Our September issue has always been identified with the oncoming academic year. In more tranquil days, the editorial accent was on such matters as what to wear on the quad and on dates and what to expect from the football team: Our back-to-school issue in 1968 was highlighted by the sybaritically oriented A Swinger's Guide to Academe. Also in that issue, however, were articles such as Up Tight and The War on Dissent, which reflected the growing unrest in the nation. During the following year, that unrest centered on the campuses; and in September 1969, in addition to a tripartite survey of in-school sex, we featured a Playboy Panel on student revolt. Today, sadly, the mood on most campuses is more foreboding than it was a year ago: Dozens of colleges have been shut down; students have been killed; Governmental Neanderthals have persisted in treating dissidents with mindless contempt. Youth has become a collective bogeyman for many of the older generation who believe today's students to be unnecessarily violent or irredeemably degenerate. Yet there has been almost no attempt to find out what the students actually think, as opposed to the oft-paranoid assumptions of their elders or the frequently intransigent tones of youthful rhetoric. In an effort to help fill the information gap, Playboy's editors polled 197 campuses to find out what the students consider to be today's most pressing problems, both national and international, and what they feel should be done about them. The result: Playboy's Student Survey. The youth revolution has made its presence felt in other ways this month. Two men whose ages are far apart but who have both had considerable influence on young people are Peter Fonda, a cult hero of and for the Aquarian Age (who raps with Playboy Associate Editor Lawrence Linderman in an exclusive interview), and septuagenarian philosopher Herbert Marcuse, profiled by Michael Horowitz in Portrait of the Marxist As an Old Trouper. Linderman, whose previous Playboy Interview subjects were Bill Cosby and Joe Namath, observed that had Fonda lived in another time he might have been burned at the stake. Horowitz, who is under 25 and has studied both with Marcuse (at Brandeis) and with Marcuse's most formidable critic, Benjamin Nelson of Manhattan's New School for Social Research, has been commissioned by E. P. Dutton to write two chapters of Our Hippie Heritage, a history textbook to be used in longhair communes. A more lighthearted manifestation of the rock age is free-lance writer Larry Tritten's parodic Notes from the Underground: Classifieds, in which ads appearing in the subterranean journals are waylaid and found wanton. Dr. Robert Hall's The Abortion Revolution is an in-depth report on current attempts to correct the tragic legal-social-medical impasse. Dr. Hall is president of the New York--based Association for the Study of Abortion, author of the just-published Abortion in a Changing World (Columbia University Press), and has spent seven years fighting to change our laws, which forbid the termination of pregnancy in most cases. Another important question that affects citizens of all ages is the fate of the American metropolis--and Jean Shepherd's All Hail the Sovereign Duchy of Nieuw Amsterdamme! hypothesizes a far-out solution to the far-out problems of New York City. This fall will be a busy season for Shepherd: Not only will his second novel--The Secret Mission of the Blue-Assed Buzzard (the title of which first appeared on one of his Playboy pieces)--be released but he is also due to star in a network-TV show, Jean Shepherd's America. He was also booked to appear at the New York Playboy Club this month. Two other widely shared hang-ups are explored in Gene Marine's The Engineering Mentality, which pricks the bubble of technocratic dogma, and Don Schanche's Beyond the Fringes, which exposes the deceptive nature of most noncash compensation plans for executives. Marine is writing two books--California! for Atheneum and Food Pollution for Holt, Rinehart & Winston. Schanche--former managing editor of The Saturday Evening Post and editor in chief of Holiday--is at work on a novel, The Seventh Man, and a book about Eldridge Cleaver. Executives waiting in vain for promised compensation of the types Schanche describes may eventually feel like the fictional protagonist of Robert Goldman's Payment Overdue, a would-be rock star who sells his soul to an all-promising computer called D. E. V. I. L. A tale with an international aspect is The Prison Diary of Jack Faust, by Paul Theroux; it's about a Russian defector. Theroux, author of three novels, is teaching at the University of Singapore. Our lead fiction, Sean O'Faolain's Of Sanctity and Whiskey, concerns an artist whose portrait of an esteemed character tells too much by far. It will appear in O'Faolain's seventh book of short stories, The Talking Trees (the title tale also appeared first in Playboy), which is to be published soon by Atlantic--Little, Brown. Of course there's more: notably, Playboy's Pigskin Preview, with award winner Anson Mount's ever-accurate predictions, and Fashion Director Robert L. Green's annual Back to Campus suggestions. A fiberglass facsimile of a well-remembered Ford is unveiled in Modern-Day Model A. Portable Playhouse introduces a flying-saucer-shaped hideaway. Pictorials include The No-Bra Look, with exclusive photography by noted lensman Douglas Kirkland; Posterotica, wherein the graphic arts join the sexual revolution; and Elke, a warm and revealing tribute to screen star Elke Sommer by her husband, Joe Hyams. In addition, there's Playmate Debbie Ellison. And Little Annie Fanny, who gets mixed up this month with a wild bunch of women's lib types. It figures.
