Los Angeles: Charles Manson really could not have happened in any other city. It wasn't the crime so much as the juxtaposition of extremes. Actress Angela Lansbury reportedly sent her daughter off with the grubby nomad--giving her her blessings and a "To whom it may concern" to that effect. The sleazy and the glamorous have cohabited in that city for a long time now. Just beneath all the glittering romance that Hollywood has sold about itself, there is the slightly terrifying reality you find in the detective fiction of Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald, or in the satire of Nathanael West. We couldn't think of a writer better equipped to understand Los Angeles than John Clellon Holmes, who has reported on the splendid old cities of Europe for the past two years and seemed due for a change. In this case, an extreme change. In Search of Los Angeles doesn't arrive at perfect understanding, but it is California Holmes is talking about, so we forgive him.
Playboy, May, 1972, Volume 19, Number 5. 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: Victor Lownes, Director of Creative Development; 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.
Nostalgia lovers that we are, we were gladdened to receive, a while back, a letter that awakened dim genetic memories of goldfish swallowing, dance marathons and Coca-Cola trays. Let us share it with you:
Mercury Records threw a press party for Chuck Mangione just prior to his recent Carnegie Hall concert. Amid friends and flacks, booze and Swedish meatballs, Chuck told us something about himself and the 50-odd people who were to perform his music on this occasion. Consisting of associates (Chuck's jazz quartet), members of the Rochester Philharmonic, students (he teaches jazz at the Eastman School of Music) and confreres, the orchestra reflected some of the same heterogeneity that marks Chuck's special blend of jazz, show music, rock, folk, classical, Latin, country and Gospel--the whole spectrum. After graduating from Eastman in 1963, he toured with Art Blakey, Woody Herman and Maynard Ferguson and began his life as a composer, which finally led him to his Together suite, parts of which were blaring from a loud-speaker while we talked. Also in attendance was Mr. Charles Mingus, who digs Chuck's music for its polish and drive and because its popularity signals a trend away from the creative strictures of rock and pop. "Young people want something better," says the Great Bear (whose girth and good humor have both grown since we last saw him). Discussion ensued of youth and music, of pollution in the record business and of Mingus' own long-awaited concert, which was to take place three nights thence.
Fanciful interpretations of familiar objects have always fascinated pop artist-sculptor Claes Oldenburg, creator of outsized vinyl ice-cream cones, hot dogs and layer cakes, a melting pay telephone, shriveled plastic commodes and enormous fabric shirts and ties. "I am concerned with the looks of common objects," he once explained, commenting on the body of work that brought him international stature as both the most imaginative and the most venerable representative of the pop movement, "with the change that such objects assume if put on another scale or into different materials."
In The New Sexuality: Myths, Fables and Hang-Ups (Doubleday), Father Eugene C. Kennedy, professor of psychology at Chicago's Loyola University, coolly assesses the beliefs of those who reduce sexual intercourse to its lowest common denominator: games strangers play. Too much sex too soon, he maintains, leaves people "frozen at the adolescent stage of sexual development," incapable of achieving genuine intimacy with a human being of the opposite sex. Such people, he suggests, may be acting out their most childish sexual impulses under the guise of being sexually liberated. The most intense excitement at an orgy, for instance, comes less from what people are doing to one another than from the exhibitionism and voyeurism characteristic of children first discovering their bodies. Sex, Father Kennedy argues, cannot be used to solve all problems, to satisfy all needs, and he makes light of the national tendency to seek easy answers to sexual problems from experts: "Middle-class America buys the answers masterfully rewritten for every audience from the put-on sex of Cosmopolitan to the wonderfully middle-brow 'New hope for your sex life' pieces in the Reader's Digest." Father Kennedy dissects modern myths--that everything is all right as long as no one gets hurt, for example, or that acting without restraints proves a person is "free"--as he reaches for a deepening, intensifying concept of the sexual experience. Crudely expressed, his aim seems to be to caution people against doing it more and enjoying it less. His understanding of what is required for the fullest enjoyment of sex will ring true to sexually sophisticated men and women--who may be a bit puzzled to find such understanding of the subject in a Catholic priest.
