Crowning an issue as sunny as the season is Connie Kreski--whose appearance on this month's cover heralds her selection as 1969's Playmate of the Year. A regal photographic portfolio of Connie awaits within--along with a kingly abundance of entertainment for men, as befits the month that boasts the year's longest day.
Playboy, June, 1969, Vol. 16, No. 6. Published Monthly by HMH Publishing Co. Inc., Playboy Building, 919. N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the U.S., its possessions and Canada, $24 for three years, $18 for two years. $10 For one year, elsewhere add $2 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 Deverly 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.
In April of 1966, we took note in these pages of the trend toward exotica in the naming of rock groups and predicted that future pop charts might well list such odd aggregations as Thom McAn and the Loafers, Jack Daniels and the Four Roses or Judas and the Shekels. The unchecked proliferation of rock groups in the three years since then, we're happy to report, has spawned a flock of names even farther out than those we conjured up. While this bizarre nomenclature initially seems to defy categorization, exhaustive study reveals several common formulas for rubbing rock fans the right way. One of the most popular ploys is an appeal to infantilism--i.e., the subliminal suggestion that the item on sale is not merely a group of musicians but also something good to chew, cuddle or suck. Hence, we have Bubble Puppy, Lollipop Shoppe, The Candymen, the Apple Pie Motherhood Band, the Peanut Butter Conspiracy, the Peppermint Trolley Company, the Marshmallow Highway, the Chocolate Watchband, the Cake, the 1910 Fruit Gum Company, Ultimate Spinach and Vanilla Fudge. Other group names employ imagery reminiscent of childhood fables, such as the Tuneful Trolly and the Wozard of Iz. Yet others try to capitalize on the enduring allure of the traveling side show; this tinsel-bedecked genre includes Dr. West's Medicine Show and Junk Band, Circus Maximus, Captain Beelheart and his Magic Band and the Salvation Army Gypsy Carnival Caravan.
Cuban dictator Fulgencio Batista insisted that Fidel Castro was dead and that his guerrilla force in the Sierra Maestra had been wiped out. But in February 1957, Herbert Matthews of The New York Times published an interview with Castro. He was not only alive and well but quite formidable, as Señor Batista was soon to discover. Matthews has visited Cuba and Castro often since then, and he has read widely about the Cuban Revolution. In Fidel Castro (Simon & Schuster), he has written a history and analysis of that revolution and a study of the complicated man responsible for initiating and sustaining it. An experienced, empirical journalist--he was 57 when he met the 30-year-old Castro--Matthews is no propagandist. He does not attempt to euphemize the absence of free speech and a free press in Castro's Cuba, nor does he agree with all the works of the revolution. On the other hand, Matthews makes clear what the benefits of the revolution have been to the mass of Cubans and rebuts several prevailing misjudgments about the Cuban phenomenon. The country has, indeed, gone Communist, for example, but it is Castro who remains in charge; as both the Russians and the Chinese have found out, Cuban communism is bristlingly nationalistic, exploratory and self-defining. To consider Castro a pawn of either Communist bloc shows a fundamental misconception of the man and of a revolution that, Matthews feels, cannot be reversed, no matter what happens to Castro. It is deeply rooted in Cuba not because the masses have become ardent Marxist-Leninists but because this has been a radical social revolution, one of the most remarkable in history, considering the odds against it: Castro never had more than 800 guerrillas before coming to power in January 1959; and his worst enemy, the most powerful nation on earth, is only 90 miles away. This is a lucid guide to Castro's decade; and, along with Lee Lockwood's 1967 book, Castro's Cuba, Cuba's Fidel, it is essential reading for those who would understand this singular man and the portents of his revolution for the rest of Latin America--and for the United States.
