Leisure sometimes seems a lost cause in the rushed days of December, but nearly every prognosticator asserts that our free time--and new pastimes to fill it--will increase geometrically between now and 1980. For this holiday issue, Playboy asked writers Fredric C. Appel and Alan Adelson and computer pioneer John Diebold to blueprint the widening world of Leisure in the Seventies. In preparing his segment, At Home, free-lancer Adelson spent ten weeks traveling about the country talking to the technocrats of leisure. Wryly, he reports: "I came upon this deluge of puff about the wondrous things coming our way, and all the time I couldn't get a dial tone on my telephone, found it impossible to get in or out of airports and faced the constant threat of being plunged into darkness by a power shortage." After taking a long, hard look at the leisure-planning efforts now being blueprinted for the Seventies, however, Adelson is as guardedly hopeful about the future as his fellow contributors. Appel also toured the nation researching his contribution, On the Town. He lists covering an orgy in Los Angeles for this assignment as the most unusual reporting experience of his career, which has included--in addition to many Playboy pieces--work on a new book about the space program, The Last Frontier, to be published by Aldus Books, Inc., in January. Diebold, the man who made automation a household word not long ago, ventures Out of Town to prognosticate where people will travel during the decade, how they'll get there and what recreational pleasures they'll find.
Playboy, December, 1970, Vol. 17, No. 12. Published monthly by HMH publishing Co. Inc., Playboy Building, 919 N. Michigan Avenue, 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 Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Marketing: Stephen Byer, Marketing Director; Nelson Futch, Promotion Director; Lee Gottlieb, Director of public relations. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Joseph Guenther, Associate Advertising Managers, 405 Park Avenue, New York, New York 10022; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 919 N. Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611; Detroit, Robert A. Mc Kenzie, Manager, 2990 West Grand Boulevard; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter Street; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 310s Piedmont Road, N.E., Atlanta, Georgia 30305.
We hope that you'll accord Saint Nick a warm welcome when he slides down your central-air-conditioning duct on Christmas Eve. Most of you, we trust, acting in the proper spirit, will offer him a hot toddy, gratefully accept his largess and send him on his merry way. But we fear that the prevalence of pop psychoanalysis--especially in the form of encounter-group therapy--could give Santa a bad trip if he inadvertently dropped into the middle of such a session. This leads us to speculate on how some contemporary upper-middle-class Clement C. Moore might record such a confrontation. It would probably be in diary form and go something like this:
On the bookstands, at least, the Chicago Conspiracy Trial drags on and on--and on. Among the current chronicles of that already historic confrontation, The Tales of Hoffman (Bantam) has perhaps the most judiciously selected montage from the injudicious transcript, with a gleefully sardonic introduction by Dwight Macdonald on the cultural significance of the event, which he believes "the young won hands down, on points." Less of the transcript is included in Verdict! (Third Press), but it contains more than 300 drawings by Verna Sadock (some of which appeared on Huntley/Brinkley during the hostilities) as well as a polemical commentary by playwright Joseph Okpaku. Ramsey Clark and law professor Harry Kalven, Jr., provide introductions to Contempt (Swallow), which contains the texts of the contempt citations and responses. For Black Panther specialists, a concise addition to the literature is The "Trial" of Bobby Seale (Priam), which includes only those segments of the transcript that concern Seale along with short, pertinent essays by Julian Bond and civil-liberties expert Norman Dorsen. The first of the defendants to write his own book, Tom Hayden gives his own perspective not only on the proceedings but also on the events leading to the trial and on what must be done to further "the revolution" in the decade ahead. Hayden's Trial (Holt, Rinehart & Winston) is thus a potential blueprint for disruption by a leading architect of what may now be called the old New Left. One of the more astute newspapermen at the trial was J. Anthony Lukas of The New York Times, and his retrospective account--not subject to the blue pencils of Times editors--is a trenchant, though hardly profound, assessment of those assizes. It's called The Barnyard Epithet and Other Obscenities (Harper & Row). The longest and best-written analysis is Jason Epstein's The Great Conspiracy Trial (Random House). Epstein, a Random House editor, has produced what may stand as a durable contribution to both the history of American radicalism and constitutional law. There are more books to come. However, it seems unlikely that, even in hindsight, they will take any kindlier view of those shameful proceedings.
