It Was while researching the article that he started having the dreams. He'd see these enormous airplanes--a couple of them had iridescent green dragonfly wings--coming in to land; and when they hit the ground, cartwheeling, they broke up, scattering people all over the landscape. "It wasn't so bad," he said, "until I realized that I'd have to help clean up the mess." So it won't surprise you to learn that Staff Writer Laurence Gonzales--who, in You Gotta Believe, tells what really goes on in the cockpits of commercial airliners and the control towers from which they are guided--won't get on a plane again unless he's in the cockpit (he is in the process of getting his private-pilot's license). Gonzales, who flew in the cockpit of a jumbo jet as part of his research, recently drove some 2500 miles to Florida and back--and when he makes a planned trip to Europe, he's going by ship: "I'm not afraid of flying. I do it all the time--in a Cherokee Arrow. I just don't want to go up with someone I don't trust, just like I don't want to ride in the back seat of a car when the driver is drunk." His boycott, he points out, is for reasons not only of safety but also of aesthetics: "Airports and the interiors of airliners are among the ugliest things I've seen. And you don't get to see the country." Gonzales will be expanding his article into a book.
Playboy, July, 1975, Volume 22, Number 7. 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; Herbert D. Maneloveg, Director of Marketing Information; Nelson Futch, Marketing Manager; Lee Gottlieb, Director of Public Relations. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director; Don Hanrahan, Associate Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Advertising Manager, 747 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10017; Chicago, Sherman Keats, Associate Advertising 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.
Much to the entertainment of the residents of a Tel Aviv apartment block, a couple in an open-topped car were making love with wild abandon. While spectators gathered on balconies and at their windows to watch the erotic show, a friend of the couple's was quietly breaking into their apartments. Residents became suspicious and called the police when they noticed TV sets and radios being loaded into the convertible.
Who needs a star vehicle when you have a star like Bette Midler? Tacky, vulgar and spectacularly talented, she dominates a stage with sheer personality. After a year's absence, she is back on Broadway in a show of her own inspiration, Clams on the Half-Shell Revue, directed by Joe Layton. She makes the first of several blazingly theatrical entrances on the whole shell: A group of blacks on the levee suddenly stop singing Old Man River, absurdly wheel an enormous clam onstage and out pops The Divine Miss M. By the end of the first act, she has switched to Fay Wray draped on the hairy paw of a Kong-sized gorilla. This brassy, electrified entertainment is a turn-on, a one-woman Ziegfeld Follies, with Bette singing, dancing, talking, doing throwaway imitations and giving her fans their money's worth. Actually, there is some help from her friends--Lionel Hampton happily clanging away on the vibes (good ones) to the tune of Flying Home (Bette sings the lyrics); The Harlettes, a flashy, "trashy" backup trio; and the Michael Powell Ensemble of Gospel Shouters (Bette shouts loudest). When she wants to, she sings seriously, softly, funnily. Her new description for her style is "sleazo." She is also sensational. At the Minskoff, Broadway and 45th Street.
In Norma Jean the Termite Queen (Doubleday), Sheila Ballantyne writes about a woman who finds her counterpart in The Hellstrom Chronicle's bloated, egg-producing queen. As killer insects come in to destroy the termite colony in the film, Norma Jean looks on and sides with the killers. Death would be better, she reasons, than being the baby maker she is, rather than the artist she wants to be. This is a novel with many of the characteristics of a good writer's early work: flashes of brilliance but not yet enough control to bring the many pieces into something that holds. It has a jumpiness that is both fascinating and aggravating, and it is this very quality that seems to be particularly apparent in the best of fiction by women today. Nonetheless, it's a powerful story and if we learn more than we need to know about boredom, loneliness, cooking and cleaning, we also learn something about a woman who has to redirect the energy she has poured into her husband and children without destroying the framework of the family she has encouraged to depend upon her in the first place. We have seen into the lives of unhappy women, angry women, women driven mad, but the evolution of woman as artist seems to offer a theme that has been looked at recently in nonfiction but probed hardly at all in fiction.
