When we arrived at Antioch College to shoot photos for this month's Back to Campus fashion feature, more than 200 students staged a mild-mannered protest. The male demonstrators, objecting primarily to what they felt was Playboy's intended presentation of Antioch as a far-out vanguard school, spiced the confrontation with a brief two-man nude-in at the first audition for models—and a few dissidents absconded with a box of clothing, capriciously planning to mail it back to Chicago and thus foil our photogs without actually committing a theft. But the student body, fully clothed, finally voted four to one to let us remain. You'll see the results—and other previews of preferred undergrad garb—within.
Playboy, September, 1969, Vol. 16, No. 9, 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 Beverly Boulevard, OL 2-8790; San Franciso, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter Street, 434-2675; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N.E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
In The Moneymakers (Little, Brown), Kenneth Lamott explores the lives of 16 of "The Great Big New Rich"—men with a minimum of $100,000,000. Some of his subjects, like our own J. Paul Getty, are widely known, but whoever heard of Daniel Keith Ludwig, who, since the beginning of World War Two, amassed a personal fortune of around one billion dollars? He owns the world's largest tanker fleet, the largest privately owned fleet of vessels of any kind in the world. (Take that, Onassis.) It's doubtful that Ludwig's fellow commuters from Darien, Connecticut, know that "their quiet neighbor commands wealth greater than the combined fortunes of the original Vanderbilts, Morgans and Du Ponts." Although a few of the men Lamott writes about started from scratch, today's overachiever has a much better chance of reaching the top if he chooses a father who is already a success and can afford to send him to the right schools. To be truly rich, obviously, it helps to be born rich. Corporate executives are nowhere. In 1967, the highest paid executive in the country was James M. Roche, chairman of the board of General Motors. He got a measly $200,000 per annum in straight salary—a sum H. L. Hunt is said to take in every day. But one gathers from The Moneymakers that a more exciting evening can be spent watching paint dry than with any one of the Big New Rich. Gone are the days of enormous parties, gigantic mansions, squads of servants, private railroad cars, racing stables and love nests on yachts. As Lamott says, "Even when there is display, it is often fatally touched with the dominant middle-class style." The Moneymakers is a worthy companion to Lundberg's The Rich and the Super-Rich. Lamott's analysis of the social, political and ethical status of the very rich in today's society is thoughtful and objective. In the main, he finds them irrelevant. They "offer little in the way of useful human models in our present distress, for their collective message is that if the Negro, the Asiatic peasant and the university rebel will only pull up his socks, believe in God and turn himself to honest work, he, too, can be successful. It is rather like prescribing aspirin in the midst of a great seismic disturbance."
The heroes of Easy Rider are a pair of hairy dropouts on motorcycles who mockingly call themselves Captain America and Billy (flamboyantly dressed for the parts and played, respectively, by Peter Fonda, who produced the movie, and Dennis Hopper, who directed it). Before they are wantonly slaughtered by hysterical red-necked defenders of a society that fears and despises all they stand for, they wheel across the southwestern U.S. on a picaresque odyssey leading from Mexico to L.A., to a hippie pueblo commune in the desert, then to New Orleans during Mardi Gras. Discount a certain diffident quality in the co-stars' acting, and occasional soft spots in the script (written by Fonda, Hopper and Terry Southern), and the movie adds up to one hell of a trip. It's a small but pungent film that slips into the drug scene with the greatest of ease, yet explains rather than exploits the hang-ups of disenchanted young Americans who are popping pills or smoking grass or losing themselves in the landscape for a number of disturbing reasons. Easy Rider's view of the straight world is conveniently narrow, confined mostly to rubes and Deep South bigots. Yet, at moments, the indictment becomes horrifically real—particularly during a tense scene in a lunchroom, where the local males' hostility is stoked by sexual envy when they see the hippies' long hair and tight pants revving up a pack of giggly teenaged girls. In his director's cap, Hopper collaborates with cinematographer Laszlo Kovacs to mount a vibrant, brutal visual essay on despair and rootlessness; his lensing of a psychedelic trip in a New Orleans graveyard leaves no urn unstoned. To match the groovy imagery, the sound track offers everyone from Steppenwolf and The Electric Prunes to Jimi Hendrix and The Fraternity of Man (the last singing "Don't Bogart that joint ... pass it over to me"). Thesping honors go to Jack Nicholson, who wrote Fonda's last film, The Trip, and adds a fillip to Easy Rider with his apt performance as an alcoholic young lawyer from Texas who joins forces with the hippies because he was born 'n' bred in God's country but no longer believes in it.
