The Day Before Richard Nixon resigned the Presidency, a European newspaperobserved that his political methods "were not only those of a poker player but of a man who cheats at poker." We don't know if Nixon's played much poker lately, but we do know that he played—and won—quite a bit when he was in the Navy. We know because a couple of his victims have told us all about it in Full House at the White House, which is but one part of I'll Play These, a package of articles dealing with various aspects of poker, assembled by Senior Editor G. Barry Golson—a persistent player who claims to have broken even over the years. In addition to Golson's history of the game, there's Jon Carroll's well-tested playing tips; Richard Warren Lewis' account of a highstakes Showdown in Vegas; and Hollywood stars such as Jack Lemmon and Telly Savalas in Table Talk. We've also dealt you nostalgia by authors' agent Scott Meredith—who looks back on the fabled poker shoot-outs between the Marx Brothers and assorted literary lions in The Algonquin Games (it will reappear in his book George S. Kaufman and His Friends, which Doubleday is about to publish)—and a memoir by playwright Jack Richardson, who describes an encounter with a beauteous lady player in Coming Down in Gardena (to be included in his forthcoming Simon & Schuster book, Gambling). The acrylic illustration for Meredith's piece and the oil painting that accompanies Richardson's are by a winning pair of Chicago artists, Anton Jacobs and Gastone Bettilli.
Playboy, November, 1974, Volume 21, Number 11. 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: Richard S. Rosenzweig, Director of Marketing; 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, 818 Fisher Building; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 417 Montgomery Street.
Hail, hail, the gang's almost here: An inmate of the Federal penitentiary at Allentown, Pennsylvania, went to the prison library to get a copy of the Bernstein-Woodward book on the breaking of the Watergate story. "Do you have All the President's Men?" he asked. To which the prison librarian replied, "Not quite."
The Pleasure Chest started out as a rather simple shop in the Village in New York, selling water beds, mood lighting and cock rings. But soon the clientele created such a demand for other things that the owners had no choice but to manufacture and sell ... well, other things. Now when you walk into the midtown Pleasure Chest outlet, you see a wall covered with other things, a cabinet filled with other things, a cabinet filled with other things, shelves crammed with them and—behind a beaded curtain—racks of other things. What puts The Pleasure Chest in a class of its own is that it is bright, casual, clean. It has the surface appointments of a boutique, unlike most places that sell two-foot-long dildos.
How is the catholicity of your reading—as T. S. Eliot might have put it—these days? Touching all the bases? Keeping up? All of that jive. Well, here are some nonfiction titles for you and if you can find any pattern to them, you should be working in a library and not fooling around reading big, expensive, glossy magazines.
Part of Vienna and the back lot at Universal Studios substitute for Moscow in The Girl from Petrovka, a pallid comedy that dimly recalls Garbo's Ninotchka the way Rock Hudson and Doris Day might have played it at their peak. Adrift in the title role, goggle-eyed Goldie Hawn establishes beyond a doubt that she is neither Garbo nor a girl from Petrovka (though she may, in fact, be the new Doris Day). Hal Holbrook at least manages to act with face-saving skill as a roving American newspaper correspondent who finds love and then loses it—when his wayward Russian bird, a free soul and would-be ballerina, is sentenced to five years in a penal colony because the Soviet socialist state considers her a parasite. That's pretty heavy slogging for a romantic comedy, even though director Robert Ellis Miller and his scenarists (Allan Scott and Chris Bryant, who adapted Don't Look Now) obviously intended it to be a heart tugger between yoks. More than 30 years after Ninotchka, no evidence is produced that World War Two, the Cold War or détente have had any effect whatever on writers' tapping out the same frayed, familiar East-meets-West jibes. "I vill give my body vunce a veek in exchange for the rent, including bathroom," is a fair example of the dross handed to Goldie, who reportedly visited Moscow in preparation for her role ("to study the mood of the people," claims a sober press release). The mood must have been gloomy.
Step right into our vinyl time machine, folks. Have we got a fantastic voyage for you! More than a quarter century ago, Anita O'Day turned out the tracks now reissued as Hi Ho Trailus Boot Whip (Bob Thiele Music). She has a varied assortment of musicians behind her, but they're excellent, for the most part; there are some class arrangements by Ralph Burns and Benny Carter and almost all the tunes are first-rate. However, what you're paying your money for is O'Day, and that's what you get—and how! The title tune (a marvelously jaunty scat song), How High the Moon, Malagueña, Sometimes I'm Happy, What Is This Thing Called Love, Key Largo, et al., show why the lady was at the top of her profession in those halcyon post-World War Two days. We've lost a lot of things since then, but, thank God, Anita O'Day is still around and singing up a storm.
