Ladies and gentlemen, behind these thin paper doors you'll find wonders you never dreamed of--one of the greatest shows on earth, a marvel of the Western Hemisphere--for you are now the proud owner of a brand-new, fully guaranteed (against rust), Christmas-model 1974 Playboy magazine (if it feels warm, that's because it's hot off the presses). It will give you hours of pleasure if you simply follow the easy-to-read instructions in this, your owner's manual. First find some good light. Studies show that reading Playboy in total darkness reduces its usefulness. Then a brief glance at the handy guide that follows will give you clues to the kind of ecstasies that await you when operating your Playboy.
Playpboy, December, 1974, Volume 21, Number 12. 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.
All right, we won't kick him while he's down; but we can nudge him, can't we? A passage from P. G. Wodehouse's Brinkley Manor, published in 1933, reads as follows (Jeeves is speaking to Bertie Wooster):
Any economic crisis that begins, peaks and dies in less than an hour is a momentary crisis. During that short time, you can make or lose a fortune. Anticipating these crises is the key to making a profit. Not anticipating these crises is the key to losing your ass.
The good old Grateful Dead, last of the true original San Francisco rock bands, just keeps rolling along. It's never had the hits of the Jefferson Airplane, but Dead freaks form a fiercely loyal audience, convinced that Jerry Garcia and the Dead play rock 'n' roll just the way God intended it. With the exception of U.S. Blues, which chugs right in there with Casey Jones and Truckin', Grateful Dead from the Mars Hotel (Grateful Dead) is a bit slow and solemn--but, like all the Dead's efforts, it repays careful listening. The rewards come faster on Garcia's new solo LP, Compliments of Garcia (Round), which is chock-full of some startling goodies. On it, Garcia applies his wise and flowing guitar to Dixieland, soul and The Rolling Stones. His version of Let's Spend the Night Together turns Jagger's punk-hungry plea into a gentle seduction; and Russian Lullaby gives you a flash of how the Dead would have sounded if it'd started out in speak-easies instead of at acid tests. Garcia makes music as naturally as a bee makes honey, and he's at his best on this album.
When an old man sits down to compose his memoirs, he may try to set the record straight at last. He'll rummage in the past and make a huge effort to get the right names and dates and the correct sequence of events. He'll purposely avoid moral lapses, embarrassing moments, the well-kept secrets and pieces of hot gossip his readers are waiting for. A tedious business but about all one can expect from the ordinary mind. In Look at the Harlequins! (McGraw-Hill), Vladimir Nabokov presents the memoirs of the extraordinary mind--that of the artist-genius-writer. Names and dates may fail him, facts may have to be invented and people, too, but what's the difference? He is telling his version of the story and it is too late to begin again and look at the world through the eyes of a bookkeeper or book reviewer or historian. "Come on!" the poor batty Vadim's abnormal aunt cried out one day when he was seven or eight. "Play! Invent the world! Invent reality!" And he did, and so helped keep his madness at bay, helped himself survive--after a fashion. Of course, one invention leads to another and, in time, all of them pile up and depend upon the maintenance of some very precarious balance. Let one fall and they all fall; let other people pull the rug out from under you and you'll end up in a rest home forever. And Vadim works hard to take care of himself in the "real world." He hops from wife to wife and country to country and book to book and applauds his brilliance and his gorgeous body and his charm and his place in the history of literature. He is a giant. He has, in fact, written many of the books Nabokov himself has written and if reviewers and scholars and translators have trouble figuring out what he is up to, so much the worse for them. Some can't even get the plots straight, and in the Formosan translation of A Kingdom by the Sea, it is reported that for Al Garden, a wealthy poet who travels from resort to resort with a nymph named Ginny, "all seems to end honky-donky." Vadim has other problems. People try to get out of invitations they have extended in some drunken moment and Vadim has to make it clear that he is not your ordinary weekend house guest. He comes and he stays. And it is not true that he drinks too much or weaves when he walks, that his breath smells, that he is amoral or perverse or a lousy teacher. He is not mad. He is only disturbed by his inability to imagine himself turning on his heel and reversing his direction in space or, more precisely, reversing the order of time and going back to where he had been a moment before. "Time is not reversible." This is the terrible fact that can never be altered, no matter how fantastic the dream. At the end, there is just the old man who mumbles and yawns and waits for the nurse who has promised rum in the tea. In Nabokov's best work, there always has been the feast of word games and quadrilin--gual puns and parodies and puzzles, but beneath that surface magic there have been the serious, often sad sense of loss and loneliness and longing for time past, for love that is gone or never was, the fear of moving from the darkness of birth to the darkness of death, the folly to which we all cling now and then that we might somehow fool the gods. Things, people, places, sounds, smells, love, passions are all always lost, and yet one cannot forget, and in the remembering comes both the comfort and the terrible distress. In Look at the Harlequins!, the magician has taken over and one can applaud, but after all, one cannot care. Vadim is old now and dreaming of the end and it doesn't matter to anyone at all--even to Vadim.
