In the film version of M*A*S*H, wrecked and overworked Army doctors traded one-liners over some poor bastard's intestines, and in The Hospital, George C. Scott seethed with rage while patients died of neglect in his admitting room. But those were just films, right? Well, we weren't sure how far medical truth strayed from fiction, so we assigned writer Roger Rapoport to spend a month finding out. He visited a dozen or so hospitals and talked to more than 100 people—doctors, nurses, administrators—and what he learned is It's Enough to Make You Sick. "Perhaps the worst danger in medicine today," he says, "isn't understaffed hospitals, places like Chicago's Cook County, but doctors and hospitals who'll admit patients for anything. Overtreatment is just as perilous to a patient's health as undertreatment. There's one doctor in Southern California whose answering service has the authority to admit patients to his hospital. That's how absurd it gets." Rapoport came away from his experience believing that it's better to take two aspirins and go hide where they can't get their hands on you.
Playboy, September, 1973, Volume 20, Number 9. 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 $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 North Michigan Avenue, 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 Gottlieb, Director of Public Relations. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Joseph Guenther, Associate Advertising Managers, 747 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10017; Chicago, Sherman Keats, Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue; Detroit, William F. Moore, Manager, 818 Fisher Building; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 417 Montgomery Street; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Road, N. E., Atlanta, Georgia 30305.
Aptly named Enid Flabby, 78, saved her pension money for two years to rent London's Nuderama Club for a matinee performance. "I've always wanted to be a stripper," she told shaken onlookers, "but I never got any offers, because I'm a bit on the heavy side." At the conclusion of her performance, she expressed her sympathy for a man in the audience who was injured during her routine when he tried to escape via a fire exit.
Near the end of a phenomenally successful first year on the site of a local watering hole that used to be known as Toots Shoes, Jimmy's (33 West 52nd Street) calls itself the place "for people who love New York." Quite a few seem to love New York, judging from the number of Fun City politicians, journalists and showbiz insiders who frequent these smoke-filled rooms—which are spacious and wood-paneled, with brick walls and lighting just bright enough to show off a collection of placards bearing great quotations about Gotham by everyone from Abzug to Khrushchev. But don't ask for Jimmy, because there is no Jimmy (the name simply sounded New Yorkish and, contrary to rumor, Jimmy Breslin is not a silent partner). Your genial hosts and cofounders, whose political affiliations set the tone throughout three busy floors, are Richard Aurelio and Sid Davidoff, John V. Lindsay's former deputy mayor and chief assistant (in that order). In the main-floor eatery (with viands predominantly Italiano, moderately high-priced and á la carte), Monday is a good night, with Dottie Stallworth's jazz trio filling in for Barry Harris' duo, while drinks are dispensed from time to time at the circular bar by guest celebrities (Jack Lemmon, Peter Duchin, Ben Gazzara and Maureen Stapleton, to name a few recent volunteers), some of whom have proved themselves a match for the thirstiest customer. Any time after cocktail hour, the action in the bar is three-deep and makes most Third Avenue singles spots look decidedly undergraduate. Jimmy's guys and girls are presumably hip enough to pause in the foyer for a glance at the United Press International ticker dispatching late news bulletins. Monday evenings at 11, earnest partisans adjourn to the rear, where Davidoff and Aurelio preside over a local radio talk show called From the Back Room at Jimmy's, collaring eminent politicos from coast to coast. Though noontime jazz concerts to loosen up a business lunch have been suspended, at least for the summer, Jimmy's cavernous underground 52nd Street Room was blasted open in June by Buddy Rich, fronting a 15-piece orchestra that won standing ovations from an S.R.O. crowd. To revive the jazz tradition on historic 52nd Street—where the high-rise has long since replaced the riff—is Jimmy's ultimate goal, according to Aurelio, an eclectic, gregarious chap with plans afoot to book Maynard Ferguson and other recruits from the Newport Jazz Festival, as well as David Frye in concert and a collection of popular film classics running the gamut from Bogart to vampires. Upstage at Jimmy's, a flight above the restaurant, is a cabaret theater currently offering What's a Nice Country Like You Doing in a State Like This?, some smoothly packaged mischief described in the opening number as "a political-satirical revue." The five singing-dancing iconoclasts onstage have tongues stuck fast in their cheeks and seem well aware that their current-events material is highly perishable ("Before the second act, it'll be out of date"). Composer Cary Hoffman and lyricist Ira Gasman score point after point, however, in blithe defiance of the odds against them—and shake the rafters with numbers about everything from Krauts in the White House (Kissinger und Ziegler und Klein, vowing "Herr Nixon will never hear nein") to massage parlors (three businessmen who can "get ass from Pittsburgh to Pasadena" lament that a guy interested in a nonerotic massage is likely to get screwed anyway). Among the topics sent up and swiftly shot down are vasectomy, male chauvinists, women's lib, muggers, Mayor Lindsay, primary elections and Red baiters ("Whatever Happened to the Communist Menace?"—a musical tribute to McCarthyism performed in the hip-swiveling style of the Fifties—is a special treat). Discounting a few brief lapses, the spoofery qualifies as New York's finest and may be the biggest bargain of all at the new spa that Variety aptly labeled "an entertainment supermarket." Indeed, there's something for everyone—unless you're doggedly apolitical (or a thin-skinned conservative). Closed Sundays.
