On September 22, 1975, Sara Jane Moore aimed a gun at President Gerald Ford, pulled the trigger and missed. When her lawyer entered a plea of guilty, the case was closed and all evidence sealed. But there were too many questions left unanswered. Frustrated, Moore decided to tell her story to free-lance writer Andrew Hill. (The two had met while working on the Hearst-sponsored People in Need program.) The Playboy Interview is a startling profile of a troubled victim of the political system. Perhaps most startling is the dispassionate, rational account she gives of an act most would consider insane. An unsettling moment for the editors came when, during a telephone conversation from prison, Moore commented that she'd been reading the Playboy series on assassination. "Damn," she said. "I almost made it. I could have become your final chapter." Fortunately, Moore is only part of next month's chapter, while in this issue, in Part VI of the series, James McKinley explores the murders of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, Jr. King's case was settled but not solved.
Playboy, June, 1976, Volume 23, Number 6. 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: 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.
Never shake hands with a Snowbird. In an article titled "Flying with the Snowbirds" (Snowbirds are the Canadian Armed Forces Aerobatic Team), Canadian Aviation stated: "Later, in the 409 Squadron briefing room, the Snowbirds reviewed their performance from startup to shutdown. Debriefing was accomplished with short, sharp ejaculations and a lot of hand movements. The men were not happy with what they had done."
Yes, fellas, now even you, and I mean you, can learn how to pick up girls in your spare time! Tall ones, short ones, thin ones, tubby ones, light ones and heavy ones--you name it. By following a few simple rules, even the weakest excuse among you will suddenly be able to pick up, with no muscle strain, girls who weigh up to 500 pounds--or your money back! By studying the following foolproof techniques, you'll learn not only how to pick them up but also how to avoid hernias, how to utilize modern lifting techniques, how to overcome timidity, how to deal with resistance and how to hold a girl in the air for as long as two hours!
For a few days every July, the city of San Diego drops the cloak of conservatism shielding it from the rest of Southern California, that enclave of eccentricity that brought you everything from plastic grass to mushroom milk shakes, in order to host the Over-the-Line World Championship (Captain Pizzgums and His Perverted Pirates 6, Muffdivers 3). A couple of thousand sun-struck competitors gather to play a game invented on San Diego's Mission Beach 23 years ago; according to the sponsoring Old Mission Beach Athletic Club, that puts the O.T.L. tourney (Valley Yodelers 14, Downtown Dildos 12) right behind the Pan-American Games, participationwise. Less partisan observers claim it's more like the West Coast's answer to Easter week at Fort Lauderdale.
In the theatrical world, satire is what closes on Saturday night. For the perennial adolescents at the National Lampoon, however, this bit of conventional wisdom is just so much grist for their year-round, multimedia parody mill. The most recent object of their collective raspberry is that old war horse rock 'n' roll, and on Good-bye Pop 1952-1976 (Epic), the Poon gang gives musical fads of the past two and a half decades the R.I.P. treatment through its by now familiar burlesques of Bob Dylan, Neil Young, soul, country, reggae and English art rock. The trouble is that, with the exception of the Neil Young send-up, the tunes themselves are either wooden and uninspired or, as in Kung Fu Christmas and The B Side of Love, smarmy and condescending. The best bits by far are the brief appearances of the unflappably hip FM deejay Mel Brewer and his polar opposite, the maniacally inane promo man, Ron Fields, characters from the earlier Radio Hour. In fact, aside from the engaging lunacy of the promo man's hype for wailing songs, the best thing about the LP is the explanatory notes on the back. And those you can read in the record store.
