Arrest and Imprisonment can be hard enough on a man. For a woman, well, listen to this: In Skokie, Illinois, several policemen apprehended a 17-year-old girl on a drug charge, hustled her off to jail and forced her to strip naked. In Memphis, a pair of cops extorted sex from two girls after threatening them with arrest. "The mistreatment of women by police," says writer James McKinley, "is an issue that's been largely overlooked--even by the women's and prison-reform movements." Read McKinley's Down and Out and Female (illustrated by Christian Piper) and learn what goes on when women run up against the law. Not that cops have any corner on toughness, as you'll see in The Hard Hearts, which profiles five of the meanest dudes in the land. On the other hand, there's Coward's Almanac, a collection of fears that author Marvin Kitman agreed--without too much arm twisting on our part--to excerpt for us from his book of the same name. The Coward's Almanac will be published by Doubleday this fall. When asked what he'll be doing in the meantime, Kitman replied, typically, "I'm going into hiding until this all blows over."
Playboy, August, 1974, Volume 21, Number B. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the Unite State, 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. Gutwilling, Marketing Director; Emery Smyth, Marketing Services Director; Nelson Futch, Marketing Manager; Lee Gottileb, Director of public Relation. 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, 818 Fisher Building; Los Angles, 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.
Gentlemen, be seated: Reacting to stiff fines imposed on eight of his players for drug use, the owner of the San Diego Chargers once again proposed that all team members undergo a urine test after football games. That was when the Chargers' player representative, Joe Beauchamp, declared: "I think it's ridiculous to think men would stand for that sort of thing."
Exotic dancer Frenchie Renee: For proving that snakes are more intelligent than exotic dancers. Miss Renee, who sports her wares in a San Francisco night club, recently broke the world record for remaining buried alive with snakes. She was buried for 25 days in a six-foot coffin with four rattlesnakes and a boa constrictor.
If the CIA could kill men and movements as well as it can kill books--such as The CIA and the Cult of Intelligence (Knopf), by Victor Marchetti and John Marks--the Cold War long ago would have turned into a rout and we would have turned into a rout and we would have been able to dismantle our conventional military organizations and go back to raising families, crops, hell and other natural things. Trouble is, we Americans never really had much aptitude for the kind of dirty work that comes pretty much as second nature to the Russians. Instead of steely-eyed K.G.B. operatives who do their work without remorse or romance, we hired buffoons like E. Howard Hunt, with his feverish imagination and his taste for good living. So we got the Bay of Pigs, Operation Phoenix and various other disasters as part of the deal. In short, we got an organization (insiders call it The Agency or The Firm or even Mother, and they usually whisper the words in tones of grave awe) that can kill a lot of people without improving anything. A very bad bargain.
The Mysterious Rhinestone Cowboy (Columbia) is David Allan Coe's first album on a major label. He's a young, wonderfully gifted lyricist, whose power and eloquence are reminiscent of Bob Dylan's best years and whose simplicity and feeling for the poetry of our everyday language fit the best country tradition of Hank Williams and Merle Haggard. The vocal style is also reminiscent of Haggard, not as polished (or experienced) but with the same conversational tone and matter-of-fact sincerity. This is not a slick album; of the ten selections, only two or three could conceivably make it as singles. There is no star image to come between the singer and the audience, no big PR hype. Just an unpretentious down-to-earth feeling that says David Allan Coe is for real and may be around for a while.
A professional like Sammy Cahn can set anything to words, even the word eh, as he says in his chatty, informal evening of musical reminiscences, Words and Music. Actually, that may be one of the few combinations of letters he has not rhymed, and re-rhymed, during his long career in Hollywood and on Broadway. Ebulliently and with refreshing candor (he is frank about his facility, doesn't label it an art form), he leads us affectionately through his life, dispensing tips on lyric writing and anecdotes about his collaborators (chiefly Jimmy Van Heusen) and his interpreters (who include Frank Sinatra and Doris Day). He makes the writing of Three Coins in the Fountain, one of his biggest hits, into a comic cliff-hanger. Accompanied by Richard Leonard at the piano; Cahn, a natural performer, sings--or, rather, melodically croaks--many of his songs, and has help from three talented accomplices, Jon Peck, Shirley Lemmon and, particularly, Kelly Garrett, who sensuously entwines her silky voice around such Cahn standards as Until the Real Thing Comes Along. At the John Golden, 252 West 45th Street.
