This time last year, Pope Paul VI was ill and the atmosphere among the cardinals at the Vatican was, in some ways, not unlike that around the site of the Crucifixion when Roman soldiers gambled for the robe. Before you judge that statement harsh, read The Making of a Pope, illustrated by Ron Villani, an excerpt from Andrew M. Greeley's new book, The Making of the Popes 1978: The Politics of Intrigue in the Vatican (Andrews & McMeel). Columnist-priest Greeley was already in Rome writing a book on the papacy when, in one of the most incredible coincidences in religious history, two Popes died within less than two months. After the holy dust cleared, he emerged with his startling book on the sub rosa wheeling and dealing that precedes the selection of a pontiff.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), July, 1979, Volume 26, Number 7. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Bldg., 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Ill. 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States and its possessions, $33 for 36 issues, $25 for 24 issues, $14 for 12 issues. Canada, $18 for 12 issues. Elsewhere, $25 for 12 issues. 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.; L.A., Stanley L. Perkins, Manager. 8721 Beverly Blvd.; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 417 Montgomery St.
A few months ago, many Egyptian citizens prayed to Allah on President Carter's behalf. To help our leader find a lasting peace in the Middle East, you ask? Not quite. One prayer, for example, published in Al Akhbar implored "Allah to rid you of hemorrhoids, because this illness should have been inflicted on an unjust leader rather than you. O Carter." We've heard that a prayer with the opposite sentiment was popular during the same time among Yasir Arafat's followers.
We've always had a little trouble controlling our technology. Nuclear energy was used to blow up houses long before it was considered a way to heat them. Automobiles proliferated so fast that their impact on the environment has only recently come to light. But nothing really has hit so squarely in the guts of our culture as television. It has the potential to influence every aspect of our lives, from the foods we eat to the people we elect to political office. The men who control it, however, have long been preoccupied with two major areas: sex and violence. And the battle that continually rages over those two subjects is nothing short of fascinating. Geoffrey Cowan gives a dandy blow-by-blow account of it in his book See No Evil (Simon & Schuster). Paddy Chayefsky's Network, a work of fiction, hardly comes close to plumbing the depths of TV bureaucracy that Cowan shows in real life. Take the case of the network "editors" (read censors) who, working from their perceived prejudices of potential viewers, bowdlerize scripts down to the lowest common denominator to avoid offending narrow-minded viewers and advertisers. The stakes are so high (as much as $25,000,000 per Nielsen-rating point) that no one can fault their trepidation. Indeed, there don't seem to be any good guys or bad guys in Cowan's treatise, just a lot of well-meaning business executives trying to please a plethora of masters. The sad part about the whole sex-and-violence wrangle is that what passes for sex and violence on TV hardly approximates real sex or real violence.
The River Café (1 Water Street, Brooklyn, New York) is one of those restaurants you leave humming the scenery. The place inevitably brings to mind Windows on the World and Tavern on the Green, two other recent additions to New York's gallery of gorgeous dining spots. While it offers neither the restrained splendor of the former nor the kitschy glitter of the latter, it shares with them a spectacular location. Aptly named, The River Café, a smartly converted barge, sits on the Brooklyn bank of the East River, facing Manhattan, with the Brooklyn Bridge almost directly overhead. The panoramic view sweeps from the Statue of Liberty to the Empire State Building, with Manhattan's skyline strung like a diamond necklace between them. Breathtaking, yet in a warm, human scale that contrasts with the pygmy proportions the city and harbor assume when observed from Windows' 107th floor.
Let's note up front that Hugh M. Hefner and Edward L. Rissien of Playboy Productions receive credit as executive producers on director Peter Bogdanovich's Saint Jack. For that reason alone, I might have declined to review this adaptation of the Paul Theroux novel, part of which originally appeared in Playboy. But I happen to admire Saint Jack on film, and anyone out there who believes I might corruptly praise a movie I didn't like certainly ought to be reading another critic. So much for conflict of interest. Can I help it if my Playboy colleagues picked a winner?
