Despite considerable evidence to the contrary, the 20th Century so far has been the golden age of communications--for man with his environment and for man with himself. Heralding Playboy's recognition of that fact is our phone-calling cover girl. Paulette Lindberg. Even as information technology grows more sophisticated, the very media that make growth possible often obsolete themselves in the process. Such, allege many critics, is the case with that once widely acclaimed avenue to self-discovery. Freudian analysis. But in Crisis in Psychoanalysis, Morton Hunt detects signs of life in that supposedly deceased discipline. Hunt--whose latest book. The Affair: A Portrait of Extra-Marital Love in Contemporary America (World Publishing Co.), will be released this month--has written over 60 articles dealing with psychology. Marijuana, an even headier medium of self-communication, is probed by Dr. Joel Fort, who argues the need for a re-evaluation of public attitudes and repressive legislation in Pot: A Rational Approach. Nonsmoker Fort has scientific rather than personal reasons for advocating revision of the nation's drug laws. A physician who specializes in drug abuse and public health, he is the author of The Pleasure Seekers: The Drug Crisis, Youth and Society. He is also on the faculties of the University of California at Berkeley and San Francisco State College.
Playboy, October, 1969, Vol. 16, No. 10. 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 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 a day when hyperbole has become the standard idiom of the travel agent, it is understandably difficult for the average wayfarer to find out--before it's too late--the often indelicate realities that lie beneath the glittering promotional prose. In brochures about the subtropical islands, the native men are always lithe-limbed and handsome, the native women slim and ravishing, the food a piquant blend of exotica, the forests spectacular canopies teeming with game for the hunter, the native sports and music unique in their grace and fascination. But when the unwitting traveler hies himself off to some vaunted Shangri-La--excluding our own, of course--he may well find that his time is spent lying prone under a snakeproof net, fending off voracious viruses and flying beasties that bring lumps in the night.
What could be more timely than a book on the stock market, except, perhaps, a book on how to stay out of the stock market? Well, John Brooks hasn't exactly written either, but his Once in Golconda: A True Drama of Wall Street 1920--1938 (Harper & Row) may nevertheless have timeliness for those who can read between the lines as cleverly as they imagine they can read the stock tables. What Brooks has done, in that cool New Yorker manner, is to recount the Stock Exchange's highflying 1920s and belly-flopping 1930s with such circumspection that the reader is often left dangling for a conclusion. Despite this fault, there is much of strong interest in the tales of the Morgans, Lamonts and Kahns (the genteelmen of the Street) and the Ben Smiths, Jesse Livermores and Joe Kennedys (the rough-and-tumble types). Here are the somewhat familiar but well-told sagas of the stock-juggling pools, the market-cornering bull and bear raids and the gargantuan short-selling coups. The near-incredible story of F.D.R.'s muddled attempt to cure deflation by beating down the value of the dollar in relation to gold is so tangential to a stock-market social history that it might have been tossed off parenthetically; but "Gold Standard on the Booze" leaps out as the most engrossing piece of writing in the book. There's a lot to mine in this Golconda, despite its dry veins--but in the end, Brooks sells the reader short by doting overlong on the personal tribulations of Richard Whitney, a fallen idol of Wall Street, instead of attempting to discover what the regulatory consequences of the 1920s craziness might mean if the market should flip its lid again today. Brooks writes extremely well; he just doesn't seem to want readers to know much of what he thinks.