Before he traded in his horn on an IBM Selectric, way back in Texas, Staff Writer Laurence Gonzales worked the roadhouse circuit with Johnny Winter. When he was in New York recently, Gonzales caught Johnny at the Garden. Here's how it went:
A former SS officer and the girl he left behind-as a prisoner in a Nazi concentration camp-come together for a weird reunion in Vienna in The Night Porter. The year is 1957. Keeping a low profile, the SS man works nights in an elegant hotel and spends his spare time with a band of underground Nazi freaks, who expiate their sins through a kind of group therapy-staging mock trials, usually ending in acquittal. The porter's psychological cover-up is blown, of course, by the arrival of the chic young guest, presently married to an American symphony conductor, whom he instantly recognizes as the teenaged sex object he recruited for sadistic fun and games during those long cold nights in camp. If you expect for a minute that Night Porter is a drama of confrontation built on the accusal-and-denial format, guess again. Instead of exposing her onetime tormentor, the lady reveals a sneaky, lingering fondness for various forms of bondage-and before you can say "Sieg heil" or "Auld lang syne." the porter slaps her around, throws her to the floor, and their deadly love-hate relationship is on again. Spelled out with frequent flashbacks by Italian writer-director Liliana Cavani-a lady whose curious perceptions place her well beyond the mainstream of the women's lib movement-this Anglo-Italian production bears a superficial resemblance to Last Tango in Paris, which ought to make it a conversation piece. Dirk Bogarde and Charlotte Rampling play the odd couple with hypnotic intensity and are fascinating to watch, even when Cavani's shambling drama of sexual ambivalence begins to crumble around them. Murky motivations and credibility gaps make the movie unsatisfying, as if a capricious editor had removed whole scenes in order to be sure the final effect would remain vague, arty and elliptical. One is left with the disturbing suspicion that nothing at all has been said, or said clearly enough to put comparisons with Tango on solid ground. Night Porter's chief attractions are an eerie and pervasive sense of evil combined with the shock value of scenes depicting sodomy, sadomasochism and a creepy moment in which the SS master gives his toy mistress the gift of a fellow prisoner's head, neatly boxed. Yech.
After reading the letter in the August Playboy Advisor about the gentleman with the 11-inch penis, I look out a ruler and, well, I discovered that 11 inches is quite long. According to one book I read, the average penis is only six inches long. Curious, I took out my own penis and found that there was a difference of several inches in total length, depending on where I placed the ruler. Do the statistics stem from top to tip, or along the bottom, to include the part under the testicles? What is the correct way to take the measurement?--L. K., Culver City, California.
He doesn't have the Mediterranean sensuality of a Rudolph Valentino, the rakehell charm of a Clark Gable, the suave sophistication of a Cary Grant or the lady-killer reputation of an Errol Flynn. But there's no doubt that 37-year-old Robert Redford is the most powerful male sex symbol on the screen today.
