If there is any platitude more familiar than a campaign promise, it's the truism that few of them are kept after the election. Neither pundits nor pollsters have ever managed to devise a technique for predicting which will be fulfilled--or by whom--but Playboy's Political Preference Chart may help fill the rhetorical gap for those who exercise their franchise this month. In this thumbnail guide, we rate the major Congressional and gubernatorial candidates according to their views and voting records, in the hope not only of enlightening you on their political positions but, more importantly, of revealing the men and women behind them. Though politicians often seem the most chameleonlike creatures in the human zoo, anthropologist Edmund Carpenter believes all modern men have become shifting reflections--even embodiments--of our technological society. In They Became What They Beheld, distilled from his book of the same name co-authored by Ken Heyman and scheduled for publication shortly by Outerbridge & Dienstfrey, Inc., Carpenter describes how our electronic environment has shaped and transformed everything from the way we use the media to the latest hair style. This unsettling theme is arrestingly envisioned by Playboy's Art Director, Arthur Paul, who has guided us graphically since the first issue in 1953. The catalyst of its distinctive visual design, he has won more than 360 awards for excellence over the years--more than any other art director in the publishing world. In When Punishment Is a Crime (part of which appears in Crime in America, published this month by Simon & Schuster), former Attorney General Ramsey Clark indicts America's dehumanizing penal institutions for creating rather than rehabilitating criminals. The kind of courageous and compassionate insight he exhibits here makes it easy to understand why many see Clark as a Presidential candidate in 1972. Johnny Cash has never actually served time himself, but the subject of this issue's personality portrait has sung in the worst of the nation's prisons. Saul Braun's perceptive essay about him explains how the gravel-voiced balladeer emerged from the bedrock traditions of the white South--and of country music--to become a curious kind of holy man for working-class America. Among this same silent majority, few of their countrymen could be less popular than those middle-class dropouts who have abandoned the affluent society to live and love in communes. In West of Eden, Jules Siegel visits these utopian communities and finds their denizens struggling to reach into themselves and back to a pastoral past for new ways to live humanely. The merits of communal life also are among the topics discussed by Elliott Gould in our Playboy Interview. The anti-hero of such film hits as M. A. S. H., Getting Straight and Move raps freely with Contributing Editor Richard Warren Lewis about everything from life with Barbra to marijuana to the sham games of American life. Games are just about all that's going on in a southern Illinois whistle stop visited by Playboy Staff Writer Craig Vetter, who recounts the no-forgiveness shots and deals of pool hustlers in Shoot-Out in Johnston City. A fast buck is even more easily made on Madison Avenue with those minimovies known as TV commercials. Michael Butler gives us an inside view of this manic world in And Now--a Word from Our Sponsor....While TV booms in the East, the old film studios--and strictures--are slowly sinking in the West. In their picture-and-text report on Sex in Cinema: 1970, film critics Arthur Knight and Hollis Alpert explain what's happening to erotica on the screen--and in the courts--this year. Although sculptor Frank Gallo prefers a different art form, he uses no less modern materials to convey his seductive vision of woman. Playboy presents a one-man show of his beauties in Gallo's Girls. This month's fiction fare begins with the tale of a Southern farmer and his wildly productive collard patch in Dotson Gerber Resurrected, by novelist Hal Bennett. A short journey turns into a grotesque nightmare in Roger Dionne's Accidents of a Country Road. And a voyage to Denmark provides intrigue for a roving reporter in Elliott Arnold's Night Crossing. Adding to November's bounty are the awesome audio-visual systems of Switched-On Superwall. If a superwall isn't on your Christmas list, we suggest the yule largess in Presents Perfect. Neptune's most toothsome treasures warm up to A Fine Kettle of Fish, Food & Drink Editor Thomas Mario's hearty haul of stews. Out-of-the-house excitement awaits our Man at His Leisure as Playboy artist-with-portfolio LeRoy Neiman takes us to the Can-Am races. And to put you on the right ski trail, Playboy polls the experts for our guide to The Top Spots. For authoritative advice on this season's sporting wear for the slopes, Fashion Director Robert L. Green reports on the latest garb and gear for ski buffs and bunnies. Speaking of cottontails, Avis Miller, the appropriately named rara of her highflying species--Jet Bunny on our Editor-Publisher's black DC-9-32--graces our centerfold. Also soaring high on the entertainment horizon is Jane Birkin, the possessor of that suggestive voice on the under-the-counter record Je T'Aime, who unveils additional assets in an over-the-counter pictorial. All in all, we hope you'll agree that--herein, at any rate--there's much to be thankful for this November.
