If you happen to be reading this on an airplane, take a good look at the person who just brought you your coffee and then turn to page 166. See anyone familiar? If so, good buddy, you have the best of both worlds. You've got a great excuse for an opening line right here in your hands, and if that doesn't work, you can always spend the rest of your trip looking (very closely) at what might have been. As for you guys who aren't airborne, you can still take a flight into fantasy with Perfect Allendants, our tribute to America's most beautiful stewardesses, topped off by photographer Arny Freytag's focus on Playmate Martha Thomsen, who flies for Eastern.
Playboy (ISSN 0032-1478), May, 1980, Vol. 27, No. 5. Published Monthly by Playboy in National and Regional Editions. Playboy Bldg., 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chgo., Ill. 60611. Controlled Circulation Postage Paid at Chicago, Illinois. Subs.: In the U.S., $16 For 12 Issues. Postmaster: Send form 3579 to Playboy, P.O. Box 2420, Boulder, Colo. 80302.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), May, 1980, Volume 27, Number 5. 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, $20 for 24 issues, $16 for 12 issues. Canada, $24 for 12 issues. Elsewhere, $31 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; Richard Atkins, Fashion Advertising Manager, 747 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10017; Chicago, Russ Weller, Associate Advertising Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue; Troy, Michigan, Jess Ballew, Manager, 3001 W. Big Beaver Road; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard; San Francisco, Tom Jones, Manager, 417 Montgomery Street.
The Douglas Neighbor of Marietta, Georgia, published an ad that read: "For your wedding, the best laid plans begin at Ramada Inn. . . . Spend [the wedding night] in the Honeymoon Suite and Make a Quick Getaway in the Morning." Presumably, you can phone your wife later.
The same bunch of rancid, decadent old farts can't smother the scene much longer. Pere Ubu, the Clash, Devo, Bootsy's Rubber Band and the Ramones have been coasting on their bloated reputations for so long now that someone has to put some meat back into the music. Who's going to replace these creaking antiques in the months and minutes to come?
Watch CBS program schedules during April for fresh new evidence that Wide World of Sports is not the only kind of television that Americans do better than anyone else. Hallmark Hall of Fame (a Wednesday evening, usually) has a real winner coming up in Gideon's Trumpet, based on the book by New York Times writer Anthony Lewis--the meticulous account of a landmark U. S. Supreme Court case that completely altered the machinery of American justice. Sounds heavy. But this case history--tightly dramatized by David W. Rintels, directed by Robert Collins--turns out to be enthralling, with a performance by Henry Fonda as good as anything he has ever done (and what hasn't he done?). It's natural to assume that Fonda, true to form as a man of distinction, would be cast as nothing less than the U. S. Chief Justice. This time, he fools everyone by taking the key role as dour, grizzled Clarence Gideon, an obscure Florida drifter and habitual felon who was sentenced to a five-year prison term by a Dade County court for breaking into a local pool hall back in 1961. The following year, Gideon wrote a crudely composed petition to the Supreme Court, reminding it that he had been tried without counsel, compelled to argue in his own defense. The Court agreed to hear his case, appointed the illustrious Abe Fortas (José Ferrer, at his mettlesome best) to represent him and ultimately handed down its historic decision. As Gideon sourly sums up: "At least nobody's going to go on trial in this country ever again without a lawyer."
Magical mystery poster: Thanx for all those cards 'n' letters telling us what's written on our nostalgic psychedelic mystery poster (October). Apparently, there are more leftover hippies out there than anyone's admitting. Not a few respondents reminisced fondly about bygone chemicals and the New Year's concert in question. Allan W. Wells of Laramie, Wyoming, even sent us a photocopy of his ticket stubs from the memorable eve. The stumper proved to be the name of the other band billed after the Doors and the Allmen Joy. Was it Singer Fred Blu? . . . Incerrredbll? . . . Kikidee? . . . English Wedges? . . . Young Wedges? . . . in The RFK ED BLD? . . . In Cerkkedell? . . . Backgammon? . . . Gerb Red Blu? . . . Bearfacts? . . . Ineefffdblu? . . . Ginger Brenblo? . . . Funkadellic? All were submitted. And some thought the whole line in question read All men enjoy psychedelic. . . . All enjoy inlek K Keoblu. . . . All men enjoy julius kedells. . . . All enjoy and enlighten. . . . All men enjoy chicken. . . . and All men joy in a rare dblu. We know we do. The favorite answer--and, we think, the right one--was Gingerbred BLU, presumably a local Denver band circa 1967. John D. Webb of Golden, Colorado, whose guess was All men joy in ekkkedklu, also told us that while the club is long defunct, the building remains and has flourished under the name of P.T.'s since 1974. Thanks to all who played. The 50 of you who, in our judgment, correctly deciphered our mystery poster will be getting free one year subscriptions to Playboy, the better to keep up regularly with Yours Truly here in the Music Department.
