It is an Omen of crisis when even the conservative Chicago Tribune bridles editorially at the Nixon Administration's heavy-handed treatment of the media. Our April issue contained a special Forum report on the censorship controversy, and in this month's Playboy Interview, veteran newscaster Walter Cronkite leaves his anchor desk to join the fight. Cronkite charges the White House with conspiring to muzzle the press--and admits he was wrong in defending the Vietnam war at a time when Young Turk journalists slogging about the rice paddies with the grunts were saying that the "light at the end of the tunnel" was a dead end. The interview reveals an impassioned side of Cronkite that he seldom exposes on TV. "In the newsroom away from the camera he often blows sky-high," an associate tells us, "but he comes right back to that same cool, professional level in about 90 seconds." In our interview, Cronkite sustains his anger somewhat longer. In We are All "Bui Doi" (illustrated by Michael Peters), one of those who were right about the war, Gloria Emerson, New York Times correspondent in Saigon from 1970 to 1972, poignantly relates a series of vignettes centered on people who touched her deeply in Vietnam. "There was never such a two years," she says, "and the reminders of them are not only within me. There are the veterans who wear their U. S. Army field jackets, and there are other American women who know the names Long Binh and Tuy Hoa. I wish I could go back, for I never properly said goodbye." The farewells may go unsaid: the Thieu regime has banned Emerson from the country.
Playboy, June, 1973 Volume 20 Number 6. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building. 919 N. 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 $15 Per Year. Allow 30 Days For New Subscriptions and Renewals. Change of Address: Send Both Old and New Addresses to Playboy. Playboy Building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611, and Allow 30 days For Change Marketing: Robert A Gutwillig. Marketing Director: Emery Smyth. Marketing Services Director: Nelson Futch Marketing Manager Michael Rich Promotion Director: Lee Gottlieu. Director of Public Relations Advertising: Howard W. Lederer Advertising Director: Jules Kase, Joseph Guenther. Associate Advertising Managers 747 Third Avenue New York. 10017 Chicago Sherman Keats, Manager 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago Illinois 60611. Detroit. William F. Moore Manager 813 Fisher Building: Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins Manager 0721 Beverly Boulevard, San Francisco. Robert E. Stephens Manager. 417 Montgomery; Southeastern Representative. Pirnie & Crown. 3108 Piedmont Road. N. E., Atlanta Georgia 30305.
Having propelled a nonword (Ms.) into the English language so fast that most people still can't pronounce it, our vagino-American friends are now taking aim at English slang. In a crowded elevator one afternoon, we overheard the following conversation between two young (and attractive) partisans of women's liberation:
Some years back, Contributing Editor Jean Shepherd reported in these pages that the then-new edition of the venerable Boy Scout Handbook--a publication that has guided boys through thick and thin for generations with information on such survival techniques as "How to Make a Fire Without Matches" and "Brewing Tea from Sassafras Bark"--had moved into uncharted byways of modern boyhood. That 1966 edition included, for example, a new merit badge in communications--to earn which an aspiring eagle scout was told, among other requirements, to write, produce and perform his own 60-second TV commercial and to prepare a coherent memo detailing instructions to subordinates. Gone were the days of birchbark canoes and sheepshank knots.