Absent from the screen since her son was born in 1968, Sophia Loren introduces Carlo Ponti, Jr., in a minor role near the end of Sunflower, and he conducts himself like a little gentleman. It's Daddy who produces the burp--which may be too kind a word for this large, soggy, English-language soap opera mounted by Carlo, Sr. Director Vittorio De Sica, co-star Marcello Mastroianni and scenarist Cesare Zavattini--whose collective screen credits would outshine a Roman candle--will also have much to answer for if and when Ponti's seedy Sunflower is unveiled in their native Italy. Most of the film was shot in Moscow and elsewhere in the U.S.S.R., and it describes a post-War pilgrimage through Russia by a Neapolitan woman (Sophia) who refuses to believe that her husband (Mastroianni) died on the Russian front in World War Two. As a matter of fact, she is right, for he turns out to have been a victim of frostbite and amnesia--in that order--now happily settled down with a lovely young Soviet wife (Ludmila Savelyeva, the glowing Natasha of War and Peace), a child, a job, clean subways and top priority on some exemplary-workers' housing list. Bad as it sounds in summary, the movie itself is incomparably worse than any tear jerker ever previously fished from De Sica's bottom drawer. Sophia is once again that earthy Italian supergirl she has played for De Sica and Ponti in countless films. As for Mastroianni, he shows acute discomfort in the role of bigamist, Soviet style.
If (Capitol), a big-band sound set forth by a seven-man group, takes the current rock-jazz trend beyond Chicago and Blood, Sweat & Tears. What Can a Friend Say? and The Promised Land give the musicians time to ramble and, led by Melody Maker poll winners Terry Smith on guitar and Dick Morrissey on reeds, they pour it on with refined power.
For years. Bob (Elliott) and Ray (Goulding) have regaled radio and television audiences with their gentle satires, daft parodies and dry, wry wit. Flip a radio dial and suddenly overhear an indefatigable reporter interview a droningly dull obscurantist and wonder if the act is for real--or Bob and Ray putting you on. For five-minute spots, they are comic geniuses; for a half-hour radio show, they are consistently amusing; but on television, except as guests, they've always seemed a little estranged. Like all the other great radio comedians, their act is essentially aural: quickly changing voices, sound effects, pertinent pauses. Onstage at last in Bob and Ray: The Two and Only, there is a heroic attempt to be visual. William Ritman's set is an antic attic of junk: Gramophones, old Coke machines, iceboxes, Boston Red Sox pennants--the detritus imagined from all the old Bob and Ray patter. But most of the enjoyment is still for the ear rather than the eye: the irrepressible Wally Ballou covering a breaking story in Times Square, ignoring the violence and zeroing in on a cranberry grower who can't tell cran from straw; hard-pressing Gabe Preston on the spot in Washington with a story about edible food packages. Almost any half hour of the Broadway Bob and Ray show is priceless, but their patter is almost entirely interview: Bob quizzes Ray, Ray quizzes Bob. Occasionally, one is live, the other on a TV screen. For variety, Bob quizzes Bob and Ray as the McBeebee twins. Ray falls asleep as Bob plays the president of the Slow ... Talkers ... of ... America. Then Bob interviews Ray, who keeps wild boar in his living room. By the end of the evening, they have hilariously devastated the art of the interview--but they have also worn it out as a theatrical device. Along the way, as in a very funny scene in a restaurant (Bob playing a bemused indulgent waiter, Ray a customer who insists on ordering from a kiddies' menu), they show signs of the diversity they might be capable of onstage. But such successfully theatrical moments don't come often enough to make The Two and Only much more than a radio show with a studio audience. At the Golden Theater, 252 West 45th Street.