S Alvador Dali. Surrealist genius of limp clocks and moonlit deserts. Having commissioned Dali to compose these photographic surrealities, we sent Staff Photographer Pompeo Posar to Dali's Mediterranean villa in the small Spanish village of Cadaqués. Upon arriving, he was ushered to a poolside throne. Dali rose, offered his hand and began yelling "Butterfly! Butterfly!" A bemused Posar returned the greeting and they became a loud duet, pumping clasped hands and shouting cheerfully "Butterfly! Butterfly!" The shooting itself was both businesslike and bizarre. When Dali emerged from his house, his gaggle of worshipers and protégés bowed, chanting "Master! Master!" He acknowledged them with an imperial wave and got down to work.
"I'm... No, I won't tell you what I am. I'll never tell anyone." That was Henry Kissinger's last comment to the very skillful interviewer Oriana Fallaci. But she was too skillful for him--he had already told her and didn't know it. Just a minute or so before, he explained his success this way: "The main point stems from the fact that I've always acted alone. Americans admire that enormously. Americans admire the cowboy leading the caravan alone astride his horse, the cowboy entering a village or city alone on his horse...a wild West tale, if you like."
Any male chauvinist taken in by the cliché that Playmates are beautiful bits of fluff I whose brains have been stuffed with something the consistency of Reddi-Wip should try to arrange a meeting with Claudia Jennings. Several meetings would be even better. Let's start, say, with a midnight rendezvous at Michael's Pub in Manhattan, where she has collected a group of Beautiful People to hear Woody Allen on clarinet. There she sits, a smashing strawberry blonde, wearing the hip-standard Hollywood uniform of blue-denim jacket and jeans, with a green-plastic bow in her hair, and you mentally tick through a check list of her credits, starting with 1970's Playmate of the Year. Since then, she has adorned at least a dozen movies, mostly the kind of drive-in-theater Saturday-night specials that fill a girl's pressbook with stories calling her Queen of the Bs. At the moment, she is in transit, a love goddess between planes, just back from jetting around Europe to be deified in full color by five of the world's flashiest glamor photographers.
My Husband, Ernst Brennbar, worked steadily on his second cigar and his third cognac. A slow, rising heat flushed his cheeks. His tongue felt lazy and overweight. He knew that if he didn't try to speak soon, his mouth would loll open and he'd belch-or worse. A bear of guilt shifted in his stomach and he remembered the bottle of '64 Brauneberger Juffer Spätlese that had accompanied his ample portion of truite Metternich. His red ears throbbed a total recall of the '61 Pommard Rugiens that had drowned his boeuf Crespi.
"All the Great villainies of history have been perpetrated by sober men, and chiefly by teetotalers. But all the charming and beautiful things, from the Song of Songs to terrapin a la Maryland, and from the nine Beethoven symphonies to the martini cocktail, have been given to humanity by men who, when the hour came, turned from well water to something with color to it, and more in it than mere oxygen and hydrogen."
During the Easter week of 1821, all government employees in the town of Kishinev were required to fast and to attend an endless round of religious services. One of the clerks--more bored and rebellious than all the rest--in the midst of the long liturgical chants, decided to write a poem. It was conceived as the longest, most mocking, most antireligious sex shocker in the Russian language.
Traditionally, we Americans have measured automotive quality with the same standards we've employed for prize beef and battlewagons--in pounds and feet. If big is good, bigger is better, we have reasoned, and our cars have blossomed accordingly in length and in bulk. But a strange twist in buying patterns is occurring. A growing body of affluent citizens--those who have been the strongest exponents of big cars--is forsaking the implied status of two and a half tons and 20 feet of top-grade American plastic, vinyl and steel for the smaller, lighter European machines.
Freddy Frankenstein, surgeon and not-very-swift grandson of Victor Frankenstein, is visiting his grandfather's castle for the first time at the urging of family friend Herr Falkstein. As his train pulls into the station, Freddy sings out the window.
The Little Plane taxied down the field through the dense fog, its tail wheel bouncing stiffly over the clumps of grass. The fog was so heavy it was almost palpable, moved in lethargic billows like slowly exhaled cigar smoke. The limp wind sock at midfield was tattered, the high-identification orange color faded and streaked to a light pink. The fog seemed to muffle the buzz of the motor, cloaked everything, sound and substance alike, in a gray like dead teeth or wet concrete.