The women of the Greek island of Mykonos, you may not know, are famous for their cultivation of domestic virtues. So determined are these gritty ladies to preserve hearth and home that, legend has it, they once sent letters to Napoleon demanding that should he or his randy troops chance through Mykonos in their pursuit of empire, there were to be no rapes--repeat, no rapes--either of them or of their beautiful dark daughters. Dalliance, perhaps, but no rape. When they were not writing antirape letters to dictators or weaving bright tapestries, the mykonaitis developed a native cuisine that contains probably the most tastefully elaborate variations ever turned out on the standard Greek theme of lamb. Mykonos, a white-stucco taverna that you might expect to find on a sunny quay on that fabled isle instead of at 349 West 46th Street in Manhattan, has a varied menu that boasts lamb in nearly ten guises. Exohiko--"country style" lamb --is probably the most popular. It is cubes of lamb mixed with cheese, eggs, carrots, peas, celery and olives and incased in feather-light pastry. Arni Sauté à la Mykonos are medallions of rack of lamb sautéed with Greek port wine. The lamb itself is very tender and obviously has never had to suffer the indignity of waiting on a steam table in the kitchen. Mykonos is one of the few foreign restaurants in New York that preserves its ethnicism from top to bottom: Even the bus boys are Greek, and the waiters in white turtlenecks look like male extras from Never on Sunday. The smashing, movie-set decor is by Vassilis Photopoulos, who won an Oscar for his art direction of Zorba the Greek. The tables and chairs are artfully "rustic" and seem the proper complement for glasses of the resinous native wine, retsina, which, depending on your taste, can smack of either paregoric or nectar of the gods. This is not to say that Mykonos is too homespun for the eleganti. Greek shipowners are frequent diners at Mykonos. Niarchos has been known to dance with ouzo-oiled abandon in the aisles to Mykonos' exciting bouzouki orchestra. Onassis has made the Mykonos scene with the missus, and Ari and Jackie aren't in the habit of dropping in on mere joints. Those who would rather leave their lamb than take it will find that the Mykonos menu stands ready to please them, too. Hellenized beef and farinaceous dishes are delicious. The hot appetizers are a hearty meal in themselves; a combination platter of these includes country sausage, tiny meat balls, mousaka (eggplant) and light little cheese pies. The postprandial star is galactoboureko, a magnificent milk, butter and farina custard in a strudel-leaf pastry roll (filo) covered with honey and chopped pistachio nuts. Mykonos is at its most lively and interesting after theater, and you should, of course, make reservations. Open 12 noon to 3 A.M. Monday through Saturday.
Ten years ago, Philip Roth's novella Goodbye, Columbus won a National Book Award and established its author's literary reputation. A film version should have been made then, not now, for the movie faithfully adapted (by Arnold Schulman) from Roth's first best seller somehow looks like what it is--one of the ten best of another decade. While the music, the dances, the advertisements and the skirt lengths that flash across the screen tell us the time is today, Columbus seems dated in several crucial ways--particularly in the hero's deep concern over his girl's being fitted for a diaphragm, an important point of the plot but a point made obsolete by changing sexual attitudes and the prevalence of the pill, no matter how adroitly scenarist Schulman tries to side-step it. So all right. Grant that young people today swing to a headier, more insistent rhythm. Grant, even, that director Larry Peerce, in his third film (following One Potato, Two Potato and The Incident), makes a few heavy-handed attempts to update Roth with fashionable camera gimmickry. Peerce also flagrantly sentimentalizes the relationship between the hero, a young Jewish misfit trying to figure out which way to jump from his job at a public library in the Bronx, and a little Negro kid who appears to represent the author's instinctive identification with losers. Notwithstanding those considerable objections, Columbus still works as a movie about 80 percent of the time. It has the wit, spirit and pungency of Roth's original and preserves much of his dialog, which is savagely funny ethnic comedy lifted from the mouths of modern, upwardly mobile Jewish-Americans. They are the nouveaux riches who occupy Colonial homes on expensive acreage in suburbia, who pay thousands to have their children's noses bobbed and who otherwise aspire to all the trappings of white-Protestant snobbism. Into the heart of this social milieu comes a perfect Roth hero, the quizzical Bronx bookworm whose steaming loins and sarcasm captivate the daughter of a prosperous sink manufacturer. They are a terrifically bright and believable romantic couple, as played by Richard Benjamin (of the TV sitcom He & She), so wry and Rothlike that he seems to be secretly amusing himself with the substance of a disenchantment destined one day to become Portnoy's Complaint; and movie newcomer, former model Ali MacGraw, provocative as a Botticelli angel who has picked up some four-letter words at Radcliffe. The acting is superior throughout, from Nan Martin and Jack Klugman as a pair of eternally watchful Jewish parents, to Michael Meyers as the girl's schnooky brother, an Ohio State basketball star with a record collection that includes all the works of André Kostelanetz and Mantovani. The film's putdown of middle-class manners, climaxed by a Jewish wedding scene to end them all, occasionally leans toward outright cruelty. But his unfailing humor and compassion add up to a belated triumph for Roth, who can hardly be blamed that the movies took so long to discover him.
