Well, Three Cheers for us. And a round of drinks, too. You don't see many magazines celebrating longevity or anything else these days. What you do see is a publishing landscape dotted with the bones of big magazines, once considered institutions, that have foundered and died: Colliers, Look, Life. But Playboy this month celebrates its 20th year and is not just healthy but damned robust. We're also the most frequently imitated magazine around, and you know what they say about sincere flattery. So on this birthday, prosperous and flattered, we agreed to go out and have a little fun--feeling that we owed it to ourself, by God.
Playboy, January, 1974, Volume 21, Number 1. 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.
This is not a Polish joke. Honest. It's just that an official tourist brochure published by the Warsaw government advises visitors: "As for the tripe served you at the Metropol Hotel, you will sing its praises to your grandchildren as you lie on your deathbed."
As Carlos Castaneda tells it, he was driving through the Sonora Desert with his favorite Mexican sorcerer, Don Juan, when he saw a pair of headlights gaining on him from behind. But suddenly they disappeared, scaring Castenada and leading Don Juan to observe, "Death is always behind you; sometimes he drives with his headlights out." We would only add that sometimes he is driving not a hearse but a Good Humor truck.
Despite the gimmicks and the gewgaws that pop up at Christmastime as just the gift you've been looking for, multiple-LP albums still rate five stars for yule giving--or getting. If your Christmas bonus runneth over, you might feel like splurging on Philips' four-album, 16-LP packaging of Richard Wagner's "Ring" cycle recorded at Bayreuth during the 1966 and 1967 seasons. The conductor is Karl Böhm: some of the principal singers are Birgit Nilsson, Kurt Böhme and Leonie Rysanek, and the over-all effect of total immersion in Das Rheingold, Die Walküre, Siegfried and Götterdämmerung is stunning. So is the price--$104.70--but Christmas comes but once a year. Another major project has been completed just in time for the festive season. RCA is offering almost everything pianist Sergei Rachmaninoff recorded. The Complete Rachmaninoff amounts to a five-album, 15-LP collection, covers a 23-year span--from 1919 to 1942--and includes a large body of his own work. In short, a collector's dream. Also available from the same company is the four-LP album The Tenor of the Century: Caruso. It includes a number of selections not previously put out commercially.
An old church in a city where spirituous beverages are regarded with suspicion, if not downright hostility, seems an unlikely place to look for fine food. Nevertheless, you'll find some of the best Italian food this side of Naples at the Ristorante della Fontana, a converted church at 336 South Fourth East in Salt Lake City. The stained-glass windows are still intact, pews seat some of the diners and the pulpit decorates the lobby. Where the baptismal font once stood, however, there's now a ceiling-high fountain; the choir loft has become a waiting room and bar (bring-your-own, as defined by Utah law), and the hushed reverence of the faithful has given way to an atmosphere of relaxed camaraderie. Everyone is welcome, and guests include well-dressed families enjoying an evening out, high school kids entertaining their dates and, in the winter months, a substantial number of casually clad and sun-tanned skiers in from the several major slopes that lie within an easy half hour's drive. (The surrounding Wasatch Mountains are touted as the deep-powder capital of the world.) Beyond the charm and conviviality, the Fontana's reputation is based on the manner in which excellent service is combined with superb cuisine. The emphasis is on dining as a total experience. If a sign of good service is being barely aware that you're being waited on, having needs met almost before they've become conscious, then the Fontana's service is near perfect. The pace is leisurely, calculated to enhance the food and to allow you to savor each course before the next is served. (You can order à la carte, but do yourself a favor--don't.) The first course is the thickest, heartiest Minestrone we've ever tasted, crammed full of vegetables. Resist the temptation to fill up on it, because there's fresh melon coming, followed by a crisp Heart of Romaine Salad (try the house dressing--bleu cheese in a base of oil and vinegar; it's great), a pasta course (your choice of ravioli, spaghetti or spinach noodles) and Italian ice to clear the palate. Up to this point, everything has been prepared with such loving care and attention to detail that it's hard to believe the entree can measure up. It