Perhaps because Sam Ervin had packed his bag and checked out of the case, there seemed not long ago a growing tendency to turn the whole Watergate affair over to history. It was as if we were already trying to get distance on it, looking for that first tendentious volume that would assess what real devastation it had wrought. Some people probably also figured that Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward--now that they've received applause, apologies and a reported $450,000 from Robert Redford's movie company for the rights to their book--are mostly having long lunches at the Sans Souci and getting their banquet-circuit schedule firmed up. The truth of the matter came home dramatically as we were getting ready to put some words on this page and went to tour own Watergate team, Senior Editors Geoffrey Norman and G. Barry Golson, who've been distilling the fat book manuscript of All the President's Men into two magazine-sized pieces. (Part II, illustrated by political cartoonist Patrick Oliphant, appears herein.) We asked Golson if there was any anused gossip from Bernstein or Woodward that we could talk about and he thought a moment. "If you can wait a day or two, we're getting some fresh revisions from them that they say are really dynamite." We waited, Two days later, Golson rushed out of his office and yelled that the reporters had just broken a new story--claiming that several of the court-appointed tape experts suspected further tampering with the remaining White House tapes--and that we had to hold out a little longer. A week after that, it was Norman's turn to put us off, announcing that Woodward and Bernstein had just written a story about the contents of the grand jury's sealed letter to Judge Sirica-- and that we should get the inside story on that. At which point we gave up and went to press.
Playboy, June, 1974, Volume 21, Number 6. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States, its possession 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: Lee Gottlieb, Director of Public Relations. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer. Advertising Director; Herbert D. Maneloveg, Associate 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, 018 Fisher Building; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 417 Mont. Gomery Street; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Road, N. E., Atlanta, Georgia 30305.
A reader reports that on a visit to The Citadel, a military college in South Carolina, he was met by a secretary in the public-information office. The placard on her desk read, Miss Blitch. It seems that Miss Blitch couldn't help him and suggested he consult another secretary. Her placard read, Miss Fluck.
Those wonderful people who brought us The Godfather--a film that enriched their pockets and their reputations by grossing a record $160,000,000--were at it again, well into six weeks of shooting The Godfather, Part II. Cables, cameras, arc lights, honchos and honey wagons were assembled by an asphalt road alongside the California Institution for Men at Chino, 50 freeway miles east of Los Angeles. For four hours, an off-camera audience of nearly 100 bona fide prisoners under armed guard had been squinting through barbed-wire fences, straining (mostly unsuccessfully) for glimpses of actors impersonating crooks and cops.
Talkin' 'bout our g-g-g-generation: The Who has managed somehow to survive ten years on the road, intact, and was recently back at it again, tearing it up in more ways than one. Since it's one of the oldest bands around, we thought it might be right, if not entirely logical, to send 16-year-old Cameron Crowe to check it out. since he's the youngest writer to show up regularly in Rolling Slone. His report:
There was no energy crisis onstage at the Hacienda Hotel in neon-dimmed Las Vegas, where Barbi Benton recently showcased her kinetic new night-club act. Dressed in a scooped-neck blouse and form-filling jeans embroidered with stars, butterflies, bugs and sunrises, Barbi bounced through a varied repertoire of nine country-and-western tunes that belied both her age and her experience. Readers of Playboy in the audience, of course, recognized Barbi from her three cover appearances and two popular photo spreads (March 1970 and December 1973), and the marquee billing reminded patrons of her three years on Hee Haw, television's rusticated version of Laugh-In. But this was only her fourth nightclub engagement, following stints at the Playboy Clubs in San Francisco and Los Angeles and a break-in date at the Palomino, San Fernando Valley's answer to hillbilly heaven.
