Go directly to page 123. Do not pass The Playboy Advisor. Do not collect Playboy's Party Jokes. Here they are: The Girls of Washington. Photographer David Chan is not an investigative journalist, but he does have an eye for beauty. He uncovered the story of Elizabeth Ray, as well as Miss Ray, long before the supersecretary started giving headlines to the national press. Some delightful women have come to the aid of their country in recent years: Our pictorial pays tribute to the best.
Playboy, september. 1976, Volume 23, Number 9. Published Monthly by playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States, Its possessions and Canada, $30 for three years $22 for two years, $12 for one year. Elsewhere $25 per year. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and Renewals. Change of Address: Send both old and new addresses to playboy, P.O. Box 2420, Boulder, Colorado 80302 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: Jules Kase, Eastern Regional Director and Associate Advertising Manager, 747 Third Ave., New York, N.Y. 10017; Sherman Keats, Western Regional Director and Associate Advertising manager, John Thompson, Central Regional Director and Associate Advertising manager, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Ill, 60611; Atlanta, Richard Christiansen, Manager, 3340 Peachtree RD., N.E.; Detroit, William F. Moore, Manager, 816 Fisher Bldg.; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Blvd.; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 417 Montgomery St.
Voted in for her contribution to science, a professor of neurological surgery and psychology at a western university, who, after a year of research, concluded that the size of a woman's bust is an important factor in whether or not she gets rides while hitchhiking.
Marvin Friedenn's credentials as a self-proclaimed Jewbilly aesthetician include a near miss at a Ph.D. in classics and comparative literature. He knows that the Treasury Department is already planning some changes in the two-dollar bill, but as far as he's concerned, the damage has been done:
Running away to sea used to be a common dream of romantic youth. Climbing the fog-shrouded gangway to the rusty old tramp while Wolf Larsen looked down from the bridge; in the fo'c'sle, a crew of sullen lascars ready to mutiny at the least excuse. The best you can do today is run away to the Merchant Marine Academy, an act that doesn't have quite the same devil-may-care quality about it. Or you can ride a freighter, as a passenger, for money. It's not something Eugene O'Neill or Jack London would get off on, but you might enjoy the trip.
Larry Merchant is, uncontestably, one of our best and most successful sports-writers, a fact that speaks far more eloquently of the requirements of the craft than of the talents of Merchant. One of journalism's healthiest myths contends that the most elevating prose in your basic big-city daily can often be found on the sports pages. But, in fact, most sports columnists write the language with the same skill and grace as that with which their subjects speak it, which is to say poorly. Merchant is not that bad, but his sententious style and insight, compressed to a false importance in New York Post columns, hardly merit collection into Ringside Seat at the Circus (Holt, Rinehart & Winston). He does offer some worthwhile offbeat selection, such as a chat with a Manhattan M.D. who treats the tennis elbows of the stars. Nevertheless, if you buy this book, what you'll own is a whole lot of daily sports columns held together by the author's pretentious mortar of postscript commentary: "With two veteran athletes whose tics are familiar . . . you can attempt to get beneath the skin, as I did in those two cases." That kind of claim merely gets under ours.
Some peripheral horseplay by James Caan and Elliott Gould, as a pair of vaudeville song-and-dance men back in the Gay Nineties, almost conquers the weaknesses of Harry and Walter Go to New York, a fairly flabby period comedy that looks like The Sting without the style. The actors try hard. While Caan and Gould camp it up, Michael Caine and Diane Keaton provide a counterpoint of cool drollery--Caine as a millionaire safe-cracker whose example convinces the hoofers, after they meet him in prison, that robbing a bank might be easier than improving their act; Diane as a radical social reformer who decides to join them in larceny in order to finance a milk fund. If a bank must be robbed, Diane reasons, "let it be robbed in the name of decency." Harry and Walter sounds promising--and, indeed, gets off to a fast start--but the screenplay by John Byrum and Robert Kaufman goes into a decline about halfway through, becoming so strained and convoluted that the stars have to keep spinning their wheels to make the fun seem livelier than it actually is. Director Mark (Cinderella Liberty) Rydell, no slacker when it comes to pacing, pushes Harry and Walter with the desperate, unbridled energy of a born pitchman who sells a nickel's worth of patent medicine as if it were a new miracle drug.