A lot has changed on the movie scene since Orson Welles, at the age of 25, made his directorial debut with the majestic, timeless Citizen Kane, a film classic to measure all classics by. Today's fledgling directors may pay lip service to Welles, but most of them, in fact, follow in the tradition of writers whose first novels (from James Joyce's Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man to J. D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye or John Updike's Rabbit, Run) charted the growing pains of boys about to enter, ready or not, the hairy state of manhood.
Once in a great while, advance press releases indicate that something different, maybe even daring, is on the television horizon--which makes it all the worse when those high hopes are dashed, as has been happening a lot lately. The Chicago Sun-Times's Pulitzer Prize-winning TV critic, Ron Powers, reflects on the situation:
Neva Friedenn, a writer friend who moved to Los Angeles four years ago and promptly became, like so many of her predecessors, an almost morbid aficionado of Southern California gaucherie, allows neither earthquake nor mudslide nor gas shortage nor dark of smog to stay her self-appointed rounds among the natives in search of folkways and artifacts to feed her habit. On a recent safari throught the manicured wilds of Malibu, she happened by the gate of the J. Paul Getty Museum, figured she'd unearthed a veritable King Solomon's Mine of Panavision pomp, and drove in. Her disenchanted report follows:
I have an intriguing problem; I'm a 28-year-old teacher in the midst of an affair with one of my ex-students. He is 24. We have had a spectacular sexual and emotional relationship for over a year. I am bothered by only one thing--the fear that he is attracted to me out of a desire to seduce his teacher, that I am just a means of satisfying an age-old fantasy. I am really getting involved with him and I would like some assurance that the ground we stand on is solid. What do you think?--D. F., Phoenix, Arizona.
Few things are as hard to predict as a fad, and when Erich von Däniken wrote "Chariots of the Gods?" eight years ago, nobody guessed that this stocky Swiss exconvict would become, to millions of people around the world, a chronicler of ancient astronauts. But that is just what's happened. As an American phenomenon, Von Däniken ranks in popularity (as we go to press) somewhere between streaking and the exorcism craze. "Chariots" is in its 44th paperback printing, with U. S. sales estimated at 5,000,000 copies. A film based on the book rose to the top five on Variety's box-office list--an eye-opening performance for a documentary--and a TV special narrated by Rod Serling drew good ratings. At 39, Von Däniken has become a talk-show regular and is even the subject of a German biography. So many people are excited by the idea that spacemen have visited Earth that Carl Sagan, the astronomer and exobiologist, says, "I can no longer lecture anywhere on the subject of extraterrestrial intelligence without someone asking a question about Von Däniken's theories."
Somebody once said that a good prime minister is a man who knows something about everything and nothing about anything. I wince--an American foreign correspondent, stationed in Rome, covering Italy, Greece, Turkey, Corsica, Sardinia, Malta, Libya, Egypt and the entire Middle East. For example: Last year I was sent off to report on pollution around Capri, steel in Taranto, which (as journalists say) "nestles" under the heel of the peninsula, the Italo-American project for uncovering the buried city of the Sybarites, which is a third of the way down the coast from Taranto, the political unrest then beginning to simmer in Reggio di Calabria, around the toe of the continent, and, of course, if something else should turn up--some "extra dimension," as my foreign editor in Chicago likes to call such unforeseens.... Summer was dying in Rome, noisily and malodorously. Down south, sun, silence and sea. It was such a welcome commission that it sounded like a pat on the head for past services. I was pleased.
About a year ago, some of our staffers, out for a night on the town, happened to catch Claudia Lennear performing in a Chicago night club--and they decided that we just had to get some pictures of her into the magazine. With her clothes off, naturally. Just for the record--in case you've been hanging out in Antarctica--Claudia is a rock singer of unbounded spirit and as much pedigree as you could ask for: She spent two years on the road with Ike & Tina Turner; she's sung background on records by Dave Mason, Freddie King, Delaney & Bonnie, José Feliciano and a lot of other people; she was part of the Mad Dogs & Englishmen caravan that starred Joe Cocker and Leon Russell (last year she was in the studio audience for Russell's special on the educational-TV network, and a lot of people thought she stole the show just by sitting there and responding--energetically--to the music). Though she doesn't broadcast information about her personal involvements, at one time, Claudia was romantically linked, as they say, with Mick Jagger.