does. The Parmiggiana al Forno is superb--tender slices of veal (when available--beef when it isn't) cooked in a lightly spiced sauce of parmesan and mushrooms with a taste subtler than any Italian recipe we've tried. Merluzzo al Forno in Casseruola is a baked casserole of halibut with mushrooms in a cream sauce that makes you wonder why halibut has never tasted so good. If you like chicken livers, the Fegato di Pollo can Funghi (mushrooms) will turn you on. Chicken? Try the chicken breast, stuffed with delicately seasoned dressing and served with supreme sauce, or the Cacciatora, both excellent. There are over a dozen entrees from which to choose and all, including such presumably pedestrian dishes as spaghetti, ravioli and lasagna, are prepared with flair and creativity. As if all this weren't enough, there's still coffee and dessert: a basket loaded with fresh fruit and cheese. And one more pleasant surprise: the size of the check. The dinner--all seven courses--will set you back only $3.50 to $7.25 (for the New York strip steak). Three-course lunches run from $1.95 to $3.60 and include soup, an entree and your choice of melon, pasta, salad or Italian ice. A word of warning is in order for those who feel that no meal is complete without wine or cocktails. Utah's liquor laws, as we've implied, are, well, eccentric. Alcoholic beverages can be sold only by the bottle in state liquor stores. Fortunately, many eating establishments just happen to have such a store on the premises--a closet or some other converted space stocked with wines and/or drink-size minibottles of hard liquor. The Fontana's store has an adequate selection of wines, mostly domestic, but no hard liquor. If you want mixed drinks, you'll have to take your own bottle; you're also welcome to take your own wine. Setups and mixes are available at a nominal charge, as is wine service. The Fontana is always crowded, so reservations are strongly recommended (801-328-4243). Even so, you'll probably wait a bit before being seated; but that's to be expected in an establishment that refuses to hurry its guests. The Fontana is open Monday through Thursday from 11:30 A.M. to 10 P.M., Friday and Saturday until 11 P.M. or later. American Express, BankAmericard and Master Charge are accepted.
Among directors of action drama, Hollywood veteran Don Siegel can claim credit for such movies as Dirty Harry and The Beguiled, and he also helped launch the career of Sam Peckinpah. Siegel's 29th film, Charley Varrick, is a virtually flawless work of its kind--tough, unsentimental, fast-moving entertainment, played to the hilt. If anyone in the movie world still cares, it is also covertly fascist in its endorsement of violence and the view that moral values are irrelevant as long as the right guy comes out on top. Mr. Right in this instance is the title character, a stunt flier turned bank robber who knocks over a bank in a whistle-stop Western town and learns too late that he and his accomplices have unknowingly grabbed a huge stash of Mafia gambling money in transit from Las Vegas. When a Mafia killer (deftly played by Joe Don Baker, a movie meanie worthy of the name) comes after them, Varrick frames his friends, tricks his enemies and presumably wins the admiration of every moviegoer who has ever secretly yearned to get away with grand larceny and murder. If anyone but Walter Matthau were cast in the part, it would be clear enough that Charley Varrick is an utter son of a bitch, but Matthau plays him with such easygoing Teddy-bear charm that it becomes almost cute when Charley says goodbye to his dead wife (shot during the robbery), with time out for a tender kiss as he sprinkles gasoline over her still-warm body and sends her up in smoke in their getaway car. Felicia Farr (Mrs. Jack Lemmon in private life), Sheree North and Andy Robinson lend effective support in a piece that smacks of first-rate professionalism in all departments. What Siegel does may be of questionable value in the long haul, but there's no denying his skill at projecting Charley Varrick with a certain malevolent force.
Nostalgia is the key to some quality-films-for-TV programing on ABC. Jane Fonda is scheduled to adorn the network on December 23 in Henrik Ibsen's classic of liberated womanhood, A Doll's House, directed by Joseph Losey. It was a semihit in its American premiere last autumn at the New York Film Festival. A rival movie version starring Claire Bloom as Ibsen's plucky Nora got into theaters first, and thus helped television sidetrack Jane onto the home screen--all to the good, since Fonda's performance has a decided edge in feminist militancy and contemporary zing. The evolution of Nora from caged canary to free soul was never stated more cogently.
