It was front-page news around the world that morning of August 19, 1971: A wealthy American named Joel Kaplan had the evening before been literally plucked--by helicopter--from the Mexican prison where he was serving a murder sentence. The daring rescue, which somehow smacked of Robin Hood's merry men outwitting the sheriff of Nottingham, piqued the public's curiosity. Who was Kaplan? Who had sprung him? Why? In this month's lead article, Breakout, Eliot Asinof, Warren Hinckle and William Turner piece together the inside story--which will appear in expanded form in The Ten-Second Jailbreak, to be published in January by Holt, Rinehart & Winston. "Several years ago," Hinckle told us, "when I was editing Ramparts magazine and Bill Turner was a senior editor there, we started an investigation of the CIA. That led us to the J. M. Kaplan Fund, alleged to be a CIA front, and to strange stories about J. M.'s imprisoned nephew, Joel." As time went on, the writers became convinced that Joel was being held on trumped-up charges; they were preparing to lend support to an escape plan when news of the successful airlift broke. "If anybody gets to talk to this guy, we should," Hinckle and Turner told Kaplan's attorneys. They agreed, and set up meetings with the reclusive millionaire in one of the several hideouts he still maintains in the Western United States. Asinof, an established novelist and screenwriter, was recruited to lend his own expertise, especially with a projected film treatment. The cooperative effort is, we think, an authentic thriller.
Playboy, October, 1972, Volume 19, Number 10. 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; Robert A. Gutwillig, Marketing Director; Nelson Futch, Marketing Manager; Michael Rich, Promotion Director; Lee Gottlieb, Director of Public Relations. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Joseph Guenther, Associate Advertising Managers, 405 Park Ave., New York, N.Y. 10022; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Ill. 60611; Detroit, William F. Moore, Manager, 818 Fisher Bldg.; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Blvd.; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter St.; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N. E., Atlanta, GA. 30305.
From those wonderful folks who brought you the Kama Sutra: An inventor in Calcutta has been granted U. S. patent number 3,626,931--for a battery-powered vibrator that clamps around the penis to stimulate the woman's clitoris and vaginal membranes during intercourse. Among the many virtues claimed for this device: "If used by personalities of great achievements, [it] will reduce the probability of their conjugal unhappiness and allied mental strains, and will tend to enhance their conjugal and/or domestic peace, so that, with a tranquil brain, their genius may contribute to society."
A Saturday spent sampling the art galleries that stretch for more than a mile along the Upper East Side's Madison Avenue, with their atmosphere of calme et luxe, provides a serene contrast to the weekday bustle of Manhattan. Admission is always free, whether the gallery is situated in converted town house, private building or street-level store; browsers are welcome and the gallery manager is usually on hand to inform and advise. Since there are well over 100 galleries, exhibiting everything from old masters to kinetic sculptures in this area of New York alone, you should equip yourself with a pair of sturdy shoes and a taste for eclectic adventure before setting out.
It's been only three years since Vine Deloria, Jr., pointed out, in Custer Died for Your Sins, that most books about Indians are written by whites; consequently, "They twist Indian reality into a picture which is hard to understand and ... greatly in error." Until recently, part of the Indian reality was invisible to white Americans--so much so that when Michael Harrington a decade ago categorized "the invisible poor" by race and place, he forgot to mention Indians, though they were the poorest of all. Deloria and other Indian militants changed all that with their books and with their headline-making raids on such national shrines as Mount Rushmore, the Statue of Liberty and Alcatraz. Their success as agitators remains in doubt--Indians are still poor and still powerless--but their triumph as publicizers has been impressive. They have triggered a publishers' stampede through Indian territory: So far this year, at least 75 books about Indians have thundered from the presses, and they're still coming. Not surprisingly, most are the works of white writers and editors who, in the absence of red literary spokesmen, have done their level best to project the Indian point of view. In Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, to cite a famous instance, Dee Brown asks readers to identify not with Custer but with Crazy Horse. Apparently, the nation is eager to oblige: Bantam's paperback edition of Brown's sad saga, published last April, is now in its tenth printing, with 1,900,000 copies in circulation. Setting straight the historical record about whites and Indians is a long-overdue publishing