The Federal narcotics program has been called "the most sordid story in the annals of law enforcement," and all the information now coming out about the scandal-ridden Drug Enforcement Administration tends to support that conclusion. The whole dirty story--with accounts of torture and other excesses by the narcs, who use and abuse people at will--is chillingly detailed by Frank Browning in An American Gestapo. Browning, a former editor of Ramparts, plans to include his research for the article in a book for Putnam, tentatively titled Crime in America: A Social History.
Playboy, February, 1976, Volume 23, Number 2. 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 subscribtions 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: 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.
Naked came the stranger. Police at Birker⊘d, Denmark, are looking for a man who sneaked into a house at night and had sexual relations with a woman who thought he was her husband. The woman said she realized he was a stranger after he climbed out of her bed and she saw her husband snoring in the other bed. Punch line: Police said the man could be charged with violating an ancient Danish law that provides for four years' imprisonment for "tricking a woman into the act of love by pretending to be her wedded husband."
Voted in for abstinence above and beyond the call of sanity: a former British soldier who, having been told by doctors to keep from straining himself following a hernia operation, refrained from making love to his wife for 20 years. Honorable mention to his wife for taking that long to complain.
If you're used to drinking in places with soft lights and carpets, bar snacks probably don't mean much to you. Such highfalutin establishments often put out trays of hors d'oeuvres for early-evening drinkers, but they don't count. The true bar snack is basic survival food for those nights when you set out to have one or two with the boys and end up six hours later in a joint with a cracked tile floor, arguing with four guys in hard hats. Under these conditions, the proper bar snack can mean the difference between ending the evening more or less vertical and nodding off between the cases of Old Milwaukee stacked in the back of the saloon.
Imagine half a life spent behind stone walls and steel bars--a life of confinement without the ameliorating rage that can carry someone like Solzhenitsyn through the ordeal of the Gulag. You've earned your time and you are left to watch the slow deterioration of your own soul. You can reach an insupportable pitch of self-loathing or you can do the very hardest thing: change. Malcolm Braly changed, after spending 18 of his 40 years in institutions. His autobiography is called False Starts, A Memoir of San Quentin and Other Prisons (Little, Brown). If you've read Braly's fine prison novel, On the Yard, and are looking for more of the same, you'll be disappointed. This is a slow, painful book. There are times when you want to reach into the pages, grab Braly, shake him and say, "Jesus Christ, man. Don't steal again. In the first place, you aren't any good at it and in the second place, you don't have to." But time after time he does steal again, and goes back to the slammer. Slowly, he learns, and by the end of the book, Braly is a weary man but a free one. Free in a way that Albert Camus would have understood. His wisdom came hard, but he earned it. And he was good enough to pass some of it along in this book. Now society owes Malcolm Braly a debt.
Ken Kesey's One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, first published in 1962, has been a perennial best seller and a popular Broadway play, and will probably achieve hit status on the screen--its success more or less assured by a whole generation of Sixties flower children, aging but still agog over the heroism of a free-spirited loser battling the system. Cuckoo's Nest on film is corrosive and chilling but also a bit dated, even predictable--with Jack Nicholson at hand as R. P. McMurphy, the asylum inmate who may be feigning madness but brings light and laughter into a mental ward ruled by a totalitarian Big Nurse. In return for bucking her authority--either by hijacking a bus to take his brother nuts on a deep-sea-fishing trip or by smuggling booze and broads into the hospital--McMurphy is subjected to electroshock therapy and finally dragged off for a lobotomy that reduces him to vegetable status. How he becomes an underdog hero despite the worst they can do to him was the gist of Kesey's tale, told in a primitive and poetic first-person prose narrative by an Indian named Chief Bromden (played forcefully onscreen by gigantic Will Sampson, a Creek Indian jack-of-all-trades with no previous acting experience). The movie's magnetic pull can be traced to another show-stopping performance by Nicholson, whose killer grin and snake-eyed intensity are the hallmarks of his stardom, to be sure, but are also taking on a tinge of sameness--as it each new role were meticulously cut to fit the formula. Czech-born director Milos Forman is an equally cool breed of cat, whose detached comic style quick-freezes some of the book's compassion. His treatment of Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher) makes her a one-dimensional Fascist Frau who would look right at home in a Nazi death camp, ordering lamp shades fabricated of her victims' skins. While the actors are uniformly fine (up to and including Dr. Dean Brooks, real-life superintendent of Oregon State Hospital, who plays Dr. Spivey and served as technical advisor), they seldom elicit any major emotional depth charge, because the movie seems to set them apart for study not as tortured human beings but as harmless, funny freaks. Overall, Cuckoo's Nest has the hard edge of a tragicomedy without much heart. Hollywood took a kinder, more enlightened view of mental illness back in the sudsy era of The Snake Pit.
