Fifteen years ago, when Playboy first hit the stands, it contained a grand total of 42 pages. In this, our Fifteenth Anniversary Issue, one feature alone-The Decent Society-occupies more than half that space. And well it should; for its 11 contributors have done no less than create a blueprint for change throughout every important aspect of American life. Each man was asked to set forth specific programs for social progress that can and should be undertaken today in order to assure that the America of ten or fifteen years hence will be-if not a "Great Society"-at least significantly more humane. Only somewhat less taxing than their assignments were our editors' fruitful efforts to persuade this group of extraordinarily busy public figures and writers to wrest themselves away from their myriad ongoing projects long enough to contemplate the state and prospects of the Union. During the Republican National Convention in August, for example, we were in almost constant communication with the staffs of Mayor John V. Lindsay and Senator Charles Percy about their contributions to our symposium. And both Mayor Lindsay and the eminent CCNY psychologist Dr. Kenneth Clark were racing our deadline during the frantic weeks of New York City's autumnal school crisis.
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. Playboy(r) and Rabbit Head Design(r), Registered Trademark, Marcia Registrada, Marque Deposee. 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: Photography by: Ansel Adams, P. 3; John Bryson, P. 4; Mario Casilli, P. 192; Jeff Cohen, P. 4; Figge/De Long, P. 187, 188, 191 (2); Peter Gowland, P. 188; Carl Iri, P. 59; Jay B. Leviton, P. 3; James Mahan, P. 3; Fred Maroon, P. 3; Dick Norton, P. 4; J. Barry O'Rourke, P. 3, 4; Pompeo Posar, P. 3, 4, 185, 186, 189, 190, 193; Richard Saunders, P. 3 (2); Vern Smith, P. 4 (2); Horst Tappe, P. 4; Alexas Urba, P. 3, 89, 121; Ron Vogel, P. 187; Julian Wasser, P. 3; P. 157-167 from the Collections of: David Bailey, Frank Bez (5), Mario Casilli (2), Henri Dauman, John Derek, European Picture Service, Angelo Frontoni (2), Globe Photos, William Greenslade, Henry Grossman, John R. Hamilton (3), David Hurn, Douglas Kirkland (3), John Kobal (2), Bill Kobrin (2), Sam Levin, Lo Duca, Roddy Mc Dowall, Terry O'Neill, Orlando (4), Robert Pike, Roman Polanski, Willy Rizzo, Larry Schiller, Schiller/Woodfield, Larry Shaw (2), John Springer. Illustration P. 4 by Max Beerbohm.
Playboy, January, 1969, Vol. 16, No. 1. 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, Joseph Guenther, Associate Advertising Managers. 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, Robert A. Mc Kenzie, 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, 434-2675; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N.E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
As we trust you've noticed by the time you've gotten this far, you're reading Playboy's Fifteenth Holiday Anniversary Issue. Celebrations such as this generally combine both revelry and retrospection; in keeping with tradition, our Research Department has dug through a full set of Playboys, December 1953-December 1968 (retail value for collectors: $1300), to unearth some remarkable (well, we think so) statistics. With a bemused sense of accomplishment, we offer a sampling herewith.
With another season of gift giving moving swiftly toward its climax, the late shopper still has at his finger tips a plenitude of special books designed to delight almost any disposition. Here are a number of those that have caught our fancy.
Dramaturgy runs the gamut from Slambang to Pow in Bullitt, a monosyllabic action thriller that features Steve McQueen as Harper. Correction: Paul Newman was Harper. McQueen is Bullitt, a San Francisco police lieutenant who pounds a somewhat similar piece of California turf. Guarding the state's star witness from killers with a contract from--you guessed it--"the organization" is Bullitt's assignment, which turns out to be a hairy chase complicated by mistaken identities, sudden death and a ruthless politician (that man from U. N. C. L. E., Robert Vaughn) trying to make crime pay at the polls. The mechanical details of Bullitt are managed with exceptional skill: No recent movie has done a better job, for example, of reproducing the hurried, antiseptic efficiency of a city hospital emergency wing. As another of his tricks to stimulate the circulation, director Peter Yates launches two automobiles into a super-smashing pursuit sequence guaranteed to produce vertigo or your money back. McQueen dominates the foreground of the picture, or at least occupies it, playing himself--or at least the semidetached McQueen image that is so admired by millions. He seems persuaded more and more of late that acting has gone out of style in favor of cool portrait photography; the publicity stills advertising Bullitt convey the entire depth of his performance with dead accuracy. An easy match for McQueen is lovely Jacqueline Bisset as the cop's pacifier, whose thankless part consists of slipping between the sheets whenever intrigue and violence abate. Her opportunities are sadly few.