Shortly after my boyfriend and I started living together, he bought me one of those bullet-shaped vibrators. He said that he wanted me to enjoy myself and to learn more about my responses. Well, I really got into it, or vice versa. I began to use the vibrator whenever he wasn't home. He asked me once which was better—the vibrator or him—and I told him the truth: that I preferred him. OK. But when he discovered that I sometimes masturbated while looking at pictures of nude men, he freaked out. He tore up the pictures and left a nasty note on our bed saying that I really knew how to get to him. I don't understand. I feel that he introduced me to a very beautiful experience, then pulled the rug out from under me. Can you explain his behavior?—Miss O. N., Virginia Beach, Virginia.
Hunter Stockton Thompson was born and grew up in Louisville, Kentucky, and for the past 15 years has worked as a free-lance writer. began it all in t Air Force by lying his way into a job as sports editor of t base newspaper. He was fired and threatened with duty in Iceland when his superiors discovered that he was also writing about sports for a civilian paper under another name. After he was discharged, he took writing jobs and was fired from them in Pennsylvania (for destroying his editor's car), in Middletown, New York (where he insulted an advertiser and kicked a candy machine to death), at Time magazine (for his attitude) and in Puerto Rico, where the bowling magazine he was working for failed and he decided to give up journalism. He moved to Big Sur, where his wife, Sandy, made motel beds while he wrote a novel that was never published.
Niggerheads, those peculiar columnar, closely spaced, grassy-topped swamp humps to be found here and there in the Northland, especially when you are not looking for them and are on foot and are in a hurry to get somewhere, besides being the worthy subject of more than one impeccably written scientific paper, are, beyond any doubt, the meanest, rottenest, sneakiest, most miserable, deplorable, reprehensible things to be found in all Alaska. (The Canadians can do their own complaining.) If you ever run out of four-letter words, take a lesson from the old Niggerhead Indians, sometimes disrespectfully called the Nastymouths: Go walk on niggerheads. You'll soon come up with some more—maybe even a best seller. Whew! I hate to think of it.
Throughout most of recorded history, it's been a pretty dismal scene for those poor young things who were cursed with some sort of myopia or other. Glasses! Better leprosy. All the bespectacled girls we knew seemed to kind of give up in about fourth grade, studied their brains out and probably eventually married some adoring optician. If one wanted to socialize at all, it was a good idea to leave the horn-rims at home and bump into chairs all night. But not too long ago, all that changed. Glasses became glamorous and fun. Gloria Steinem showed up on talk shows wearing aviators' and looked terrific. And now? Well, gentlemen, feast your eyes on all that surrounds you here and realize how shortsighted you've been.
Ah, so You Are beginning to wonder what all those 2,851,576 civilians on the Federal payroll are doing to help you. When your mail is ten days late, you wonder. When they decide to build a Federal highway through your house, you wonder. You may also wonder when you hear that our benign bureaucrats are shipping tobacco labeled Food to Asian peasants.
Plug an Advent VideoBeam in and it throws a dramatic four-by-six-foot television image onto a special screen placed eight feet in front of it. The color picture is bright and clear, free of the obvious scanning lines one expects on so large a display. Instead, Archie and Edith loom brilliant and literally larger than life, TV close-ups become surrealistic and linebacker Chris Hanburger's flying tackles leave the viewer's body jolted.
The Charter Business was very slack that summer and by mid-July, the topsail schooner Calypso owed money all round Nelson's Dockyard, and all over Antigua as well; otherwise, I don't think the skipper would have taken on the job. Usually, having six comfortable berths to fill besides our own quarters, we tried to get three married couples, or a mixture of the sexes, anyway, and it helped if one or two of the men knew their way about a sailing boat and could stand their trick at the wheel.
