We're celebrating our 24th anniversary this month and, during those two dozen years, we like to feel, we've developed some special relationships: first of all, of course, with you, our readers, but also with several contributors who have become almost like members of the family. Irwin Shaw, for example, has been with Playboy for 23 of those 24 years. Portions of his wildly successful Rich Man, Poor Man first appeared in Playboy in 1970 and we carried two installments from his sequel, Beggarman, Thief, this past September and October. So we're especially pleased to be able to bring you this month our 15th Shaw selection, Full Many a Flower: a funny yarn about how a rich gypsy turns a bunch of gridiron castoffs into champs. This is the first short story Shaw, who describes himself as "an old (very old) quarterback," has written in several years. Football, which he says he regards as "a brutal, degrading and marvelous sport," has been the subject of several of his tales, including the first we ever published, The Eighty-Yard Run, back in May of 1955.
Playboy, January, 1978, Volume 25, Number 1. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois, 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States and its possessions, $30 for three years, $22 for two years, $12 for one year. Canada, $15 per year. Elsewhere, $25 per year. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, Post Office Box 2420, Boulder, Colorado 80302, and allow 30 days for change. Marketing: Ed Condon, Manager / Direct Marketing; 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; Chicago, 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.
You deserve a lay today: At a recent convention of McDonald's executives in Washington, D. C., a six-A.M. wakeup service was provided by bikinied models who sallied into the conventioneers' rooms and trilled: "Good morning. McDonald's does it all for you." Just so the hamburger honchos didn't get any funny ideas, each young lovely was accompanied by a hefty male security guard.
Remember the old knock, knock jokes? Well, Senior Editor William J. Helmer has invented what you might call an updated version of those ancient pearls of wit; to wit, the narc, narc joke. Helmer claims he's an ardent student of humor. We suspect his brains have been fried by his arduous duties as leader of the Playboy Defense Team, the outfit that investigates drug cases for our "Playboy Casebook" feature. You be the judge.
The dark unspoken wish is that The Rolling Stones are at last over the hill, after all those years of being so much hipper, heavier, richer than we mere mortals who have been their fans and hungered to be them instead. We've secretly hoped that they, too, finally have proved mere mortal flesh--like their only peers, the Beatles, who in separation have become international comedians who amuse instead of awe us, the way Elvis did before he so rudely interrupted our laughter. And so, like Shakespearean soothsayers picking over steaming rabbit entrails, we look for signs. Of decay, entropy. Brian's death. Mick Taylor's departure. The real Mick in People magazine, Jumping Jack Flash turned J. J. Flash, ugly rocking punk larva transformed into chichi social butterfly. Bianca, period. And the best bad sign of all: Keith Richard's Canadian heroin bust.
Best gift bets this season for the rockers in your life are live albums. Because they're riskproof plums in an increasingly chickenshit business--cheap to produce, full of proven hits, safe, safe, safe--there are a slew of them around. In spite of the motives surrounding them, though, they're often better than their lavish studio counterparts. In the place of technically flawless studio performances that are often as cold as they are perfect, you get actual sweating human beings performing actual sweating music, just the way it was before the androids and Texas Instruments took over. Most are double albums that re-create the stage act, Polaroid replays for everyone who went to the concerts. Among the souvenirs: For fans of what our writer friend Craig Vetter calls "whimper rock," there are the harmonic brothers Gibb with Here at Last ... Bee Gees Live (RSO); and those lyrical, symphonic boys whose records have been the sound track for countless thousands of collegiate seductions, The Moody Blues / Caught Live + 5 (London). For true whimperers, of course--early teenage girls and those who weep at the end of Donnie Marie--Barry Manilow / Live (Arista) is a must. He writes the songs, you know. From a distant corner of the space/funk galaxy, touching down briefly for a gig on Earth, comes Parliament Live / P. Funk Earth Tour (Casablanca), straight from headlining at the bar in Star Wars. Other notable lives are Marvin Gave Live at the London Palladium (Tamla), Pure Prairie League / Live, Takin' the Stage (RCA), Status Quo / "Live" (Capitol) and Paul McCartney's Wings over America (Capitol). For Paulie in an earlier incarnation, to please your Sixties friends, try The Beatles at the Hollywood Bowl (Capitol)--there's more cheer inside than in a gallon of acid-test punch. Folkies from then and now will appreciate Judy Collins / So Early in the Spring--The First 15 Years (Elektra), from beautiful blue eyes herself. Your 35ish friend, who never got over the Fifties and is always dragging out his moldy oldie 45s when he gets stoned, will go ape over The Roots of Rock 'n' Roll (Savoy), full of the nonobvious--The Ravens, Nappy Brown, Big Maybelle, et al. And country fans who wonder with Waylon Jennings if Hank would'a done it this-a way can find out firsthand on Hank Williams, Sr. / 24 Greatest Hits Vol. 2 (MGM), some lesser Hank that still shines brighter than most sequined stars in Nashville.