A wealth of wonderful sounds, handsomely packaged, provides a lush bounty for this season's yuletide giving and getting. The most sumptuous of all is Columbia's 15-LP slip-cased offering of The Nine Symphonies of Gustav Mahler (also available on stereo tape), with Leonard Bernstein conducting The New York Philharmonic and The London Symphony Orchestra (one of the LPs--Gustav Mahler Remembered--contains insightful comments by the composer's daughter, and the composer himself performing at the piano). Included, too, is a handsome booklet. The Four Symphonies of Charles Ives, worthy additions to the fast-growing body of Ives recordings, are available in three-LP sets by Columbia and Cardinal (both also available on stereo tape). The former features Bernstein and The New York Philharmonic, the Philadelphia Orchestra under Eugene Ormandy, and Leopold Stokowski conducting the American Symphony Orchestra; the latter has the New Philharmonia Orchestra of London under the baton of Harold Farberman. Put together in two volumes are Mozart's Fifteen Sonatas for Violin and Piano (Everyman). Volume I is performed by violinist Joseph Szigeti and pianist Mieczyslaw Horszowski; Volume II has the piano chores shared by Horszowski and George Szell. Szell conducts the Cleveland Orchestra in a five-LP package of Beethoven's Five Piano Concertos (Angel), which showcases the brilliant keyboard artistry of Emil Gilels. A shining example of solo virtuosity is The Classical Guitar / Julian Bream, a three-LP tour de force in Westminster's Basic Library Series and further evidence that Bream has few peers on that instrument.
James Earl Jones is a great event in the American theater. In The Great White Hope, based on the life of Jack Johnson--the first black heavyweight champion of the world--he has a part big enough for his giant talent. The play by Howard Sackler is long and loosely epical, a form more suited to a novel or a movie (it was not a novel but will be a movie). Sackler leaves the most dramatic scenes, the fights themselves, off stage and settles for play-by-play by fans. He also--pardon the expression--whitewashes his hero somewhat. But none of this matters. Jones has made the character and the play his, sweeping it along with him like a hurricane. His performance is so powerful that it obliterates the faults of the script. Jones has Johnson (called Jefferson in the play) down pat. A blunt, bold cock of the walk, he is, simply, the greatest; and no matter what whitey does to him, he's going to continue saying so (all comparisons to Muhammad Ali are intentional). For Johnson, boxing around World War One, the punishment for his affronts and appetites (one of which is for white women) is hostility, ostracism and criminal prosecution. Jumping bail, he flees to Europe, where he is still hounded and deprived of his livelihood. It is a painful portrait not only of the black boxer but of the emasculation of the American Negro by white society. There are 19 scenes and almost enough actors to fill an arena, but mostly--and triumphantly--there is James Earl Jones. At the Alvin, 250 West 52nd Street.
One of the girls in my department at the office is lovely; I'm really interested in her and, from many little things she does, the feeling appears to be mutual. How can I tactfully demonstrate my interest without seeming to presume on my position as her boss? I am a bachelor, so there would be no real obstacles outside the office.--D. R., Seattle, Washington.
When Lee Marvin loped to the stage of the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium in April 1966 to accept an Oscar for his tour-de-force performance in "Cat Ballou," his granitic features creased into a rare smile. After 19 years and 40 memorable roles in forgettable films as a belligerent bully--the screen's definitive villain--he had finally proved himself as an actor and made the big time as a good guy. The vehicle for his transformation was a low-budget lampoon of the Hollywood horse opera in which he enacted the roles of two brothers--the sinister, black-garbed professional killer Tim Strawn, who replaced with a silver proboscis a nose bitten off in a street fight, and the drunken gun fighter Kid Shelleen, whose unrequited letch for the lissome young leader of an outlaw band, Cat Ballou (Jane Fonda), overcomes his affair with the bottle long enough for a showdown shoot-out with his bad half.
Paul Stepped Off the Curb and got hit by a truck. He didn't know at first what it was that hit him; but now, here on his back, under the truck, there could be no doubt. Is it me? he wondered. Have I walked the earth and come here?
On May 22, 1964, President Johnson announced his plan to transform America--during his Administration--into "The Great Society." Rightfully deploring our decaying cities, our rural poverty areas, our despoiled and dwindling natural resources, he promised "to assemble the best thought and the broadest knowledge from all over the world to find ... answers for America." Four and a half years later, that lofty enterprise is foundering and almost forgotten--partly because of an unsympathetic Congress and the deadly drain of Vietnam, but also because it may have been presumptuous to think that any society could so easily buy greatness. It now seems more important to us, and more attainable, in create a decent, society, and to let future historians decide whether or not it was "great." Toward that end, Playboy has asked 11 men, each a recognized authority in those areas of American life where the need for change is most acute, to outline the specific reforms that they think can and must be undertaken today in order to achieve a more decent and humane society--not in the sweet by-and-by but in the fast-approaching Seventies. Theodore Sorensen, advisor to two Presidents and author of Kennedy, describes a rational American foreign policy that, by force of example rather than of arms, might recapture respect for America while peacefully protecting her global interests. The most pressing and interwoven domestic crises--race relations and poverty--are explored by New York's Mayor John Lindsay and Dr. Kenneth Clark, the eminent black psychologist. Novelist-naturalist Peter Matthiessen insists that an aroused public must be mobilized in order to cleanse our damaged physical environment--from polluted lakes and rivers to blighted inner cities. That immense task is among the responsibilities of technology defined by Jerome Wiesner, President Kennedy's science advisor. Senator Charles Percy calls on business to replace tokenism with genuine involvement in the drive to reverse the decay of the ghettos. Yale chaplain William Sloane Coffin sets forth those steps that must be taken if the university is to resume what he considers its rightful role as society's conscience. Both Edward P. Morgan, senior correspondent of the innovative Public Broadcast Laboratory, writing on the communications industry, and Playboy Contributing Editor Kenneth Tynan, examining the arts, see the overriding concerns of commercialism as a major block to the free flow of information and ideas. The Reverend Harvey Cox, author of The Secular City, pleads for a socially responsive and responsible religion as a sine qua non of spiritual redemption. And in our final article, Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas argues that implementing progressive programs for change will be impossible if the constitutional guarantees of such civil liberties as free speech and assembly--which provide the ferment that is necessary to all progress--are not safeguarded from repression. The nonutopian proposals advanced in these 11 essays envision an achievable society in which relations among Americans and between Americans and the rest of the world can be more rational, humane and respectful of individual dignity. If we have the will to achieve it, such a society might then be ready to reach for greatness.