If the first zephyr of summer brings thoughts of tree-shaded roads and provincial inns, go north, young man, out of Manhattan and into the rolling hills of exurbia. And get an early start: You'll want time to poke about in the historic towns and antique shops that dot the landscape before stoking up at some country auberge. It makes for a full, satisfying day, especially if your ultimate destination is Stonehenge in Ridgefield. Connecticut. The atmosphere is bucolic--white swans and mallards on a private pond--but no dirt farmer ever built this substantial 19th Century abode. A spring-fed swimming pool has been added and pleasant, reasonable lodgings are available if you get the urge to stay on after dinner. All this plus engaging, innovative and, at times, exceptional fare. The menu is eclectic--bedizened with deft personal touches that tickle the imagination as well as the taste buds. The gazpacho may come with scoops of avocado, grated fresh apple adorns the vichyssoise and a lacing of leeks transforms an excellent Quiche Lorraine into a superb Vaudoise. One of the Stonehenge specialties, live brook trout, is usually offered au bleu. On a recent visit, our preference for a meunière treatment was accommodated without fanfare. The artfully filleted fish was sweet and tender, a triumph of simplicity. Chief Rudi Hauser's fine Swiss hand is also evident in such items as the Plat de Grison--smoked, mountain-cured Swiss beef and ham, served with cornichons and pearl onions: Potage Grison, a lusty barley soup studded with bits of the same ham: fresh-fruit-of-the-season soups: and the Plat du Jour, which is usually a richly sauced veal dish with perhaps morels, truffles or native wild mushrooms. Good vittles rather than flashiness seems to be the focus at Stonehenge. Fruit and produce are fresh from local growers, when available, and the sage in your Saltimbocca comes from a nearby herb farm. Stonehenge's wine list, while not extensive, is sufficient. Côte de Beaunes Villages is a modest $10 a bottle or $5.25 a half bottle. For the adventurous, there's a pleasantly earthy, golden Dezaley with a Swiss yodel in its bouquet. Stonehenge is open for lunch Tuesday through Saturday from noon to 2:30 P.M. Dinner is from 5:30 P.M. to 9 P.M. weekdays: 10 P.M. Saturday. Sunday hours are from noon to 7:30 P.M. Reservations: 203--138--6511.
Hollywood as a dream factory most decidedly ain't what it used to be. For the skeptical sensibilities of the Seventies, the old formulas no longer work. To cite one obvious example, traditional flag-waving patriotism is as obsolete as a Sherman tank in a nation exhausted by a shameful war. Nor do they turn out showbiz sagas about a Macy's salesgirl who dances her way to fame on Broadway. They don't even turn out another All About Eve, because audiences suspect there's something closer to truth in such films as Heat and Payday, which depict lesser showbiz deities as ego-driven neurotics with hang-ups about sex, liquor and box-office receipts.
What's it like being president of Columbia Records and getting hooted at by 6000 people? Ask Clive Davis, who emceed a sold-out midnight concert titled Keyboard Colossus in Radio City Music Hall on March second. Although Walter Carlos, of Switched-on Bach and Moog fame, couldn't make it, organist E. Power Biggs, harpsichordist Anthony Newman and friends, and the ten-piano Monster Concert group could, and did, and were well received. A man of many parts, president Davis is known for his fat contracts to pop performers and his revitalization of Columbia's classical division. Unfortunately, he felt impelled to crow about "cultural enrichment" and "the very special purpose" of the concert, "to bring classical music to the masses."
The Mahavishnu Orchestra invariably knocks people out or gives them colonic spasms. For those in the latter category, homeopathic treatment is the only one indicated, so start Birds of Fire (Columbia) on the second side and open your ears, to Billy Cobham's masterful drumming and Rick Laird's bass in a jazzish One Word, which proceeds to display John McLaughlin and Jerry Goodman trading guitar and violin figures with great skill. The mood deepens with Sanctuary, lightens for Open Country Joy and resolves (naturally enough) with Resolution. Now, if you can get out of your chair, flip the disc over for the title piece, an ambitious demonstration of chaos and order, with Jerry's violin and Jan Hammer's Moog riffing and rumbling in unison behind McLaughlin's excursions. Miles Beyond evokes the latter-day Miles Davis spirit almost better than Miles himself does and features superb McLaughlin-Goodman dueting, as does Celestial Terrestrial Commuters, whose rapid runs go off like solar flares. The beautiful Thousand Island Park, with piano and acoustic guitar leading, is the album's contemplative peak. Because its complex music is quite beyond categorizing. Mahavishnu takes some getting used to. Purge yourself of preconceptions and drink in your tonic.