Previews: Big names are on tap for the new publishing season, and none is bigger than Watergate. Due in the coming months is a veritable flood of works about that dismaying yet fascinating affair. Washington Post reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, who dug out much of the story, have gotten a $55,000 advance for their report. Frank Mankiewicz, who happens to have been a classmate of H. R. Haldeman and John Ehrlichman at UCLA, as well as George McGovern's political director in 1972, has titled his forthcoming effort Perfectly Clear—From Whittier to Watergate. Others reportedly taking the plunge include former Nixon aide Clark Mollenhoff, a team from the Sunday Times of London, best-selling crime novelist George V. Higgins, conspirators James McCord and E. Howard Hunt, and Theodore H. White, who has managed to include Watergate in his The Making of the President 1972.
Previews: The film forecast for autumn and beyond promises a number of new faces and some arresting excursions by superstar performers and directors. Promising newcomers dominate the early-fall scene, which will be highlighted by The Paper Chase, co-starring Timothy Bottoms (of The Last Picture Show) and Lindsay Wagner (of Two People) in a contemporary comedy-drama about the social pressures felt by law students at Harvard. Billy Dee Williams, Richard Pryor and Gwen Welles head the company of Hit, a tale of revenge in the heroin trade. In a hare-and-tortoise race with The Exorcist, which is imminent, there's Hex, featuring Tina Herazo, Hilarie Thompson and Keith Carradine, who dabble in witchcraft and vintage motorbikes on the Nebraska prairies back in 1919.
The praise for There Goes Rhymin' Simon (Columbia) has been so extravagant that you may be inclined to be skeptical—if you haven't heard the record. Paul Simon has become the most important singer-songwriter in America—important because he renders his deepest perceptions of love, family and the American scene with wit, wisdom and the greatest musical skill. Everything here is approached with a kind of easy control, without personal or musical self-consciousness. A Gospel flavor underscores much of this music. But there's also a lovely jazzish ballad, Something So Right (with Quincy Jones–arranged strings), which shifts to country rhythm and style in the last verse. American Tune has a most impressive set of lyrics and seems to be Paul's hymn to his sense of national identity—ambivalent, unsentimental and fine. In Learn How to Fall, with its echoes of earlier Simon and Garfunkel tunes, we're given more common-sense Simon philosophy. And in Loves Me like a Rock, the album's capper, Gospel singing by the Dixie Hummingbirds drives home Paul's wonderfully humorous/serious account of how momma's love helps puncture the Devil's pretensions. This disc is pure delight from beginning to end.
Previews: Broadway faces another season looking backward. For Carol Channing, diamonds will always be a girl's best friend: She will return in an updating of her old favorite, now called Lorelei. Director-choreographer Michael Bennett also becomes a producer with Pin-ups, a salute to the pinups through the Forties. Gwen Verdon's new vehicle, Chicago, directed by her husband, Bob Fosse, is a musical based on the aged Maurine Watkins comedy that was once made into the movie Roxie Hart. And in case anyone has forgotten it, there will be a revival of the Lerner-Loewe movie musical Gigi, starring Alfred Drake.