Four wise (add young and hustling) men of Manhattan--Al Stillman, Ben Benson, Ernie Kalman and Larry Horton--are slowly, inexorably and profitably arranging the days of the week to program maximum pleasure for New York's easily bored young singles and doubles. First to open was Friday's, a make-out bar d'estime; then Thursday's, a class restaurant that avoids being vulgarly "classy," then Wednesday's, an underground version of Copenhagen's Tivoli and, most recently, Tuesday's, where patrons wax nostalgic over the Good Old Days that ended before they were born. Friday's (1152 First Avenue), the "swinging singles" bar that started off the rearranged calendar, serves some food but specializes in draft beer. On Sunday, Friday's serves a champagne brunch for $2.50, and the waiters and bartenders all change into clean Rugby shirts in honor of the occasion. Thursday's (334 East 73rd Street) strikes a more serious note, with first-rate Continental cuisine and moderate to high prices. The decor leans a bit too heavily in the direction of alienated chic, but don't let the stainless-steel and black walls get you down. The food is good and the service is not only prompt and precise but downright friendly. Thursday's features some very Babylonian desserts; but after the main course, you may be just as happy to try a piece of their strawberry custard pie, which is absurdly delicious. Open for dinner only. You should, of course, make reservations. Moving on back through our reversed week, we come to Wednesday's (210 East 86th Street), where the whole concept is a stunner: It's a huge MGM musical set of a European village, with the prerequisite cafés, shops, promenades and all the other trimmings stretching through a block-long basement. The dancing areas and the eateries are set off by authentic street lamps that once helped keep Gramercy Park mugger-free. A bandstand with plaster cupids is at the far end of a village square. Fanning out on either side are: The Garden of Bucci, an Italian café in stuccoed arches; The Cellar Door, an English pub serving breads, cheeses and wines of all sorts; Louie's Seafood Bar, which offers shrimps, crab fingers and lobsters in a bucket; Jeudi's, a dimly lit den finished in Jean-Luc Godard stainless steel; and Harry's American Bar, where you can eat a $1.50 hamburger under Tiffany lamp shades and feel like an expatriate. You and your date can also meander across the square to the penny arcade and fool with Wednesday's bowling machine, computer quiz games and nickelodeons, or put a penny into a "movie-star machine" for an autographed picture of Vera Hruba Ralston. As for Tuesday's (190 Third Avenue), it's the kind of musty moosehead joint that Evelyn ("The Girl on the Red Velvet Swing") Nesbit might have frequented after a hard day of testifying at the murder trial of her husband, Harry K. Thaw. In fact, Tuesday's has its own red-velvet swing above its handsome old bar. Downstairs at Tuesday's, there is a cool speakeasy--disco, where you can take refuge from the pictures of corseted vaudeville tarts and the old stand-up bare-knucklers on the first floor. Entrance is made through an antique phone booth, just like you've seen in the movies. Rumor has it that the owners also have dibs on Monday, Sunday and Saturday: perhaps they should plan a trilevel watering hole called The Long Weekend.
Italy's formidable Federico Fellini directed the final segment of Spirits of the Dead, a three-part omnibus film based on stories from Edgar Allan Poe. Leaving Poe to the mercies of a motley Franco-Italo-American crew is the sort of inspiration that springs forth, soaked in Campari, when international film folk linger too long at café tables on the Via Veneto. All the same, Fellini's sequence is memorable, a cinematic tour de force titled Toby Dammit (or, in stumbling translation, Never Bet the Devil Your Head) and starring England's Terence Stamp as drunken movie star Toby, who travels to Rome to play a Christlike character in a religious western. Freely adapted for Fellini's high purposes, the tale is a neat put-on of films and filming, celebrity cults and social disorder, combined with a horrific sketch of Satan as a blonde, leering child who looks like Alice in Wonderland and bounces a large white ball across the actor's path while she contrives to relieve him of his head. Fellini here creates a nether world so richly fantastic and so entirely his own that one surrenders to it without question and gets hooked fast on a hypnotic performance by Stamp, who can stack this against anything he has ever done. The remainder of Spirits is amateur night compared with the Fellini-Stamp showpiece. In Metzengerstein, director Roger Vadim casts his wife, Jane Fonda, opposite her brother, Peter, and wraps her in a number of outrageously campy medieval costumes to flesh out a yarn filled with burning barns, galloping steeds and fiery sexual symbolism. It scents to have been patched together with rejected footage from Barbarella. Writer-director Louie Malle's dubbed version of the Poe classic William Wilson goes awry, too--with Alain Delon as the tormented sinner who ultimately slays his alter ego and Brigitte Bardot as a girl who gambles her favors in a game of cards. With Malle manhandling the suspense, both performers run out of luck. Malle's piece is leagues ahead of Vadim's erotic juvenilia, but still only a curtain raiser for the master, Fellini.
