Welcome to the Eighties, the decade most prophesied about in early fantasy and science-fiction literature. We asked Alvin Toffler, the author of Future Shock, what social changes we can expect in the next ten years and he provided us with a sneak preview of his forthcoming book, The Third Wave, to be published by William Morrow. In our excerpt (illustrated by Seymour Chwast), Toffler explains that there'll be a tremendous clash of lifestyles in the years ahead because a new ethic is being born while an old one is dying out. We also asked veteran science writer Richard Rhodes to find out what marvels of science and technology await us in the immediate future and he reported back with 80 Ways the Eighties Will Change Your Life, also illustrated by Chwast. Are you ready for (at long last) a birth-control pill for men? Powdered martinis? We thought you were. Rhodes, by the way, will publish a novel, The Last Safari, in February.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), January, 1980, Volume 27, Number 1. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Bldg., 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Ill. 60611. Subscriptions: In the united states and its possessions, $39 for 36 issues, $28 for 24 issues, $16 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
You Said a Mouthful Department, Cleveland Gold Coast Division: In an article on gay life in Cleveland Magazine, Lakewood city councilman Harry Brockman is quoted as pooh-poohing the notion that Cleveland's Gold Coast area, where he lives, is becoming a "gay ghetto." Said Brockman: "I think this whole thing has been blown out of proportion."
Several months ago, I caused an extensive (and expensive) brouhaha in travel circles when I decided to try to find out which of the conflicting claims about traveler's-check refundability was really true. My findings proved that the truth can sure stir up a hornet's nest--especially when the hornets are worth 25--30 billion dollars annually.
Nostalgia Quiz Update: Thanks for all your cards and letters about our Psychedelic Mystery Poster in the October issue. A lot of you got most of it, and there seemed to be a couple of favorite readings of the hard parts. But most of you complained that we didn't print it large enough, and one person threatened suit for eyestrain. Bitch, bitch, bitch. But ask and ye shall get, once in a while--here's a slo-mo, close-up replay. We're still not sure what it says, so send your updates on what all of it is to the Music Editor. If you were right the first time, just hang in. We'll get back to you in April.
We've seen advertised a device that eliminates the vocal track from most stereo records. Attach it to your system and you can enjoy instant Muzak. The technological marvel costs $195. It should be included free with every purchase of Bob Dylan's Slow Train Coming (Columbia) and/or Randy Newman's Born Again (Warner Bros.). Once again, Dylan bares his Judaeo-Christian soul. And once again, with Gonna Take Off My Pants, Newman bares his. And once again, we're bored.
Recommended gift records for rockin' round the Christmas tree: For those who don't know anything about New Wave but know what they like--real rock 'n' roll--you can't go wrong with Elvis Costello's Armed Forces (Columbia), Nick Lowe's Labour of lust (Columbia) or Dave Edmunds' Repeat When Necessary (Swan Song)-and for those who like it hard, try Give 'Em Enough Rope (Epic), by The Clash. Or you can get back toward the source with the 15-year Who anthology, The Kids are Alright (MCA), or The Essential Jimi Hendrix Volume Two (Reprise), which includes an 8:47 G-L-O-R-I-A that's basic raw. Another essential is Bob Dylan at Budokan (Columbia), a double live LP that beautifully sums up his career up to, but mercifully not including, being reborn. All your friends with yachts in the Caribbean ought to have Jimmy Buffett's Volcano (MCA). For slightly countrified tastes, there's The Amazing Rhythm Aces (Columbia), a great album that was lost in the shuffle of ABC's folding; much closer to good old-fashioned old-boy stuff are Willie and Leon-One for the Road (Columbia) and Waylon Jennings' Greatest Hits (RCA). And on Jerry lee lewis (Elektra), the Killer is exactly that-it's his hottest in 15 years. In a jazzier vein, Rickie Lee Jones (Warner Bros.) is a terrific debut album from a terrific new vocalist, and Joni Mitchell's Mingus(Asylum) is nearly as captivating as it is eccentric. Disco picks (is that an oxymoron?) are Donna Summer's Bad Girls (Casablanca), if there's anyone left who doesn't own it, and an anthology called A Night at studio 54 (Casablanca) that'll put your giftee right there with Steve Rubell, if such are her/his holiday fantasies.