The Changing Room, a major play by the major English playwright David Storey, comes to Broadway through the inspiration of New Haven's Long Wharf Theater with an astonishing all-American cast and an American director, Michael Rudman. Play and production merge into an experience not to be missed and impossible to forget. The Changing Room is that rare work that resides in the mind long after one has left the theater. On the surface--a very bloody surface--this is a play about a team of semipro rugby players: it takes place in a men's locker room. Some might (wrongly) dismiss it as simply a documentary; actually, it is an evocation of life--and not just in a locker room. For the period of the play (before the game, at half time and after victory), we know these men, all 22 of them. Through sensitively chosen details and with remarkable insight. Storey reveals them to us, so that we can sense their lives continuing offstage. When they complete their shared activity and leave the changing room--bruised, shattered, tired or euphoric--they trudge home to unfaithful wives, soar into town for a drink, go back to joyless pleasures and--in some cases--to the barrenness of an unchangeable existence. There is an absolute authenticity, not just about David Jenkins' locker-room set, the sporting jibes and taunts, the camaraderie in the communal bath (the onstage nudity is essential) but about the characters themselves. We feel the heartbeat of these men and the pulse of their society. At the Morosco, 217 West 45th Street.
Because of a job transfer, my girlfriend and I live in different states: we see each other only on holidays and special trips. Every time we meet, we go through a ritual period of adjustment that wastes precious time and often causes discord. She insists that we fill each other in on the changes we have undergone. I would just as soon spend our time on the simple joys of being together and let the changes in our personalities surface gradually, but she sees this soul unveiling as vital to our relationship. We do love each other. How do we resolve our difficulties?--E. A., Omaha, Nebraska.
In commenting on the demise of Life magazine last autumn, former chief editorial writer John K. Jessup remarked, "Except maybe for Walter Cronkite, there is no more focal point of national information cutting across these special interests, no cracker barrel, no forum, no well." Certainly, if God had set out to create a prototypical middle American, He could have done little better than limn the image of the sad-eyed 56-year-old man--at his CBS anchor desk in New York--whose military-drum-roll voice, sending modulator needles flickering toward the bass registers, has become part of our collective consciousness. Time magazine has described Cronkite as "the single most convincing and authoritative figure in television news," and a survey conducted by Oliver Quayle and Company to measure trust in prominent figures showed Cronkite leading everyone--including Presidential candidates Richard Nixon, Edmund Muskie, Hubert Humphrey and George McGovern.
"Then what?" "I got very . . . I got very excited and. . . ." "Did she look at you?" "Yeah. And it made me want to. . . . It made me want to go after her, you know, like grab hold of her. . . . Because she was thinking the same thing. She was afraid of me and she was thinking. . . ." "She kept looking back at you?" "Oh, yes, she did. Yes. Back over her shoulder. I got so excited that I just followed her, I mean I must of followed her, I don't even remember my legs going. . . . It was just her, looking back over her shoulder at me, like checking on me, and me following her, just her and me and nobody else on the street. I never saw nobody else. I just saw her ahead of me, but I didn't even see her face, I was too excited." "When did she start to run?"
No One was Really Invited to room 53 in the Hotel Continental except for two soldiers in armies at war with each other. One was an American, the other was North Vietnamese. I did not want people in that room. It was a place to take account, to listen to yourself.
You're leaving your office for lunch and walk past a cluster of female construction workers on their noon break. They're spooning up low-cal yoghurt and reading "Dear Abby" to each other, but as you pass by they look you over and one of them--a large-boned girl wearing construction platforms--whistles and shouts lecherously, "Hi, guy--nice ass ya got there."