Playboy, September, 1970, Vol. 17, 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 Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter Street, 434-2675; Southeastern representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N.E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
If you find yourself in San Francisco in September, as we did last year, make a point of spending an idyllic afternoon at the Renaissance Pleasure Faire. The Marin Civic Center, standing majestically against the brown hillside less than an hour's drive north of the city, marks the turn from Highway 101 to the road that will take you to the site of the festivities--a sensuous eucalyptus grove with the pungent odors of incense and meats roasting on spits. The idea of the Faire--which is open every Saturday and Sunday of the month from 10:30 A.M. to 6 P.M. (the gates are shut when the crowd reaches 15,000)--is to create an atmosphere evocative not only of the Renaissance but also of Elizabethan England. Nearly everyone in attendance--from the ticket takers and the unobtrusive security guards to the children playing on the grass--is dressed in an appropriately colorful historic costume. You can expect to see several Henry the Eighths and at least an equal number of Popes with ruby rings. Period attire isn't compulsory, of course, though some turned-on visitors will find that their everyday garb blends readily with the antiquarian setting; others may be so carried away as to dispense with clothing altogether.
The genre of science fiction, once cliché-typed by pulp-magazine covers of diaphanously clad maidens writhing in the lustful tentacles of bug-eyed monsters equipped with ray guns, now enjoys Book-of-the-Month Club accolades (The Andromeda Strain) and Hollywood success (2001). But along the way, science fiction (and its bastard brother, science fantasy) has gone through a series of changes that would put a Venusian snakebird-man to shame. Often forgotten by those who hail the "new-found" maturity of modern sci-fi is that the early pioneers--Verne and particularly H. G. Wells--wrote tales full of sociological and psychological overtones. It was only with the growth of popular magazines in the early 1900s that the monsters took over, and writers such as Edgar Rice Burroughs concocted the first "scientific romances," which emphasized fiction at the expense of science. A new anthology, Under the Moons of Mars (Holt, Rinehart & Winston), edited by sci-fi authority Sam Moskowitz, collects nine classics born of this era, along with a detailed history of the men who created it. Though the writing is archaic and the plots creak, the stories still have strong narrative drive and a sense of wonder. But as technology mushroomed, the balance tilted. Maidens and monsters were banished. The better writers now extrapolated from such new hard sciences as atomic energy, rocketry, robotics. Plots now became authentic--so much so that in one famous instance, the FBI descended on the offices of Astounding Magazine when one of its stories prematurely spelled out the basic physics of the atomic bomb. Gradually, as the conscience of science began to confront the dangers of its creations, sci-fi turned to such themes as man in conflict with himself, with alien mentalities, with the natural forces of the universe. From the leading publishing exponent of that phase, editors Edward L. Ferman and Robert P. Mills have compiled Twenty Years of the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (Putnam), an anthology that enshrines some of sci-fi's best modern writers: Asimov, Bradbury and Sturgeon among them. Where science fiction goes from here is anybody's guess. Writers from Huxley and Orwell to Pierre Boulle (Planet of the Apes) and William Burroughs (Nova Express) have adopted its technique as a basis for social satire. Straight sci-fi, such as The Andromeda Strain and The Forbin Project, is on the increase. Science fiction is also becoming internationally acceptable. In The Ultimate Threshold (Holt, Rinehart & Winston), Mirra Ginsburg has translated Soviet sci-fi stories, chiefly interesting for the fact that they are the ideologically freest form of writing in the U. S. S. R. today. If science fiction remains popular, or grows more so, perhaps it's largely because, in a time when so much writing emphasizes despair and alienation, science fiction, at root, is a literature of affirmation--of living intelligence courageously probing the cosmos. Two new anthologies merit the attention of sci-fi enthusiasts: The Mirror of Infinity (Harper & Row), edited by Robert Silverberg, and Special Wonder (Random House), edited by J. Francis McComas.
