The Last Sad Days of the war in Vietnam have seen the slow breakdown of one of the mightiest armies in history. Quiet rebellions as well as near mutinies are commonplace in once-proud American divisions, and "fragging" has become part of the national vocabulary. In Goodbye to the Blind Slash Dead Kid's Hooch, Arthur Hadley, a World War Two veteran, ex-war correspondent and former assistant executive editor of the New York Herald Tribune, brings home the demoralizing reality of winding down the war. To evaluate the situation, Hadley spent two months in Nam talking with officers and Infantrymen with whom he slogged from Delta swamp to DMZ mountain range. The spreading malaise of the war is detailed poignantly by former naval officer John F. Kerry in his testimony before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, presented as a special two-page supplement to The Playboy Forum; somewhat crudely by the grunts themselves in the graffiti of The View from Kilroy's Head; and eloquently by Presidential candidate Senator George S. McGovern, who in this month's Playboy Interview calls our Vietnam intervention "a criminal, immoral, senseless, undeclared, unconstitutional catastrophe." Interviewed by Washington Star syndicated columnist Milton Viorst, McGovern tells how he would end the war if he became President and how--through reallocation of national priorities--America could undergo a social regeneration. Our lead fiction, Hal Bennett's Also Known as Cassius, is the tale of a young black boy who, on one eventful Saturday, makes a dual discovery: sex (delightful) and a parental plan for upward mobility (perverted). This is Bennett's second Playboy story; his first, November 1970's Dotson Gerber Resurrected, has been chosen by Martha Foley for inclusion in The Best American Short Stories 1971. Headlining a potpourri of sports fare, our pigskin prognosticator, Anson Mount, puts his reputation on the line with Playboy's First Pro Football Preview. Mount--an unrivaled expert on the college game--prepared for the pro grid assignment by reading some 500,000 words of scouting reports, then crisscrossed the country interviewing owners, coaches and players. He finds pro football surprisingly universal in appeal: "You see ad-agency executives sitting beside truck drivers and mink-draped dowagers in every stadium." Another game due for increasing popularity is tennis, if veteran champion Pancho Gonzales, whose Net Assets is featured in this issue, has his way. Pancho, who started playing at 12 in the public parks of Los Angeles, now operates a tennis ranch in Malibu for kids. In $8884.42 a Second, an engrossingly authentic account of America's richest horse race, writer Richard Rhodes makes his first appearance in our pages. Rhodes's freelancing--on such diverse topics as coyote hunts and Harry Truman--has proved sufficiently remunerative for him to retire (from editing Hallmark Cards' gift books) and work in his home at Lake of the Forest, Kansas, which he describes as "an ex-posh watering place going downhill. The lake is silting in and choking with kelp." That strikes a responsive chord for Associate Editor David Standish, whose Fish Story fancifully considers the first major skirmish of the Environmental Era, wherein the lovably ugly Asian Walking Catfish tackles water pollution. "My chief inspiration for the story," Standish says, "was growing up near Lake Erie." Contributing Editor Jean Shepherd mines his patented vein of humor-cum-nostalgia in The Mole People Battle the Forces of Darkness, a pastiche of everybody's summer-camp nightmares come true. Shepherd's latest book, Wanda Hickey's Night of Golden Memories, and Other Disasters, is due shortly from Doubleday. Also awaiting publication is Robert Sheckley's collection of short stories, Can You Feel Anything When I Do This?, scheduled for December, again by Doubleday. (The title story appeared in Playboy in August 1969.) Sheckley now lives on the island of Iviza, locale of this month's Three Sinners in the Green Jade Moon--a kind of gastronomic Rashomon. One of Sheckley's characters nearly gorges himself to death on rijsttafel; Joseph Wechsberg faced a somewhat similar problem while researching Champagne Country. "A difficult assignment," he says, "because champagne no longer agrees with me, and my friends there always insist on a glass. They drink champagne from nine A.M. to nine A.M." The bubbly with which a wedding is toasted all too often turns to matrimonial vinegar, Morton Hunt finds in The Future of Marriage. His July 1970 Playboy article, Man and Beast, recently won a Claude Bernard Science Journalism Award from the National Society for Medical Research. Hunt, who is currently writing a book on violent crimes, might well take note of the novel homicidal technique proposed by Ray Bradbury in My Perfect Murder. Bradbury, one of the world's masters of fantasy and science fiction, is launching into new fields: musical productions of two of his works and collaboration with composer Lalo Schifrin on a cantata, Pius the Wanderer, or Space Madrigal. Winding up our August offerings are photographer David Hamilton's portfolio, The Age of Awakening, to be published in September by William Morrow & Company as part of Dreams of a Young Girl (with text by Alain Robbe-Grillet), and the Bunnies of 1971. All in all, a bountiful summer harvest.