If a line such as "It will be the end of monarchy; I feel ill with shame" sends a shiver through your heart, then you may need medical attention--but by all means buy tickets to Royce Ryton's Crown Matrimonial. Everyone else could safely skip this English import. Why bother retelling the story of the Duke of Windsor's abdication unless there is some new insight into character or politics? This is still the headstrong Edward (although there is a vague attempt to show that he would have been a modern, forward-looking king). And politics is largely a reason for name-dropping--"How was George of Greece?" said matter-of-factly, so that one knows that the characters are royal. The play's sole innovation is that Mrs. Simpson is kept offstage, leaving Edward--unconvincingly--to catalog her virtues and to reiterate that she is "the woman I love." Perhaps this should have been a musical. The most intriguing character is Queen Mary: Resolute, officious, she is devoted to the crown and negligent of her offspring. In a better play. Queen Mary would be monumental and--despite the familiarity of the drama--Edward might be tragic, but Ryton's writing is easy and predictable (here, with a thud, comes another curtain line). Although he has an occasional tendency to sound and look more like young Winston than young Windsor, George Grizzard gives quite a creditable performance and Eileen Herlie has thickly brocaded herself into the costume and the role of Queen Mary. The acting is lively, but it cannot vivify a lifeless play. At the Helen Hayes. 210 West 46th Street.
I am unusually afraid to ask an attractive girl for a first date, whether she is an old friend or a new acquaintance. I fantasize that she will think that I am after her bod, that she will be repulsed, offended or, more realistically, that she will just not be interested. In most cases. I would like to have sex, but I am never pushy on the first date and I play it conservatively by ear after that. The risk of rejection, of being put down by a no, is greater than the possible benefit and ego boost of her saying yes. What should I do?--K. A., Edison, New Jersey.
<p>From the moment P first hit the newsstands in December of 1953, it was obvious that Hugh Marston Hefner's new publication-a 48-page, undated issue with a cover and center spread featuring Marilyn Monroe-wasn't going to be just another magazine. It was Hefner's own vision of what a men's magazine ought to be: a judicious blend of fiction, nonfiction, humor, art and photography--all reflecting a healthy appreciation of the opposite sex and of what he called "the great indoors." There had never been anything quite like it on the market; something about it struck a chord with the 70,000 readers who made the first issue a sellout. Within months, in an era in which publishing empires were crumbling, Playboy was thriving; it went on to become the industry's biggest post-World War Two success.</p>
It so happened that I, Charlie Citrine, a lanky bald person with kinky back hair, ambled into a sort of eminence while my friend Von Humboldt Fleisher dropped dead. He, the poet, died in a dismal hotel. I, a different sort of writer, remained to mourn him in prosperity. I couldn't help it, I had made money, too. Ah, money, the money! Humboldt thought I had a lot. He said I was a millionaire. He didn't say, he accused me of making millions.
Since World War Two, the international monetary crisis has become a fixed feature of what people with a gift for cliché call the financial landscape. Through the Fifties and into the Sixties, crises happened in Britain roughly at two-year intervals. There were occasional unspectacular episodes involving the French franc and the Italian lira. In the past six years, the crises have been much more serious, and all have involved the dollar. The summer and autumn of 1971 and the autumn and winter of 1972-1973 produced spectacular episodes, the last blowing up without any seeming reason or warning. Both ended with devaluation of the dollar. Since then, the dollar has wavered and then got stronger. But more crises are ahead--perhaps next time for the pound again and maybe one day even for the yen.
Fantasy, the Flutter, the rapture of fantasy! Erwin knew these things well. In a tram, he would always sit on the right-hand side, so as to be nearer the sidewalk. Twice daily, from the tram he took to the office and back, Erwin looked out the window and collected his harem. Happy, happy Erwin, to dwell in such a convenient, such a fairy-tale German town! He covered one sidewalk in the morning, on his way to work, and the other in the late afternoon, on his way home. First one, then the other was bathed in voluptuous sunlight, for the sun also went and returned. We should bear in mind that Erwin was so morbidly shy that only once in his life, taunted by rascally comrades, had he accosted a woman, and she had said quietly: "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Leave me alone." Thereafter, he had avoided conversation with strange young ladies. In compensation, separated from the street by a windowpane, clutching to his ribs a black briefcase, wearing scuffed trousers with a pinstripe, and stretching one leg under the opposite seat (if unoccupied). Erwin looked boldly and freely at passing girls, and then would suddenly bite his nether lip: This signified the capture of a new concubine; whereupon he would set her aside, as it were, and his swift gaze, jumping like a compass needle, was already seeking out the next one. Those beauties were far from him, and therefore the sweetness of free choice could not be affected by sullen timidity. If, however, a girl happened to sit down across from him, and a certain twinge told him that she was pretty, he would retract his leg from under her seat with all the signs of a gruffness quite uncharacteristic of his young age, and could not bring himself to take stock of her: The bones of his forehead--right here, over the eyebrows--ached from shyness, as if an iron helmet were restricting his temples and preventing him from raising his eyes; and what a relief it was when she got up and went toward the exit. Then, feigning casual abstraction, he looked--shameless Erwin did look--following her receding back, swallowing whole her adorable nape and silk-hosed calves, and thus, after all, would he add her to his fabulous harem! The leg would again be stretched, again the bright sidewalk would flow past the window, and again, his thin pale nose with a noticeable depression at the tip, directed streetward, Erwin would accumulate his slave girls. And this is fantasy, the flutter, the rapture of fantasy!
