Few figures in the Carter Administration have aroused more vocal support or received more brickbats than United Nations Ambassador Andrew Young. In doing the Playboy Interview with Young, Senior Articles Editor Peter Ross Range (who, not so coincidentally, was born in a little town about 80 miles from Plains, Georgia) trailed him for seven days of his hectic schedule, talking and taping on a jet flight between New York and Atlanta, in Young's suite in the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, in Young's office overlooking the UN Building and in a locker room on the 27th floor of the UN Plaza Hotel after a round of tennis.
Playboy, July, 1977, Volume 24, Number 7. 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: Nelson Futch, Marketing Manager; Lee Gottlieb, director of public relations; Michael J. Murphy, circulation promotion director. Advertising: Henry W. Marks, Advertising Director; Harold Duchin, national sales manager; Mark Evens, Associate Advertising Manager, 747 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10017; Sherman Keats, Associate Advertising Manager; John Thompson, Central Regional Manager, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Ill. 60611; Detroit, William F. Moore, Manager, 818 Fisher Bldg.; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Blvd.; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 417 Montgomery St.
After 26 years of marriage, Doris and Albert May were granted a divorce on grounds of irreconcilable differences. Nothing so unusual about that, but consider the circumstances: Albert ran outside naked and played the tambourine whenever Doris rejected his advances and, when she was in the mood, she charged him $8.50 for sexual relations--once a week.
Voted in for his contribution to jurisprudence and the oldest profession: a California judge who sentenced a convicted prostitute to stand outside city hall for three days with a sign reading; I've been convicted of prostitution. The judge found out later that the woman had used the time to distribute business cards and had increased her client list tenfold.
Hello and congratulations on purchasing a 1977 Turboscooter Mach II. To welcome you to the world-wide Turboscooter family, we have prepared this booklet, which comes in two parts. Part I explains the manufacturer's warranty and tells you how to keep your Turboscooter in perfect running condition. Part II tells you what to do when your Turboscooter breaks down. After reading this manual carefully, be sure to leave it in the special pouch we have provided under the driver's seat. (For tips on how to find the driver's seat, see page 34.)
A few years back, one of the rock newspapers ran a feature titled "Guitars of the Stars": the nation's ten most-wanted gun fighters and their weapons of choice. Bonnie Raitt was the only lady in that rogues' gallery--perhaps because she is the only female performer in America with an identifiable electric-guitar style. Bright and sassy. A guitar slide into home plate. And her voice: Well, it will clear your head and break your heart. Sweet Forgiveness (Warner Bros.), the redhead's latest album will satisfy, old fans--and may win a few new converts. Our favorite cuts are a bluesy version of Del Shannon's Runaway and a stirring hymn called Two Lives that has Raitt's voice soaring over the harmonies of Michel McDonald and Rosemary Butler. Comparisons between Raitt and Ronstadt are inevitable--if only because the two sing many of the same songs (cf. Love Has No Pride). This time out, Bonnie does her own version of Paul Siebel's Louise. (Who is this Louise, and why do so many chick singers mourn her passing?) The differences on this and other songs are educational: While Ronstadt tours with a band of the best studio musicians in California, Raitt gets by with her friends, the same support troops who helped her out on previous albums, some of which were recorded in a garage. The band has its limits, but Raitt has so much fun and feels so at home in those limits that we can't complain. This lady not only sings the blues, she plays them--well.
A flawless computerized superbrain known as Proteus IV, presumably programmed to think male thoughts, soon gets its fill of human frailty and determines that a mating of woman and machine might produce something closer to perfection. When it's planting time in Demon Seed, Proteus cuckolds the scientist (Fritz Weaver) responsible for its creation by making preparations to impregnate the man's wife, first by assuming control of all the circuits in the couple's totally electronic home--where voice-activated devices tidy up, serve meals and apparently do everything but slice carrots. Julie Christie, as the terrified lady trapped in a house full of futuristic hardware intent on rape, needs all the screen magic she can muster to keep Demon Seed from becoming a dud. Because she is gorgeous, dynamic and graceful, Julie proves more than a match for the picture's technological virtuosity. But dazzling special effects, even combined with supernatural sex, are no big deal when there's as little else to work with as Seed director Donald Cammell was given: a simple, rather shallow tale of computer meets girl, computer gets girl, computer begets God knows what. Though sparks fly in profusion, there are few surprises.