A longtime favorite of a few blues performers and aficionados, virtuoso guitar picker Albert Collins gets national exposure for the first time on Love Can Be Found Anywhere (Even in a Guitar) (Imperial; also available on stereo tape), and it makes us wonder how many other boss bluesmen are wasting away in the boondocks. Collins plays single-riff tunes, with admirable economy; unlike most of his peers, he allows his combo plenty of space in which to cook; and when the moment is right, he breaks out of his rhythm bag with startlingly incisive solo lines. It's all accomplished with ease and confidence.
In conversation, I have heard references to French intercourse; but not wanting to seem naïve, I have never asked what it means. Can you tell me? Also, are there other kinds of intercourse with nationality names?--S. J., Royal Oak, Michigan.
When "Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In" debuted on NBC in January 1968, a sizable portion of the Monday-night audience sat gaping at the video-taped sensory assault of rapid-fire nonsense. Amid the flurry of one-liners, black-outs, sight gags, slapstick, knock-knock jokes and wacky non sequiturs stood the veteran night-club team that had made this dream of an all-comedy television hour a laughable reality--Dan Rowan and Dick Martin. Having perfected their craft in 15 years of club bookings, personal appearances and TV guest shots, they stroll on stage like a pair of tuxedoed pals at a country-club dinner who just stepped out onto the terrace for a smoke. "Skiing sure is tiring," sighs Dick, hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels.
Michael Caine's latest starring role--in Robert Aldrich's Too Late the Hero--is, unfortunately, devoid of the feminine companionship that marked so many of his earlier screen appearances. Scheduled for release in December, the film also stars Cliff Robertson, Henry Fonda and Denholm Elliott, and casts Caine as a British-army medic serving in the Philippines during World War Two. However, preferring to make love, not war, Caine donned his uniform to help us depict the nonmilitary exploits of a universal soldier whose letters home barely begin to capture the pleasurable realities buried somewhere between the lines.
The Inmates of the Poorhouse all wanted to get rid of her. First of all, it's a shame to share sleeping quarters with a whore. And secondly, she didn't even come from this area. The authorities had confined her in the Janow prison, and while there, she became paralyzed. So what is her connection with the residents of Janow? Still, the Jewish community could not throw a Jewish daughter out into the street, no matter how depraved she was. So they put a straw pallet in a corner of the general dormitory and there she lay. She was dark-skinned, with a youthful face, black burning eyes, brows that converged over the bridge of her nose, prominent cheekbones, a pointed chin and black hair hanging straight to her shoulders. The paupers cursed her and she replied with ten curses for one. They spat at her and she spat back, hissing like a snake: Pox on your tongue, black in the head and green before the eyes, a behind swollen from sitting shiva.... Adept as she was at name calling and profanity, she was also capable of turning on the charm and telling lewd stories about herself to the men. Even though she could not use her legs, the women of Janow were fearful that she might seduce their husbands. Whenever there was an epidemic of smallpox, measles, scarlet fever or croup, the pious matrons of the town went running to the study house, screaming at the elders that it was all a punishment for keeping the whore in a house belonging to the community. But what could they have done with a cripple?