In 1972, for only the third time in history, mankind discovered a new world. It happened first in 1492. The impact of that discovery was immediate, its ultimate benefits incalculable. It created a new civilization and revivified an old one. The second date, not quite so famous, is 1610. In the spring of that year, Galileo turned his primitive "optic tube" toward the Moon and saw with his own eyes that Earth was not unique. Floating out there a quarter of a million miles away was another world of mountains and valleys and great shining plains--empty, virginal--awaiting, like Michelangelo's Adam, the touch of life. And 362 years later, life came, riding on a pillar of fire.
Janice Raymond is going places. We mean that both literally and figuratively, since she's been accepted as a Jet Bunny on the Big Bunny, Hugh M. Hefner's customized DC-9--the world's most opulent private plane--and, at presstime, was about to begin training for her new job. Being a Jet Bunny will give Janice a break from her regular duties at the Los Angeles Playboy Club. She's been a Bunny for just over a year, and though she works only several evenings a week serving cocktails and food to keyholders, she finds it "hard work." That's partly because the statuesque 23-year-old has to fend off endless questions about her size: "Every single night, somebody will say, 'Can I ask you a personal question?' And I just say, 'I'm five, ten-flat-footed.' Am I uptight about being tall? Well, I used to be, in high school--but not now." Janice had no hesitation about becoming a Bunny; she had been driving a minibus at L.A.'s International Airport, taking customers to their rent-a-cars. "It was 40 hours a week, and I just drove in circles all day." But rent-a-cars are a thing of the past for Janice and she revels in the California lifestyle. It's about a 20-minute drive from the L.A. Club to the Playa del Rey apartment Janice shares with a girlfriend. On rainy days, she may busy herself about the pad, but if the sun's out, Janice--who majored in physical education at Long Beach State--is more likely to be found water-skiing or riding a bike around the beach. Or at a car race, such as the Riverside Grand Prix or the California 500. She's been watching the cars all her life, since her father--who moved the family to the States from their native England when Janice was about two--was a mechanic for Stirling Moss, Phil Hill and other auto-racing stars. Janice still has relatives in Britain; earlier this year, she spent a month, with her aunt and uncle in Lancashire. "The countryside was gorgeous," she reports. "The people were more down-to-earth than they are in Los Angeles, and life was generally slower. It was really good, in a way. But, to tell the truth. I'd rather stay in California; as far as I'm concerned, this is Utopia." Looking at Janice, we'd be inclined to agree.
While the old grad was visiting his son in a newly mixed residence hall, the lad regaled him with graphic stories about a celebrated campus stud who happened to occupy the adjoining room. The father kept shaking his head in smiling disbelief, until small sounds making their way through the wall built up into a series of intense female moans. "By God, you're right!" exclaimed the father. "That fellow must really have put it to some girl!"
It Began in innocence and guilt, in wonder and in secret fumblings. We fumbled first with ourselves, taking surreptitious inventory of that fascinating private stock stashed in the slightly damp and sour cellars of our underwear. There was much to explore, more hinted mysteries than seemed containable in such a pink, hairless, unfulfilled nub. One knew, of course, its bathroom duties--but nothing more. Somehow, it gave the impression of not delivering the full promise of its design.
He was, quite simply, the only perfect gentleman I have ever known. Ten, maybe 12 conversations in 30 years, and those mostly just courtesies from him, and very little from me. You do not, I think, walk up to the Bellini Saint Francis at the Frick and talk very easily to it; the light is too much a distraction. The work is still there and will certainly last longer than I, and a very grand gift it is. But what will we do without the presence?