When Stalin got through purging his fellow Communists in the Thirties, a Russian once said to me, it was noticed in Moscow that no one left in the Politburo was taller than the boss. Djilas, now a heretic but once an important Yugoslav Communist, reports in his memoirs of the Kremlin scene that at the all-night banquets that were a regular feature of the jolly life under Stalin, death warrants were gaily passed around the table and that members of the in-group could fill in any name they liked. By the time he died, in fact, Stalin had personally signed at least 50,000 death warrants. But Stalin was a madman who killed more Communists than Hitler ever did and helped bring on the 1939--1945 war by sicking Hitler on France and England. This, as another Russian once said to me in Russia, was "a piece of folly for which we paid" with 30,000,000 lives. Hitler, of course, was an even greater madman in public than he was in private, where it was his pleasure to have women urinate and defecate on him. He destroyed millions of lives, brought Europe down in flames--and by his utter lack of political restraint or foresight assured Communist control over almost half of Germany and all of eastern Europe. Politicians, statesmen, leaders of helpless masses of people can of course be notoriously cruel, outstanding nuts, vicious in the name of race or class beyond anything in the usual booby hatch. And you don't have to believe that this is the final conflict, as Communists do, or in the final solution, as Nazis did (and no doubt still do), to note that even in our noble democracy, President Kennedy, who was notoriously anxious about his machismo, was stung by that crude but not stupid psychologist Khrushchev, after their famous confrontation in Vienna in 1961, into more militancy than he had ever intended. Johnson hysterically described himself as "the chief of the free world" and went so mad on an unwinnable war in Vietnam that he destroyed his Presidency and his own passion for racial accommodation in this country. Nixon's closest aides have said that he became angry when negotiations with the North Vietnamese broke down at the end of 1972. That anger was amazingly costly to a great many B-52 crews and innocent residents of Hanoi.
The Teachings of Don Wow: A Gringo Way of Knowledge
As I recall, on the day I turned my brother's enemy into an armadillo I met Don Wow, the legendary medicine man of Los Angeles. Up until then I had been a normal Yaqui Indian sorcerer in the hot country of Arizona, making the desert tremble, taking "peyote" and working everyday miracles along the Mexican border. Under the tutelage of Don Wow, new worlds were opened to me and my accepted notions about the world and its workings were utterly and permanently changed.
When it comes to this year's look in men's swim-wear, the time-tested Mies van der Rohe dictum "less is more" certainly applies. There's nothing really new about male bikinis, of course; European men have been wearing them for years. Now the trend to surface economy has caught on over here and guys with good bods are chucking their balloon seated boxer trunks and John L. Sullivan-type Baggies and jams in favor of a suit that's more revealing. So, gentlemen, the time has come to take it off, take it almost all off--and slip into something that does your build justice. We don't have to say what it will do to the ladies.
For Ruthy Ross, Playboy Bunny, ex-drama major, would-be actress and apprentice photographer, it's been quite a year. Quite a 16 months, as a matter of fact. It all started back in February 1972, when she was chosen to represent her fellow cottontails from the Los Angeles Playboy Club at the annual Bunny Beauty Contest. That event, a lavish pageant at the Playboy Club-Hotel at Great Gorge, New Jersey, took place in March. Twenty-one girls--the pick of Playboy's hutches throughout the world--competed, and when it was all over, Ruthy Ross had won the title Bunny of the Year--1972. " 'Surprised'?" she recalls. "I didn't think I had a chance. No sleep the night before the finals. Thought I looked a wreck, but apparently--and luckily--the judges didn't agree." Since then, Ruthy's been juggling her regular Bunny duties at the Los Angeles Club with special promotional appearances; singing and dancing dates in the Club with the Bunniettes, a cottontail septet; driving lessons (to make use of her Datsun 1200 sports-car prize) and such personal interests as studying photography and moving into a new house-cum-swimming pool in suburban Reseda. Now, her crown relinquished to a successor (chosen as this issue went to press), Ruthy is enjoying what she considers the biggest triumph of all: becoming a Playmate. She's so enthusiastic about being a gatefold girl, in fact, that she's energetically boosting another Hollywood Bunny for a future spot in the magazine--and using her new camera skills to shoot the test photos herself.
A man came home sporting a pair of shoes he'd spent $75 on that day. He had anticipated admiring comments from his wife, but she didn't even appear to notice that he had them on. Somewhat piqued, he waited until she was in bed later on, and then marched into the bedroom stark naked except for the fancy footwear. "It's about time you paid some attention to what my peter is pointing at," he announced, striking a pose.