Playboy, August, 1971, Volume 18, Number 8. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States, 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: Stuart Shaw, Director of Corporate 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, William F. Moore, Manager, 818 Fisher Building; 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.
Although the event was billed as "A Dialog on Women's Liberation," New York's cultural elite and hundreds more in sold-out Town Hall one recent evening thirsted for more than a dialog. It was to be Norman Mailer vs. The Amazons. Mailer, long castigated by all sectors of fem lib as a sexist pig, had compounded his chauvinist sins with a long article, "The Prisoner of Sex," in Harper's. And since he was to be the chef-d'oeuvre of this night of the long knives, there had for weeks been conflicting portents and rumors of the impending comeuppance of Mailer or, alternatively, the dialectic rout of the female field. Several prominent women in the movement at first accepted and then abruptly refused to take part in the contest. (Pressure, it was said, had been applied by radical female cadres.) And there were reports that bands of Harpies and Furies might disrupt the meeting.
At the risk of having the male-chauvinist gauntlet thrown in our face, we'll venture the observation that the principal difference between Lily Tomlin on Laugh-In and Lily Tomlin at Chicago's Mister Kelly's was her adoption of a noticeably no-bra look for her nightclub act. Also very apparent were Miss Tomlin's superior talents as a live comedienne and an adroit actress. She welcomed her audience by congratulating it for "smiling, laughing and chattering when you're so miserable inside," then gave just a quick flash of her high school cheerleader routine ("Gimme a 'P' ..."). A rapid transformation (accompanied by much anticipatory applause) into Ernestine--the pinch-faced prototypical phone operator on the pipe with Mr. "Veedle"--was followed by an outrageously inventive remembrance of her friend Lucille, a rubber freak who went from eating rubber bands to downing erasers to chewing on doorstops, the backs of shag rugs, spatulas, garden hoses, and who finally blew her mind in a Playtex girdle factory. Lily informed us that Lucille kicked the habit and is now just an alcoholic. Miss T. then did a Jekyll-and-Hyde bit and became the world's oldest beauty authority (with a voice like Margaret Rutherford's), whose secret salve is Johnson's Glo-Coat and who rubs away wrinkles while reciting, "Lines, lines, go away / Go and visit Doris Day." Another magic transformation turned her into that beloved brat Edith Ann, who likes hamster sandwiches, puts peanut butter on her baby brother's head to kill the cooties and is going to be a pizza lady when she grows up. The high point of the evening, though, was Lily's reminiscences of life as a teenager at a high school dance of the Fifties. She miraculously captured every awful nuance of the greaser milieu. Television may have provided the springboard for Miss Tomlin's success, but she has all the equipment to make it big in any medium.