The man who made Emmanuelle must be doing something right. For an encore, director Just Jaeckin chose Story of O, and once again the Paris critics were tough--though not tough enough to keep hordes of curious Frenchmen (but especially French women) from queuing up to see how a modern classic of erotica might be handled on the screen. Jaeckin handles it rather gingerly, all in all, yet his cool French movie version of the ever-blue best seller by the stubbornly pseudonymous authoress known as Pauline Réage is faithful in spirit, lusciously photographed (for a sampling, see Playboy's December issue) and bound to be controversial. Adapted by Sebastien Japrisot, with minimal dialog but lots of subtitled narration to lubricate its flow of eye-filling imagery, O introduces movie newcomer Corinne Cléry as the titular heroine whose lover (Udo Kier, who was Andy Warhol's Dracula) initiates her into a society of male libertines--where she is blindfolded, trussed up, felt, flogged, sodomized and gang-raped at regular intervals. "Don't close your legs--it's forbidden," she is told. She's also ordered to wear bosomless gowns with easy front and back exposure, "so you are ready for the men, whenever and however they want you." Audiences grown accustomed to hard-core grappling may be disappointed by O's lack of sexual explicitness. There's virtually no male nudity in the movie, though Mile. Réage's book makes an issue of phallus worship (onscreen, in fact, Kier and Anthony Steel--as the mysterious Sir Stephen--seem sworn to bring back the zippered fuck). A more daring Story of O would have been better cinema, by admitting some element of risk, but Jaeckin has brought off a fashionably elegant rendering of a bizarre tale that female readers, in particular, have understood instinctively for two decades. Although branded on the buttocks by the man who has enslaved her, Cléry's O retains an enigmatic air of pride, awareness and self-will--and somehow conveys the thought that earth-wise, womb-centered womankind, even while relishing a submissive role, is likely to emerge a winner in the games men play.
Whether it's because Larry Graham--he of the booming bass and the voice to match--is gone or simply because we're so many boogies and so many messages farther down the road, the fact is the rock cuts on High on You (Epic) don't catch fire. Or sound very necessary. But Sly Stone, instead of retreating, slips to the side and counters with some nice mellow tunes--Le Lo Li, My World, That's Lovin' You--on which he profits from a smooth disco beat, positive statements and some nice instrumental touches (solo violin, Hawaiian guitar, and what not) in just the right places.
If you were merely lucky, you may have been one of the many who caught Bob Dylan's 1974 big-city tour with The Band, when a scruffy little speck on a far-off stage spat out his lyrics and sped away in a limousine. If you were dumbly, sublimely lucky late in 1975, you were one of the few who stumbled onto the Rolling Thunder Revue, a caravan of folkies and rockers and country pickers led by Dylan and Joan Baez, playing small theaters in small towns for one-night performances advertised a few days in advance by handbills. Back in 1974, we choked out, "It's him!" and listened in reverential awe. On a balmy evening this past November, in a dilapidated movie theater in downtown Waterbury, Connecticut, we whispered, "Hey, it is him--and her and all of them," then settled back with a box of popcorn, buttered, for three and a half hours of music you mostly dream about.
