Let's Face It: For the most part, winter sports are dull. After all, where's the real kick in sliding down a hill on two sticks? Ice climbing--now, there's a challenge to reckon with. One of the slowest growing sports in America, clambering up a solid wall of ice holds little appeal for the masses. To find out why, we sent Craig Vetter up the steepest, slipperiest slope we could find. It was the first in a series of daredevil stunts we designed to shorten the life and gray the hair of this good, but shamelessly mercenary, young writer. To our dismay, he made it to the top. But not without a lot of misgivings. Tom Gala illustrated Vetter's report on the ascent, Pushed to the Edge, Part One: The Ice Climb.
General Offices: Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611. Return postage must accompany all manuscripts, drawings and photographs submitted if they are to be returned and no responsibility can be assumed for unsolicited materials. All rights in letters sent to Playboy will be treated as unconditionally assigned for publication and copyright purposes and as subject to Playboy's unrestricted right to edit and to comment editorially. Contents Copyright (c) 1977 by Playboy. All Rights Reserved. Playboy and Rabbit Head Symbol are marks of Playboy, Registered U.S. Patent Office, Marca Registrada, Marque Deposee. Nothing may be reprinted in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher. Any similarity between the people and places in the fiction and semifiction in this magazine and any real people and places is purely coincidental. Credits: Cover: Playmate/Model Hope Olson, Designed by Kerig Pope, Photographed by Claude Mougin. Other photography by: Bill Arsenault, P. 194-195; James Baes, P. 129, 132, 133; David Chan, P. 16, 39; Alfred De Bat, P. 130; Mario De Grossi, P. 128; Phillip Dixon, P. 16; Jurgen Domnich, P. 129; Grant Edwards, P. 3; Richard Fegley, P. 144-145 (top); Stephan Frank, P. 131; Bill Frantz, P. 3, 11; Antonio Guerreiro, P. 130; David Gunn, P. 3; Jochen Harder, P. 130; Richard Izui, P. 144-145 (bottom); Douglas Kirkland, P. 39; Richard Klein/James Larson, P. 3; Erich Klemm, P. 132; Jill Krementz, P. 39; Christopher Little/Camera 5, P. 3; Klaus Lucka, P. 39; Guido Mangold, P. 131; Norman McGrath, P. 141; Karsh/Ottawa, P. 3; Ned Phillips, P. 139-141; Pompeo Posar, P. 137; Chuck Pulin, P. 39; Suzanne Seed, P. 3 (2); Vernon L. Smith, P. 3 (2) Roberto Villa, P. 132; Guy Webster, P. 39; Peter Weissbrich, P. 127, 129; Wide World, P. 39; Baron Wolman, P. 3, 96, P. 99, Robe from Bonwit Teller, Beverly Hills, California; P. 123. Illustration by John Craig; P. 137, Illustration by Bob August Inserts: Reynolds Real Card, between P. 16-17; Columbia/Diners Club insert, between P. 24-25, 190-191; Playboy Clubs International Card, between P. 48-49; Playboy Book Club Card, between P. 176-177.
Playboy, February, 1978, Volume 25, Number 2. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States and its possessions, $33 for three years, $25 for two years, $14 for one year. Canada, $15 per year. Elsewhere, $25 per year. Allow 45 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 45 days for change. Marketing: Ed Condon, Director/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.
A Dallas construction worker was just about to leave for a new position in Chicago when he was notified that the job offer was canceled. Seems he'd failed the company's physical because a computer had given him an R-3 rating: rejected because of pregnancy. He finally convinced the firm to hire him--but a clause in his new health-insurance policy forbids maternity benefits in the first nine months.
It is understood that PBS (public television) is lofty, nourishing and important. Unfortunately, no one watches it. Commercial television, on the contrary, is regarded as mindless, pointless and even harmful--but 150,000,000 people watch it every day. PBS complains of insufficient funds and low viewership, while commercial television is berated for its violence and lack of substance. The logical solution to both of these problems is a marriage of, say, CBS to PBS. What follows is a hypothetical television listing for any prime-time evening after the wedding.