Memphis' Stax-Volt-Hip-Enterprise complex bestrides the soul world like a colossus—and the reason is that they try harder. Among their latest 27-album offering are such goodies as We'll Get Over (Stax; also available on stereo tape), which completes the transformation of the Staple Singers into a pop-soul group, as they perform material by Spanky and Our Gang and Sly and the Family Stone; The Booker T. Set (Stax; also available on stereo tape), wherein the MG's apply their usual soft touch to 11 top tunes, including Michelle and Mrs. Robinson; Steve Cropper's With a Little Help from My friends (Volt; also available on stereo tape), which finds the MG's' self-effacing guitarist fronting a large aggregation in a program of powerhouse blues; Hot Buffered Soul (Enterprise; also available on stereo tape), on which composer-arranger Isaac Hayes, backed by some of the most lavish rock charts we've heard, displays a warm, catchy vocal style: and the beautifully packaged double-LP Boy Meets Girl (Stax; also available on stereo tape), on which Carla Thomas, Eddie Floyd, Johnnie Taylor, William Bell and individual members of the Staples take turns pairing off in a series of romantic duets.
Oh! Calcutta! is good nudes. The five women and five men in the cast are uniformly handsome, in good physical shape, with excellent discipline, fine coordination, complete self-confidence and absolutely no embarrassment about acting with their anatomy. In the course of the action, they are naked—totally, unblushingly naked—about half the time. They dance and prance. They fondle, mock-fornicate, group-grope and fool around a lot. Give each of the performers a medal, if you can find some place to pin it. Oh! Calcutta! was intended by its "deviser," Kenneth Tynan, the eminent British critic and Playboy Contributing Editor, to be a "few cuts above burlesque in intelligence and sophistication." What has surfaced is, in a number of instances, no more, and occasionally less, than the premise. However, the show's major contribution to the fermenting theatrical scene—its unpretentious, unkinky presentation of nudity— rates the production better than a "few cuts above" the sweaty, neurotic, sometimes deadly serious, sometimes sappily sophomoric nude shows that have preceded it. To help him in the devising, Tynan enlisted Jacques Levy to "conceive" and "direct." To add further class, he employed as contributors Samuel Beckett, Jules Feiffer, Dan Greenburg, John Lennon, Leonard Melfi, David Newman, Robert Benton, Sam Shepard, Sherman Yellen, plus Tynan and Levy themselves and the paintings of Clovis Trouille, whose amply endowed nude is the symbol of the show. Trouille's work is projected on a stage-enwrapping screen and credited to him, but otherwise no author has his name attached to his offering—perhaps a wise note of caution in an otherwise unabashed enterprise. The problem is not that the authors are writing dirty—the production goes on the sound assumption that bare bodies and functional Anglo-Saxonisms can and should be taken for granted by a mature audience—but that they're writing unevenly. Despite that unevenness, there are a host of high points, including a delightful spoof of a Victorian rape, a slapstick romp about a human sexual-response experiment (with the doctors and the nurses wildly caught up in the response) and a production number in which the unclad cast plays its own devil's advocate—"I hear all the guys in the show are gay"; "If they're having fun, why don't they have erections?"; "That's my daughter up there." The music, composed and performed by a trio of chaps billing themselves as The Open Window, is frequently delightful. One may be disappointed that the show doesn't quite achieve the heights promised by the stellar list of contributors, but no one can fault the intention—or the net effectiveness of the show's good-humored and total candor. Incidentally, the show's title is impishly irreverent: a pun on a frank French expression—O! Quel cul t'as!—in praise of a much-pursued part of the female anatomy. At the Eden Theater, 189 Second Avenue.