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, in Bill Osco's X-rated musical version of Alice in Wonderland, are a couple of balling, bare-bottomed exhibitionists in tank tops. The Mad Hatter is a mad flasher and even Humpty Dumpty appears as a good egg who can't get it up. Kristine De Bell (our nymphish April cover girl and the Lolita-ish young lady in last month's Helmut Newton pictorial) plays Alice with aplomb as a modern miss who appears to have some hang-ups about sex until she follows that rabbit into a world of fantasy where Lewis Carroll, by comparison, ventured only on tiptoe. Supplied with impudent music and lyrics by Bucky Searles, Osco plows right in, transforming Alice into a wild child's garden of sexual innocence--the kind of place where Alice, wide-eyed, reacts to the strange behavior of creatures she encounters with such tuneful queries as: "What's a nice girl like her doing on a knight like you?" Osco also has ubiquitous porno star Terri Hall, who was originally a dancer, kicking up her heels as a chorine--and far sexier than she's ever been while performing in first position in the sack. Overall, Alice is so totally harmless a confection that they ought to rate it PG and let swinging young parents take their precocious kids for a night of family fun at the flicks.
The following is an excerpt from the book "Saloon--A Guide to America's Great Bars, Pubs, Saloons, Taverns, Drinking Places, and Watering Holes of Distinction," by Toby Thompson, to be published in October by Grossman.
In the Forties and Fifties, Savoy, a record label of modest pretensions, was turning out some of the best jazz recordings around. The commercial viability of jazz being what it is, by the Sixties the label had moved on to what it considered long-greener pastures and consigned its masters to the vaults or wherever vinyl white elephants go to die. A quick dissolve to 1976, where we find Arista Records, a label that is very much into the avant-garde groove, buying up the old Savoy masters and reissuing them in a series of twin-LP albums that will gladden the hearts of those jazz buffs who have never lost the faith, and give the jazz neophytes--if they're shrewd enough to pick up on them--a splendid reprise of what an important musical era was all about. The initial-release package of eight albums has several of landmark quality. Charlie Parker / Bird was recorded between 1944 and 1948. The tracks give clear indication of Parker's seminal approach to jazz. The people about him (including a young Miles Davis) aren't really in his league, but Bird seldom seems discouraged at finding no one following him over the musical barricades. The same isn't true for John Coltrane--Wilbur Harden / Countdown, which was originally put down on vinyl in 1958 and has four outtakes that have never before reached the public. What is so surprising is not the evidence of Trane's emergence as jazz wave maker--one knew that was going to be there--it's the performance of Harden, who plays the Flügelhorn with a clarity and creativity that make one wonder about his disappearance from the musical scene. Moving along, folks, we have Lester Young / Pres, etched between 1944 and 1949. Young was very close to the top of his form--limpid, relaxed, extraordinarily inventive--and the cuts range from those produced with lots of Basie sidemen (and Basie himself on a half-dozen tracks) to a "commercial" group (led by Johnny Guarnieri and noteworthy for some delightful solos by clarinetist Hank D'Amico) to a more modern group (1949) that included pianist Junior Mance and drummer Roy Haynes. Among the other albums: Erroll Garner / The Elf, which includes a 1945 recording of the classic Laura, a milestone for Garner; Cannonball Adderley / Spontaneous Combustion, which finds the late alto great in mid-Fifties recording sessions with two smashing groups, highlighted by the rhythmic achievements of bassist Paul Chambers and drummer Kenny Clarke; and Milt Jackson / Second Nature, again from the mid-Fifties, with Jackson's vibes playing off beautifully against the dreamy, unpressured quality of Lucky Thompson's tenor. Arista is to be congratulated and listeners are to consider themselves fortunate.
I am a motorcycle fanatic. Over the years, I have developed several techniques for having sex while riding my two-wheeled beast. Usually, the female passenger simply reaches around in front, unzips my jeans and holds on for dear life. An erection makes a great granny handle. Sometimes, if the girl is small enough, I put her on the seat in front of me. She leans over the tank, I enter from the rear and the acceleration causes her to settle back against me. Unfortunately, I have yet to discover a way for a passenger to perform fellatio while cruising down the road. Is there a safe way to accomplish my dream?--F. F., Berkeley, California.
If little good can be remembered of Richard Nixon, the evil he did truly lives on after him--in the Supreme Court, in the Department of Justice, even in the Post Office. Seizing on the Nixon Court's 1973 Miller decision, the Administration's smut hunters launched a campaign of repression against erotic films and publications by bringing Federal obscenity charges in Bible Belt states where "community standards" would most likely produce convictions. Thus, Deep Throat and other popular sex films could be prosecuted in Memphis because they passed through Tennessee in interstate commerce. Screw magazine, the most successful, explicit and important sex journal in the country, has been tried in Wichita because some Nixon officials arranged to have it mailed into Kansas. He wasn't called Tricky Dick for nothing.
