Rah, Rah, Rah! Sis, boom, bah! Playboy's special Christmas gifts to America are the cheerleaders of the N.F.L.! That's right, sports fans, without their costumes! And without shame! No longer will you have to wonder in front of your TV sets just how scrumptious those young things would look. Once and for all, we prove the point that the best thing about the Dallas Cowboys is the Dallas Cowgirls squad. In Pro Football's Main Attractions,Robert Blair Kaiser describes the difficulties we encountered in bringing all of this to you. Needless to say, most of the front-office brass of the N.F.L. clubs were less than helpful. But you'll be amazed how unhelpful they were and to what lengths they went to dissuade us from getting this pictorial. All's fair in love and war, but not necessarily in sports. We're providing a number of extra added attractions with a delightful pictorial on the Texas Cowgirls, Inc., the ladies who have moved on from the Cowboys to bigger and barer things.
Playboy, December, 1978, Vol. 25, No. 12. Published monthly by playboy, in national and regional editions. Playboy Bldg., 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chgo., Ill. 60611. Second-class postage paid at Chgo., Ill., & at Addl. Mailing Offices. Subscriptions: In the U.S., $14 for one year, Postmaster: Send form 3579 to Playboy, P.O. Box 2420, Boulder, Cold. 80302.
Playboy, December, 1978. Volume 25, Number 12. 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 Ave., New York, N.Y. 10017; Chicago, Russ Weller, Associate Advertising Manager, 919 N. Michigan Ave.; 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.
No one has yet figured out what happened to all the American Indians who used to be here. Many, of course, died of white men's diseases to which they had no resistance. The theory that the rest were deliberately massacred is popular and does have some substantiation, but somehow it presupposes a calculated effort that is distasteful to contemporary Americans. Douglas C. Jones, in his new historical novel, A Creek Called Wounded Knee (Scribner's), offers a more palatable explanation and, in the end, a more plausible one.
Dolly Parton spent several years taking second billing to her partner, a grits-and-greens country singer named Porter Wagoner. Pop singers such as Linda Ronstadt and Emmylou Harris admired her, but most of their audiences had never heard of her. Eventually she split with Wagoner, fired her backup band and set out to sell records to a pop audience. Her first crossover LP brought her a modest hit--Here You Come Again--and her second, Heartbreaker (RCA), is a flat-out push for more. The cover features Dolly in pink lace displaying a bit of thigh. Compared with, say, Donna Summer, it's pretty tame stuff, but in the world of country music, where it is still de rigueur to close every show with a hymn, it is positively incendiary. Inside we get ten singles. Any of them, with a bit of luck, might catch. The sound is L.A. studio: elaborate horn charts, strings, backup singers and conga drums, but there is a lot of country in Dolly yet. She takes a dip into disco (Sure Thing), but she balances that with a song of tribute to her dad (The Man) that would sound just right coming from the stage at the county fair. The crowds of musicians backing her never overwhelm her. She's in charge on every tune, a singer exploring a new style as much for artistic as for commercial reasons.
Who watches out for your morals every time you step inside a movie theater? No one at all--unless you live in Maryland. But if you do live in Maryland, why, then, you need have no fear; Mary Avara--Saint Mary, they call her, Saint Mary the X-Rated Grandma--is ever on the alert.
It's not our habit to accept unsolicited manuscripts for "Playboy after Hours," but we couldn't resist bringing you this cautionary tale submitted to us by an Australian reader who, on a visit to the U.S., left more than his heart in San Francisco. Understandably, he wishes to remain anonymous.
Peter Ustinov, as Agatha Christie's master sleuth Hercule Poirot in Death on the Nile, boards a luxury steamer to see the ruins of ancient Egypt and solve a multiple-murder case with the help of David Niven. Bette Davis, Mia Farrow, Maggie Smith, Jack Warden, Angela Lansbury, Jon Finch and just about everyone else in the star-studded cast on this cruise harbor a motive to kill the spoiled, filthy-rich heiress (Lois Chiles) who is honeymooning with the man (Simon MacCorkindale) she snatched from Mia. Comparisons with Sidney Lumet's deluxe Murder on the Orient Express, produced by the same team, are not merely invited, they are all but unavoidable. For true Christie buffs, Murder has the edge. Although Nile is souped up with flashes of wit and funny business for some of moviedom's most incurable hams (a nod to playwright Anthony Shaffer, who wrote Sleuth), director John Guillermin came to this job from Towering Inferno and King Kong, which may not have been the ideal preparation for a tongue-in-cheek spoof. Death on the Nile is an uneven exercise in style, but what's the difference? It's a series of elegant picture postcards edged in blood, easy on the eyes and made to be taken lightly, if at all. Smith, Davis and Lansbury get the best lines, and the ladies are a trip in themselves--a three-piece band of unholy terrorists oozing bitchery through the land of Tut.
