The last of the big-city bosses in America, Richard J. Daley, runs Chicago like a fiefdom. In an era in which eloquence and charisma are considered indispensable political assets, he lacks both to an almost laughable degree. Yet his counterparts, the "new politicians" such as John Lindsay of New York City and Carl Stokes of Cleveland, must sometimes feel like trading a little of their charm for a shot of Daley's power. Chicago's four-term mayor (he runs for an unprecedented fifth term next month) is seen by many as repressively reactionary, by others as an effective, tough-minded executive; but for writers, whose only access to the man consists of press conferences, where he pours out a curious blend of invective and non sequiturs, he is an elusive, complex, almost inscrutable figure. Mike Royko—whose personality portrait of Daley, Hizzoner, is expanded in Boss—Richard J. Daley of Chicago, to be published later this month by E. P. Dutton—began working as a reporter at about the time his subject became mayor 15 years ago. Since then, Daley has accumulated virtually unparalleled political power—he was courted by both Kennedy brothers in their Presidential bids—and Royko has become the star columnist of the Chicago Daily News, exposing the city's political machinery to his corrosive wit and sarcasm. Dick Cavett, the subject of this month's Playboy Interview, has managed to bring to television—in the course of his down-and-up career in that middlebrow medium—a refreshing air of insouciance and intelligence. Since taking over as ABC's entry in the late-night talk-show derby, Cavett has attracted outspoken and provocative guests and given them a chance to tell his unusually loyal audience what's on their minds. In addition to featuring none of the Gabor sisters, Cavett presents such unusual and compelling personalities as Orson Welles, Norman Mailer, consumer crusader Ralph Nader and prison reformer Tom Murton, last month's Interview subject. Turning thetables on Cavett, former Associate Editor Harold Ramis herein interviews the interviewer at length and in depth. George Axelrod, author of such Broadway hits as The Seven-Year Itch and such screenplays as How to Murder Your Wife, contributes this month's lead fiction. Where Am I Now When I Need Me? is the gleeful tale of a tough-luck writer who has the good fortune to meet one of New York's most beautiful, expensive and loony call-girls. A book-length version will be published by Viking Press in May. Another familiar name in this month's fiction line-up is Ellery Queen. In The Three Students, the problem is, of course, academic and, just as naturally, solved with the flair that has made Queen (who is really Fred Dannay) one of the finest mystery writers around. The great white shark is perhaps the most mysterious and terrifying member of a species that has not evolved since its first appearance 370,000,000 years ago. Writer Peter Matthiessen and a film crew sailed off the coasts of Africa and Australia in quest of these vicious predators and, after days of fruitless searching, finally found and photographed several of the sharks. This strange and dangerous adventure is related in Shark!, parts of which will appear in his book Blue Meridian: The Search for the Great White Shark, to be published this spring by Random House. Unlike the shark, man is constantly changing in order to survive. But he'll have to do a hell of a lot better at it, according to Polluted Man, by Articles Editor Arthur Kretchmer. Having givenup hope that the environmental crisis would be met with any kind of official action, Kretchmer decided to consider the problem from the perspective of human adaptability. An exhaustive study of anthropology texts gave him the background he needed to design a new man capable of handling smog, noise, pollution, garbage, computers and his fellow human beings. Anotherform of survival, in the upward-mobile world of business, is studied in Hal Higdon's rules of Executive Chess, a game of moves and strategies as subtle and carefully planned as those of its classical counterpart. Youthful radicalism, a topic that seems to provoke shrill analysis from almost every quarter, is considered in two unusually thoughtful essays by sociologist Richard Flacks and psychoanalyst Bruno Bettelheim, who disagree over The Roots of Radicalism but argue calmly and cogently. To see why many of today's alienated young have flocked to Holland this past year, Associate Travel Editor Reg Potterton and Staff Photographer Alexas Urba visited this liberated land and produced the evocative feature Amsterdam ... and the Girls of Holland Rounding out the issue: The Box, James Kahn's story about some perils of the postal service that go beyond rain, sleet and snow; Ffolkes' Infferno, a vision of the nether regions by the British cartoonist; The Mini Revolution, a test-driven appraisal of the current small-car crop by Contributing Editor Ken W. Purdy; and many other fine features to make yours a memorable March.