My girlfriend and I have a good relationship, with one exception—when I violate one of the rules in her book of etiquette, she is quick to measure my fall from grace. For example, when we arrived late at the theater recently, I was out of the car and heading for the box office before I realized that she was still in the car, waiting for me to open the door for her. We had a scene; she accused me of bad upbringing and said that I should automatically perform such acts out of respect for her. I believe that if something is done out of habit, it cannot be a sign of respect. Her obeisance to arbitrary forms of social behavior seems to me to be a relic of the last century. And it is contradictory: We never have car-door-type contretemps in bed, where she is spontaneous, inventive and capable of responding to the rule of the moment. Can you put this matter in perspective? I can't believe that my occasional infractions are felonies.—J. H., Providence. Rhode Island.
The North Face of the mountain was still in shadow at mid-morning and the lead boy's yellow parka showed brightly against it as a small and now immobile sun. He stood in web stirrups suspended from pitons he had finally managed to drive into the granite roof of an overhang that jutted 15 feet out from a point almost at the perfect center of the steep 2000-foot wall, so that he stood suspended over 1000 feet of space. For two hours, Nils Johnson, a half mile distant at timber line, had watched through his binoculars the agonizing progress of the climb and he knew now, had known for many minutes, that this lead boy was going to fall.
You would think Bruce Frome, physician, millionaire and chairman of one of America's fastest-growing health-care corporations, would have an easier time finding a good doctor than the rest of us. Well, he doesn't. The head of Los Angeles-based Marvin Health Services has just as much trouble finding reliable physicians as anyone else. Nothing—not his clinical experience, money, stock options nor persuasive manner—seems to give him an advantage on drawing first-rate medical men. This clearly takes the edge off a fine February afternoon for 34-year-old Dr. Frome. After all, he is contractually obligated to serve a mushrooming patient load through his two-year-old medical empire.
One hundred and fourteen years ago, a young writer named Christina Rossetti was suffering the collapse of a turbulent love affair. She sublimated her distress by writing a poem for children—a long poem called "Goblin Market." The author went on to become one of the notable women poets in English literature and the poem became a Victorian nursery classic, still reprinted and read to this day. Ostensibly, it is a scary narrative about two beautiful maiden sisters who get mixed up with a sinister tribe of goblins.
You've Really Got to wonder what in sweet Jesus' name is going on with automobiles these days. Here's Detroit building cars with bumpers that belong on freight locomotives and propelled by engines that run so lumpily that the carburetors appear to have been designed by the Boston Strangler. Then you've got Ralph Nader and his associates, who want to cocoon us so securely inside the blasted things that we could be sent airmail, special delivery without fear of injury. It's all part of society's efforts to grind the rough edges off this infernal machine that has so shaken the foundation of American society in the 20th Century. That can't be all bad, but this house-breaking procedure is tending to remove whatever minuscule evidence of pioneering and innovation was left in the industry. The vast thrust of the contemporary automobile scene is toward standardization; the whole thing is riding down toward the totally homogenized transportation module of tomorrow.
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart, and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.-Kahlil Gibran
Setting out a Generous Supply of cheese is one of the friendliest gestures a thoughtful host can make. Hospitality is of minor consequence to a true cheese freak, however; only one thing really counts—le goût—the vast gamut of tastes ranging from a silky triple-crème belletoile to aggressively fragrant livarots and limburgers. No one knows how, where or by whom cheese was originally conceived. But, like the daredevil who first swallowed an oyster, he was a brave man who first ate cheese. Anthropologists place its origin back some 11,000 years, give or take a century, soon after the domestication of milk-producing animals. Refrigerators being hard to come by, cheese was the only way to (continued on page 218) Cheeses (continued from page 127) preserve and transport the perishable product. Word must have got around, because that primitive cheese has begot a staggering array of offspring. They come in all shapes, sizes, hues, tastes and smells—made from the milk of cows, ewes, goats, yaks, buffaloes, mares, reindeer, camels and even donkeys.