In a Nationally Circulated interview--not the one you'll find elsewhere in this issue--a reporter once asked Hugh Hefner what Playboy would be without its Playmates. "I don't think people buy Playboy for just the Playmate, if that's what you mean," he replied. But, he went on, she's an integral part of the magazine--just like good articles, good interviews, good pieces of fiction. We'll buy that, and so do our readers. In tribute to the 242 girls who have made the center spread of Playboy what it is, we present here a distillation of the past two decades. We may have omitted your personal favorites, but we're sure you'll enjoy this editorial return with us to the golden days of yesteryear.
In these turbulent times of ours, we are but fragile, sensitive souls cast upon a stormy sea. We like to be pampered and coddled and made to think that everything will be all right--even if it won't. Our clergymen tell us that our wasted, meaningless lives have some higher purpose. Our Government tells us that peace and prosperity are just around the corner. Our psychiatrists inflate our ailing egos. But the worst optimist is the astrologer, who each month predicts what joyous and wonderful things lie ahead for us. Flip through your magazine horoscope someday--you'll see that it is either sickeningly optimistic (continued on page 228) Your Horrorscope (continued from page 113) or just plain ambiguous but never, never negative. After all, there's no sense worrying about things before they happen, right? Wrong! We've been pampered and coddled long enough. It's time for our astrologers to stop pussyfooting through our futures and tell us the cold, cruel facts as they stand. We don't want our horoscopes to sound like a Norman Vincent Peale baccalaureate address, do we? Of course not. So here, for the first time anywhere, Playboy's team of crack astrologers presents the unsoftened, unexpurgated truth about your future.
As January First approaches, corks will pop from well-iced bottles and a pale, luminescent beverage will gush forth in a glory of foam and froth. The mood definitely will be champagne, but the wine may or may not be. Americans tend to call every wine that bubbles champagne and at one time that was the only sparkling wine. But today the designation is generally reserved for the elegant, somewhat austere wines of the Champagne region of France, a relatively small area 90 miles east of Paris. For reasons of treaty and trade agreement, Spanish sparkling wines are labeled espumoso, German effer-vescents are Sekt or Schaumwein, Italian are spumante and French sparklers grown outside the designated area are called vins mousseux. The United States is one of the few countries where the name is not forbidden, but wines so labeled must be identified as American champagne, California champagne or New York State champagne.
Adistressingly high percentage of concerned and intelligent young men may be seen these days wandering the streets in a disheveled manner, eyes wild and darting, seeking the answer to a difficult and profound question, viz.: "Why am I so horny all the time?" In response to this and related queries, and in direct consequence of today's breezy climate of sexual enlightenment, we herewith publish the latest and most comprehensive example in the current trend of self-analysis through print: the Wurst-Besser Complete and Inclusive Sexual Maladjustment Test, named after two of the most respected toilers in the field of sexual theory. Dr. Tesman Wurst is professor of secretions at the University of Vienna and holds the degree of D.T. (doctor of tumescence) at that institution, earned through his brilliant work in kissing and tickling. Dr. Anna Besser is most widely known for having developed the Remedial Fondling Program now used by many therapists; in addition, she has a limited practice in New York and once shared a cab with Wilhelm Reich. Working together, Drs. Wurst and Besser arrived at their startling insights into human sexual practices utilizing the simple yet bold technique of observing actual couples during the act of intercourse, often through terrestrial telescopes. This test is based on their assumption (now generally accepted) that we are all quite ill and that our happiness depends upon the extent of the illness and our adjustment to it. Whether you're a social ninny, a narcissist, a neurotic or merely a garden-variety necrophiliac, the following questionnaire, compiled by a team of dedicated researchers, all wearing lab coats, will help you determine how sexually maladjusted you really are. Answer all the questions, selecting whichever answer most closely approximates your honest response. At the end of the test you'll find a discussion, scoring and explanatory section. Start now; do not cheat or rub out your answers.