Playboy, November, 1970, Vol. 17, No. 11. 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.
A small band of brave Texans--hopelessly outnumbered and intractably eccentric--is pioneering a new concept in free enterprise that is sure to enhance that state's already colorful reputation for mixing vice with virtue. Called a corporate commune and chartered under state law as Mad Dog, Inc., the company is essentially a respectable front organization for a group of writers, lawyers, artists, radicals, politicians and other ne'er-do-wells now living in Austin, the state capital--plus their friends in other parts of the country--who have decided to pool their resources and imaginations for fun and, conceivably, profit. Project number one: to buy a small town they can call their own and rename it, predictably, Mad Dog, Texas. One prospect is Sisterdale, northwest of San Antonio in L. B. J. country and only 100 miles from Austin--a distance many Texans drive each evening just to drink beer. More remote, but possessing other virtues, is the hamlet of Shafter, only 20 miles from the Mexican border in the scenically desolate Easy Rider country around Big Bend National Park.
Attorney Charles Rembar, who helped demolish the last barriers to hard-core pornography with his defenses of Lady Chatterley's Lover, Tropic of Cancer and Fanny Hill, predicted in his own book (The End of Obscenity) that his victories would open the floodgates to a deluge of literature on sex. Each month confirms his prediction anew. Some of the titles represent what Rembar called "the acne on our culture"--the sort of mindless muck in which those who so choose can wallow. But others bespeak more serious intentions. A batch of new titles suggests the range covered by this flourishing industry. In Erotic Art 2 (Grove), another in the series being churned out by Drs. Phyllis and Eberhard Kronhausen, fascination with sexual organs and sexual acts is shown to be a timeless and universal preoccupation, conspicuous in the work of artists from Greek and Roman times to the present and from the Far East to western Europe and the United States. Cruder samples of this fascination are included in Gordon Schindler's report on Denmark's Legalized Pornography (Banner). The illustrations are the least of the book, however; essentially, it consists of a series of interviews with psychiatrists, clergymen, legislators and police officials, all evaluating the Danish decision to abolish restrictions on the production of "dirty" books and movies. America's agonizings over the subject are agreeably spoofed by The Obscenity Report (Stein & Day), billed as "The Report to the Task Force on Pornography and Obscenity." Don't miss the index. From Germany, where sex as education is the prevailing theme, comes The Pictorial Guide to Sexual Intercourse (Pent-R), 184 photographs of an impassive couple in assorted positions, a few of which are inventive and possibly useful and a few of which belong in the category of physical-fitness exercises. This book doesn't waste much time on words, and the words are a waste of time. There is no lack of verbiage in The Sexes (Doubleday), by Donald E. Carr. With encyclopedic detail, naturalist Carr chronicles the sex patterns of insects, animals and human beings, then grafts onto his accumulated research a theory on population control. Having raised the familiar specter of an overpopulated world, and lacking any solution, Carr leaves us with a peculiar final paragraph in which he wishes good luck "to all of the determined and scholarly young people who must not only fight through to a solution of the insoluble but in doing so must claw off the viscid tentacles of both professional and amateur bureaucracy! If we are to drown, let us drown with the dignity of clear eyes and not with the glue of hypocrisy in our throats." Another curious compilation of facts and theories about sex can be found in the late Eric (Games People Play) Berne's Sex in Human Loving (Simon & Schuster). Despite the title, there is little in the book that relates sex to love and, since psychiatrist Berne characteristically reduces people to abstractions, there isn't a human being anywhere to be found. By contrast, Belgian psychoanalyst Francois Duyckaerts is profoundly human, and in The Sexual Bond (Delacorte), he searches for the hidden motivations of human sexuality. He sees intercourse as the ultimate expression of trust between two people who succeed in overcoming their basic aggressiveness and then "surrender their bodies to each other in mutual identification." Duyckaerts comes across as a compassionate human being, describes life in recognizable terms and champions eroticism as a force opposed to death. This affirmation of the erotic is precisely what is missing in so many sex books. Scholars intellectualize it to death, psychiatrists analyze it to death, contemporary artists distort it to death and pornographers bludgeon it to death. As Schindler notes in his study of Denmark: "The publishers don't seem to know any more about pornography than anyone else.... Just why they chose to equate crudity and vulgarity with eroticism is hard to understand. Many such activities appear anti-erotic." Perhaps, when the current flood of books subsides, sex will become as natural a subject for writers as it is a natural pleasure for the human race.