The Jefferson Airplane really socks it to an appreciative audience--at the Fillmores, East and West--on Bless its Pointed Little Head (RCA; also available on stereo tape). The 50-minute program consists mainly of up-tempo, raucous rhythm numbers that generate lots of vitality; our only complaints are that the Airplane's group vocals are confusing and that Grace Slick--who is in fine form--gets to do her thing on only Somebody to Love and the suspenseful Bear Melt.
Sherman Edwards, a high school history teacher turned songwriter, gets this season's prize for nerviness. He has had the effrontery to write 1776, a musical comedy about the signing of the Declaration of Independence, in which the hero is a stuffy prig named John Adams, the heroine the United States of America and the climactic scene--the closest this modest show comes to a production number--is devoted to the line-by-line signing of the document itself. Amazingly, Edwards, helped enormously by Peter Stone's intelligent book and a strong, in-character cast, actually brings off that last moment, which is blatantly, outrageously patriotic but undeniably stirring. Even more amazingly, Edwards and his collaborators almost bring the whole show off. Impossible as it sounds, this is a likable little musical about an enormous subject, as admirable for what it doesn't do (no brassy overture, Broadway chorus line, obvious anachronisms and few melodramatics) as for what it does do. By placing America's founding in perspective, 1776 makes a credible case for Adams' being the real father and Benjamin Franklin the foxy uncle of their country. As played by William Daniels and Howard da Silva, the "obnoxious and disliked" Adams and the charming but self-satisfied Franklin are not comic cutouts from an I Am an American Day pageant but very human, Hawed individuals. The characters testify to the truth of one of the many aphorisms delivered by Franklin: "Revolutions come into the world like bastard children. Half compromised, half improvised." But for all its merits, 1776 does have its silly side. Sample sillies: Piddle, Twiddle and Resolve (not Walt Disney animals but an Adams ditty describing the inaction of the Continental Congress) and another number in which Adams tries to convince someone, anyone, finally even that lanky Virginian named Thomas Jefferson, to write the Declaration for him, with each candidate dancing out of Adams' reach and singing, "But, Mr. Adams," a repartee that rings of Gallagher and Shean. Even some of the lapses into corn, however, are ingratiating. Try to keep a straight face when John Hancock, the president of the Congress, writes his name first on the Declaration and an old codger from Rhode Island cackles like Granny Frickert, "That's a pretty large signature, Johnny!" At the 46th Street, 226 West 46th Street.
Till now, I've been in complete control of every relationship I've had with women; but, at 26, I find myself deeply involved with a girl of an entirely different background than my own and it is making woeful problems. She comes from a family that feels that, with maturity, one must break away from close parental ties, and she objects to my living at home and maintaining a close relationship with my parents and siblings. I don't see it that way, so she cries whenever we discuss it and urges me to move out on my own. We are deeply in love, but our engagement has been put off several times over this conflict. I was away from home for two years--in the Army--which proves I can manage without my parents, and I do not intend to give them up merely to prove my love. I feel the problem is of her creation and is, therefore, hers and not mine. I desperately need your advice.--M. K., Newark, New Jersey.