Porno films are looking so tired--and the cast of dozens regularly employed in them is becoming so familiar (like French-kiss-in' cousins with an idée fixe about oral sex)--that it's a challenge just to remember who did what to whom and on what pretext while limping away from the hard-core fleshpits to a hot typewriter. But lust springs eternal. Let me see, now. All About Gloria Leonard is an obvious, though generally inept, effort to do for Gloria what Inside Jennifer Welles did for another durable veteran of the skin flicks. One of the most stylish and handsome ladies on the porn scene, Gloria in real life also edits a magazine called High Society, though she's more famous for her reel-life spreads and layouts. Flashiest bit in her dully photo-graphed tour de phallus is a triple whammy featuring Gloria with Jamie Gillis and Marc (10-1/2") Stevens, two pros who leave no aperture untouched.
Chick Corea and Herbie Hancock are among the premier pianists of jazz. Over the years, their careers have paralleled and crossed each other in fascinating ways. In 1978, the two combined keyboards for a joint tour (of America and Japan). An album of highlights from those concerts has been released by Columbia and a second is due from Polydor; and Corea and Hancock are planning another tour--this one in Europe--to follow their June 16 appearance as stars of the Playboy Jazz Festival at the Hollywood Bowl. Recently, Tom Nolan talked with them about the past, present and future.
Idol Gossip: Producer Bob Evans has put together a new team for his longawaited musical production of Jules Feiffer'sPopeye. The original scenario, you'll recall, called for Dustin Hoffman to play the spinach-chomping old salt, Lily Tomlin to be Olive Ovl and John Schlesinger to direct. Now Robin (Mork) Williams will play the title role, with Shelley Duvall as Olive and Robert Altman directing.... I recently heard that the Turks are planning to retaliate for the bad rap they've taken due to Midnight Express--they'll make a film called Midday Express to depict their side of the story.... WNET in New York has commissioned leading American writers to pen original teleplays for public TV. The first of these to be broadcast will be John Cheever'sThe Shady Hill Kidnapping, scheduled for the 1980--1981 season.... ABC's series Soap is about to give birth to its first spin-off. Robert Guillaume, who plays Benson, the butler, has been signed to star in a series called--you guessed it--Benson....Peter Boyle and Saturday Night Live'sBill Murray will star in Universal's Where the Buffalo Roam, a film based on events in the life of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. The project was originally set for John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd, as previously reported here.... Some of the networks seem to be making a concerted effort to get quality writing on TV. CBS, for example, is considering the possibility of adapting the following novels: Seize the Day, by Saul Bellow,Pale Horse, Pale Rider, by Katherine Anne Porter and The Home Place, by Wright Morris. James Baldwin's Go Tell It on the Mountain is also under option as a possible four-hour miniseries. It would be the first time Baldwin's work had ever been on TV.
I am a young man of 25 who has been dating the same girl for the past three years. Our sex life is fairly good; though she doesn't always reach orgasm, it doesn't seem to bother her that much. Still, I would like to make our relationship better. If I had to work on one area, where should I start?--F. O., Dallas, Texas.
It was with great interest and admiration that I was finally able to obtain and read Playboy Senior Editor Bill Helmer's report on the penis-enlarging device marketed by English sexologist Dr. Robert Chartham--with interest because I have relevant information to contribute; and with admiration because your gallant Helmer put his limb on the line in his search for scientific data (see Playboy After Hours, September 1978).
Until Joe Wambnugh came along, American novelists traditionally treated police as either pigs or paladins but rarely as human beings. In 1971, Wambaugh, then a moonlighting member of the Los Angeles Police Department, made his literary debut with "The New Centurions," a highly charged novel based on his career as a cop, and since then, Americans' view of the police has never been quite the same. In subsequent best sellers--"The Blue Knight," "The Choirboys," "The Black Marble"--Wambaugh depicted police the way he knew them: less than heroes, more than mercenaries in blue. Wambaugh's station-house characters are almost never detached "peace officers" or idealistic guardians of the law. Instead, they are often brawlers, liars, petty-bribe takers, skirl chasers and drunks. Yet they are also men who do a difficult job rather ivell even while being battered by what Wambaugh calls the "emotional violence" of police work.