All hail Mingus the Magnificent! We've just listened to a pair of LPs recorded 17 years apart, and over that span, Charles the First--who blew everybody off the stage in 1957--has grown into something larger than life. The reissued Tia Juana Moods (RCA) wasn't released originally until 1962, but that five-year gap made the total effect of the album no less stunning. It was an "event" and the folk who followed jazz knew something big was happening out there. Mingus, with a handful of spectacular musicians, produced an album that was all of a piece and yet was filled with avant-garde bits that surprised the hell out of the listener. Mingus was a brute on bass, propelling, cajoling, embroidering, giving everything his own very personal stamp. Now comes Mingus at Carnegie Hall (Atlantic) and lengthy performances of C Jam Blues and Perdido that may well take their place as jazz landmarks. For the concert, the regular Mingus group was joined by the brilliant young trumpeter Jon Faddis and reed men John Handy, Rahsaan Roland Kirk and Charles McPherson, and the results are stunning--each solo providing yet another tier of excitement, until the mood becomes almost unbearably supercharged with electricity. Mingus' presence is not as obvious as on the earlier recording, but, God, you know he's there--you can feel him there. Mingus at Carnegie Hall--46 minutes of quintessential jazz.
Same Time, Next Year is a 25-year comic case of adultery. The affair, conducted once a year in the same motel, is funny, clever and touching, acted by its two-person cast, Ellen Burstyn and Charles Grodin, with impossible finesse and assurance (they are led through their stylish paces by director Gene Saks). When a Broadway comedy is smartly tooled (the contrivances never creak) and effortlessly performed, it seems breezy. New playwright Bernard Slade exercises a switch on The Fourposter. The difference is that each protagonist is married, happily, to another spouse. But between them, there is a continuing relationship, filled with changes of heart and humor. We first see Doris as a nice Catholic wife on her way to retreat--she never gets there--and George as an up-and-coming-out accountant. The relationship is fraught with gamesmanship as they undergo annual guilt contests. Between scenes, they and the costumes, hairdos and manners are transformed. When she is pregnant--again--he has suddenly become impotent. George's wisecracking offstage wife jokes, "When I married a C.P.A., I always thought that it would be his eyes that would go first." When he turns reactionary and we can almost see the icy Gold-water flowing through his veins, she has embraced the Age of Aquarius. Counter-pointing this larky anniversary waltz are on-target sounds and songs of the various periods; the character changes, of course, reflect what's been happening in society. What makes Same Time, Next Year more than just Broadway flip are those perfectly partnered performances. Grodin is the essence of woman-loving, self-incriminating male superiority (a boy pretending to be an adult) and Burstyn is malleable, meltable and lovable. At the Brooks Atkinson, 256 West 47th Street.
Ready or not, America, Robert Altman's Nashville is apt to be the movie blockbuster of 1975 and makes good this controversial director's bold prediction that his country-and-western epic in the manner of Grand Hotel sets a standard against which other movies will be measured for the next decade or so. Certainly, Nashville is a breakthrough film in the way that La Dolce Vita was, and resembles absolutely nothing that's gone before. Since he made it big with M*A*S*H, Altman's experiments with sound (notably in McCabe & Mrs.Miller) and his indifference to traditional story forms (culminating in last year's California Split) have established him as the U.S. director most likely to divide public opinion sharply between those who cannot tolerate his work and those who cannot resist it. Both the ayes and the nays should find proof of Altman's galloping genius in Nashville, which has at least a dozen subplots woven effortlessly into a sweeping political essay that is also a deft satire of country music.
Have you ever noticed how hard it is for some women to concentrate on sex? My girlfriend has the opposite of a one-track mind--she can get derailed by noisy neighbors, unfinished chores or the proverbial bread crumbs in bed. Once she loses her momentum, it takes her a while to get started again and, frankly, I can't always postpone my own pleasure for that long. Is her wandering attention a sign that she is inhibited or that she just isn't interested?--E. Y., Portland, Oregon.