Random Rumors: This month's Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction Award goes to Tommy Chong (one half of Cheech and ...). An old Cheech and Chong routine about an overly aggressive panhandler came true in the L.A. airport recently when Chong and his wife were approached by a member of Hare Krishna. When Chong refused to contribute, the Krishna got abusive and was booked on battery charges.... Michael Schenker, known in rock circles as the "incredible disappearing guitarist," has reappeared again. Schlenker, lead guitarist for UFO, left the group unexpectedly in 1977 after a London concert. He reappeared for a while, disappeared again in 1978, surfaced recently with a European band, Scorpions, and disappeared again. The problem of keeping tabs on him has finally been solved, at least for the time being: Schenker is currently working on a solo album.... When John Mayall's house went up in smoke last fall out in Los Angeles, he lost one of the best porn collections in the world--stuff dating back to the 19th Century.... We've heard just about every promotional gimmick, but this one's pretty amazing: During The Cars' U. S. tour, female fans in each city will be encouraged to enter a "car-wash contest." Winners will get the dubious honor of showering with the band after the concerts.... Otis Redding's two sons, Dexter and Otis III, are trying to crack the music biz. As the Redding Band, they're currently appearing in a disco run by their mother. They reportedly cut an album for Capricorn shortly before that company folded and are now attempting to place it elsewhere.
When Dalton Trumbo died in 1976, he left behind an unfinished novel--one he had been working on for 16 years. While he was alive, he kept busy writing such screenplays as Exodus, Papillon and Lonely Are the Brave and treated the novel as a kind of treasured hobby. Now editor Robert Kirsch has put the novel as it stood at the time of Trumbo's death together with the author's notes to create Night of the Aurochs (Viking). Aurochs (the title refers to a European bison, now extinct) is the fictional biography of Grieben, a German officer who found himself running things at Auschwitz. It is also a remarkable document. The first ten chapters of the novel in finished form are wonderfully compelling reading in which we witness Grieben growing up to be a little monster. The second half of the book is a collection of Grieben's "diary entries," Trumbo's notes for the novel, plot summaries, letters to friends explaining the novel and so forth. This material provides a fascinating look at the process of writing a book. We would, of course, have preferred the completed novel--but what we have certainly holds the attention and provides yet another piece of proof that Trumbo was a major literary talent.
Holiday greetings go out to you with our annual gift-book ideas--beginning with two special novels Playboy previewed during the past year: Joseph Heller's very funny look at Washington and middle-aged Jewish manhood, Good as Gold (Simon & Schuster), and Irwin Shaw's latest, The Top of the Hill (Delacorte), also about male rites of passage. Both will make for good reading. Another best-selling novel, William Styron's opus Sophie's Choice (Random House), is a meticulously researched side of the Holocaust not usually described.
The late Jack Kerouac and his friend Neal Cassady were in love with the same woman. Although Cassady got the girl, Kerouac got published. His second novel, On the Road, was more or less a book about Cassady--a free-spirited lover of wine, women and dope who set the tone for the Beat Generation of the Fifties. Eventually, Kerouac also got Carolyn Cassady--sharing her with Neal from time to time once she'd settled down with his restive chum to have babies and run up bills in a dismal California tract house. After both men were dead, Carolyn wrote a book, which has now begot a fascinating movie called Heart Beat. Writer-director John Byrum (whose first solo feature was Inserts) has managed to make Heart Beat a richly atmospheric mood piece about fame, friendship and a vanished era.