What director Michael Ritchie did in Smile to teenaged beauty contests he tries in The Bad News Bears to do to Little League baseball (referred to only as "sandlot ball" on film, because timorous Little League officials wanted no part of dugout profanity by both kids and coaches). The Bears, whose jersey pullovers identify Chico's Bail Bonds as the team's sponsor, are ruthlessly exploited, in much the same way the girls of Smile were, by status-conscious adult achievers with their own axes to grind. Ritchie's satirical jabs are, however, far lighter in Bears, based on a first script by 26-year-old Bill Lancaster (Burt's son), who writes amiably as well as knowledgeably about fair play, pop flies and the fierce will to win. Swarms of precocious youngsters, led by Tatum O'Neal as a 12-year-old ace pitcher, would certainly steal every scene from an ordinary actor. Working under the gimlet eye of Walter Matthau, they are lucky to steal a few bases; without him, in fact, their sassy suburban cuteness might cloy pretty fast. Matthau, easily the most lovable movie grouch since Wallace Beery, plays a drunken minor-league has-been who earns his livelihood as a cleaner of California swimming pools and accepts a spare-time job trying to transform a team of fumbling sprouts into champions. He starts by teaching a couple of them to make a good dry martini. The movie's concentrated action seldom moves off the playing field, and its minimacho gags shatter every taboo a PG rating allows--which simply means that juvenile beer guzzling and jockstrap jokes are ruled OK. While no way related to the Disney definition of a wholesome family picture, Bad News Bears is ultimately a sentimental ode to the spirit of good sportsmanship, or maybe a blow for kids' lib. But how many message movies have Matthau on deck to guarantee a grand-slammer?
A Pinocchio character does nose jobs, after a fashion, in Let My Puppets Come, which also features a merrymaking marionette in a clinch with a gray-velvet spaniel. "I couldn't... you're a dog," she demurs, as he nibbles her ear. To which the pooch replies: "But I've had all my shots ... and I'm a full-blooded cocker." Though it's questionable whether puppets, coming or going, can launch a significant new trend in hard-core, writer-director Gerard Damiano (of Deep Throat and The Devil in Miss Jones) has fairly solid credentials as a trendsetter. Damiano's latest breakthrough is a kind of Raunch-and-Judy show employing live actors, puppets and--to quote him indirectly--lots of chiffon, foam rubber and Elmer's Glue. None of it quite sticks together, yet Let My Puppets Come certainly takes off in a different direction, from porno per se into pornographic self-parody. Some woolgathering idea men from a dummy firm known as Creative Concepts hatch the plot when they agree that making a fuck film is the easiest way to make big money, fast. After trying bestiality, operetta, a hospital fantasy with a head nurse, an undersea epic with a blowfish, etc., they shift their nefarious schemes into the political arena, where charges of obscenity are much tougher to prove. That's the socially redeeming satire in an original, inoffensive comedy obviously aspiring to be a put-on rather than a turn-on. Couldn't hurt.
Unless you're one of those people whose ears close and whose eyes turn opaque at the words Nixon and Watergate, you can't have missed the media blitz surrounding the new book by Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, The Final Days (Simon & Schuster). The book doesn't have the page-turning compulsion of All the President's Men (excerpted in Playboy, May and June, 1974), perhaps because its protagonists are not a pair of young reporters bearing a suspicious resemblance to Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman. Nor does it have a mysterious Deep Throat. But what it does have is some of the hardest-edged gossip ever to come out of Washington. Clearly, David Eisenhower spilled his heart out to the reporters and they apparently got to Henry Kissinger and Alexander Haig--or to their closest confidants--but the overwhelming impression is that Woodward and Bernstein must have spent most of 1974 crouching in a White House fireplace, taking notes furiously.
Science, dear dedicated moronic science, the same that gave us polyvinyl chloride and the hydrogen bomb, has temporarily given up trashing the moon and will soon be trashing Mars. Not content with invading hospitable neighbors, astronomers are now looking to conquer new worlds. Cornell astronomer Carl Sagan believes that the major scientific achievement of the next century may be the discovery of alien civilizations out among the stars. That, as Richard Nixon would put it, could be the greatest event in the history of the world. Or it could be a total flop. I predict it will be a total flop.
Have you ever heard of couples' trying to pick up single women to complete a ménage à trois? The other day, I was lying in the park sun-bathing when this tiny dog started bringing twigs and sticks and laying them at my feet. I looked up and noticed that a couple were handing twigs to the dog. They smiled and asked me out to lunch. I declined the invitation, because I wanted to stay in the sun for a few more hours. Later, a friend told me that the same couple had picked her up a few weekends earlier with the same trick. Apparently, the dog is trained to fetch young girls. My girlfriend went home with them and had a lovely day in bed. Most of the action happened between my friend and the other young woman--she claims that couples who are on the prowl almost always do so because the man can't satisfy the woman alone, that the arrangement is a cover for lesbian encounters. Is this true?--Miss M. R., Chicago, Illinois.