No doubt about it: Politics makes strange bed partners. I read with interest a recent front-page story that claimed a House committee chairman had asked a clerk to submit to bondage and discipline. From the tone of the article, you would have thought the guy was the Beast of Nanking or the Madman of My Lai. Weird? Kinky? Depraved? Not really. Some of my best friends are strange bedpersons. The old goat had probably read Alex Comfort's Joy of Sex and wanted to try a little amateur knot tying. The practice is not unknown in Washington. What do you think the red tape is for?
He was once a scruffy, honey-haired folk singer. Then the foppish leader of a Beatles-prototype pop band, The Buzz. Then an adamantly bisexual balladeer. Then a spacy, cropped-red-haired androgynous guitarist backed by a band called the Spiders from Mars. Then a soul singer. Then a movie actor . . . and finally, a smartly conservative, Sinatraesque entertainer. David Bowie, it's safe to say, would do anything to make it. And now that he has made it, he'll do anything to stay there.
People who have had close brushes with death often report that their whole lives pass before them. When that happened to fashion photographer Helmut Newton after suffering a coronary thrombosis, he saw the nude bodies of beautiful women. Upon recovery, he changed his style to focus his lens on the erotic. His work has been called vulgar, exciting, elegant, decadent. A single Newton pictorial in Vogue will spark gossip: Whose hand was it under that dress? But let the master explain his approach in his own words:
People who will at one time or another have a go at every item on the menu, from Artichokes Clamart to Zampino, are content with their usual martini, sour or whiskey on the rocks before each one of these adventures. It doesn't make sense. Not when there are literally thousands of inviting drink combinations from which to choose--with new ones arriving regularly. Liquor companies swell the pool their drink promotions--hoping for another Harvey Wallbanger or Godfather. Occasionally, restaurants and taverns develop house specials. But the great spawning ground for innovative, intriguing concoctions is professional bartenders competitions.
I woke up screaming and kicking, catching the ride boy in the ribs with the toe of my boot (which I had not bothered to take off), and when the toe of the boot struck him just below the armpit, he screamed, too, and that caused the lot lady he was rolled in the blanket with to scream--and there the three of us were, thrashing about in my Dodge van, driven stark raving mad on a crash from Biphetamine 20s (a wonderfully deadly little capsule that, taken in sufficient quantities, will make you bigger than anybody you know for at least 96 hours running) and driven mad, too, by the screaming siren that woke us up to start with. It was the middle of the night--or, more accurately, the middle of the morning, about four a.m.--and the electronic system set to catch burglars and tire thieves had tripped, but I--addled and nine tenths stunned from too long on the road with a gambler, chasing carnivals across half a dozen states--I didn't know it was my siren or that I was in my van or who I was with or why I was where I was.
"Quite frankly, I don't really feel like a Playmate at all," says Whitney Kaine. "I mean, I'm not especially concerned with the glamor aspect of it, nor do I think of it as the high point of my career--but it is an interesting detour for me." Whitney's major interest these days is--believe it or not--her schoolwork. She's currently a sophomore at UCLA, majoring in art (with a little anthropology, French, dance and psychology thrown in for good measure), and she takes her education seriously. "If I could, I'd continue going to school for the rest of my life," she says. Nonetheless, her tentative goal is to get a master-of-fine-arts degree at UCLA and then, perhaps, either teach art in an experimental school or free-lance, although the idea of working as an art therapist intrigues her. In the meantime, when she's not playing tennis (years ago, she was on a tournament circuit) or practicing the piano (mostly Bach and Mozart), she sketches tirelessly, attempting to create her own style. Her only definite plan for the future is to take a senior year of study in Paris, to be largely funded by her modeling money. Aside from its financial advantages, her Playmate modeling experience has been "refreshing," Whitney says. "Working with the photographers was fascinating to me, because, as an artist, I was really able to appreciate the creative elements of their craft," she says. "In a way, posing for playboy has given me the chance to express myself in a new medium." And if the medium is, indeed, the message, then we're reading Miss September loud and clear.
The time is gone for fighting--or whatever--in the streets. We are in the age of accountability, not to mention diminishing prospects for employment, and today's student doesn't know what--if anything--lies beyond those quadrangle walls. So he's doing his level best to stay in. Which means hitting the books and generally acting like a mensch. And today's undergrads' clothes quite naturally reflect this studious attitude. They're elegant in a traditional way, not formal and certainly not ostentatious. In other words, dressing down as opposed to dressing up--with traces of the old Ivy style, plus new options (flannel jackets with Western boots, for example). We like it.