Spare Change Department: Well, Mick's name is being bandied about a courtroom again, but this time he didn't do it. Artist Peter Max is being sued for over $1,000,000 in damages for allegedly copying and making money on an exclusive photo of Jagger taken during a 1972 Stones concert by Lynn Goldsmith. We think someone should pay Mick for being a work of art.
Gay protesters wanted to keep Cruising from being made in the first place, arguing that writer-director William (The French Connection) Friedkin--with Gerald Walker's novel as his source--was sure to make the gay lifestyle look grim. At a press screening of the finished production, The Village Voice's Arthur Bell told Friedkin: "A hateful film . . . garbage . . . you are the worm of worms." Well, all the hullabaloo turned out to be more exciting than the film itself. While I'll defend to hellandgone Friedkin's right to make any kind of film he chooses, I wish I could defend Cruising with a little more zeal. Militant gays might have served their own cause better by letting the movie, a story about a series of brutal homosexual murders in Fun City, sink out of sight unpicketed, unpublicized and unsung. Al Pacino plays the decoy cop dispatched to trap the killers; although I admire Pacino more than a little, if I were Detective Captain Paul Sorvino, I'd send an irresistible hunk of beefcake out to the fleshpots as bait, not a guy who's short, sullen and 40ish. Pacino sneaks away occasionally to have wham-bam sex with his girlfriend (Karen Allen), but whether to reassure himself or the audience that he's still straight you'll have to guess. That's not the only confusion in Cruising; the film also leaves you wondering whether or not the cop himself is a killer (no, says Friedkin; yes, says the book). Cruising, finally, is just a sexploitational slice of life full of S/M hardware and greased buttocks, played against a background of music for restless reamers and probably no more damaging to the gay world than Looking for Mr. Goodbar was to singles bars. [rating]2 bunnies[/rating]
This book is about the revolution. Which one? Well, it's not about the struggle between communism and capitalism or the fight for equal rights between the sexes or the looming confrontations between Islam and the West. No, Christopher Evans in The Micro Millennium (Viking) is writing about the revolution: the computer revolution. (PBS hopes to tackle the subject in a six-part series based on the book and narrated by Evans.) Once you've read Evans, you'll understand that something momentous is occurring, something larger and more important than the other revolutions we're watching these days: "It will have an overwhelming and comprehensive impact, affecting every human being on earth in every aspect of his or her life." The microprocessor is here to stay, eventually to dominate--and Evans doesn't think that's half bad. He spends his first 50 pages giving us a history of the development of computers (did you know, for example, that Lord Byron's daughter published one of the first studies on artificial intelligence? Or that Hitler could have authorized a project to build the first fully electronic computer in 1940, but he turned the project down because he thought he'd already won the war?). Then Evans takes off on a series of scenarios, showing how computers will affect us from now to the year 2000. This well could be the most important book of the next two decades. Read it and wonder and laugh and weep.
Idol Gossip: Will there or will there not be a sequel to Kramer vs. Kramer? At presstime, no one was quite certain, but most were optimistic. One source at Columbia told me, "Everyone involved in the movie wants it to happen. It's a natural." Certainly, from a financial point of view, it would be a good idea (the flick, starring Dustin Hoffman and Meryl Streep, has been big at the box office) and if it sweeps the Oscars, I'd put money on it. Says associate producer Richard Fischoff: "It was apparent from the beginning that there was a sequel in Kramer vs. Kramer, but at this time it's premature to say whether it'll happen. Dustin has expressed a lot of interest in doing a sequel, but we have no script at this time--and even if we do one, we're not sure if it'll involve Ted and Joanna Kramer or if it'll be about another couple." We'll just have to wait and see. . . . Ordinary People, the film based on Judith Guest's successful novel, has been wrapped. Directed by Robert Redford, the flick stars Mary Tyler Moore, Donald Sutherland and Judd (Taxi) Hirsch. . . . Frank Sinatra, whose last film effort was Dirty Dingus Magee, circa 1970, will coproduce and star in The First Deadly Sin, based on the Lawrence Sanders novel. At one time, the film was slated to be written and directed by Roman Polanski. . . . The campaigns for Oscars aren't filled with as many dirty tricks as the Nixon 1972 election effort was, but this year Hollywood has raised an eyebrow over a report published in New West magazine that Chapter Two producer Ray Stark leaned on columnist Rona Barrett to praise the performance turned in by Marsha Mason and ignore James Caan. When the columnist refused, sparks flew. We hear that the reason behind it all is the belief of Stark's pal Neil Simon that an Oscar will be enough of a career capper for Marsha to stay at home and simply be Mrs. Neil Simon.
The very word inn conjures up the most comfortably romantic images, though there's widespread misconception that the great inns of America are restricted to New England. Fortunately, that just ain't so, and the southernmost of the original 13 colonies (and their neighboring states) are chock-full of wonderful small hotels that are among America's best-kept secrets. Furthermore, the glorious sights and smells of a Southern springtime and the regional traditions of generous hospitality and gentle warmth add a special feeling of well-being that should be cherished as much as the plump mattresses and the historic surroundings. Here are eight of our favorites, representing a taste of the South that very few have sampled.