Idol Gossip: Plans may be under way at CBS to revive the Millionaire series. In spite of inflation, eccentric philanthropist John B. Tipton will still be giving away only a lukewarm mil. . . . Alfred Hitchcock will start shooting his next film, Short Night, next spring in Finland. . . . Word has it that Gore Vidal is working on a long historical novel about the ancient world featuring such luminaries as Socrates, Confucius and Buddha. . . . Arthur Penn will direct the screen version of Paddy Chayefsky's first novel, Altered States. The special-effects budget ought to be a doozy--the book's about a scientist who travels backward in time through his mind until his body deevolutionizes into a . . . well, go see the film. . . . Capricorn Records chief Phil Walden plans to produce a feature film based on the life of Otis Redding. . . . Anne Bancroft will play Joan Crawford in the screen adaptation of Mommie Dearest,Christina Crawford's outspoken bio of her late mother. . . . Neil Simon's got a new play in the works, a musical called They're Playing Our Song, about a composer and a lyricist. Marvin Hamlisch and lyricist Carole Bayer Sager are writing the songs. . . . Malcolm (Clockwork Orange) McDowell will play the young H. G. Wells in Warner Bros.' Time After Time, a--get this--"sci-fi thriller comedy." Nicholas Meyer will direct from his own script. . . . Harold Robbins is working on a new novel for Simon & Schuster. Tentatively titled Memories of Another Day, it's the story of a national labor leader. . . . Checking out the blonde beat: Farrah Fawcett-Majors' second starring film role will be in The Bind, with Charles Grodin and Art Carney, shooting in the hair-bleaching sun of Acapulco. And model-beauty queen Susan Anton will make her film debut in Golden Girl, playing a gorgeously tall track star trying to compete on the U.S. Olympic team in Russia.
My roommate and I are planning a vacation for the Christmas break. After a semester of hitting the books, we want to boogie. Our dilemma: Do we hit the beaches or the slopes? We conducted an informal poll of the guys in the frat house to see which locale was the luckier and came up with a draw. Who meets more girls--sun bathers or skiers? And what are our chances of scoring?--D. B., Minneapolis, Minnesota.
Sexual accelerators pressed to the floor, sexometers zooming past 100 thrills per lover. In this decade of pleasure run rampant, bedroom breakthroughs are reported faster than you can say Masters-Johnson-Kinsey-Comfort. Where is this intense eroticism carrying the sybarites of the Seventies? Toward a future in which everyone has done all the exciting things there are to be done? Where each physical nook and cranny has been nooked and crannied? We wish.
Last February, police in Columbus, Ohio, found the bodies of 52-year-old night-club owner Robert McCann, his 26-year-old girlfriend and his 77-year-old mother shot to death in an apparent robbery by home invasion. The killings were particularly brutal: The victims had been shot many times and beaten or stripped, or both. Four weeks later, Claudia Yasko, a 27-year-old night-club waitress, presented herself to police, waived her right to have an attorney present and confessed to the killings, naming two male friends as her accomplices. The three were quickly indicted, with death-penalty specifications, on the basis of Claudia's lengthy statement that described the night of the murders in vivid and gruesome detail. Case closed--or so it seemed.
In less than a month, John Travolta may surprise everyone all over again. "Moment by Moment" his newest film, will complete one of the most successful three-picture contracts in history. It may also prove, once and for all, that its 24-year-old star is more than just a pretty face who can dance well and mug teenage angst. The film, in which he plays a teenage runaway to ho becomes romantically involved with co-star Lily Tomlin, could confirm Travolta's credentials as a serious dramatic actor.
Saturday night in Miami. In a parking lot just off 79th Street, a black hooker is going down on a white high school teacher who will soon return to his family in a nearby suburb. At the trendy disco in the Hotel Mutiny at Sailboat Bay at the other end of town, a wealthy Venezuelan businessman is assiduously pursuing a stunning 19-year-old Cuban girl, who teasingly whispers in his ear and, leaning forward, gives him a splendid view down the front of her flimsy black dress. On a clear day, you can see Havana. Meanwhile, somewhere above their heads, a couple writhes in pleasure beneath the mirrored ceiling of the $125-a-night Rameses room, one of the hotel's erotic King Tut's Chambers. Around the corner at the seedy Hamlet Bar in the heart of laid-back Coconut Grove, a jukebox blasts out rock and country songs toward a bar stacked five deep with trim young men in cutoffs, sandals and close-cropped beards. They are happily homosexual and this is their turf. It matters little to them that the next morning, anti-gay-rights warrior Anita Bryant will team with reborn Nixon hatchetman Charles Colson to celebrate a Sunday sunrise service on the causeway to Key Biscayne.