A remarkable aspect of consumerism is that it is one of the few recent social causes not largely manned by students. That college students do generally pay for an education may not say much for their wisdom, but it certainly qualifies them as consumers; indeed, abused consumers, who pay mighty tuitions and then hope the school will not abruptly eliminate their major, cancel required courses, make wholesale departures from the catalog descriptions or stock the course with inept or unfit lecturers. In this perennial sellers' market, the university has unilaterally controlled everything from degree requirements to food.
Fill a town with wily women and powerful men and it's a good bet that the two will get together. Representative Wayne Hays, long one of the most influential--and crustiest--members of the House, also has been among the most openly hedonistic. In Marshall Frady's August 1973 playboy article Chairman Skinflint. Hays claims his greatest ambition is "to be 91 years old and shot at by a jealous husband." His admission, last May, that he'd been making it with Elizabeth Ray, after first trying to deny it--and her charge that she was on his payroll to give him sex--rocked the House like nothing else had since October 1974. That was when Annabella Battistella, the Argentine bombshell known as Fanne Foxe, jumped from the car of a soused and bleeding Representative Wilbur Mills into the Washington Tidal Basin. The tides washed Fanne into celebrityhood--and Mills into a public storm that has left him a chastened, sobered-up shadow of his former self. The score stands: Women of Washington, two; House of Representatives, nothing.
Long, Long Ago, in the hills of Opoczno, in the land of Polonia, lived a peasant and his wife, tending their small piece of land. Every morning, Piotr and Basia would rise with the sun and begin work. One autumn day, Piotr set out with his sickle to begin harvesting. Down the long rows he went, cutting the tall stalks of grain and spreading them out to dry. Near the edge of the forest, he heard a noise in the tangle of bushes. "Who goes?" he called, for he knew all the people from the village. In a louder voice, he called, "Huzia!"
"I still can't believe the Irish weren't in the national championship race last year. They weren't even in the top 20. It's disgusting," said the go-go advertising executive in the bar car of the afternoon commuter train. "There's no excuse for it. They've got the players. They don't even have to recruit 'em; every Catholic high school in the country is a Notre Dame farm club. They ought to fire what's-his-name--the coach. I read about him. He's like Joe Btfsplk. He's got a cloud over his head and everywhere he goes things get all fucked up, like in Green Bay."
Will Carl Divorce Myrna? Will Lois Get an Abortion? Will Someone Please Change the Channel?
Here it is, noontime or thereabouts, and you've just skipped Physics 103 or postponed that important stockholders' meeting or said the hell with the laundry to watch the latest heart-rending episode of Days of Our Lives. Will Amanda's tumor turn out to be malignant? Why is Maggie upset with Mike? Is Brooke really pregnant or did she swallow a football? Whatever happens, and rest assured something will, the fact of the matter is, America is slowly drowning in an ever-expanding vat of soapsuds. We have become a nation of armchair gossips. Nowadays, to be a really with-it human person, it's de rigueur to be able to converse at length about the soapers. Who cares about détente or the fact that a nuclear war has just been determined inevitable by Pentagon experts when the really hot issue of the day is Hortense's proposed separation from Dr. Carl Putz?
As children, we all had our sandboxes to romp around in; and even as adults, we still have that same desire to cuddle up, goof off or let loose in our own special little corner of the world. Pictured below is what surely must be the ultimate in grown-up playpens; the Kroehler Company calls it Intimates and it couldn't have picked a more appropriate name. Intimates consists of nine supercomfortable padded units (corner, armless and ottoman) that can be mixed and matched to fit any wall space; they can be used as a divider between rooms or for individual or těte-à-těte seating. Our preference is to box the units into one big, cushy pit and then invite, oh, say, half a dozen close friends and neighbors over to climb aboard the tufted acrylic velvet. (Intimates, incidentally, can really take a beating; the fabric is guaranteed for two years and tailoring details include baseball stitching on back pillows.) The size of the assembled crawl space is about eight feet square and the cost is around $2000. Cheap, when you consider that Intimates isn't really just a piece of furniture--it's more like a whole new way of life.
Now that the revolution is over, American fashion seems to have found its postwar leader in 28-year-old designer Alexander Julian. Bright, engaging, egotistical and immensely talented, Julian has emerged as perhaps the perfect design honcho for the Seventies. Like most post-revolutionary leaders, he is a traditionalist who shows no intention of departing radically from his forebears. In light of some of the extremes of recent design, Julian is a reactionary. But without a general upheaval in men's fashion, his particular way with clothes might have gone unnoticed.
Secret roads. I guess everybody who's really cuckoo about fast cars and driving has a stretch of highway where he can couple his fantasies to the available horsepower and haul ass in direct violation of the laws of decency and good sense.