service, even if it plunges white liberals into another of their mea culpa binges. It can do a nation no harm to remember its crimes. The danger in all this, however, is that Indian reality continues to elude us. Few of the books extant do much more than transform the red man's image from that of bloodthirsty savage to that of romantic victim. Moreover, books that delve into Indian prayer and poetry--such as Dennis Tedlock's Finding the Center (Dial), a translation of Zuni myths, and Hyemeyohsts Storm's Seven Arrows (Harper & Row), a spiritual history of the Plains Indians--sometimes pretend that Indians are omniscient, that, indeed, they possess the keys to paradise. Understandably, in an era of alienation and befouled ecology, the Indian is an attractive figure, one who lives in harmony with nature and with himself, the complete man. Yet to insist that the Indian pose as noble savage is to do him a great disservice. His situation is considerably more complicated and more difficult than some of his partisans seem to think. He merits our understanding as well as our admiration. A good way to begin is to read the autobiography of Lame Deer--Seeker of Visions (Simon & Schuster), as told to Richard Erdoes, a white friend. Chief Lame Deer is a Sioux; but "Our people don't call themselves Sioux or Dakota. That's white man talk. We call ourselves Ikce Wicasa--the natural humans, the free, wild, common people. I am pleased to be called that." Lame Deer's long and variegated life has been defined by his struggle to stay free of white influence. In his youth, he resorted to all the familiar and melancholy evasions: alcohol, outlawry and bumming around. Ultimately, he settled down on the reservation and became what his first vision had told him to become--a medicine man, a yuwipi. The yuwipi ceremony, which can be used both to heal and to prophesy, "goes back to our earliest times. The sacred things used in this ceremony are tics that bind us to the dim past, to a time before the first white man set foot on this continent." Lame Deer has no illusions about returning to that time; the white man, with his "green frog skins" (dollar bills), seems here to stay. Lame Deer's concern is to preserve his Indianness, to keep himself and his brothers from being whitewashed. There is a remarkable scene in which Lame Deer and some friends are "sitting on top of Teddy Roosevelt's head, giving him a headache, maybe." They have climbed to the top of Mount Rushmore to protest "these big white faces" that "have made our sacred Black Hills into one vast Disneyland." As Lame Deer points out, "One man's shrine is another man's cemetery." If the Indians' problem is to regain some measure of their dignity, this book may help.
Undoubtedly, the restaurant that has done the most to make Milwaukee famous is Karl Ratzsch's (320 East Mason Street), a Beertown institution since 1904. Over the years, Ratzsch's has accumulated dozens of diners' awards and a reputation for remarkable consistency. Naturally, this results from a menu that offers more than just the Rhineland staples of beer and sausage. Once past the dark-wood front door, you're up to your taste buds in Gemütlichkeit: Jolly Fräulein in peasant costumes bustle past toting huge trays full of red cabbage and heaps of dumplings, a decorous trio saws out Strauss and keeps the atmosphere from being too bierstube and there on the walls are--you guessed it--dozens of steins, Bavarian coats of arms and duked-up beer-keg butt ends. If this sounds disturbingly like your own friendly neighborhood rathskeller, fear not, for all similarities cease when you're handed the menu. Experienced Ratzschers are divided as to the merits of the "Old World Suggestions" column versus the "Daily Specials"; however, we found the Old World definitely more intriguing than the Daily. Ratzsch's excellent Wiener Schnitzel is exceeded in size only by the house's giant apple pancakes; the thin and delicious Sauerbraten comes in a thick sweet-sour sauce; the Pork Tenderloin Cordon Bleu is stuffed with ham and emmentaler cheese in a mushroom sauce; and that celebrated Strasbourg dish, Roast Goose Shank, comes mit a heaping portion of wild rice. This is in addition to the standard table-d'hôte choice of a thin or thick soup (the lentil, pea, potato and bean are superb), vegetables and a spinach salad with tangy sweet-sour bacon dressing. (Ratzsch's also offers well-cooked New World fare, but if you're craving French fried shrimp or a porterhouse, why go to a German restaurant?) For dessert, there are dozens of tortes and strudels. Besides a large variety of imported and domestic light and dark beers--which will be served in $250 hammered-copper steins, if you so wish--Ratzsch's has assembled what is probably Milwaukee's finest wine list. The Bordeaux goes back to 1949, that very good year, and includes many '59s and '61s--although to drink the latter would be an impetuous act. And, of course, there's an ample number of German whites available. Karl Ratzsch's is open from 11:30 A.M. to midnight every day and accepts most major credit cards. Reservations (414-276-2720) are recommended.