Dionysos himself would probably feel out of place patronizing his namesake, a handsome new Greek restaurant erected in his memory at 304 East 48th Street in Manhattan. Most of the patrons are so beautifully dressed that they probably wouldn't take too kindly to dining in the company of a pre-Christian tosspot wearing nought but a wilted crown of grape leaves--even if he were a Greek god. Dionysos' decor is strictly Contemporary-Expensive: White-stucco walls hung with colorful native fabrics contrast with polished-slate floors, multilevel banquettes and clear-glass-bulb lighting in the best Design Research manner. Bouzouki music alternates with Bacharach rock played by a low-key combo, contributing to a total ambiance more resonant of the cool, hard-edge chic of Jackie Onassis' Greece than of the sweaty, lovable swarth of Tony Quinn's. No hint of Papadopoulos, either. Remember, New York is a long way from Athens, and the liberating spirit of Melina Mercouri flutters through the restaurant. The food is so good it's rumored that Dionysos' chef is a Frenchman. The lamb, whether broiled, skewered or chopped, is tender as Zorba's heart. Appetizers run from a crisp spinach-and-cheese pie to smoked mackerel and baby octopus. Try Satyrikon, a combination of special goodies, including eggplant, veal and rolled grape leaves filled with herbs and rice, if you're in the mood for something other than octopus. The wines at Dionysos range from the light and dry hymettus to the heavy, pungent retsina--highly resinous and. like ouzo, the native Pernodlike brandy, too strong for some. It was retsina and ouzo that kept Zorba boozed all the time. Prices at Dionysos vary from moderate to near-Niarchos. (The dinner menu is à la carte.) The waiters do handkerchief dances between courses, which is worth the trip if you dig dancing waiters. Dionysos is open for lunch from noon to 3 P.M. Monday through Friday. Dinner is from 6 P.M. to 4 A.M. Monday through Saturday. Reservations are required for both lunch and dinner.
The publicists' blurbs proclaim that everything you've heard about Myra Breckinridge is true, which amounts to faint praise, indeed, considering the reams of adverse comment placed on record by those assembled for the filming of Gore Vidal's grotesquely erotic satire. Writer--sometime actor Rex Reed, who looks noncommittal about his movie debut vis-à-vis Raquel Welch as Myra's epicene alter ego, penned a put-down of the enterprise (along with a pictorial) for Playboy's August issue. Meanwhile, author Vidal, seldom inarticulate under fire, publicly confided to interviewers that he greedily sold Myra for plenty of bread to the wrong company (20th Century-Fox), which hired a green director (Michael Sarne of Joanna fame) and turned out a film destined to go down on history as one of Hollywood's worst. Well, the movie isn't quite as bad as its advance notices, but then, what movie could be? The book was a kind of debunking of the made-in-Hollywood American dream, drenched in homosexual sensibility and summed up in the provocative person of Myra, who undergoes a surgical change of sex. Sarne's movie version is largely incoherent, a tasteless mishmash of blue jokes and faddish cinematography welded together by vintage movie clips featuring Shirley Temple, Laurel and Hardy, Marilyn Monroe and a host of other celluloid celebrities. In the story proper, tangled threads of plot occasionally give way to reveal a living fossil--veteran director John Huston hams to his heart's content as Buck Loner, while Mae West, 78 years old and still the dowager queen of s-e-x, shows an undiminished command of innuendo and sings one big rock number with gusto in her role as the infamous theatrical agent Leticia, who hoards her muscleman clients in a "boy bank." Strikingly photogenic figures and faces loom everywhere, yet the real test of Myra is Raquel, whose deadpan beauty might well be used to advantage sometime in an intelligent comedy. After all, how funny can a girl-boy be with dialog scrawled like men's-room graffiti through a scenario memorable for highly graphic low-jinks concerning urine samples, rectal thermometers, gelding and ream-jobs?
Recorded in three continuous sessions of 18 hours each over a period of three and a half days, the six sides of Woodstock (Cotillion; also available on stereo tape)--"music from the original sound track and more"--serve as a boss monument to the vibration culture created by American youth, 1969, in the shadow of Apocalypse. The 112 minutes, 21 seconds of music are launched by John B. Sebastian's I Had a Dream, which states the humanistic assumptions of Woodstock Nation, and Canned Heat's Going Up the Country, which gives the road directions; the finale is Jimi Hendrix' unaccompanied Star-Spangled Banner, which brings the proceedings to a fiery close by dramatizing--at some length--the "bombs bursting in air." Along the way, one hears crickets, rainstorms, announcements from the stage by Wavy Gravy and other New World characters, and offhand comments by the musicians, such as Crosby, Stills & Nash's admission that it was only their second live gig: "We're scared shitless." The quality of the music is uneven, to say the least, but it doesn't matter in the least; the dominant feelings generated by these recordings are the tension created by the sheer density of the Woodstock crowd and the impossibly open-minded spirit in which they embraced one another. Even if America succeeds in devouring its unwanted children, even if there never is another Woodstock, the filmed and recorded images of this one justify the whole bad trip. The cover art, perhaps, tells the story best. In a composite of photos, the 400,000 folks faced by the performers are wreathed in a haze of Ehrlich purple; in another shot, the crowd is frozen by white light, as if the photographer had used a nuclear bomb for his flashbulb.