The two-hour premiere performance of Irvin Shaw's novel Rich Man, Poor Man (three excerpts of which were published in Playboy in 1970) opens the ABC-TV series of "Novels for Television" in early February (check local program guides for precise date and time slot). After Rich Man, Poor Man has run its course in subsequent weekly episodes, ABC promises serializations of John Dos Passos' U.S.A., James Michener's Hawaii and Alex Haley's Roots. Ambitious stuff. And the Shaw book makes an appropriate kickoff program. Directed by David Greene from Dean Reisner's carefully wrought screenplay (Reisner may be a shade too conscientious about setting forth a psychological fever chart for each character in turn, as if he had studied dramaturgy by watching Playhouse 90 way back when), Rich Man begins with a display of fireworks on V-E Day in May 1945 and instantly worms its way into the bosom of a German-American family whose dreams, failures and frustrations seem destined to prove habit-forming for every big-city striver and small-town householder this side of Peyton Place. What's inside the expensive packaging--all meticulous period color, with Wake Island at the local movie palace and everyone whistling Stardust--is soap opera, more or less. But at least it's intelligent, blue-ribbon soap opera, performed by a kaleidoscopic celebrity cast that will include--sooner or later--Steve Allen, Bill Bixby, Gloria Grahame, Kim Darby, Lynda Day George, Talia Shire, George Maharis, Dorothy McGuire and Ray Milland. In pivotal stellar roles, Peter Strauss, who filled the title role in Soldier Blue, opposite Candice Bergen, and Nick Nolte, late of Return to Macon County, ring absolutely true as the Jordache brothers, Rudy and Tom, a pair of all-American boys whose immigrant father (Ed Asner) speaks with a heavy Teutonic accent and is dubbed "the Führer" by his sons. Susan Blakely, a former top model whose acting career (from Lords of Flatbush to The Towering Inferno) has got off to a fast start and keeps accelerating, plays Julie Prescott as if she knows that the girl next door really wants to grow up to be a vaguely disreputable lady, smothered in mink. Compared with the frigid moral climate of TV a few short years ago, there's a relatively liberated air about Rich Man, Poor Man. By the end of the initial episode, Rudy is headed for college (instead of staying home to help Dad run the family bakery), Tom leaves town in disgrace (rightly suspected of voyeurism and vandalism) and Julie manages to lose her virginity (passing up a black Army veteran and the Jordache boys for a fling with a wealthy factory owner, nicely played by Robert Reed) before catching a bus to New York, Broadway bound with her head full of praise for a pretty fair performance in As You Like It at school. Together and singly, despite the script's occasional lapses into mediocrity, these three generate enough sex appeal and charisma to leave a viewer itching with curiosity about the next chapter of their lives in tumultuous postwar America.
Shortly, I will be leaving for a vacation in the Caribbean. I plan to visit a "suits optional" beach: I hope to repeat the nice experiences I had last summer at California's liberated shores. (I was very impressed by the friendly nature of everyone I saw. There was no peeking or gawking--just eye contact.) I do have one question, though: Are the women who utilize nude beaches enlightened enough to know that many males retract a great deal from the stimulation of cold water and air, not to mention anxiety? I wouldn't want to be judged as inadequate in the flaccid state because someone wasn't aware of a basic biological response.--W. C., Santa Ana, California.
The eight-year ordeal of Dr. Robert E. Hales has ended with a judge's order that he be released from the Indiana state mental hospital to which he was committed in 1971 as a criminal sexual psychopath. He lost his medical license in 1967 for professional misconduct: engaging in sexual acts with women patients. He was criminally prosecuted because the acts included oral intercourse--a practice as common in Indiana, presumably, as in any of the other states that still make "sodomy" a crime, even between husband and wife.
James Caan just can't seem to get the knack of being a star. He certainly looks like one, and he's worked hard to become one ever since he dropped out of college at 18 and stayed alive by hustling pool, playing poker, bouncing drunks in a dance hall and hauling carcasses in his father's meal-packing plant in Sunnyside, Queens, before stumbling into his acting career. But now that he's finally, Wade it--thanks to kinetic performances in two back-to-back hits, "Brian's Song" and "The Godfather," four years ago--stardom may be the only role he hasn't learned to play convincingly. He drives a truck, owns a wardrobe of blue jeans and work shirts, ropes steers in his spare time. He isn't vain or patronizing. He remembers your name. He listens when you talk. He even has a sense of humor about himself.