Adding bits and snatches of explicit sex to remakes of good old movies and current TV hits is a discernible trend in porno (see The New Girls of Porn, page 133, for other examples). It may be a cheap way to come up with a plot, but any story values are an improvement in porno--which has traditionally thrown away plot as a nonessential, as casually expendable as a used condom.
Windows on the World, the ensemble of restaurants perched on the 107th floor of Manhattan's World Trade Center--the structure King Kong recently scaled--is a place that inevitably invites one-liners. Referring to the putative $8,000,000 chit for furniture, fixtures and such incidentals as cups and saucers, one customer invoked the George S. Kaufman zinger "Shows what God could have done if He had money." Another chap, disconcerted by the excess of marble in the john, retreated without attending to his needs. Asked if anything was wrong, he replied, "No, but it's just too shabby to take out here."
The ongoing saga of the Washington novel moves a step further into realism with nonfiction writer Aaron Latham's first trip into fiction, Orchids for Mother (Little, Brown). Enough of heroic super-bureaucrats slaying CIA monsters; Here the monsters are reduced to scale; viz., life-size--and almost win. So realistic is this novel that the public figures involved--Henry Kissinger, Richard Nixon, Elliot Richardson, even the author's own wife, Lesley Stahl--are called by their real names. Latham's antihero is an oddly named orchid fancier, Francis Xavier Kimball, a.k.a. Mother, the quintessential old-school spook for whom the CIA is part religion, part method. (Funny, but in real life, one of the CIA's top men, James Angleton, collected orchids, too.) Mother is trapped in the generation gap as expressed in Langley, Virginia: old spies vs. new spies. In the new and improved CIA, there is actual fucking in the woods on maneuvers. Things like that. Meanwhile, there's a classic power strugglegoing on, with Kissinger on the side of the villain, and some nice action footage of Mother traipsing past death and destruction on a personal visit to the Yom Kippur War. Mother is a sad old man whose only solaces are orchid tending and the fastidious carrying out of his calling as defender of the republic, a task that often leads to a little discreet assassination. His final trick is the meticulous execution of his own suicide, dressed up as murder. Orchids for Mother is no fantasy trip: It's fiction written lucidly and simply. And it's scary, because it sounds altogether too much like the real thing.
<p>We've sometimes suspected that the most grueling task for an author who wants to see a book on the best-seller list is not writing it but promoting it. With that in mind, Senior Editor Gretchen McNeese asked Oriana Fallaci, internationally known for her devastating interviews with world leaders, about her experiences on an American tour in behalf of her latest work, a novel that is on its surface about a pregnancy that ends in miscarriage; at a deeper level, it is a debate about life and death.</p>
Perhaps you can explain the following phenomenon: Whenever my girlfriend and I play racquet ball, we become sexually aroused. We don't do it on the court, for the simple reason that court time is expensive and there's always someone waiting in line. No doubt you remember the scene in Emmanuelle where the two women dressed in white made love in an all-white exercise room. Obviously, the thought has occurred to other people. We rush home--our bodies hot and sweating, the blood rushing through our veins, particularly those on my erect penis and her taut, perky nipples--for a session of truly exhilarating sex. Sometimes, it's tender--having gotten rid of our homicidal instincts on they court. More often, it's athletic, even though we may be totally exhausted. We have a curious energy and end up ricocheting all over the bedroom. My question: Is exercise an aphrodisiac? Sometimes, after we shower, we make love again--that is, if we don't do it in the shower. What do you say?--M. G., Del Mar, California.