The Me Nobody Knows started out as a book by Stephen M. Joseph, inspired by his days as a ghetto schoolteacher in New York City. It was a paste pot of observations, anecdotes, fantasies, daydreams and scraps of poetry, written by street kids, some of them as young as seven. The naïveté and the honesty of the writings were its charm. Then someone had the idea--in the program, Herb Schapiro is credited with "original idea"--to make a rock musical out of the book. The lyrics, by Will Holt, are partially based on the kids' writings. Many of the cast are affecting and, as an entertainment, this revuelike show has its moments. But it also has its problems. Like most of the cast, Gary William Friedman's music has a showbiz background; it seems removed from the concrete. The spoken words, off the printed page, seem banal. It's one thing to read these small sincere notations, another to hear them soliloquized and acted out under stage lights backed by enormous projections on a mock-up of a city street. A half hour into The Me Nobody Knows and it already has exhausted its observations on ghetto life: It's not much. At the Orpheum, 126 Second Avenue.
How can I get my girlfriend to talk to me? She's quite intelligent, but she seems barely able to manage a hello, let alone a goodbye. In answer to direct questions, she's apt to indicate a positive or a negative answer with a nod of her head. Her silence bothers me and when I try to discuss the problem with her, she explains in a matter-of-fact way that she is quiet with family, friends, co-workers and strangers and that this is her nature. Where do I go from here?--F. B., Seattle, Washington.
As we enter the Seventies, the decade's first authentic cult hero has already emerged: Peter Fonda, who personifies--on screen and off--the radical life style that has gained increasing currency among young Americans. Not since James Dean's "Rebel Without a Cause" and Marlon Brando's "The Wild One" has a movie actor so captured the imagination and admiration of a generation. In "Easy Rider," Fonda projected the polarized mood of young America with such forcefulness that the film has become a requiem for the short-lived Aquarian Age.
As Luke Regan drove down to Saint Killian's for the first sitting, he kept shifting around the fading cards of his memories of the place and wishing the press had never got onto this thing. It was a pleasant idea, of course, and he could understand the columnists' playing it up--but the stupid things they wrote about it! "Former pupil returns 40 years later to his old school to paint his old teacher.... This portrait of a distinguished headmaster by a distinguished academician is certain to reflect two sensibilities in perfect rapport with each other...." "This new portrait by Mr. Luke Regan, R.H.A., of Brother Hilary Harty, the retired head of Saint Killian's College, should record two journeys from youth to maturity...." He had already confided to his boozing friends that he found the whole bloody thing extremely embarrassing, not least because he could see that they thought he was just boasting about it. He had been in that school for only three years, between the ages of 12 and 15. It was 40 years ago. He had not the slightest recollection of this Brother Hilary Harty and he felt sure that the old man could not possibly remember him.
Under the 19th Century laws Still in force in most of our states, a doctor may legally perform an abortion only to preserve a woman's life. Carried to its illogical extreme, this provision would, today, require the termination of every pregnancy for the simple reason that now a woman is ten times more likely to die from pregnancy or childbirth 3than from a hospital abortion.
Pity the overcompensated superexecutive. As he gets up from lunch in his private dining room for a quick trip to the airport and then a long weekend at the company's Aspen condominium, he's as worried as a nonunion garbage man agonizing over how to make his $2.25 an hour meet the spectacular rise in the cost of living. He thought he was building a fortune in a pay plan that was relatively low on salary but high on such tax-sheltered supplements as deferred stock bonuses and options; but suddenly, the clever compensation gimmicks have gone sour. As he revels in the ego-boosting frills with which his firm has surrounded him, he wishes he had asked for more cash instead. The long-downtrending stock market and drastic changes in the tax laws affecting income and capital gains have turned the whole field of executive compensation upside down. After two decades during which thousands of corporate executives made fortunes on pay plans that leaned heavily on stock devices, the once-lucrative alternatives to high-taxed salary have lost much of their luster. For many men, they have proved to be costly mistakes.
Used to be that the marriage of bird and bottle was consummated only during the darkling days of late fall and winter--when game was in season. But contemporary terracemen and patio hosts, making the most of fair weather, have found fowl to accompany their bottles that are often more tempting and exciting than game birds: split squabs marinated in mustard, quietly sizzling over white-hot coals, or plump capon roasted on an outdoor spit with port-wine gravy. Naturally, it takes more time to cook a duck on a charcoal rotisserie than to flip a hamburger a few times over a flame; but at least half the fun at an alfresco party is the spectacle of birds turning brown and crisp under the open sky while the watch on the Rhine wine continues, in the knowledge that the Niersteiner buried in ice will soon reach cool perfection.