Anyone who has had a cup of coffee at breakfast, a martini at lunch, a joint or a line of coke after work should know that the drug industry (both legal and illegal) has plans for his future. All the customary chemical fun makers will soon be replaced by new streamlined models. In the year 2001, the man above town will select his state of consciousness from moment to moment and commute between mental levels as easily as we now commute between continents.
Anyone Auditing the books this past summer at the offices of the Green Bay Packers, Chicago Bears, Philadelphia Eagles-- in fact, at all but a handful of the 28 clubs in the National Football League--would find items in the budget for make-up men, hair stylists, costume designers, fashion consultants and choreographers. Choreographers? On a football club? What in the name of Vince Lombardi was happening in the N.F.L.?
And Now For Something Completely Different: Texas Cowgirls, Inc.
In 1976, dark-eyed, sultry Tina Jimenez was a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. In 1977, she found herself outside Texas Stadium, looking in. She was cut, she says, "for no good reason." So, too, were a lot of her friends. Why? Possibly because they didn't care to keep some of what Tina calls "the archaic rules of the club." Or maybe it was because the Cowboys wanted girls "who didn't ask questions."
These pages are for those of you who'd like to drop a hint to the lady in your life suggesting a little something that you wouldn't mind receiving for Christmas (other than the obvious, of course). Just leave Playboy open to the item you dig and hope for the best. It may not be the most subtle way to ensure that your yuletide will be a happy one (hers definitely will be, if you follow our gift suggestions in Fair Share for the Fair Sex, also in this issue), but at least you know you won't have a hideous tie depicting Niagara Falls in Day-Glo colors or cuff links made of coprolite laid on you. And if Santa still doesn't bring you the present perfect, you can always buy it for yourself.
Flying is my mistress. I love it; I have since I was 20 and first strapped myself into the cockpit of a Marine Corps jet fighter. Even today, my most satisfying moments come not in the courtroom but when I am lifting off the runway at the controls of my own plane. Put as simply as I know how, flying to me is pure joy.
Ever since, March of 1957, when he first appeared in these pages. Joaquin Alberto Vargas y Chavez, the Peruvian-born artist known as Vargas; has delighted Playboy readers with his delicately sensuous renderings of the female form. Vargas began his career as a portan artis for the Ziegfeld Follies, producing hundreds of works using the famed Ziegfeld Girls as his models. During the Thirties, Vargas moved to Hollywood where he worked for Paramount 20th Century-Fox and Warner Bros. studios, doing pastel portraits of their starlets for movie advertisements. After the effort to organize studio arttists in 1939, Vargas, a union sympathizer, found himself blacklisted. But by then his reputation had reached the editors of the old Esquire magazine, who were looking for a replacement for the petulant George Petty, creator of the famous Petty Girl. Vargas enjoyed a brief but prolific career there until contractual problems forced his resignation--luckily for Playboy, for which he has produced more than 160 portraits over the past 18 years. Now Vargas and former Playboy Art Director Reid Austin have prepared an impressive volume of his work, published by Crown and spanning the long creative life of the best of the pinup artists.
For some time now, women have been wearing jeans that are so tight that they appear to be a seamed, blue condensation on the skin. All of this is perfectly fine with us, of course, but it does make one wonder how in the world women get into them. We thought we'd do some field research on how it's done. On a random tour of two chic New York jeaneries, Fiorucci and The French Jean Store, we looked on as two women wiggled their way into the lean look. As one jeans fitter put it, "Your eyes should bulge when you first put these on." In addition to bulging eyeballs, the women experienced puckered crotches, the rearranging of lower-torso internal organs and shortness of breath. There are a couple of methods of squeezing one's buns into denim bondage. At Fiorucci (bottom), our girl goes it alone; huffing, puffing and stuffing, until, Mama mia, a compromise between flesh and fabric is reached. Cheeks and balances, so to speak. However, at The French Jean Store (top), the salesmen are eager to supervise the progress. Once the girl is able to pull the jeans over her hips by violently jumping up and down, help arrives to squeeze from the side of the zipper. In special cases, the help lays the girl out flat on her back on a table and, using a pair of pliers, yanks the zipper into place, often shearing away pubic hair in the process. As a final touch, the backside of the jeans is sprayed with water to loosen the fabric and the girl is told to do deep knee bends. Why do women undergo this torture? One girl we interviewed told us while trying a pair of jeans two sizes too small for her, "Over the past month, I've dropped ten pounds and my old boyfriend. I'm trolling for new prospects." She must be, because we're hooked.