The Cal State Campus in Los Angeles is a nice, quiet place for 25,000 kids to study, and Geri Glass seems to blend in easily. She's there to learn, and she talks earnestly about the Ph.D. in English that she plans to get. Geri hopes to teach on the college level (she likes to picture herself running a class and promises, "I'll be rough"). She also mentions the extra degree—in law—that she might go after, just for fun, "and to get my juris doctorate." But while Geri moves with the crowd on campus, she's a loner away from it. She grew up that way because wherever she lived, she knew she wouldn't be there long enough to make any lasting friendships. Her dad, a phone-company engineer who kept bidding for (and getting) better assignments, moved from Phoenix, where Geri was born 24 years ago, to Southern California, then Northern California, Washington and Idaho, where she was graduated from high school—and got off the Glass family express. She headed for Pasadena and two years of junior college, then took off with a trio of buddies, one of whom had a private plane, and flew all over the Western states and Mexico, having a good time and—believe it or not—looking for properties to invest in. Geri had saved a lot of pennies from years of waitressing, tutoring high school students and occasionally working as a model for an advertising photographer; she chose to convert those savings into some beach-front land near Monterey Bay (which she hopes to sell shortly) and a down payment on a brand-new, furnished condominium in Acapulco that she shares with several other investors. Geri owns the condominium for two months out of the year—January and February, the height of the season. If she could afford the time off, she'd vacation there herself, but this winter she'll be an absentee landlady. After making her investments, she went back to school—she's been at it a year and a half now and will get her B.A. in a few months—and back to Pasadena. She lives there by herself ("That's the only way to fly") and is quick to volunteer that she isn't a great housekeeper. She can cook—gourmet dishes, in fact—and sew well enough, but she likes to exercise her freedom by not hanging up her clothes and not doing the dishes. She has also collected so many books that they've long since overflowed their containers: a big steamer trunk and several packing boxes. "It's ridiculous," admits Geri, in her Southwestern accent. "I've got to break down and buy a bookcase, or else I'll need a second apartment just for my books." The volumes—many of them rare, acquired at swap meets or by browsing around—take turns accompanying Geri wherever she goes, even to parties. Though she'd prefer a tome by some 19th Century storyteller such as Hardy or Balzac, she claims to be a compulsive reader who'll pick up and pore over "almost anything—even a shopping list." Well, it does make sense for a loner to read a lot, especially if she's planning to get a Ph.D. and maybe a few more degrees. But if Geri seems a bit of a bookworm, she also has—as she likes to point out—the Gemini's dual personality: solitary yet sociable, academic yet adventurous. It's a winning combination.
The man got out of the car and went into the motel office. "I have my wife and kids with me," he said to the clerk, "and before checking in, I want to be sure this is a family motel—not one of those places where couples come and go all night."
To illustrate the historical break-throughs in man's (and woman's) age-old struggle with numbers, we challenged a panel of experts with an everyday math problem. Namely: "If amount on line 5 is over $14,000 but under $16,000, enter on line 6 $3550 plus 39 percent of the excess over $14,000." From left to right, here are the results. Expert #1, a paleolithic cave girl, could not comprehend the problem. She forged ahead anyway and after two weeks counting on her fingers came up with an answer of 7, which was incorrect. Expert #2, fast on the abacus but not so good with English, required an interpreter. After 20 minutes, she delivered a correct answer—in yen, rather than in dollars.
Playboy's History of Organized Crime Part II: Chicago and the Prohibition Years
By 1920 Frankie Yale had grown rich, powerful and almost respectable. He owned Island and the Yale Cigar Manufacturing Company (his portrait was on every box, with the cigars selling three for 50 cents, carried in every store in Brooklyn, and Frankie Yale was the generic term for a lousy smoke), had pieces of race horses, prize fighters, night clubs and assorted other enterprises, ligitimate and illegitimate. He owned a fleet of fast boats and when Prohibition came, he turned them loose for quick trips out beyond the three-or 12-mile limit, to what became known as "rum row," to off-load good whiskey shipped from Europe and the Caribbean and run it through the Coast Guard blockades to shore. He owned trucks for shipping the whiskey to speak-easies and bootleggers anywhere and everywhere. When the Mafia moved in on the Sicilian betterment and charitable organization known as the Unione Siciliana, he became its president, giving him in creased power and stature as an ethnic leader. But what Yale prized most was his funeral parlor. "I'm an undertaker," he would often say. And, indeed, that was what he was, maintaining a crew of guns for hire to any paying customer.
The Library had books, of course, and a lot of gray, open space and only a few people, and Will thought instantly, This is going to be the best room to be in for that whole damned six months. On one wall was a cheap Matisse print, an odalisque. There was a funny smell to the room.