<p>One of the few happy developments of 1968--a year disfigured by police riots, student rebellions, political assassinations and a rancorous Presidential campaign--was the emergence into the national consciousness of Gore Vidal. "Myra Breckinridge," Vidal's controversial 11th novel, which appeared in February of last year, has sold some 4,500,000 copies--an almost unheard-of success for a serious literary work in America. And Vidal reached an even larger audience six months later. At both political conventions and on election night, he appeared opposite William F. Buckley, Jr., as a commentator for ABC. Except for one vituperative exchange between the two authors on the bloodiest night of the disturbances at the Democratic Convention in Chicago--an exchange that neither man really won--many observers agreed that the pugnacious polemicist and editor of the National Review had finally met his caustic match in Vidal. At least the television audience discovered that there was someone on the left with a tongue and a mind as sharp as Buckley's on the right.</p>
"... See the old man at the corner where you buy your papers? He may have a silencer-equipped pistol under his coal. That extra fountain pen in the pocket of the insurance salesman that calls on you might be a cyanide gas gun. What about your milkman? Arsenic works slow but sure. Your automobile mechanic may stay up nights studying booby traps. These patriots are not going to let you take their freedom away from them. They have learned the silent knife, the strangler's cord, the target rifle, that hits sparrows at 200 yards. Only their leaders restrain them. Traitors beware! Even now the cross hairs are on the back of your necks."
"No kind of sensation is keener or more active than that of pain." wrote Count Donatien Alphonse François de Sade, who chose to call himself the Marquis de Sade. "It is simply a matter of jangling all our nerves with the most violent possible shock." Born in 1740 to titled parents, then educated in the spirit of the libertine by his uncle, a profligate Benedictine abbot, the Marquis came to believe in the right of the individual to abuse and exploit any privilege, without regard to moral or legal restrictions. "Crime is the soul of lust," he hypothesized. "It is not the object of debauchery that excites us but, rather, the idea of evil." Consequently, from 1763 to the French Revolution, his life was plagued by an almost uninterrupted series of arrests, prosecutions and incarcerations for offenses ranging from flogging and sodomy to aphrodisiac poisoning. His bizarre compulsions also inspired the seduction of his wife's sister and a number of household orgies with a bisexual harem of servants. While in prison in 1782, he turned to writing, for want of other diversions: the wildly imaginative sexual atrocities that fill his works are testimony to his bestial appetites. "Every man wants to be a tyrant when he fornicates," he claimed. But while he favored all forms of personal violence, he was repelled by the impersonal mass cruelty of the Revolution. Ironically, it was not his sensational sexuality but his criticisms of Napoleon that finally confined him to an asylum in 1803, where he remained until his death in 1814. Now, in De Sade, an American International film starring Keir Dullea, director Cy Endfield offers a surrealistic chronicle of the personal excesses and public disgraces of the man who gave sadism a bad name: his own.
When I die, I should like to do so in the foyer of the best hotel in the world. For one thing, I feel most confident in hotel foyers; and for another, disposing of my corpse would be a final test for the hall porter. I have always been a snob about hotels--about people, too, I suppose--but that need not concern us. For me, the best hotel in whatever place I happen to be is a must. Ensconced in any other establishment, I tend to sulk. Once, on a steamer to Capri, I was examining the luggage tags of one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen, when I discovered to my dismay that she was bound for a different hotel from the one I had selected. I decided there and then to adjust my itinerary, to stay where she stayed. Yet it was not the child's beauty that prompted my action but the obvious wealth of her companion. He was, I decided, an Indian princeling and, as such, could be relied upon. When we landed, I followed hard on their heels, up the mountain to Anacapri and through the revolving doors of their Shangri-La, only to be dismissed by an obdurate reception clerk. Forced to return to the hotel of my original choice, I spent my holiday in jealous despair.
This Year's long hot summer will find water wise surf sports and able bodied shoremen cooling it in see-worthy beach garb. Such bold styles as tank-type one piece suits and vertical-striped mid-thing trunks, by Oleg Cassini for Sea Mark. $12 (shown below), are making fresh fashion waves. Broad self-pattern or solid-color web belts keep the suit--but not the wearer--up tight. From Malibu to Miami Beach, a près-sea aquaneats are donning pullover caftans, velour shirts and raja robes. In short, it's a buyer's market for the sand-and-sun set--so deep-six outdated duds and hit the beach in high style.