Ah, how clever we sexual sophisticates are today--always inventing something fantastic to spring on our lovers. Remember the time when you had that marvelous inspiration and turned the old missionary into a sexual mission incredible? And later on, she sat up with a delighted, dazzled expression on her face and said, "Wow, that was amazing! I've never been so turned on in my life."
What the citizens, the press and even the police of Red Lodge, Montana, first thought was a legitimate raid on a large marijuana farm is now turning into a major law-enforcement scandal, involving Federal and state narcotics agents, county officials and, possibly, the FBI. Pretrial testimony indicates that evidence found by a Federal Drug Enforcement Administration agent may have been planted and that Western Union telegrams sent to one of the defendants may have been illegally intercepted and supplied to the county prosecutor, whose wife is a local Western Union agent. The sheriff has admitted that the information on which the original search and arrest warrants were issued contained "mistakes." And, tragically, a deputy sheriff who began to testify for the defense, and who told a reporter that he would be "dead tomorrow" if he revealed what he knew about the case, died that night--apparently of a heart attack.
We rather disliked children; we had none of our own, but that was seldom noticed, because the local kids were everywhere. They strayed from the staff quarters and the kampong into the club grounds, meeting in threes--three Tamils, three Malays, three Chinese, as if that were the number required for play. They usually quarreled: It was an impossible number--one was invariably made a leper, victimized and finally rejected. Alec called them villains. He blamed the theft of his camera on one particular threesome who played their own version--no teams, no net--of the Malay game of sepak takraw, kicking a raffia ball the size of a grapefruit back and forth at the side of the clubhouse.
Metamorphosis looms large in the burgeoning career of Barbara Carrera. Changes. Hourly changes, daily changes. Changes of heart. Changes of direction. Take a sharp right turn and shoot for the moon. She'll get there. Just a few short years ago, she was a top cover girl working through the Ford agency and Wilhelmina--you saw her adorning Zoom, Vogue, Cosmopolitan and Harper's Bazaar, to name a few. Calls herself an international nomad, though she is currently settled in a sunny jungle habitat of a flat in Beverly Hills. And somewhere in her well-worn luggage, she packs a letter from editor Helen Gurley Brown, attesting to the fact that Barbara's Cosmo cover outsold everything up to and including the famous issue with the Burt Reynolds nude centerfold. Her Harper's Bazaar cover photographed by Hiro marked the real turning point, however. "Until then," says dark-eyed, raven-haired Barbara, "the blonde all-American outdoor look was the look everyone wanted. It's what I myself, even as a little girl, thought was the definition of true beauty: blonde, with blue eyes. But after that Hiro cover, the look changed and my career really took off."
The odd thing about it is that you see them during the day, scurrying along Madison Avenue in three-piece suits, sipping jasmine tea at Serendipity, selling shoes, digging ditches, dyeing fabric, reading Doris Lessing on the subway. Some are detectable, others invisible, which is to say, (concluded overleaf) they don't wave lavender hankies, swish or dress in drag. It is estimated that they make up 15 percent of the population of Manhattan--and they don't all live in Greenwich Village.
They could easily have been the out-takes from an old Fellini movie. On the floor by the heated swimming pool, a languid. Germanic-looking man was staring vacantly at the green-painted ceiling as two stunningly attractive women took turns fellating him. Over near the steam (continued on page 204)Straights Follow(continued from page 99) room, a six-foot zeppelin of a woman in a decidedly oversized sun suit minced purposefully toward coupling with a bald-headed black man. On the mats in the darkened gymnasium, where the disco music whumped, bodies lay sprawled atop bodies, mounting and straining, reaching, touching, groping, screaming with release and beginning yet again.
A Whole Lot of Little Silkworms Worked Their Tails Off so You Could Look Good this Summer
'Tis the season to be sensuous ... and fashion designers everywhere have once more gone bananas over sexy silk for summer. While cotton may be cooler and just about anything else cheaper, nothing beats silk for color, versatility and giving you the sense that your threads have class. (As Marie Antoinette would have said, "Let them wear silk!") So for sheer aesthetic pleasure and a touch of pure luxe, take a close look at what those industrious little worms have wrought.