Playboy, March, 1971, Volume 18, Number 3. Published Monthly by HMH Publishing Company Inc., Playboy Building, 919 North 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 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Marketing: 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 North 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, 3108 Piedmont Road, N.E., Atlanta, Georgia 30305.
We've often thought there should be a hustler's hall of fame. If there were, we'd expect to find in it most of the acecon artists Barry Rosenberg discussed in his article last April—bandits like Minnesota Fats, Bobby Riggs and TitanicThompson. But there would have to be a corner in this museum for the little guys: the unsung, unknown masters of this or that street-corner shell game who come upon other people's money like inflation—taking it quickly and subtly, and then disappearing. Their game—and it can be anything—is always beautifully designed to weight the odds in their favor. Their talent is usually offbeat or unlikely enough that the sucker doesn't suspect until it's too late that he's taken a gentle shellacking.
The advance blurbs for James Jones's The Merry Month of May (Delacorte) claim that it's "about" the 1968 student/ worker upheavals in France. Actually, it is about another kind of disruption: the sexual self-indulgence, and its effects, of an American family living in Paris-with the revolution de mai as background. Harry Gallagher is a screenwriter having an affair with a scornful black woman named Samantha-Marie, who happens to have a letch for Gallagher's virtuous wife. Gallagher's son, Hill, is a student of cinema at the Sorbonne and every few pages or so he demonstrates his radicalism by calling everything either crap or crud. When he learns about his father and Samantha-Marie, whom he also lusts after, he joins the rock throwers in the streets. Meanwhile, Gallagher's good wife decides to appoint herself surrogate mother to Samantha-Marie and the upshot of this is, yes, that the two end up in bed together. Following that, Gallagher's no-longer-virtuous wife throws herself at the narrator, the family's best friend, who tries to calm her: "Louisa, you're distraught." This narrator, Jonathan James Hartley III, purportedly the editor of a literary review, bears the burden of Jones's style: "Sex, while undeniably pleasant, and not something to be avoided, always seemed to me something that the pursuit of cost a great deal more energy than the final results were worth." Whew. In the end, Hill, his youth ruined for unspecified reasons, retreats to a cave in Spain, clutching his I Ching, while Jonathan James Hartley III, a moral jellyfish like most of the characters in this novel, mutters that if only he had gone to bed with his best friend's wife long ago, when he had the chance, things might not have gone sour. The Merry Month of May is contrived, naive and highly readable, and will probably make its author big bread. But those who have admired his earlier works may wish Jones would reread them before beginning his next book.
Let any reliable movie historian chart the decline and fall of the belly laugh and the awful truth emerges: The god of mirth is moribund in Hollywood. It's too bad, because Hollywood's claim to greatness rests most securely on comedy: Witness the golden age of the silents, dominated by such geniuses as Chaplin, Keaton, Langdon and Lloyd. Though excellent in their way, almost all of the best of recent comedies inspire the kind of laughter that dies in the throat. These satires, built on a bedrock of bitter social commentary—M.A.S.H., Joe, The Boys in the Band and Catch-22—tend to be coldly black rather than sidesplittingly funny. Much less admirable but nonetheless making it are Andy Warhol movies, Robert Downey's Pound and mean spirited creations such as Myra Breckin ridge and Where's Poppa?, which invite audiences to leer and snigger at the creeps on display. We go to see them because today—with lamentably few exceptions—that's what passes for comedy. We pay our money, but do we have much of a choice?