Until Victor's Cafe opened at 71st Street and Columbus Avenue a few years back, Cuban exiles in Nueva York had no place to go to sate their longing for good old down-homey fried bananas. Then along came Victor's and all the disenfranchised sugar-cane heirs rushed there for bananas just like mamacita (or, better, her cook) used to fry--and, of course, all the gringos from the new luxury high-rises around Lincoln Center followed. Victor's is crowded with the chic and near chic from lunchtime to its two-a.m. closing seven days a week. Although the decor is low-key coffee-shop Cubana, the mood is noisy affluence in exile. First of all, before visions of Cuba libres make your head whirl, let it be known that Victor's is without a hard-liquor license. However, its sangria is one of the best around. It is made on the premises and fruitier than usual. The volume of sangria consumed at Victor's testifies to its quality. For an appetizer, most of the Victor's crowd like to start with the frijoles negros, black-bean soup, reputed to be the only native Cuban dish that Fulgencio Batista would allow his French chef to make. Also, it is alleged that Castro swears on his own mother's frijoles negros in moments of crisis. That's how important the dish is in Cuba. Served with a garnish of chopped onion and chives, frijoles negros has a dark, rich, earthy taste influenced by the bay leaf and a smoky purple color. The red-bean soup, frijoles colorados, is lighter in taste and less interesting. Victor's specialty de la casa is Bistec al Horno, or broiled Cuban-style steak. It consists of a good cut of steak crowded by chopped fresh lettuce, pickled green beans, beets, onions, tomatoes and--there they are, on the side--fried bananas! Victor's fried bananas are crisp but never hard. Tocino del Cielo (literally, "bacon from heaven") is a dessert made from only the yolks of eggs and so thick that it's sliced in long pieces resembling bacon strips and then served in a vanilla sauce on a plate. Should it be too sweet for your taste, you may prefer guava shells or shredded coconut, both served with cream cheese. But after the fried bananas, many Cubans skip dessert. Cuban cuisine, in general, is not spicy but has a lingering sweetness that is never cloying. Prices are moderate and a couple can spend an evening at Victor's for under $20. Odds are that the Muzak will play Malagueña at least once per evening. Reservations are recommended for a party of four or more.
The recipient of kudos for his performance in last year's Easy Rider, Jack Nicholson, as the star of Five Easy Pieces, proves that the electricity he generates on movie screens has only begun to crackle. Here he delivers a characterization as variegated, humorous, colorful and deeply felt as anything seen since ... well, since Nicholson stole Easy Rider. His role in Five Easy Pieces (the title an apparent reference to five piano compositions by Bach, Chopin and Mozart that alternate with country-and-western ballads in setting the film's restless mood) casts Nicholson as a crazy, good-looking guy who seems at first to be just another rowdy worker in the California oil fields. The simple waitress (Karen Black) he shacks up with is pregnant and his best buddy is wanted for a filling-station holdup. Yet when he packs and heads home to an island off the northern Pacific coast because his father has suffered a stroke, we learn that wayward Bobby Dupea is a gifted pianist from a well-known family of musicians. (His middle name is Eroica.) He stashes his unhappy waitress in a distant motel and settles down for a spell, finding distraction with a pretty concert pianist (Susan Anspach). Despite lapses into self-conscious cinematography, freshman director and co-author Bob Rafelson shows promise as a perceptive, compassionate observer of characters from two very distinct social milieus. Finally, though, Five Easy Pieces belongs to its star. Whether he is cajoling his neurotic sister, playing the fool or quietly talking his heart out in a poignant monolog to his mute, stricken old man, who cannot comprehend a word of it, Nicholson is a natural.
Black Magic is West Side Chicago--based blues guitarist Magic Sam's second and last album. His tragic death of a heart attack at 32 in 1969 cut short a talent that had been painfully underrecorded. The ten items range from the James Brown--like grunt-shuffle-slide rhythms of I Just Want a Little Bit to the trucking-chopping rhythms of You Belong to Me. The album is one of several new releases on Delmark, a small but beautiful Chicago jazz and blues label. Then there's Junior Wells's South Side Blues Jam, which attempts to re-create in the studio the sound of Monday night at Theresa's bar, a Chicago blues institution, and features the piano of the late Otis Spann. The eight selections include a real-down version of I Just Want to Make Love to You that should put the Rolling Stones to shame for their commercial cover of the song, and the funky, hard back-beat Blues for Mayor Daley. Rural blues is Sleepy John Estes' thing and he puts them in a new setting on Electric Sleep, his first album with a Chicago-style blues band. Happily, his vocals and guitar work are not drowned in electricity on the ten cuts that include an old favorite, If the River Was Whiskey, and bouncy-beated I Ain't Gonna Sell It. Love Me Mama is the funky title tune that opens the second side of Luther Allison's latest album and the nine other tunes easily maintain the mood, as Luther sings with urgency and plays his ax with great power. Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup, wailing on Crudup's Mood, is at his best on slow, rolling tunes such as I'm in the Mood for You and Any Old Way You Do. The first side of the 11-tune set features Willie Dixon on stand-up bass. Carey Bell's Blues Harp is right on, as the bluesman--rediscovered while playing with Mike Bloomfield on the West Coast a year ago--makes us believe that his harmonica is a natural extension of his body. His vocals are alive, too, on ten tunes that include the old standard I'm Ready.