Milton Berle: Do you remember how Ernie Kovacs used to carry a deck of cards around with him? Always wanted to play table-stakes poker. He was hooked on the game. It must have been 18 years ago that we were all at Dino's house—Tony Curtis, Dean Martin, the regular group. I wasn't playing; I was just kibitzing. The game began about eight P.M. and continued all through the night. The curtains were blacked out so there would be no distractions. Must have been 7:30 the next morning—they were still playing table stakes—when the phone rang. Before picking it up, Ernie said that great line: "I wonder who the hell could be calling me at this hour of the morning." Ernie didn't play very well. He lost a lot of money.
Most of the Poker Games in this country, like most of the murders, happen at home, among people who know one another. Very rarely, except in cardrooms, do seven strangers sit down to play poker together. These private games are often ancient, shaped by several generations of poker players, laden with eccentric traditions and arcane conventions. To you, a stranger, it's a poker game; to them, it's The Thursday Night Game or The Game That Used To Be In Benny's Basement. If you are a newcomer to an old game, you are an ambulatory vessel of ignorance. Nothing is standardized in poker except the hierarchy of hands. Unwritten house rules are immutable, appeal to rule books useless. You need all the information you can get. So before the first hand is dealt, ask:
American Presidents generally like to be dealt in. Ulysses Grant was probably the first to play poker while in the White House; he had a reputation as a pretty savage penny-ante player during the sober stretches of his Administration. Other Chief Executives through history have admitted to raking in occasional pots, although Franklin Roosevelt is supposed to have lost more often than not. His Vice-President, "Cactus Jack" Garner, used to beat him consistently, a problem F.D.R. solved rather neatly by dropping him from the ticket as soon as he could. Harry Truman played regularly—although not as avidly as some stories have it—and sometimes won, despite a Missouri-born tendency to stay in every hand ever dealt to him. He found poker a useful political tool: When he was considering a man for an important Government post, he'd have him over for a few hands with the boys; if the man held up under poker pressure, he usually got the appointment.
Saturdays were Special at the Algonquin Hotel's Round Table, the favorite luncheon spot of New York's literary and artistic set in the Twenties and Thirties. Unlike the lunches on other days of the week, which were generally leisurely and ended with the participants' going their separate ways, the male lunchers at the Saturday sessions hurried through their meals, got rid of their (continued on page 238)Algonquin Games(continued from page 113) wives and girlfriends and moved upstairs to a small second-floor suite provided for them, free of charge, by Frank Case, owner of the hotel. The suite was the site of a weekly poker game.
It was the diamond I saw first, a throb of white light that flashed by my eye like a comet. I had been playing poker for nearly three days, excluding eight-hour respites for sleep, and when not in a hand, I had learned to rest my eyes by letting them gaze down on the green felt of the table and look for patterns in the stains and cigarette burns that earlier players had left behind. I would raise my head only when an odd vibration in the rhythm of play called for scrutiny of the faces of those hunched about the table, faces that, like the blots and smudges on the table covering, often transpired hidden designs to an imaginative eye.
All the big guns were there— "Jolly Roger Funsmith," Doyle "Texas Dolly" Brunson, Jimmy "Fury" Cassella, Jack "The Tall Man" Strauss, Bobby "The Wizard" Hoff, Aubrey "All Day" Day, "Iron Man Smith" and Thomas Austin "Amarillo Slim" Preston, Jr. Months of ballyhoo promoting the world's richest poker tournament had attracted 16 contestants to a claustrophobic alcove at Binion's Horseshoe Casino in downtown Las Vegas, most of them professional gamblers with Runyonesque pedigrees. Each was risking a $10,000 stake for the $160,000 prize waiting at the conclusion of the fifth annual winner-take-all marathon. They were playing a variation of seven-card stud called hold 'em, in which each player receives two down cards—on which he may bet or check—then three common cards dealt face up in the center of the table that provoke a second betting interval, followed by a fourth card face up and more betting and, finally, a fifth card face up and one more opportunity to bet. Winning hands were determined by combining any three of the five exposed cards with the two cards in the hole. It was a no-limit game that encouraged healthy wagers, while relying upon total concentration, sufficient stamina to endure grueling seven-P.M.-to-three-A.M. sessions and—most importantly—the critical ability to know how and when to bluff.