One of the Basic Flaws in our post-war thinking about world affairs has been our missionary zeal to assure a decent society to others. We have naturally assumed that our own political, economic and social systems represent the desired standard of decency; and in a vain (both meanings of the word) attempt to foster these standards or to suppress other standards among peoples with wholly different cultures and capacities, we have overextended our own commitments, meddled in the internal affairs of other nations, tied ourselves to the shakiest of despots, provided ammunition for those charging us with racial, political or economic exploitation and made more difficult and costly the abatement of the Cold War. I do not wish to be listed among those who place all the blame for all the ills in all the four corners of the world on the hapless head of Uncle Sam. Our troubles with Stalin, with Mao, with Castro and with others--(continued on page 92) even our troubles with Ho Chi Minh and certainly with the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia--did not all stem from American imperialism, impudence, imprudence or greed. Other nations have consistently been less blameless than we; and most of our errors have been the result of misplaced idealism and innocence rather than malicious intent. Nevertheless, idealism run rampant can become as dogmatic and fanatic as the most rigid Marxist or Birchite; and this country is not yet free from the legacy bequeathed by "true believers" of the John Foster Dulles variety.
Race is the great Domestic issue of our time. It infects virtually all of the most inflammatory problems in our troubled society--violence and civil disorder, the accelerated increase in crime, welfarism, the blight of our cities, unemployment and poverty. Poverty is the dead weight that holds the black man down. It is not simply a condition; it is a handicap and, of late, it has become the goad that has driven him into the streets. Humorist Sam Levenson reports, quite accurately, that although he grew up in poverty on New York's Lower East Side, he and his brother Albert didn't realize it until later, because all their friends and neighbors were poor, too. Today, however, the television set--described by the Kerner Commission report as "that universal appliance of the ghetto"--gives the slum dweller a window to the world beyond his ordinary view. It is only logical that he should want a piece of that world. The mayor (continued on page 270)Race Relations(continued from page 90) of a city such as New York must take a special, active interest in the poor. They have had no easy, routine access to city hall, so I have gone to them; I visit their neighborhoods and listen to them on their own ground. It's a sizable constituency; they comprise some 2,000,000 of New York's 8,000,000 population. The majority of our poor are members of racial minorities, and 1,000,000 of them receive welfare payments. This is a typical pattern for most of the great cities of America. The quality of life among the poor is also much the same from city to city. In New York, the ghetto may be packed and tall; and in Watts, it may spread out in seeming openness for miles. But the heritage of the ghetto endures from place to place: the smell of garbage, the jobless drifters on the streets, the scream of police and ambulance sirens during the night.
In March 1964, President Johnson called for "a national war on poverty." The objective: "total victory," he said. This declaration of war on poverty was not abrupt; it had deep roots in recent American history. Franklin D. Roosevelt's New Deal, with its Emergency Relief Administration, its Works Project Administration, its National Youth Administration, its Civilian Conservation Corps, was an earlier version of that war, but it never achieved the final goal--the elimination of poverty itself. Despite the past two decades of rising prosperity and general affluence, the persistence of pockets of poverty and the related pathologies of increasing crime and delinquency and other manifestations of economic and racial discrimination have demanded the development of new approaches to the solution of these long-standing social problems. The civil rights crisis, reflecting, among other things, the increasing disparity in the average (continued on page 273)Equality & Opportunity(continued from page 90) economic status of whites and Negroes in America, focused attention on the need to improve the standard of living of the masses of Negroes in American cities, if legal and legislative "victories" are to prove substantive; if the pressures that dominate the lives of the deprived are ever to be removed; and if they are ever to be provided with the education, the jobs, the housing, the power and the pride to enable them to become constructive and contributing members of the larger society.
A Decent Physical Environment for man is not attainable without control of human numbers. Like a culture of bacteria that ceases to grow when it can no longer dissipate its own wastes, man's increase must stop; should pollution of the atmosphere continue at its present rate, a permanent halt to the culture of man is predicted in less than a century. A poisoned biosphere knows no national boundaries; that the U. S. is rich, or that its own birth rate has started to decline, will be almost meaningless, because man's habitat is one. If we are fortunate, new technologies will defer the day of reckoning until world populations can be stabilized and pollution of earth, air and water brought under control. Nuclear fuels will make the crucial difference of abundant power. Together with fertilization of the sea, desalinization of salt water, weather control, intensive recycling of everything from wastes to water and other advances (continued on page 275)The Physical Environment(continued from page 90) already in sight, technology should be able to more than double food production in the next several decades. But how long will double be enough? And, in any case, food is but one element; clean water and oxygen, to name two others, are already in short supply. Even if technology solves all material needs, the human swarm will still have oblique problems; we glimpse these already in the increase of psychosis and random violence. Though ample food and shelter are provided, rats (which exhibit behavioral patterns disconcertingly similar to those of man) react to crowding in strange and morbid ways--among them, neuter behavior, increased incidence of homosexuality and consumption by the mothers of their young.