With great hopes for the future, I've fallen in love with a girl who wants to love me, too, but has enormous fears about her ability to honestly and fully love any man. At the age of 13, she was raped by her father; and from then on, she engaged in sex with almost any boy who wanted her. Her only emotional involvement came at the age of 18, when she thought she was in love but finally realized that she had no real, deep feeling for the guy. Her relationship with me seems to go a bit further, which I interpret as a ray of hope; but she is still incredibly uptight most of the time. I'll be forever grateful for any helpful insights from the Advisor.—A. L., New Orleans, Louisiana.
<p>Clem came from Buffalo and spoke in the neutral American accent that sends dictionary makers there. His pronunciation was clear and colorless, his manners impeccable, his clothes freshly laundered and appropriate no matter where he was, however far from home. Rich and unmarried, he traveled a lot; he had been to Athens and Rio, Las Vegas and Hong Kong, Leningrad and Sydney and now Cairo. His posture was perfect, but he walked without swing; people at first liked him, because his apparent perfection reflected flatteringly upon them, and then distrusted him, because his perfection revealed no flaw.</p>
In any organized group of mammals, no matter how cooperative, there is always a struggle for social dominance. As he pursues this struggle, each adult individual acquires a particular social rank, giving him his position, or status, in the group hierarchy. The situation never remains stable for very long, largely because all the status strugglers are growing older. When the overlords become senile, their seniority is challenged and they are overthrown by their immediate subordinates. There is then renewed dominance squabbling as everyone moves a little farther up the social ladder. At the other end of the scale, the younger members of the group are maturing rapidly, keeping up the pressure from below. In addition, certain members of the group may suddenly be struck down by disease or accidental death, leaving gaps in the hierarchy that have to be quickly filled.
Many of our values and ideas are shaped by our artifacts; and we, in turn, shape our possessions to fit our beliefs. Take the motorcycle: Its place in our society has changed through the years and so has the type of man who rides it. In the early decades of this century, before America was really sure it trusted and could afford the horseless carriage, the motorcycle was a reliable means of transportation and a common mechanical beast of burden. It was often better than a car, especially when navigating the narrow, bumpy roads of the day. But after World War Two, the motorcycle began to lose favor with the public; and within a few years, it had found its way into several unsavory subgroups of our society. Marlon Brando came along as the cinematic embodiment of the various outlaw cycle gangs and temporarily killed the motorcycle as an instrument of popular transportation. (Actually, to the outlaws, the (text continued on page 130) motorcycle is more ornamental than locomotive and, indeed, the garish and weird machines they build up are barely road-worthy—they represent mobile jewelry rather than transportation.)
For this fall, two leading men's-clothing designers, Bill Blass and Ralph Lauren, have leaped fashionably forward by way of the past—and resurrected the landed-gentry look in suits; tweedy, well-tailored styles that are eminently more at home in an urban high-rise than they ever were at the country estate. The gentlemen of leisure seen above sporting squire attire pause at midday to discuss grape expectations with their dates. Rugged chap at left has donned a two-button herringbone Shetland wool Norfolk suit that features a half-belted back, flap-patch pockets and extra-wide lapels, $235, worn over multicolor ancient-madder silk foulard shirt with long-pointed collar and two-button cuffs, $75, both by Ralph Lauren for Polo. His buddy receives a warm welcome in two-button wool worsted shaped suit with giant plaid pattern that features wider lapels and semi-hacking pockets, $165, deep-tone cotton dress shirt with long-pointed collar, $22.50, both by Bill Blass, and wide knit tie, by Turnbull & Asser, $15.
Showcasing the unmistakable talents of Julie Newmar and the capaciously antic excellence of Zero Mostel, Monsieur Lecoq—an outrageous spoof of supercrook and supercop movies—undoubtedly ranks as the most frolicsome film you'll never see. You'll never see it because production problems turned this would-be sexy smash into another of those legendary best-laid plans that often go astray. Before they closed up shop, though, the team of Newmar and Mostel produced some memorable moments—ranging from Julie's unabashed bubble bath, above, to the zany courting scene, at left, in which a fashionably attired Zero takes a hint from Tom Jones and combines gustatory inducements with portly charm to zero in on his ladylove, a tempting dish in her own right.
Election night 1968 almost produced the nightmarish spectacle of the most powerful nation on earth on the brink of constitutional chaos. If Illinois, California and Ohio hadn't tipped into the Republican column on the morning of November 6, no one can say with certainty what would have happened to this country.