I hate to brag, but back in my single days, I was one of the most feared men with a deck of cards in the country. "Jacks-or-Better" Jim I was known as, the scourge of every nickel-quarter game in the Connecticut Valley, the undisputed king of dormitory lowball and the man who, singlehandedly, broke the bank of my sister, Betty, in the Sunday-night table-stakes games where as many as 100 pennies would change hands on a single deal. Here, then, are the ten secrets of my success:
Bebe Buell had just come to New York from the South and had met a young man who owned a recording studio. "He must have thought I was great," she recalls. "He hung photographs of me all over his studio." And everyone who passed through the studio—recording engineers, producers, musicians—saw the pictures. One day, a musician friend of the studio owner met the girl in the photographs. His name was Todd Rundgren. "At the time," Bebe remembers, "Todd had just released his second album. But I had no idea who he was. Anyway, we talked, went out a couple of times and soon we were living together." That was nearly three years ago, and though the photographs are gone from the walls of the recording studio, some of New York's finest fashion photographers are taking new ones of Bebe all the time. "I model," she explains, "because I like to accomplish things. It would be easy for me to just hang around with Todd and do nothing but blab on the phone all day while shining the furniture and his four gold records lying around our house. But I like to be independent. I want to have my own career, my own identity." While Bebe has busied herself with that, Rundgren has gone on to become one of the most accomplished writers and producers of rock (his last single, Hello, It's Me, was nearly a 1,000,000 seller). Bebe still travels with him, though, when he and his band, Utopia, go on tour. But because her talents are in great demand by photographers, agencies and fashion magazines (on a typical nonshooting day, she averages enough appointments to keep her busy well into the evening), the tours and parties with good friends on the road come much less frequently. "That's kind of sad," Bebe admits, "but I don't go to as many parties as I used to, anyway, and I got tired of spending my nights being seen at high-class New York bars. I'm trying to live a healthier life. I do yoga, I've quit smoking and I haven't eaten any meat for the past year." Still, Bebe wonders on occasion whether it's all a dream. "Sometimes, when I see my picture in a magazine or watch Todd play at a concert for thousands of people, I almost have to pinch myself when I realize that less than three years ago, I was just a nobody from Virginia Beach who didn't even know that there was a Todd Rundgren or such a thing as rock culture and the lifestyle that goes along with it. One week not too long ago, for instance, Eric Clapton was in town for a concert. Todd and I were invited backstage, at which point Eric asked him to sit in. Then Mick Jagger walked into the dressing room, and later, when Todd was onstage, Mick and I talked and he said, 'Why don't you and Todd come over to my place tomorrow?' His place turned out to be Andy Warhol's summer cottage out on Montauk Point. And since then, he's phoned several times from London just to find out how we are." Bebe rarely lets all that glitter turn her around, though. "I'm too busy for that," she says. "I've got too much growing and learning to do, and I'm determined to be proud of myself." No reason you can't start now, Bebe.
A neighborhood busybody was so shocked by what she saw through a young couple's window that she marched right up, yanked it open and told them so. The occupants heatedly maintained that what they did in the privacy of their bedroom was their own business—and the other couples who were with them emphatically agreed.
As far as the universe is concerned, the energy crisis is a fraud. There is no energy crisis now, there never has been, and there never will be. Dislocations, yes: massive and destructive in the past, possibly more so in the future. But there never was any shortage of energy in the universe. We knew that all along, watching the sun rise and burn and set through all the millennia of the race's evolution and never once falter, never once go out. Was there anything earlier that we wanted? Excepting only ourselves, was there anything earlier that we knew?