Bixby's Warehouse, located at 1211 Connecticut Avenue, N. W., in Washington, D. C., is unusual in both name and atmosphere and negates the idea that dining establishments featuring French food must be pretentious. The restaurant seats 200 amid eclectic decor that has something of the sporting house about it. Antique French tapestries and other hangings share wall space with poster originals; theater lights pick up the rich, dark backgrounds; and a trio of huge crystal chandeliers hangs over an equally huge rectangular bar in the very center of things. Vying for attention is an array of friendly young college-bred waitresses who eschew aprons and wear whatever suits them. Highly experienced they are not, but few patrons seem to mind. Youth, in fact, both serves and is served at Bixby's; many of the regular and quasi-regular midday customers are junior executives who seem to know one another. Evening dining by candlelight is more sedate. Music ranging from rock to Bach is purveyed by a fabulous sound system--$15,000 worth of equipment that includes 68 ceiling-mounted J. B. Lansing speakers driven by 800 watts of continuous-output power from four McIntosh amplifiers. (Needless to say, the system is rarely-used at full volume.) The cuisine at Bixby's has a part-American accent at lunch, with Eggs Benedict and London Broil established favorites, but is distinctly Gallic at dinner. Specialties then include Saumon Champagne (salmon poached in the bubbly), Crabe en Chemise Gratinée (the chef gives you the shirt off his crepe skillet here) and Steak Diane Flambé. Flaming desserts are also a specialty. (Try the dramatically prepared Omelette Norvegienne--a sort of super Baked Alaska for two.) The wine list is unbalanced in spots but rates a plus for offering a dozen-odd selections at four to five dollars a bottle. Eating at Bixby's is a la carte and moderately expensive. Luncheon entrees start at $2.35 and stop at $3.95, except for steak. At dinner, the range is from $4.75 to $8.50. A 15-percent optional gratuity charge is added to the bill to relieve you of the bother of tipping. There is no charge for the pleasant, hang-loose atmosphere. Bixby's Warehouse is open from 11:30 A.M. to midnight Monday through Thursday, 11:30 A.M. to 2 A.M. Friday, 6 P.M. to 2 A.M. Saturday, closed Sunday. Reservations are essential for both lunch and dinner (202-659-1211). All major credit cards are accepted.
Producer John Foreman, a business partner of Paul Newman's, struck it lucky at the box office by teaming Newman with Robert Redford in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. So, naturally, he has gone on to co-star New-man with Lee Marvin in Pocket Money--only the movie just doesn't jell. There's lots of ricky-tick music on the sound track to set the tone for a contemporary Western about two bumbling born losers, and scenarist Terry Malick has supplied reams of whimsical dialog. Unfortunately, director Stuart (Cool Hand Luke) Rosenberg shows little aptitude for guiding actors through anything so frolicsome and reduces his two potent stars to playing up to the audience instead of playing their parts for real. Because he is permitted to be himself--an established celebrity on location with a movie that might well have been fun to make--Marvin comes off the better of the two. Newman looks less comfortable and less convincing as an inept, happy-go-lucky cowpoke who travels down to Mexico to buy 250 steers for a rodeo, lands in jail and ultimately gets cheated out of his wages. Money's principal asset is contributed by director of photography Laszlo Kovacs, who filmed Easy Rider and Five Easy Pieces and has the knack of rediscovering every locale with freshness and vigor. Here, his eye-grabbing excursions take off from the border town of Nogales, Mexico, and are soon outasight.