Every year or so, the American movie industry comes up with a talented new young director whose current flick is hailed as the greatest piece of goods since "The Birth of a Nation"; he usually finds himself an overnight celebrity, the darling of TV talk shows and magazine profiles. Few deserve such treatment and even fewer manage to survive it. The latest of Hollywood's directorial darlings is a portly, bearded, fast-talking 36-year-old dynamo named Francis Ford Coppola (pronounced Cope-uh-lah), who made headlines this year by being nominated for five Academy Awards--and winning three of them. In the history of the awards, only the venerable Walt Disney received more nominations (six) in a single year. Coppola was also named best motion-picture director of the year by the Directors' Guild of America.
Mafalda, owner of the R & M Service Station, was showing Johnny Guts how to find the leak in a radiator when the police car pulled up. The green-and-white Ford did not stop at the pumps but parked with its motor running at the edge of Mafalda's corner property.
You May have seen Laura Blears Ching on TV several months ago, when they held the finals of the women's Superstars competition at Rotonda, Florida, in a sports complex built especially for the event. Laura, a 24-year-old Hawaiian whose specialty is surfing--she happens to be, unofficially, the world's number-one professional lady surfer, partly because she's the first and (at this writing) the only one-- finished fifth in a field of 23, picking up $2400 in prize money. Inthe semifinals, held a few weeks earlier in Texas, she'd already won $2600-- and, according to Sports Illustrated, dazzled the assembled multitudes with her "soulfulness," her "John Lennon Vocabulary" and her "alluring figure." Laura, who liked everything about (text continued on page 78) the Superstars except flying back and forth ("Being on a plane is a real drag, man--it makes you want to just nod out; but you can't"), expects to compete again next year--and to do even better.
"A Motorcar Engine that runs on mother's milk? Intriguing concept, eh, Datson?" Mr. Sherlock Jones's ebon orbs twinkled my way; he tugged at the luxuriant steel-wool "do" under his deerstalker cap with a spatulalike Afro comb and touched a match to the bowl of his calabash, sending clouds of his favorite tobacco--Julian Bond Street--scudding with aromatic militance across our sitting room. The pipe had been a gift from the Newport Jazz Festival for proving that the untypical white blotches on the faces of the Count Basie aggregation were not, as first feared, (continued on page 90) Adventures of Sherlock Jones (continued from page 81) manifestations of some tropical disease but merely Kem-Tone inadvertently spilled into the trumpet section by a careless painter at Carnegie Hall and subsequently sprayed into the air during a wailing version of Shiny Stockings, the affair I like to call "The Adventure of the Speckled Band."
Dr. William Jennings Bryan, Jr.--the world's leading practitioner, professor and promoter of medical hypnosis--is worried. Dr. Bryan is chief of staff of the American Institute of Hypnosis (A.I.H.) and the person most responsible for taking hypnosis out of magic shows and putting it into clinics, where it belongs; his work has been the main reason that the American Medical Association has recognized the legitimacy of medical hypnosis--but still he's very worried. In fact, he's scared to death. Bryan has been trying to hide his concern here at the Banff Springs Hotel high in the Canadian Rockies as he gives A.I.H. postgraduate course number 506--Successful Treatment of Sexual Disorders--to an attentive class composed of 60 physicians, their spouses, nurses and associates. All morning long, he has been guiding them through case studies of doctors who can't keep it up for their 200 girlfriends, of frigid social workers and of housewives who vomit after climaxing. But as he helps the doctors understand the psychological origins of these sexual disorders, Bryan finds that he can no longer keep his own problem secret: "Sam," he yells to his executive assistant at the back of the conference room, "where's Brenda?"