Kid named Arlo Guthrie went up to Stock-bridge. Massachusetts, a few years back to spend Thanksgiving with some friends named Alice and Ray Brock; and because he is deep into the habit of writing songs about what happens to him as he goes through life, just like his daddy, the late Woody Guthrie, did, he worked up a long rap and guitar-chord thing called Alice's Restaurant, which just a few high hip knew about and dug and only FM stations played all the way through, because, friends, it's 25 or 30 minutes long. Then everybody began to like it, it seems, because sales went up to almost 300,000 LPs; and now this 21-year-old kid Guthrie gets $3000 a shot, plus a percentage of the box office. That's pretty weird. I mean, that's weird. What happened up in Massachusetts was that Alice and Ray lived in a church--the former Trinity Church on Division Street in Stockbridge--and were used to inviting people into their home just as if they were early Christians. I mean very early ones. And, in a way that few churches are, their church was a real sanctuary. Everybody was welcome; there was room for everybody. It was a real love family. Ray had previously been married and had three grown children of that union--Rebecca. Fletcher and Jono--and they were there that Thanksgiving, along with some big and little dogs and a bunch of guests, including Arlo and his pal Rick Robbins. Arlo and Rick had been traveling together, Arlo working his way up in folk singing, booking into places in Chicago and Philadelphia for S40 a week and expenses, and Rick tagging along. So they went up to Alice and Ray's for Thanksgiving, 1965. Guests is the wrong word, though. A number of people. Arlo and Rick included, were members of the family, and so they were not guests in the usual sense. So when Ray woke up the next morning, he said to them, Let's clean up the church and get all this crap out of here, for God's sake, this place is a mess, and Rick said, Sure. So Arlo and Rick swept up and loaded all the crap--bottles, boxes, cartons, paper, a divan and other junk--into a VW Microbus with the Trinity Racing Association red triangle on the side and went out to the dump, which was closed. So they started driving around, until Arlo remembered a side road in Stockbridge up on Prospect Hill by the Indian Hill Music Camp--which he went to one summer--so they drove up there and dumped the garbage. A little later, the phone rang and it was Stockbridge police chief William J. Obanhein. He'd gotten a call about the rubbish and went up there to investigate the situation personally and for a couple of hours did some preliminary investigative policework around in the pile of rubbish. "I found an envelope with the name Brock on it," Chief Obanhein said, "so I called them and talked to Alice. I could hear her asking them where they dumped the stuff."
Tailgating it out of Joliet on the 66 bypass, up through the gears on the two-speed, Oswald is wingdinging at a cool 70 on the level, which is not bad for a full van plus seven bicycles and two dressers under canvas. If an inspector spots him, his ass is grass.
Shortly After architect Charles Moore accepted the position of chairman of the architecture department at Yale several years ago, he purchased a small, century-old New England frame house near the university and then checked into a hotel for six months. "I wanted my home to be both visually exciting and eminently comfortable," Moore, a 43-year-old bachelor, explained. "And to do it within the walls of a New Haven cracker box was a creative challenge I couldn't resist, even though it meant completely revamping the interior of the house, from cellar to attic." Creative, indeed, was the lengthy remodeling job. Instead of merely knocking down walls and widening windows to obtain additional space and light, Moore chose to open up his pad vertically by cutting holes in the floors and constructing three plywood towers (Moore calls them tubes) of varying heights that stand about a foot away from the original inner walls of the house. Then, to further the illusion that his digs contain a large amount of floor space--instead of the modest 1400 square feet of living area that was left after the towers were constructed--Moore fashioned geometric cutouts in each of the towers, so that one constantly sees glimpses of colors, objects, patterns and shadows in other sections of the house. These surprising vistas play tricks with the viewer's perspective and do, indeed, make Moore's domain seem bigger than it actually is.