The Ad agency for Shell Oil Company used to be fond of making television commercials depicting the passage of automobiles through paper barriers slung across a highway--which was supposed to prove something about Super Shell and a "mileage ingredient" called Platformate. A later campaign, however, turned to the hidden camera and an offensive young man named Tom O'Malley, who posed as an attendant and badgered customers about the product; if they defended it, they were put on the air, complete with residuals. In one of the commercials, O'Malley effectively destroyed the earlier campaign. Hectoring a customer with Spanish surname and accent, he belligerently demanded, "What's Platformate?" The annoyed gentleman responded, "How do I know what's Platformate? I like the gas." Years of commercials down the drain. Young Mr. O'Malley and his backers did not, unfortunately, succeed in killing off magic-ingredientism in advertising, a gimmick that to my own knowledge goes back a long way. I can remember learning to pronounce sodium acetylsalicylate along with the man doing the Alka-Seltzer commercials on radio, and I recall Johnny Mercer's Pepsodent commercial: "Poor Miriam, poor Miriam, neglected using irium...." On another front--while brash Mr. O'Malley was knocking off Platformate--Colgate announced something even better than stannous fluoride in its tooth paste. As we all know deep in our hearts, it's a con (despite the fact that Platformate--a form of platinum used in a compound--and stannous fluoride are both very real and very beneficial, which is why they're in most gasolines and tooth pastes, respectively). How do we know what's Platformate? We buy the gas. The con, however, is based on something very real: the fact that we Americans have a vague knowledge of something called science, which to most of us is the same as something called magic. And I suspect that whole areas of our lives are shaped by the same kind of con, the same kind of dependence, more or less unconscious, on science as on magic. Polls, we are told repeatedly, are pretty scientific things--and, indeed, taken correctly and reported correctly, and confined to things they can handle, they are both scientific and accurate. But you have to know how to use them and how to read them, and most Americans do not--as Arthur B. Krim, Jr., knows very well. Arthur B. Krim, Jr., is a big attorney (Louis Nizer's partner), a big motion-picture executive and a big Democrat; in 1967, he was the finance chairman of the Democratic Party. In those days, big Democrats wanted Lyndon Johnson to run again, but Messrs. Harris and Gallup were demonstrating that almost nobody else did. Of course (as Gallup, especially, showed), there were regional variations--but most of us just read and accepted the totals, or the headlines: "L.B.J. Popularity at new low." SO Mr. Krim hired the Crossley people and had them investigate the President's popularity--asking Mr. Krim's questions and asking them only where he wanted them asked. The poll was confined to the strongest Democratic areas (including one county only in New Hampshire) and it asked only for a choice between Johnson and some Republicans. To make it even better, the questionnaire used in New York left Nelson Rockefeller off the Republican list. Guess who won. The poll was accurate (continued on page 128)Engineering Mentality(continued from page 121) --for those questions, in those areas. What the press and the people got was something else. Headlines reported that the new figures were in sharp contrast to the Harris and Gallup polls, and columnists worried publicly about the fact that pollsters could arrive at such startlingly different results (oddly, a lot of us lost our faith in polls as scientific magic only when we were wrongly informed about them). The mighty New York Times even ventured a guess about the New Hampshire results--not bothering to find out, nor to figure out, that a one-county sample of 241 people meant that you had to allow eight percentage points for possible error in either direction, aside from its being a stacked county in the first place. Only much later did the Washington papers dig out the facts.
Since last summer, when 5000 women held a "Ban the Bra" rally in San Francisco's financial district, a growing number of U.S. women have opted for the see-through approach. The first manifestation of the women's liberation movement, "Ban the Bra" has since become both a feminist rallying cry and a chic contemporary fashion trend--which may well evolve into the look of the Seventies. In a pictorial shot especially for Playboy, we present the most recent development in this movement: fashions designed specifically for braless wear.
These Are Vintage Times for replicas of vintage motor vehicles. Now a modern-day version of Henry Ford's doughty little Model A--built in Palm Beach and distributed by the Classic Motor Car Company of Princeton, New Jersey--joins the roster of distinguished revivals currently on the market. With its rumble seat and twin fender-mounted spare tires, the Classic version of the Model A looks every inch the chariot that filled the best years of Andy Hardy's life. From the outside, only the increased tire width and greater number of spokes in the wheels hint at the machine's modernity. Under the one-piece molded-fiberglass skin, however, everything's very much up to date; instead of the original's 40-horsepower, 65-miles-per-hour four-banger, there's International Harvester's 111-hp Comanche engine mounted on the same company's lightweight but durable Scout chassis. With a gross weight (concluded on page 242)Modern-Day Model A(continued from page 131) of less than 2400 pounds, the Glassic tops out at more than 100 mph. In contrast to its ancestor's primordial three-speed gearbox, the present-day Model A comes with either a four-on-the-floor or an optional automatic transmission.