A friend of mine has told me that sexual activity encourages the growth of the beard. I told my friend that he is putting me on because he knows I don't make out very often and the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin are few and far between. Is there any truth to what he says?--B. G., San Francisco, California.
The long and distinguished career of Robert Graves began where it might well have ended--in the trenches of France in 1915, when a shellburst nearly emasculated him, "clinically killing me." But Graves obviously resurrected himself and, in the intervening 55 years, has become a famous, sometimes notorious poet, critic, translator, mythologizer and commentator on the passing scene. Now 75, Graves spans our century. He has explored almost all its dimensions in his 130-plus published books, moving through it with a prickly, idiosyncratic style inherited partially from his father, an Irish poet, and his mother, a Bavarian gentlewoman fond of Gothic castles and supernatural legends.
In this age of candor and supercommunication, it has been a pleasure to witness the demise of some of the more irrational and pernicious sex myths. True, many boys still may worry needlessly about masturbation, but (presumably) they no longer believe it will grow hair on their palms, or cause warts, or drive them crazy, or even make them sprout wings. And the average man with a modicum of education probably no longer fears that his sex partner, in passionate embrace, will lock up on him--like a dog--to be pried away only with the aid of a bucket of steaming water.
On The Day before Christmas--this was just a few years ago--in a dusty little dorp in upcountry Malawi, which is in Central Africa, a young man sloped down the main road, alone. The dorp's name was Rumpi and the young man's, Calvin Mullet. He was from Hudson, Massachusetts. The quaint raffia suitcase he lugged could have passed for a picnic hamper, but he was no picnicker.
In keeping with the ebullient holiday mood abroad in the land, the oldest whiskey in the world and the oldest distilled spirits in the United States have donned up-to-the-minute guises. The new Irish whiskey and the new applejack have gone "soft" and are luring a whole new audience of light-and-dry-drink connoisseurs. December--with its river of punches, grogs, nogs, flips and bowls--is the perfect month to test the versatility of the recently introduced Irish and apple spirits.
The pose above portrays Miss Pritchett at ease--an unusual attitude for the model turned movie actress. The 23-year-old Virginia-bred Manhattanite for the past four years has been immersed in a mannequinkilling schedule of shootings for leading fashion magazines and for video commercials. Her first big movie role, in the Czech-made "It's Never Seven Again," entailed several takes of a nude scene (right) in which Paula, shown with director Jan Kadar, appears to a peasant as a "vision."
You're the idol of the talk shows; Man, your repartee is quick. And you've even done a nude scene In a big important flick. So why run down a gridiron And disturb your stylish curls, When your very greatest passes Are the ones you make at girls?
Only a seer with expertise in chemistry, sociology and electronics--for openers--could have predicted ten years ago that smoking pot, attending rock concerts and experimenting with alpha-wave feed-back devices would be among the most popular leisure-time activities by 1970. The accelerating pace of change in both technology and life styles guarantees that the way we amuse ourselves five and ten years from, now will prove just as difficult to predict. Yet a number of trends are already obvious: Television arrived in the American home just as labor-saving devices presented the middle class with quantum increases in discretionary time; now, 20 years later, the national infatuation with the medium appears to be ebbing in favor of more involving and individualized ways of occupying non-working time. Certainly, the sex and drug revolutions will continue apace, and such Orwellian nonchemical ways of altering one's consciousness as electronic brain stimulation will undoubtedly proliferate. Specialization has become a byword throughout the leisure industry: The fragmentation of facilities that can be observed most successfully in bars geared to such groups as young singles, over-35s, swingers and sports-car buffs is now occurring in restaurants, apartment houses, resorts, even schools and universities. At least for the blue-collar worker, the move is on for a shorter work week, with all the rearrangements of living patterns a three-day weekend will entail. And for many categories of creative people, the very distinction between work and play is beginning to break down, as the home becomes an automated extension of the office. It all adds up to more leisure time for almost all of us--a prospect that frightens as many as it pleases. Shortly before his death this past summer, psychiatrist Eric