At one point in Golden Bat, Yukiko Kobayashi, a pert little blossom of a girl, ambles into the audience and in broken English asks a patron, "Are you happy?" The girl, the question and the whole Japanese rock musical are so ingenuous that one would have to be a statue not to beam an affirmative response. The 12 talented youngsters in the cast, who call themselves the Tokyo Kid Brothers, are charming, likable and in love with America--with cowboy movies, Cokes, slang ("You've come a wrong way, baby") and rock musicals. Although Golden Bat is, musically, deeply in debt to Hair, it comes through as eminently Japanese, complete with kimonos, brightly colored cutouts and umbrellas and a decidedly Oriental slant to the score. More than half the words are in Japanese and the English part is so accented as to be often undecipherable. But the message is clear enough--good will. For all the show's modesty (even the nudity is as discreet as a silk-screen painting) and lightness of mood, occasional moments of passion force one to remember a bitter reality: The Kid Brothers were born post-Hiroshima, and these life-hungry, forgiving faces are constant reminders of that horror. The cast sings and dances about lost love, childhood and peace, and also about its hopes and dreams, embodied in the word matsuri. If this show is any indication of the spirit of the young in Japan today--and it has a stamp of authenticity--the country is full of matsuri. At the Sheridan Square, 99 Seventh Avenue South.
Recently, I dated a girl I really liked. Unfortunately, she is about five inches taller than I am and feels ill-at-ease about it, so much so that she has refused my last few requests for a date, turning me down with a quiet no and a brief explanation of her embarrassment when out with me. I consider her attitude juvenile but, so far, have held my tongue. How can I convince her not to be self-conscious and to continue dating me?--M. C., Minneapolis, Minnesota.
An Open Letter to the Parents of Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., and R. Sargent Shriver III
Recently, your sons, both 16, were arrested for possession of a small amount of marijuana. Fortunately, the case was tried before a humane judge who left them at liberty by continuing the case (as he customarily does in first-offense drug crimes). Your sons might have fared much worse: Under Massachusetts law, the boys could each have been sentenced to three and a half years in prison. This is a long time for an adolescent--or for any human being--to spend caged. Yet the law in Massachusetts is relatively reasonable compared with those in other states, as can be seen on the accompanying chart listing the first-offense penalties for marijuana use in the 50 states and the District of Columbia. It's a chart that should deeply concern all U. S. parents, for the use of marijuana is no longer limited to the Latin, black or artistic subcultures: It cuts across class, race and educational lines; its influence reaches into every home in the United States. Juvenile drug arrests in California alone rose 3316.5 percent in the past decade. Nor are adults immune to experimentation with this euphoria-producing drug. In an article in The New York Times Magazine, author Sam Blum comments, "The smoking of marijuana...can no longer be interpreted as a sign of [youthful] alienation. Great numbers of pot smokers are very nicely adjusted to our society. They make love; they make money; and, for that matter, reports from Vietnam indicate, they make war. (A study in February showed that nearly one out of five frontline soldiers smoked marijuana every day.)"
His hair hangs in scrambled ringlets over his forehead and lattices down the sides of a lantern-jawed face. His lower lip protrudes above a cleft chin that will never rival the provocative indentation that distinguishes Cary Grant. His eyes are as large and melancholy as a Saint Bernard's, an animal with which he shares the same shambling gait. In short, he is no one's vision of a matinee idol. Yet Elliott Gould has emerged in the past year as the hottest actor in movies. At a time when the public is demanding reality rather than fantasy on the screen, his spectacular rise exemplifies the changing thrust of the motion-picture industry.
We saw the head of Mr. Dotson Gerber break ground at approximately nine o'clock on a bright Saturday morning in March out near our collard patch, where Poppa had started to dig a well and then filled it in. Of course, none of us knew then that the shock of red hair and part of a head sprouting from the abandoned well belonged to Mr. Dotson Gerber. who'd been missing from his farm since early last fall. We were black folk, and the fact that a white man like Mr. Dotson Gerber was missing from his home was of small importance to us. Unless that white man suddenly started growing from the ground near our collard patch like Mr. Dotson Gerber was doing now for Momma, my sister Millicent and me. We'd come running because of a commotion the chickens had made, thinking that a minx or a weasel might have got after them. And found Mr. Dotson Gerber's head instead.