First Place we head for in New York is Mama Leone's Italian restaurant. Listen: They've got all the moves at Mama Leone's. I mean, they've got those trick little white statues out front--cement cherubs and real marble Roman ladies with their arms and nipples chipped off. And they've got a guy hidden somewhere deep inside the place and he's pumping that white clam sauce into the air conditioner, for crissakes. The smell fans out to maybe a block away. You wear a loose-weave sports coat into the restaurant and you can later boil it and come up with a pretty good soup. Besides, they treat race drivers nice.
Sondra Theodore's eyes are obviously green, so how come her nickname is Baby Blue? We'll get to that story in a minute. Our Miss July is an actress who loves to tell stories, create scenes and play all the parts. Before you find out what Baby Blue means, you may be treated to a re-enactment of the time Sondra's sister woke up eyeball to eyeball with Sondra's pet lizard. ("I always had a pet lizard--the kind you'd put on your blouse and watch it change color. This time, it was my sister who changed color.") Or maybe a quick run-through of the time Sondra and her girlfriend went shopping in Beverly Hills' most exclusive shops--on roller skates. ("I used to be a miser, but now I'm dangerous. If I see something that reminds me of a friend, I'll buy it for the person.") Or Sondra as a seven-year-old, trying to learn to play ragtime by following the dancing keys on the family player piano. A small furry object pokes its head from beneath her chair. "Oh, that's Alex. We're both mutts. I take him with me everywhere. If I'm interviewing for a part, I'll just toss him into my purse. Alex has turned more three-minute interviews into ten-minute interviews and ten-minute interviews into parts than any agent in town." (We understand that Grizzly Adams uses the same trick with his bear.) Alex helped Sondra land at least one interesting role--that of Hef's more-than-occasional companion.
A young general practitioner was giving his attractive nurse a thorough annual checkup, inside and out, as a professional courtesy, and was rather prolonging the examination. Toward the end, he smiled and said, "You're lucky, you know. If you were a patient, a session like this would cost you thirty-five dollars."
The Commodities Market: You've Really Got to Be an Animal
Where were you on May 1, 1976? That was a Saturday, remember? What were you doing? Painting your porch? Watching a ball game on TV? Thinking about the five contracts of soybeans you had bought the day before?
Transcripts of the Watergate tapes introduced this nation of budding gourmets to the phrase big enchilada. As a guide to Mexico's gastronomic invasion of America del norte, it's about as reliable as other pronouncements of Ehrlichman, Haldeman, Mitchell and company. The fact is, in the hierarchy of nosherai fording the Rio Grande, the big enchilada is the taco! There are other aspirants--tostadas, tostaditas, nachos, chilaquiles, chalupas, quesadillas, empanadas, tamales, flautas and burritos--but tacos are número uno. They're hawked at Chapultepec park and the Floating Gardens, at bullfights, charreadas, roadside stands--even beside shrines--and offered at practically all eateries.
Compared with the porn stars of yesteryear, today's sex queens represent an entirely new breed of liberated lovelies who consider themselves professional performers first. They may screw onscreen as exuberantly as Linda Lovelace, Marilyn Chambers or Georgina Spelvin ever did; they may even admit to a streak of flagrant exhibitionism without becoming defensive about it, unless pressed to confess that, in many cases, their families still don't know. Which only means that the sexual revolution kindled to a blaze in New York, Los Angeles and San Francisco has just reached the simmering stage in back-home towns. The current blue-movie beauties are surveyed here by Playboy Contributing Editor Bruce Williamson.
Come summer, thousands of sun bathers find that they've been lolling under an unlucky old sun, because the tanning lotion they rubbed on didn't effectively stop Sol's harmful rays. To help alleviate this problem, the FDA soon will be enacting regulations that all suntan, sun-screen and sun-block agents must be labeled with a number and specific information as to the average length of time the product protects fair, medium and dark skin. Products that offer minimum protection will be given a 2--they're ideal for people who have a good base tan; maximum protection rates a 10, which means that the user can stay in the sun ten times longer than he could if he had no protection.
