a megaboom, enjoying a fantastic vogue among the fair sex. Today, dolly birds of all descriptions are definitely star-struck; they may be chic socialites riffling imperiously past such tony fashion-magazine articles as "Twiggy Paints Her Pinkies Paisley" and "Be Bold--Go Bald!" in order to get to the monthly horoscope; or they could be the pussycats among the proles who pore over canned features such as "Star Gazer" or "Your Stars Today" in the daily tabloids, picking out numerically coded messages of vast import, like "Dying ... Today ... Can ... Be ... Detrimental." Dare we males sneer at their preoccupation with occultism when so many maidens base their earthly positions on planetary ones? Does it not behoove us to uncover whatever it is that fascinates them Out There--if we want to do some uncovering Down Here? To this noble end, Playboy, keenly aware that modern birds are viewing potential paramours from an astrological point of view, has created the concept of horoscoring, a call-de-sack stratagem of astrologistics based on a knowledge of the misses' horoscopic make-up. Below, we shall delve into the attributes of each girl's individual zodiacal sign, explore the special sexual preferences that are its unique attributes, describe the motivating forces (air, fire, earth, water) and even suggest what male signs are most and least compatible. Carried to extremes, astrology can become rather involved--indeed, arcane and mysterious. For simplicity's sake, we've bypassed some of the more technical terms, such as decans (ten-day forecast messages), pecans (ten-day forecast messages from nuts) and houses of the zodiac (in these we have absolutely no interest, unless, of course, they're houses of assignation). We would highly recommend a reference source we found invaluable: Culpeper's Complete Herbal, the work of astrologer-herbalist Nicholas Culpeper (1616--1654), which discusses the rare herbals associated with various planets--things like fenugreek, maidenhair fern, mugwort, campbark, horehound, which no enlightened bachelor should be without. In essence, today's young ladies are telling us in a Shakespearean paraphrase: Our fall, dear brutes, is in our stars. Let us therefore learn the whys and wherefores of celestial navigation and follow our favorite terrestrial sign: Make Love, Not War.
In the latter part of the 16th Century, an Italian philosopher named Giordano Bruno speculated that the stars were really suns like our sun, surrounded by planets like our own earth. Bruno was accused of heresy and pursued through Switzerland, France, England and Germany. Finally, in 1593, the churchmen caught him in Venice. He was thrown into prison, excommunicated and finally turned over to civil authorities with the request that he "be treated gently and without the shedding of blood." He was burned at the stake on February 17, 1600.
Of the late Harrington Hunter Hollister it must be said that he was very rich, that he had sired a beautiful man-chasing redhead and that he was a Hemingway fanatic. When he died, in 2068, I ended up with his money, his newly divorced daughter and his Hemingway collection.
The practice of preserving the dear departed by deepfreeze is causing a number of unanticipated political, legal and moral problems. Originally considered a boon to mankind, the process was developed to give medical science time to find cures for the various debilitating and often terminal diseases that currently afflict mankind. It is expected that in another 10 to 100 years it will be possible to defrost the subjects and perform the necessary therapy that will restore them to a long, perhaps indefinite life.
Mikhail Andreyevitch and Boris Polykarpovitch were merchants in the same town and the closest of friends. In addition to that, these middle-aged men were married to a pair of pretty sisters, Sonya and Fenichka. Sometimes the two men had a joking argument as to which sister loved her husband better. "It's simple enough," said Mikhail one day. "Tomorrow we go to the fair at Makaryev. Whichever wife weeps the harder as we say goodbye is surely the fonder." And so they wagered five crowns.