Alexander Portnoy, the hero of Philip Roth's wildly comic best seller Portnoy's Complaint, is a swinging attorney who describes himself to his bored analyst as "the son in a Jewish joke." Wordwise, at least, all the jokes about creamed jeans have been brought to the screen intact by writer-producer-director Ernest Lehman, who allows Richard Benjamin, as Portnoy, to talk out his masturbatory fantasies ad infinitum. Even the celebrated bit about Portnoy's violation of a piece of liver remains: "I fucked my own family's dinner." The trouble with Portnoy, the way Lehman and Benjamin present him, is that he often seems little more than a simpering twit whose total self-absorption finally becomes as much of a drag as his lip-smacking confessions of self-abuse. Robbed of Roth's pungent prose, Portnoy on film is broadly funny for a while--but only until the shock wears off, which happens distressingly soon. When all else fails, Lehman bears down pretty hard on toilet humor, over-stressing such episodes as one in which the teenaged Portnoy pretends to have diarrhea so he can run to the bathroom and beat his meat--with sister's panties pulled over his head--while Dad (Jack Somack) complains about constipation and Mom (Lee Grant, an actress whose talents are nearly always wasted) flails at the john door, begging Alexander not to flush until she examines his pooh-pooh. Even if that grabs you, God forbid, Portnoy deteriorates as it progresses from a boy's juvenile fancies (introducing Jeannie Berlin as Bubbles Girardi, a neighborhood trollop who dispenses her favors while counting to 50) to a kind of psychodrama that ends with some god or other (Phallus, probably) sentencing Portnoy to a limp dick. A sensitive performance by Karen Black as The Monkey, the kind of simple-minded sex object every red-blooded American male chauvinist presumably hopes to meet, is pretty well lost as the movie goes about its business of quoting verbatim all the dog-eared pages of the novel. Nothing outrageous actually appears on the screen in this prep school Portnoy, which projects the sensibility of a locker-room loudmouth blathering about his sexual prowess, or lack of it, stroke by stroke.
Arlo Guthrie is no longer just Woody's kid but a serious folk artist in his own right. His singing and playing have both matured, and on Hobo's Lullaby (Reprise), he presents a nice balance of old and new, including two great Hoyt Axton numbers, two old pop favorites (Anytime and Ukulele Lady) and songs by Dylan, Woody and Steve Goodman. Arlo's own Days Are Short may be the best thing here. An impressive roster of accompanying musicians and some interesting, offbeat arrangements give further evidence that the kid has indeed grown up and come a long way from Alice's Restaurant.
Al Carmines, the hyperprolific songwriting minister at Greenwich Village's Judson Memorial Church, visually spins his soaring melodies and gently spoofing lyrics around nonreligious subjects. In Joan, the Reverend Carmines turns to God for source material. This is an updating of the Joan of Arc story, with Joan as your average American bomb-throwing radical. She may seem like a curious heroine for what is almost a musical comedy (very musical and quite often comic), but Carmines (as author, composer, lyricist, director and--on the piano--one-man band) is less interested in Joan herself than in the forces that oppose her. Despite an endearing performance by the stockily unchic Lee Guilliatt, the character is still a trifle hazy around the edges. If Joan lived today, says Carmines, she would die tomorrow. He sinks his satirical shafts into social workers, psychiatrists and the church--an ecumenical vaudeville trio of ultracompromisers. The chorus is composed of men and women in religious habit. Nothing is sacred, yet the show is deeply spiritual. It's the music that elevates Joan; hymns take flight. In Carmines' graceful hands, pastiche and parody become a pop-art form. At Circle in the Square, 159 Bleecker Street.