Of All the Madness I experienced as a child, nothing reached a higher quotient of insanity than the geography lessons. I was instructed to draw the course of the Euphrates River and to mark and name the principal tributaries. Who was I at the age of eight to decide the relative eminence of rivers? I still do not know where the Euphrates rises and falls. I sometimes wonder whether, indeed, the Euphrates is still rising and falling, so seldom do I hear it mentioned. And even today, as I travel the globe, I am still trying to hide the fact that I have only the haziest idea of how the world fits together and why, for example, when flying out of Britain, I must pause at Frankfurt en route to Kenya. I had decided on Kenya for a holiday, because if one is to bask in the sun, it's smart to get as close to the equator as possible. Mombasa is not only near the equator, it is thoroughly spoiled. I am not one for the unspoiled (continued on page 130) Mr. Morley, I Presume (continued from page 121) terrain, the empty beach, the thornbush, the flyblown kiosk with the lukewarm beverage. Give me the marble terrace, the steps leading down into the water. I can ignore the high-rise apartment at my back. I am looking the other way.
Readers of Playboy will no doubt recall ten remarkable pages in our January 1971 issue in which haute couture model-actress Veruschka was painted to look like a panther, a snake and other slinky living things; then she draped her body over logs, wound it around tree limbs and generally behaved in a most alluring way. Because that was one of our most talked-about pictorials ever, we were delighted to welcome Veruschka and her paintbrush back for another exclusive Playboy pictorial.
January Playmate Nancy Cameron isn't the introspective sort, but on the eve of her 20th birthday--which just happens to coincide with ours--we caught her in a reflective mood. "I've been thinking what would have happened if I hadn't gotten away from home." Home for Nancy was Arnold, Pennsylvania, a small town about 20 miles outside Pittsburgh. "I'd probably have gotten married--to my very old-fashioned high school sweetheart--and most likely have settled for a career as a dental assistant." Nancy makes a face. "And I'd never have gotten to meet Alice Cooper." We should explain that Miss January works for her boyfriend, Paul St. John, a rock concert producer in Pittsburgh. Nancy books hotel reservations for incoming groups, ensures that rooms are supplied with ample provisions of food and drink and arranges press parties, limousine service and the like. "Somebody was throwing a party for Alice after the concert and Paul wanted me to go," says Nancy. "But I told him I was tired and we argued about it. So I'm sitting home alone when the phone rings and there's a man on the other end of the line saying, 'Hello, Nancy. This is Alice.' And I hear Paul laughing on the line like it was some big joke. But Alice was really quite nice. He straightened everything out between us." Nancy pauses, then says, "Now, I don't mean to give the impression that I'm a close friend of every rock star who passes through Pittsburgh. I don't even like to show up at the concerts. But if I hadn't met Paul, I never would have had the opportunity to go in the first place." In fact, says Nancy, it was Paul who encouraged her to go to Pittsburgh. "I had been working as a dental assistant for several months--in Arnold. That was a drag. I had been modeling, too, just for the sake of doing something different. I model two or three times a week; there's not a whole lot of that kind of work in Pittsburgh. Anyway, one day I was on a job at a shopping center, promoting a modeling agency; Paul passed by, and we met. Since then, I've done things I'd never thought I'd ever be doing, met people I'd never thought I'd meet, had experiences I'd never thought I'd have." At the time she took off for Pittsburgh, Nancy was just a few months out of high school. "I had been very popular," she recalls, "secretary of my junior and senior classes, drum majorette, principal's pet and all the rest. But I knew nothing of Rolls-Royces, rock stars, fine restaurants or big cities. The only time I'd ever gotten out of Arnold to any major new place was to Chicago, where I competed in a national gymnastic meet. [Nancy placed second in over-all competition, which included turns on the uneven parallel bars, horse, rings and free exercise.] But then I had to go back to my job as a dental assistant. Eventually, when more modeling assignments started to come my way, I quit dentistry and worked nights as a receptionist at a country club. Which was OK, except with modeling during the day and working at night, my life consisted of not much more than work and sleep. That is, until Paul came along." Nancy hasn't abandoned her old life entirely, though. She still finds time for exercise with her sisters, who belong to Sokol, an Arnold gymnastic group. "I've been a gymnast my whole life, as have my parents and their parents before them. We're all Slovak, and it would be hard to find a people crazier about gymnastics than the Slovaks. Since my mother is an instructor and my sisters still compete, I guess we can match any family as gymnast fanatics." For the moment, however, Nancy says she can't foresee a time when her passion for the sport would evolve into anything serious enough to give her Olympic aspirations. "I'm OK on the uneven bars, especially when I put my mind to it. But I'm terribly inconsistent, and I freeze under pressure. During one meet a while ago, I was doing a required routine on the rings. Suddenly I caught the judge's eye and got so scared that I forgot an entire sequence. My mind went blank, and by the time I came out of it, I was just hanging there improvising tricks I'd never done before." When she's not working out, Nancy divides her hours about equally between modeling assignments and concert production work. "Frankly," she says, "I'd rather spend more of my time modeling, but I enjoy meeting the groups and helping them." All the same, if she were asked to trade her present life for the one that would have awaited her had she remained in Arnold, we're absolutely certain which one Nancy would choose. "But I've already made that choice," she says. "I'm here with you now, aren't I?" And how.