If Maurice Ravel could rearrange it for orchestra, why can't Emerson, Lake & Palmer rework Moussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition (Cotillion) for their own nefarious, culture-puncturing, rock-'n'-roll purposes? Of course they can, and they did, and the result is pretty interesting, if not always musical. This live recording, technically excellent, shows E., L. & P. to be one of the most proficient rock bands in the world. They've captured the impressionistic spirit of parts of Moussorgsky's suite, as in The Hut of Baba Yaga, and added their own elsewhere, as in the great bass feedback blasts of The Gnome and at the beginning of Blues Variation. The last is the best thing on the record. The worst is Nutrocker, apparently an encore based on--you guessed it--and hammered out on Keith Emerson's deliberately out-of-tune electric piano. There is some weird and exciting music here. It's the kind of thing that should be tried more often.
Al Carmines, that piano-playing minister from Greenwich Village's Judson Memorial Church, has composed scores of scores. Push a Carmines button and out comes a melodic musical comedy. But even when he writes his own book, his musicals seem to have book, trouble, and his changing collaborators fare no better. Wanted, with a book by David Epstein and music and lyrics by Carmines (with an occasional assist on the lyrics from Epstein), at least begins with an enticingly subversive notion. The comic villain of the piece is J. Edgar Hoover--oops, Jacob Hooper. The heroes are four of America's most wanted bandits--Billy the Kid, Jesse James, Ma Barker and John Dillinger--herein seen as an oppressed minority hounded by the lawless FBI and its malefic top G man. The authors have collapsed time so that the four good-bad guys inhabit the stage simultaneously and are soon in collusion against Hooper. A refreshing idea, but the book is padded and much of the humor is arch. Epstein uses a scatter-gun when the evening should have been pistol-sharp. Carmines' contribution, on the other hand, is a joyful burst of blues, ballads and Western songs--which deride the range with acerbity and ribaldry. The performers are right on target for this cops-and-cowboys comic strip. Lee Guilliatt is gruff and tender as Ma Barker and Merwin Goldsmith makes a super Hooper, looking like a cross between George Wallace and Jonathan Winters. If for nothing else, the show would be memorable for the final moment, when Hooper, a raging misogynist, suddenly confronts his nemesis Ma Barker for the first time and dissolves in quivering adoration. A spotlight strikes his shining face and in a glowing Carmines tune, he blissfully confesses, "It's love." At the Cherry Lane, 38 Commerce Street.
I've been married for seven years to a man who has provided me with an attractive home and almost everything else I could want. Unfortunately, a longtime friend has recently become my lover and thinks I should remain married while he finishes his professional schooling, after which he will be able to provide me with the kinds of material possessions my husband does now. Frankly, if he said, "Let's get married," I'd leave my husband. I'm sure that my lover is sincere, but he has a mind like an adding machine. I don't like to hurt anyone and I prefer to be a one-man woman. Where do we go from here?--Mrs. L. B., Chattanooga, Tennessee.
Over the past 16 years, Howard Cosell has earned an enviable reputation for "bringing to the light of public scrutiny," as he might put it, sports' most controversial dealings and misdealings. He has also earned an unenviable reputation as an opinionated son of a bitch. As a result of both, Cosell has become the best-known and most listened-lo sports commentator in the business. Cosell's pontificating commentaries and melodramatic inquisitions--his trademarks--have made him a topic of hot debate among athletes as well, whose opinions of his worth run the gamut from Joe Namath's glowing appraisal, "He's the best there is," to Dick Butkus' succinct estimate, "Horseshit!"