Idol Gossip: Bidding goodbye to her Laugh-In featherbrain image once and for all, actress Goldie Hawn will not only star in but also act as executive producer of Pvt Benjamin for Warner Bros. Arthur Hiller will direct the film, described as a warm, contemporary comedy about a woman who enlists in the Army. It'll be Hawn's debut as a producer.... What with Mac Davis getting all those swell reviews for his acting in North Dallas Forty, the scripts have just been pouring in. Mac has decided on one already--Cheaper to Keep Her, a comedy-drama in which he'll star as a private eye.... Paul Michael Glaser gets his first major film role in Phobia, to be directed by John Huston. (Technically, it's not his debut--Glaser had a small part in Fiddler on the Roof years ago. Add that to your trivia collection.)... James Kirkwood, author of A Chorus Line, has a new book in the works. Titled Hit Me with a Rainbow, it's a love story concerning an editor and a movie actress.... Antiwar activist David Harris has a novel, South of the Border, coming out in May. It's a suspense yarn about smuggling dope from Mexico.... Author Darryl(The Last Detail)Ponicsan has written a book about the trauma of divorce and the joys of new romance from the man's point of view. His title? An Unmarried Man, of course.... Two items regarding the enormously successful foreign film La Cage aux Folles, which has already become the most successful foreign-language flick ever released in the U. S.: Number one, producer Allan Carr wants to do an American stage version of the film and, number two, its French creators are thinking seriously of making a sequel.
How's this for a dating dilemma? One of the girls who work in my building is a real knockout. I've asked her out for dates a couple of times but to no avail. She is taking night courses in accounting, so dinner dates are out. I also get the sense that she doesn't like the pressure of a weekend date--the notion that the sheets get turned down when the sun goes down. She seems to like me, but I just can't find a way to fit into her schedule. Any hints?--A. A., New York, New York.
Navin Johnson is The Jerk: a character of comedian Steve Martin's fertile imagination who began as a simple stage routine that has now turned into a movie that Universal is hoping will make Martin its answer to United Artists' Woody Allen and Warner Bros.' Mel Brooks. The idea is simple and funny: Martin stars as Navin, who was raised by a poor black family only to discover late in life that his skin would never turn dark. Setting out to make his fortune, he stumbles through a series of escapades and inadvertently invents a product called Opti-Grabs, which fastens to the bridge of one's glasses and keeps them from slipping. It makes him ridiculously rich, but not even wealth can make him smart.
The Broken Glass on the steps of City Hall was two inches deep. Four lines of police--men, actually, dressed in heavy shirts; some wearing bulletproof vests; carrying three-foot batons across their chests, theif faces hidden behind visors of plastic--stood in the glass, ducking bottles, cans, rocks and pieces of cement garbage bins that had been torn apart by the crowd. A hysterical policeman shouted, "Did you see them throw every fucking thing at us and us under orders not to move? Did you see it?" Everyone ducked as a pigeon flew over. To the left, another police car, so carefully painted baby blue for better community relations, went up in flames, making it the fifth of the evening thus far; the melting plastic wires in the cars made the horns short out so there was a steady moan, like cattle lowing. "It's like Crystal night," said a sergeant, "only you can't tell who the Brownshirts are."
Human Nature being what it is, there are only three things that will get a grown man outdoors in his pajamas: the arrival of the morning newspaper, the call of "Fire!" and a party at Playboy Mansion West. The last is by far the most fun.
I am Beginning, once again, to have an urge to salute my Uncle Oswald. I mean, of course, Oswald Hendryks Cornelius, deceased, the connoisseur, the bon vivant, the collector of spiders, scorpions and walking sticks, the lover of opera, the expert on Chinese porcelain, the seducer of women and, without much doubt, the greatest fornicator of all time. Every other celebrated contender for that title is diminished to a point of ridicule when his record is compared with that of my Uncle Oswald. Especially poor old Casanova. He comes out of the contest looking like a man who was suffering from a severe malfunction of his sexual organ.
Chances are you'll have a helluva New Year's Eve and, after cutting a few Zs, awake refreshed and ready to boogie some more. Contrary to the old adage, Playboy believes you can't have too much of a good thing. So why not extend the holiday spirit a bit longer, with a New Year's Day open house? If you can't con a ladyfriend into tossing the bash, square your shoulders, man, and assume the duty yourself.