Shortly After I discovered America (the word defect suggests error rather than flight to me), it became known that I had in my possession a valuable smuggled manuscript, and I was whisked to New York and interviewed on a number of early-morning and late-night television shows. At some point during every interview, I found myself mumbling through my marmot of a mustache, "Being a member of the party was for me like being in prison." This awkward simile, intended as a slur on a bungling but well-intentioned organization, was misleading; in fact, I spent all my card-carrying years in real prisons of one sort or another. My convictions, moreover, have always been political. More of this later.
This fall, urban males will be patterning their thinking along geometric lines woven into a variety of fabrics. The gentleman on the left digs the look of a bold-geometric-patterned two-button single-breasted wool suit with wide peak lapels, by Bidermann of Paris, $100, worn with a Jacquard-weave polyester and cotton shirt, by Sero, $13, and an Indian silk tie with spaced floral design, by Ditz, $8. The man on the right has made a slightly different fashion move, having donned a subtle-geometric-patterned two-button suit featuring deep flap pockets, trousers with high waistband, pleated front and wide straight legs, by Pierre Cardin, $240, complemented by a minifloral-print polyester and Avril rayon fitted shirt with long-pointed collar and three-button cuffs, by Career Club, $8.50, and a French bouclé knit tie, by Hut, $5.
For those unfamiliar with Boston, that city's name conjures up images of Brahmins sipping tea in elegant salons on Beacon Hill or old-lady censors clucking in righteous indignation as they pencil out passages in the latest best seller. Wrong. Beacon Hill today is populated for the most part by liberated young people, and the arts are flourishing in Boston despite the bluenoses. In fact, with upwards of 130,000 college students in its vicinity, the 340-year-old seaport has become to the East Coast what San Francisco is to the West: regional capital of the Woodstock Nation. It's a perfect setting for 21-year-old Debbie Ellison, who typifies the diversified creativity and political awareness of her contemporaries. Debbie grooves on the ever-present contrast between new and old that marks her adopted city, but she's been disturbed lately by the mounting tension that's in the air: "The establishment," she says, "seems to be coming down harder all the time on far-outs and dissenters." She recently joined a group of students who went down to Washington to discuss national priorities with their elected representatives, and returned to Boston with the uneasy feeling that the legislators had given them the brush-off: "A lot of Congressmen refer you to their aides or have their secretaries tell you they're not in--but they're not very convincing." Political lobbying, however, is only an occasional activity for Debbie. Now living across the Charles River in Cambridge (which is part of Boston's sprawling metropolitan area), Debbie has centered her current scene on studies at the Boston School of Ballet and English lit classes at Harvard. A dancer since the age of 12, Debbie inherited her artistic bent from her father, a former jazz musician who's now a free-lance writer and painter. Her stage credits in Florida, where she grew up and attended college for two years before moving up the coast, included dancing roles in Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker ballet in Fort Lauderdale and The Impossible Years, starring Milton Berle, at Miami's Coconut Grove Playhouse. Nonetheless, Debbie is skeptical about her chances of making it as a professional dancer; when she went to Boston, she was more interested in following her father's example and developing her talents as a writer; in the back of her mind was the thought that she might someday find employment as a dance critic. Her friends, however, prevailed on her to resume her terpsichorean career, and thus far, Debbie hasn't regretted it: "Even if my name never gets on a marquee, I think I'll be a better critic for having been a participant." Guess whose name is on our marquee this month?
College Football, like most other verities of our times, is changing. Only a couple of wars ago, each team had 11 first-stringers, who played seven definable positions (end, tackle, guard, center, quarterback, halfback and fullback). Now there are 23 first-stringers, who may be divided, depending upon the coach's style of attack and defense, among a lexicon of positions, each of which demands highly specialized skills: split end, tight end, flanker, wingback, slotback, running back, drop-back quarterback, roll-out quarterback, offensive tackle, pulling guard, strong guard, center (at least that hasn't changed), defensive end, defensive tackle, noseguard, outside linebacker, inside linebacker, rover back, corner back, weak safety, strong safety, kicker (which, in turn, is subdivided into place kicker and punter), plus a long list of minor variations. To make things even more complicated for the already confused fan, some of these positions occasionally merge with others; a defensive end may become a linebacker, a flanker may become a running back, or a tight end may become a split end, depending upon the game situation. If fans are dazed by all this, they should pity the poor pre-season prognosticator who must assemble an All-America team. Since picking one with 40 or 50 members would be unwieldy, if not absurd, we opted for a 12-member offensive unit comprised of guards, tackles, center, receivers, running backs, quarterback and kicker, and a defensive unit of tackles, ends, linebackers and defensive backs, and have let the positional nuances fall where they may.