Having been cursed with a low draft number, I'm now seriously considering leaving the country. The President's sop to the populace, not sending draftees to Vietnam, doesn't satisfy me. I think conscription is a form of slavery, wherever they send me; and as an additional protest to this violation of the 14th Amendment, I would like to renounce my citizenship. How can this be accomplished?--S. P., Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Nearly every reader of a news magazine has heard of the Jewish Defense League and seen pictures of its tough-looking youths "patrolling" inner-city neighborhoods, training in karate, standing armed guard before the doors of synagogues. Many observers within and without the Jewish community see J. D. L. as an alarming phenomenon--prepared to use guns and even bombs to achieve its dubious ends, eager to increase both domestic and international tensions, intolerant of opposition, comparable in its approach to the Minutemen and the Weathermen.
When Vic Stadter decided to take the job, he didn't really know what he was getting into. The circumstances were strange, even for the tangled world of Latin-American intrigue: Joel Kaplan was a wealthy American whose family had put together a fortune in the Caribbean--sugar and molasses, mainly--and he now sat in a Mexican prison, convicted of having murdered his partner in 1961. Only the judges who had tried Kaplan seemed certain that the corpse in question was actually one Luis M. Vidal, Jr., and the evidence that had convicted him consisted chiefly of inspired imaginative leaps between apparently unrelated events. But that was not so odd, not in Mexico, anyway. What was strange was that Kaplan had not been able to buy his way out. Stadter knew a lot of people who had done so, including a heroin dealer who had paid his way free despite considerable pressure from the United States to keep him locked up. If you had the money, which Kaplan and his family did, you could always make the right payoffs and walk away. But Kaplan had been trying very hard to get out for eight years, and nearly $1,000,000 had been spent in the effort, without success. Someone, evidently, wanted him to stay there.
Fish were drying on the roofs all over Pitmungo and Gillon Cameron, looking down on the scene, thought that the whole town smelled of death and coal dust. To the north, he could see Loch Leven and beyond it the Leven hills, still green with patches of pine or brown with clusters of ash or oak, rising above the moorlands that were white under snow.
Cresting on the profitable wave of Shaft and its successors, which blend sex and violence with soul, the producers of two new films--Slaughter and Black Gunn--are placing their money on the box-office pull of ex-football star Jim Brown. In Slaughter, with Playmate Stella Stevens (below), Brown works his way from big-city ghetto to South American villa on a dual mission of vengeance and intrigue involving international gangsters. He takes on organized crime again in Black Gunn--this time in an effort to get some of its long green for the cause of black power. In this undertaking, big Jim is aided and abedded by Brenda Sykes (above)--another Playboy pictorial favorite.
We all know what the world's most popular indoor sport is, of course. But for you fans who wish to while away a cozy evening by the fire or a rainy Saturday afternoon engaged in another form of friendly competition, there are dozens of sports games available that offer almost all the pleasure and certainly none of the pain that go along with their real-life counterparts. Some are computerized, others are board and dice, and a few, such as Tennis Anyone? and Shove-It, come with pint-sized playing surfaces that require a surprising degree of manual dexterity. (Magnavox even markets an electronic marvel called Odyssey that turns your boob tube into a remote-controlled playing field.) But whether you've opted for a day at the races, on the gridiron, the diamond or wherever, you can bet your next turn that it's going to be a ball. Let the games begin!
It was, by almost any standard, a heroic act. In terms of scope, the personal risk involved, its potential effect upon the course of a nation, Daniel Ellsberg's decision to make public the Pentagon papers was the stuff of which, in another age, an epic might have been formed. Confronted by what seemed a moral imperative, Ellsberg challenged--in a way that no one before him had dared--the apparently limitless authority of the Executive branch of the United States Government. He saw his nation using deceit to hide murder. He believed he had the power to make it stop. To do so, he realized, would be to sacrifice his career, to jeopardize his freedom, to risk condemnation as a traitor.
By the second day out of Antwerp, Morgan had assessed the other passengers on the small Swedish freighter and was able to assure himself that none of them held any interest for him. There were three or four married couples of assorted ages, two elderly sisters traveling together, a couple of men, all of them quite ordinary, and there was, he decided, no need for him to talk or listen to any of them beyond exchanging minimal amenities, and that perfectly suited his book.