I was Literally made, shaped, whetted and given a world with a purpose by the American realistic novel of the mid-to late 1930s. From the age of 14 to 17, I gorged myself on the works of Thomas wolfe (beginning with of Time and the River, catching up with Angel and then keeping pace till big Tom's stunning end). Ernest Hemingway, william Faulkner. James T. Farrell, John Steinbeck, John O'Hara. James Cain, Richard Wright. John Dos Passos. Erskine Caldwell, Jerome Weidman, and William Saroyan, and knew in my pumping heart that I wanted it be such a novelist. To me, an isolated, supersensitive New York Jewish boy given the privacy to dream in the locked bathroom of middle-class life, these novels taught me about the America "out there" and, more than anything. I wanted to identify with that big gaudy continent and its variety of human beings who came to me so clearly through the pages of these so-called fictions. I dreamed southern accents. Okies bourbon and branch water. Gloria Wandrous, juke joints studs Lonigan, speeding trucks and big highways, Bigger (continued on page 126) The American Novel (continued from page 123) Thomas, U.S.A., U.S.A.! Nothing to me in those crucial, irredeemable years was as glamorous as the unofficial seamy side of American life, the smack, brutality and cynical truth of it, all of which I learned from the dynamic novels that appeared in Manhattan between 1936 and 1939.
Le Mans, a small French town nestled about 200 kilometers southwest of Paris, each spring explodes with a roar as 400,000 auto-racing enthusiasts come to watch the grueling 24-hour test of stamina and skill officially titled Le Grand Prix d'Endurance. Begun in 1923, the Le Mans race has also given its name to the famous (safety experts call it infamous) running start. At Le Mans, half-a-hundred drivers sprint to their cars and take off in a cacophonous symphony of shifting gears and howling exhausts (right). Top speeds around the 8.3-mile course are reached on the three-mile Mulsanne Straight, where Mario Andretti's Mark IV Ford topped 211 mph in 1967. Last year's race, postponed until late September because of the French student riots, was won by the team of Pedro Rodriguez and Lucien Bianchi piloting a private-entry Ford GT40. In overcoming an early lead set by four hard-charging Porsches, Rodriguez-Bianchi made it three in a row for Fords at I'Endurance. "Le Mans' off-track area," says peripatetic artist LeRoy Neiman, "is as colorful as the French flag. Music blaring from loud-speakers mixes with the drone of the racing cars. Long-haired girls emulating Françoise Hardy's laconic look crowd around Coney Island-type stands offering Grand Marnier crepes suzette, soupe de poisson, parfum, vermouth and brut champagne. The race starts in the late afternoon, and as the Monet-blue sky turns black and the lights of the race cars blink on, the excitement mounts. To enjoy the pageantry of Le Mans, knowledgeable spectators check into a nearby hotel a day or two in advance, so that they can watch the time trials, mingle with drivers and mechanics at an outdoor café and feel the prerace tension that develops as the starting hour draws near. The true devotee of the vingt-quatre heures stays trackside--and awake--for the entire event; cat napping breaks the mood and lessens the flavor. The box seats over the pits are the ideal vantage point, but a blanket by the course--shared with a jolie fille--can be exciting and perhaps more rewarding."
Dr. Horace Feldman arrived at Ponchawee Manor with every expectation of being liked. The boy who handled his luggage liked him and admired the Feldman Mercedes. The lady in Registration beamed the moment the Feldman paunch touched the front desk. The resort manager, Mr. Glassmacher, shook the Feldman hand, but gently, gently, in consideration of those surgeon fingers. A gratifying entrance, but no surprise to Dr. Feldman, a man accustomed to admiration, liking and respect.
When you meet Helena Antonaccio for the first time, she has a charmingly modest habit of lowering her eyelashes--a persistent holdover from her bashful teens. "I was always a shy type," she admits, "but since becoming a Bunny, I've learned to be more outgoing. Looking back on it, though, I don't know how I ever got up the courage even to apply for the job." Our New Jersey miss had gone to New York to try out for a wig-modeling assignment. "I'd done some face modeling," she says, "so I had a little confidence in myself. But when I didn't get picked for the wig layout, I was really depressed. Not ready to go home and admit defeat, I just started walking around--and I found myself in front of The Playboy Club. I had often wondered what it was like, so I went in and, on an impulse, asked the Door Bunny what it took to qualify. She directed me to the Bunny Mother, who interviewed me, had me try on a costume, and then--just like that--told me I was accepted for training. So instead of being a failure, I went home with an exciting new career. My folks were as happy as I was. And now to be a Playmate, too--I'm sure glad I didn't get that wig-modeling job." So are we.