Charles Lindbergh, elite aviator, was the ultimate 20th Century dilettante. He comes across in his Autobiography of Values (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich) as a would-be Renaissance man whose one great feat made it possible for him to proceed through the rest of his charmed life as a "consultant." After dinner in Berlin with Hermann Goring, Lindbergh advised the Roosevelt Administration on German air strength; he consulted for Pan American on new air routes; he beseeched Roosevelt not to go to war; he discussed rocketry with Goddard and Von Braun; he experimented with organ transplants under Alexis Carrel; and he played the existential philosopher throughout.
Way back when the silent two-reelers were being nudged into history by what we now call feature-length films, the perennial question as to how long a movie could or should be was answered definitively by pioneer producer Carl Laemmle with another query: "How long is it good?" There's the rub that underlies any discussion of Bernardo Bertolucci's controversial 1900, finally released in a four-hour version because U.S. distributors were scared stiff by an unwieldy epic that ran well over five hours when it was first unveiled at the Cannes Film Festival in 1976. So now we have a drastically cut 1900, brought to us by the same brilliant, angry, intemperate Italian who made Last Tango in Paris and fought like a tiger to keep his new baby from being butchered on the editing table. Having seen the long and short of it, and applying old Laemmle's acid test without the use of a stop watch, I calculate that 1900 is really good, and often extraordinary, for approximately two and a half hours. Since Bertolucci at his worst would be more interesting than nine out of ten moviemakers, the odds still favor 1900 as a madly ambitious epic, not to be missed by those serious enough about cinema to take the bitter with the sweet.
John C. Holmes flashes his mighty sword with astounding frequency as star and director of The New Erotic Adventures of Casanova. Wadd fans won't be disappointed, since John is all there, every inch a challenge to a corps of porno queens whom he takes on singly, in pairs or three at a time. Measured against your average hard-core performer, if you're measuring lengthwise, Holmes remains Mr. Big. Measured for directorial skill, he falls far short. And Casanova, with its promise of new erotic adventures, is a misleading title, in any case. After a token visit to 18th Century Paris--where there are period wigs, plus many buckles and britches to be removed--the movie flashes quickly back to modern San Francisco, for a scene between Holmes and a lady psychiatrist. He thinks he's been dreaming, though he does have an antique treasure chest he inherited, containing some letters signed by Casanova as well as a vial of perfume that appears to be a powerful aphrodisiac. So much for Casanova and history. The rest of the show is wall-to-wall balling, a formula West Coast fuck film that ends; predictably, in a hard-on collision between Supercock and his shrink.
Little Criminals (Warner Bros.) is Randy Newman's first album in ... hell, we don't even want to count the years. In his absence, a whole generation of semi-demented, would-be perverts calling themselves punk rockers has tried to cop his act. We aren't calling Newman the first punk rocker--for one thing, he's intelligent. For another, his piano belongs in a Salvation Army band or a smoky San Francisco bawdyhouse. But we are calling Newman perverted, wry and one of our favorite crazies. The long-awaited album is everything we hoped for. There's a vicious song about short people. There's a song about a city that begins with the letter B (first Birmingham, now Baltimore. Next stop, Berkeley?). There are hypnotic love songs with simple phrases running over chords like worry beads. There's a patriotic number called Sigmund Freud's Impersonation of Albert Einstein in America. The album's getting plenty of airplay; it might even make Newman a star.
Smaller than a speeding Bullet? Apparently hell-bent on outdoing the technical gimmickry of Star Wars, the producers of Warner Bros.' $30,000,000 epic Superman have been secretly working on a superduper special effect never before achieved in movies. The idea is to have the image of Superman fly off the screen and into the audience through a holographic process. The people at W.B. are being hush-hush about it, probably because they're not sure they can pull it off--we're told that first attempts failed because the holographic image shrank radically when taken off the screen and a midget Superman isn't all that awe-inspiring. Not that the film lacks ambitious effects--among other feats, Superman (played by Christopher Reeve) will use X-ray vision to cook a soufflé for Lois Lane (Margot Kidder), weld together the Golden Gate Bridge, which has been severed in an earthquake, and catch a helicopter in flight. Now if they can just get Superman to airlift several million people into their neighborhood theaters, they'll be all set.