I Decided a long time ago that there are only two essential and immutable rules of pleasure travel: (1) If you kind of think you might like to go, go. (2) Keep your eye on your luggage. My ability to abide strictly by the first rule has been somewhat restricted, of course, by the bankruptcy laws of the state of New York, but I do my best, bolstered by the knowledge that I have never regretted a trip to anywhere and that I am still trying to figure out why I passed up an opportunity to visit Alexandria in 1958 when I had gone as far as Athens anyway. (Maybe I had gone only as far as Rome, but it obviously would have been silly not to go on to Athens as long as I had gone as far as Rome.) My observance of the second rule of travel is somewhere between strict and maniacal. I am likely to hang back in the line of passengers boarding a plane in, say, Montreal, not from any fear of flying (several years ago, I discovered that I could prevent the plane I was flying on from crashing by refusing to adjust my watch to the new time zone until we were on the ground, and I have used that method successfully ever since) but from the fear that unless I see my suitcase physically lifted into the belly of the plane, I will have to fly all the way to Toronto gripped by the dread certainty that my luggage has been put on the nonstop to Caracas, Venezuela. I was the man you may have noticed at Kennedy Airport in New York trying to impress upon the TWA ticket agent my absolute certainty that three suitcases, a typewriter and a gift package of homemade cream cheese with scallions would easily fit under my seat on a flight to San Francisco. That was also me you may have seen wrestling our family's 500 pounds of luggage from some eager porter in an Italian airport-no burden being too heavy to bear if it protects me from the possibility that the porter, crazed, perhaps, by a niggardly tip he received from a U. S. Marine colonel moments before, has been searching for some American luggage to toss into the reflecting pool in front of the International Arrivals building. All in all, I manage to do a lot of traveling, and I rarely lose my luggage more than once a month.
Desmond Morris' influential book The Naked Ape, although a runaway best seller, is hardly the sort of work one would expect to be turned into a hit movie. It's a scientific study, drawing on anthropology, zoology and sociology, that propounds a theory about how man got to be the way he is today. But to Donald Driver, director and playwright (Status Quo Vadis), it was a challenge he felt compelled to take on.
Victoria Principal. It's likely to become a name to be reckoned with. "She'll be a major star, of the kind we have had to import from Europe," says Zev Bufman, producer of her latest film, The Naked Ape.
The Creeping Presence of professionalism in college football is one of the sorer subjects among administrators these days. But while athletic directors and N.C.A.A. officials spend endless hours denying that professionalism is a problem, they spend more hours huddled in secret conferences trying to decide what to do about it.
Countless Generation Gaps Ago-say, around 1963—you could depend on a course catalog to tell you what college students were learning: Introductory Psychology, Fifty Great American Novels, Differential Calculus, etc. Even as recently as the late Sixties, though campus interests had been transformed, they were reflected in new course listings: Organic Algebra, Remedial Sandal Making, Advanced Karma, etc.
Picasso once observed that all styles of art are contemporaneous, since none of them ever really die. This year, his remark seems true of campus fashion-nothing from the past appears to have been lost. A glance at these pages will show that the denims of the activist Sixties and the sweaters and slacks of the quiescent Fifties-a bit altered, naturally, as sweaters evolve into ever brasher and brighter varieties-are still with us. So is a fur coat elegantly updated from goldfish-swallowing days. And the resurgence of the suit-tweeds, double-breasteds, et al.-seems to support those who contend that a new conservatism is thriving on campus. Not that it's a dogmatic conservatism: You don't have to wear a suit, but if you choose to-as a lot of individuals do-you can wear it with an open collar rather than a tie. The emphasis, in fact, is more than ever on individual taste. And on comfort-which many undergrads appear to be finding in the form of short jackets that not only put the wearer at ease but give him a spare, uncluttered look. Some of these jackets are equipped with elasticized waistbands; others-like many of the currently popular sweaters-come styled as wrap-arounds. So if there's one prediction we can make about campus fashions circa '73, it's that nobody's going to worry whether he's correctly dressed when crossing the quad.