Something old, something new. Men's fashion will be ranging far afield for its inspirations this fall and winter. There is no single look that predominates, as in seasons past--no "in" thing. Styles range from resurrected Forties funkiness to a European-inspired two-button double-breasted suit; from the street people's offbeat plaids to the sophistication of an elegantly simple (and expensive) leather coat with fur collar. Conservative types may find these fashion times a bit unsettling; as for us, we'll welcome the surprises of the next six months as designers and manufacturers play with the past and borrow from the Continent to bring us creations that are both fresh and enjoyable. (There is a trend away from shock-for-shock's-sake styles--which is all to the good.) So look over the clothes shown on these pages. We're sure you'll find plenty of exciting ways to express your individuality--while stepping out smartly in style.
When the phone rings in her Santa Monica apartment and the caller asks Sharon Johansen to "come over and see my new Doberman," she doesn't think it's a crank call. Miss Johansen is a dog trainer and she constantly gets calls from her pupils' owners. "Someone's always phoning to tell me about a ribbon one of my dogs has won or a litter she's had. I don't have any kind of shop or office where people can bring their pets, so I go to them in stead. I usually become friends with the owners as well as their dogs," explains 23-year-old Sharon. Her occupation grew out of frustration with the conventional restrictions of nine-to-fiveism. "I had an interesting desk job, too. Right after high school, I worked for Pierre Salinger's investment company. Knowing him was great, but I hated being cooped up in an office all the time. I also wanted something that would give me a chance to be my own boss, make my own hours. So I took stock of my interests. I've always loved animals--at first I considered working at the L. A. zoo. Then it came to me out of nowhere--dog training. I took a course to learn how it's done and just started out." She has built her business slowly and carefully, relying on word-of-mouth advertising to attract new prospects. "I prefer working that way, so when people call, they've already made up their minds to have their dogs trained and I don't have to sell them on the idea. Most of them also know what it costs. I charge $200 for a full course or $20 an hour. I know that sounds like a lot, but I don't work every day, so I had to think about that when I set my fee." Since the economics of Sharon's business restricts her clients to a relatively affluent group of dog owners, her house calls are made principally in Beverly Hills, Palos Verdes and other lush, meticulously gardened areas of Los Angeles. "That's a great part of my job. I've spent time in some of the most fabulous back yards in Los Angeles." Another is the free time it gives her to get involved in a new career--acting. Sharon has thought fancifully of being an actress for as long as she can remember, but "I never had the nerve to even audition for a part in high school. I'd always get as far as the door of the room where the drama club was holding tryouts. I'd see them all in there reading scripts--and I'd chicken out. So it never occurred to me that I'd have the courage to actually go through with it. I think starting the dog-training business did it for me. I proved to myself that I could do something that wasn't routine and make a living on my own. That gave me confidence. I'll need it, because when you're trying to make it as an actress, the disappointments can really bring you down." So far, Sharon has had little reason for regret. She's already appeared in a number of television series, including The Name of the Game and Sarge, and in a Li'l Abner special, in which her conspicuous proportions (40-22-37) were well suited for the role of Appassionata Von Climax. Now Sharon has just completed shooting her first feature film, Your Three Minutes Are Up. "I play a kind of beach girl named Johansen. That's really wild, because I get to use my own name and I couldn't be more of a beach girl in real life. My Santa Monica place is just a block away from the ocean and I spend all the time I can there. Everyone who's seen the first rushes says it's a terrific film. Right now I'm testing for a Love, American Style part--and a lot of other TV things. It just seems like everything's rushing in at once. And I love it." If her career maintains its present pace, Sharon may soon find herself with a Beverly Hills back yard of her own.
In the ordinary way, you sit down and eat a dish of spaghetti with tomato sauce and think nothing of it. But the fact is, the dish is the culmination of hundreds of years of invention, exploration and common sense; indeed, it is a marriage of the products of two hemispheres.
Anyone who has been within range of a television set, a radio or a newspaper over the past ten years obviously knows what's been happening on the nation's college campuses. The new sexual freedom, the racial turmoil, the antiwar demonstrations, the student confrontations with police and National Guardsmen. In short, the whole violent spectrum that exploded in the Sixties and is still sputtering in the Seventies.