A Basic Problem existed from the beginning between Spook the trumpet player and four other members of the band. The problem didn't exist between Spook and the two other horn players, Flash and Wolfman, because these three had been together for so long that they were like brothers. In fact. Spook and Wolfman had the same mother and father. This basic problem led to his being called Spook. I will illustrate the problem: The motel room was located in Jackson, Mississippi. Spook, who was so thin it sometimes took two full-grown men to see him on a clear day, had just flown in from the East Coast for this job. He knocked on the motel-room door. Wolfman opened it, put his arms around Spook in a hearty abrazo and placed in Spook's mouth the stem of a pipe (made from the thighbone of a steer) that had been stolen or bought somewhere between Elko and Mount Rainier the previous spring. In the pipe was a small silver-blond nut of hashish, brought all the way from Turkey by a diminutive drummer carrying an overweight set of tabla.
Here's a trim little vessel that's good for racing, cruising or just rocking away the night hours in a congenial port. Hirondelle, a trailer-transportable catamaran--by Symons Sailing, about $12,000--contains three single berths, a dinette that converts to a double berth, a galley, a head and mucho storage space. The decks are nice and flat (sun bathers, take note), the sails can be raised from the cockpit and the gasoline "shortage" is one hassle that you can literally leave in your wake.
Chicken Little was assaulted with an acorn, mistook it for a crumbling of the firmament and spread a nasty rumor that led a whole group of animal colleagues on a pilgrimage to tell the king. But before they could get there, they were conned into following Foxy Loxy to his cave ... "And they never came out again." Anyone who read this as a child knows just how dangerous the world is and should be ready to meet all challenges with the most powerful weapons available to him. If, like most of us, you are a master of that ancient martial art the Cleveland Defense (aka cowardice), this sporadic little almanac could save your life.... On the other hand, it might just make you a lot more nervous.
She missed her period just about the same time Kohoutek first appeared. Marty had never used any form of birth control. She hadn't thought she needed to. True, she was engaged, but her relationship with Joe was unusual. He was an older man devoted to his art. Forms, shapes and textures were his release. Most times he wrestled with abstraction, but after he met Marty he had tried often to (continued on page 165)It came to pass(continued from page 91) to find her form in his work: in marble (too cold), in clay (too crude), in metals (too stern) and in warm, pale woods. But nothing was adequate, not even alabaster.
I Don't Want people to think I'm just another dumb blonde," says actress-singer--and now Playmate--Jean Manson. "So far, in my films, I've been cast in roles like that, but someday I'm going to change my screen image." In real life, of course, although she is most definitely blonde, Miss Manson is anything but dumb. Reared by artistic parents (her father writes, her mother sings), Jean was educated at The American School in Mexico and holds an associate of arts degree in music, which means she can do a lot more than whistle Yankee Doodle through a mouthful of soda crackers. In fact, she's proficient at classical guitar and piano and is currently studying flamenco guitar. Her career as an actress, however, is numero uno on her list of priorities--one notch ahead of even love and marriage. "I don't feel I can give myself completely to a man at this point in my life," she tells us, "because I'm simply too preoccupied with my career and--well--I suppose a good part of me belongs to Hollywood. Before I settle down with one man, I have to be master of my craft." Judging from her professional track record, she may be ready to settle down soon. At 14, she studied acting at Metro in Hollywood and in 1971 she made her first feature film, a not-exactly classic called The World's Greatest Lover. ("I have no idea what happened to that film," she says. "I think the prints were stolen.") Second was a horror film, Terror Circus, with Andrew Prine, and next came The Young Nurses ("a bad exploitation film, but I got some nice reviews out of it"). In her latest, Dirty O'Neil, Jean plays a sexy waitress named Ruby, who, among other things, gets raped by three men ("Since I've been accosted a few times in real life, I just acted from experience"). Now in the filming stage, her new one, Fortune Street, is a departure for Jean, since it's her first serious movie. It's also a musical, which means she gets to sing--another dream realized. If you haven't caught her on the big screen yet, you may have seen her on the small one, either opposite George Peppard in Banacek or as a contestant on The Dating Game ("I picked the least of three evils; we went to the race track and I fell asleep"). Summarizing her three years as an aspiring actress, Jean has this to say: "I have no regrets about my past films. It was all good experience and I learned a great deal. But I refuse to be just another B-movie queen. I'm getting tired of taking my clothes off in movies. Why do people always want me to take my clothes off?" Guess.