It was at a Dinner the night before the Robert Kennedy tennis tournament and Senator Ted Kennedy, Art Buchwald and ABC executive Roone Arledge were seated at the same table, having a fine time. They're all old friends. Arledge was smoking a grand Havana and Kennedy suddenly reached across the table, snatched the half-smoked cigar and settled back to enjoy it himself. Caught without my sketch pad, I captured the moment on a napkin. There was something about the way Kennedy commandeered the cigar that made me think: Here's a man who has decided to run for the Presidency. You'll notice that Kennedy appears to be staring into the middle distance. He often seems this way. I've found that most powerful men are what I call spatial viewers. They're always either lost in thought or scanning a room to make sure they aren't missing anything important.
Scene: The bridge of the refurbished Starship Enterprise, where members of the crew are staring, horrified, at their viewer screens. Four huge objects, which appear to be some destructive form of plasma energy, have just been released toward earth by an unknown force.
The roster of special-effects wizards working their magic on Star Trek--The Motion Picture reads like the technical credits behind $600,000,000 worth of box-office receipts. After a shaky start, the picture's visual magic has been turned over to director of special photographic effects Douglas Trumbull, 37, and supervisor for special photographic effects, John Dykstra, 31. Trumbull, who cut his teeth on Stanley Kubrick's masterpiece 2001, also did effects for The Andromeda Strain and Close Encounters of the Third Kind and directed the cult classic Silent Running. Dykstra's work on Andromeda and Silent Running brought him to the attention of George (Star Wars) Lucas; his work on that film earned Dykstra an Oscar, and a similar chore for the TV Battlestar Galactica pilot won him an Emmy.
The holidays are rough. There are gifts to buy, taxes to pay, contributions to make, parties to throw, ski lodges and tuxedos to rent--not to mention doormen, postmen and newsboys you may never even have seen but whom you must nevertheless appease. (Mine send second greeting cards when remittance is not received promptly from the first.) Indeed, contrary to popular belief, it is financial rather than emotional distress that causes the suicide rate to soar this time (continued on page 178)Tucking It Away(continued from page 145) of year. What most of us need is a whopping windfall profit--any kind will do--or, failing that, some business school type in a pinstripe Santa suit to drop down the chimney with a hot tip or bizarre tax straddle to help us sock something away for next year.
Ten years ago, Playboy readers caught a first, exclusive look at an extraordinary book that subsequently went on to sell 6,000,000 copies around the world and add a new phrase to the language: "Future Shock." Now Playboy once again presents a revealing first excerpt from a major book by Alvin Toffler: "The Third Wave."
Remember 1970, only ten years ago? Richard Nixon was President. Watergate was an office complex. There was a war in Vietnam. Life magazine discovered women's lib and Ford introduced its first compact car, the Pinto. Clocks had dials. Pan Am was promoting its new 747 service; the smallest computers you could buy were the size of breadboxes and cost $12,000--and there was no such thing as a pocket calculator.
So one night he comes in from using the bathroom takes off his clothes stretches scratches himself puts on his pajamas yawns sets the alarm turns down the sheets crawls into bed fumbles for the light switch above him bumps something soft with his elbow which turns out to be a pale white-haired lady in a plain gray nightgown lying in bed beside him wha--?! he cries out in alarm and demanding an explanation is told she has been assigned to his bed by the social security it's the shortage she says the Ss not coming out just right her teeth he sees now in a glass of water on the night table private beds are a luxury the world can no longer afford she explains adding that she hopes he won't kick during the night because of her brother who has only one leg is ailing poor soul and is sleeping at the foot of the bed (this is true he feels him there sees him knobby old gent in a cloth cap and long underwear one leg empty pinned up to the rear flap) all of which since he has not heard about the world bed shortage takes him by surprise and with a gasp he says so to which the old lady replies in her prim toothless way that yes yes life in the modern world what there is left of it is not always easy young man it's what they call the progress of civilized paradox she's heard about it on the television but at least at least he still has his own bed has he not he's after all luckier than most naming no names (she sighs) even if it is only a three-quarter and a bit tight for five and--five!! he cries rearing up in panic five--! and sure enough there they are two more three in fact how did he miss them before a skinny oriental huddling down behind the old lady dishwater hands shifty eyes antiseptic smell quivering taut as a mainspring and on this side just arriving a heavy-bellied worker in oily overalls staggering toward the bed with a fat woman tottering on stiletto heels huge butt squeezed shinily into a tight green dress hair undone eyes wet their faces smeared with sweat and paint and cockeyed the--look Out!