Can Scientific Research and technology help mankind create a more decent society? I think so. To be sure, at the end of a year that has seen two assassinations, the invasion of Czechoslovakia, the start of a new round in the arms race and the violence of the Democratic Convention in Chicago, this conclusion doesn't come easily. Some of the world's most thoughtful and humanistic observers--among them, Archibald MacLeish, Jean-Paul Sartre and Jacques Barzun--believe that science will ultimately be man's undoing; that in elevating science and technology to the dominant role they hold in the advanced nations, forces beyond human comprehension or control have been unleashed. For most of man's existence, certainly, nature was his worst enemy. Now civilization's most serious threats are all man-made by-products of his efforts to cope with nature. No one can deny that the careless exploitation of (continued on page 277)Science & Technology(continued from page 90) technology has contributed to the multi-crises of our times, to the numerous disasters that hang overhead and give a nightmarish quality to life: destruction by nuclear war; poverty on a vast scale; a totally unsupportable and largely miserable society brought on by an uncontrolled population explosion; an irremedial polluting of the planet; the oppression of people by totalitarian governments; and a world-wide alienation of citizens, especially young people, from a highly complex society to which they appear irrelevant.
When I left college, four out of five of my classmates went into business. That was their goal. Today, only one out of five college graduates says he might consider a career in business; the four others have their eyes on teaching, government, politics, Vista or the Peace Corps. The generation now emerging from American colleges is less interested in getting ahead than in getting involved; it wants to contribute to society's welfare, not merely its own. If business could find no other motive for concerning itself with social problems, its need to attract more of our best young people would be reason enough. Corporations can no longer stand aside from society's most urgent priorities and expect to satisfy the ambitions of young men and women who place idealism ahead of materialism. It is not always easy to sell this notion to those corporate leaders who think of today's world in terms of yesterday's values. Some maintain that corporate social (continued on page 280)Business(continued from page 91) responsibility is incompatible with "the free-enterprise system." The business of business, they recite, is to make a profit--period. But I share with many businessmen a belief that the problems are so challenging and the time so limited that American corporations must assume a broadly constructive social role.
What do you to when God is used to damn Communists; when art is made popular instead of the public artistic; when the killing continues in Vietnam while, on the compost of wasted lives, frustration and despair grow at home; when sex is debased to sell products; when change everywhere is urgently needed and everywhere we see the sad barbarism of intransigence? What do you do, if you are a sensitive, intelligent university student or a professor not hopelessly entrenched in social irrelevance? If you don't love America, I suggest you leave her to those who do; but if you do love America, I suggest you engage her in a lovers' quarrel, as Socrates did Athens. "I love my city," he said, "but I will not stop teaching that which I believe is true." When his friends predictably counseled caution, he put the question to them squarely: "To what sort of treatment of our city do you urge me? Is it to combat the Athenians until they become (continued on page 282)Education(continued from page 91) virtuous ... or is it to be their servant and cater to their pleasure?"
What kind of artistic experiences are likely to be available on stage and screen in the foreseeable American future? A blunt, unattractive answer proposes itself: Mass art costs massive money to produce, and there are going to be many artistic experiences that the money men will not think suitable for us, because they might incur public disapproval or scorn, and thus prove unprofitable. There are limits, in fact, to what mass art will be allowed to achieve in a country so well described, seven decades ago, by the British actress Ellen Terry as "this rushing, tearing America--so full of hope! But oh, so rough--so rough." And rough it is on attempts to disseminate minority views to the majority. It's a truism that, since no investment can be bigger than its investors, the mass media are controlled--directly or indirectly--by the people who finance them. Such men are hardly ever artists and even more rarely good artists. We tend to (continued on page 284)The Arts & Entertainment(continued from page 91) blame Madison Avenue for the banality of most Tv. Ferdinand Lundberg, in The Rich and the Super-Rich, points out our error: "It should be noticed that Madison Avenue can produce only what is approved by its clients, the big corporations. If these latter ordered Elizabethan verse, Greek, drama and great pictorial art, Madison Avenue would supply them with alacrity." But they seldom do, and we should not expect them to. Their duty is to expand the market for their product; minority art, conveying minority opinions, could only diminish it. Big corporations are not philanthropic. Nor are the mighty foundations that bear, so many of their names. These are primarily devices for enabling the founders to retain their industrial voting power (since foundations have enormous stock holdings) while absolving them from paying corporation taxes. And foundation administrators are highly unlikely to subsidize the sort of art that might bring the founder's name into disrepute. Even Mike Nichols would be shown the door if he tried to get backing for a pro-Socialist script on prime-time Tv. At the very least, he would be urged to water it down until the capital S stood for Sellout.