A certain form of kidnaping is on the rise throughout the country. The perpetrators are parents, accompanied by hired enforcers and so-called deprogramers. The victims are the children--often over 21--of those parents. Because their progeny have become fervent members of various sects, from Hare Krishna to the Reverend Moon's Unification Church, the parents feel impelled to rescue their offspring and have them exorcised. The deprogramers, of whom Ted Patrick is the most fabled, are the exorcists. Once the snatch has been made, they work their will on young adults deprived of all rights, certainly including freedom of movement, and subject to diverse humiliations until they confess error.
It's Common Knowledge, presumably, that the brief biographical notes that accompany articles and stories in many magazines are, in fact, autobiographical, written by the writer, not an editor. The practice is worse than self-serving. In the pages of the most frequent offenders, it leads to the most god-awful sort of cuteness. "Ethel Harris writes frequently on the ecology. She lives with three cats 'and a very large porcupine' in a cabin in Oregon." That sort of thing.
Maybe I'm a little slow or something. My roommate and I double-dated to a double bill that included The Other Side of Midnight. In one scene, a young lady satisfies her partner saddle style as he lies flat on his back. Just when it appears the poor fellow reaches his peak, the lady reaches down into an ice bucket and grabs all the ice she can handle with two hands and places it on her partner's crotch. The look on his face appears to be all but that of pleasure. Is this technique used widely? What are the sensations that result from a half pound of ice applied directly to the genitals?--T. P., Savannah, Georgia.
Consider the following true confession: "One of the wackiest affairs I ever had was with a beautiful Yugoslavian actress I met in Paris. She spoke only two languages: perfect Serbian and a smattering of French. I didn't understand either of those, just as she was stymied by my English. The only way we could communicate was with our bodies, which I must admit we did brilliantly, passionately and ... comically.
At the end of last summer, while millions of Americans pondered such weighty issues as Koreagate, the fate of Bert Lance and the national unemployment rate, at least one bit of news seemed cheery: Don Meredith was coming back to ABC-TV's "Monday Night Football." Ordinarily, the hiring (or, in this case, the rehiring) of a sports announcer is greeted with the biggest of yawns, but Dandy Don isn't your ordinary sports announcer. In his eight years of broadcasting, Meredith--whose country-boy persona never quite conceals his sense of sardonic humor--has built a surprisingly strong public following.
He Strides imperiously onto the stage and the crowd at the Olympic hall in Montreal cheers wildly. Vasily Alexeyev, already acclaimed as the world's strongest man and assured of his second Olympic weight-lifting gold medal in the superheavy division, is about to attempt a world record in the clean and jerk.
What Sexual Frontier remains to be explored by the sexually sophisticated man of our civilization? OK, so you've been in a bathtub with three women, four gallons of guacamole dip, an ounce of cocaine and a bisexual ostrich. No big deal. Perhaps your sensibilities are so jaded that you've considered celibacy for your next big thrill. But wait! You haven't done it all until you've experienced extraterrestrial screwing.
Unless you've been trapping up near the timber line for the past decade, you've noticed that a tremendous change has occurred in the world of male attire. A change so great, in fact, that now would be an excellent time to re-examine your wardrobe and attempt to bring to it a little order based on today's needs. Zero-based wardrobing, you might say. Or perhaps, as depicted in the photos on these pages, yours is about to become a bachelor pad à deux. In any case, here are Playboy's guidelines for building a serviceable and satisfactory wardrobe that will keep your ego up and the hassles down. Principle number one: Less is more may apply to taxes, children and mothers-in-law, but it is not necessarily a good rule of thumb when it comes to clothes. We've passed through the period when jeans for every occasion made an appropriate statement. That was too much of a good thing. Spice is the variety of life. Which brings us to principle number two: Clothing may be the first line of defense against the elements, but it also functions as a primary vocabulary of body language and as an aesthetic pleasure unto itself. Of course, no one should become a slave to fashion, but a contrary, negative attitude toward clothes is as severely limiting to pleasure as proscriptions against premarital sex or an unwillingness to dine on anything but meat and potatoes.