<p>THERE ARE an estimated 10,000,000 Americans who smoke marijuana either regularly or occasionally, and they have very obvious reasons for wishing that pot were treated more sensibly by the law. As one of the 190,000,000 who have never smoked marijuana, I also favor the removal of grass from the criminal laws, but for less personal reasons. It is my considered opinion, after studying drug use and drug laws in 30 nations and dealing with drug-abuse problems professionally for 15 years, that the present marijuana statutes in America not only are bad laws for the offending minority but are bad for the vast majority of us who never have lit a marijuana cigarette and never will.</p>
"I'm not very involved with politics or civil rights," says Jean Bell. "I just try to get along." For Miss October, though, getting along--these clays, as a model--happens to include cracking a few longstanding racial barriers along the way. The first of her firsts came shortly after graduation from Houston's Phillis Wheatley high school, when she became the first black clerk in a downtown men's-clothing store. "I never did find out why they changed their policy and decided to hire me--I think they just needed somebody right away, and I was there. I really enjoyed the job, because I love meeting and getting to know new people--especially men." While working there, Jean met an attorney who suggested that she try for a job as a secretary at a local steel company. "The only black help they had then were laborers," Jean explains. "But the union was pressuring them to integrate the office staff; and when I applied, they hired me. It was slightly strained at first, but people are more human than they sometimes seem. When they see you face to face every day, and see that you're just another person, most of them will respond warmly." During her stay there, Miss October filled much of her spare time in an amateur bowling league--and walked off with a trophy for a high game of 245. She made an even better showing, though, by acting on a whim: "One day I saw an ad for the Miss Houston contest in the paper. I'll try most anything once, so I called to apply. I didn't tell them on the phone that I was black--but they found out soon enough at the audition. The woman in charge did a kind of double take--because, until then, it was an all-white contest--but nobody said anything. I came in only fourth, but I did better in the Miss Texas contest after that--I got third in that one." Jean's contest winnings included a scholarship to a Houston modeling school, and she was off on a new career. Assignments were initially few, but then came a few magazine ad campaigns, a three-week role as a dancer in a summer-stock version of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, a growing demand for black mannequins, and Jean was able to model full time. "I'd like to get into TV commercials next," Miss October says of the future. "Then I want to marry the right man. Like the Dylan song says, 'Love is all there is'; if somebody could make people learn that, the world might be a better place in which to live." We're sure you'll concur that Miss Bell considerably brightens the one we have now.
After completing their shopping, two young secretaries were about to drive back to their apartment when one realized that she'd forgotten to stop at the drugstore for birth-control pills. Rushing into the nearest pharmacy, she handed the prescription to the druggist. "Please fill this quickly," she demanded. "I've got someone waiting in the car."
Somehow in that All-Too-Distant Past when I was a boy, the world moved slower, the people danced slower, and it was not only no strain but a privilege to sit through eight quiet, Uneventful innings of a baseball game, knowing that there could be an exciting ninth-inning rally at the end of the rainbow to make it all worth while.Today, of course, all this is over. Our once-grand national pastime has all but fallen prey to the frantic, fast-moving times. Oh, sure, they lowered the mound and tightened the strike zone and eliminated the ritual of the intentional base on balls, but lei's face it, baseball is dead. It's only a matter of time before the feet stop kicking and the heard slops growing an the worms get to work. But, ah, those memories!
Lord Chesterfield penned "When a man is once in fashion, all he does is right" almost 200 years ago. The same can be said today, provided the style-wise urban male does his buying with an eye for wearables that are really in fashion and not just passing fads. In order to help you separate the sartorial wheat from the poorly designed chaff now on the market, we've devoted this and the following pages to a variety of togs--some of which are conservatively au courant, others of which are more adventurous. All, however, are important styles that we predict not only will produce a maximum fashion impact during the next six months but will also substantially influence the direction mens wear will take for several seasons to come. For openers, we foresee that duster and maxi-length outercoats in both wool melton and synthetic fur will continue to be worn by tall chaps who can carry off the look correctly. If you don't measure up to this eminently elegant offering, you might consider either a shorter-length full-belted real- or imitation-leather trench coat or a herringbone double-breasted overcoat similar to the Malcolm Kenneth design on page 149. Fashion details to watch for in an overcoat include a full inverted center pleat and a half belt. While adding to your fall-and winter wardrobe, also plan to suit yourself with at least one completely new look, perhaps a suit that's patterned and tailored like what was being worn in the 1930s--styles that featured wide peak lapels, a longer jacket and an inverted center pleat. If you go this route, we recommend that you also choose a solid-color or striped dress shirt with a long-pointed collar that's crisp and slightly formal looking, and a 4-1/2-to-5-1/2-inch-wide silk tie. Then top off the outfit with a neat hat trick: Try on a wide-brimmed and high-crowned black-felt chapeau similar to the one shown on page 145. And, if your footwear supply is unstylishly out of step, demonstrate your shoemanship by checking out the latest in two-tone bals and bluchers or pulling on your choice of boots: various heights are available, from ankle to mid-calf, while leather treatments range from high-polished to rough-and-ready unfinished.