Bachelors who enjoy both dining à deux and cooking à deux could hardly turn to anything on the menu better than (chafing dish steaks. A most pleasant accompaniment to your pre-prandial martini is watching a beefsteak slowly turn brown. While the world is increasingly filled with all kinds of steak fanciers fastening their eyes on outdoor steaks over barbecue fires, on indoor steaks over fireplace hibachis and on steakhouse steaks over charcoal or under a blazing salamander, the most worldly wise of all are those at table who enjoy their steaks cooking over a glowing spirit lamp.
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in a local student saloon. One of the waggish types, well into his cups and yearning for new sources of excitement, suggested that the group invite those foppish Princeton gentlemen down to New Brunswick for a game of that new form of unorganized mayhem that had come to be called foot ball—a name undoubtedly derived from the fact that an iron-capped toe was the principal weapon for encouraging the flow of blood. Better yet (since, as everyone present knew, the men of Rutgers were a tougher and manlier lot than those scions of wealth and privilege at Princeton), they would shuffle the rules a bit, even further removing the game from its less mutilative precursor, rugby.
"I stood looking at it and thought that never in the world would there be discovered other lands such as these," wrote Bernal Díaz del Castillo, the conquistador, after his first glimpse of Mexico in 1519. The same sentiments might well have been expressed by Shay Knuth several years ago. when she discovered the land of the Aztecs: "I was on a camping trip to Denver and Laredo with a pair of girlfriends," recalls the golden-tressed Milwaukee native, "and we decided, just on a whim, to spend a weekend in Mexico City. I was completely knocked out by the atmosphere of the town—the unfamiliar sounds and smells and the relaxed tempo of life. I told myself, 'This is where I'd like to live and work someday.' " Shay kept thinking of Mexico during a year of studies and secretarial duties at the University of Wisconsin, and nine months of greeting keyholders (in a variety of languages) in the VIP Room at the Lake Geneva Playboy Club-Hotel—where she had the distinction of being the first Bunny hired. An advance on Shay's Playmate fee made an extended Mexican interlude possible; Shay took a leave of absence from the Club and set out for Mexico City last March. She made the 2100-mile journey alone, in her 1966 Mustang, her only companion a pet cat, who weathered the trip with ease but disappeared three weeks later. Miss September promptly enrolled at the University of the Americas, where she signed up for courses in Spanish, modern philosophy and government. She also found an apartment near Mexico City's "pink zone"—a luxurious locale studded with boutiques, restaurants, night clubs and other tourist attractions—and a trio of roommates, all coeds like herself. Most of the university's 1500 students, Shay soon discovered, are from the United States—many of them hippies, in fact— "but the majority aren't politically oriented, so the atmosphere around the campus is very relaxed and easygoing." The university, however, is preparing to move in 1970 to a new location outside the city, and Shay isn't anxious to go along; she'd rather transfer to the Universidad Iberoamericana or study Spanish privately. She's also planning to leave her present quarters and move in with a Mexican family. "Almost everybody in the city speaks some English," says Shay, "so I really haven't had much incentive to perfect my Spanish; but if I can persuade a local family to take me in, I'll have no choice but to learn." Though her academic obligations haven't been leaving her much time for recreation, Shay has found that daily—and nightly—life in Mexico City is idyllic in many respects: "The city has several parks, all very spacious, with lakes, and boats that you can rent; there also seems to be an infinite number of after-hours spots." The only word for the restaurants, in Shay's opinion, is fantastic. But Shay emphasizes that Mexico isn't exactly an earthly paradise: Poverty is too widespread. "It's a nation of extremes," she says. "The poor are completely destitute and the rich are superrich. Both the aristocrats and the workers are very friendly to visitors from other countries—but they don't have any contact with each other at all." Shay's star will soon be leading her to a country where traditional class distinctions are in the process of dissolving; when her visa expires, she plans to cross the Atlantic and resume work as a Bunny—this time at the London hutch. But Mexico-smitten Shay's determined to return one day to her new-found amigos.
The successful young rock singer ordered a very expensive custom-made suit, but was wholly dissatisfied with the finished garment. "I told you to make the pants snug," he angrily remarked to the tailor. "I want them tight enough to show my sex."