At an early point in his versatile and astonishingly prolific career, Anthony Burgess, who is probably the youngest and most experimental 57-year-old in today's writing world, intended to be a composer. Indeed, in "An Epistle to the Reader," which, in verse, concludes his newest novel, the brilliant-comic-poignant Napoleon Symphony (Knopf), he notes: "I was brought up on music and compose / Bad music still, but ever since I chose / The novelist's métier, one mad idea / Has haunted me, and I fulfill it here / Or try to--it is this: somehow to give / Symphonic shape to verbal narrative, / Impose on life, though nerves scream and resist, / The abstract patterns of the symphonist." He ticks off several other literary works that have tried it--Point Counter Point. Four Quartets, Ulysses--about the last of which he says, "But this is / Really a piece of elephantine fun / Designed to show the thing cannot be done." Then, apparently with Napoleon Symphony on his mind, he adds, "Nor can it."
Timothy Leary is in jail. He has been back in jail ever since U. S. agents seized his passport in Kabul, Afghanistan, a year ago, and is serving a sentence of six months to ten years for getting caught with two roaches in his car ashtray. Six months to five years were tacked on for his escape in 1970. Texas claims ten more, also for marijuana possession. Timothy Leary is unperturbed.
Some nights are like that. You just watch the damn thing, until the last liberal minister turns into a test pattern. And after sitting through six hours of Mod Squad reruns and Night Gallery and The Beast That Bothered Bangkok (starring Greta Thyssen and Godzilla), a man's liable to do anything, right? He's not responsible for his actions. Like, he might even succumb and order one of those late-night-TV record-album specials. But you can just chalk it up to temporary insanity. Nothing a little shock treatment won't cure.
Victory gardens, Victory bonds, V for victory: World War Two was a last gasp of American patriotism. Over there, Yanks were getting killed by Nazis, but Over Here!, America was cheerfully eating Spam, electing F.D.R. and listening to the Andrews Sisters triple-barreling their way through boogiewoogie and the beat of the big bands. "Where did the good times go?" asks a song in this rollicking new show, providing its own answer--right there, center stage. Over Here! is no landmark of a musical, but even its lightheadedness is infectious. The two surviving Andrews--Patty and Maxene--come as they are, with no pretense about glamor, singing a peppy pastiche of a score (by Richard M. and Robert B. Sherman). The sisters do more than their bit--and they can still sing. The devisers of the show (producers Kenneth Waissman and Maxine Fox, director Tom Moore and author Will Holt--the first three fresh from foraging through the Fifties in Grease) are smart enough not to limit it to a star turn. The show also has Janie Sell as a sexy Axis Sally (she also fills in as a third "sister"), Patricia Birch choreography that turns the lindy hop into aerial gymnastics, a big band blaring onstage and an exuberant production concept that respects the trivia and the tackiness of the period--and doesn't waste much time on plot. At the Shubert, 225 West 44th Street.
I appreciate women, and that's my problem. Appreciate is not an active verb. For example, a few weeks ago, a girl got on the bus I take from work; she was graceful, attractive, vital and remarkably self-contained. Watching her reflection in the window (so that I would not be caught staring), I silently pledged my undying love and otherwise enjoyed her presence. I did not speak to her. I decided that if I saw her a second time, I would have grounds for an introduction--that much coincidence must be meaningful. The following weekend, I was playing Frisbee in the park near the lake. I saw a girl enter the park about half a mile away and I made it a point to work my way over to the sidewalk in order to appreciate her as she came by. It was the same girl. I was about to speak when my friend threw the Frisbee over my head into the lake. By the time I retrieved it, she was gone. What would you have done in my situation?--J. P., Chicago, Illinois.
The sex laws of most states were enacted so long ago that their statutory language often invites ridicule. Probably most people think that lascivious carriage refers to a pimp's Cadillac, and few couples who practice oral intercourse worry much that they may be committing "the abominable and detestable crime against nature." Unfortunately, these statutes aren't quite the amusing relics they might seem. Sodomy laws are widely enforced against homosexuals and lewdness laws are so vague they can be used to nail anyone from a topless go-go dancer to a country skinny-dipper. Cohabitation laws are used to harass communes. Other sex laws--prohibiting fornication, adultery and various sex acts termed unnatural--are inconsistently, even arbitrarily enforced, and invite abuse by moralistic prosecutors, unscrupulous cops, inhumane welfare officials and even vengeful sex partners. None of these anti-sex statutes serves the proper purpose of the criminal law--the protection of life and properly.