Let's begin with a concession: Religious people are a little mad. So what? If a society built on Miltown, racial neurasthenia and Tv commercials is sane, then I gladly line up with the loonies. Which is to say that any religion I am interested in has to be somewhat out of step with its society, even a "great" or decent society. Otherwise, what's the point? Maybe that's why those who envision the ideal society as a smoothly functioning welfare millennium, with circuses and credit cards for all, have begun to see this kind of religion not only as mad but also as a menace. People with one eye on the Kingdom of God have trouble reading billboards. They are also unpredictable. Their bizarre visions make them querulous and insubordinate. A strange belief in something else keeps them from lining up docilely for the goodies churned out by the Big Computer. Fanatics, nuts, seers--all are an embarrassment to any society. They don't fit in. May we (continued on page 289)Religion & Morality(continued from page 91) always have them with us! But granted all that, does religion today have anything positive to offer to our notion of what society should be like? I think so. There is a previous question, however: For the intelligent 20th Century man, does religion make any sense? Except for antiquarian purposes, why bother with such a Paleozoic fossil? To answer this question, we must first insist that religion cannot be equated with what churches do. That is as mistaken as equating education with what schools do or justice with what cops and courts do. Religion is larger than any church, and one can lambaste the churches without jettisoning religion. Isaiah, Jesus and Luther all did. An intelligent man does not fling the whole business overboard because a minister once warned that premarital intercourse lands you straight in Hades.
To hear people like George Wallace and even Richard J. Daley tell it, the medium is garbling the message. Squinting darkly through the burning-glass of prejudice, such citizens see not only television but every facet of the news media, in print or on the air, deliberately distorting the image of human events. The institution of a free press, the constitutional hinge on which the open society of America is supposed to swing, is on trial in the court of public opinion. There is a double-edged irony to this charge, for far too much of it is true. But like a backwoods lynch mob, the leading plaintiffs are after vengeance, not justice. In their self-righteous bigotry, they do not understand the function of a free press. Compounding the felony is the awful fact that the establishment tycoons, who largely control the news media, do not understand it either. They did once, but their comprehension of public trust in them has been corroded by a wave (continued on page 287)Communications(continued from page 91) of commercialism that has buried their commitment to truth under a drive for profits and the protection of privilege. This borders on criminal negligence.
Most Modern Constitutions contain promises of things that government must do for people. Our Constitution, an 18th Century product, guarantees no one such benefits as an education, social security or the right to work. It is not a welfare-state document. To the contrary, it specifies in some detail what government may not do to the individual. In other words, it was designed to take government off the backs of people and majorities off the backs of minorities.
There were Four of them in the same class at The Red Abbey, all under 15. They met every night in Mrs. Coffey's sweetshop at the top of the Victoria Road to play the fruit machine, smoke fags and talk about girls. Not that they really talked about them--they just winked, leered, nudged one another, laughed, grunted and groaned about them, or said things like "See her legs?" "Yaroosh!" "Wham!" "Ouch!" "Ooof!" or "If only, if only!" But if anybody had said, "Only what?" they would not have known precisely what. They knew nothing precisely about girls, they wanted to know everything precisely about girls, there was nobody to tell them precisely all the things they wanted to know about girls and that they thought they wanted to do with them. Aching and wanting, not knowing, half guessing, they dreamed of clouds upon clouds of fat, pink, soft, ardent girls billowing toward them across the horizon of their future. They might just as well have been dreaming of pink porpoises moaning at their feet for love.
New Year's Eve--when merrymakers merrily kiss off the old in favor of the new--is the perfect time to try something different. So why not go really way out and throw a festive futuristic fete patterned after the zap-in costume ball pictured here and on the following pages? In preparing for the blast-off, you may want to set the stage by sending out R.S.V.P. invitations in a plastic spaceship (text continued on page 102) or bubble helmet. It also helps to suggest to guests that they style their garb after the far-out fittings worn in science-fiction flicks and TV shows: perhaps 2001, Barburella, Star Trek or the campy Buster Crabbe Flash Gordon series.
What We have in these erotic puzzle prints is the work of an American of Finnish origin who has lived and studied with the masters of the wood-block print in Japan the past seven years and who, needless to say, is thoroughly imbued with the Japanese spirit. An important aspect of these prints is the flower design of the kimono that varies with the months. What is significantly missing are the genitalia of the participants in this love game. Also concealed are the faces of the man and the woman, thus leaving the viewer to imagine for himself the nature and extent of the emotional drama that takes place.
The More Parlous the time we live in, the more people yearn for answers, for some insight into the future that will tell them what to expect--whether good or bad. It is uncertainty that is intolerable, and it is in fractious and uncertain periods in man's history that he has turned to oracles, seers and prophets, seeking to obtain from them some glimpse of things to come. Today, recourse is most often to science: Sophisticated computers are fed reams of data to process and--it is hoped--will then spew forth the encoded mysteries of what lies ahead. All that's required, then, is simple decoding, so that the riddles of the machines can be made sensible to mere men. Alas, machines have an incurable habit of being uncooperative when it comes to simple answers; they talk not only in riddles but in probabilities wrapped in cautionary cop-outs dealing with "if so-and-so, then so-and-so" predictions, the net of which is often to replace one big question with a lot of smaller ones that are equally nettling. Little wonder that people turn from the hedged and unsatisfying logic of machines to the gratifying certitudes of magic and of super- and supra natural prophecy with no ifs and buts. Belief is the key to such gratification, of course, and that's often the rub. To help you determine how credulous you can be-and to give you some occult answers against which to test your credulity--Playboy conducted micro interviews and consultations with prophets, both human and otherwise, who, whatever they lack in scientific validity, can't be accused of reticence in clearing up any doubts you may have about what lies ahead.