Ask Any Veteran Entertainer, and he'll tell you: The point of a successful show is to do whatever makes the audience go crazy, while somehow holding onto your cool. And the same is true of that sociological branch of showbiz known as the mating game. Herewith, a variety of guys and dolls all heavily involved in that great midsummer pastime, beating the heat. The ladies, it seems, are decidedly hot and bothered. (Women, as you know, are funny that way.) The gentlemen? Well, they're into something else, as these pictures obviously attest; specifically, some nifty-looking summer suits of various synthetic blends that never seem to lose their shape, no matter how high the temperature rises. All are worn with mighty good-looking shirts and ties, and some of the suits--would you believe?--are even three-piecers. What's a three-piecer doing out on a hot day like this? Why, keeping the up-to-date weaker calm, collected and very cool, of course.
Evel Knievel is afraid to fly. So are 25,000,000 other Americans, such as Carly Simon, Jackie Gleason, Mike Douglas, Bess Truman, Shelley Berman and André Previn. There's even a group-therapy program for such people conducted by Marvin L. Aronson, a New York psychologist and the author of How to Overcome Your Fear of Flying. When you join his program, you'll meet with safety experts who will explain just how little danger there is in flying; your group will gather in an airliner that will remain parked at an airport; and for graduation there will be an actual flight. The program may get a lot of people off the ground, but it doesn't do much to make flying any safer.
Lynn Schiller has a cold. Sniffles, sore throat, headache, the whole routine. She has had it ever since she took that boat ride to Catalina Island a little while ago, underestimating the chill sea wind. To Lynn, having a cold is more than just a pain in the head, for it keeps her from doing the things she likes to do; namely, swimming, acting, dancing and singing. She is adept at all those activities, especially acting and singing. In high school and college, she sang with school bands, and during a year in Germany, she and a small combo entertained at several Army bases. She plays the guitar now and is learning piano. Her voice is high, with the lilting quality of a Joni Mitchell, and she is beginning to write her own songs--ballads, mostly, with a touch of country. When she is not singing, she takes acting lessons or ad-libs comic skits with the Ace Trucking Company, an improvisational troupe. She has just graduated from the famous Lee Strasberg Theatrical Institute and hopes to land a decent part in a movie soon. A musical would be perfect. Meantime, between dates with her boyfriend, Glenn Frey, currently of the rock group Eagles, Lynn is doing a little modeling (in Playboy's May feature "T" Formations, she is the model with the roller skates and the hose) and taking modern-dance lessons. And when she is not doing any of those, chances are you'll find her out swimming, surfing, horseback riding or playing tennis or baseball. Baseball!? "I grew up with three brothers," she says, "and learned to play all the sports little boys play." She describes herself as perky, flirtatious and occasionally aggressive ("When I know what I want, I go after it"). Generally speaking, she's extremely active; but what with this cold, she's stuck indoors, in bed. But then again, there's a whole lot a person can do indoors, in bed.
I don't see why you insisted that your wife wear a chastity belt while we're away at the convention," said the man to his closest friend. "After all, Al--between us as old buddies--with Emma's face and figure, who'd want to screw her?"
Demetrios Georgios Synodinos is a lumbering, 200-pound-plus, six-foot American legend. Proudly calling himself Oddsmaker to the Nation, Jimmy the Greek Snyder lives in a world of point spreads, of elusive advantage and disadvantage measured within a universe of probability.
The following test was created especially for Playboy at the Superwinners' Institute, a gaming-consultation firm. Answers (and explanations) are on page 156. And remember, as Louis Pasteur once said, "Chance favors only the mind that is prepared."
It May have come to you on a bridge. Or at the window of a 95th-floor lounge. But surely it's come. We mean the desire to fly--on your own, sans motor, like a bird. It's a universal fantasy that has managed to fascinate such bold spirits as Leonardo da Vinci, Otto Lilienthal, the intrepid German aeronaut of the Nineties, who inspired the Brothers Wright, and Francis M. Rogallo, whose research in the Forties led to the most popular type of hang-glider design today. In the past several years, "sky surfing" has really taken off, with manufactured machines invading a traditionally do-it-yourself field and with supermen leaping off all kinds of cliffs in search of a few transcendental moments. But before you start making like Superman, remember the coyote in the Road Runner cartoon; his wing tiling never worked. And if you mess up with a hang glider, it's Adios, Red Baron! So before flying the friendly skies, you had better learn what the game's about.