Come close. Closer. Lean over me. Put your ear to my mouth. I'm not strong; I think I'm dying; I can barely speak. Listen carefully. At the end of this street, at the corner, on the east side, there's a small white house with a green roof. A brick path leads to the door. Snapdragons are planted along the path. You can't miss it. There's a wreath on the door—it's old and blackened and looks like an emblem of death, but don't be put off by that, it's just an old Christmas wreath, hung there many years ago and never taken down. No meaning to that, just laziness, apathy, inertia. The door is unlocked. Go in. The house is unoccupied. Nobody home. You'll see a stairway leading to (concluded on page 249)The Charm(continued from page 139) the second floor. Climb the stairs and go into the master bedroom. That's the one with the yellow-and-green-striped wallpaper. You'll see a closer. Open it. Several suits are hanging there. Look for one made of charcoal-gray hop sacking, with a lining of red silk. The jacket has two inside pockets. Left one contains a small notebook bound in black imitation leather. Do not open it and read it. For your own sake I tell you this. Burn it. Burn it in the fireplace right there in the master bedroom. Then go back to the closet and look for what's called a jump suit, not on a hanger, just on a nail in the back, behind the suits, a blue terr cloth jump suit with a broken zipper. In one of the pockets, I don't remember which, you'll find a key ring with three keys on it. Take this and walk downstairs again, to the library. In the library you'll see a gray-metal file cabinet. One of the three keys on that ring unlocks it. Try them all until you find the right one. Open the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. Disregard the folders you'll see there. Not important. Pull the drawer out as far as you can and you'll see an envelope taped to the drawer just behind the last folder. Remove it. Open it. There's another key inside. Put it in your pocket. Don't bother to lock the file cabinet again. The key opens a locker in that big bus terminal about half a mile from here—you know the one. Go to the terminal—take a cab, we don't have much time—and open the locker and take out what you find there. A package wrapped in brown paper. Looks like a book. It is, in fact. Don't open the package there. Go to the men's room and lock yourself in one of the booths—make sure you have some small change. Tear off the wrapping and open the book. You'll discover that it's hollow; the pages have been cut away to form a small compartment containing a tobacco tin. Open the tin and you'll find another locker key. Put it in your pocket. Flush the toilet once or twice to allay suspicion.Trust no one. When you leave the booth, dump the wrapping and the book and the tobacco tin into the container provided for soiled paper towels. Now you must buy a round-trip ticket to Midburg. A short trip, forty-five miles. Possibly fifty. During the bus ride, don't talk to any of the other passengers. Best thing is to pretend to be asleep, but only pretend, because you are the guardian of the key and it must not fall into any hands but yours. Be alert at all times. When you arrive at the Midburg bus terminal, go directly to the lockers and try the key you found in the book until you find the right lock. In this second locker, you'll find another package just like the first, brown paper, yes, another book. Take it to the men's room. Same routine, booth, flush the toilet,etcetera. Inside this book you'll find a rather large, rusty,old-fashioned ornamental key. Put it in your pocket. Dispose of the book and wrapping as before. Take the next bus back here. Return to the house with the snapdragons. Go down to the wine cellar. The door is locked, but the big rusty key opens it. Enter the cellar and go directly to he wine bottles. Ignore all but the white wines, the French white wines. Lift each bottle until you find one that's a fake, empty. Pull out the cork. Shake out the little key you find there. It opens a large metal strongbox you'll find in the top drawer of the file cabinet in the study—that's why I told you to leave the files open. Lock the wine cellar again when you leave it and break the key. It's very old and rusty and you should have no difficulty. Throw the broken pieces into one of the file drawers and lock the cabinet again after taking out the strongbox. Open the strongbox with the little key from the wine bottle. Inside the strongbox you'll find a smaller strongbox with a combination lock. The combination is simply the six digits of my birthday, multiplied by seven. I was born on Christmas in the year of the Great Fire. Any almanac will give you that. When you open this second strongbox, you'll see an ordinary wooden cigar box. Inside it is a photograph of me as a youth in uniform, and a photograph of a young lady in a flowered hat, and a withered carnation, and a packet of old letters tied with a lavender ribbon, and a prayer book, and a rosary, and a comb, I think, and possibly a pill bottle containing an obsolete prescription surely gone stale and useless by now, and a small pistol that's lost its firing pin. Some of these objects belonged to my mother. All of them are without any value whatsoever—except for one. And that one is beyond price. It has been with me for more years than I can tell you. In clumsy hands, it invariably causes impotence, or blindness, or insanity, or agonizing death. Sometimes all four, in that order. But used correctly, it bestows upon its owner a multitude of blessings. A sweet breath. Perfect pitch. Unfailing virility. The power to bend a dime with two fingers. X-ray vision. Invisibility at will. The gift of healing by the laying on of hands. Raising the dead. Luck at all games of chance. Ability to complete the Times crossword puzzle in under ten minutes. Power to make any woman in the world do whatever you wish. Seeing