Berne described patients who continually showed an inability to keep their lives together when their time wasn't structured. "They're scared to death," Berne said, "that they're going to have to sit down and find out what's in their heads." Nevertheless, the evidence is that most of us will be using our new time more creatively, adopting personal pursuits that will become as much a part of our identities as our jobs. In the following three articles, two writers well known for their ability to point up new directions and the man whose visionary theorizing in the Fifties earned him the sobriquet Mr. Automation explore the prospects of leisure through the rest of this decade. Alan Adelson reports on the most exciting new uses of the home itself, which has always been leisure's headquarters. Frequent Playboy contributor Fredric C. Appel investigates the broad range of leisure-time pursuits that will be available close to home--new ways to spend an evening or a weekend on the town. And computer pioneer John Diebold takes us out of town to make informed guesses not only about what regions of the world we will most want to get away to by 1980--and how we will get there--but also about the deeper implications of today's quick, inexpensive long-range travel. All three prognosticators consider the new hard- and software we'll be playing with throughout the decade; they also make the point, in their separate ways, that this new gadgetry can dehumanize as well as enhance life. All, however, conclude that the potential pitfalls of the new leisure are outweighed by the promise of self-exploration and -discovery it affords anyone with the energy and imagination to fill--rather than kill--his free time in the Seventies.
This is the Decade, the technocrats vow, when the American home will begin to emerge as a total environment--a place where modern man can live completely. By comparison, the houses and apartment buildings in which most of us now sleep and grab occasional meals will no doubt seem only minor improvements on the log cabin. By 1980, we may never need to leave home and, even more surprising, that may suit many of us just fine. We'll work and learn there, be informed and amused there by a battery of communications and entertainment devices that will enrich our lives more than the present facilities of an entire city. And when we feel like pursuing more personal and participational pleasures, we'll be able to do that at home, too, making today's wildest diversions seem like timid parlor games.
On New York's First Avenue "strip"--running from about 59th Street up to 86th --you can tell a great deal about someone just by which bar he enters. The median age of the crowd at each bar, for example, climbs steadily as you move up the avenue, beginning with the teeny-boppers at 59th, the low-20s at 64th, the around-30s at about 75th, and so on. You can also find bars catering to singles, swinging marrieds, divorcees or homosexuals, to stewardesses, nurses and interns, jocks, cinema buffs, admen, interracial couples, pseudo sophisticates, the literary or the arty crowd. Since the bars change ownership and sales pitches faster than women's fashions, they offer a continuously changing spectrum of social intercourse --often followed by sexual.
Pan am has been talking about a shuttle to the moon; Westinghouse is building a Deepstar to carry passengers to an underwater colony, to live and work 4000 feet below the surface of the ocean--before this decade is half over. You're not likely to go to either place in the near future, of course, unless you happen to be exceedingly brave and utterly fit, and part of the right program. But such journeys will come; and if you're in any of the conventional tourist spots on vacation toward the end of the Seventies--elbowing through the mob scene in the Place de la Concorde, studying the litter of people clinging to every cliff in Yosemite, rubbing the soot out of your eyes on smoggy Waikiki--you may wish that they would come soon.
"Look at democracy objectively. How does an aspirant for office oust an incumbent? By selling himself and his ideas? To a degree, yes; but that is seldom enough. He must attack the policies of his opponent; as he does, people will side with one candidate or the other. Divisive? Of course--but by dividing, we conquer apathy."
The Inspiration for most of my photographic work, I readily admit, comes originally from the great Renaissance painters who, with brush and palette, captured such hauntingly beautiful women on canvas. Although my medium is the camera, I have found that by adopting some of their techniques, and using muted murals or antique tapestries for backgrounds, my pictures can approach their mood of timelessness and tranquillity.
Once I had visions of being a general. This was in Tacoma during the early years of World War Two, when I was a child going to grade school. They had a huge paper drive that was brilliantly put together like a military career.