Funeral services for the murdered man were held in the Unitarian church in the little village of St. Botolphs. The architecture of the church was Bulfinch with columns and one of those ethereal spires that must have dominated the landscape a century ago. The service was a random collection of Biblical quotations closing with a verse. "Amos Cabot, rest in peace/Now your mortal trials have ceased...." The church was full. Mr. Cabot had been an outstanding member of the community. He had once run for governor. For a month or so, during his campaign, one saw his picture on barns, walls, buildings and telephone poles. I don't suppose the sense of walking through a shifting mirror--he found himself at every turn--unsettled him as it would have unsettled me. Once, for example, when I was in an elevator in Paris, I noticed a woman carrying a book of mine. There was a photograph on the jacket and one image of me looked over her arm at another. I wanted the picture, wanted, I suppose, to destroy it. That she should walk away with my face under her arm seemed to threaten my self-esteem. She left the elevator at the fourth floor and the parting of these two images was confusing. I wanted to follow her, but how could I explain in French--or in any other language--what I felt? Amos Cabot was not at all like this. He seemed to enjoy seeing himself and when he lost the election and his face vanished (except for a few barns in the back country, where it peeled for a month or so), he seemed not perturbed.
Les Midgley, who is the executive producer of the CBS Evening News and therefore the man operably responsible for what 20,000,000 Americans watch as news each evening, six days a week, 52 weeks a year, is seated at the desk in his office, which is on the ground floor of the CBS News Building on West 57th Street in New York. The CBS News Building, one should say, is not much of a building as buildings go these days, certainly nothing like the CBS setup in Los Angeles nor the austere and meticulous, plant- and Brancusi-filled CBS Building that Frank Stanton has erected on Sixth Avenue. From the outside, it is a nondescript three-story rectangle of red brick -- a warehouse, perhaps, or an Eisenhower post office. Inside -- well, it's clearly not a post office. Guards. Endless narrow corridors. Small offices. Large rooms full of teletypes, desks, typewriters, men in shirt sleeves. A room full of tape machines. Banks of tape machines. Television screens. The CBS News people take pleasure in that they are not in Mr. Stanton's building, in that they are over here on the wrong side of Ninth Avenue, in a warehouse of a building, in their shirt sleeves, putting out an electronic evening newspaper.
Ever since Adam and Eve were banished from the Garden of Eden, man has known that his surroundings influence his behavior. The houses we live in, our offices, the space around us, the sounds that intrude on our daily lives, smells, colors, even the arrangement of furniture, determine many of our actions. (A well-known contemporary architect, for example, claimed that he could design a house that would guarantee a divorce for any couple who lived in it a month.)
At first glance, it is a scene from a Saturday-matinee two-reeler: Six men in cowboy hats and gambler's mustaches--thin black lines on the rim of the upper lip--sit at a table, drawling and plotting. Their leader, a slight figure in a vest, with a pronounced expression of cupidity stamped across his narrow face, listens but seldom speaks. One crony, doubtless a landowner who has caused wholesale numbers of sodbusters to haul off and bust sod elsewhere, is studying a map and working up a leer that is at once servile and ferocious, the sort of look made famous by Jack Elam in many a similar scenario. Others in the group make mutterings of discontented appeasement, the kind that signifies mutiny in the ranks after the boss has said something on the order of, "Better tell your boys to lay low for a while, till we see how this new marshal works out." In this particular episode, however, no such immortal cliché has disturbed the smoky air; and the men at the table, far from being unscrupulous schemers, are the nucleus of the local branch of the Lions Club, good fellows tried and true who would no sooner lay a violent finger on a sodbuster than they would be able without considerable thought to tell anyone what a sodbuster was.
It's a hot summer's day and you're poolside with friends. You've brought along your camera and sometime during the afternoon, you decide to film the outdoor fun. You suggest that, for a start, everybody take turns going off the high board.