Two years ago, as it became apparent that the distinctions among contemporary musical idioms were dissolving, we expanded our jazz poll to recognize the achievements of rock/pop musicians. In an era of constant change, it should come as no surprise that this year's poll contains other innovations: the introduction of separate categories for two electric instruments--organ and vibes--plus a wholly new category for the songwriters and composers who have helped make this year's sound scene the good one it is.
In the realm of pâtés, a man's maison is his castle. The very phrase pâté maison on a restaurant bill of fare is the chef's way of serving notice that while his fillet of sole à la Richelieu would undoubtedly have titillated the sardonic cardinal himself and that if Nellie Melba were still around, she would be the first to applaud his peach Melba, his pâté maison is his individual pursuit of perfection. That the chef used his freshest liver, his lightest veal, his firmest shallots and his mellowest cognac must be taken for granted. But the choicest ingredient in any fresh pâté--as in so many dishes--is the pâté maker's imagination; he'll jump at the opportunity to substitute pheasant for duck, eel for shrimp or rum for brandy.
Taking one's clothes off in public, or having emphatic opinions about people who do, may not ultimately save the American theater, but it has worked wonders for the cocktail party, an even shakier institution that depends for survival on periodic infusions of hip blood to stimulate conversation. Beyond question, topic A for the year thus far is Oh! Calcutta! (reviewed in Playboy last month), the nude revel that was anathema to many New York critics, a few of whom sounded sufficiently exercised to man the off-Broadway barricades and drive the public away with clubs. They may have to yet, from the look of things. While selling out at a top ticket price of $25, unprecedented even on Broadway, Calcutta! is the only show in town that has customers piling into front-row-center seats armed, by God, with opera glasses. They are turning on or off as part of an amusing and perhaps historic sociosexual experiment devised by England's influential critic (and Playboy Contributing Editor) Kenneth Tynan, who at this writing is in Italy licking his wounds--into book form, I suspect--and leaving the show to succeed on its own terms and on terms delightful to the show's backers.
Dozens of hawks, hounds, servitors, attendants, men-at-arms, a stable full of fine horses and a kitchen full of maids--the chevalier Richard, who was one of the richest men in Burgundy, kept all of these in his château. In addition, for his soul's sake, he employed a chaplain and, for other reasons, he kept a charming, dark-eyed girl as his mistress. The presence of Mademoiselle Hélène was at odds with custom in Burgundy and, thus, somewhat shocking to the countryside; but both the chevalier and the lady had seen a good deal of the world and it pleased them to dumfound the rural gentry. She, in fact, was sharper than the mustard that comes from Dijon.
Although the Chicago Sun-Times dubbed itself "the bright one" several years ago, the tag gained real significance only last October, when James F. Hoge, Jr., became the paper's editor. Hoge's awareness of what's happening--and his commitment to enlightening the public--has made the Sun-Times an exciting, civic-minded newspaper in the great muckraking tradition. Rampant hunger in the ghetto and deplorable conditions at Cook County's jail and hospital were not even officially recognized until the Sun-Times brought them to light. Hoge says, "We've become a little more independent, a little more liberal and a lot more attentive to new voices. We want to present both sides of a story--by having local experts write about civic problems and setting up debates and forums in print; and we've increased the number of political columnists, whose viewpoints cover the spectrum, to give wide-ranging coverage to national issues. New York--born Hoge has always wanted to be involved in public affairs: After leaving Yale with a political-science degree, he entered the University of Chicago's graduate school and went job hunting. "Management at the Sun-Times," he recalls, "agreed to adapt my working hours to my course schedule, so I started as a police reporter. All night I'd wait for a story to break, then drag back in time for an early class. It was the dreariest period of my life." Armed with a master's degree in modern history, he went to Washington, D.C., under an American Political Science Association fellowship and, a year later, rejoined the Sun-Times at the Washington bureau. Then-editor Emmett Dedmon brought him back to Chicago as assistant city editor in 1964, and Hoge moved up fast through the ranks. When Dedmon became editorial director, Hoge took over his chair. Now 33, he is the youngest editor of any major metropolitan newspaper in the country. "I have no unfulfilled desires," he says. "I've got all I can handle riding this tiger"