In This Age of Ecology, transportation has come to mean going from one point to another with the least visible flash. What with the doomsday pronouncements of the Ehrlichs and the Commoners and the stuff we keep hearing about "the impending energy crisis," it seems that those who still like to move in style are destined for even more bad press. On the other hand, there are perspectives--such as those advanced by naturalist Robert Ardrey--that urge such folks to carry on, full speed ahead. Ardrey, for instance, believes that all men possess an innate need to face danger. Without hazard, as he calls it, Ardrey says man--both as an individual and as a civilization--is doomed. Now, the six men who drove the machines pictured on these pages might not see their ambitions in Ardrey's terms, but what they've sought and achieved isn't unsympathetic to his views. The irony is that what the gentlemen who piloted these record breakers did scuttles the rationale behind technology. If nothing else, technology implies the elimination of human sacrifice. And when you take a device that was designed to remove suffering from your life and turn it around to stretch the limits of your endurance, you can understand the paradox. As we all know, record-setting attempts have their drawbacks: the fires, the flip-overs, the assorted wipe-outs--and the sad knowledge that almost every record eventually disappears from the books. But, granting that, there still remains a whole world of fringe benefits that eludes everyone but a few life-risking men. Take Craig Breedlove, for example, a former land speed record holder. In October 1964, he was attempting a new mark when his jet-powered Spirit of America went out of control. He missed the record, but his effort went down in history. On that day, Breedlove set a record for the longest skid marks ever made. By the time he brought his Spirit under control, he had skidded nearly eight miles. Of course, the difference between Breedlove and the men we feature here is that they got what they were after and he didn't. And, as even Breedlove would agree, that makes all the difference in the world.
He was Watering the avocado plant when he saw her. The girl was standing behind a sliding glass door, one hand on the mechanism for opening it, and she was peering out in a gingerly manner, presumably leery of the strong wind that was blowing. Apparently satisfied that the air currents would not pitch her from the balcony, she opened the door wide enough to let herself through and stepped outside.
Synopsis: The fourth packet of the Flashman Papers (1854--1855) picks up the memoirs of the celebrated soldier as England is moving towards war with Russia. Captain Flashman--a public hero of the Afghanistan campaign but, as he reveals, a private coward--seeks to avoid the coming storm by joining the Board of Ordnance in London.
In his otherwise admirable biography, Einstein: The Life and Times, British author Ronald W. Clark has shed virtually no light on what is certainly the most remarkable aspect of the late theoretical physicist's altogether remarkable career. Either by oversight--which seems nearly incredible in a work so apparently well researched--or by deliberate design, Clark has joined the overwhelming majority of Einstein biographers in completely ignoring the fact that from 1923 to 1933 Albert Einstein directed and starred in some of the funniest slapstick comedies of the era. In so doing, Clark has lent his support to a conspiracy of censorship that has been perpetrated by no less awesome bastions of the establishment than the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences and the Atomic Energy Commission. This suppression has, since the early Thirties, systematically denied the American public the pleasure and enlightenment provided by such milestones of cinema history as The Professor (1924) and The Genius (1926). It can only be hoped that the forthcoming publication of the Einstein papers from the Princeton collection will not be subject to the same restraints and that the future will see the free dissemination of both the films and the biographical material concerning them.
Marilyn Cole, the girl from Portsmouth, England, is going places--literally as well as figuratively. Our gatefold girl of January 1972 is spending every spare moment (and penny) seeing as much of the world as she can; and the editors of Playboy have chosen her as Playmate of the Year--1973, Marilyn's fans will recall that we discovered her after she'd left Portsmouth to seek her fortune in London--where, as luck would have it, she applied for a job as a Playboy Bunny at our local hutch in Park Lane. She worked as a cottontail before and after trying her wings in the public-relations field--coordinating promotional activities for her former hutchmates, fielding requests from the press, and so on. In recent months, however, she's been concentrating on modeling--a career that, like Bunnyhood, allows her maximum flexibility in scheduling her time. "I used to think I'd be bored, posing for photographers," she remembers. "But now that I'm getting accustomed to it, it's rather fun." It hasn't been easy, however, for Marilyn to become established as a mannequin. "I'm not the right size," she explains, adding with customary candor: "Most of the models I know have no boobs at all, or at least not big ones." When she does finish a lucrative assignment, Marilyn rushes home to the Mayfair apartment she shares with three Bunnies, packs her bags and takes off in pursuit of her latest passion: travel. "If I've got the money, I go," she says. "Maybe just for two weeks on the Costa del Sol. I've also made it to Morocco, Moscow. Switzerland--and Crete, but that was an expense-paid trip to shoot some of these pictures, after I was chosen Playmate of the Year." Glad to be of help, Miss Cole. You're entitled--to that and much more. At a cocktail party planned for May 15 at the Playboy Mansion West, she was to be presented to press, radio and television by Hugh M. Hefner, (text concluded on page 212) Playmate of the Year (continued from page 152) Playboy Editor and Publisher--who also was to present her with a $5000 cash prize from Playboy. Marilyn's largess by no means ends there. Her bounty includes:
Some Time before Simón Bolivar, with his British and Irish troops, won the Battle of Boyacá and swept into Bogotá, that sleepy colonial capital had begun to stir with revolutionary ideas. It was there that Antonio Nariño translated the Declaration of the Rights of Man in 1794 and it was in the Nueva Granada that the comunero uprising against Spanish power took place. "But what of the rights of woman?" thought the lovely Luz Marina Vásquez, weeping behind her veil as the carriage took her off to the nuptial Mass that would celebrate of her marriage to Juan Carlos Morales, a man whose very compliments filled her with hatred.