"East is East and West is West and never the Twain shall meet." We don't recall who said it--Mark Twain, Rudyard Kipling, Stanley Myron Handelman--but whoever did was proved dead wrong when the U. S. and China recently concluded the first stage of their stunning rapprochement. By now the world has been surfeited with TV and journalistic coverage of the historic event, but how much of it was truth and how much mere window dressing? After all, haven't we learned from the Pentagon papers, Jack Anderson and Spiro Agnew that governments and the news media have often been guilty of stage-managing events to suit their own nefarious purposes? Not about to be suckered into publishing mendacious handouts, Playboy shrewdly decided to send its own observer to the scene, a man singularly qualified to dig out the real facts. As creator of master spy Israel Bond, he experienced no problems whatsoever sneaking into mainland China. The official Big Bunny jet strayed over the Chinese border and our man bailed out at 20,000 feet, thwarting the Red radar that could have picked up his parachute--by deplaning (continued on page 122)Chairman Mao, I Presume(continued from page 119) without one. In the process, he shattered the world record for free falling, plus a few vital organs. After the conference disbanded, he stole out of China in an atomic-powered sampan and filed the following hard-nosed dispatch.
We now know (little consolation though this provides) that the Twerms were fleeing from their hereditary enemies, the Mucoids, when they first detected earth on their far-ranging omphaloscopes. Thereafter, they reacted with astonishing speed and cunning.In a few weeks of radio monitoring, they accumulated billions of words of electroprint from the satellite newspad services. Miraculous linguists. They swiftly mastered the main terrestrial languages...
It was 6:30 of a bland, midweek morning and, like millions of other people in Los Angeles at that hour, I was indulging a fantasy. For years back East, it had seemed to me that the quintessential Southern California experience would be sitting behind the wheel of a powerful American car, tooling out to Malibu on a morning that smelled like a fresh sliced cucumber. And now here I was--in a rented '71 Galaxie, on my way to the beach, the sun just gilding the shaggy fronds of the palms along Santa Monica Boulevard, and the last day of my trip stretching ahead of me.
All our pretty world, so carefully built, collapsed in a day. Her hubsand in Paris assumed that she was with relatives in Lyons; my wife in London believed that I was working out details of a contract in Milan. As for us, we were supposed to be looking, from our villa balcony in Grimaldi, at the diamond glitter of Monte Carlo and Nice starring the soft darkness of the coast--and we were meant to say the age-old things that all lovers say. Hopes, lies, scenery, endearments, intoxication: mud. An hour after we had unpacked, the rain began. Another hour later, we had our first vicious quarrel.
Deanna Baker, 22, lives across the street from Denver's Hungarian Freedom Park. "Somehow, I think that's significant," she says. "It's not so much the monument to the Hungarian patriots of 1956--but the name of the place, Freedom Park, that means something special to me." Any keyholder who visits Denver's Playboy Club and plays a round of bumper pool with the expert Miss Baker is likely to feel there's something special about her as well. Deanna, who was raised in Kirksville, Missouri, a small state-college town of about 16,000, moved to Denver in 1969. "I simply had to make a change in my life, get away from home," she says, "and Denver seemed like a good place to try it." In June 1970, she began working as a Bunny and she's been sharpening her cue technique ever since. Besides a marked improvement in her massé shot, Deanna feels her job has brought her other benefits. "As a Pool Bunny, I have an opportunity to establish one-to-one relationships with Club guests on a basis other than 'Can I get you another cocktail, sir?' Lately, perhaps because of this experience, I've sensed that I've become more flexible and understanding in dealing with people." A formidable opponent at the pool table, Deanna excels at more strenuous sports, too. While in high school, she competed in track-and-field events and organized a girls' Softball team. After graduation, Deanna took a job as copy writer and secretary for a hometown radio-and-television station. "Then I went to work at an osteopathic hospital. Partly out of boredom and partly because I think every woman can use some education in self-defense, I also enrolled in a judo class." Although judo degrees are awarded at a shiai (certified competition), Deanna has attained the equivalent of a brown belt in unofficial contests. At present, she's involved in efforts to preserve the Colorado mountain wilderness. To raise funds, Miss Baker is participating with a friend in a novel entrepreneurial venture. "The idea," she says, "is to develop a business that deals directly with the long-hairs and counterculture kids who distrust most business enterprises. We are selling head products like pipes, sheepskins and Indian incense. Our goal, when we start making enough money, is to buy land in the Rockies. My personal dream is to restore a mountain area to its ecological balance--and I'm determined to do it, even if I have to move onto the property and do all the work myself." That seems an unlikely prospect; we'll venture a guess Deanna will have no trouble recruiting whole brigades of willing volunteers, whatever project she sets her mind to.