It's been 15 days since I came down off a frozen waterfall in the White Mountains and the big toe on my left foot is still numb. I thought it was frostbite. When I finished the climb, I couldn't feel my hands or my feet or my cheeks or my nose or my ears. A long bath revived everything but the toes on my left foot, and over the next week, I checked them as often as I had my shoes off for that horrible blue-black color that means someone is going to have to cut away what is dead to save what isn't. First they were white, then they turned pink. After a few days, three of them came back to life. Then four. Then four and a half and the thawing stopped. I'm beginning to think that dead spot across the front of the toe and up under the nail never did have anything to do with the cold. I think I have a little piece of terror lodged down in there. A physical memento of the whole cruel adventure. Hanging on that ice sheet, 200 feet up, by an ax and a hammer I didn't trust, in a bad snowstorm, behind a guide I couldn't see, attached to him by a rope that meant nothing, beyond panic into a place of preternatural fear, near tears, cursing everyone I'd ever known, especially poor stupid me. It was one of the worst beatings I'll ever take and, like all the great whippings, I gave it to myself. I think now if that toe never wakes up, it'll be a small price to pay for this one. A thousand snakes couldn't have scared me any worse, but I could have paid a lot more for it.
Janis Schmitt can't help but remind you of the elusive blonde bombshell in American Graffiti, the one who cruises the streets in a spanking new white sports car, leaving poor Richard Dreyfuss frantic at every sighting. Janis tours the streets of St. Louis in a bright-blue Triumph Spitfire convertible, leaving contingents of wide-eyed, double-taking men in her path. Today she is wearing a skintight sweater dress with holes in appropriate places and black high-heeled boots, and as she extracts her 5'4" frame from a bucket seat and enters Houlihan's--a funky, Friscoesque bar-restaurant in St. Louis' West County--a huddle of businessmen at the bar stop abruptly, as if frozen in time, martinis poised in mid-air, mouths agape. She pretends not to notice, orders a bloody mary and stirs it with a celery stalk. "I can't believe men sometimes," she says. "You know, I bicycle almost every day in Carondelet Park. I get up real early in the morning, before the nuts come out. I wear my hair pulled back, an old T-shirt, some old gym shorts and no make-up--in fact, I do everything to make myself look plain--and I still get slapped on the behind."
Two things irresistibly draw bachelor chefs to jambalaya. First, its opulence: Rice, chicken, ham, seafoods, seasonings, vegetables, spices and herbs are lavishly fused in a one-dish meal representing generations of New Orleans culinary genius. Second, it's an imaginative dish for which there are countless recipes but few rules. You can confidently substitute game for chicken, lobster for shrimps or scallions for onions. Naturally, the one glorious element you can't change is rice, though some Creolized chefs (concluded on page 183)Jambalaya!(continued from page 112) have been known to use wild rice instead of white. In a superb jambalaya, the finished rice is less buttery than a risotto milanese but more moist than Oriental fried rice; it must never be sopping wet or mushy.
A dedicated Guzzler recently confided that in the event that he was reincarnated, he would rather return as a New Orleans bartender than as Warren Beatty or the shah of Iran. This should be accepted as an honest expression of the man's sentiments, since he was then working on his ninth vodka stinger--a concoction he detests but wistfully believes does not linger on his breath.
"In the Fifties, you had to be Jewish to get a girl," Mort Sahl writes in Heartland. "In the Sixties, you had to be black to get a girl, and now you have to be a girl to get a girl." The unerring truth of that statement sums up the dilemma of our time: What happens to us guys? Well, gentlemen, I was always one of those men who would do anything to score, and if that means becoming a girl, I'm ready.
At that time--20 years ago--the west coast of Mexico had not yet become the Las Vegas and Miami Beach of Mexico. The villages were still predominantly primitive Indian villages, and the still-water morning beach of Puerto Barrio and the rain forests above it were among the world's wildest and loveliest populated places.
August 10, 1984: A small group of Soviet leaders is sitting around a felted conference table in a mountain bunker 60 miles outside Moscow. They agree that the European war has been going well. One of them worries: "Too well." It was easier than their strategists had predicted. It started purely as a political ploy: a modest thrust at Berlin in response to the American invasion of Panama. But how do you disengage, now that the point is more than made? The military senses victory. The ideologues are suddenly sounding like Mao: "The Americans are paper tigers."