When Giant Corporations replace important executives, they often turn to the administrative head-hunter, who not only supplies a talented new face but also may have lured the departed manager away. David North, 40, perhaps the most successful of U.S. executive recruiters, says, "For every three good men in American industry, five better positions are waiting; but the toughest part of recruiting is convincing an already successful man to consider a job change." The native New Yorker founded David North & Associates in 1964, after quitting his management-consultant job. "Instead of just advising firms how to staff up and what kind of men to look for, I decided to go out and find them myself." North's company now recruits more than 150 executives annually at salaries ranging from $15,000 to $125,000 a year. By the end of 1969, he will have opened branch offices in Chicago, Cleveland, Atlanta, Boston, Washington and Pittsburgh; he is also represented in 13 nations around the globe. Calling on overseas affiliates several times each month, North jets to London, interviews job applicants over breakfast at the airport, and then holds similar meetings in terminals outside Brussels and Paris, before catching the evening flight home. This international itinerary has earned him the nickname The Flying Pirate. "But I don't--and won't--regularly raid the same firms. Overdoing it would kill the goose that lays the golden egg," says the University of Pennsylvania dropout. North's own Midas touch can be attributed to his dossiers on top executives. "The most employable men today are bright 28-to-35-year-old entrepreneurial-minded generalists," he says. Entrepreneurially minded himself, North has created several spin-off corporations, among which are concerns specializing in college recruiting and preparing businessmen for retirement. If his personal empire keeps expanding, North seems certain to become his own most promising candidate for recruitment.
Since the 1968 midseason premiere of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In (see this month's Playboy Interview, page 83), Arte Johnson has been among the show's madcap mainstays. A one-man population explosion, he's given birth to a rogues' gallery of television's most refreshing comic characters. Among his repertoire of 60 alter egos, in addition to the "very interesting" storm trooper, Wolfgang, formerly a laundryman at Berchtesgaden, he portrays Pyotor Rosmenko, the phrase-fracturing Slavic song-and-dance man; Rabbi Shankar, the inanely inscrutable Indian guru; Lovely Steven Carlisle, the effeminate, smoking-jacketed songbird; and, of course, Tyrone, the Chaplinesque, dirty old Walnetto freak, whom Johnson originally named Julius Andrews ("His friends called him Julius Andrews," Arte explains, "but the producers were afraid we'd be sued"). Johnson, now 40, began splitting his personality as a student at the University of Illinois. The precocious child of a Chicago attorney, he entered high school at 12 and college at 16, taking a degree in radio journalism and gaining some valuable dramatic experience in campus productions. He migrated to New York in the early Fifties and planned on a career in public relations; but he soon rejected the idea and landed a number of on-and off-Broadway stage roles and night-club engagements. When steady work became increasingly difficult to find in the East, Arte moved to California and sold men's clothing for 18 months, until his luck began to improve. For the next several years, he devoted all of his time to high-paying television commercials, cartoon voice-overs and situation-comedy bit parts and was reconciled to relative anonymity until producer George Schlatter offered him a place in a series he was planning--Laugh-In. Johnson scored a comedy hit with the show's 45,000,000 viewers and has now filmed a TV pilot of his own, which he describes as a "conglomeration of insanity." Despite his current success, Arte is both ambitious and uncertain about his future. "I've been in this business for 20 years," he reflects, "and I've still got a long way to go." But with 55 more characters yet to be seen, each demanding equal time, he won't be going in alone.
I am not allowed to smoke Marijuana!I am not allowed to smoke MarijuanaWanda! This is the rudest audience! don't they know there's a play going on?Of course they do, you ninny! they are the play! It's Living Theater! They're speaking Lines!