The Jack Nicklaus heaven-help-me look, the Arnold Palmer pout, the Lee Trevino bronx cheer, the Tom Weiskopf crumble--there definitely are times on the links that try even the big guys' souls. And, worse yet, they can't blame it on their equipment. Now, we're not claiming that the golf gear pictured on these two pages is going to solve all your duffing problems. But we do guarantee it will earn you envious looks at the 19th hole, even after a day that could only be described as hit-and-miss. Ready for another round, Arnold?
Royce Dunlup was lying in bed with a cold can of beer balanced on his stomach. The phone by the bed began to ring and he reached over and picked the receiver up without disturbing the can of beer. He has a big stomach and it was no real trick to balance a can of beer on it, but in this instance the can was sitting precisely over his navel and keeping it there while talking on the phone was at least a little bit of a trick.
How to Make Money...When All About You are Losing Theirs
You may be in the throes of a numbing depression, worrying that the business cycle is headed toward Hades, but some people have never had it so good. While the dire implications of the Kondratieff wave (which makes Malthus and Spengler sound like pussycats) are giving you a migraine and the climbing Goat Index (cheaper goat milk sells well when times are bad) has you butting against despair, those people are making money hand over fist. And more often than not, their prosperity is the result of those frantic steps all the rest of us are taking to put off disaster.
The leg is not a sex organ, of course, but the sight of a shapely pair of gams packs a load of erotic sensation. Strictly speaking, the purpose of legs is to provide support and mobility, but, as leg men the world over know, erogenous zones are where you find them, and legs--bless them--are easy to find. Which--combined with the oft-proved sexual truism that one thing usually leads to another--makes legs a beautiful base of operations. That being the case, we've asked nine photographers, who know a good leg when they see one, to give their imaginations free rein on the subject--starting with Chicago free-lancer Paul Gremmler, who found the statement he was looking for in two women dancing. He says the graphic design is what's important--but, in all honesty, we must say that one man's graphic design is another man's turn-on.
Some men had bought a stubborn camel, and when they wanted to make it enter a house, it balked. Then they began to beat it and still the camel would not go in. A woman, lovely as a half-moon, looked down at them from a window and the men looked up speechless, staring at her.
Summertime is Tonic Time to a good portion of sweltering humanity. At the first intimation of hot weather, tonic drinks suddenly bloom at marinas and golf clubs, beaches and barbecues. The venerable gin and tonic is still number one on the charts, but vodka, white rum, tequila and Campari are just a few of the potables frequently paired with tonic.
"When I'm at my job during the day, I think about what I'm doing then; later, when I'm out running, what I think about is running." That's the matter-of-fact approach of Rick Wohlhuter, 26, who doubles as a rising young insurance salesman and the world's best half-miler, holder of records at both 880 yards and 1000 meters. In fact, after his trauma at the Munich Olympics (he fell in the first qualifying heat and failed to place, though he did get up and finish), he put together an amazing streak of 26 victories before losing (in the mile) to Tanzania's Filbert Bayi. The mile is Wohlhuter's project for this year--"I'd like to run it as well as anyone has"--after which (as a half-miler again) he's pointing toward the next Olympics, in Montreal. He downplays personal glory as a motive: "The Olympics is a one-shot deal: Either you make it that day or you don't. But I'm trying to develop my 'running business,' just like I'm trying to develop my insurance business. If I'm going to turn pro--and I haven't made any decision about it yet--I can make more money by going to the Olympics first and doing well. So it's worth waiting another year. Besides, there was lots of beer at Munich--and a lot of girls--and, if not for the Israeli incident, I'd have had a real good time." Wohlhuter, the product of a Chicago suburb, started running ten years ago because his high school buddies were doing it, then continued at Notre Dame and--since 1971--has competed under the auspices of the University of Chicago Track Club. He runs about six miles a day along Chicago's lake front, all year round (his two jobs don't leave much time for other interests), and recently moved from the North Side to the South Side to be nearer the club. That meant learning a new training route, and the first night he took it, he was startled to come upon a steel mill: "I thought I had run all the way to Gary." Well, he hadn't. But if his mind ever starts to wander, he just might.