Certain Food-and-Drink Combinations--such as cheese and port, curry and beer or caviar and champagne--have never become clichés, because their ensemble chords twang so beautifully that you can barely think of the one without the other. In the summertime, the most delicious of the Damon and Pythias partnerships is paella and sangria, the rice casserole and the wine punch, both imports from Spain.
Every time 81 people are born, two of them are twins. Some of these twins are identical. Like the twin I am. And my brother. We've been asked: How does it feel to be a twin? Or: How does it feel to be twins? By everyone we ever knew, anywhere, any time. We always had a standard answer: The same as anyone else, I guess. Sometimes, they'd be insistent: But it must feel different. We had a standard answer for that, too: No, for us it's natural. We think it's different not to be a twin. This made some of them angry: You're just trying to be smart--most people aren't twins, and they're not the ones who are different, you are. When we were together. they stared at us. They always stared at us. When we were very little, we liked that. Later, we hated it. Now they don't stare anymore, because we're never together anymore. We put space between us. Miles and miles of geography. We live in two different cities.
The Mutual-Fund business came of age last summer when a New York industrialist purchased $7,000,000 in mutual-fund shares. This transaction (which, incidentally, generated about $75,000 in commissions for a happy Long Island fund salesman) epitomized a trend that Wall Street insiders had already noted: Big money, not just small change, is flowing into mutual funds. When very rich people make an investment, the rest of us should take notice.
It was going to be a great party, Jeff thought, inspecting himself in the bathroom mirror, even if it had been a pain in the ass to get ready for. He'd had his sideburns professionally trimmed, but the mustache and beard he'd had to do himself, shaping the beard carefully so it curled under just so and working on the mustache literally hair by hair, to get it to lie right. But the effect was worth it--far out, but not too far.
Beauty and Talent, particularly of the cinematic variety, abounded among 1968's delightful dozen Playmates. But editors unanimously concurred that our first was also foremost and hailed January's Connie Kreski as undisputed Playmate of the Year. Her ingenuous freshness and femininity, so apparent in playboy's photographic uncoverage. was immediately recognized by England's Anthony Newley as well. The actor-author-producer-director literally bumped into her in the elevator of our London Club a little more than a year ago; he screen-tested her the next day and signed her within the week for a title role in Can Heironymus Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Humppe and Find True Happiness?--the Freud- and fun-filled fantasy previewed in playboy last March. Connie remained in London after her debut before the cameras on the island of Malta. "I should have been born in London," says 1968's choicest centerfold. "I love the people and especially the feeling of openness and space. There's grass all (text continued on page 160) over the city. It's so much prettier than Detroit, my home town." Connie's favorite relaxation in the capital of Mods and miniskirts was predictably pedestrian--walking in Hyde Park with her two Pekingese. Emil and Fang ("When somebody knocks on the door, Fang hides under the bed"). Now back in the States under contract to Universal, she is improving her acting skills through intensive study with the studio's excellent drama coach, Vince Chase. "I guess I'll be playing teenagers for quite a while." says Connie. "I look about fourteen in most shots, but that's fine with me, because I know I can handle little-girl roles. Of course, I hope to get good enough soon to try my hand at more demanding parts." Despite her sudden immersion into the film industry, she hasn't forsaken the live-for-today philosophy she espoused 18 months ago in her Playmate premiere. To guarantee some diversions from her work, her material rewards as Playmate of the Year will include a Ford-powered fire-breathing Shelby GT 500. As alternate transport, she may elect to use either her custom-built ten-speed Schwinn Varsity bicycle or her Harley-Davidson M-65 motorcycle--both, of course, like her new car. in Playmate Pink. "I'm an outdoor girl and I intend to always stay that way," she told us last year, so she'll be given Hart skis, Henke (text concluded on page 200) Playmate of the Year (continued from page 160) ski boots and PK poles, and she'll be stylishly swathed for the slopes in a rabbit jacket from Alper Furs and ski fashions from Peter Kennedy; for riding back to the lodge, she'll have an Arctic Panther snowmobile and will be wearing a snowmobile suit lined in leopardskin, with boots, from Arctic Enterprises. Connie can also make the warm-weather scene in a wardrobe of Jantzen swimsuits, relax at poolside in a calypso marina jacket and plumb the briny with a snorkel, Tahiti mask, Caravelle fins, Jaguar Club spear