In its 198-year history, the United States Navy has had its share of colorful heroes. Never, however, has it had a head man as controversial as its present Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Elmo Russell Zumwalt, Jr., an officer whose retirement this month at the end of his four-year term as C.N.O. will be greeted with decidedly mixed reactions in and out of the Service. "There's a good deal of indecision," admits Zumwalt, "as to whether I'm a drooling-fang militarist or a bleeding-heart liberal." For good reason. Admiral Zumwalt--who at 49 was the youngest man ever to be made Chief of Naval Operations--has been one of the nation's foremost salesmen for massive American military might. He is pushing for a fourth, billion-dollar nuclear-powered aircraft carrier at a time when some believe carriers are sitting ducks for modern weaponry; he supports immediate development of the new Trident submarine and missile system, when, says his opposition, a slower schedule would spread out the cost and produce a better craft. At the same time, Zumwalt has drastically overhauled barnacle-encrusted Navy regulations to humanize life for naval personnel and their families, thus winning the enmity of hard-line traditionalists.
My friends tell me my nasty nature can be seen from my profile. Straight on, I look like a Pekingese: round, protuberant eyes; a fixed, malicious stare; a snub nose; a wide, curving mouth. But from the side, they say, my face reminds them of a fist ready to hit somebody in the nose. It's really more than a nasty nature you're born with and can't do anything about. It's a deep-down anger that got hold of me when I was about 15 and never left me. This anger, like a watch that's self-winding, goes on its own, without motive or provocation. And then, because of this anger, I always feel like arguing. At this point, I can hear what the usual busybody will ask: "Why so angry? Why always ready to pick a fight?" And my answer to the people who want to know too much but don't know there's nothing to know is always precise: "Who knows?"
We've been accused, at time, of being overly partial to breasts and overlooking the other portions of the female anatomy. Which you see, is a calumny. Sure, we dig breasts. But woman is all of a piece; there's a divine balance to the vectors implied in her shape. And that splendid superstructure would be a lot less intriguing if its forward thrust hadn't been so neatly complemented by an equal tug to the rear. Imagine, for instance, if God had created woman with her backside kind of angled to the side or stuck high up on her back. Of course, the Old Boy was too smart for that; and proof that He knew what He was doing is offered, herewith, by a variety of willing photographers.
In Los Angeles, during a cross-country investigation of new sex-therapy techniques, I met an apostolic woman named Nancy who stopped off to see me at her therapist's suggestion. She was on her way home from work to masturbate according to the instructions her therapist had given her. After talking to me, she explained, she would buy herself a half bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, a bunch of roses and a small thick steak. She would drink the wine, smell the flowers, broil the meat and masturbate to orgasm. A year ago, she never had orgasms; a year ago, she never masturbated; now she has and does both frequently as a result of the treatment she has been receiving at the Discovery Institute, one of a number of mushrooming sex-therapy establishments. "Be good to yourself" is director Sylvia Kars's message. "Be as good to yourself as you would be to a date you had for the evening. Don't just masturbate. Play your favorite music while you do it. Shower and perfume yourself first. Maybe even light a little incense."
The air had a fabricated chill, the slight odor of chemistry and compressors. In a couple of hours, the bar's night lights would come on, enhancing every wrinkle, mole, pimple with the merciless cruelty of motel-bathroom lighting. "You can't make money sitting in a place like this," said the Archivist irritably. He was talking of the way he makes money--by hustling golf--not the way the barkeep does it. He was a short man, in his mid-to-late 30s, beginning to lean to fat. There was about him the very faint but perceptible flavor of kinetic violence, an attribute for a man who--having to "collect"--always seems on the edge of losing his temper. Even when motionless, he exudes a quality of beefy energy or dramatic command. His skull is large under the wavy, dark hair, his face is theatrical--with heavy bones and eyes that slant downward at the outside corners. A small mouth, expressive brows, a general look of gamy handsomeness that you might cast as the hard-drinking private eye of a low-budget television serial. He is single, a man oriented to good whiskey, good cigars, good women and cutthroat poker for high stakes. He is modest, falsely, about one thing--his golf swing ("a good enough swing for a short, fat little guy")--and embarrassed about another: He makes a legitimate living. Sometimes.