Dostoievsky called the book he wrote about his years in prison in Siberia The House of the Dead with reason. If he died and awoke in hell, he wrote, he would expect it to be no worse than the prisoners' bathhouse--a filthy, stinking hole filled with dense steam and hundreds of naked bodies. On his last night in prison, walking along the fence that had confined him for four years, he concluded that, on the whole, the men there were no better and no worse than people generally. Among them were exceptionally strong and gifted people; the waste of their lives was an intolerable cruelty. From this experience he defined man as "a creature that can become accustomed to anything."
Each winter, skiing reaches new heights of popularity as more and more city dwellers discover the delights of hard pack and deep powder. Ski gear, too, continues to change, making your selections more sophisticated. Today, enthusiasts face a mountain of equipage designed for safer, better performance. Ski-wear styles also shift from season to season; trim-fitting one-piece jump suits are now as popular as the traditional parka-and-pants combinations. And boots in fiberglass or plastic are often seen, usually buckled to the feet of experienced skiers. Once you and your snowmate have chosen from the selections shown on this and the following pages, turn to page 110 for The Top Spots: Playboy Polls the Ski Editors--the experts'-eye view of our country's best runs. Happy landings!
Few Skiers ever have the opportunity to visit as many U. S. ski areas as have the handful of men who write about the sport for a living. With this in mind, Playboy assembled a panel of leading ski editors and asked them to write about their five favorite American ski havens. Those participating were Doug Pfeiffer, editor of Skiing; John Fry, editor of Ski; Enzo Serafini, editor of Skier; Michael Strauss, ski editor of The New York Times; and Philip Fradkin, ski editor of the Los Angeles Times. Not surprisingly, our experts all had their own favorite areas--for novices and veterans alike--and their selections include several smaller, lesser-known resorts. We think you'll find the reasons they give for their choices enlightening and informative.
It seems pretty tame in retrospect, but viewers of Antonioni's Blow-Up may recall a then-sensational scene in which David Hemmings engages in a randy romp with a pair of naked teeny-boppers. One of them was Jane Birkin, an unknown but aspiring young actress. She is now very well known, indeed, but it took another succès de scandale to do the trick: a record called Je t'Aime ... moi Non Plus, Jane's vocal of a love song--accompanied by sounds of an amorous liaison between her and singer-composer-actor Serge Gainsbourg. Its ban from air play in most countries boosted sales past 3,000,000. Before finding her new groove, Jane had achieved only modest fame in films, appearing most recently with Serge in Slogan as--appropriately--his mistress.
Morgan spotted the two girls as soon as he boarded ship. They were in boots and miniskirts. They were leaning on the railing, waving farewells, shouting things to a group of young men on the pier. They spoke an English that was not quite English, and then one of the girls, the blonde one, called out something in Danish. Of course. The vessel was crossing from Harwich to Esbjerg.
Steaming bowls of bouillabaisse, cioppino and other hearty fish-stew fare come into their own as the chill days of November take over. A fish-stew dinner is one of the best possible ways of introducing and blending guests in your digs. Bring on a tureen of sea fare and, in no time, men and women of all tastes will be sharing the succulent meat of lobster claws, comparing pompano with porgy and vying with one another in mopping up the luscious sea-scented gravy. At a fish-stew party, casual clothes take the place of black ties, steaming hand towels replace stiff linen napkins and table talk is all but silenced.