<p>Four-thirty in Cozumel now; dawn is coming up on these gentle white beaches looking west at the Yucatán Channel. Thirty yards from my patio here at Cabañas del Caribe, the surf is rolling up, very softly, on the beach out there in the darkness beyond the palm trees.</p>
"Don't look; don't look. You don't want to see an old woman pee, do you?" I Turned toward the voice. A woman, not too old--in her late 50s or early 60s--stood near a doorway, her legs spread apart, urinating. It was not quite four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon in April. One or two people passing by turned toward her, shrugged a shoulder, or smiled, or grimaced, and walked on. I looked past her. Twenty-third Street. Discount drugstores, florists' shops, stationery stores, secondhand-office-equipment places. Some things had remained the same. But there were some changes. The ornate grillwork in front of Steak & Brew had once been the impressive front of Cavanagh's Restaurant, a place where--when royalty checks permitted--a writer could be (continued on page 306) Remembering the Chelsea (continued from page 201) sure of good Scotch, a good steak.
How, in these days of increasing cinematic circumspection--when the last X-rated movie handled by any major studio was 1973's Last Tango in Paris--is the film industry supposed to produce sex stars? One might reply that we had sex stars aplenty back in the old twin-bedded, feet-on-the-floor era of the Hays Office; but in those days, films afforded powerful roles for both men and women--whereas today the men get all the best of the thespian opportunities--and there were all those even more powerful studio publicity machines to grind out fodder for the faithful fan. Occasionally, a star will break through on the basis of sheer animal magnetism--Robert Redford is the premier current example--but, in general, the Marilyn Monroes and the Clark Gables of yesteryear are still awaiting their successors.
"Even Bein' Gawd," said a noted man of letters some years ago, "ain't a bed of roses." If this were even half true years ago, it's Gospel now, because there's so much competition. For the God biz virtually abounds with prophets, godheads, spiritual messengers, disciples and avatars, many of whom have utilized the nuances of the free-enterprise system to enhance their causes and, in some cases, their bank accounts. In this chaotic era of private-interest groups, split factions and diverse sects, we need a pantheon of gods like a moose needs a hat rack. But to this we say, "Vivela difference!" and, in keeping with the Christmas spirit (our version, anyhow), we've decided to give some order to all this divine chaos by sorting out a few of the heavier contenders, speculating how it would look if they were to advertise in the Yellow Pages. Lo, one day this may come to pass.
A Best Seller despite its off-putting title, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is named after the twin passions of its author, but it's far from a hobby chronicle. For 46-year-old Robert Pirsig, Zen and motorcycle maintenance represent the poles of Western thinking--philosophy and science. What Pirsig wants to do is bridge that gap through the pursuit of quality. Zen revolves about a 1968 motorcycle trip West taken by the St. Paul--based Pirsig and his 11-year-old son Chris and is filled with autobiographical flashbacks. After growing up under the strong academic influence of his father (dean of the university of Minnesota's law school), Pirsig accumulated degrees in chemistry, philosophy and journalism and attended the Banaras Hindu University in India. While studying and teaching both rhetoric and philosophy, he struggled to remove the educational barriers between the rational and the romantic. The struggle was traumatic--culminating in a mental breakdown and two years spent in and out of hospitals. He was "rehabilitated" by shock treatments and released, but it was costly; he had lost his memory of himself and that quest for Quality. In Zen, Pirsig, after uncovering fragments of that former self, attempts to get some unity into his thinking while trying to reach his son, who had shown the beginning symptoms of mental illness. "I wrote Zen to put the past behind me." He's now on a Guggenheim Fellowship and writing two books: a study of cultural anthropology, focusing on race relations ("The critics will destroy me, because it's dull"); and a comparison of witch burning and mental institutions, tentatively called Heresy and Insanity. ("It's wrong to think of the Inquisition as evil and psychiatry as good. They're of the same ilk--wanting to control you, not help you.") Pirsig spends his spare time keeping his 350-c.c. Honda in repair--an exercise with an admitted double purpose, since, as he says, "the real cycle you're working on is a cycle called yourself."