And then they say, 'Now, ladies and gentlemen, here's the star of our show,' and we both come out and go for the microphone, and you grab it and start right in, 'Good evening, folks, it's so great to be here in Miami,' and I say, 'Wait a minute, what are you doing out here? I'm supposed to be on first, I'm supposed to open the show,' and you say, 'No, they told me I was supposed to open the show,' and we go back and forth like that until you say--no, I say--'Look, didn't you see the sign when you came up to the hotel? Didn't you see that name up there with all the neon lights? Well, that's me.' And then you look and take a beat and say, 'Oh, you must be Air Conditioning.'"
There is a lot more tennis swapping going on in the United States than anyone would like to admit. Almost every tennis and country club now permits mixed doubles out in the open and people are starting to talk about it for the first time.
There's No Denying that when you design men's clothes, you project your images of the men who are going to wear them. So if you invite a number of designers, spanning several generations, countries and ethnic groups, to submit one-of-a-kind creations to be showcased at a gala fashion extravaganza, what you're going to have--in addition to a host of smashing outfits--is a sartorial symposium on human nature. And that's what almost 300 fashion celebrities and media people were treated to, not long ago, at New York's Four Seasons restaurant when Playboy Fashion Director Robert L. Green again presided over our annual Creative Menswear International Designer Collection. While previous collections had featured clothes more experimental than practical, this year's selections (totaling 67) were, with few exceptions, (concluded on page 268) Free Style! (continued from page 162) easily translatable to the real world. And very real, too, was the Who's Who of designers contributing to the event, with fashions from Blass, Cardin, St. Laurent and De la Renta waiting in the wings next to the creations of a number of talented newcomers--black designers Scott Barrie and Jay Jaxon, Yannis Tseklenis of Greece, Kansai Yamamoto of Japan and five student designers, there from New York's Fashion Institute of Technology and two from London's Royal College of Art.
Poor culp. His wife, Sarah, wanted to marry her lover as soon as the divorce came through, she couldn't wait a day, the honeymoon suite in Honolulu had been booked six weeks in advance. So Culp, complaisant to a fault, agreed to pick the girls up in Reno and drive them back to Denver. He arranged to be in San Francisco on business and rented a car. Over the phone, Sarah mocked his plan--why not fly? An expert in petroleum extraction, he hoped by driving to extract some scenic benefit from domestic ruin. Until they had moved to Denver and their marriage exploded in the thinner atmosphere, they had lived in New Jersey, and the girls had seen little of the West.
They are Leading a blind Haitian onto the plane. He is the blindest man I've ever seen. The kind of blind in which the eyes remain open and staring, two giant socketed holes with dead TV screens in them. He might have been branded. Or he was struck blind, from seeing something terrible. There is a tiny satchel of flesh below one socket that looks as if it might contain his old sight, all folded up and tucked away. Now they are taking him back to Haiti. Perhaps back to the thing that struck him blind. His blindness is enormous. Is he going to stand opposite that terrifying thing and not see it with that same enormity?
The Liberals did not desert: they were deserted--that is what made the whole thing so painful. After the martyrdoms of Chaney and Goodman and Schwerner, white kids were told to get out. It was like a scene from Mad magazine, with Indians pouring in on the Lone Ranger: "We're surrounded, Tonto." "What's this we, white man?" Liberals who wanted to sway, holding hands, as they sang We Shall Overcome, found the black hand withdrawn and a sneer that said, "You are what we'll overcome." SNCC rhetoricians took to saying the white men they liked to deal with were Goldwater and Wallace--you knew where you stood with them. Anything you can wrest from a Wallace is no favor but concession to an opposing power. Black power early came to prefer demanding to begging.