"Now that they have 747s, traveling on the commercial airlines is more luxurious than ever," says November Playmate Avis Miller. "But as far as I'm concerned, the Big Bunny is the only way to fly." The Big Bunny, if you don't already know, is Hugh M. Hefner's $5,500,000 custom-built DC-9-32, the most opulent private aircraft in the world. And Ohio-born Avis is one of 15 Playboy Jet Bunnies Hefner personally selected from among the 850 cottontails serving in Playboy Clubs around the globe. "I was working as a Cocktail Bunny in the San Francisco Club," the rangy (5' 9") ash-blonde beauty recalls, "when I was told I'd been chosen as a Jet Bunny. To say I was excited is putting it mildly." Avis' first order of business was moving. She hated to leave her parents' home in Union City, California--"I was out of the urban scene almost entirely, which was fine with me"--but Jet Bunnydom requires the girls to be on call out of either the Los Angeles or Chicago Club. Avis chose L. A. and now lives in Inglewood, a 25-minute drive from the hutch and minutes away from the beaches at Hermosa, Redondo and Santa Monica. "I don't like living in the heart of a city," says Avis, "because I get uptight about things like crowds, noise and smog. When I was a kid, my father, a salesman, kept getting transferred--Pittsburgh, Boston, Richmond, Houston. I grew up disliking city life, I'm afraid." After accompanying the plane on observation flights, including the Big Bunny's maiden trip from Chicago to Los Angeles, Avis was scheduled to attend stewardess school in April. A week before her training began, she paid a surprise visit to her brother John, an oil analyst then assaying for possible petroleum deposits near Denver. After acquainting herself with the fundamentals of oil exploration, Avis spent her time loafing, her closest companions the historical best sellers she'd taken with her--Jennie and Mary, Queen of Scots. A graduate of Arizona State University, Avis majored in history and still finds the subject fascinating. At the end of her visit, she flew to Purdue Airlines in Lafayette, Indiana, for her flight training. The 15 Jet Bunnies were divided into two classes; Avis, in the first group, took two and a half weeks of instruction from Purdue and Continental Airlines. "Stewardesses usually have to train for six weeks," says Avis, "but that's because they have to learn about five different aircraft--we only had to learn about one--and their teaching is slower because the classes usually have at least 50 girls in them. The big airlines also spend a week on grooming, which the Bunnies already know, plus a week for photo shootings and uniform fittings, which we did on Playboy time." After learning about the DC-9-32, Avis took courses in first aid, ocean survival, handling general emergencies and food preparation, then was sent to the Lake Geneva Playboy Club-Hotel for special instruction in wine selection and gourmet dining service. Miss Miller reports that work aboard the Playboy plane is a lot less hectic than on a commercial airliner. "We always have at least three Jet Bunnies on board," she says, "and since there's a maximum of 38 passengers, we're able to go about our duties without rushing." When Avis was finally flight-qualified, she got a chance to go on what she describes as "an unbelievable trip": She was one of five Jet Bunnies who accompanied Hefner and a private party of close friends on a 31-day jaunt through Africa and Europe. Being based in Los Angeles, and with the mounds of publicity she's received as a Jet Bunny (and will undoubtedly receive as a Playmate), Avis has thought about a screen career--but she says she really has no desire to become a serious actress: "The Hollywood scene turns me off completely. To get famous, you have to do a lot of dumb, embarrassing things. Who needs it? Besides, I want to have kids, and the lousiest mothers are usually working actresses; they never have time for their children." Instead, Avis has opted for the uncomplicated life: "I'll be happy if I can wind up with a guy who's carefree and isn't a slave to business. I'll admit that that type isn't easy to find, but I haven't even started looking yet." We feel certain that November's rara Avis is one bird who won't have any difficulties when she finally starts searching for a permanent nestmate.
Pandemonium. Heavy-set man bounding on stage. "Hello, I'm Johnny Cash." Rolling applause like combers rushing in; shrieks, catcalls, cowpoke hoots, pigpen yeehoos and, in the audience, the first coming of witnesses to some subtle but understood faith commences, a faded-cotton crewcut procession toward the stage, mild-mannered plain folk coming up to have themselves a Brownie snap or two of Johnny Cash.
The female figures of Illinois sculptor Frank Gallo exude a sensuous eroticism that belies their aura of beguiling innocence and naiveté. This is the way he sees modern woman--the subject of almost all his work. "The feminine form," says Gallo, "is the only indestructible and inspiring resource of simple beauty left to me." One of America's most successful contemporary sculptors at 37, Gallo was awarded a Guggenheim fellowship and accepted an invitation to the 1968 Venice Biennale, which featured works by the most distinguished artists throughout the world. He called it the biggest event of his career. He's also earned effusive critical kudos and resultant price tags as high as $10,000 for individual pieces such as the sculptures pictured on these pages.
Screen Gems' West 57th Street studio is dead quiet. Three bells have signaled readiness for a take. Everybody in the studio freezes. A writer interrupts himself in midsentence. A propman gently sets down the box he was moving. Overhead lights dim. Kliegs come up, spotlighting the stage. A flashing red light near the exit warns intruders to keep out.