All Hail the Sovereign Duchy of Nieuw Amsterdamme!
In his recent and abortive campaign for the mayoralty of the city of New York, the honorable Norman Mailer proved once again that his thinking, though often well intentioned, is nonetheless pitifully deficient in scope. While not without merit, his plan to turn New York City into a separate state of the Union--due to its myriad distinguished attributes--was redeemed mainly by the fact that, in keeping with Mr. Mailer's usual modesty and astute self-appraisal, he implied that he would be available for the governorship when statehood came to flower. This appetite for public office, of course, is based on the enlightened contemporary concept of total talent: A gifted novelist would obviously be a brilliant statesman; a great fullback could unquestionably play a superb Hamlet; a renowned pediatrician could easily master the complexities of global policy; an incomparable but self-effacing New York humorist, broadcaster, bon vivant and boulevardier is eminently qualified to become--- But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The Photos I've taken of Elke for this family album consist mainly of nudes--for a very good reason: It's almost impossible to catch her with her clothes on. She rarely wears anything around the house, and she paints nude by the swimming pool. When the doorbell rings, I have to scramble madly to find her a towel or a dressing gown, because I'm quite sure this would never occur to her; she's proud of her body and unashamed of displaying it.
Looking over the national campus scene, one is immediately aware that the majority of men now attending our colleges and universities bear almost no resemblance--sartorially as well as politically--to the undergraduates of the past. By and large, what today's collegians wear as well as espouse reflects the spirit of youth that calls for change. Self-expression is their trademark.
Not since the days of F. Scott Fitzgerald had young intellectuals flocked so fervently to the estate of F. Ambrose Clark. The gatekeeper can tell you about the time the Prince of Wales supped with Ernest Hemingway, H. L. Mencken and the indefatigable Tallulah Bankhead. But by the Thirties, Long Island was too near the Wall Street corpse to be fashionable and, if you didn't jump off Hart Crane's Brooklyn Bridge, you went out to Hollywood to peel grapes with Mae West.
Should there be a noticeable increase in UFO reports during the next few months, it might well be caused by the sudden appearance of the airborne Futuro--a Finnish-designed fiberglass mobile pad, above, that looks more like a spaceship than a weekend pied-à-terre. Although this funhouse--which has a 26-foot diameter--can be purchased as empty as an eggshell, we prefer the de luxe completely furnished model, with its wall-hugging curved sofa, deep-shag carpets, dimmer-controlled indirect lighting and hooded fireplace that doubles as a barbecue grill. The interior layout of the Futuro, as you may have guessed, is exceptionally compact; a combination kitchen-dining-living area makes up two thirds of the pad, while the remainder is a bedroom and bath. Overnight guests can be quartered in the living area, as the two cocktail tables adjacent to the sofa convert into double beds. The Futuro is virtually maintenance-free; its sealed-up saucer shape and unique ventilation system all but eliminate dust and humidity; and an optional--and recommended--air-conditioning unit keeps the hideaway cool in summer. When winter arrives, built-in electric heating coils maintain a constant and comfortable 72 degrees. And we're sure you'll agree that the $14,000 price tag F.O.B. Futuro Enterprises in Philadelphia for a furnished saucer is definitely down to earth.
An image of The Seventies Student as a freaky radical haunts the American mind: His hair is down to his shoulders and there's a psychedelic gleam in his eye as he tosses a tear-gas canister back at a thick olive line of Guardsmen protecting the R. O. T. C. building. After the confrontation, he splits for an apartment where he spouts Ché and Mao, smokes dope and then tears off his clothes and leaps into a tangled erotic pile. Later, he wearily plans the revolution--to overthrow mom, the flag, Agnew and apple pie--while the Jefferson Airplane sings "Up Against the Wall, Motherfucker!"
In Shantung province during the Ch'eng-hua period of the Ming dynasty, there lived an affluent family with 12 children. The youngest of these was Flowering Mulberry, who possessed a delicate charm, a silken skin and a lovely face, and who had reached the age of 18 when my story begins.
The poster has had a long if uneven history. Toulouse-Lautrec's fin-de-siècle paeans to La Goulue and Jane Avril transformed advertising into fine art, but the medium lost almost all but the message in ensuing years. James Montgomery Flagg's Uncle Sam poster for World War One recruitment typified an era that was to be brightened only by Germany's Bauhaus. The sexual revolution changed all that, however. Today's liberated new breed of poster--which often combines sensuality with social comment--is more likely to be found decorating a pad than a subway stanchion as it communicates and entertains.