Carlos Castaneda is famous for his books about Don Juan, a Yaqui Indian sorcerer with amazing powers and a wild sense of humor who has taken Castaneda under his wing. The thing about these books is they always lead to a discussion of whether or not Don Juan is a fictitious character. The answer to this question, as Don Juan might say, is yes, he is definitely one or the other. At this point, the question is academic, since the author has eliminated Don Juan from the scene. In Castaneda's new book, The Second Ring of Power (Simon & Schuster), Don Juan has gone to another world with his sidekick Genaro, only to be replaced by a whole cast of wacky characters--all sorcerers--who play tricks on poor Carlos.
Tis the season again and we send you holiday greetings with our annual gift-book ideas--beginning with two novels Playboy previewed for you during the past year: John le Carré's The Honourable Schoolboy (Knopf) and Beggarman, Thief (Delacorte), Irwin Shaw's sequel to Rich Man, Poor Man. Both will make fine holiday reading. We strongly suggest two other novels: Song of Solomon (Knopf), by Toni Morrison, a beautifully written story of a black American family's search for roots, and In the Flesh (Morrow), a witty, sparse novel about marriage, by Hilma Wolitzer. Mystery readers will take pleasure in The Private Lives of Private Eyes and Spies, Crime Fighters, and Other Good Guys (Grosset & Dunlap), by Otto Penzler--in-depth profiles of 25 great fictional detectives from Lew Archer to Mr. Moto.
Bringing a big best seller to the screen is a ticklish job, a problem of how to get between the lines without blowing the book to bits--or becoming so sheepishly reverent that the movie is embalmed at birth. Writer-director Richard Brooks exercises a strong, sure hand with Judith Rossner's Looking for Mr. Goodbar, reshaping it into a contemporary and warmly compassionate story of loneliness, one-night stands and a doomed young woman's lust for a better life. On the printed page, Mr. Goodbar's lame schoolteacher heroine, hopping from bed to bed and getting high with men she picks up in singles bars, is finally murdered as the almost inevitable conclusion of a self-destructive downhill trip. Under Brooks's direction, Miss Rossner's depressing tale looks unnervingly average, as if it might happen to any nice working girl who loses her virginity rather late because of her rigid Roman Catholic upbringing, who is disillusioned by a married man, then tries to rid herself of hang-ups by sleeping around, experimenting with grass and coke, fighting to preserve her independence in a sexually liberated modern society where a home and husband are no longer the sine qua non of feminine fulfillment. Theresa's search is a positive one, erratic, maybe, but conducted with a kind of frail, stubborn dignity.
The prime requisite of any hetero hardcore sex film is the irresistible face and figure of a girl who fleshes out a man's wildest fantasies. Once again, Annette Haven fills the bill and then some in her stellar role as V--The Hot One, another playback of the bored, whoring-housewife story lifted from Belle de Jour. The difference here is Haven's potent screen presence. She is beautiful, seductive, womanly. She walks sexy, talks sexy and her silky sensuality has never been projected so well. Writer-director Robert McCallum launches V with a touch of cinematic sophistication--a mutual-masturbation sequence between Annette and a naked male neighbor, barely visible at the window of a highrise some distance away--and studies the lady's subsequent erotic exploits at compellingly close range. She slips out of the house at night for an encounter with two strangers at a porno moviehouse, lures a young sailor into a parked van, then becomes the star attraction on the day shift (11 A.M.--3 P.M.) in a sumptuous brothel. "I don't think if I live to be a hundred, I'll ever understand a woman," says her befuddled husband (John Leslie), sensing something amiss. Annette smiles enigmatically. "Now you've got it," she tells him, coolly summing up V's appeal as an X film that combines concentrated horniness with a fillip of feminine mystery.