gun and Grisbi knife--all from U.S. Divers. Should she encounter any sharks--pool sharks, that is--a Brunswick custom billiard cue with monogrammed case should stand her in good stead, or she can bowl them over with a new ball, also from Brunswick. For her less strenuous activities, our winsome winner will be dressed in a combination of Aris custom gloves, forward-looking fashions from Walter Holmes' Vibration collection and imported shoes from Thayer McNeil. To highlight Connie's on- or offcamera appearances, she'll receive a selection of Saunda cosmetics and a wardrobe of Brentwood Bellissima wigs, and she'll be further adorned with a Lady Hamilton diamond wrist watch, a gold Rabbit Pin with ruby eye from Maria Vogt and an Azalea Pink Linde star-sapphire ring designed especially for our January jewel. Rounding out Connie's gatefold grab bag is an AM/FM stereo auto unit from G.W. Electronics, on which--if her vocal attributes come anywhere near her visual ones--she may soon hear the finished products of her Monument Record Corporation contract. She can then toast her success with a full case of Paul Masson Magnum brut champagne--or write home about it all on her new Smith-Corona electric typewriter. With a nationwide tour of Playboy Club cities in her future, Connie now looks forward to the Stateside traveling she regrets missing in the past."Outside of Detroit, I've only been to Chicago and Los Angeles," she says. "I really haven't seen much of America." Judging from public reaction to our winning Playmate's magazine and screen debuts, it's apparent that America hasn't seen enough of Connie, either.
In the year 1756, I was living in Paris and working as a journeyman at the printing house of Claude Hérissant in the Rue Notre-Dame. I was just 22, bold, good-looking and attractive to the fair sex--or so I thought. It was May 27, Ascension Day, on which a humiliating adventure befell me.
Heat-beating see-through shirts with tapered body and full sleeves are shaping up as this warm-weather season's airiest attraction. To succeed with this adventuresome fashion--a look that's right out of a 19th Century romantic novel--the wearer should be a bit of a sartorial grandee, preferably with the lean build of a first-rate fencing master. If you fill the bill, try an elegant combination of a comfortable and contemporary white, black or brown open-weave shirt with a pair of velvet or tricot flared slacks and a loosely tied scarf. The man here keeps matters well in hand while making the most of a delightfully ticklish situation; he's donned a cotton lace shirt that features a long-pointed collar and button cuffs, by Mike Weber for Boutique Sportswear, $16, with an art nouveau--patterned silk neck scarf, by Handcraft, $8.
Synopsis: Hostileman, out to destroy Lydia Maim because she is out to destroy bernard mergendeiler, is foxed into the lair of an enemy so utterly vicious she gives promise of destroying him: Manlywoman!
It's a long way from the Welsh coal-mining town of Pontypridd to the ABC-TV studios in Los Angeles; but Tom Jones, 29, has gone the distance, selling 24,000,000 records en route and signing the biggest night-club and television contracts ever offered to a British entertainer. The Flamingo in Las Vegas will pay him $840,000 for one month's work; and ABC, in combination with England's ATV, will televise five years of his booming baritone and high-powered hip swinging at a total package price of $21,500,000--a safe investment, considering the popularity of his current ABC variety series. To avoid the unusually burdensome English income tax, Jones recently became a corporation--Management Agency and Music--sharing control with pop singer Engelbert Humperdinck. "I really don't take much notice of the money part of it," Tom says, but his $150,000 home in Surrey, along with the Bentley Continental and the Rolls-Royce limousine, represents a noticeable change from his far less affluent days in Wales. Inspired by such Stateside balladeers as Billy Eckstine, Billy Daniels and Ernie Ford, Tom sang for years in church choirs, then graduated at 16 to singing in the local pubs. Working days as a building laborer and performing wherever he could, he finally was heard by Gordon Mills, a hit songwriter, who decided on the spot to manage his career. Tom's first international hit, It's Not Unusual, was recorded in London in 1965, and such subsequent smashes as What's New, Pussycat?, Green, Green Grass of Home and Delilah have earned him a variety of honors--including a Grammy and a Royal Command Performance. Now, four years and eight Ed Sullivan appearances later, he looks forward to stints at New York's Copacabana and the Flamingo, concerts from Australia to Hawaii and renewed production of his TV series in Los Angeles later this summer. "It's fine once you've made it in America," Jones reflects. "But it's difficult to maintain staying power." In his case, we doubt it. With a yearly income that should soon reach £1,000,000 and with the promise of continued video and record success, Tom Jones has more than enough going for him to guarantee a long and lucrative stay in the limelight.