Usually, when a new British musical sensation is introduced to the American public, the phenom in question is either still in diapers or else burning them onstage to show Mum and Dad where it's at. Neither is the case with this year's phenom; Sir Michael Tippett--a "classical" composer, though he's modern as can be and an unashamed intellectual--is nearly as old as the century (69) and thoroughly a mensch. He first won international acclaim in 1941 with A Child of Our Time, an oratorio that decried Hitler's violence; Tippett's own non--violence was so firm, however, that in 1943 he served a short jail term rather than take up arms himself against der Führer. Since A Child of Our Time, he has turned out much music and won various honors--he's a Commander of the Order of the British Empire and was knighted in 1966--but for years, few of his works made it across the Atlantic. Then came 1974, and hello. America: Young conductor Colin Davis, something of a Tippett protégé, introduced his stuff to audiences in Boston and New York; Phonogram began releasing it on its Philips label; and the composer himself--a "rawboned pixy," as one writer called him--made a whirlwind tour of the states, pausing long enough in Chicago to conduct his Third Symphony and to attend the American premiere of his opera The Knot Garden, a study of some very contemporary couples and their frustrations (Tippett also writes his own librettos, as he was advised to do by his friend T. S. Eliot). Both the critics and the public went gaga. He's not bitter over his decades of obscurity ("I always thought the music would someday find its own audience"); neither is he content to rest on his laurels--he's engaged, in fact, in writing his fourth opera, and as soon as he finishes that, he'll start on his fourth symphony: "I already know its size, its shape and all the important elements." He also knows something he didn't know when he wrote his other symphonies: that the world can't wait to hear it.
We first saw Jimmy Buffett a few years ago in Key West. He had just moved there from Nashville and was playing for beers in a Duval Street bar, having a very good time of it. Green Label foam laced his walrus mustache, there was an illegal gleam in his eye and he was tenderly crooning a last-call lament--"Honey, why don't we get drunk and screw?"--which last year became the B side of his first hit single, The Great Filling Station Holdup, and has since been worn to raw grooves on every roadhouse jukebox between Wheeling and Bakersfield. The Hype Machine has taken to calling him "the new Jim Croce"--particularly after the success of his first two Dunhill albums, A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean and Living and Dying in 3/4 Time--but he's better than that. He is what you would call an original. His songs are special stories. Some are outrageous Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers romps on such themes as shoplifting (Who's gonna steal the peanut butter/ I'll get a can of sardines/Runnin' up and down the aisle of the Mini Mart/Stickin' food in our jeans), but others come dangerously near being poetry. On He Went to Paris, he sings, with sad sunshine in his voice, "But the warm summer breezes/The French wines and cheeses/Put his ambition at bay/And summers and winters/Scattered like splinters/And four or five years slipped away." He's just finished songs for the sound track of Rancho Deluxe, scripted by his Key West buddy, novelist Tom McGuane, and a third album, A1A, is just out. He wrote the final verse of one cut, Life Is Just a Tire Swing, after rolling a rent-a-car onto an Illinois lawn that had a swing hanging there, and came up with another, My Whole World Lies Waitin' Behind Door Number Three, one Sunday afternoon when he and Steve Goodman were drinking out the cobwebs and discovered a mutual unbridled love for Monty Hall. Jimmy writes about pieces of America that most of us can see but never stop to notice--and he just keeps getting better.
Let's go to your place. Have you got a condominium?I'm Catholic and I Never use one!Let's go to my place for an early breakfast.Let's go to my place or I'll Hang myself!!That's the only way You'll get to be a swinging single.So you're an Abortionist. Well, I don't need an Abortionist!-Sex!-Banging!Copulation!-Screwing!Z-Sex!-Sex!-Sex!-Sex!-Sex!-Hump! Hump! Hump!-Running around in panty hose with my Saint Bernard.Let's go to my place and you will!Let's go ball in the pool, beautiful!Are you Crazy? give me half an hour to digest lunch, first.How do you like our Jacuzzi whirlpool bath, Angel? ... Notice how the swirling waters feel like dozens of tiny fingers massaging your body.I think I've had enough Jacuzziing for today. Could you please turn it off?It was Never turned on sweetface!Those dozens of tiny fingers are real!Since Annie Fanny is a new tenant, let me tell her about our singles city--Our people are all successful young professionals from all walks of life, with a great variety of interests. You'd be Amazed at the variety of interests!We let our fingers do the walking!Help! I'm going down for the third time!We have so many activities, Annie. Wait till you see our exercise room-