Once Upon A Time, long, long ago, but not so far away, George Abraham Carver was born in a place called Georgia. The first time he lived, he didn't travel more than 150 miles from the shack in which he was born. For one thing, he was a marked child. In fact, for one, two and--some militants and maybe some sociologists would say--three things, he was a marked child: He was black.
For the past two years, I've been doing research on black magic and related weirdness, and since I started nosing around the subject, everybody I've talked to who hasn't giggled has darkly warned me to stay away from it.
Marisa Berenson had made three films when Stanley Kubrick telephoned her out of the blue and asked her if she'd like to be in his next project. "I couldn't believe it was he. He said, 'I can't tell you anything about it--I can't tell you its name or even what it's about, but it's a period piece, you'd play an English countess and the lead will be Ryan O'Neal. I'll send you a copy of the book eventually.' And eventually he did."
I went broke in the traditional way: I spent all my money. It's an old story and it would have been all right except that before the smell of death reached the credit-card people, I spent a bagful of their money, too--a handful here, a fistful there--and by the time their computers sensed what was going on, we were all in over our heads.
Laura Lyons is not your run-of-the-hutch Bunny. Nor is she, as of this month, your average tripartite Playmate. Miss February simply refuses to be folded into neat categories. The last time she accepted the official version of "that's the way it's supposed to be" was in high school. She was home-coming queen and her boyfriend was the captain of the football team. On graduation night, she split. Things haven't been the same since. "I live out of a suitcase. If something interesting comes along, I pick up and run. As a result, my life is a collection of mad, magic moments. I danced at Anthony Corleone's Communion party on the set of Godfather II. For two weeks, I hung out with the world's greatest rock-'n'-roll band, sliding in and out of limousines, following police escorts to the airport. It never stops." Laura's talent for getting into interesting, if not absurd, situations cropped up when we sent her to Puerto Vallarta with Staff Photographer Dwight Hooker to complete the shooting for the Playmate pictorial. "We ran into a juggler at a discothèque one night and we invited him to the next day's session. Dwight thought I would be more relaxed if I had something to distract me. So, while he took pictures, this guy just stood there juggling five oranges. He had amazing powers of concentration." That, quite frankly, is a bit of an understatement. Somewhere along the line. Laura qualified to become a Jet Bunny (the travel schedule coincided with her gypsy instincts) and started working full time for Playboy. We should have known better. Between flights on the Big Bunny (including a charter by the Elvis Presley tour), Laura helped organize the girls who worked at her home base in Chicago. One morning, we found ourselves staring at a picket line outside the Playboy Building--Laura and the cofounders of Bunny Lib felt that archaic Club rules had created a class of untouchables--they were petitioning for the right to date keyholders, to give members their last names and to socialize at the Club in their off-duty hours. Hef handled the negotiations personally and with great flair: He granted their requests immediately. It's not that Laura has come a long way; she was there to begin with and it took us time to catch up.
The attractive but militant feminist had, in effect, been propositioned by a male stranger at a cocktail party. "I think you should know," she replied icily, deliberately raising her voice for put-down purposes, "that I've developed an immunity to being used by men as a casual sex object."
Dream of a 27-year-old man: "I've never flown an airplane in my whole life, but in this dream I have to deputize for Charles Lindbergh and fly this old Thirties twin-engined plane across Iowa. The day's pretty hot and there are all kinds of electric storms around, but I manage to pull the plane over the clouds and put it on automatic pilot. This consists of a motorized pulley arrangement that I have to attach to the joy stick with a row of metal hooks and springs--very complicated, but I'm sure in this dream that this is the way they did it in 1934.
Nothing seemed to belong to him. He sat on a strip of no man's land between the outer wall of the temple and the street. The branch of a margosa tree peeping over the wall provided the shade and shook down on his head tiny whitish-yellow flowers all day. "Only the gods in heaven can enjoy the good fortune of a rain of flowers," thought the hippie observing him from the temple steps, where he had stationed himself since the previous evening. No need to explain who the hippie was, the whole basis of hippieness being the shedding of identity and all geographical associations. He might be from Berkeley or Outer Mongolia or anywhere. If you developed an intractable hirsuteness, you acquired a successful mask; if you lived in the open, roasted by the sun all day, you attained a universal shade transcending classification or racial stamps and affording you unquestioned movement across all frontiers. In addition, if you draped yourself in a knee-length cotton dhoti and vest, and sat down with ease in the dust anywhere, your clothes acquired a spontaneous ocher tint worthy of a sanyasi. When you have acquired this degree of universality, it is not relevant to question who or what you are. You have to be taken as you are--a breathing entity, that's all. That was how the wayside cobbler viewed the hippie when he stepped up before him to get the straps of his sandals fixed.