The Pale Horse of death often leaves no tracks. It can pass without notice and sometimes its presence is imagined where it has not yet appeared. For example, how frequently have you been surprised to learn that a celebrity you long ago gave up for dead was still kicking? Or someone you consigned to the living was actually among the dearly departed?
Old habits die hard, but with Howard they are practically immortal. He has been a professional driver for 27 of his 50 years on this earth, compressing his vertebrae in the seats of Greyhounds, Carey limousines and now, as the chauffeur for the chairman of the board of a giant multinational company, a Cadillac Fleetwood. Yet for all that time behind the wheel, Howard cannot bring himself to spin an automobile. He is driving a vermilion Datsun 610 sedan on a vast expanse of asphalt custom-treated to make it slippery--a place designed specifically for training drivers to control automobiles during a spin--but he cannot seem to haul the car off its head-on course.
In what Ways is our economy vulnerable? Could a foreign government come into our commodities markets and buy up all of our soybeans, for example? Is it that bad? The answer is: Not quite. But there are some very concerned people in the commodities business and in Washington. They see the possibility of price manipulation, deliberate inflation--economic warfare, in other words--if the foreign governments investing in our markets are not better controlled and monitored.
They call it the UltraRoom, a big room lined with mirrors and black vinyl in which three naked young girls play with themselves and with one another, licking and fingering, moaning about cocks and ass-fucking and come in their mouths, acting out forbidden sexual fantasies of dominance and submission with dildos and whips and paddles and ropes and handcuffs, spreading their glistening pink slots for the spectators watching from behind trick mirrors, each secure in the privacy of a small dark cubicle from which it is possible to see without being seen.
Although the current high price of coffee has stirred up a brewhaha, it pays to keep things in perspective; 16th Century Turks considered java such a necessity that failure to provide coffee for one's wife was grounds for divorce. The answer, then, is not to forgo the pleasure of a steaming cup, despite the spiraling costs, but to put your money where your mouth is by investing in the best brewing equipment available. From left to right: Chemex' simple but effective hourglass-shaped vessel makes from two to seven cups, $9.95. The Braun Aromaster practically does everything but wash the dishes; in nine minutes, it makes from two to eight cups, then automatically switches on a hot plate to keep the coffee warm (the brewing element switches off automatically)--all for $80. Melitta's porcelain carafe can be cleaned in the dishwasher; when a brew is ready, the filter top/lid doubles as a serving dispenser, $19.95, including ten filters. The Waring grinder, with its handsome see-through construction, proves that the notion that it's difficult to make coffee from scratch doesn't amount to a hill of beans; the machine can be set to produce 12 different grinds, $29.95. Last, you see the Coffee Plus dual system electric drip unit that offers the user two independent means of making coffee or tea, by Krups, $70. Now to raise the cash for the coffee.
You can take it off, take it almost all off, with this crazy new outfit, by Bert Pulitzer, that begins as a military-style silicone-treated cotton shirt, $150, with matching multipocketed slacks, $185, and--snap, crackle, zip--ends up a pared-down sleeveless shirt and trim-fitting shorts. Add a short-sleeved pullover, by Roland, $25, a cowhide belt, by Paris Accessories for Men, $9, and a pair of patchwork boots, by Dingo for Acme, $41.95, and you'll need a swagger stick to keep the fair sex at bay.
If you're in the market for something to tool around town on at speeds up to 30 mph while getting more than 150 miles to a gallon of gas, consider a moped. Mopeds (the name is a coined word for motorized bicycle) have been used for many years in Europe and the Orient for shopping, commuting to work or just plain joy riding; now they've jumped the big pond and are selling like crazy over here. And because of their low power and high gas economy, about half the states have enacted legislation that removes mopeds from the motorcycle status, thus helping eliminate many of the hassles that go along with owning a bike. Furthermore, if you can ride a bicycle, you can handle a moped, as most models have automatic transmissions. At 150 miles to a gallon of gas, mopeds soon may be the only way to go.