It was the year of the three Popes, a year of shattering changes in the papacy. The cardinals assembled in August, took a big gamble and won, more spectacularly, perhaps, than they had expected. Then death wiped out the September smile and the cardinals went back and took an even bigger gamble. At the present moment, they seem to have won that one, too.
There once was a boy called Gimmesome Roy, he was nothing like me or you, 'cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do. As a Kid, he sat down in his cellar, sniffing airplane glue, And then he smoked bananas--Which was then the thing to do. (continued overleaf)
Belly up to the bar, boys, we've got a sad tale to tell. Sadder than The Face on the Barroom Floor. Sadder than Casey's epic fanning at Mudville's biggest game. Sad enough to soak the hankies of every red-blooded bachelor who ever eyed a centerfold.
Detective-Lieutenant John Healey had had a bad day. That morning, he'd raided a massage parlor and had caught in a compromising position a prominent politician, William "Big" Pockets. It was difficult to say who was more embarrassed, he or the vice squad. The city council had been notified before the bust, so that this very situation could be avoided. But Pockets had just returned from a vacation and so had not gotten the word.
On these pages, we've shoved off for the Caribbean in style aboard Costa Line's sleek M/S World Renaissance to dispel the myth that cruisewear has to be comprised of tacky, dull-looking drip-dry duds. Even though you'll be at sea, one of the most practical items for ocean-going is a Dacron/cotton safari jacket or two. When teamed up with such items as a lightweight washable kimono, an easygoing cardigan, cotton shorts, polyester/cotton slacks and a wrinkle-resistant three-piece suit for the captain's table, your wardrobe will be shipshape--and you'll be sailing light.
So I used to carry two different business cards: J. Michael Loomis, Data Concentration, and Jack Loomis, Private Investigator. They mean the same thing, nine cases out of ten. You have to size up a potential customer, decide whether he'd feel better hiring a shamus or a clerk.
When Dorothy Mays Was 19, she was all set to be married, but the bridegroom failed to show up at the altar. "I was too young," she says in retrospect, "but I was crazy about him." In our book, it's the guy who must have been crazy. Now, three years later, Dorothy's less eager to settle down. "At this point, I really don't have enough time to devote to a relationship. I'm basically a very romantic person. And if I found a guy I was really in love with, I'd want to do so much for him I wouldn't have time to get my business together." Dorothy, you see, is a talented hair stylist who wants to set up her own shop: "I hope to have enough money saved to open it by the time I'm 25 years old. I already know how the shop will be laid out. It'll have those old-style comfortable barber chairs, but there'll be a lot of mirrors. You know, a touch of the old, a touch of the new. Of course, I'll have a subscription to Playboy, so my customers will have something to read." We suspect, though, that despite our fine articles, Dorothy's clients will have their attention riveted firmly on her. Dorothy was not always as self-disciplined as she is now. "When I turned 14, I started getting cute. Before that, I was the pits. I became popular with guys and we used to do a lot of partying. A lot of partying. My parents were very strict and I couldn't go out at night, so I had to do everything before 4:30 in the afternoon. I did a lot of writing then--still do--and I would write everything down in my diary. I also had a pen pal, Nancy, in New Jersey, and we used to exchange endless letters with each other. One day, when I was 16, I ran away from home and went to find Nancy in New Jersey. I went to her school; she was in typing class. We had never met until then. I stayed with her until her parents got suspicious. I guess they didn't believe what I had told them: that I had already graduated from high school. I was pretty wild back then, but when I got home and saw what it had done to my mother, it straightened me right out." Dorothy, though, still has an edge of impatience about her. "I try to do everything myself. That way, I know it gets done. Having to wait drives me crazy, though not as much as it used to. But three years to get my own shop doesn't seem too long to wait, does it?" Not to us. We may wait that long for our next haircut.
During a lord's absence on a Crusade, his lady consoled herself with amatory visits from a handsome young peasant. Because she was highborn, though, the lady considered it beneath her to fondle the young man's sexual organ and entrusted that task to a loyal serving maid. The latter would excitedly announce when the peasant had an adequate erection.... And that, of course, is how the expression Serf's up! originated.