She didn't think that she would get any trick-or-treaters, so she didn't buy anything for them. That seems simple enough, doesn't it? Well, let's see what can happen with that. It might be interesting.
The Dominant Theme of Chicagoan Carol Imhof's recent past has been change. At 14, she switched from parochial schools and their austere discipline to the more tolerant public school system--and received one of the larger shocks of her adolescence. "The nuns were strictly old school and had made sure I learned their way of thinking. When I changed schools, I suddenly discovered that there were other life styles." Four years after that awakening, Carol became part of today's mostvolatile community: the college campus. Away from home for the first time, she began to develop the most salient quality of her character: a quiet independence of thought and action. When illness forced her to drop out of Southern Illinois University after finishing only half the requirements for her degree, she took it as an opportunity rather than as a setback, returned to Chicago, landed a job as Penthouse Bunny in the Playboy Club and moved into the Bunny Dormitory in Hugh Hefner's Mansion. "I stayed there for eight months and then I got my own place. I liked the other girls, but I wanted to live alone." Although Carol has remained a Bunny--and even finished as first runner-up in the Bunny of the Year contest(see our March 1970 issue)--she's been drifting away from the urban life of Chicago. "First I had an apartment in the city; then I moved to the suburbs; now I want a place in the country, someplace with a lot of greenery." And Miss December expects that one day she'll turn in her Bunny ears--but not for a while. "Right now, I'm getting into other things--especially modeling. When I can get enough free-lance work to support myself, I'll probably leave the Club. It's been wonderful, but you can have too much of a good thing." In her off hours, Carol confesses to one major vice: She loves betting on the horses. A boyfriend began taking her to the track, taught her how to read the Racing Form, and that did it--she was hooked. "After a while, he stopped taking me. Whenever I went along, he lost." She still gets out to the races on occasion--whenever she can find a more compatible escort. For the future, marriage is certain, but not looming; more travel, especially to the tropics, is in the cards. Her modeling career has priority. "I don't really follow fashion much. I would never wear a midi except when I model. It's a designers' conspiracy." Whatever the future, Miss December looks to it with open-minded expectation. "Nobody at parochial school--especially me--would have dreamed I would become a Bunny and a Playmate. I'm sure I'll be just as surprised by whatever happens to me in the next seven years." We think readers will agree that Carol makes a nice Christmas surprise herself.
Stunned by the incredible beauty of their new secretary, the two executives resolved to make her adjustment to the firm their personal business. "It's up to us to teach her the difference between right and wrong," said the first.
Christmas Eve had come around again, as it so often does, and London was at its brightest. Garbage collectors whistled at their work, policemen sang, "'Noel, noel,'" as they directed the traffic and one would not be far out in saying that happiness reigned supreme, except that Egbert Mulliner had got a funny feeling on the left side of his chest when he breathed. Probably nothing serious, but sufficiently funny to make him look in on Dr. Wilbraham Potter, an old school friend of his.
Ecologists and conservationists repeatedly warn us that many species of animals are threatened today. Most of us, in fact, are aware that the whooping cranes, peregrine falcons, alligators, grizzly bears, California condors, ospreys and bald eagles are, thanks to the wonders of science and technology, in danger of extinction.
The star as sex symbol is a phenomenon familiar to anyone who has ever thought twice about the movies. What's changed in 1970 has been the substitution of sex for symbols--and, concomitant with that, a singular paucity of new star names and faces. What film makers seem to want today are bodies--and so, apparently, do moviegoers. In hundreds of hard-core stag-film theaters across the United States, nameless males and females are demonstrating the arts and techniques of lovemaking in all its manifold variations; in many instances, even the pictures themselves lack titles. In perhaps 800 soft-core sexploitation houses, the actors have names of sorts--but few moviegoers ever bought a ticket for Meat Rack because it starred David Calder or Love Me Like I Do to catch a glimpse of curvy Dyanne Thorne. Even Russ Meyer's splendidly endowed heroines, such as Erica Gavin of Vixen, remain anonymous to most of their ardent admirers.