James Arness paid his dues in The Thing, a 1951 release. In his demanding role as a highly unpleasant vegetable in human form, Arness is described by a reporter in the film as "a carrot with brains." So, as dusk fell in Dodge City, and Matt was down at the Long Branch Saloon with something on his mind, you can purty much figger the dark secret in his past he was thinkin' back on.
The idea for this feature, says photographer Ken Marcus, came a couple of years ago, when a model showed up ready for and type of shooting: Under her jeans and T-shirt, she was wearing a garter belt and stockings. "I got the idea something was going on," says Marcus, who immediately began checking to see if underwear--always a good pictorial subject--were "in" again. He found that not only garters but also perforated bras and all those other kinky things--which were big in the early Sixties but had since disappeared--were back on the scene, with Hollywood mail-order outfits shipping peekaboo panties all over the country. The ladies were not buying the stuff because their masters so desired but because they dug it. And that these skimpy little bits of cloth are big mojo can now--after some hectic shootings--be confirmed by Marcus: "There's no question but that they change people's personalities. Even models I know well seem transformed into totally sexual creatures when they put them on." Which, of course, is the whole idea.
Ribald Classic: The Goldsmith and the Singing Girl
In a Certain City in Persia, there once lived a young goldsmith who shunned all women. This was not from any defect of mind or body, but it arose from a visit he made to the house of a friend. There, upon a wall, he saw a picture of a beautiful damsel playing the lute. Never had he seen a woman so perfect in every feature. He went back again and again to gaze, at last beginning to sicken from longing.
For every Wine there is a season. When it's springtime in Vienna, everyone gulps heurige--the lively young light wine--from glass mugs. Even devout wine snobs sip chilled rosé, contentedly, at a summer picnic in the country. Parisians tie into le beaujolais nouveau in the fall, almost before it has finished fermenting. But when arctic winds numb your toes and your soul, nothing does better than the sun-drenched, sonorous, penetrating wines of winter--malmsey, madeira, the big, aged ports and oloroso sherries--wines that warm the cockles and take the chill from the marrow, even when the mercury drops from sight. On their native turf, these winter wines are known as generosos, and they have much in common. Each one is much in common. Each one is uncompromisingly robust, with a rich, unmistakable flavor and aroma. Each is relatively high in alcohol for wine, about 20 percent, being braced with brandy. Fortification with brandy developed from the need to stabilize the wines so they would hold up during long voyages and adverse conditions. All are invested by aficionados with tonic or restorative properties and, with one exception noted farther on, they're unabashedly sweet. However, the sweetness is balanced by nuance and depth of flavor, which keeps the wines from becoming dull. And although they're prized all over the world, all are, to a greater or lesser degree, British contrivances.
Four years ago, singer Emmylou Harris was doing three to five sets a night at a music club in Baltimore. A refugee from the New York music scene (she had been a regular opening act at Gerde's), she was content to play in the back rooms of bars, where "people are just interested in the music, not the personality. In the major music centers--L.A., New York, Nashville--playing takes second place to the scene. People make names, not music." A couple of members of the Flying Burrito Brothers caught her act one night and asked her to join the group. Her first big break was just that: A week later, the band bit the dust, but not before Emmylou had been introduced to Gram Parsons. Parsons saw (and heard) in Harris something that he had been looking for since his Sweetheart of the Rodeo album with the Byrds--a pure voice to add clarity to the rough edge of country rock, a voice that could do for lyrics what a pedal stell does for instrumentals. "Gram introduced me to a vein of music I call the High Lonesome--the beautiful heartbreak harmony duets you hear in songs by the young Everly Brothers. Charley and Ira Louvin, Felice and Boudleaux Bryant." Their collaboration produced two critically acclaimed but commercially unsuccessful albums--GP and Grievous Angel. Following Parsons' tragic death in 1974, Harris returned to Baltimore "to just play music and put myself together." The result was Pieces of the Sky--a fragile, elegant, moving album that was one of the finest solo efforts of the year. Aided by veteran pickers J. B. Burton and Glen Hardin and some of the studio musicians who had worked on the Parsons albums, Emmylou hit the road to win over audiences across the country. A hit single, If I Could Only Win Your Love, established her on the country charts, session work with Linda Ronstadt and Bob Dylan brought more praise and a tour with James Taylor introduced her to the popular market. If Emmylou doesn't watch out, she's going to become a name.