In Late 1953, when Arthur Paul--then and now Playboy's Art Director--was the sole employee of Editor-Publisher Hugh M. Hefner, the two men determined that their projected magazine's artwork had to be every bit as exciting as its editorial content and its photography. In a day when, for example, a story about a racing driver would commonly be illustrated with a completely realistic drawing of the protagonist, Paul sought out young illustrators and fine artists alike (LeRoy Neiman was an early find) who could communicate the essence of a story, rather than its literal picturing, while retaining their individuality. Today, Playboy often commissions world-renowned artists such as George Segal, Salvador Dali and Larry Rivers, but its openness to the work of new artists continues: Paul has twice asked art school students to illustrate a short story. In each case, the best of the student paintings were published with the text, demonstrating that a story may convey disparate but equally valid visual ideas--and that Playboy finds new ways to encourage new talent. Beginning with an award from the Art Directors Club of New York to Chicago artist Franz Altschuler for an ink drawing in its second issue, Playboy's artwork through a decade and a hall has won 152 honors--including eight special citations to Paul--from such professional associations as the Society of Illustrators, the Artists Guild of Chicago and the Commercial Art Magazine. Writers of the stature of Vladimir Nabokov, Carl Sandburg and Ray Bradbury have praised the way the magazine's illustrations have visually captured or enhanced the portent of their words. A Playboy illustration was included in the State Department's. "Art in the Embassies Program," and others have been lent to museums here and abroad. "One of the most exciting trends in the art world," Paul says, "is the breakdown of the distinction between the illustrator and the fine artist. Time and again, we have discovered that an illustration that succeeded brilliantly in the context of its text becomes something different--but equally successful--when viewed by itself." As the selection of prize-winning artwork on these pages shows, the walls of the Playboy Building--whose functionally avant-garde interior is the work of architect Ron Dirsmith--themselves function as a gallery that proclaims the successful melding of illustration and fine art.
When the editors of this magazine asked me to do a piece for them on domestic service, they came, if I may say so, to the right man, for it is a subject on which I can be really informative. In the matter of domestic service, I have run the gamut of the emotions, as you might put it, sometimes up to my waist in butlers and footmen, at other times doing the thing on a more modest scale, not because there was no money in the old oak chest to pay the weekly envelopes but owing to a lack of applicants for the vacant posts. In London between the Wars, the Wodehouse staff consisted of a valet, a parlormaid, two housemaids, a scullery maid, an odd-job boy and a butler whose "Dinner is served" was like the note of a dignified dove calling to its mate. On my return to America, the establishment dwindled to a cheerful old lady from down the road, who had got her training on a duck farm and when announcing the evening meal preferred to use the formula "Come and get it," adding, as she withdrew, "If you want anything, holler." And I may say at once that her methods suited me to perfection. I had hated the pomp of London, but I loved the chumminess of Long Island. It may seem odd, coming from one who has written so many Jeeves stories, but I hope never to see another butler, and the last thing I want about the home is a valèt.
Can the Daughter of an Illinois turkey farmer find happiness as a Playboy Bunny in San Francisco? "Definitely," says January Playmate Leslie Bianchini, who is precisely that. "Even though we left the farm and moved to California when I was ten," she explains, "down deep, I'm still a country girl. You know, the great outdoors, horses, exercise, all that. I don't especially like most cities, but San Francisco is different, somehow. It has a unique personality, happy and melancholy all at once. It's an endlessly refreshing place that I just love to explore." Following graduation from high school in Woodside, California, Leslie tried her hand as a business major at Foothill College, worked as a salesgirl at Saks and then "loafed for a while" before becoming the Door Bunny at her favorite city's hutch. "It's the perfect job for me and I'd like to stay with it for some time. I've met all sorts of interesting people and the great thing is that my days are my own." Since Leslie is the enthusiastic owner of a pet pony named Toby, she spends several afternoons a week out at the stables, exercising him; on other days, Miss January--who commutes from nearby San Carlos--is likely to indulge her passion for clothes by embarking on a shopping trip to the city. "I spend an embarrassing amount of money on clothing," she admits, "but I'm crazy about the new fashions. They're so bright and ingenious that I can't get enough of them." Her rambles through the Bay City often become dusty searches through resale shops for antiques ("I keep hoping to find a five-dollar Tiffany lamp, but still, junky things I can fix up are fun"), and they frequently turn into impromptu sight-seeing tours. "I guess it's my version of wanderlust. I've always wanted to go to Europe; but until I do, I suppose I'll always be a hometown tourist." A practice, we're sure you'll agree, that should encourage travelers to see San Francisco first.