Some of Chicago's most interesting restaurants are off the well-trod sirloin-and-baked-potato trail, and one of the best and newest of these is Bengal Lancers (2324 North Clark Street), less than a two-dollar taxi ride out of the hotel district. It's one flight up, in an unprepossessing brownstone that fronts on an even more unprepossessing shopping street. But you'll forget all that once you're seated in the comfortable "nondecored" dining room and start sampling the Indian food proffered by owners Chablani, Dixit and Shulman. It is merely sensational, particularly the appetizers, which range from samosa (diced potatoes prepared in a blend of a score of spices and stuffed into feather-light pastry rolls) to alu vada (potato balls cooked with mustard seeds) to our favorite, pakora (deep-fried fritters made with chicken, eggplant, mushrooms or shrimp). If you consider yourself a trencherman, try the mulligatawny, too. Otherwise, leave some room for the entrees. The main courses are, you guessed it, curry dishes in varying but consistently delicious guises—chicken and nuts, meatballs (don't knock it if you haven't tried it), beef, shrimp, and a vegetarian curry that is far more exotic than you might imagine. The curries are accompanied by saffron rice with almonds, subzi (a vegetable side dish), cucumber and yogurt, a superb chutney and a choice of two breads, both of which are to American breads what the Taj Mahal is to a White Tower. The dessert menu is limited but includes such delights as gulab jamon—an eclectic amalgam of brown sugar, saffron, honey, almonds and raisins soaked in rose water—and kheer, Indian rice pudding made with saffron and nuts. Appropriately, Bengal Lancers stocks a generous complement of English beers, including Watney's Red Barrel, which provide the perfect coolant for a spicy curry. There is also an assortment of wines available. You won't find one of the Lancers' most beguiling attractions on the menu. It's a sari-garbed waitress named Geraldine, who is pretty, attentive, cordial and ubiquitously efficient. Bengal Lancers is open for dinner every day except Monday from 5:30 P.M. to 11 P.M. (till 1 A.M. Friday and Saturday). Since seating is limited, reservations are advisable on the weekend (929-0500).
After the late Janis Joplin hit her popularity peak, she unloaded the group that had become merely her backup band. But that didn't stop Big Brother and the Holding Company. Their latest album, Be a Brother (Columbia), is a gas. Nick Gravenites has been added to share the lead vocals with Sam Andrew and the LP is a great studio rendering of the happy, love, energy, get-up-and-dance, live-at-the-Fillmore sound. Down at the bottom of the back cover of the album is a list of "Friends" who helped out with the recording. There, in small type, is the name Janis Joplin.
Even if you're a stranger in New Haven, the Yale Repertory Theater is easy to find. Look for an old brick church at the corner of York and Chapel streets with psychedelic stripes framing its tall Gothic entranceway. The jarring juxtaposition of old and new that characterizes the Yale Rep's decor also provides a clue to the policies of artistic director Robert Brustein. A drama critic turned educator, Brustein leans heavily on classics and offbeat new works. The current season, for example, opened last fall with Story Theater repertory, an innovative effort that went on to become a Broadway hit. The second production was The Revenger's Tragedy, a seldom performed Jacobean drama by Cyril Tourneur. The critics hailed leading man Kenneth Haigh but panned the play's pseudo-Shakespearean gore. (One aisle sitter called it Slaughterhouse Ten; students dubbed it Brustein's Folly.) In January came the world premiere of Where Has Tommy Flowers Gone?, by 31-year-old Terrence McNally, one of the hottest playwrights around. Represented in New York with half-a-dozen plays, including And Things Go Bump in the Night, Sweet Eros and Next, he has written his new work as a free-form comedy about a gentle anarchist who chides the establishment: "I love the world; it's what you've done to it that I can't stand." The current production at Yale (ending March 13) is an interpretation of Macbeth that Brustein describes as "an attempt to investigate the supernatural environment of the play in the light of our gown science-fiction tradition." In April, Yale Rep will introduce Jerzy Kosinski's dramatization of his novel Steps, which won the 1969 National Book Award for fiction. Kosinski is Yale's present writer in residence, and the latest in a succession of bright young dramatists, including Sam Shepard and Megan Terry. A musical production, the American premiere of Two by Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill, will close the season. In five years at Yale, Brustein has presented a dozen world premieres, notably Joseph Heller's We Bombed in New Haven, Robert Lowell's adaptation of Prometheus Bound and Jules Feiffer's God Bless. And, of course, MacBird took flight at Yale. Brustein's drive for professionalism has drawn criticism from students who regard a university theater as the domain of trainees. They feel that the import of big names (Sir John Gielgud, Irene Worth. Estelle Parsons, Stacy Keach, Nancy Wickwire, Mildred Dunnock) diminishes their opportunities for juicy roles. Brustein's reply to student flak: "They like to think of themselves as graduate students in a university theater, but actually they're apprentices in a professional conservatory. I came to Yale to create a well-disciplined actor who doesn't play himself over and over again. This has been the curse of the American theater."