A rare degree of poise under pressure plus a demoralizing serve have made 25-year-old Arthur Ashe the nation's top-ranked tennis player--and the only black star in an otherwise lily-white sport. Ashe's celebrated cool reflects the steadfastness of his father, who was caretaker of the Richmond, Virginia, playground where Arthur first swung a tennis racket. The elder Ashe, who had kept his family together on faith and a shoestring, wept with pride last year as his son whipped Tom Okker in the U.S. Open finals at Forest Hills. There had been little opportunity for Ashe, Jr., to master his game in segregated Richmond, but seven seasons under the tutelage of R. Walter Johnson, a Lynchburg doctor who guides young black tennis hopefuls, helped him develop a serve powerful enough to win several major tournaments and a scholarship to UCLA. Though the Dallas Country Club canceled its 1966 invitational tournament rather than let Ashe compete, he found himself accepted--indeed, lionized--throughout the circuit. It was during his two-year Army hitch, as a systems analyst at West Point, that Ashe--conditioned in childhood to maintain silence in the face of insult--began to speak out against discrimination. As his social consciousness matured, so did his court style; the previously mercurial Ashe, whose inconsistency had been attributed by critics to lack of the killer instinct, won more than 30 straight matches and, last December, helped the U.S. win the Davis cup for the first time since 1963. Recently sprung from the Service, he can now envision a well-paid pro career, possible film roles, additional business affiliations (he already represents Philip Morris, Coca-Cola and Wilson Sporting Goods, among others) and a continued assault on American apartheid. Ashe considered leaving the cup team in sympathy with the Olympic boycott but decided that "People don't listen to losers." Now working for the Urban League, he favors an approach to equality that is "admittedly slow, but coordinated and sure." Militants may disagree--but everybody listens to a winner.
These days, Buck Henry enters laughing. In the wake of The Graduate--which he scripted--he suddenly became one of Hollywood's hottest screenwriters. "The Graduate," he says, "was one long ball to work on. Mike Nichols is a hell of a director." Candy, Henry's next effort as scenarist, was a different story, however. "I was writing the film as it was being shot," the New York-born writer recalls. "I was also writing to accommodate actors who would suddenly appear and be put in the picture. Which is all right, I suppose, but it's not the way to make a film." Henry, 39, has just completed his most difficult screen assignment to date--an adaptation of Joseph Heller's antic World War Two novel, Catch-22, in which he again teams up with Nichols. "It was quite a challenge to rework Heller's sense of structure without appearing to do so. I also had to cut down the number of characters, from about 75--too many for a film--to 30," Henry said upon returning to his home in Hollywood Hills after nearly three months near Guaymas, Mexico, where part of Catch-22 was filmed. In addition to writing the script, Henry (who played the hotel desk clerk in The Graduate) portrays Catch-22's Colonel Korn. "I started out in show business as an actor," he says. "Just after I was graduated from Dartmouth, the producers of an ill-fated off-Broadway play needed a young man who could convey innocence, fear, corruption, handsomeness and sexual appeal. Instead, they got me." A busy--if little-known--actor during the late Fifties, Henry then spent two years as a gagwriter for TV's The Garry Moore Show before joining That Was the Week That Was as a writer-performer. Following that, he co-authored (with Mel Brooks) the pilot of NBC's Get Smart, which soon led to his career as a filmwriter. "I've only adapted novels so far," says Henry, "but next year I intend to write my first original screenplay." Judging from his satiric success thus far, it seems certain that rival screenwriters will have to strive mightily, indeed, if they intend to pass the Buck.