I think I've finally cured my husband of coming home in the wee hours of the morning," the wife proudly announced on New Year's Day. "Last night, when I heard him fumbling downstairs, I yelled: 'Is that you, Harold?' "
Come January, cosmopolitan cliff dwellers are wont to split their wintry environs and jet away from it all to a tropical Elysium where they're free to go native or don the latest styles in dinner jackets. By the dawn's early light, the three well-tanned and -tailored night owls here treat their dates to a champagne breakfast near the rocks at Dunn's River Falls, Jamaica (just a Bunny hop from the Playboy Club-Hotel), while wearing formal garb that clearly reflects the costume influence--a look that's definitely what's happening in today's fashions. The gentleman at left opts for the East in an acetate brocade tunic-type dinner jacket, by Robert Weil for After Six, $150, and mohair and worsted formal trousers, by After Six, $45. Center fellow goes grandee in a Spanish-style mohair and worsted formal suit with sash, by Oleg Cassini, $225, worn over a brocade shirt, by After Six, $25. Chap at right stylishly rises to the occasion in an elegant Edwardian double-breasted formal suit, by Lord West, $175, a pleated cotton broadcloth shirt, by ExceHo, $14, and a silk-satin formal tie, by R. Meledandri, $8.50.
Synopsis: Last night Forrester had seen the dazzling blonde and the stumpy little fat man playing roulette in Messina--and the man was losing recklessly. Next morning Forrester was awakened by a hysterical cry from the girl, who was in the next room. The fat man, Nolan, lay dead there; under the circumstances, Forrester felt obliged to soothe Inger and to interpret for her during the police investigation that followed. When the coroner finally pronounced Nolan a suicide and they were free to go, they started for Palermo in Forrester's rented Fiat.
Martyrs of Hope: Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy
When Senator Robert F. Kennedy was informed of the murder of the Reverend Martin Luther King last April fourth, he was dining at an elegant restaurant in Indianapolis. As a group of prosperous bigots at a nearby table joyously toasted the assassination, Kennedy raced to the city's black ghetto, which was already beginning to seethe with unrest, and told a tense crowd, "I can understand your feelings; a member of my family was killed by a white man, too."" Kennedy added, however, that violence was not the answer, that a human reconciliation could overcome both the assassin's rifle and the inequities of racial injustice. There was no violence in Indianapolis that night--but eight weeks later, Robert Kennedy lay dead in Los Angeles. The two men died under dramatically dissimilar circumstances. King had returned to Memphis in a desperate effort to salvage the remnants of his nonviolent movement. Kennedy had just delivered a ringing victory speech to euphoric followers after winning the California primary. King was un-justly scorned and dismissed by radical young Negro militants as an Uncle Tom whose Gandhiesque preachments masked a sellout to the white power structure. Kennedy, whose tardy entry into the race after Senator McCarthy's victory in New Hampshire had alienated some activist students, was galvanizing behind his campaign a growing segment of the nation's youth--as well as the overwhelming majority of Negroes, who trusted him as they did no other white politician. On the surface, the son of an Atlanta minister had little in common with the heir to a wealthy and high-powered political dynasty. Yet of all American leaders, the two men most dramatically and sincerely articulated the aspirations of America's second-class citizens--Indians, Mexican-Americans, Puerto Ricans and poor whites, as well as the angry masses of black Americans. The tragic coincidence of their deaths was rife with ominous implications concerning not only America's deepening climate of violence but the survival of their mission to bind the nation's racial wounds and heal its deep social and political divisions. Yet, despite the massive shock waves of their assassinations, their lives, like their deaths, will have been meaningless--and our prospects will be dark--if we allow the ideals and aspirations they embodied to be buried with them. The following three essays--a final testament of hope from Dr. King and moving remembrances of the public and the private Kennedy--eloquently articulate the dreams for which they lived and died, and appeal for a national rededication to their fulfillment.
Whenever I am asked my opinion of the current state of the civil rights movement, I am forced to pause; it is not easy to describe a crisis so profound that it has caused the most powerful nation in the world to stagger in confusion and bewilderment. Today's problems are so acute because the tragic evasions and defaults of several centuries have accumulated to disaster proportions. The luxury of a leisurely approach to urgent solutions--the ease of gradualism--was forfeited by ignoring the issues for too long. The nation waited until the black man was explosive with fury before stirring itself even to partial concern. Confronted now with the interrelated problems of war, inflation, urban decay, white backlash and a climate of violence, it is now forced to address itself to race relations and poverty, and it is tragically unprepared. What might once have been a series of separate problems now merge into a social crisis of almost stupefying complexity.
It is Hard to write about a man murdered on the threshold of his highest possibility--hard because one recoils from the horror of the deed, hard because all one has left is speculation. Abraham Lincoln and John Kennedy at least had their time in the White House before they were shot down. Robert Kennedy was denied the full testing of his gifts. No one can say now what sort of President he might have been. But one can say something, I believe, about the nature of his impact on American politics and the character of his legacy.
I first met bob Kennedy eight years ago, through an unlikely intermediary--the late, irrepressible Hollywood producer Jerry Wald. Wald called me at my home in Mexico City to ask me if I would be interested in writing the screenplay of Kennedy's then-recent best seller, The Enemy Within. He told me that the Attorney General had chosen me from a list of five likely screenwriters Jerry had sent him. I said that was interesting. I was curious to know why.