Some clarification is needed to calm down public hysteria over a film phenomenon known as Snuff. This dreary, trifling hoax earned $203,000 during the early weeks of its New York run, was closed in Philadelphia after being picketed, was denied a license by Maryland's censors and drew excited press comment--if not paying customers--after opening in cities across the country. The fuss that paved the way for Snuff began last year, with credulous media coverage of "snuff films," rumored to be a repulsive and inevitable new dimension in pornography--if simulated screen sex gradually escalated into actual sex, then did it not logically follow that violence in films might also become hard-core? Well, yes, if you subscribe to the logic of, say, mass murderer Charles Manson, who popularized snuff as a synonym for murder and was rumored to have filmed ritual murders by members of his tribe.
In the twilight of early morning, June 8, 1975, a black man named Wilbert "Popeye" Jackson and a woman friend were sitting in his car in San Francisco's Mission District, talking. Suddenly, there was a burst of gunfire, and when it stopped, both Jackson and his companion were dead.
Carp's Mother, Jenny Fields, was arrested Boston in 1942 for wounding a man in a movie theater. This was shortly after the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor and people were being tolerant of soldiers, because suddenly everyone was a soldier, but Jenny Fields was quite firm in her intolerance of the behavior of men in general and of soldiers in particular. In the movie theater, she had to move three times, but each time the soldier moved closer to her, until she was sitting against the musty wall, her view of the newsreel almost blocked by some silly colonnade, and she resolved she would not get up and move again. The soldier moved once more and sat beside her.
Everybody knows window cleaners are actually frustrated voyeurs braving dangerous heights just to get a furtive peek at some junior exec seducing his well-endowed new secretary, inside the office. With the advent of the lady window wiper, however, all the spectators will be on the inside looking out.
On a sunday in late April 1975, over 20,000 people gather at Jericho Beach in the port of Vancouver in British Columbia to celebrate the departure of an 87-foot halibut boat called the Phyllis Cormack.
At the risk of corrupting American youth and kicking away yet another foundation stone of the Republic, I am here to confess an act of overt civil disobedience: I am a speeder. On the open highways of America, I haul ass. I pay about as much attention to the Government's cockamamie 55-mph speed limit as I do to the Treaty of Versailles, and, what's more, by observing a few rules of my own, I get away with it--most of the time.
In The Early Fifties it was a movie titled To Please a Lady, starring Clark Gable, with actual race footage and the faces of real drivers like Mauri Rose and Wilbur Shaw and huge ferocious cars resembling U-boats on wheels. The tires were absurdly narrow and grooved with tread on only the right half of the running surface. The movie was my first glimpse of a world that had previously enthralled me purely with sound. I was ten years old and to drive at Indianapolis was the only thing worth growing up for. Each Memorial Day was spent with engine sounds and the voice of Sid Collins. It didn't matter much what he said, it was just the sound of his voice switching to his reporters around the track, the roar of the cars in the background and the litany of what were, for me, almost holy names: Troy Ruttman, Tony Bettenhausen, Jimmy Bryan, Sam Hanks, Johnny Parsons, Pat O'Connor and, most holy of all, Billy Vukovich. It meant school was getting out and I could get sunburned and go fishing and spend three months on Lake Michigan trying to let the magic names fade into some kind of perspective. Whenever I wasn't in a bathing suit, I wore slightly grimy white-duck trousers and a grease-smudged white T-shirt, because that's what Vuky had been wearing in the one photo I'd seen of him, sitting on a workbench, barefooted, his knees pulled up to his chest, exhausted and dejected after leading the 1952 Indy for 191 laps until a 50-cent steering part let go and put him into the northeast wall. "The tough little driver from Fresno," the papers called him, using his standard quote, "Just don't get in my way."
As recently as 1950, vodka was an obscure spirit, lumped with such esoterics as Yan Sum Luk Bak, in the catchall "specialties" category. Today, vodka stands alone, at the top of the liquor charts, ahead of bourbon, blended whiskey, Scotch, gin, Canadian--all the long-reigning favorites.