He had now been stalking his beautiful Mile. O'Murphy, whose real name was Mrs. Meehawl O'Sullivan, for some six weeks, and she had appeared to be so amused at every stage of the hunt, so responsive, séduisante, even entraînante, that he could already foresee the kill over the next horizon. At their first encounter, during the Saint Patrick's Day cocktail party at the Dutch embassy, accompanied by a husband who had not a word to throw to a cat about anything except the scissors and shears that he manufactured somewhere in the west of Ireland, and who was obviously quite ill at ease and drank too much Irish whisky, what had attracted him to her was not only her splendid Courbet figure (whence his sudden nickname for her, La Morphée), or her copper-colored hair, her lime-green Irish eyes and her seemingly poreless skin but her calm, total and subdued elegance: the Balenciaga costume, the peacockskin gloves, the gleaming crocodile handbag, a glimpse of tiny, lace-edged lawn handkerchief and her dry, delicate scent. He had a grateful eye and nose for such things. It was, after all, part of his job. Their second meeting, two weeks later, at his own embassy had opened the doors. She came alone.
Economists will remember 1973 as the year the market sagged, prices soared and the dollar died. A lot of individuals, from Richard Nixon to Richard Burton, may not wish to remember it at all. But rest assured it wasn't a total loss. The year still produced a dozen months, each of which contained a Playmate. Here, back for some revealing curtain calls, are 1973's gatefold girls, from January's Miki Garcia to December's Christine Maddox. One of them will be crowned Playmate of the Year in our June issue. She'll receive a queen's ransom in presents and a lot of attention, too. So if you find one of these lovelies lovelier than the rest, you're welcome to send in your nomination. It was, after all, a vintage year.
Until Recently, psychiatry was the only cure for patients troubled by depression, ennui, feelings of worthlessness, paranoia, neurotic fears, alienation and, on rare occasions, scurvy. Today, of course, the self-awareness industry has expanded considerably, as countless new forms of psychotherapy, encounter groups and quasi-religious sects have sprung up everywhere. Some of these appear to hold promise, but the majority are destined to be mere fads. What is worse, a good idea is often corrupted. Before proceeding to describe the I'm OK--You're So-So way of life, which has been proved 100 percent effective, let us examine a few of these corrupt self-help programs that are currently in vogue (and often in Time and Newsweek as well) in order to point out their drawbacks:
George MacDonald Fraser, British-born creator of the inimitable Harry Flash-man, captures first place with another of his antihero's adventures in Flashman at the Charge (April-June), later published in book form by Alfred A. Knopf. Ex-Assistant U.S. Attorney for Massachusetts George V. Higgins is runner-up with The Digger's Game (January-March), also published by Knopf.
Keeping track of race-car drivers is like watching rabbits--every time you look, there's a new one. Yet once in a while, a driver will varoom past all the rest with such consistency that even the experts start betting on him. This past season, the odds were on a young South African named Jody Scheckter. At 23, after a steady wave of impressive Formula 5000 wins, he had been dubbed fastest rookie on the road by people who know what's fast--people like Enzo Ferrari, Jackie Stewart and Brian Redman. Starting in his father's garage in East London, South Africa, at the age of ten, Scheckter has raced everything from go-carts to stock cars. He soon became the Junior Johnson of his native country, where stock-car racing still has the backwoodsy flavor of the early fairground-circuit days in America. "I got my style--or rather my lack of it--from stock-car racing," says Scheckter, "where it really ain't racin' if you don't crack into 'em." Scheckter doesn't crack into them anymore, but he does have a remarkable way of careening sideways around tricky turns without killing himself. "People say it looks dangerous and way out of control," he says, "but actually, it's completely controlled and very natural. Otherwise, I'd lose time." Until Scheckter's arrival, Formula 5000 racing was not exactly a spotlight event. Begun in 1967, it features slightly slower versions of the Grand Prix cars. Scheckter, who locked up the L&M Championship at Pocono Raceway, Pennsylvania, in the eighth race of the season, scored his most impressive victory at Watkins Glen, New York, where he won in a car he wasn't used to driving, breaking Jackie Stewart's Grand Prix track record in the process. "I was nervous at first," Scheckter admits, "but the new car was really very good." In fact, Scheckter has managed to break course records on most of the tracks he's raced. "It went well this past season," he says, "so we'll give a go at the Grand Prix in 1974 and see what happens." Fasten your seat belts, world.