I've just returned from a performance of life's longest-running drama: "Man Finds True Love But Gets Dumped On." I could use a few suggestions on how to blot out the feelings of unrequited love, remorse and rage that hinder my return to a happy bachelor existence. In short, I need something to bridge the gap between my deep emotional involvement with a lady in my past and my uncertain faith in meeting a finer woman in the future. Someday, the chip on my shoulder will no doubt be gently removed, but what do I do until then?—A. E., St. Louis, Missouri.
<p>Take all the talk shows in the world and place them format to format on a continuum ranging from trenchant debate to plastic escapism. Then take all the talk-show hosts and line them up lip to lip, with relentless inquisitors at one end and vacuous buffoons at the other. At the point where these, two lines intersect—somewhere near the mid-point of each—there are very few shows that carefully combine serious discussion and comic relief, and attract an audience of millions. "The Dick Cavett Show" is one of these and, as even talk-show haters concede, no one displays a better sense of balance and elegance than its facile host.</p>
This is a Suicide Note. A journal, if nothing more, of these last days. It will, I fear, drag on for a time, as, alas, I shall pull no trigger. Not only would my courage fail me at that final, consummate moment of despair but my wife, Margery, is chairman of the Sane Gun Law Committee of Westport, Connecticut, and, as an example of her good citizenship, is insisting that I turn over to the Westport police my World War Two German P-38. It is rusty, of course, and to my knowledge has not once been fired in joy, much less in anger.
When artist Sebastian Trovato felt the need for more living space than his Manhattan apartment afforded, he decided to seek not only larger quarters but a warm climate as well. So he looked southward and eventually relocated in Miami, attracted by the omnipresence of the city's fabled sun, yet taking wary note of its often blistering intensity. Trovato kept both of these and solar characteristics in mind when he commissioned architect Milton Harry to design the modern Southern mansion pictured on these pages, specifying a superabundance of skylights (there are six in the studio-gallery alone) to take advantage of the natural light, but just a few strategically placed long glass slits to serve the purpose of conventional windows and also limit the penetration of Florida sunrays. The resulting masonry-and-wood structure is a privacy lover's fortress, due to the largely glass-free facade. Not that Trovato's a recluse, but he enjoys the sealed-off: ambiance because it helps him maintain an uninterrupted and productive workday, whether he's wielding brush and chisel or negotiating with a prospective client, since he also keeps his business appointments in the studio-gallery. Though the house looks impregnable from without, there's a refreshing free-to-roam feeling inside and one is subliminally urged to do so by a flowing, uncluttered layout (permanent doors close only the bathrooms) that covers 3800 square feet. The large studio-gallery—featuring a stereo system (that often plays high-decibel opera, to the owner's taste), bar, storage wall and sunken work pit, where guests can peruse the current assemblage of Trovato's work—is really the heart of the place, since both social and creative activities take place there. Also on the ground floor are the kitchen, living room, dining room, pool, bath, utility area and—adjoining the studio—a courtyard. The second story, which is an open bedroom, commands a pleasant view of the pool and tropical foliage below. Trovato has demonstrated yet another facet of his nonlinear artistic talent by designing as well as creating most of the furnishings. The few exceptions are classic Mies van der Rohe pieces. Justifiably proud of his carefully planned sun castle, Trovato says that, unlike the constantly changing display of canvases and sculptures in his studio-gallery, there are no plans for selling this Trovato creation for many years to come.
The primary purpose of evolution, according to anthropologists, is to enable the members of a species to adapt to a hostile environment—as illustrated by the fact that the greatest changes in early man came about 1,000,000 years ago, during successive Ice Ages.