Eighteen years ago, Tom Gish left his reporting job with U.P.I., returned to his home town of Whitesburg, Kentucky (population 1800), and bought The Mountain Eagle. He quickly lost any romantic notions he'd had about the leisurely life of a country editor: "On a rural weekly, you share the news--good and bad--with the people it happens to. You face your readers every day. There's no ducking. You get angry. You work your ass off." Gish's timing was impeccable; he came to Appalachia just as the mines were laying off two out of every three workers. Incensed, he began a one-man campaign against a coal industry that feeds off the "raw strength and lives of miners for cold-blooded profit." The fight has cost the Eagle half of its advertising revenue (the paper, which exists on the faith of 5800 subscribers, is put together by Gish's family and a few volunteers). Last year, Gish's office was fire-bombed. If the police were slow to investigate, it's understandable (one of those indicted for the crime was a deputy)--they had felt the Eagle's claws more than once. A Federal grant had created a small law-enforcement army in the county with high-speed cars, Mace, submachine guns and "weapons I didn't even begin to recognize," says Gish. "It was as if they expected the Detroit riots in downtown Whitesburg." In the absence of a real threat, Gish charged, the police took on the nearest target--the kids. "They were sitting ducks." Gish's chronicle of police harassment of some boys who liked to spend their evenings on the Whitesburg bridge received the John Peter Zenger Award for "distinguished service in behalf of freedom of the press and the people's right to know." (Past winners include publishers Katharine Graham, for The Washington Post's Watergate stories, and Arthur Ochs Sulzberger, for the New York Times release of the Pentagon papers.) A newspaper's job is to state the obvious; do it infrequently and you'll be praised for your scoops. Do it every week and you'll be Tom Gish.
Deadpan and excruciatingly low-key, 28-year-old stand-up comic Gabe Kaplan delivers his latest bit: a prospectus on movie sequels in 1985, including such future box-office hits as The Senility of Billy Jack ("Billy Jack in an old-age home, wearing corrective moccasins") and Planet of the Gentiles ("the story of a Jewish astronaut from New York who lands on what he thinks is another planet. Iowa"). Whatever may be lost in the written translation is certainly there in Gabe's short, terse, uninterested delivery, and the audience is devastated. But then, Gabe's been fracturing audiences all over the country, bringing in record crowds in Vegas and hosting TV specials. His first album, Holes and Mellow Rolls, is a runaway success and ABC is starring him in a pilot based on one of his comic sketches. Raised in Brooklyn, in the shadow of Ebbets Field, Kaplan wanted to be a professional ballplayer and kicked around the minor leagues until a shoulder injury ended his baseball career. Working as a bellboy in the New Jersey version of the Borscht Belt, he spent evenings listening to the comics' stock jokes and decided that he could do better. Back in New York, he began doing one-nighters at talent showcases such as the Cafe Wha, then graduated to the burlesque circuit. ("The only reason I got jobs was that I owned a car and could drive the strippers to work.") After hitting such towns as Shreveport and Wichita with Jewish jokes that usually bombed, Gabe changed his act, injecting some original material, such as his "Geriatric Dating Game" routine ("the prize is a free trip to Johannesburg, where Dr. Christiaan Barnard will perform the organ transplant of your choice"). After his second appearance on the Carson show in 1974, Johnny asked him up to the platform to talk and Kaplan was made. His success surprises him: "I was never a funny kid. I was always quiet and introverted. I still am." The Kaplan motto must be "Speak softly and carry a big shtick."
Wait, Sir! I am a Magical Sandwich, and If you promise not to eat Me, I will Grant You a wish of your choice including French Fries, Beverage and Dessert!I'm just as magical as that Sandwich!I'm a magical Orange!