It's probably safe to say that The Onion Eaters (Delacorte/Seymour Lawrence) is the funniest novel ever written about triorchism, a malformation of the male sex organs that J. P. Donleavy's hero calls his "testicular trinity." The hero, Clayton Claw Cleaver Clementine (a direct American descendant of the Irish Baron Clementine of the Three Glands), has girlfriends who go out of their minds counting. Anyway, young Clementine, who has not been at all well, has been lent a castle in the west of Ireland by his great-aunt, her idea being that the air--or something--will do him good. The estate is called Charnel Castle; the name of the cook is Miss Ovary; and before long, the place is crowded with a curious group of strangers--Erconwald, Franz Decibel Pickle, George Putlog Roulette, Mr. and Mrs. Lead Kindly Light. There are also Major and Lady Macfugger from the castle next door. The whole thing is like one great profane rewrite of Pilgrim's Progress. Erconwald, who is something of a modern alchemist, is trying to extract a powerful aphrodisiac from deadly mamba snakes--when he isn't mining for gold under the floor of the grand hall. The Lead Kindly Lights would be saving souls but for her tendency to get into brawls and Mr. L. K. L.'s tendency to end up in bed with any available lady. There are drunken feasts, bullfights in the courtyard, an army of insurrection just over the hill, a yachting disaster and (something here for everyone) an all-night homosexual tea dance. It all ends with explosions, fires and a monumentally grotesque costume ball. The Onion Eaters is full of every sort of excess, written in the speedy, almost shorthand style that will be familiar to the readers of Donleavy's first novel, The Ginger Man. Quite often, it's very funny, indeed, sometimes it's merely chaotic and sometimes, when Clementine finds time to muse on such matters as prayer and confession, there are even hints that it all might mean something.
The hero of Thomas Mann's classic 1913 novella, Death in Venice, is a World-famous writer who goes to the fabled city on holiday and conceives a discreet but consuming passion for a beautiful young boy lodged at his hotel on the Lido. Ultimately he dies, either of the plague that infests the city or of the scalding sun and dry sirocco wind that stir impulses buried by a lifetime of dedication to art. From Mann's memorable study of decadence and stifled desire, director Luchino Visconti has wrought a subtle, stunning, richly romantic evocation of time and place that all but begs to be judged not only in film terms but as painting and literature. Visconti's turn-of-the-century Venice is a cinematic dream, whether in the narrow, fetid alleyways where the doomed protagonist, Aschenbach (Dirk Bogarde), follows his quarry to the brink of disaster or at the sun-drenched shore, where aristocratic ladies stroll under white parasols and scraps of multilingual conversation float in a midsummer haze. Bogarde gives a superior performance, more difficult than it looks, because the film has almost no action and very sparse dialog. Thus, everything that happens must show in his face, which gradually becomes a grotesquely rouged, translucent mask reflecting images of death. Perhaps to minimize the literary aspects of the tale, Visconti has changed Aschenbach from a writer to a composer (two Mahler symphonies provide appropriate accompaniment on the sound track) and has worked in some flashbacks to establish the hero's heterosexual past as normal husband and father. There is also an attempt to spell out his inner conflicts in remembered debates with a pupil--a redundant addition to the cast--who argues for a world of sense and feeling as opposed to austere intellectual and spiritual values. Inevitably, there are slow spots. Death in Venice grants nothing to audiences who would spurn a classic for the giddy excitements of pop art. Yet seldom has a great writer's work been transcribed to the screen with such fidelity and taste; to call this a homosexual story would be like calling Hamlet a play about incest at court. It's all here, an unforgettable vision: a civilized man going quietly to pieces amid a world of potted palms and gleaming silver, his agony scarcely noticed by the elegant, remote Polish woman (Silvana Mangano, exquisite in palest chiffon) whose son he cherishes. As young Tadzio, the loved one, Björn Andresen has the face of a Botticelli angel and the unisexual symmetry of form that made many a lad's fortune in ancient Greece.
Echoes of Jimmie Rodgers and Woody Guthrie, country-and-western exuberance, Gospel and blues all blend and surge forward in a continuous flow of music. The scene is a relaxed private jam for some of the best rock musicians in the business and the record is Delaney and Bonnie's Motel Shot (Atco). The joy and intensity in these grooves are rarely heard in such an all-star production, but the Bramletts are in charge all the way and this is their music to an extent not felt in their other albums. Bonnie is particularly outstanding in Will the Circle Be Unbroken and the bluesy Don't Deceive Me; Delaney does wonderful things to the traditional Going Down the Road Feeling Bad; Leon Russell's piano is a constant delight--everybody backs, fills and supports with power yet restraint. This record is one of the best things ever to happen in rock music.