I first saw sharks some 30 years ago, on the fishing grounds off Montauk Point, Long Island. I was a boy then, awed by the silent fin, the shadow in the sea, and when it comes to sharks, I am still a boy today. Big blue sharks and hammerheads were so common off Montauk that one might see 70 in a single day, and once we caught a 13-foot mako that rose to fasten on a hooked tuna. The mako and the porbeagle shark of cold northern deeps share with the great white shark the stiff crescent tail that distinguishes this family of swift ocean swimmers—Isuridae, the mackerel sharks—from other large pelagic species such as the blue and hammerhead, which have asymmetrical tails with the upper lobe more extended than the lower.
Rattlesnake Raceway is a private road circuit, six miles from Midland, Texas, on Route 349, once the, legend-strewn Pecos Trail. I was not called Rattlesnake Raceway out of whimsy: the flat, arid countryside around it, sparsely covered with coarse grasses, tumbleweed, mesquite and other desert vegetation, supports a formidable population of Grotalus atrox. The snakes come out of the bush to sun themselves on the warm concrete of the track, and drivers now and then run over one; sometimes they go back and stone it to death. Out past the perimeter of the property, there are groves of pecan trees, white-dotted cotton fields and, fallow, the warm red Texas earth. This is oil country: There are 58,000-odd people in Midland, and an oil-company headquarters for every 80 of them.
To Understand why authority in this country is under such vehement attack, one must look to American fathers. Just as the ineptitude, moral collapse and failure of nerve of the French aristocracy paved the way for the great Revolution of 1789, so the loss of a distinct role for the fathers has much to do with today's rebellion of the young. Freud found the roots of Victorian emotional problems in the excesses of stern, authoritarian patriarchs. Conversely, if some modern boys engage in rampages, I believe we can trace it to the virtual abdication of their dads from any sort of clear-cut position in the family.
What are the causes of student radicalism? There are good reasons for public puzzlement over this question. After all, we have never had, in our society, such massive and thoroughgoing rejection of our institutions and culture, never before such hostility between the generations. Many Americans can understand protest by hungry or unemployed or tyrannized people—especially when it occurs in other parts of the world—but why should advantaged, well-fed kids rebel against our system? There are all kinds of answers. The most popular theories—it's all a conspiracy, or it's all rooted in the neurotic afflictions of coddled misfits—are the most comforting because they allow us to believe that the problem lies with the students and with controlling them rather than with the system. But such theories rarely have the benefit of test against reality, since they are rarely proposed by men who have walked on a college campus lately, let alone studied student protest firsthand.
Readers of our August pictorial Bunnies of 1970 could have predicted that the step from cottontail to Playmate was in the cards for Cynthia Hall, a representative of the Bunny brigade from the Playboy Club-Hotel at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. Cynthia's own view: "I'm just lucky, I guess. Things seem to have a way of working out for me." Cynthia's determination—as well as her natural assets—helps considerably in making events "work out" for her. Example: After completing a course in dental assistantship, which included a three-month on-the-job-training stint with a dentist in the Chicago suburb of Western Springs, Cynthia found a scarcity of openings for permanent positions in the field. "So I just decided to pack up for my favorite vacation spot, southern Wisconsin, and see if I couldn't find some kind of job there," she reports. At the suggestion of a friend, she applied for employment as a Bunny at Playboy's all-seasons resort at Lake Geneva—and was hired on the spot. Cynthia is enthusiastic about her work. "I think it's been good for me, too," she says. "I used to be shy, but no more. Meeting so many new people has cured me of that. And Lake Geneva is the perfect setting for an outdoor girl like me. I've always been crazy about riding and the stables here at the resort are just fine. I'm also getting a chance to learn a lot more about sailing." Sometimes, though, the pace becomes too hectic. "Every so often," she admits, "I really wish I could just get away and spend some time in a quieter atmosphere. Even though it's great to be able to see top singers or comedians performing every night here, you can begin to feel overexposed to the nonstop entertainment scene. You enjoy it until you realize that you're reaching the point where you're just pretending to have a good time." So when her summer sailing crewmate Jack Galley called to invite her to spend a winter weekend at the comparatively remote—and virtually snowbound—campus of Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire, Cynthia accepted enthusiastically. But she confesses having harbored a few misgivings about the trip. "I'd visited college campuses in the Midwest before," she says, "but never an Ivy League school. I was afraid the students would be either very aloof—you know, snobbish socialite types—or a bunch of bearded radicals. Well, I was wrong on both counts. Most of the guys I met, particularly those studying law or pre-med, seemed to be quite concerned about their educational progress; yet they put their books aside on the weekend to relax. They were very friendly and certainly not revolutionaries." Although the Dartmouth campus and its students made a favorable impression, Cynthia was even more struck by the New England countryside. "The woods, the mountains and the lakes, and the slower pace of life there, seem almost Waldenesque," she recalls. "I really think that someday I might consider moving to New Hampshire, or maybe Vermont. Certainly one could find plenty of places there to enjoy a little solitude." But life in rural New England would provide quite a contrast to her present career at a luxurious resort and Cynthia's not sure she really wants to give up the bright lights of Bunnydom. Whether or not she decides to follow in the footsteps of Thoreau, we can't predict; but guests at Playboy's Lake Geneva spa will be rooting for her to remain in Wisconsin.