"For My Next Act, I'm Going to Set Myself on Fire"
He jogs along Redondo Beach every morning now, not because he's worried about the flatness of his stomach; his stomach is way down on the list of things he has to worry about. Jogging is just the ritual, the thing he has to do; you screw up the ritual and who knows? His run always ends at a place called the Surf Boarder, where he strides in, glistening, tanned, with that Prince Valiant flyaway hairdo and, at that time of the morning, he looks pretty much like everybody else in there. They're surfy people, kids, mostly, and they eat breakfast family style at long tables: steel-cut oatmeal with brown sugar. Not that it tastes good; in fact, it tastes lousy. But it's just anti-establishment enough to go down smoothly. And the nice thing about all this is that they greet him with a certain offhand touch of respect, they even talk to him, and they realize that he is somebody. Not really famous. But, well, you know ... somebody. He's getting by. He still has all his fingers and toes, which is a wonder just for openers. (continued on page 140)For My Next Act(continued from page 136) None of his scars show and he still has this white-on-white smile that looks like he's had his whole head lighted from the inside. He's getting all the sex he can handle, which is considerable and would be more if it weren't for his schedule. And, for breakfast, to go with the oatmeal, he orders pure cream. Warmed, please. It's maybe the only action that ever gives him away. A man can take a whole lot of crap going from the top to the bottom; a lot of civilian banalities may be visited upon him; but he must cling to the ritual.
Picking up stones began almost as soon as man developed his unique and utile thumb. First he threw them at small game, then he put them on sticks and made spears, and soon he discovered that if he polished them and gave them to Raquel Welch (who was always fighting dinosaurs in the next valley), it might induce her to share his cave on cold winter nights. With luck like that, it followed that he would begin to worship rocks, regarding them as magic amulets and talismans; by the time of the first Chinese and Egyptian dynasties, great treasure houses of precious and semiprecious stones were being accumulated by kings. Today, an exceptional rock specimen--not a true jewel but a rose-quartz crystal, say--may be priced as high as $25,000, while other stones are so inexpensive or so easy to find that anybody can afford a few to highlight his den. Sotheby's of London and Parke-Bernet in New York City and Los Angeles now hold rock auctions, and prestigious stores such as Bullock's, Marshall Field, Bonwit Teller, Burdines, Harrods and others the world over are doing a brisk business in handsomely mounted rocks to be displayed as one would small pieces of sculpture. Like sculpture, rocks come in an almost infinite variety of colors, (concluded on page 194)Hot Rocks(continued from page 138) shapes and textures, and many of them have fascinating histories. Geodes, for instance, are sometimes known as thunder eggs because of a widespread superstition that people who are bashed on the head by them when they fall from the sky are victims of divine retribution for their sins. In the 19th Century, many scientists refused to believe that geodes really did fall from the heavens, but presumably the people who got hit were less skeptical. Actually, the rocks aren't supernatural: They often are produced as minerals fill lava pockets and can be thrown great distances when a volcano blows its top.
Although I have always been following the sun to the West, I have at last come to love the rain as well, especially in the dry California hills, where the burnished grass so easily takes fire. Better yet, though, are the spring and autumn rains of Japan. Despite the fascination I have had for the Far East since reading about Dr. Fu Manchu at the age of 11 and Lafcadio Hearn's Gleanings in Buddha-Fields at the age of 14, I didn't reach Japan until I was 46. From all I had heard about its frantic industrialization, I was prepared to be completely disillusioned. But I went, and have returned three times.