No Liquor in the World has been painted in such wildly false colors as tequila. Allegations that its flavor is akin to rattlesnake venom and that its potency rivals Kickapoo joy-juice are no more true of tequila than they're true of grande champagne cognac. Undoubtedly, tequila's notoriety can be traced to the fact that there are two kinds of tequila in Mexico, unaged and aged, and that many natives are in the habit of drinking the former just as it trickles from old-fashioned pot stills--the weedy juice of the mescal unmellowed by a single day in a wooden cask. Then there's the type of Mexican who--especially when gringos are watching him--enjoys making a cult of his tough drinking habits. The old ritual of squeezing lime juice (continued on page 182)Down the Hatch, Amico!(continued on page 113) directly into the mouth, licking salt from a corner of the fist and then upending a husky jigger of tequila is an exercise in machismo. Another is the drink called the petrolero, a morning-after mix-up consisting of tequila, a few dashes of Maggi sauce and enough Tabasco sauce or any other from of liquid hot pepper to prove that the drinker is no spring flower but an ironfisted hombre.
Among Technical monument climbers, the ascent of the Washington Monument has always been recognized as the penultimate challenge in sheer purity of execution. The monument offers a straight 555-foot class-7 climb1 on a hard-marble face, with artificial aids for direct assistance required all the way. As it had never been scaled, I long cherished the thought of attacking the monument. I had studied the records of the ill-fated Harkins expedition (see Washington police blotter, May 7, 1971), who were forced to turn back at the 42-foot mark on the north face. Their failure, I felt, was due to their negligence in not disabling the floodlights at the base of the monument to prevent police detection. We would not make this mistake, but other difficulties that I could not anticipate would confront us.
Floating Around somewhere in the collective male unconscious there persists a stubborn fantasy--a relic, perhaps, of 19th Century prudery that hasn't quite made the transition to 20th Century liberation. It's the vision of the demure, virgin bride who turns into a wanton on her wedding night. Maybe it represents a chance to enjoy the best of both worlds--the girl first prim on a pedestal, then panting on the connubial bed. Herewith we bring this dream to life; if it whets your appetite, you and your partner can stage your own personalized re-enactment. But don't get us wrong: To a couple with imagination, what's important is the scenario, not the ceremony. You can set the scene, in other words, without a hitch.
Once there was a wife of Cairo who talked a good deal about her genteel background, her willing obedience to her husband and her devotion to religion. Truth to tell, nobody would have noticed these virtues if she hadn't pointed them out. In her house she happened to have a pair of plump ganders, always running about underfoot. She also had a fat lover. Whenever he came to call--in her husband's absence--he would lick his lips at the sight of the birds.
Ted Hendricks, the Baltimore Colts' cerebral linebacker, sat in a Chicago delicatessen methodically devouring a two-inch-thick hot-pastrami sandwich. He was in town for the N.F.L. Players Association strike strategy meeting and he brimmed with quiet enthusiasm for the justness of his cause. Midway through the meal, he was asked if the players' financial demands weren't somewhat unreasonable.
"I Frequently meet Men who can't understand why I dislike being called a girl--but those same men have no difficulty comprehending blacks' objection to being called boys." Both labels, explains Susan Rennie (right), denote a kind of perpetual immaturity; i.e., inferiority. Across the country, women are turning away from noisy demonstrations to more pragmatic projects aimed at combating antifemale bias. "But nobody knew what anybody else was doing," says Rennie's fellow Barnard graduate Kirsten Grimstad. "We felt almost obligated to get information about these efforts out to women, whether they call themselves feminists or not." The result is The New Woman's Survival Catalog. Readers of the book, which is designed in the style of The Whole Earth Catalog, can find out where to get information on co-op day-care centers, abortion clinics, selfdefense for hitchhikers (keep a lighted cigarette handy), home and car repairs and a variety of "relevant" products (samples: a bright-orange apron emblazoned Fuck Housework!, a photo poster of Golda Meir captioned but can she type?). Both Grimstad, 29, and Rennie, 34, gave up university positions--Grimstad as an instructor and Rennie as an assistant vicepresident at Columbia--to spend five months of 16-hour days getting the book together, starting with a 12,000-mile research circuit of the country. Rennie, a native of South Africa whose grandmother was a suffragette, has returned to teaching--political science, at the State University of New York in Purchase--while Grimstad works full time on a sequel. Women's response to the present edition has, perhaps predictably, been enthusiastic, the editors report. Men's? "Well," says Grimstad, "we run into three types: the fascinated man, who realizes he, too, can be liberated; the closet pig, who pretends interest but, underneath, is threatened; and the open pig, whom we try to avoid. Actually, we don't like to use the term pig when referring to such men." Why not? "Because pigs are very intelligent."