You could haul your wheels into the shop for customizing, but we doubt if you'd get anything to beat Don Bonham's beautifully configured vehicles. Of course, his don't have motors, but who cares? With fiberglass female bodies and old hot-rod and cycle parts, the machines are "reflections of American culture," says Bonham, who calls himself a "20th Century American landscape artist." "The inspiration for them," he says, "came from watching men and machines--how guys polish them, work on them, ride them." The artist, who now lives in Canada, will show the vehicles at Chicago's Michael Wyman Gallery this month. And for $3500, you could ride--or at least carry--one home.
The long Iowa highway is empty. Beside it, quarter-ton pigs doze in blazing green pastures; the sun has burned a hole in the sky and is hanging near the fields. The temperature is climbing toward 96 degrees.
It should come as no surprise to James Bond fans that 007 is, among other things, a Playboy Club keyholder. In Bond's latest film escapade, Diamonds Are Forever, audiences got a glimpse of the secret agent's wallet, containing the familiar Rabbit-crested Playboy Key-Card. Bond's taste, always impeccable, is shared by some 800,000 men around the world. That's the current number of active Playboy Club keyholders; if you add those who, because of distant location or lack of opportunity, visit the Clubs and Club-Hotels less frequently, the number climbs to over 1,000,000. These men join Playboy for varied reasons--because they enjoy good food, generous drinks, fine entertainment and all the sports and recreational facilities afforded by first-class resorts. But Playboy's unique attraction, now as when the first hutch opened its doors in Chicago in 1960, is the Playboy Club Bunny.
What with the election and all, it's a great year for the pollsters. Everybody wants to know what the people think--about busing, welfare, defense spending, and so on. Fortunately, no such weighty issues are at stake in our annual Jazz & Pop Poll. It's simply a matter of whether you prefer the sax playing of Cannonball Adderley to that of Fred Lipsius, et al. Last year--not surprisingly, in this age of musical cross-pollination--about half the categories in the readers' poll produced winners from the jazz side of the musical field and about half from rock. We expect to find a similar display of refreshingly divided loyalties this year. So here again--on the following pages--a ballot, and instructions for using it. We hope you'll exercise your musical franchise and have as much fun voting as we did compiling the list.
In the old days, Rónán was king of Leinster--a fierce, narrow-eyed man he was--and Eithne of Cummascach was his wife. When she bore a son, they named him Mael Fothartaig, and he grew up to be the most handsome lad in all Ireland. He loved to go hunting, and whenever he stopped in a village to ease his thirst or hunger, the girls would all come around like birds for corn. He was admired everywhere, especially among the women.
Arriving in Rome on a balmy day, there is no need to ask what's new. The answer is plastered throughout the city and suburbs on countless billboards, each displaying--against a deep-red Roman sky--the sad, skeptical face and extravagant bosom of a prostitute, one of the road-running night birds known locally as le polverose, or "the dusty ones." Given that familiar image, it hardly comes as a surprise to read the accompanying legend, Roma--Il Capolavoro Di Fellini. The masterpiece of Fellini.
When, if ever, historians begin searching through musty archives to reconstruct the great campaigns and battles of the sexual revolution, Al Goldstein and Jim Buckley may finally earn their long-sought place in publishing history as the founders of Screw, the world's first and the country's most successful no-holes-barred sex tabloid. Screw hit New York newsstands in November 1968 with the raunchiest pictures and features ever to possess redeeming social value. That the "Screw Two" have thus far stayed out of jail is largely due to their publication's display of wit, imagination and an editorial personality that mocks its own contents and brags about its excesses--a calculated combination of outrageousness, put-on and put-down that has added up to a weekly circulation of about 90,000. Buckley, 28, from Lowell, Massachusetts, describes himself as a devout ex-Catholic anal-retentively unable to outgrow his adolescent obsession with sex. Goldstein, 36, stoutly denies he is a repressed Jewish boy from Brooklyn and a closet puritan. "Radiating prurience, spittle dribbling from our chins, we labor each day in the sweatshop of sex to subvert morality in America. At least that's our official PR story. We have an image to maintain." Goldstein takes exclusive credit for making Screw "The World's Greatest Newspaper," explaining that Buckley is an illiterate Irish peasant and still a virgin. Buckley says that Goldstein is "a lust-crazed sexual deviant who must be given a pound of raw liver each day and locked up each night." Predictably, both claim to be the godfather of their latest venture, Mobster Times, which may do for crime what Screw has done for sex. Mobster revels in the pornography of violence, commemorating great old crimes, promoting new ones and generally striving to exceed the bounds of good taste. Regular features include "Miss Underworld," "Crime Tips" and "This Month in Crime." What publishing offense are Goldstein and Buckley plotting next? "Well," says Buckley, "we've thought about combining the best of both worlds in Sex Crimes."