"The sound of silk on silk and silk on skin merges with their whispered endearments, their progressively more passionate breathing, and...." So begins one of the more subdued passages--describing a love scene between two women--from the script for Russ Meyer's Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, as written for the screen by Meyer and the young film critic of the Chicago Sun-Times, Roger Ebert. What Meyer and Ebert sought to do, under the aegis of 20th Century-Fox, was to enhance the barnyard-variety sexploitation movie with slick, big-studio production values and to dramatize their absurdly convoluted plot--something to do with the vicissitudes of an all-girl rock group trying to make good in dirty old Hollywood--with a smile of sophisticated contempt for the cliché characters and the soap-opera situations they encounter en route. No one connected with the picture pretended that its weird assortment of transvestites, nymphomaniacs, homosexuals and male prostitutes constituted "art"; but it did seem to add up to what audiences were buying in 1970. And, symptomatically, Fox rushed it to the screen in midsummer--along with Myra Breckinridge, both with their prints still damp--to avert the financial disasters racked up by such clean but costly entertainments as Hello, Dolly!, which was budgeted at a thumping $20,000,000; Dolls came in at a modest $1,500,000.
It was a sunny Indian summer--like day. The air was warm enough to keep the windows open, yet chilly enough for the heater to warm my feet. The road I was traveling was a two-lane blacktop, what the Highway Department calls a secondary route. It wound through pine forests, farmland, hills splashed with color; it bulged, descended, arched around bends, careened madly down a hillside to cross a narrow bridge, then staggered victoriously up the other side of the valley. A jolly road, a happy sunny day.
There are some worlds in which the spoken truth isn't welcome or necessary. Professional pocket billiards is one. In a room with a pool table and a couple of hustlers, the truth is a silly abstraction. Around high-stakes pool, everybody lies about everything, to everyone, loudly or quietly, but nonstop and with style.
For those who prefer to take their looking and listening pleasures in an ultracomfortable position, we commend the electronic wall at right, a self-contained entertainment center linked with a bedside remote-control console. The fiberglass-and-wood four-sectioned wall houses a host of built-in goodies, including a stereo AM/FM radio, light fixtures, twin speakers and a hideaway bar, plus compartments for a TV, stereo rig, tape deck and a movie/slide projector. Each of the four wall units measures four by eight feet--which, when fully assembled, tallies up to 128 square feet of plugged-in pleasure. From the oversized bed, which serves as the hub of your sensorial universe, you can regulate your lights and audio-visual components, raise, lower and revolve the bed in Olympian splendor or speak to the outside world via an optional phone, shown below, that's just a short reach away.
Many, many years ago--in fact, during the Upper Middle Ages--there was a small principality in Europe that cartographers and historians seem to have missed. All we have of it are a few stories brought back by travelers, and the only statistics are these: ruler, Prince Cascarin; location, just east of the Bohemian seacoast; climate, delightful; people, almost without exception tall, handsome, blond and amiable.
Modern civilization stoops to a low profile outside Taos, New Mexico. In good weather, an ordinary sedan can take you to Indian pueblos unchanged in 1000 years. Recent settlements of young Americans who have elected to drop out of the affluent society are more primitive than the pueblos and harder to find, tucked away on dirt roads beyond the easy reach of interfering authority.
This lush resort country in the province of Quebec provides Playboy's LeRoy Neiman with the perfect setting to capture on canvas a spectacular auto-racing series that has helped put North America firmly on the international motor-sports map. Only a few years ago, road racing was dominated by Europe and Europeans. In the United States, it struggled along as primarily an amateur sport; only a few events attracted foreign-team cars or famous European drivers. Then, in 1966, the Sports Car Club of America collaborated with the Canadian Automobile Sports Club to institute the Canadian-American Challenge Cup--a professional road-race series that in five seasons has evolved and expanded to the point where it now rivals (text concluded on page 234)man at his leisure(continued from page 179) in glamor and excitement some of the most popular events in Europe.
A rumor swept through America's political left this past summer that seemed to crystallize the unrest and anxiety of the year of Kent and Jackson State, Cambodia and G. Harrold Carswell. The story went that Richard Nixon was planning to suspend the 1972 Presidential elections and maintain a Government by fiat until such time as he decided that present international and domestic crises were past. The rumor was accepted as truth by many on the extreme left and as a correct assessment of the inclination--if not the actual intent--of the present Administration by a surprisingly large number of moderates.