Not that she's lazy, you understand, far from it; but Sandy Johnson loves her life on the beach because the mood is easy and relaxed. "I don't feel like I must have a regular nine-to-five job. People around here figure if I'm lying on the sand at 11 a.m., that's my business, and half my neighbors are liable to be there, too, either getting some sun or organizing a softball game." Late-morning sun baths are still very much a luxury for Sandy, however, because the 19-year-old native of San Antonio (she's been in California six years) has so much going on she had to install one of those "Hi, I'm Sandy Johnson and I'm not here. When the tone sounds, tell me what you want and I'll call you back" gadgets on her phone. "I need it primarily because I sell cosmetics and people call me to place orders." The great thing about the job, she says, is that "you can make a lot of money selling cosmetics without working a lot of hours." Hmmm, tell us more. "The secret is organization. I sell to large groups of women in their homes." When she's not making women beautiful, Sandy attends classes at Santa Monica Community College, where she keeps busy studying food and nutrition ("Beauty care has a lot to do with what you eat") and singing. "I've already taken a lot of dancing lessons, so I know I can dance. If I can sing, too, then I want to try to break into musicals. My fantasy is to star on the stage. That turns me on much more than TV or movies. I might also study acting so I can combine all three--singing, dancing, acting." It shouldn't take more than a glance at these pictures to see that the versatile Sandy already has her act very much together.
After the funeral, the bereaved widower made his modest apartment ring with lamentations. As a compassionate gesture, his rich brother invited him to spend a few days in his luxurious town house. The very next day, the brother, returning home unexpectedly early to keep the widower company, surprised him making love to one of the younger maids. "Sheldon!" exclaimed the brother. "You're doing this--and with your poor wife not yet cold in her grave?"
Summer is the tall, cool season. When the sun becomes a red ball, even confirmed martini drinkers forsake the olive and lemon twist in favor of a long, well-iced libation. For most, that means something 'n' ronic or bitter lemon. While both are thirst-slaking drinks, why limit yourself to the prosaic, when there's a world of tempting tropical coolers waiting to be enjoyed? The tall, frosty drink reaches its apogee at the hands of native bartenders from the Caribbean to the South Sea Islands. Drinks are composed for the eye as (continued on page 228)Some Like It Cool(continued from page 137) well as the palate, adorned with such fancies as orchids, hibiscus, mango slices, lengths of sugar cane--and served in anything from a papaya to a coconut.
Rachel first met Gilbert at David and Sarah's, or it may have been at Richard and Phoebe's--she could not remember--but what she did remember was that he stood like a touchy exclamation mark and talked in his shotgun manner about his dog. His talk jumped so that she got confused: The dog was his wife's dog, but was he talking about his dog or his wife? He blinked very fast when he talked of either. Then she remembered what David (or maybe Richard) had told her. His wife was dead. Rachel had a dog, too, but he was not interested.
When Marilyn Grabowski, Playboy's West Coast Picture Editor, picked up the phone to give Cyndi Wood the good news--that she'd been chosen Playmate of the Year--it took a while to get the call through. It took even longer, "about a week, I'd guess," says Cyndi, for the full impact to sink in. "I was in Tokyo, in the midst of a night-club engagement, recording sessions and modeling dates, when Marilyn reached me," she recalls, "and my first reaction was just kind of a 'Who, me?' Not until several days later did I really start to believe it, to feel how exciting it actually was." Excitement hasn't exactly been lacking in Cyndi's life since her appearance on our February 1973 gatefold. Take the Tokyo trip. That came about because Cyndi heard that some Japanese impresarios were staging auditions in Los Angeles--at the Playboy Club, as it happened. "I hadn't sung professionally, except in recording studios, for about three years, but I decided to have a try at it, and they signed me to appear at this very exclusive club in Tokyo, the El Morocco. It has about a fifty-dollar cover charge and only really wealthy people go there. When I first arrived in Tokyo, though, things looked as if they weren't going to work out too well. They had (text concluded on page 219)Playmate of the Year(continued from page 148) designed a big show around me, spent something like ten thousand dollars for costumes that looked as if they were made for a fifty-year-old bar singer. It just wasn't me."