Marriage to the pro-football star had proved disappointing to the sexy starlet, since he seemed to be more interested in the N.F.L. divisional race than in her. As he sat morosely guzzling beer one Sunday night, she suddenly broke the silence. "Darling," she said, stubbing out her cigarette, "I'm sorry, but there's something I want to talk to you about."
The american presidency tells a ferocious story--of the ferocity with which each man has pursued and held on to power. It is a scarring story--of scars given and received by each President. It is an erotic story, not alone in the case of the Presidents whose private sexual lives have been made public but even more in the basically erotic relationship that somehow operates between an American President and the people. It is a magical story, because by its nature the Presidential function is that of a shaman, and people never cease to hope that the President will cast a spell on the nation's enemies and deliver it from its agonized problems and dilemmas.
Christmas Dinner, with one's friends circling the festal board, is a close encounter of the tenderest kind. And you want it to be an epicurean extravaganza--a jubilation of the taste buds, an exultation of the senses. But catered affairs are rather impersonal--and the alternative, making yourself a wretched kitchen slavey, defeats the object of a holiday get-together. Seasoned hosts know there's another option--an artfully conceived menu. The one we've created is full of gustatory thrills and luxurious touches with, here and there, an unexpected treat. Preparation is undemanding and much of it can be done well in advance, liberating the host from pesky last-minute chores so he can participate in the revelry and be virtually a guest at his own bash.
There are six Seconds left in the game. Your team is one point down and has an inbounds play at mid-court. Which pro star would you want to get the ball and take the last shot? Or try this scenario: Your team's seemingly comfortable 15-point lead quickly has been whittled down to eight points in the fourth quarter and the team is beginning to panic. Whom do you want to take over, slow things down and set up a play that will turn the momentum around?
The word lingerie used to be confined to the vocabulary of department-store elevator operators and bridal consultants. We thought it was something you took off to get sexy. Well, not anymore. The high muckamucks of fashion have been raiding the underwear drawers of the 1890s and the 1930s to come up with a sort of undercover haute couture. The new look features tucks, pleats, lace and ruffles in the most delicate pastels in the most delicate places. Blacks and red make a showing, too. These collections ignore such utilitarian concerns as fanny boosting and tummy flattening; lingerie is on a trip--and a pretty titillating one, at that. Dear old Dr. Denton only dreamed about Halston's body stocking on this page. Now his dreams are coming true. It's the kind of underwear you wouldn't mind finding draped across your rod. Look out, Frederick's of Hollywood, the high-fashion people are hot on your trail.
I was Either Thinking or daydreaming when last call was announced by Sam One and echoed at the far end of the bar by Sam Three. In obedience to the hokey traditions of Rick's Café Americain, a scratchy disc of As Time Goes By was put on the turntable to signal the end of another drinking day. The clock read 2:10, which meant it was five minutes before two. It is another tradition at Rick's to set the bar clock ahead 15 minutes to create a little leeway for moving drunks out. All the regulars know this gimmick, so it doesn't work; but that doesn't prevent it from being one of Rick's cherished instant traditions, like playing As Time Goes By and hanging huge blowups of stills from Casablanca on the walls and calling all the barmen Sam--this last having a particularly precious embellishment: They are known as Sam One, Sam Three, Sam Five, etc., because someone once described them as an odd lot. (continued on page 250) Switching(continued from page 235)
We had a hint of it last year, with the emergence of the Farrah Fawcett-Majors phenomenon, but in 1978, for the first time in memory, almost as many of America's reigning sex stars came from the small screen of television as from the big one of the movie theater. This in spite of the fact that what TV offers is mainly titillation; not soft-core sex, let alone hard-core, but mush-core sex--in abundance. What began with Charlie's Angels has spread around the dial until there are more handsome men and more beautiful women suggesting more and doing less in prime time than ever before in history.
Staying home is the best revenge: revenge against slimy twerps who guard the doors of chichi discos and make everyone who tries to get in feel like a worm; revenge against overpraised, overpriced, overcrowded restaurants where only the regulars get the best seats and decent service; revenge, finally, against spending your time and energy cruising to find a good time. Ah, you say, but how will I be one of the hot crowd if all I am is at home? Hell, you can be athome, saving energy and money, and the hot crowd will happily come over--but not if you just put out some drinks or smokes, because sooner or later someone will remember that there's a ball game on TV. Or a sci-fi flick. And all of you will find yourselves dumb-struck in front of the tube.