In wall street jargon, catfish is a growth industry. Yes, they're growing catfish. On farms. Hold the chuckles, Charley, the story gets funnier. Last year, some guys in Mississippi took a 100,000,000-pound crop of farm-raised catfish to market. That's $200,000,000 at retail--and the trend is vertical! These numbers are luring such unlikely corporate pillars as Coca-Cola, Campbell Soup and Weyerhaeuser into the aquiculture (growing fish as a farm crop) business. Obviously, you don't get that kind of production fishing off the levee with a bent pin. ConAgra, an agricultural conglomerate, treats catfish as just another farm crop like poultry and feed grain, which it also handles. (continued on page 214) Catfish (continued from page 133)
In a lounge at Downstate Medical Center in Brooklyn, two medical students, thumbing through a new textbook, stop to stare and to laugh. At what? No, not at a picture of a loathsome tumor or a suppurating ulcer but at a photo of a sexually stimulated, well-engorged clitoris, as seen from a nose length away. A few pages later, they find one of an erect penis, hand-held and ejaculating. A bit farther on, there's a Japanese erotic print of an elegantly gowned gentleman kneeling between the thighs of a lady and amiably applying his lips to her labia.... This is a medical textbook? Absolutely.
The Second Annual Baseball Managers' Cash-on-the-Line, Clutch-Player All-Star Team
Pete Rose may be worth more than $800,000 a year to the Philadelphia Phillies, but he's barely worth a moment's notice to the managers of baseball's major-league teams. And such alleged diamond stars as Reggie Jackson, Bucky Dent and Vida Blue are similarly held in low esteem by the managers when it comes to picking the players who perform best under pressure.
Like all the James Bond films, Moonraker, the 11th epic based on the adventures of the famous Ian Fleming superspy, does not lack Death-defying action, ambitious special effects and, closest to our heart, beautiful women. In fact, Moonraker, scheduled to appear on your neighborhood screen in July, may have more gorgeous girls in its cast than any of its predecessors--so many that 007 himself (played by Roger Moore) remarked, on location filming, that "one of the consolations of playing in a succession of Bond films is that the girls are always different. They seem to be better-looking each time, so why should I complain?" Why, indeed? In addition to the two female lead roles, played by Texas-born Lois Chiles as a CIA agent and French film star Corinne Cléry as the archvillain's head chopper pilot, the Moonraker script calls for a bevy of eight shapely misses to play what have come to be known as the Bond Beauties. (If you think your girlfriend stacks up to the Bond Beauties, you can help her get a crack at an appearance in the next Bond thriller. See page 225.) The eight girls in Moonraker, all European models and actresses, play Space Lovers, employees of the villain, Hugo Drax (Michael Lonsdale), who plans to take them up to a space station to propagate a new master race (he has boy Lovers to match each one) after he has destroyed the rest of the world. Officially, Drax is a billionaire contractor, a legitimate builder of space shuttles; secretly, he is a multinational megalomaniac with plans to rule the world. When a space shuttle on loan to Britain from the U.S. is mysteriously hijacked, M assigns James Bond to investigate. As Bond begins to sniff around, he is led to Drax's secret underground mission-control center hidden in the South American jungle. Special effects that rival those of Star Wars, involving space shuttles, space stations and the various ingenious gadgetry that has become synonymous with Bond epics, heighten the suspenseful action. And, naturally, 007 gets himself into a lion's share of do-or-die situations, including a push from an airborne jet, sans parachute, a gondola chase in Venice, a struggle with a kendo expert in a clock tower in St. Mark's Square, and a death-defying scuffle with Drax's steel-toothed henchman, Jaws (Richard Kiel), along a tram cable, scarily high above Guanabara Bay, Brazil. And, of course, a James Bond film wouldn't be a James Bond film without those tender bedroom interludes; Moonraker doesn't fall short on that score, either. Eat your heart out, Sean Connery.
In the days of Suleiman the Magnificent, in the small caza of Yeşilköy near the vilayet of Constantinople, there lived one Hajji Selim, who twice daily supplied his fellow villagers with ekmek, the heavy, coarse, flat loaves of bread. His younger brother Turhan plied the family trade in the kitchens of the sultan's Janizary guard about 30 versts away.