Murakami Tatsuko was 35 and barren, a fact that she blamed on her husband, Murakami Shinjo, samurai and medical man, who made love with his hands the way a snake swims through water, whose only shortcoming was the shortness of his comings. He could have used a third hand or an extra sword at those excruciating moments when ecstasy flagged like a primrose plucked and wilting under an August sun.
The stewardess started talking about seat belts and cigarettes. He swallowed away the growing tightness in his ears as they settled down through the blowy night. First class was thinly populated. He yawned and gathered up the paperwork he had spread across the empty seat and the two service tables and put the raw data along with the almost-finished report into his dispatch case.
My birthday is never a good day anyway. It usually comes on me like a bad lab report (Gemini creeps into the western sky, charts under his arms, delivers the news, "Pssst...you've still got it...the drugs are no use...life is the big dose") and last June I turned 31 in L.A. and proved I could get lower than that. I couldn't have done it in any other city nor without the help of another frayed mind, and I would have let go of my anxiety over it long ago except that there is a professional-quality photographic record of the whole dirty business.
Although no one seems to have noticed, 1973 was, more or less, the 25th anniversary of everybody's favorite piece of furniture--the television. While the tube has been with us since the Thirties, full-scale inanity actually took off around 1948 with such shows as Milton Berle's Texaco Star Theater. To say that television has not influenced mankind is sheer nonsense; to say that it has is horrifying. Yet, for many of us who were born in the Forties or later, it might be said that the idiot box has made us what we are today. If you're not exactly sure what that is, just take a good look at yourself, beady eyes, demented expression, gaping mouth, chronic sloth, inability to concentrate above the intellectual level of Hee Haw. To you, cinéma vérité was invented by Allen Funt and the televised Nixon-Kennedy debates were just another episode of Who Do You Trust? After years of expensive schooling, the only thing you've committed to memory is the theme song to the Mickey Mouse Club. And remember Miss Frances smiling, her hands smeared in finger paint, or Private Duane Doberman gazing philosophically into space? Of course you do. Let's face it, kids, it's been Howdy Doody time all your life. So, just to see how far gone you are, and to belatedly commemorate TV's 25th birthday, try your hand at the trivia quiz below.
"The single best thing an editor can be," says Robert Gottlieb, "is lazy." A curious sentiment from a man who is, at 43, president and editor in chief of one of the most prestigious publishing firms in America and widely regarded as the best fiction editor around. "Look," he explains, "only when a book demands to be worked on--rather than the editor's wanting to work on it--does a real editor go to work. Only when there's a passage that cries out, 'Fix me,' does a truly good editor go to a writer and say, 'This has to change.'" As head of Alfred A. Knopf, Gottlieb publishes some of the world's most noteworthy writers--Anthony Burgess, John Le Carré, Kate Millett, Chalm Potok, Doris Lessing, Ray Bradbury, Bruce Jay Friedman and both Crichtons (Robert and Michael) among them. Uniquely, he still edits those writers personally and ascribes his success to a continuing effort to perfect his laziness. Gottlieb's literary predilections started early. "Even when I was a kid on New York's West Side," he recalls, "I spent most of my time reading. There was a lending library in my neighborhood, and while my childhood friends were playing or at the movies, I'd be blowing my allowance renting up to four novels a day." That interest evolved into a career in 1955, when Gottlieb joined Simon & Schuster. Long lunches and cocktail-party chatter weren't--and, if he has his way, never will be--his style. Sensitive editing is, which is the likeliest reason authors such as Joseph Heller, Thomas Tryon, Jessica Mitford and John Cheever have chosen to move over to Knopf since Gottlieb was appointed its executive vice-president six years ago. He still finds time to spend up to 40 percent of his 60-to-70-hour work week actually reading and editing manuscripts, juggling what's left of his leisure hours doing what comes most naturally--reading. "My reading," he says, "is almost dementedly various. It's really just luck that my neurotic obsessions have helped me in my work." We respectfully beg to differ.