The practice of exchanging Christmas gifts, never a particularly elevated art form, has degenerated precipitously of late. Only a few traditionalists muster the taste, wisdom, imagination and human understanding to match properly the gift with the person--and this, of course, should be the goal of everyone who struggles in vain to express his feelings for friends and loved ones during the rest of the year. If chosen with enough careful malice, though, a Christmas present can cause more satisfying anguish than harsh words and heavy blows to the head with a yule log.
Here's an entree to the new thing in art collecting: exclusively for playboy readers, a three-dimensional multiple designed by artist Ernest Trova. The theme of this many-faceted module, which may be positioned according to the whim of the collector, is a variant of Trova's favorite subject--the human figure, in this case casting a free-form shadow. At Playboy's current circulation of 5,400,000, this ingenious work isn't exactly a limited edition, but the price (free with this issue) is right. The idea delights Trova, who has built entire collections around radio premiums and cereal box-top sendaways. To build your Trova multiple, follow the illustrations on the underflap. When you're through, you'll have a work ofart to use as a Christmas-tree ornament, suspended by a thread, or as a desk or coffee-table conversation piece for all seasons. If bending and folding isn't your bag, just frame the work as is; it's attractive two- as well as three-dimensionally.
The Star-Crossed Romance of Josephine Cosnowski and her Friendly Neighborhood Sex Maniac
Lustiki! read the marquee in letters three feet high. Must be Lithuanian for lust, I mused, jogging from foot to foot to keep warm in the long line of Manhattan art-film fanciers in front of the East Side's smart new Cinema 69, their ascetic faces flushed in anticipation of another evening of artful montages, elegant pans, gracefully executed dissolves. I glanced at the posters that rimmed the box office. One of them read:
It wasn't so long ago (children) that one simply didn't travel to Russia as a routine thing. Years and years ago distance was the thing--it is 1500 miles from Paris to Moscow, and historical accounts of the distance leave permanently in mind how long it took, how hard it was, and how unprofitable the journey for the most publicized 19th Century traveler from Paris to Moscow, who barely made it back, leaving most of his army behind. More recently, the casual traveler was simply not permitted to go to Russia: Tourism was one of those few, blessed subjects upon which V.I. Lenin did not pronounce, and therefore the presumption--during the Twenties and Thirties--was: No. To enter Stalin's Russia, you had to be a journalist, preferably friendly; or a scientist who knew the multiplication tables better than whatever Soviet scientist pleaded for permission to get you in; or Paul Robeson. After the War, it was much the same until after Stalin died; and then, little by little, the curtain was shiftily parted, and a trickle of disinterested Americans came in. By disinterested, I mean Americans who went there other than to make cold war--for instance, the gang of performers who went there to do Porgy and Bess, accompanied by Truman Capote, who wrote memorably about that trip for The New Yorker. I wish I had been there when the articles, translated, were put before the relevant commissars. It must have astonished, and maybe dismayed them, that Capote had such a very good time--verrry suspicious. Visitors to the (continued on page 314) Soviet Russia (continued from page 236) Soviet Union are unpredictable, the Russians have every reason to believe. During the last days of the War, Henry Wallace, only a month or so before F.D.R. replaced him as Vice-President, had traveled to Siberia with Owen Lattimore at his side, to report that he had not seen any of the fabled, and therefore presumably fictitious, concentration camps. A prominent American industrialist had been over there and reported exuberantly that, you had to hand it to Russia, there were absolutely no labor-union problems over there.
No, Annie! Not here on the lawn! What if the President should happen to look out the window and see his Assistant Human Resources Commissioner like this?... I'd be fired! I love you, Roth! I worship and adore you! Never mind the President! If the Vice-President should look out the window I-I could be SHOT! -Let me make one thing perfectly clear--Pass the Glass Wax.