"I started my career in kindergarten playing a tube of tooth paste in a hygiene play." says Henry Winkler (shown holding the phone), star of ABC's hit comedy series Happy Days and the actor most responsible for that show's dramatic rise up the Nielsen totem pole. Winkler, a graduate of Emerson College and the Yale School of Drama, plays the character known as The Fonze, a.k.a Fonzie, a.k.a Arthur Fonzarelli, a supercool but humorous reincarnation of Marlon Brando in The Wild One--a dropout--equipped with leather jacket, motorcycle, flawless ducktail pompadour and the ability io pick up girls by merely snapping his fingers. As it happens, however. Winkler and Fonzie couldn't be less alike. Born and raised on New York's West Side. Winkler attended an exclusive private school for boys, where, as he says, "I wore a blue blazer and nice neat slacks." After doing mostly musicals at Emerson. Winkler, who has wanted to be an actor all his life, went on to Yale, where he performed such unlikely roles as "Einstein" in Dürrenmatt's The Physicists and a dancing rabbi in Gimpel the Fool. Like most actors, he went to New York, where he did 30 or so commercials, worked off-off-Broadway for nothing and finally landed a role in Columbia's The Lords of Flatbush, in which he played Butchey Weinstein, a member of a Brooklyn street gang. But the movie came out after he'd already been cast as Fonzie. The show became an instant success and, due to the huge inflow of fan mail (85 percent of which is for Winkler), ABC decided to change the format of the show, giving Fonzie star status. "People like him because he's his own man." says Winkler. who maintains objectivity about the character he's created. "Women respond to the fact that beneath his coat of leather lurks a warm heart." Reacting to the ratings. ABC recently offered Winkler a spin-off series based entirely on Fonzie, but Winkler turned it down. "Fonzie was born on Happy Days," he says, "and that's where he'll die." Now, that's will power.
It's not that blacks can't drive fast. It just costs so much to buy and maintain a competitive machine that nobody gets ahead in racing minus big-time sponsorship--which wasn't happening for any black driver until 1974, when L.A.'s Benny Scott signed on with the Black American Racers team. The 28-year-old Scott, who hopes to reach Indy by 1977, was to the manner born; his dad, Bill "Bullet" Scott, raced sprint cars and midgets on the Southern California dirt tracks in the Thirties. And when the elder Scott died, he left his 12-year-old son with a dream of making it in racing. The dream stayed intact, through some hard years, until 1963, when Benny bought his first car, a 1931 Chevy with bad brakes. In 1968, by which time he'd learned just about everything there was to learn about cars, he turned pro--in the foreign-stock-car field--and he's been competing on ever-tougher circuits since then. Last fall, under the aegis of Black American Racers--an organization founded in 1969 with the avowed goal of getting a black driver into Indy--he made an auspicious debut in Formula 5000 racing, one notch below Indy competition. Then a key sponsor dropped out and Scott went back to teaching psychology at L.A. Mission College. That's right--Benny is a college professor (his master's was in the electrical activity of muscles) and a Ph.D. candidate (he's researching the facilitation of learning by inner-city kids). Of course, the same old dream was behind his academic career: "I felt that college would allow me to have an income conducive to racing." So it's likely to be an impatient winter for Scott. But by the time the next Formula 5000 season opens in May, Black American Racers should have some new investors. In any case, they know they've got a quality driver in Scott, whose moves on the track impress everybody. And no longer does he have to service and transport his own car. That's what he used to do, with help from his wife, who also teaches on the college level. Of course, they'll get back in the pits if they have to.