Most successful actors seem to tell a common story of their beginnings: They hitchhiked to one of the coasts, spent eight years pleading for bit parts and washing dishes, then some crusty producer signed them for a three-word walk-on and audiences the world over saw their magnetism. ("Forget the star; who was that guy playing the pizza delivery boy?") Well, 22-year-old Timothy Bottoms didn't start quite that way. In 1970, he was graduated from high school in Santa Barbara, California, and a year later was starring in two movies simultaneously. "I was working six days a week in Texas filming The Last Picture Show, then flying to L.A. on Sunday to read dialog for Johnny Got His Gun." Before that, Bottoms had worked for years in local California theater--"It was great, because I was working with professional actors who lived in Hollywood"--so movie people had been watching his talent grow for quite a while. Four films later, he still feels best about his work in Johnny ("I gave a lot to that film") and recalls the gloom and indecision on the set of Picture Show: "Bogdanovich went through a lot of personal trauma while the film was being made and he wasn't sure what he was doing. But it was such a depressing film anyway that his mood helped us get into it." For now, he'd like to leave sad scripts alone, which is one reason he's so enthused about Vrooder's Hooch, a Playboy Production to be released this fall. "It's about a Vietnam vet who comes home and sets up a secret camp under the on ramp of the San Diego Freeway. The movie's fun; it has a happy ending." He'd next like "to do something with friends, like Jim Bridges, who directed me in The Paper Chase. After I'd finished my first films, I didn't know what I wanted to do--but I just knew I didn't want to make movies. But they just became more and more enjoyable. And now I know I want to work in films for a long time." For those of us who've gotten to see the ones he's made so far, that's very good news.
Back in 1961, a New York kid named Tony Orlando made his American Bandstand debut singing Halfway to Paradise, which Carole King wrote for him. He was really in the clouds: "It was enough just to bring a record back to my block and say 'Look, man, I did this for a real record company.'" But a few years later, the British invasion forced a lot of American singers to find other vocations. Orlando, desperate to stay in music, found his in publishing and became vice-president of a CBS subsidiary. Meanwhile, a couple of Detroit girls--Joyce Vincent Wilson and Telma Hopkins--were singing background on Marvin Gaye and Isaac Hayes sessions ("I'd have been happy to be there," says Tony, "just to get coffee for the artists"). Then, in 1970, some friends talked Orlando into singing lead on a tune called Candida for Bell. Separately, they got Joyce and Telma to harmonize. The trio didn't meet until the cut was a smash, and they didn't take their act on the road until they'd sold 9,000,000 records; the tally now, after Gypsy Rose, Tie a Yellow Ribbon and other sentimental shuffles, is close to 25,000,000. Despite the group's hectic schedule of openings, closings, press parties, etc., Tony feels that he's found his métier. Or, more precisely, his meat: "Performing is my steak, and the awards and hits are like A.1. sauce and pepper; take them away, I've still got the steak. And if I wind up working Joe's bowling alley in Passaic, that's cool with me, too; my hour and a half onstage is the one time I can get out every emotion I have in me." Also, of course, he gets to work with Joyce and Telma--who make sure all his buttons are sewn on before showtime. They're not looking back any more than Tony is--and the game plan calls for them to do more lead work. "What we did with Yellow Ribbon," says Orlando, "is just a fragment of what the group is capable of--and what we will do." It also shows what real professionals can accomplish even when it's chance that brings them together.