Narrative leaped off the page onto the stage and became Story Theater--no intervening playwright, just an inspired ensemble of actor-creators led by the improvisational wellspring Paul Sills. With the success of his well-reviewed evening of Grimm's fairy tales, Sills has added an evening of Ovid, in repertory--the notion being that Ovid would complement Grimm as an X to a GP. Metamorphoses deals mostly with gods descending to earth for sport. They "honor" mortals with their sexual presence; these mythic woods are thronged with molested maidens--seduced and abandoned by Jove and transformed by a jealous Juno into a cow or some other creature. Since transformation is the key to Metamorphoses--gods with human appetites, people turned into beasts, stones and even stars--it would seem most malleable material to be shaped by the Story Theater method. But something has gone awry. For one thing, the play is not sexy enough. Arnold Weinstein's intentionally anachronistic translation seems somewhat earth-bound. This is partly the fault of the players, talented as usual but not pushing themselves deep enough into their artistic resources. Exempt from all criticism, however, is the astonishing Paul Sand, who wears his anthropomorphic mantle like a magic cape. Donning it, he is transformed into a Circe-resisting Picus, a zinging Mercury, a hot-rodding Phaëthon harnessed to the chariot of the sun. Sand's winged comic genius transcends the show. At the Ambassador, 215 West 49th Street.
For a number of months, I've been in love with a girl, but I've bent over backward to avoid making sexual advances, as she insisted she wanted to be a virgin bride. Now I find upon returning from a two-month stay in the Midwest that she has given away her virginity. She told me that I was the one who made her see the light. I smiled through my tears but couldn't think of a thing to say. What do I do now?--A. W., San Francisco, California.
<p>A blustery Bronx dawn greeted George McGovern one day last March. For the sanitation men he was to meet--Latin, Slavic, black, Mediterranean--the dreary morning began as usual: with the cluster in the cold before their trucks, the ritual daily "shape-up." To the accompaniment of reporters, tape recorders, audio cables and film crews, the Senator approached them cautiously, with a hand advanced and a small smile. His manner was polite, almost timid, with none of the backslapping bonhomie of a Rockefeller, the easy grace of a Kennedy nor the volubility of a Humphrey. He acted as if he felt that even a candidate for the Presidency should observe a certain decorum among people he doesn't know very well.</p>
Sometimes, as she sewed and rocked in shadows, listening to classical music on the radio, my mother would comment that appearances can be very deceiving. She particularly cautioned me against men who are not men and women who are not women--she called them "funny" people--and made me aware at an early age that things are rarely what they seem to be. So that by the time I was 12 years old, there was a running debate in my mind about things as they are and things as they seem to be.
Bunny Bid, a two-year-old colt (a male, that is; a female of the same age is a filly), lost America's leading quarter-horse race by a neck, and with it lost a healthy share of a purse that, in all three divisions of the race, totaled $670,000. That is more purse than thoroughbred racing's triple crown. Bunny Bid did not go home impoverished. He picked up $83,817 for his owners, a group of six horse fanciers who operate out of Chillicothe, Texas. But the difference between second and first place, between a neck behind and a neck ahead, was $94,671, and that's a hell of a lot of money for a neck. Or think of it in terms of time: Bunny Bid's time was 20.14 seconds, the winning horse's time 20.09 seconds. Ninety-four thousand, six hundred seventy-one dollars for five hundredths of a second. This side of aborted Apollo missions, you don't find money like that anymore. Money's not all of what quarter-horse racing is about, by far, but it does give you some perspective on the form.