About two years ago, Ben Hogan was sipping a beer in a Houston clubhouse after a rare tournament appearance when he spotted young Tom Shaw in brilliant red, white and blue bell-bottoms. Hogan remarked about his sport's evolving mode of dress: "It's preposterous." While Hogan's personal notion of sartorial flamboyance is a white golf cap, most players--professionals and weekenders alike--see the trend to bold golf fashion as great fun. Witness Shaw, one of 1971's top money winners, pictured here as defending champion in this year's Bing Crosby Pro-Am at Pebble Beach. As his colorful garb shows, he has the highest regard for Hogan's opinion on how to hit a four iron.
Now that Spring has sprung, as they say, and the land is greening, the imaginative host will take a cue from the seasonal vibes and spice up his potables with a hint of the great outdoors. It's really quite simple, but it does call for a dash of ingenuity--a willingness to break the cocktail barrier and add an unexpected fragrance or a piquant new flavor to the shaker or glass.
All the world knows that in Johannesburg, blacks and whites live at once together and apart under the color bar of South African apartheid. The high-rise world of shops, cinemas, theaters, restaurants and garden suburbs is white--except for the mines, the factories, the kitchens, back yards and streets, where the blacks go about working for whites. The vast shoe-box complex of workers' houses, Soweto (and smaller areas like it), is black. Whites are allowed to go there only on guided tours offered as a tourist attraction. Black townships are neat as cemeteries; they smoke with the life of thousands of cooking fires. Down to earth, here are struggling peach trees, scrap lean-tos, rutted streets of beat-up vehicles, chickens, curs, children, gangsters, dark little shops and--always--a big white-owned liquor store.
There was a time when the seersucker suit came in one pattern (striped), limited colors (usually faded blue and white) and one shape (baggy). It did have something going for it--cool comfort--and it became a virtual uniform for a generation of rumpled, pipe-smoking, slightly frayed professorial types. They'd never recognize the seersucker suit in its 1972 edition; the crisp feel of cotton remains, but the choice of patterns is far broader and the cut is very contemporary. The fellow at right wears a plaid single-breasted seersucker suit with wide lapels, flap pockets, deep center vent and slightly flared cuffed trousers, by Corbin, Ltd., $110, with a diamond-print Arnel triacetate knit shirt with long-pointed collar and two-button cuffs, by Excello, $14, a paisley-patterned striped polyester tie, by Resilio, $8.50, and a pair of duck and crinkled-patent-leather spectator shoes with crepe soles, by Hush Puppies, $18.
"Success," writes Wall Street Journal reviewer Irma Heldman, "doesn't exactly bore Joseph Papp, he [just] manages to operate independently of it." The New York Shakespeare Festival Public Theater will be 19 this year, and from humble beginnings--"An Evening with Shakespeare and Marlowe" at a church on Manhattan's Lower East Side--and with a boundless passion, producer Papp has almost singlehandedly built what New York Times critic Clive Barnes has called "the most vital theater in North America, [if not] the world." Joseph Papirofsky, son of a Polish-Jewish trunk maker, could do worse. After more than a decade of free Shakespeare in Central Park, plus the world premiere of Hair at the completely refurbished 119-year-old Astor Library (now headquarters of the Festival), The Wars of the Roses (a dusk-to-dawn marathon culled from the Bard's three-part Henry VI and Richard III) and last December's Public Theater Broadway opening of Two Gentlemen of Verona, you'd think Joseph Papp would take time to relax. "Relax?" he says. "No way!" During this month, the 50-year-old impresario will stage four new productions at the Public Theater, partially financed by grants from the New York State Council on the Arts and the National Endowment for the Arts, profits from the international stage rights to Hair and a hard-fought subsidy wrung from New York's City Hall. It's not for nothing that Papp, married to psychiatric social worker Peggy Bennion, a former actress, wears a label reading Chutzpah and Cojones on his custom-tailored leather vest. He is proud of his Festival, so much so that he'd like the Government to step in and help other producers spread the dramatic wealth around. "Today," he says, "American theater is more alive and more energetic than any other on earth. A national theater that's a dynamic social force, a platform for ideas and an effective outlet for serious writers should have equal priority with, say, garbage collection." To say the least.