--both of them as they--crash!--hit the night table send it flying lamp water glass teeth and all upsetting the old lady needless to say who goes crawling around on the splashed bed on her hands and knees looking for the teeth spluttering petulantly through her flabby lips that woman's not allowed here it's not fair they said five! the worker paying no mind or too drunk to hear hauling off his overalls kicking them aside his underwear belching growling pushing the woman toward the bed cracking her big ass soundly when she hesitates making her yelp with pain not here Duke not with that old lady watching shut up goddamn you I don't ask for much the old lady is complaining still scratching about for her dentures justice that's all justice a little respect dignity a dress rips the worker blows a beery fart it's a hard thing growing old but I don't ask for any prizes--pwitheth she says--and look at that chink Duke look at his goddamn eyes bug what's he staring at but the worker just grunts irritably and shoves her roughly onto the bed and onto its erstwhile owner now too overcome by the well-meant outrages of a world turned to rubble and mercy even to move ah me! all this order he thinks as the worker plummets down upon them both like a felled tree and commences to fumble groggily for the bawling fat woman's seat of bliss (he could show him where it is to but if he doesn't know how to ask politely to hell with him) all this desperate husbandry this tender regulation of woe the woman on him weeping and groaning now ass high and soft legs flailing believe me says the old lady crankily still on her bony knees if I don't find my dentures there'll be the dickens to pay I mean (concluded on page 316)In Bed One Night(continued from page 151) it--my denthurth she says--it ain't fair complains the old man at the foot of the bed him having a woman all to hisself that ain't square ignore them Albert says the old lady don't encourage them she's not even supposed to be here I know my rights insists the old man and gets a foot in the face for them they's a law--splut! kaff!--he squawks disappearing over the foot of the bed which is now rocking and creaking fearsomely with the mighty thrashing about of the drunken lovers linked up on top of what on a different occasion might loosely be thought of as the host knocking his wind out whap whump oh Duke my god Duke gasp! Albert--? a sweet stink rising are you all right Albert? and true the pounding friction wet and massive giving him a certain local pleasure for all the burden of it but it does not console him what can? sunk as he is in the dark corruptions of nostalgia dreaming of the good old days get back up here Albert you'll catch your death oh christ Duke--slop! slap!--kill that--pant!--kill that chink Duke break his fucking neck pop his yellow eyes out yes alas those days of confusion profligacy ruthless solitude tears come to his eyes just thinking about them as the old man reappears at the foot crawling hand over hand the pin that was holding up his empty pants leg between his teeth the old lady remonstrating no violence now please the oriental crouching tremulous on the pillow by the headboard with a knife a gentle answer Albert turneth away--screams groans grunts the worker roaring in pain and rage oh my god Duke! but he wipes away the foolish tears angry with his own weakness forget those days they're gone and just as well he lectures himself as a pale woman enters with three runny-nosed kids clinging to her limp skirts there's been some mistake but we're awfully tired sir just a little corner--? yes forget those stupid times get some sleep and then tomorrow it's down to the social security for a new bed assignment a pretty lady maybe to hear his case Duke? report the losses tidy up wash the sheets out are you ok? say something Duke and lulled by the heavy rhythms of fucking and weeping the kids wrestling their mother whispering at them to settle down or the nice man will ask them to leave the old lady's gummy scolding he drifts off dreaming of a short queue happy accidents and wondering if he Duke? remembered to switch off the bathroom light aack! screw the cap back on the tooth paste now what have you done Albert oh no! thwallowed the pin--?!