Comedy in Rock is as old as the Coasters and as new as the septet of lunatics pictured below, whose life—most of it spent on the road, blowing the minds of groupies, cops, stagehands, et al.—is every bit as wiggy as their songs. Behind the clowning, however, lie umpteen collective years of solid experience. Ray Sawyer—he's "Dr. Hook"—is an Alabama boy who felt "doomed" to be a musician at 11. He's been one ever since, except for a stint in the Northwest as a logger, which ended when he lost an eye in a car wreck. He found George Cummings, Jr., and Billy Francis in the latter's home town of Mobile; a junket to Union City, New Jersey, turned up Dennis Locorriere, a naturally funny native of that burg ("All the people are either drinking or working hard, and both them things make you wanna fight"). Jay David claims to have met his colleagues "in a parking lot in Dayton, Ohio.... As everyone expressed a desire to form a band, I went to sleep. When I woke up, Dr. Hook was a working group." And still working neighborhood bars, until they were heard by their current manager and producer, Ron Haffkine, who decided they were just the combo to perform a zany score—for the film Who Is Harry Kellermnn?—that his buddy Shel Silverstein was busy composing. The alliance with Haffkine—who is credited with encouraging the boys to let out their natural craziness via impromptu onstage raps—led to: a bonus contract with Columbia Records, the acquisition of Jance Garfat and Rik Elswit, bringing the roster to a lucky seven and two monster hits penned by Silverstein. Sylvia's Mother, a satire of lachrymose teenage ballads, went all the way, commercially speaking; and The Cover of "Rolling Stone" actually got them there. But the Stone cover that followed the record was only a prelude to their nude centerfold in Zipper, an "art and entertainment" magazine (with gay overtones) out of L.A. As they say ("We're just as faggy as them big rock stars"), they'll do anything to hook a few new fans.
"It's not just Gimmickry." says 32-year-old movie director Brian DePalma. "I conceived it as an economical storytelling technique." He's talking about the repeated use of an inventive visual device-one scene shot from two camera angles, then placed side by side on a split screen-in his latest film, Sisters. "For instance," says DePalma, "just after a murder has been committed in the picture, you see someone at the window from two points of view. On one side of the screen, the camera pulls slowly back, taking the audience carefully away from the trauma of the murder. But the other side of the screen holds them there, so the effect is to gradually move the audience out, not jerk them by just cutting to another scene." DePalma. a Philadelphia native, shot his first footage while a student at Columbia University; and after graduation, he made documentaries for clients ranging from the Treasury Department to the NAACP, wrote and directed some low-budget box-office bombs and lived "at a level of upper-middle subsistence." Then, in 1968, he raised money for Greetings, a broadly satirical film dealing with draft dodging, Kennedy assassination paranoia and myriad other downers of the decade, It was his first financial success and he followed with Hi, Mom, a sort of sequel that also made fun of sex films, educational television and bleeding-heart liberals. He's now planning two new films, Phantom of the Fillmore ("taking the old Phantom of the Opera and turning it into a contemporary horror rock film featuring a character of the Alice Cooper school of performing arts") and Déjà Vu ("an obsessive love story with a thriller underpinning, along the lines of Vertigo"). From his New York apartment, DePalma writes, casts and confers with collaborators. "I start," he explains, "with strong visual images. Then I construct a story around them. It usually works, if you've made enough films." It clearly does for DePalma, which is why his fans think he hasn't made enough films.
Imagine what frustration and drudgery a real-life Mission Impossible team would have to endure to break up an international conspiracy every week and you'll have some idea of what Carl Bernstein (left) and Bob Woodward (right) went through putting together the Watergate jigsaw puzzle in The Washington Post. There was no hot scoop, "no Ellsberg wheeling in a shopping cart full of documents," Woodward says. There was the initial flash: Burglars in business suits and surgical gloves with sophisticated electronic equipment meant more than theft. The follow-up involved relentless questioning of all the secret welterweight sources who might know anything about what the heavies were doing; it entailed meticulous gleaning from volumes of fragmented information, then hours each day connecting people, activities, allegations, before writing the story they knew would be denied by officials all the way up to the President. "You just sat down at six and wrote what you knew," Woodward says. "If you couldn't confirm it with at least two sources, you didn't know anything." Though Bernstein, at 29, has worked for newspapers more than 13 years and 30-year-old Woodward proved his investigative ability long before Watergate, no one would have imagined they would break one of the biggest stories in our Government's history and give new credibility to American journalism. The two hadn't even worked together before, but the combination of their particular skills and backgrounds worked so well that they're going to continue as a team. They're now writing a book about Nixon. Beyond that, neither has specific projects planned, but Woodward continues to be interested in financial scandals, while Bernstein wants to cover the Knicks. Wherever that leads, both are concerned about the impoverished state of journalism: "Agnew was really right about the press," Woodward says. "It's easier to be a lazy journalist than anything else."