All she had, back on that day in 1968 when she arrived in Chicago, was seven dollars, an old guitar and an untrained--but magnificent--voice. Bonnie Koloc had dropped out of college in her native Iowa to come to the city; one Sunday afternoon, she wandered into the Earl of Old Town Pub, where, after a couple of drinks, she mustered enough courage to audition as a folk singer. Within weeks she was packing them in, and Bonnie rapidly became something of a cult figure in Chicago. But the really big break has been maddeningly elusive. There was the time she went to New York, hoping for a recording contract, and everything went wrong: Arrangers, producers, PR men all transmitted bad vibes. So Bonnie walked out and sang for small change, passing a basket in the East Village. "One night I made six dollars and two pieces of hash," she recalls. She returned to Chicago with a deep distrust of Manhattan and an original song New York City Blues.She writes much of her own material, mostly melancholy ballads; on her first LP, After All This Time(Ovation), six of the ten selections are hers. No longer a solo performer, Bonnie works now with a four-man band. Last year they played at Chicago's prestigious night club Mister Kelly's, but they still return "home" to the Earl, where young couples huddle around wobbly tables, nursing beers and burgers, to hear Bonnie in her element. "I sort of make love to an audience," she says. Onstage, she radiates an earthy warmth. You're aware of dark, strangely seeking eyes, fingers playing with the microphone cord, straight brown hair flying as she bows halfway to the floor; but most of all, there's the voice, an instrument of striking range and clarity. "She could sing the multiplication tables and it would sound heavenly," one critic has observed. At 28, Bonnie seems to be on her way--eventackling New York again; she's just appeared there at The Bitter End. For Bonnie, it might well be a sweet beginning.
The architectural principle that form follows function has been attractively--and successfully--applied to the field of lamp design by 29-year-old Robert Sonneman. "A lamp can be a work of art," says the New York City native, and the fact that his designs have been displayed in museums throughout the country certainly proves his point. As a child, Sonneman demonstrated his mechanical aptitude by wiring pressure buttons under the carpets in his house, enabling him to locate other people on a control board in his room. After graduation from Long Island University in 1966 with a bachelor of arts degree in industrial management, he began designing for the George Kovacs lamp firm but left five years ago to go into business for himself. He now has several showrooms in the U.S. and a growing market abroad, all of which adds up to a thriving multimillion-dollar operation. Always experimenting, Sonneman travels the world with his "thinkbook," sketching possibilities for new designs, as he continues to prove that a lamp can be more than a light. This premise is strikingly exemplified in his popular Orbiter lamp, which was nominated for an A. I. D. International Design Award in 1967, and others of his design, which make use of such materials as chrome, marble, wood and parchment. Though his work pace is hectic, he does manage to take time out for flying, tennis and skiing with his wife and son. Sonneman's plans include expansion into other areas of design--possibly furniture or other home accessories--but adhering to his desire to concentrate on one product at a time, he's keeping those ambitions in abeyance. For now, the field of lighting design still allows him plenty of room for expression. Beyond aesthetics and engineering, Sonneman regards lamp design as a psychological tool: "Lighting is extremely important in terms of evoking emotion and generating moods. I find the challenge of working within that framework continually exciting." Light on, Mr. Sonneman.
A. C. Spectorsky, Playboy's Associate Publisher and Editorial Director, died of a stroke on the island of St. Croix on January 17. He was there in a new vacation home, far from Chicago's bitter winter, recouping the strength sapped by a previous heart attack, sending memos full of article ideas back to the magazine he was so instrumental in building, and watching the sailing ships that were his passion. He was buried at sea that day.