I am a devout heterosexual male of 20 years. I recently went to bed with a woman and a mutual male friend. Picture the three of us on a king-size bed, smoking herbs and drinking the toxic juices of fine grapes. Time progressed until my friend and I started to take turns rubbing and kissing the woman. The movements advanced to fast-ass foreplay and the removal of all garments. Well, after another joint, my true-blue color surfaced and I started to mount this luscious lass. I did not concern myself with our male friend, figuring he would wait his turn for climax. But, instead, he did the most unusual thing: He started sucking and licking the woman's toes. Yes, I will repeat that-- toes. My female friend at first laughed, because it tickled. She started to kick at him to get him to stop. But because I had already penetrated those furry lips, she could not put up much of a fight. So our friend and I talked her into trying to enjoy it. To this day, I have never seen a woman enjoy herself so. Her vagina pulled and tugged on me--more than I do to myself when I masturbate. The more he sucked the girl's toes, the more she moaned and fought. Then she started clawing with those god-awful nails. My friend told me later that her toes curled up toward her head when she climaxed. I managed to climax twice without pulling out. The girl said she had a multiple orgasm and, believe it or not, our friend came all over the bed just from the excitement. What do you make of that? Is toe sucking an accepted technique?-- N. L., San Francisco, California.
once upon a time, before there was "roots," alex haley was the first playboy interviewer; here, with a new introduction by the writer, are excerpts from his playboy interviews with some of america's most significant personalities during the sixties
In the laid-back California town of sunny San Rafael Lived a girl named Pearley Sweetcake, you prob'ly knew her well She'd been stoned fifteen of her eighteen years and the story was widely told That she could smoke 'em faster than anyone could roll Her legend finally reached New York, that Grove Street walk-up flat Where dwelt The Calistoga Kid, a beatnik from the past With long browned lightnin' fingers he takes a cultured toke And says, "Hell, I can roll 'em faster, Jim, than any chick can smoke!"
The days of snide remarks about guys' taking extra care to look their best are over. With Joe Namath hawking men's moisturizers, good grooming is rightfully moving toward the more serious aspects of self-presentation. Yet, while we are willing to try harder, we sometimes run far afield. Here are ten of the most prevalent grooming errors.
The late-Sixties honeymoon with greenery is over. We brought lots of palms, Ficuses, bromeliads, ferns into our fourwalled environments, and when the clock struck midnight some time later, they turned from Cinderellalike trees to ugly sisters with black spots, insects, yellow leaves. Now you're stuck with a stack of day pots, decorative baskets, dead dirt and half-empty cans of bug spray. If you're lucky, you've got a survivor or two.
M uscle builders, part II : Annie is the trophy queen at the Mr. Outer Milky way contest. This is a supreme event ... fruit of the family-of-nations tree, limbed by branches of the world brotherhood of musclemen and rooted in the noble soil of Weidle's Gym Equipment, Inc., M'F'Rs of Weidle's vitamin supplements, Weidle's muscle magazines and Weidle's little wonder exerciser that you can use in your living room ... only $6.98, plus shipping.
A sun lamp, a glass of wine, a friend in a bikini and the latest in resort sportswear and these two characters, below, are flying down to Rio ... at least in their dreams. The rest of us, for whom a great escape plan is more of a reality, will be happy to learn there already are several hot-weather holiday collections available. What's more, by shopping now, you'll have a head start on coming fashion trends for spring and summer: loose, easy, natural-toned sportswear. Most important are the big tops to be worn outside a pair of pants, often gathered with a drawstring. Slacks, too, will feature drawstring waists, roomy straight legs and, frequently, pleated fronts. All that's missing is the suntan lotion and--oh, yes--you'll have to supply the lady.
When Dooley Wilson sang, "The fundamental things apply as time goes by," back in 1942, he never imagined that manufacturers 35 years later would be turning out some very hip devices, all with one fundamental goal in mind--the saving of time. One gadget simplifies darkroom photography, another is a watch that's so sophisticated it's almost like having an accountant riding your wrist and the third is a bedside Jeeves that wakes you up to hot tea. Good show!