A Playmate by any other name is still ... terrific. Nothing is lost in translation, no matter what the language, no matter what the country. Over the years, the Playboy empire has reached the far corners of the world--and the newsstands on those far corners. More eyes have seen the Playboy Rabbit than gazed upon the emblem of Alexander the Great. It kind of makes us proud. Our allies in Japan, Brazil, France, Germany, Italy and Mexico have taken Playboy's editorial concept and made it work on the home front. Each of the girls shown on these pages has been a featured model in one of our foreign editions. How are we going to keep you down on the farm, after you've seen Marie? Or Jasmin, Katia, Ursula and Anna?
Picture a meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or the President's Cabinet. A sensuous crew at work under the table provides low-level stimulation, gently fondling, sucking and playing with penises through open flies and vulvas under pulled-up skirts to ensure the liberation of creative problem-solving energies. Sounds impossible? It's not as fantastic as you might think.
Combining his two worlds, architecture and art collecting, New York bachelor Hanford Yang converted 3000 square feet of loft space in one of the Soho district's numerous cast-iron buildings into a multilevel live-in showcase for his burgeoning collection of sculpture, paintings and objets d'art. Yang purposely kept the amount of furniture to a minimum (most of it is built in) in order to create an atmosphere of free-flowing openness that emphasizes the work of such notables as Robert Motherwell and Alexander Calder. Marching through the heart of the pad (Yang's apartment was formerly part of a toy factory) is a series of columns that "stand out like Greek ruins," he says. Despite the fact that much of his digs is given over to open spaces, storage for books, records, stereo equipment, and so forth, is no problem: They're housed in a carpet-covered counter that doubles as a natural barrier, keeping visitors at good viewing distance from the various works of art.
There was once a pretty shopekeeper's wife who lived on the Rue Saint-Honoré. Plump, dimpled, 22 years old, she had young, delectable flesh and a shapely though slightly rotund body. She enhanced these ample charms with wit and vivacity and the most lively predilection for all the pleasures denied by the harsh laws of Hymen.
Tv Junkies who have purchased video recorders have had one big gripe; the cassettes came in only two lengths of 30 and 60 minutes, which meant if there was a four-A.M. showing of The Maltese Falcon, you had to haul yourself out of bed to change cartridges. That's now old news: Manufacturers of video-cassette recorders have doubled their tape times to two hours (RCA has a four-hour tape) and one manufacturer, Sony, this spring will begin marketing a three-hour tape, which when combined with Sony's optional changer, will allow two tapes to be mounted for unattended recording--you'll eventually have the capability of preserving six hours of air time without having to go near your machine. Furthermore, all the units being introduced are more compact and so simple to operate that they're practically child's play. However, the current crop of X-rated cassettes and home movies people are showing on their own small screens is strictly adult fare.
The American car has never changed so much, in so short a time, as it has in the years we're living through right now. What headline writers have called The Big Shrink started officially with the 1977 model year and will continue for three or four more years, until all our cars are smaller, lighter and more economical.
Bertie Wooster had Jeeves to do his cutting, chopping, slicing, blending, grinding, grating and my-Aunt-Agatha-knows-what-else out in the scullery. But dash it all, old bean, you're positively dished--unless, of course, you've used your noggin and traded in some tenners for a food processor, a machine that's the greatest boon to bachelorhood since Don Ameche invented the telephone. Owning one may not be quite the same as having Jeeves at your elbow ready with canapés or a chocolate mousse, but it's almost as quick. And the handy thing never goes on holiday.
Winterstick. As surfers ride the waves and skate-boarders ride the concrete, those on a Winterstick ride the slopes. Although the board is controlled somewhat like a skate board (turns are executed by bending and extending your legs), it is far from being a toy; the Winterstick is a highly developed piece of sports equipment that allows precision control and phenomenal speeds.
If you think man's best friend is his pet dog, then you haven't seen the portable Model 2001 PET home computer that Commodore, an international electronics company, has just introduced at the mind-boggling price of only $595. The PET (Personal Electronic Transactor) features a TV screen, a keyboard that's as simple to use as a typewriter, a self-contained cassette recorder that is the source for programs and for storing data and a memory system. What's it do? Just about everything from maintaining personal records to answering the telephone.