In the summer of 1970, a thick, stinging smog settled over the East Coast and environmentalists--plus everyone else who tried to breathe--bemoaned this latest ecological disaster. All but Marion Edey, chairman of the League of Conservation Voters, a nonpartisan political group that raises money for conservation-minded candidates. "The league was working to defeat Baltimore Congressman George Fallon, the man most responsible for allocating funds to build the interstate highway system, and the smog--much of it produced by automobile exhaust fumes--arrived just three weeks before the primary. Our candidate sent out releases blaming Fallon for indirectly causing it." The league's man won. Miss Edey, 27, founded the organization in 1969, quitting as an assistant to a Congressman from her home district on Long Island. "After seeing how the Hill worked, it seemed to me an effective way to work for conservation was by helping environmentally concerned candidates." The league focuses its efforts on key campaigns but publicizes all races by publishing charts showing how legislators vote on ecological issues. It has also published a book, Nixon and the Environment: The Politics of Devastation, outlining the Administration's mostly dismal record on conservation. Clearly, Miss Edey would prefer a McGovern victory, but adds, "He's been running for President so long he doesn't really have a conservation voting record." Marion is literally married to the cause: Her husband, Joseph Browder ("We met while fighting against a chemical plant in South Carolina"), heads a Washington lobbyist organization, the Environmental Policy Center. Both of them see the destruction of natural resources as an enduring issue. "People may forget about it in a few years," Marion says, "but when a killer smog knocks off 5000 people in Los Angeles, it'll be an issue again. Meanwhile, there's more rhetoric than action. Politicians like to cloud the issue." Which is why Marion Edey will continue her work to clear the air.
"Sometimes it's hard to believe it's me up there. It's really weird, but once in a while it hits me: Wow! I'm in the movies--and I giggle like a dumbo." So speaks Ron Leibman, 33, the funny, candid, serious actor who--wearing a gorilla suit--raped a Central Park cop in his first film, Where's Poppa?, stole the show as the getaway driver in The Hot Rock, then went on to star in Slaughterhouse-Five (which recently won top honors at the Cannes film festival) and the soon-to-be-released Your Three Minutes Are Up. It all began when he was a kid: "My parents were kind of wealthy and they used to go to resort hotels where I got up and sang, obnoxious child that I was, with the orchestra--not for money or anything but just because I loved to perform." Leibman (who also played jazz drums for a while) could have been a night-club performer or a musical-comedy actor but chose "a harder route, because I wanted to tap the deepest things in myself." He split college during his junior year and spent five repertory seasons doing Chekhov, Molière, Beckett and Shakespeare. Then, in a Springfield, Massachusetts, motel room, he tuned in on the Academy Awards and decided to set out to win one himself: "Success isn't necessarily a dirty capitalist word. Success can also be joy--without compromise. If you care about your work, you're always afraid someone will make a whore out of you. But only you can make a whore out of you." Back in New York, he played in a lot of off-Broadway productions and a few on the big street. One play, John Guare's Cop-Out, enabled him to find a wife, co-star Linda Lavin; another, Transfers, won him the Obie award (one of several prizes he collected in those years) and, when his old friend George Segal brought Carl Reiner to see him, his first cinema gig. After that, as Leibman says, "things just cooked." He'd like to return to New York, but he claims films are in better shape today than the theater. With Leibman in the movies, it's probably true.
Jack Anderson, The Pulitzer prize--winning columnist, discusses his investigative tactics and journalistic scoops, including the Dita beard memo and the India-Pakistan papers in a controversial Playboy Interview