Some of Robert C. Pritikin's neighbors are going to be surprised when they read this. You see, the exterior of his apartment building--that's right, apartment building--isn't all that spectacular. It stands next to a laundry on a shady street in San Francisco's Pacific Heights and it blends neatly--even inconspicuously--into its milieu. But there's surprise awaiting you if you should ever visit Mr. Pritikin, a successful advertising executive, in the second of the six apartments. A carpeted hallway takes you to a balustrade overlooking a two-story living room. You descend via a graceful circular staircase--designed, like the rest of the apartment, by architect Robert Crutchfield--and find yourself facing seven gargantuan glass doors. They open at your touch and the living room expands to embrace an L-shaped swimming pool and a luxurious garden boasting full-sized trees and giant hanging plants. Above is a balcony that supports a dining area and a "library"; the latter is enriched by mahogany paneling and a brown-velvet wall sporting three stained-glass windows, hundreds of years old. The decor of the apartment, reflecting Pritikin's myriad interests, is eclectic to the nth degree. On display are spears that he brought back from Australia; antique coffee grinders from Guatemala: pieces of magic apparatus used by Carter the Great, a popular wizard of the Twenties; and literally thousands of mementos and art objects. They range from kinetic sculptures, which Pritikin doesn't necessarily recommend ("If the artist goes out of town and the sculpture goes on the blink, you've got a heavy problem") to a "small, worthless rock" that, according to Pritikin, "represents my thoughtless contribution to the deterioration of the Colosseum in Rome." And that's a sobering reference, in the context of the Bay Area: for if San Francisco is ever leveled by the natural catastrophe that all the scientists are predicting. Pritikin's pad, like the Colosseum, may be reduced to fragments. For the foreseeable future, however, the man has a good thing going. As a recent guest of his remarked--in an understatement for sure--"Anybody in the city could do worse."
In 1972. The New York drama critics gave their annual award to Jason Miller's That Championship Season, an intense work that centers on the tragicomic reunion of a high school basketball championship team and its coach. Thinking back on a short but very successful career, Miller, 33, remembers "a lot of one-acts and another play, Nobody Hears a Broken Drum. It was about Irish miners and was set in the 18th Century . . . or the 19th . . . some fuckin' century. Anyway, it wasn't what you'd call a long-running play. It closed after about two and a half hours." Such unpretentious comments are characteristic of Miller. He dismisses his sensitive rendering of Tom, a character in Season, with: "At first, I had him attempting suicide, but that was bullshit, too melodramatic. So he's just a drunk; that's enough." Which is not to say that Miller's creative ego isn't touchy about his work. When an actor reading for a part in the play tossed the manuscript aside and spoke his lines from memory, Miller told him afterward, "You auditioned very well, but the way you threw the manuscript down, I wasn't sure you had enough respect for the material." Miller was graduated from the University of Scranton in 1961 and "after I kicked around the provinces for a while. I moved to New York to pay my dues." (That was about six years ago and he and his wife have stayed there ever since.) Miller not only writes but acts (he's the lead in the upcoming film The Exorcist) and also wants to direct as well. Currently writing the screenplay for Season--which Playboy Productions will film--Miller feels no pressure to finish another drama hastily. "Too many playwrights fall victim to the 'Where's the second play?' syndrome and end up pulling some lousy, discarded manuscript out of a drawer or writing an inferior work. I'm not going to let that happen. My next play is going to rise up and flow, easily and naturally." We suspect it will be worth the wait.