The promenade des Anglais. Late May. Blue sea, sugar-white buildings, still a wash of yellow in the sunlight, ten in the morning. Evian Tassopol behind the shutters, waist-high and waxed, that made the back wall of his show window, in one hand a demitasse cup, stark, bone white, the saucer in the other. Blistering-hot coffee, double espresso of his own roast, grind and brew. A sad, unpretty girl stops to look, lifts her eyes to his, blinks, goes away. A bicycle at the curb, unpainted glistening silver alloy, a monster blond—German? Swede? Russian?—holding it stationary in balance with twitches of the handle bar, twitches of the lumped muscles in his legs, calf muscles like bread loaves.
"Up Against the Wall!" some collegians cry, while others prefer football, pizza and fraternity parties. But even the most rah-rah undergrads are demanding more say in campus affairs, proving that student power is definitely a force to be reckoned with. Although specific goals and tactics may differ, undergraduate sentiment and rhetoric are dominated by an insistence on freedom of expression and the right to do one's thing.
The Shiksa is very psychological, I notice. I am cutting off the carrot tops in the back of the store, but I see she has come in and is talking to my father. My mother does not like the shiksa and always goes out front and acts busy when she comes in. The shiksa is the prettiest customer, I think, and she is wearing today one of those little hats like in the movie Bonnie and Clyde and my father is saying to her, "Hah. A yarmulke you're wearing. You think you can sneak in with that?"
I struggled frantically to my feet, spilling Diet Pepsi over the front of my brocade smoking jacket as I flailed about. There wasn't a second to lose. Lurching forward, grasping for the knob, I fell heavily over the coffee table. On hands and knees, I scrambled forward, hoping to kill the TV set before it was too late. With a groan, I realized that once again, I had lost. The late-late-movie curse had struck again. I sat back to accept my fate.
Picture a land upside down, where summer is winter, north is south and even the constellations belong to an unknown universe. The countryside is not given but red; rivers flow inland to disappear in the desert; zinc-gray trees keep their leaves but shed their bark in snakelike coils, while impossible creatures, from antediluvian to apocalyptic, lurk in the bush beyond. Centuries before it was discovered, geographers decided it must exist, because without it the globe would be top-heavy. The very name they gave it—terra australis incognita—appropriately cloaked it in mystery.
Ribald Classic: The Silver Nut of the Calliope Tree
It was during the rule of the Abbassides that a certain sultan, Abu al-Muktafi by name, had the loveliest daughter in Arabia. Her name was Khadijah and she was the mirror image of her mother, who had been Abu's favorite wife. There was nothing Khadijah asked that her father did not grant.
Playboy herewith presents its second annual report from the front lines of the sexual revolution on America's college campuses—this year expanded to include the social revolution as well. The results of our sexological research appear on the following pages. Our Campus Action Chart rates 25 different schools as it did last year: in descending order of permissiveness—the chart's upper reaches being meccas for the scholarly hedonist, its lower depths monasteries for the sexually meek.
Few Areas of modern sociological inquiry are as filled with conjecture, not to mention prior interest, as is the question of whether or not there has been a sexual revolution on campus. While statistics showing an increase in sexual activity are available, some sociologists and journalists are inclined to long debates over sampling procedures, the labeling of categories and the differences between the terms sexual evolution and sexual revolution. All the arguing is done with an eye toward trapping the national campus sexual psyche—a formidable beast.
"Philosophers pinch and poke it, scientists prod it, and it answers them only with spring," said E. E. Cummings of our sweet spontaneous earth. Gazing about today, he might very well have chosen to celebrate our sweet spontaneous campus revolution in similar verse. Attempting to explain what is happening in our universities is something like trying to describe a beautiful woman whose features, taken separately, suggest an unsightly creature too thin about the neck, too severe in the cast of the lips, too short of chin: The flawed features must be seen working together to be appreciated, and even then, they touch something beyond the mind.