In contrast to the sleek machines shown on these pages, one of the most famous early bicycles--a wooden hobbyhorse developed by Baron Karl von Drais in 1816--was awkward, heavy and without pedals. The cyclist propelled it by shuffling his feet along the ground--no easy rider he. Foot pedals were devised some 20 years later and the bicycle's popularity really started rolling. In 1878, a penny-farthing--that immortalized model with the enormous front wheel--carried a price as high as its rider, around $300 (that's $1000 by 1971's inflated standards). Then, near the turn of the century, cyclists climbed down from their dizzy perch to try the first safety bicycle, an early variation of the balloon-tired, chrome-covered steed that, by the early Thirties, had become every paper boy's means of rapid transit. Today, of course, bikes are back where they started--in the hands of adults. Ecologists and other experts on urban survival point to the bicycle as the most healthful, pollution-free way to travel. And after taking a spin on one of the slimmed-down styles pictured here, we think you'll agree that two wheels can be as exhilarating as four.
For taking the heat off a sultry summer's day and for taking it easy at serving time, it's difficult to imagine anything better than a huge platter of deviled lobster salad in the shell served in the cool of your blessedly air-conditioned digs. You should start with lobsters freshly boiled by yourself, if you can get them live, or else by your seafood dealer. In any case, our recommended one-and-a-half-pound lobsters should be boiled ten minutes and not a second longer; this will keep the meat from toughening. Transforming freshly boiled lobsters into salad will then be smooth sailing. The accompanying julienne (concluded on page 176)Cooling it(continued from page 98) potato salad takes somewhat more time and patience, but if you own a razor-sharp knife and if your kitchen is a heat-resistant oasis, you'll enjoy assembling this cold meal-on-a-platter salad.
Canaries may Sing in cages, but knowledgeable bird watchers will tell you that most warblers give their best performances unfettered. That's the way it is for blithe-spirited Cathleen Lynn Rowland, our August Playmate, who's currently trying to sing her way into a recording career. Cathy's entire life style is deliberately unstructured: "Sure, I could make more money if I took a full-time job," she told us, "but I just won't be tied down. So I work through a temporary-office-help agency in Los Angeles, taking secretarial jobs a few days at a time--for a group of engineers here, contractors there--and, together with a few modeling assignments I get occasionally, that brings in enough bread to pay the rent." It doesn't, unfortunately, provide sufficient funds to enable Cathy to engage a personal manager; so, in her efforts to further her musical career, she makes the wearying rounds of recording companies and talent agencies herself.
From the helicopter at 1500 feet, the nightmare moonscape of Vietnam--a description that springs automatically into the mind of everyone who flies above this blasted, seared country--appears exotically beautiful and cool. Flying north, there are sharp green mountains on the left horizon and on the right bright-blue sea, as if a painter had smeared Caribbean colors upon the harsh coast of Greece. Beneath pass sections of totally desolate ground, first defoliated, then torn apart by gigantic Romes (tractors twice the size of tanks, named after their Georgia manufacturer), whose steel dozer blades churn through forests or jungle, leveling the land. Their unit motto: "We prevent forests." Throughout these dead wastes are strewn thousands of back-yard swimming pools--bomb craters and shell holes from previous actions, the rain water in them now multicolored from poisons thrown in by both sides to make it undrinkable. Through these nonplaces, this stubble where nothing lives, "we" and "they" sneak by night sowing booby traps.
Keeping cool is a breeze in this trio of summerweight knits that lend pleasurable patterns to your life style. Left: Polyester knit with hexagonal print is cut like a dress shirt, comes with double-button cuffs, by Van Heusen, $13. Center: French-front, polinosic-cotton knit with allover angel print features long-pointed collar, barrel cuffs and square-cut bottom, by Nik-Nik Man, $20. Right: Car-print cotton-Avril-rayon knit shirt with long-pointed collar, double-button cuffs and patch breast pocket, by Catalina Martin, $12.