He doesn't Tell anyone but close friends and associates where he lives; he can't afford to. As United States Attorney for the New Jersey District. Herbert Stern's task is to prosecute corrupt public officials. For more than half a century, he says, the Garden State has had "the most notorious graft in the U. S., extracting ten percent from anyone who sought to do business here." By the late Sixties, says Stern, "the feeling was that everything in City Hall had a price on it. The council of Jersey City had a secret bank account with $1,231,000 in it and John V. Kenny [a prominent state Democratic Party leader] had three corporations doing nothing but keeping safe-deposit boxes." According to Stern, outrage over this situation was one cause of the riots that nearly leveled Newark. Cold and methodical. Stern normally works ten hours a day, going 16 or 18 when there's a case in court, often questioning all the witnesses himself. Even his pleasures seem serious, studied: A longtime friend of his describes Stern swimming relentlessly for two miles, apparently unaffected by the exertion. Powered by this kind of implacable drive, Stern has won convictions of so many city, county and state officials that it would be difficult to list them all. A few are: Paul Sherwin and Robert Burkhardt, both secretaries of state; C. E. Gallagher, U. S. Congressman: and the mayors of Morristown, Newark and two each from Atlantic City, Jersey City and Gloucester. Son of a New York attorney. Stern began his career as a prosecutor shortly after graduation from the University of Chicago, as an assistant to Manhattan's venerable D. A., Frank Hogan. Now, at the age of 36, his battles are just beginning. There are cases in court, others awaiting trial and new indictments being prepared. The amount of paper he's shuffled would reach to Tierra del Fuego. But with all his energy and determination, Stern seems to get no charge out of putting away some of the most venal politicians in the country. "I'm just doing my job," he says. Indeed.
When David Bowie made his Carnegie Hall debut last fall, everybody from Albert Goldman to Andy Warhol was there--plus a gaggle of weirdos expecting some sort of British Alice Cooper. That's not what they got. The concert opened as Bowie, in clockwork-orange hair, came onstage amid flashing strobe lights, to the Mooged-up strains of Beethoven's Ninth. From there, except for a simulated sex act with silver-haired guitarist Mick Ronson, it was a matter of music, ranging from the hard rock laid down by Bowie's band, the Spiders from Mars, to a Jacques Brel song with guitar accompaniment. Music--and Bowie's poetic messages, some plaintively personal, others awesomely apocalyptic; music, messages and movement, for Bowie, who spent two and a half years with a mime troupe, is a thoroughly skilled performer who can turn a song into high drama with body language, or simply by contorting his futuristically made-up face. A dropout commercial artist who was born 26 years ago in a London suburb and later changed his name from Jones so as not to be confused with a certain Monkee. Bowie is an original offstage, too. Though he's got a wife, Angela, and a son whom he calls Zowie, his sexuality is admittedly changeable; he started dyeing his hair and messing around with dresses in his teens. Besides mime, he's studied the saxophone and Tibetan Buddhism. His idols include Edith Piaf, Marcel Marceau and Judy Garland. His fears? Well, planes for one: He came to the States by boat and toured by bus. Bowie also has a fantasy about becoming a rock martyr: "One day a big artist is going to get killed onstage, and I keep thinking it's bound to be me." Otherwise, he's optimistic about what's around the bend, provided people "face up to a future controlled by the pill, by sperm banks and by all kinds of things that have never been dreamed of before." Bowie's own future seems assured--even after the shock waves fade away.
Golly There are More Pets Than Ever These Days. Doesn't it Just go to Show that People are Brimming Over with Love?Fear of MuggingFear of Blacks.Fear of RapeFear of Assault.Fear of Rolled-up Newspapers.