Yes, her real name actually is Gig Gangel and, no, she wasn't named after actor Gig Young, nor is she a rock musician, nor is her first name really Brigitte or Gidget or any mutation thereof. "Gig is my full first name," she tells us. "It derives from the word giggles, because, as a baby, I laughed a lot, so my sister coined the name Gig, although my parents had a distinct preference for Geraldine." Now that your skepticism has been assuaged, you're probably wondering where you've seen her before. On our October cover, of course, cavorting with the one and only Burt Reynolds. Her account of what really went on at that cover shooting: "To tell you the truth, when I heard I was going to pose with Burt Reynolds, I wasn't excited at all. I know that sounds abnormal, but I never thought of him as quite my type. I was expecting a conceited movie star, but he walked into the studio in jeans and a sweat shirt and was extremely warm and friendly--a little shy, in fact. He cracked us all up and, well, my whole attitude changed. I walked away from that shooting just floating on a cloud. Now he excites me a lot!" What else excites her? "The beach is really my main weakness," says Gig, who spends most of her time on Texas' South Padre Island (population 300) in the Gulf of Mexico. "I'm an early riser--5:30 A.M. I get up and run seven miles along the beach. Later, I go surfing or water-skiing; and a short time ago, I took up motorcycle racing, because I once went out with a guy who was into that." Highly opinionated and somewhat "bullheaded" by her own admission, Gig says her future plans are on hold for the moment, though she has had some pretty strong ideas about what she's not interested in doing: "For one thing," she says, "marriage doesn't appeal to me at all. I tried it once--it lasted three months--and, needless to say, I don't believe in it. Nowadays, that little piece of paper just isn't necessary. If you're not getting along, you should up and leave any time you please. Second, I'm not interested in acting at all. How's that for a switch? If someone were to come up to me tomorrow and ask me to play the lead role in the remake of Gone with the Wind, I wouldn't take it. It just doesn't interest me. Right now, my main interest lies in the possibility of studying marine biology, with an emphasis on sharks, which fascinate me. Another vision I get is to one day raise Dobermans; but for the moment, I'm content to just laze around." And we're content to watch.
Guess what I dreamed about you last night, baby?" the brash salesman pitched to the somewhat sensitive receptionist. "What I dreamed was that you were a powerful, purring, well-tuned luxury-car motor."
To Welcome the dawning of a new decade, we asked five leading New York fashion designers to select one look from their forthcoming line of clothes that best sums up the direction they feel menswear will be taking in the Eighties. Interestingly, each designer based his look on the sports jacket, suggesting a universal desire to start with familiar forms. But don't let that mislead you; each of the outfits shown is decidedly individual--as you'll see for yourself. Our prediction: The Eighties will be the decade of the designer.
Sometimes you can't lose for winning. Just ask a girl who's been thrown off the cheerleading squad of a National Football League team. Finding such a girl isn't too difficult. The controversy that resulted from our first pro cheerleaders pictorial (Pro Football's Main Attractions, December 1978) led to the firing of nearly 50 girls from six teams and a sudden outbreak of morality among N.F.L. management. (Commissioner Pete Rozelle met with the owners and then gave a nice speech to the press about their intentions to go back to selling wholesome American football without so many artificial sweeteners.) The reaction of the press to the firings was a mixture of outrage and amusement, but the over-all effect was to focus even more attention upon the cheerleaders. We followed the progress of many of the girls who'd lost their places in line on Sunday afternoon in last March's pictorial What Do You Say to a Naked Cheerleader? Goodbye! and found that being fired had often proved to be a blessing in disguise. The publicity led to better job offers, proving that the cheerleader concept could spill over into other areas of public relations.
For a Few Minutes, just put your records away, you vinyl junkies. If you've got a pair of scissors, a roll of cellophane tape and a turntable that will move at 78 rpm, you're ready to start building your own zoetrope (illustrated above). So what's a zoetrope? It's what Martin Scorsese would be using if it were not for Eastman Kodak, that's what. Basically, it's a slotted cylinder lined with little pictures showing different stages of an action. See those little picture strips at the right? When you rotate them inside a slotted cylinder, the little pictures appear to be a single picture of something in motion. Voilà ! Animation. Everyone wants to make movies nowadays, right? So here's a low-budget home production for you. We've updated the zoetrope with a little modern technology and socially redeeming art. Just cut out, assemble and place it on your Garrard. For full assembly instructions and diagrams, turn to page 194.
Mike Bossy is flying. The National Hockey League's leading goal scorer is effortlessly gliding down the right side of the rink. Everything is in harmony--his legs are pumping with rhythmic precision, his skates are barely scratching the frozen surface, the puck is gently caressing the blade of his stick.