in the dark. A dazzling smile. Pleasing personality. Photographic memory. Beautiful handwriting. The gift of gab. The faculty of flight. How to lose ten pounds in two weeks without dieting. How to make friends. How to get into heaven. Power to kill with a glance. Answers to puzzling questions: riddle of the Sphinx, what song the Sirens sang, how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object, if a tree falls on a desert island does it make any sound, is there life after death, what was Judy Garland's real name? Long-sought secret of perpetual motion. Short cuts to becoming a black belt in karate, grand master at chess, expert folder of paper airplanes, best-selling author. How to get an audience with the Pope. Repair your own television set. Turn base metals into gold. Conquer insomnia. Attain peace of mind. What happened to the lost tribes of Israel. Where to find the score of Peri's Dafne, lost for centuries, said to be the first opera. How to temper copper in the forgotten manner of the ancient Egyptians. Secret of eternal youth. Secret of immortality. Secret love rites of the Hollywood stars. How to get on the cover of Time. How to make a great cup of coffee. How to be two inches taller. How to read minds. How to foretell the future. How to swim. How to roller-skate. How to be happy. Bring the cigar box back here to me, with all its contents intact. I will then look at those items one by one until I find the one that bestows these gifts and powers, and I will bequeath it to you. Why not? It's of no use to me anymore. I'm dying. I know what you're thinking: Why am I dying if I possess the secret of immortality? Ah, why, indeed? Because I committed the sin of sins, for which no one can be forgiven. The sin without a name it's called, but it has a name no one dare utter, no one dare think. And so my magic charm has lost its power to help me. I am unworthy. Lean closer. I'm sinking fast. Can you hear me? Forget about all those keys and bus trips. Get a blowtorch, something to slice steel, go directly to the file cabinet and burn your way into the top drawer and into both strongboxes and directly to the cigar box and bring it quickly to me now. The reason you must bring it to me, the reason I can't simply tell you which of the objects in the cigar box is the magic charm, is that I don't remember. My memory is dying with my body. But if I see them, touch them, then my memory will come alive and I can give it to you and instruct you in its proper use and you will live a life of great merit and bliss. You will lead the world out of chaos and into a golden age. You will raise Eve from the dust and make her mother to a race of gods. You will, yourself, be a god. You will be God. But I must have those talismans in my fingers, because I don't remember whether it's the pistol, or the pill bottle, or the rosary, or the letters, or the lavender ribbon around the letters, or the
Now Playing in Your Dining Room! Super Soups of 1974!
Soup—The Spectacular, full-bodied, this-is-all-you're-going-to-get, meal-in-itself soup—seems to have fallen on meager times. It appears to have been taken over by those gray-humored souls who make handwoven neckties and plant beans by astrology. The rest of us are lucky to get something out of a can—flavored with the carcass of an alien tomato and redolent with the savors cooked up in a test tube. It is as if the right people had said nuts to soup. A grave mistake.
If that old saw about actions speaking louder than words has any merit, the Mrs. Grundys of America—the pressure groups, legislators, judges and district attorneys who have been busily trying to enforce what they thought were local standards of taste in films—were sadly out of touch with their constituents in 1974. A sort of double standard seems to permeate our society—perhaps emanating from the top, where a President mouthed sanctimonious platitudes in public and conducted expletive-ridden vendettas in private. Never before had an American President concerned himself so directly—and vocally—with morality in the media, primarily as represented by films, television and the press, while practicing a personal morality very much his own. Nixon's "stop-the-smut" lead was assiduously followed up by the Congress, the Supreme Court, the FBI, the Postal Service, various state governments and, on the local level, by extraordinarily repressive police actions. In the wake of the June 1973 Supreme Court decisions advocating illy defined "community standards" as the basis for prosecution of obscene or pornographic movies, no fewer than 37 states, in 250 separate bills, undertook to establish just what those standards might be. Without even waiting for such clarification, police crackdowns escalated dramatically. In Fort Worth, Texas, a zealous district attorney, contending that theater seats were accessories to a crime if people sat in them to watch an X-rated movie, ordered that the seats—along with the projectors and the film—be ripped out and held as evidence. The film, of course, was Deep Throat.
Once There was a sultan who was exceedingly fond of his jester and wished to reward him in some pleasant way for all his good japes and sayings. So one day the sultan said, "Coelebs, I shall find a pretty girl, a jolly girl, and marry her to thee."
This is not your basic New York City one-bedroom high-rise apartment. Oh, it started that way—as a small, boxlike, generally uninspired structure (barracks is the word most frequently used to describe this type of accommodation) in one of those Upper East Side buildings with uniformed doormen and closed-circuit TV in the lobby. But Tony Fisher—a 30ish real-estate exec who is into art, sports cars and motorcycles (not necessarily in that order)—had other ideas. And he found an interior designer—John Saladino—with whom he could communicate. The result is a beautifully organic pad that appears much roomier than its true dimensions.