This story comes from the books of the wise men of India. A man owned a priceless jewel. He mounted it in a splendid case and set out to carry the box as an offering to the king. On the way, he fell in with four men who joined him, as companions of the journey. Yet, when an opportunity presented itself, one of them managed to steal the gem, box and all. The man begged all four of them for its return. However, they all denied any knowledge of the theft.
The Signs are everywhere. Men and women are wearing softer colors and dressing up. On the beaches, couples walk hand in hand. In sidewalk cafés, they sip Perrier or white wine. Candlelight is replacing electricity in some restaurants. On the screen, Warren Beatty stares into the eyes of Julie Christie. Even Niagara Falls is catching on again. So step aside, cynics, romance is back. No more Mr. Wise Guy. Every day is Valentine's Day. Are you getting the drift? Here's a trend that should appeal to everyone. In case you've been out of touch, we offer this guide to the best of romance.
There are some downers you can always count on--such as death, taxes and the fact that the Lawrence Welk show is syndicated in perpetuity. On the other hand, there are a lot of good things that are ongoing--such as Woody Allen movies, Vladimir Horowitz concerts and the Playboy Music Poll. The poll has been around for over two decades and it gets more prestigious with each passing year. So here, once again, is your opportunity to join in the annual fun and, not so incidentally, help the cause of your main music men and women. The names that accompany the ballot are there as a guide; you are not bound to vote for any of them. If your favorites aren't listed, just enter their names in the spaces provided. But, please, if you are voting for someone who is listed, use the number next to his or her name. And don't forget to fill in the Hall of Fame and Best LP categories on the back of the ballot. Two final, important points: Only official ballots count and they must be postmarked before midnight, December 1, 1978. Now, get out there and vote!
The House is off Sunset Boulevard, just north of the UCLA campus and within jogging distance of the clean, hip collegiate streets of Westwood, where even on weekdays the block-long lines at the dozen or so moviehouses begin at noon. It is not too much of an exaggeration to say that the reputations of many American films and their directors are made or broken by the first seven days' business at this fashionable suburb's handful of theaters; if not the reputation, the financial fate-- and, in the geographically undefined suburb called Hollywood, a few miles' drive to the east, the two are usually synonymous. It was in Westwood that such films as The Last Picture Show, Paper Moon, What's Up, Doc, Daisy Miller, At Long Last Love and Nickelodeon pulled them in or turned them off, In the house off Sunset, the director of those six pictures--three hits, two misses, one maybe--brooded recently over the editing, the release date, the eventual fate of his first creation in two years, a morality tale of an American pimp in Singapore: Saint Jack.
Helping a woman on with her fur coat can turn any man on to fur. Buying your own fur coat, however, puts you in a class with Walt Frazier, Willis Reed, Reggie Jackson, Dave Kingman, Tom Seaver, Muhammad Ali and Phil Esposito, who bought matching fox jackets for his wife and himself.
Taxes are probably the last thing on your mind when you are on the threshold of marriage. But it might pay you to take them into account when you choose between a December and a January wedding. Your decision can cost or save you quite a few tax dollars, because the Internal Revenue Service considers you a married person for the entire year even if you should get hitched as late as December 31.
Contrary to widely held belief, men do not fare all that badly in divorce these days. Although the great trauma is surely emotional, the greatest fear seems to be financial; but in the division of family income and property, the results are heavily slanted in favor of the male.
The fuzz are busy in Miami. The image-conscious town is currently in a conservative phase. Because of dramatic neighborhood deterioration along Biscayne Boulevard and 79th Street, a full-scale antiprostitution campaign is on. One vice-squad detective works full time on the oldest profession. More whores than ever pass through the slammer's portals. (Prostitution arrests have tripled in the city of Miami in recent months.) A new "stop and inquire" ordinance of dubious constitutionality permits police to make arrests for mere attempted solicitation. "People thought things had gone too far when the streetwalkers started knocking on car windows and even climbing into the front seat beside a driver at a traffic light," says Miami city attorney George Knox.
Every city has a self-image that is the source of its sense of community. New York, for instance, is a great place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there, unless you live there, in which case you are proud of surviving in the Big Apple. If nothing else, you get off on the "in" jokes in a Neil Simon comedy. The freeways in Los Angeles are horrible, but native Californians are a bunch of wild and crazy guys who like cars; and, besides, if it weren't for the freeways, citizens of L.A. wouldn't be immortalized in Johnny Carson's monologs. Playboy decided to find out what Miamians think of their city. We commissioned a telephone survey of 600 randomly selected people between the ages of 18 and 45. We wanted to define the community standards of the region, to ascertain the sexual temperature of the city.