Just as this was an extraordinary year for Playboy, it was an extraordinary year for Playmates. After all, 25th anniversaries come around only once. Each girl who graced our centerfold in 1979 was painstakingly selected for qualities above and beyond the norm. Eight of the 12 were discovered during our Great Playmate Hunt. What a way to usher in the Eighties!
During the reign Of the Emperor Yozei, one of his personal bodyguards, named Michinori, was ordered to go to Mutsu. One night, along the way, he and his eight soldiers stopped at the house of a provincial governor. After a good dinner, the household went off to bed, but Michinori found himself wakeful and he soon arose. He walked about and finally came to a distant part of the house partitioned off by screens. The room, with its mats on the floor, a small light burning and the fragrance of incense in the air, charmed him, and he stepped inside. A young woman was asleep on one of the mats and Michinori gazed a long time at her. She was, he thought, a remarkably beautiful and elegant creature.
Each year, the staffs of the Editorial, Art and Photography departments choose the articles, artwork and photos to be singled out in January for special praise. It's a given, of course, that everything we publish is mighty fine. Arguments occur only when we try to separate what's terrific from what's merely great. No, there aren't gunshots in the halls and nobody has had his car tires slashed. The whole process, in fact, is a joy, because we feel that writers, artists and photographers do not get anywhere near the recognition and praise that their often underfed egos need and deserve. (Their bank balances often need to be fed, too.) Besides, they do make the world a better place. So here are our picks for the best of the best that has appeared in Playboy's pages during the past 12 months. Along with this mention, each winner receives a $1000 check and an award medallion to look at after the money is gone. Our congratulations to all.
The Avalon of audio aficionados is a room whose acoustic properties and apparent size can be changed to provide an optimum environment for the music played (or recorded). In this room, there are loudspeakers without diaphragms, tape recorders with a dynamic range at least as wide as that of live music and record players that operate with no friction of a stylus against a disc groove.
Legal clinics are the new wave for delivery of legal services. There is an inexorable trend to lower the cost, move the offices into the neighborhoods, standardize legal services and use modern technology for the efficient processing of legal matters.
The mustache isn't working. Carefully chosen (the $8.95 edition) and carefully carried in its pristine pink-plastic box over to a gay friend's house, where I am dressing, it is the key to my success and it's not working. I look, even in the square mirror in the bathroom, even with the rheostat turned down to zero, like a girl with a mustache on.
For me, Aspen has it all. Snowbird and Taos are great for romantic ski connoisseurs, but only Aspen has great mountains, plus people, culture and everything else it takes to make the heart grow fonder.
Getting the Attention of most skiers this time of year isn't very difficult, and with the Winter Olympics coming up next month in Lake Placid, more people than ever are lusting to get on the slopes. But why should you have to wait until then to find out what the trendy skiers are up to this season? Informed Source has been monitoring the situation for you and here's our report:
When the sun goes down and the lights go out, everyone says the same thing: "Where the hell is the flashlight?" And if you don't have one handy, you're right back in the Dark Ages, fumbling for a match. While we're shining light on the subject, we'd also like to point out that many of today's flashlights serve multiple purposes. One doubles as a spot-and-signal light, another is guaranteed for five years and a third even squirts a repellent. Let those little lights shine!
Several designers in our Birth of a Notion fashion pictorial elsewhere in this issue emphasized that if you have a wardrobe with versatility, it will continue to grow in importance, as both a hedge against rising costs and a way around excessive storage problems. To further expound on that point, we present four interpretations of the same herringbone sports jacket. The looks range from a somewhat conservative treatment with vest and tie to one that's more country squire, with a plaid shirt and knit tie featured. And there's also the obvious outerwear approach in which the jacket is worn over a sweater--as well as the throwaway chic of wearing it over nothing but a T-shirt and jeans. The idea is that a single garment can express many personalities and serve a variety of purposes while keeping your fashion inventory within bounds.
There was something wonderfully strange about this brand--new car we were wheeling through the Italian Alps. It was Alfa Romeo's latest effort, a bold foray by the Italian maker into the world of high--dollar luxury sedans by the likes of Mercedes, BMW and Jaguar.