Although his Fellow Artists unhesitatingly compare him with such masters as Brueghel and Grosz, Tomi Ungerer has never received comparable recognition from the mass media. This is surprising, because Ungerer, 38, reaches a wide audience as a painter, sculptor, cartoonist, textile designer and author; the 70-odd books he has written and/or drawn range from picture stories for children to the macabre social satire of Compromises. Ungerer has produced illustrations (including work for Playboy) and more than 200 posters, one of which depicted Black Power and White Power in the act of devouring each other and has become a symbol of America's politically ulcerous condition; he also helped design the Canadian exhibit at Expo 67 in Montreal. His family never expected him to pursue such a career; they were counting on him to take over the astronomical-clock factory owned by his Alsatian ancestors in his native Strasbourg. But his premature departure from school led to a picaresque interlude that found him hitchhiking across England and around Italy and Holland, working on fishing boats out of Scandinavia and serving on camelback with the French army in Algeria. It was shortly after his discharge that Ungerer--who had been drawing since early childhood--decided that fine art was his métier. By 1956, he was en route to America, where he settled in Greenwich Village and secured a commission for his first children's book, the award-winning Mellops Go Flying. Since then, Ungerer has produced his lethal line drawings and erotically inspired sculpture at a prodigious rate. As the international journal Graphis accurately observed, "Every new task he undertakes is a new trial of strength [which] makes his work exciting and gives one the certainty that the last word has yet to be said."
With an Economics Degree from Wellesley and a few years' experience as a financial analyst, 26-year-old Alice Tepper has launched the Council on Economic Priorities, a nonprofit research and information center dedicated to fostering a sense of social responsibility on the part of American corporations. "The idea started in 1969," says New Jersey--born Alice, "when I was working for a Boston investment firm and a synagogue asked us to place its funds in nonmilitary securities." Thus, she created a "peace portfolio." After her company-placed New York Times ad offering information on the peace portfolio to similarly inclined investors received 600 responses, Alice went to Washington, D. C., and organized the council. "We exist," she says, "to disseminate unbiased and detailed information on the policies and practices of big business in four major areas: fair employment, environmental quality, military production and overseas trade and investment." From C.E.P.'s office at 1028 Connecticut Avenue, Alice and a small staff of research fellows and advisors (plus ten students working as summer interns and over 75 volunteer consultants) periodically issue an "Economic Priorities Report"--sort of a Dun & Bradstreet of corporate conscience. Available by subscription, the reports (and supplemental in-depth studies) are compact job-hunting, buying and investment guides to companies with a sound social as well as financial balance sheet. The council has also published its first book, Efficiency in Death: The Manufacturers of Anti-Personnel Weapons, and has another in the works, tentatively titled Student Guide to Corporations. As Alice puts it, "Public accountability on the part of corporations will lead to an increased awareness of the need to be socially responsible for the simple reason that it will be good business."
When Melvin Van Peebles occupied an executive suite at Columbia Pictures, he had a sign on his wall that warned: Please, for your own safety, don't try to understand me too fucking quickly. It's an apt admonition, for Van Peebles, 38, the first black to have had complete creative control over a $1,000,000 feature film made in Hollywood--the satiric Watermelon Man, starring Godfrey Cambridge in whiteface--has more angles than a geometry book. A Chicago product, Van Peebles migrated to San Francisco, where he made several short films and put together a photo essay about the city's cable cars (he was working on one at the time). When no doors opened, he was off to Europe, where he studied astronomy and toured with a Dutch repertory company; then Van Peebles moved to Paris. Between such adventures as editing the Gallic edition of Mad and dancing on street corners for centimes, he wrote five novels in self-taught French. In 1967, his first full-length movie, Story of a Three-Day Pass--made on a $200,000 budget--dazzled critics at the San Francisco Festival, where it was ironically listed as a French entry. Hollywood was now interested; but during the negotiations that ensued, Van Peebles found time to get into yet another bag: He recorded two unique LPs for A&M, Brer Soul and Ain't Supposed to Die a Natural Death, on which his idiomatic monologs on ghetto life were set against mind-blowing jazz backgrounds--of his own composition. Then came Watermelon Man, which was shot in 21 days and earned him a three-picture option with Columbia. Van Peebles chose to let that expire and formed his own production company, Yah, Inc.; his first film under his own banner, Sweet, Sweet Back's Baad Asssss Song, is about the radicalization of a pimp. We expect it's a baad-asssss flick.