"You can't walk around unshaven in California," says one of its new residents, animated-film maker Ralph Bakshi. "In New York, I used to put on a dirty shirt and visit the Bowery. It was great. But here, everybody's so clean. It's ridiculous." He's glad to be in California anyway, because that's where people who make movies live and the 32-year-old Bakshi has just finished his second, Heavy Traffic, the semiautobiographical story of a shy cartoonist in the New York slums, whose world is filled with dog-faced drag queens, legless bar bouncers and violent visions floating through space--the stuff of ghetto nightmares. "They were my nightmares. And I held back, if you want to know the truth. I was pretty conservative in deciding to show what I did." Before Traffic, Bakshi did Fritz the Cat, billed as the first X-rated cartoon and a film that proved to be both a break and a curse for him. "Fritz was a hit, but I went six months without a picture afterward, because everybody wanted me to do another Fritz. I could have spent the rest of my life drawing animals fucking." He learned animation at CBS Terrytoons, his first job after high school, then moved to head Paramount's cartoon studio. After six months, he was so bored he quit. "Everyone was limited in his thinking about animation. I wanted to show that animation can compete with live action in full-length films." He finally met someone who listened, producer Steve Krantz, with whom he collaborated on Fritz and Traffic, and the rest is recent history. Now Bakshi has his own company and is immersed in his next project. "It's called Coon Skin and it's a white man looking at black people and saying, 'Wow! Look what the fuck we did to them.'" After that, he hopes to work with "a major writer to animate an original work. Something really significant. There's no reason why something as important as War and Peace couldn't be done with animation." Given his talent and the scope of his ambition, it looks as if Bakshi will be spending a lot of time at his new drawing board.
He wakes up after nine P.M., rides over to the gig with his road manager and walks slowly, anonymously up the back stairs to the dressing room. While his sidemen don their surreal finery--grass skirts, top hats, etc.--he garbs himself in chamois, adds a staggering number of amulets and charms ("People give me this stuff that they think I like"), wraps a snakeskin around his head, tops that off with a feather headdress and--while make-up is applied to his face by a San Francisco Cockette who's been flown in for that purpose--talks to reporters in a remote but kindly way: Yes, he's really into voodoo; no, he didn't "create" the Dr. John character, it created him. Out front, the band gets the packed house rocking with a classic New Orleans R&B tune; when the doctor and his two girl singers appear, tossing glitter into the crowd, the kids are ready for an orgiastic rock show--and that's just what they get. Most of them don't know, of course, that Dr. John--real name, Malcolm Rebennack, Jr.--was born 32 years ago in New Orleans, where his father ran an appliance business and sold records; that he was an A&R man for Ace Records by the time he was 17; nor that he wound up in Hollywood playing on sessions for Sonny and Chér before he decided, in 1968, to do his own thing and came out with the first Dr. John LP, a midnight ramble through the folklore of south Louisiana, with Creole rhythms, dolorous voodoo chanting, trippy lyrics that were part put-on, and his own one-of-a-kind voice ("I figured that if what Sonny and Chér did could be considered singin', then what I did could be considered singin', too"). He quickly acquired a small but devoted following, yet he didn't hit the top-ten jack pot until he went into the studio to record Right Place, Wrong Time with pianist-producer Allen Toussaint. Now Dr. John's a genuine star. He'll be happier, though, if he can help bring back some of the Crescent City rock giants who taught him his stuff--old-timers like Professor Longhair and Fats Domino. We'd be happy, too.
When the Thompson submachine gun was introduced in 1921, military-weapons experts acclaimed it as a triumph of American ordnance technology. Police officials marveled at its size and firepower and predicted that it would either kill or cure the country's gunmen, rioters and "motorized bandits." Five years later, a Collier's writer described it less approvingly: "This Thompson submachine gun is nothing less than a diabolical engine of death ... the paramount example of peacetime barbarism ... the diabolical acme of human ingenuity in man's effort to devise a mechanical contrivance with which to murder his neighbor." Over the next ten years, the "tommy gun" became synonymous with crime and violence and earned itself an enduring place in the national folklore as the gangster equivalent of the cowboy's six-shooter.
Economist-in-Chief Richard M. Nixon: "In the past seven years there's been an average of one monetary crisis every year. Now, who gains from these crises? Not the workingman, not the investor, not the real producers of wealth. The gainers are the international money speculators; because they thrive on crises, they help create them."