The young businessman was enjoying a private afternoon interlude with his secretary when his wife burst into the office and found them in a rather compromising position. "How dare you make love to that woman?" she shrieked.
However Cold Outside, baby, it's bound to be a hot night in when the host makes liberal use of chili peppers. As BrillatSavarin said of a meal sons vin, a Mexican meal without their fiery flavor is like a day without sun. Even so, a chililcss evening would not be entirely chilly, since south-ofthe-border cuisine embraces a vast and varied fiesta of dishes, with an abundance of contrasting or complementing flavors and textures. Hosts in the Southwest have always taken Mexican food for granted. But the farther north you go from the Rio Grande, the more surprised people are to discover that this jubilant fare was around for centuries before the conquistadors were converted to such New World pleasures as tomatoes and corn, chocolate and vanilla.
First came the Mackintosh, a lightweight, waterproof coverall that resembled a walking pup tent; then the trench coat with its crisp military bearing and buckles galore; and then the classic poplin knee-length Alligator. Today, however, gentlemen venturing out for a walk in the wet can choose from an inundation of fabrics and styles borrowed from other areas of fashion and translated into rainwearables that are as handsome as they are functional. A case in point is the coat at right: a Zepel-finished Dacron and cotton canvas double-breasted with outsized collar and lapels, roomy flap patch pockets, half belt and deep center vent, by Gleneagles, $60. Those of you who wish to keep those raindrops from falling on your head can combine it—as we've done-with a cotton velveteen wide-brimmed hat, by Tenderfoot, $14. If you're 5' 10" or over, mid-calf is the correct raincoat length; shorter chaps should stick to styles that end just below the knee.
The membership of The Puzzle Club numbered six (one of whom, Arkavy, the Nobel biochemist, was almost never free to attend a meeting), making it—as far as Ellery knew—the world's most exclusive society.
Arriving at Amsterdam's Centraal Station on the boat train from the Hook of Holland one evening not long ago were three young pilgrims, dressed for the road. They carried back packs and wore military-surplus greatcoats over Levis tucked into lumberjack boots. The two males had hair that flowed past their shoulders; the girl with them wore hers tucked under a stained fedora. They were probably in their early 20s. All three looked as if they had been wandering the planet since birth. They were Americans.
Since Homer's Day, and before, men have trekked off to the farthest reaches of the globe and returned with tales of the gentle beauties they met on their travels—creatures of surpassing grace and understanding, ministering angels who demanded nothing of the male but the privilege of devoting their lives to his care and comfort. These maidens, so the stories went, stayed lovely forever, were unbelievable lovers, fantastic cooks, eternally faithful—and thrifty to boot.
In the cold, ofttimes cruel world of American business past, two paths led to personal success. Opportunists selecting the first (and usually foolproof) route married the major stockholder's daughter. Traditionalists followed a more structured upward path: Join a single corporation, show loyalty and wait for the sword of knighthood to tap you on the shoulder.