The era of the whalebone corset, plush and horsehair, pomp and circumstance and Rule, Britannia! got its most skeptical going-over in the work of Lytton Strachey, son of a distinguished British family and biographer to the age. In his two major works of personalized history, "Queen Victoria" and "Eminent Victorians," Strachey took the towering figures of the time and brought them down to the scale of fallible human beings. Few people outside his witty and fashionable Bloomsbury set, however, knew that this eminent Edwardian writer was also the author of the secret work "Ermyntrude and Esmeralda." Written in 1913, existing in manuscript only, shared by a few of Strachey's friends and whispered about in the salons of London, this story could never be published in Strachey's lifetime. It was reputed to be a wild and scandalous mockery of Victorian notions about sex, and it remained hidden for 55 years, until a mention of it in Michael Holroyd's excellent "Lytton Strachey" inspired the English (continued on page 184)Ermyntrude and Esmeralda(continued from page 179) publisher Anthony Blond to hunt it down. Holroyd says, " 'Ermyntrude and Esmeralda' was written as an exchange of letters between two fancifully naïve, nubile and inquisitive 17-year-old girls, one--Esmeralda--living in the country, the other in town. At school they had both pledged themselves to discover as much as possible about the untold and manifold mysteries of sex, and in their holiday correspondence they report to each other the dramatic results of their investigations."
It's very hard to imagine what America was like 15 years ago, before Playboy came on the scene. In order to put it in its proper perspective, you have to remember that 15 years ago the United States was an agricultural society and the deep puritan instincts of its people dominated the land.
As We Begin 1969, evidence continues to mount that to be a Playmate is to capture an important key to success. In 1967, several of our bountiful beauties--notably, Playmate of the Year Angela Dorian, who appeared in Rosemary's Baby--were whisked to Hollywood to begin film careers. Of this past year's 12 girls, at least two--Connie Kreski (Miss January) and Michelle Hamilton (Miss March)-seem likely to emerge as full-fledged cinema stars by the end of 1969. But not all of our gatefold graduates are intent on becoming actresses. June's memorable Body and Skol centerfold, Britt Fredriksen (above), is studying interior decoration at Foothill College in California's Los Altos Hills and plans to make it her profession. "I like Danish and Swedish furniture best of all," says this pretty Norwegian. "Scandinavian design and use of color is fantastic." Britt has lived in California for over a year and doesn't plan on ever leaving. "In Europe, I enjoy the forests and feeling close to nature. But here, the climate is always beautiful and there are no long, depressing winters to get through." And just in case wintry weather is getting you down, peruse our Playmates of 1968--and perk up.
I Know I'm not Really a funny man, but I don't like other people to know it. I do what other people without much sense of humor do: I tell jokes. If we're sitting next to each other at a faculty senate and I want to introduce myself, I probably say "Bederkind is my name, and computers are my game."
The Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow and the Kirov in Leningrad enjoy a status unknown to any other troupe in the world-they are, in fact, a national pastime. "The pride these cities take in their companies," says roving artist LeRoy Neiman, "exceeds Green Bay's regard for the Packers. When natives of Moscow and Leningrad meet while vacationing in the Crimea, the discussions of the relative merits of their companies reach the shouting point and beyond." From the czars to the commissars, the ballet has been part of Russia's total society. Millions of girls--and boys--are training in ballet every year (adults study it nonprofessionally as an adjunct to folk dancing). And there are many places to learn: In addition to the 20 state choreographic schools, there are ballet studios in professional theaters and opera houses, ballet training centers in community playhouses and numerous amateur dance groups. "As a result," Neiman says, "even away from the big cities, you find well-trained dancers and well-informed audiences. Almost everyone knows the rudiments of ballet." When Neiman returned from the Soviet Union, he told us: "Of Russia's thirty-four professional ballet companies, undoubtedly the best-known is the Bolshoi. And the Bolshoi's prima ballerina, the ageless Maya Plisetskaya, is its undisputed and incandescent star. But the men are electrifying, too. The wildly high lifts and flamboyant leaps through space--their sheer strength is almost unbelievable. Both companies' theaters are spectacularly beautiful; the Bolshoi has power, while the Kirov has a romantic, pre-Revolution grandeur. The fact that balletgoers don't particularly 'dress' for a performance doesn't diminish one bit the elegance of either the occasion or the surroundings, for the audiences are totally responsive. A Bolshoi director probably summed it up best: 'We do not have a specialized balletomane audience such as we read of in other countries; our ballet audience is our people.' "
This Month marks the debut of Playboy Editor-Publisher Hugh M. Hefner's nationally syndicated television series, Playboy After Dark. Video's late-evening hours have become prime time for sophisticated shows, and Hefner's stimulating 60-minute sessions will offer an impressive array of adult entertainment. Among P.A.D.'s show-stopping assets: humor by Bill Cosby, Tommy Smothers, Professor Irwin Corey and Bob Newhart; pop music by the Byrds, Steppenwolf, Iron Butterfly, Delia Reese and O. C. Smith; on-the-scene personalities such as the Reverend Malcolm Boyd, George Plimpton and Boston Celtic player-coach Bill Russell. Playboy After Dark is designed to be both informal and informed--in short, the sort of urbane evening Hefner enjoys spending with good friends at the Playboy Mansion.