"Cowboys and Jews have a common bond," says Kinky (Richard) Friedman, leader of one of the weirdest bands around. "They're the only two groups of people in the world who wear their hats indoors and attach a certain amount of importance to it." Clad in a Menorah-emblazoned cowboy shirt and a Texas Rangers hat, Kinky, backed by his band, belts out such songs as We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to You ("Baruch Atoh Adonai/What you doin' back there, boy?") and The Ballad of Charles Whitman, commemorating the Texas campus slaughter. "Our act is 98 percent bullethead," says Kinky, "Bigots love us. But someday we hope to reach Mr. and Mrs. Backporch." Born in Rio Duckworth, Texas, in 1944, Friedman has been "on the family teat for 30 years," with a few minor spells of wandering, including a stint in the Peace Corps. "I almost went bonkers in Borneo," he confesses. "Because of a monsoon, I couldn't get my seeds upriver, so I got my mom to send me a shipment of Frisbees. You might say I introduced the Frisbee to Borneo." In 1971, back in the States and armed with a medley of tunes born of "repressed Hebrew lessons, Latin literature and jungle languages," Kinky packed up his new band (named after Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys) and headed for L.A. After eight miserable months of haggling with the mostly Jewish moguls of the recording industry, Friedman went home--but he was spotted on the way by "a bunch of Catholic hillbillies from Nashville," and the result was his first album, Sold American. His second album, soon to be released, will be heavier musically, although Kinky admits he'd like to stay as off the wall as possible. "We're doing this album on a different label," he says. "The same folks who did Jim Croce, so we expect it to sell really big." Yes, but Croce's records didn't sell big until after he died. "We know that," says Kinky. "We're looking into private planes, too."
"When I'm Running alone at night on the beach, my mind roams and my spirit soars. I run along the sand for a while, then dip down into the water and it makes me feel clean; it's almost a baptismal act." Such lyrical sentiments flow casually from Steve Williams, a 20-year-old sprinter from San Diego State University who last year, after equaling the then world record of 9.1 seconds for the 100-yard dash, said, "I am of the opinion that I'll break nine seconds." Such assurance reflects a firm, resilient ego, something else Williams speaks perceptively about: "People think ego's a dirty word. Like a drinking habit, no one wants to admit to it." After an indoor season that saw him beaten a few times in the 60-yard dash, one might wonder how his was holding up. "I found the indoor season instructive," he says. "I was more concerned with satisfying my own goals than those others may have set for me." Williams was born and raised in the south Bronx but left that atmosphere free of scars and self-destructive habits. "If you're going to survive in the city, you have to find an internal peace and cling to it. It's been vital to my stability. After future shock has killed the rest of the world, New Yorkers will live on and on." He sees his own future as a series of specific steps. "I'm looking forward to the '76 Olympics. And after school, I'd be receptive to pro track. But I also want a second career. I work pretty hard in school and I'm majoring now in telecommunications with a minor in English. I'd like someday to be a broadcaster. It seems to me that if you're successful in more than one field, you're going to be a hard man to throw off balance." More immediately, he wants to become the world's best in the 440-yard dash. "I think that's where I'll finally do best. It's a thinking race, not something purely anatomic. I could see winning the 100 and the 440 in the Olympics. Nobody's ever done that. I think I could be the first." The ego again, reaching for new tests, which is finally what makes Williams run.
"You've come a long way, Buster"--A hard look at what's happened to American Manhood, including a report on the last pockets of Machismo; a study of that new phenomenon, impotence chic; a pictorial survey of male Heroes, past and present; a quiz to tell you whether you're a liberationist or an M.C.P.; and much, much more, for which we've picked the brains of such as Gay Talese, Craig Karpel, Geoffrey Norman, Richard Woodley and a bunch of guys on the street