Over a century ago, the Swiss historian and ethnologist J. J. Bachofen postulated that early man lived in small packs, ignorant of marriage and indulging in beastlike sexual promiscuity. He could hardly have suggested anything more revolting, or more fascinating, to the puritanical and prurient sensibility of his time, and whole theories of the family and of society were based on his notion by various anthropologists, as well as by German socialist Friedrich Engels and Russian revolutionist Pëtr Kropotkin. As the Victorian fog dissipated, however, it turned out that among the hundreds of primitive peoples still on earth--many of whom lived much like early man--not a single one was without some form of marriage and some limitations on the sexual freedom of the married. Marriage, it appeared, was a genuine human universal, like speech and social organization.
Champagne is the most famous wine on earth, the most difficult to make, the most frivolous and the most expensive. Other superlatives would be justified. Champagne is the wine of wines, used for the launching of ships, romances and marriages, all of which founder occasionally, perhaps from the wrong champagne. It's used as an aphrodisiac by aging roués and as an alibi by ladies of all ages who later wonder how on earth it could have happened. Champagne has that effect. It doesn't make you drunk--just exhilarated and irresponsible. During the Naughty Nineties, men would drink it out of the slippers of ladies who were no ladies. A pity, really, if it was good champagne. "Unless specified in detail, all drinks are champagne in Lottie's parlor at Shepheard's Hotel," Evelyn Waugh wrote about the Roaring Twenties in Vile Bodies.
I've Played Tennis almost all my life and I've tested just about every model and type of racket ever dreamed up. I've used wood, steel, aluminum and alloys. I've used gut of varying weight and strength, and even steel wire. And I've played on every type of court conceivable--and, in some cases, inconceivable--in every part of the world, and in some places that were definitely out of this world.
These days, only one national pastime outranks fretting about environmental pollution--and that's polluting the environment. This may not sound precisely like the fastest way to solve the problem, but it does assure us of plenty to fret about. And I would be among the first to raise high my aluminum beer can in praise of the unwavering moral outrage that we share--if it weren't for one thing.
Playboy's bunny beauty contest, now entering its third year, mirrors the mobility of today's freewheeling society. Finals of the first contest, at which the Bunny of the Year--1970 was chosen, were held at the Playboy Club-Hotel at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin; the following year, the arena was switched to the newly acquired Playboy Towers hotel in Chicago, where the pageant served as an opening celebration for our refurbished hostelry. And the Bunny of the Year--1972 will be named at a gala spectacle next March in the Playboy Club-Hotel at Great Gorge, New Jersey, which is scheduled to open in mid-December of this year. The Bunnies also reflect the liberated life style of the Seventies--Jane Fonda is gradually replacing Jackie Onassis on their list of most admired women--but they exhibit a heightened interest in educational and career advancement, too, says Toni LeMay, Playboy's International Bunny Director and a Bunny Mother since 1963. Toni credits much of this development to Playboy's tuition-reimbursement program and its policy of promoting Bunnies to management positions--as Bunny Mothers, catering managers, room directors and the like. One cottontail constant, however, is beauty, as evidenced by the selections on these pages. Playboy keyholders will vote for their contest nominees early next year; herewith we present a preview of the probable competition. After you've scrutinized these likely candidates and their hutchmates at the Clubs, you be the judge: Who would be your Bunny of the Year?
Professional Football, as 40,000,000 neglected wives and girlfriends will readily agree, has displaced baseball as the Great American Spectator Sport. Armchair psychologists go so far as to speculate that football is much more closely attuned than baseball to the American psyche. It delivers a weekly package of controlled violence mixed with intricate teamwork and superspecialized skills, plus the joy and strife of regional chauvinism, packaged in all the color and gimmickry that American showbiz know-how can concoct.
In enlisted men's latrines and officers' bathrooms, in the dingy toilets of Saigon bars, in hospital johns and dining-hall men's rooms, wherever men in Vietnam relieve themselves, they also relieve their tensions by writing on the walls. It is not an easy job. The establishment paints and repaints to smother and cover the poetry and cursing; in some cases, black paint is used as a final solution. But the GI remains undaunted. He writes in pen and pencil and finally in chalk or penknife or bayonet. He is determined to have his say--to leave his mark.