After 16 years in the literary underground, Richard Brautigan, 35, has finally surfaced as the guru of a growing collegiate cult that grooves not only on his writing but on his life style and his view of humanity as well. Living as closely as possible to nature, he has retained an unfashionably optimistic opinion of mankind since he left his birthplace in Tacoma, Washington, at 19 and wandered down to San Francisco, a city he has haunted ever since. Most of his years there have been spent panhandling while publishing free folios of what he calls "true underground poetry." Brautigan has tacked to a wall in his S. F. home a letter from Hubert Humphrey thanking him for a copy of Please Plant This Book, a collection he published early in his career that consisted of eight packets of seeds, each imprinted with a poem and planting instructions. From 1965 to 1968, his total income was under $7000, but it was during this period that Trout Fishing in America--a deceptively titled, outrageously funny amalgam of picaresque autobiography and homey-hip philosophy--was published, and his quiet life was threatened by the resulting acclaim. Trout Fishing and his two other major works--A Confederate General from Big Sur and In Watermelon Sugar, both offering more of the same spaced-out ruminations but with somewhat less charm--have sold over 100,000 copies each. A spoken-word LP looms in Brautigan's near future, along with movies based on his novels, and he has read his works everywhere from San Quentin to Harvard. At Harvard, he passed a bottle around and jumped down from the podium and prodded members of the audience to take turns reading. The evening was brought to a close with an impromptu dance by Brautigan and his friends. So far, however, Brautigan prefers to avoid the limelight--and he refuses to discuss his new-found renown. But he has often said his work speaks for him and the beginning of one of his short stories reads: "It's really something to have fame put its feathery crowbar under your rock, and then upward to the light release you, along with seven grubs and a sow bug."
Last year's Academy Award--winning Z was an exciting film on two levels--as a traditional thriller and as a contemporary political statement. "But," says Costa-Gavras, Z's 36-year-old director, "I never intended it as an entertainment. The story of Z is true and, by the end of the movie, even though we've never mentioned Greece by name, people realize--having witnessed the coup d'état and the list of things the junta has censored--that the country is, indeed, Greece and that what we have shown them throughout is the truth." Based on Vassili Vassilikos' novel of the same name, Z was a thinly disguised account of the 1963 assassination of Greek pacifist Gregorios Lambrakis; although the army tried to conceal the murder, an unbending magistrate discovered the facts. A month after 15 army officers were sentenced to jail for complicity in the crime, the discredited military launched its successful coup. "The day America understands that the people of Greece must be free is the day there will be hope for Greece," says Costa-Gavras. "Because on that day, America will stop helping the military government--which could not stand for one week without her support." The politically outspoken director, born Constantine Gavras in Athens ("Costa is my nickname and I added a hyphen to create confusion"), earned a degree in French literature at the Sorbonne and, after studying at the Institut des Hautes Etudes Cinématographiques, acted as assistant director to French film makers René Clair, Rene Clement and Jacques Demy. He directed his first feature in 1964--The Sleeping Car Murder, a taut mystery starring his favorite actor, Yves Montand (who played the assassination victim in Z), and Montand's wife, Simone Signoret. The couple also star in Costa-Gavras' new film, The Confession, about the 1951 purge of suspected Stalinists in Czechoslovakia's Communist Party. Costa-Gavras plans to continue making movies with contemporary political themes; if he seems committed, it's because he is. Says the Paris-based pacifist, "If I were 18, I, too, would be in the streets."
"There is a connection between a man's life style," says dress manufacturer and designer Alvin Duskin, "and the product he produces." Duskin's style--reflected in such distinctive creations as the "peace dress" with the characteristic symbol woven into the fabric (he calls it "the world's first socially significant garment")--is one of active involvement in the underground culture with the aim of changing social patterns. Although Alvin Duskin, Inc., grossed a cool $5.000,000 last year, its 39-year-old founder is more interested in spending his time--and money--trying to preserve the ecological and aesthetic values of his native San Francisco. Thus, when millionaire Lamar Hunt revealed a plan to purchase Alcatraz for a tourist attraction, Duskin ran $5000 worth of ads in the city's two dailies, stating that Hunt's deal would "be as big a steal as Manhattan Island"--and gained enough public support to defeat the project. His current target for protest is a proposed sixth bridge across the Bay, which he says "will bring still more cars into this choked city." But Duskin feels that war is the number-one environmental problem. "I'd trade a redwood any time for the number of people being killed today in Vietnam." So again he's plunged into political waters by campaigning for peace candidates and for the McGovern-Hatfield amendment to halt the war. Duskin, who sees the businessman as "society's last hope"--because "he has more power than the professor or the clergyman"--established (and was president of) ultra-libertarian Ralph Waldo Emerson College. But the school folded after three years, in 1963, and its collapse found him drifting around the Bay Area with little more than his ideals to back him up. Not until he set up shop selling sweaters borrowed from his father's knit factory did Duskin fall into his thing: By adding ten inches to the sweaters, he created a dress never before marketed, and he also originated the "skinny-ribbed" sweater look. Says Duskin, after six years in commerce: "Business is where it's happening. You have to work within the system if you really want to change it."