It was something I'd wanted to do since I was about 14 years old--and, finally, I got up the nerve," says Debra Peterson, thinking back to the day when she went to a photographer and confessed her secret desire to pose for a Playboy centerfold. Our ingenuous 21-year-old Californian--she was born in Santa Monica and grew up in Rolling Hills--had no experience before the cameras; but, as you can see, she didn't need any. Her parents weren't exactly enchanted with her move--"You know how it always is with the baby of the family," says Debbie, who's the youngest of four children--but her boyfriend, a technical advisor to film makers, gave her new-found modeling career a quick boost by making a connection for her to do some TV commercials. It promises to be easier work than breaking in horses, which she used to do professionally as a groom and exercise girl for a thoroughbred trainer. She left the job about a year ago, after deciding that the money wasn't enough to make up for the risk of injury. Debbie's been riding since she was six, when her parents--like a lot of other people in Rolling Hills, a well-to-do suburb with plenty of trails--bought horses for their kids. When she was about 15, though, her parents split up. Debbie had to give up her horse. She stayed awhile with her mother, then with her dad, before striking out on her own three years ago. Now, in a sense, Debbie's turning back the clock; she's bought a thoroughbred of her own and she's keeping him back in Rolling Hills, which is a 45-minute drive in her VW from the Marina del Rey apartment she shares with her boyfriend. In addition to riding, Debbie also goes in for water-skiing, snow-skiing and flying. Obviously, her fun time is going to be limited as she gets more modeling assignments. And eventually she hopes to go into business: "I'd like to be a fashion buyer or something like that. So I'll most likely be going back to school in a year or two. Actually, I hate school--but everyone says it's necessary if you want a job that pays well." Right--unless you have some superb natural assets and an instinct for where to take them.
We somehow doubt that Galileo Newton, Halley and other pioneers of modern astronomy had in mind the type of full moon that's pictured here when they squinted skyward questing further knowledge of heavenly bodies. But we do know that today's telescopes and spotting scopes are great fun--and if you should zero in on a planet or a constellation while trying to bring an object of somewhat different configuration into proper perspective, that's OK, too. Invented in (concluded on page 190)Private Eyes(continued from page 123) Europe during the 17th Century, the telescope immediately began to unlock the secrets of the heavens. Galileo's first telescope--a primitive instrument comprised of two lenses (convex and concave) separated by a tube--aided in destroying the popular philosophy that a stationary earth stood at the center of a revolving cosmos.
Sound nutrition, exercise and relaxation are three factors commonly cited as essential for good health. Almost always, a fourth important factor is omitted from the list--an active and rewarding sex life.
Admittedly, we are sometimes inclined to overstatement. When Lillian Müller appeared as our August 1975 gatefold girl, we called her the most striking Playmate ever. Ever? Well, if not ever, then certainly within recent memory. It should be obvious to all that we are dealing with a remarkably attractive woman. After a year of observation and appreciation of the 12 beautiful ladies who graced our gatefolds in 1975, our readers felt that it was inevitable and proper that Lillian should receive Playmate of the Year honors. The editors concurred, if for no other reason than her eyes. Yes, her eyes. A correspondent for the German magazine Neue Revue met our August Playmate and wrote: "With such a figure, it's amazing that one would first be drawn to her face. Deep-blue, astonished eyes look at you, always a little reproachful, always a little surprised, as if immediately guessing your thoughts." Amazing, indeed, but Europeans have always been subtle. Bruno Bernard, a famous Hollywood glamor photographer (and, incidentally, father of December 1966 Playmate Sue Bernard), met Lillian at Playboy Mansion West. He saw in her a rare and unforgettable combination of eroticism and innocence. "Nobody escapes her eyes," he says. A few months later, he showed the Playmate feature to a friend, Rolf Thiele, a West German director who (text concluded on page 198)Playmate of the Year(continued from page 133) was looking for a young woman to play a major part in his latest film, Frauenstation (the tentative English title is Doctor's Dilemma). Some 300 candidates had been tested without producing the right girl. Bernard called Lillian: She flew into Munich and performed in three of the crucial scenes from the movie. Thiele didn't even bother to develop the film but signed Lillian immediately. He told a reporter (roughly translated), "She will become at once very great with her wild talent."
Near to the town of Windsor, upon a pleasant green,There lived a miller's daughter, her age about eighteen:A skin as white as alabaster, and a killing eye,A round, plump, bonny buttock, joined to a tapered thigh:Then, ah, be kind, my dear, be kinder! was the ditty still,When pretty Kate of Windsor came to the mill.
Richard Nixon's stern young face is pictured next to that of president Bob Logue's, in his consolation job of student-body general manager at Whittier Union High School. By the picture Nixon has written:
Sarah Miles and Kris Kristofferson steam up the camera lenses in scenes from their new movie, The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea--and then do some "Improvising"--in the sexiest star pictorial ever