It's been a long time coming, but Ocie Lee Smith—an artist of restraint in an age of abandon and a jazz-based vocalist in a time when jazz is supposedly fading out of earshot—has emerged without question, at 33, as one of the world's premier pop singers. Since his reflective recording of the country-and-western ballad Little Green Apples defied Newton's law and sped to the top of the charts a year ago—earning him two Grammy nominations and a hefty pile of green—Smith's singles and LPs have been consistent winners in both the U. S. and Britain; he's also enjoyed a steady succession of lucrative gigs and TV appearances. Yet the unassuming, elusive Smith is a stranger to most of his fans. Born in a small Louisiana town, he grew up in Los Angeles with his mother, a music teacher who turned him on to Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie. O. C. honed his vocal style during an Army stint in Alaska, then Clashed the Catskill club circuit. Three years with Count Basie enabled him to visit Europe and the West Indies but didn't bring him fame—nor a recording contract. After two more seasons of touring the States (and the Orient) on his own, the much-traveled troubadour resettled in L. A., where he finally caught the attention of Columbia Records. It seemed a singular stroke of bad luck when Frank Sinatra eclipsed O. C.'s first release, That's Life, with his own version of the song; but the Smith rendition—and a subsequent "live" LP with a small jazz combo—made the cognoscenti aware that a new soulmeister had appeared. Currently ensconced in a modest house in Beverly Hills, Smith plans to continue recording with varied formats and to extend his career by acting, either in films or in Broadway musicals. We've no doubts that O. C. can handle dramatic dialog with the same quiet conviction he invests in a lyric.
In the case of King vs. Smith, Martin Garbus argued before the Supreme Court last year that welfare benefits should no longer be denied to children whose mothers are cohabiting with men not obligated to support the family. His powerful presentation of the case convinced the high Court to strike down this substitute-father rule, not only in Alabama, where the appeal began, but in 18 other states and the District of Columbia. "The states can no longer penalize children for the alleged transgressions of the mother," says Garbus, attorney and director-counsel of the Roger Baldwin Foundation of the American Civil Liberties Union. Having represented such clients as Lenny Bruce, Timothy Leary, Cesar Chavez and the Students for a Democratic Society, Garbus considers himself a "movement" lawyer, deeply committed to the preservation of individual freedoms and the defense of those he calls the disinherited. Born 34 years ago in the Bronx, he attended the High School of Science there and later studied economics at Hunter College and Columbia University. After earning a law degree from New York University, he established a successful personal-injury and criminal-law practice, which he left in 1966 for a post as codirector of Columbia's Center on Social Welfare Policy and Law. Now, with the Baldwin Foundation as his base of operations, he is involved in the process of upheaval that is shaking the nation. "America is changing," says Garbus, "and movements like the ones being waged by Chavez and the SDS are responsible for those changes." What he hopes to see emerge from this period of conflict, among other things, is a guaranteed annual income for all Americans and the restoration of the university's purely educational functions. But wherever progress can be made, Garbus is sure to be there—from the vineyards of California to the ghettos of Harlem.
Though his black-humor cartoons have appeared weekly for the past five years in the underground Los Angeles Free Press, Ron Cobb has transcended its subterranean confines: His work is now carried in over 60 college newspapers and a number of establishment dailies as well. Divorcing himself from specific political personalities and issues, Cobb creates apocalyptic pictorial parables—timeless commentaries on our most pressing contemporary crises. He sketches a hirsute Samson, chained to the temple, suffering the insults of the rabble. "Fag! Long-hair freak!" they shout, failing to see that this archetypal rebel is about to pull down the most stable of their institutions. In one of his most bitterly cynical anti-war cartoons, an American flag is catching fire from the flaming corpse of a Vietnamese. Influenced by Doré and Goya, Cobb began seriously to explore this prophetic medium in 1964, during his "late beatnik, early hippie" phase, employing the artistic skills he'd nurtured through his introverted, misanthropic high school days in Burbank. Following graduation, he helped animate Sleeping Beauty for Walt Disney, served three years in the Army and then, after a successful showing of his paintings and drawings at the Encore Theater in Los Angeles, began his weekly contributions to the Free Press. Now, at 32, Cobb has collected two anthologies of his anti-political cartoons—RCD-25 and Mah Fellow Americans—and is preparing a third, Raw Sewage, to deal with the pollution of our environment. His myriad plans range from film making and playwrighting to illustrating a guidebook that will indicate points of historical interest in the post-nuclear rubble of Los Angeles. "I try to come up with things that don't exist yet," Cobb explains. With both feet planted firmly in the future, it's likely that he'll continue to do so.