Last winter, when Chicago was buried under some 80-odd inches of snow and the Playboy staff was suffering from terminal cabin fever, our Managing Editor came up with a mercy mission: Go out to California and ride some dirt bikes. On the day we tested the machines, there was a 100-degree temperature difference between where we were and Chicago: It may have affected our judgment. We had wanted to get as far from home as possible, to locate the totally elsewhere. We succeeded. But then, that's the reason these bikes were invented. Four-stroke, single-cylinder playbikes have a long tradition: The old English BSA Victor and the larger Gold Star were massive chargers that totally ignored terrain. If you didn't like the road you were on, or where it was taking you, you simply turned left. Through a fence or over a stone wall. Up a fire road. Down a dry creek bed. The phallic single-cylinder engine had enough torque to get you through anything. If you didn't have enough power to get up the hill, you simply twisted the throttle and spun your rear wheel until there wasn't a hill. On/off-road bikes were for the impulsive adventurer, the "Don't fence me in" outlaw. The upper class had its fox hunts and thoroughbred jumpers; the working class had its four-strokes.
European trains resemble American trains in one important way: They both run on rails. Beyond that, it's like comparing Seattle Slew with Mister Ed. Even without the legendary Orient Express, which used to race from Paris to Istanbul, European trains boast such foreign (to Amtrak) qualities as speed, efficiency and comfort. Best of all, rail travel on the Continent can still be a considerable bargain, especially if you plan ahead.
Chances are you've already invested hard-earned dollars in valuable electronic goodies around your pad--everything from a deluxe stereo system and video recorder to that fancy new microwave oven in the kitchen. Sure, it's great stuff, but it's all very inviting to the burglar, since it has a very high resale value.
Suffolk County--the eastern part of Long Island, New York--is the summer home of Truman Capote, George Plimpton, Lauren Bacall, Andy Warhol, Leonard Bernstein and dozens of other socialites, celebrities, businesspersons and just plain Beautiful People. This area, known collectively as the Hamptons, is the setting for Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, and that picture of opulence and refined casualness still prevails. But there are plenty of reasons--other than stargazing-- to enjoy the Hamptons. You'll find miles of uninterrupted duned beaches, and those familiar with Cape Cod's nippy water temperature will appreciate the warmth of the ocean. Some of the best sport fishing for shark, tuna and swordfish is found in the area and you can also discover the kind of rustic, bucolic scenery that tends to put things back into perspective. All this is just 100 miles from the Big Apple.
One way to beat the long-hot-summer blahs is to go jump in a lake. Another is to settle back and watch the rest of the world work up a sweat while you dive into something wet and cold plucked from one of the handsome coolers pictured here. Two are totally portable and the third, an Italian-made domed Plexiglas minibar, is on casters, so that good times can roll--right out to the balcony, patio or pool. Cheers!
A matchbox is only a matchbox, but a table or desk lighter is a luxurious plaything that's worth its weight in precious metals. There's only one rule to follow when you're shopping for the light of your life: Don't buy something tacky. A lighter that stands on its own is meant to be taken seriously. If the flame thrower you choose looks like you won it at a raffle, expect to see the look of love in your date's eyes fade faster than she can flick her own Bic. And we swear that your favorite smokes will taste better, too, when they're lit with a butane that costs big bucks.
This past March, we pointed out that the new tapered trouser-leg silhouette that's gaining popularity looks better when worn with light, slim-styled shoes. Out of this comes an increasing demand for the type of jazzy professional dance shoe that hoofers on Broadway have been wearing for years. (Obviously, the popularity of disco dancing hasn't hurt the trend, either.) But just as everybody who wears athletic shoes isn't a Reggie Jackson, not all those who step out in patent-leather Capezios are budding Gene Kellys or Fred Astaires. (With the number of musicals on Broadway this year, many of them may well be.) Colors range from basic black to a leather-soled metallic-silver shoe with a five-eighths-inch heel that's right out of The Wizard of OZ.