Gay Talese's forthcoming book about sex in America, "Thy Neighbor's Wife," is already a blockbuster--a sure best seller, a major event in Hollywood--and clearly the year's big book. It's also likely to be a bench mark for the decade, and future works on the topic will continually be compared with Talese's. Because of our own interest in the subject, Talese is the subject of this month's "Playboy Interview." And because we're in Talese's book, we went outside for a detached impression by the well-known New York Times reviewer and columnist.
About a year ago. my husband and I were at a party. When one of the guests started making passes at me. my husband encouraged me to respond. He sat across the room, enjoying watching this total stranger run his hand up my dress. Naturally, things got hot and eventually this stranger and I retired to the bedroom, where 1 thoroughly enjoyed making love. Later that night, my husband got off simply by having me tell him about this other guy. Since that night, he has encouraged me to go braless with tight, thin tops. He has me wearing garter belts, stockings and skirts with long slits. At parties, he wants me to seduce strangers. If there's no party, we go to a bar, where he sits across the room, watching me do my thing. I'm not allowed to leave the bar or party with anyone, but I can retire to a bedroom or the parking lot. I really enjoy all this freedom, but in the past year, my husband hasn't made love to me except when super turned on listening about someone else getting into my pants. What's your reaction to this situation?--Mrs. L. S., Tulsa, Oklahoma.
Over lunch with some visiting writers and a gentleman who does occasional research for Playboy, the, subject of censorship came up. Everyone expressed concern, especially at the increasing efforts to censor or suppress high school texts in various parts of the country. Everyone, that is, except our researcher, who out of pure contrariness was inspired to write the following miniessay:
She was completely nude, lying on her stomach in the desert sand, her legs spread wide, her long hair flowing in the wind, her head lilted back with her eyes closed. She seemed lost in private thoughts, remote from the world, reclining on this wind-swept dune in California near the Mexican border, adorned by nothing but her natural beauty.
He sits alone, a solitary figure on a marble dais so spacious it seems to cradle him. He sits pensively, his eyes lowered, as though gazing inward. He is short, somewhat pudgy, this fiercely private, complex 46-year-old man.
Art imitates life, it has been said, but (in case you can't figure out what's going on here) sometimes life imitates art. The life in this instance is that of the just-retired Miss World, Silvana Suarez, and the art she's imitating is that of the Belgian surrealist René Magritte (1898--1967). The inspiration to incorporate a real woman into Magritte-style photographs came from Belgian fashion photographer Pierre Eggermont, who met the 20-year-old Argentine beauty queen while attending the Miss World 1978 finals in London.
Boston proper, which proudly knows itself as the Athens of America, is a town of 620,000 souls bordered by 76 smaller cities that bring the population of the metropolitan area up to 3,700,000. Boston is a dozen variegated layers. It is Beacon Hill, the heart of the old Yankee establishment where the Cabots used to converse with God, with its narrow streets, red-brick sidewalks and 23-kt.-gold domed Statehouse. It is the North End, the city's oldest neighborhood, first a haunt for Yankee settlers, then home to Jews and Irish, and now a setting for the back-yard shrines to the Virgin and street festivals of the sons and daughters of Neapolitan, Genoese and Sicilian immigrants. It is Government Center, where a modern maze of concrete called city hall has risen from the ruins and honky-tonk once known as Scollay Square, 60 acres of bars, tattoo parlors and burlesque houses. Just behind is Faneuil Hall, vintage 1742, where Samuel Adams once preached revolt, now flanked on one side by the greengrocers, meat stands and fish stalls of Quincy Market and on the other by the cobblestoned arcade of shops, restaurants, flower stands and singles bars.
Treated Properly, a good leather pocket secretary, credit-card case or address book can be a thing of beauty and a joy practically forever. And if leather's good looks and wearability don't turn you on to a well-tanned hide, consider the fact that most leather wallets today are so artfully designed that you can pack a fistful of credit cards and a wad of money into one and not look like you've got a gun in your pocket. All right!
I always come out here after a job, because no one knows where I am. It's like being on the moon. The dry lakes and cinder hills and Joshua trees stretch for hundreds of miles. The jeep is parked in my cave on the high ground and all I have to do is wait for the signal on the short wave. While I wait, I live off the land and play my cassette and write in my diary and watch time pass with the shadows on the ridge line.
Yes, the face is familiar. Two years ago, when Playboy was scouting the West Coast for coeds to put in a Girls of the Pac 10 pictorial, somebody handed us a slip of paper with a name and number: Call this girl. We did and met Martha Thomsen. She agreed to pose. Fully clothed. "Long sleeves. The works. I used to be very shy." You can see the picture in our October 1978 issue. Times have changed, and so has Miss May. A year ago, Martha took a leave of absence from Washington State University and became a flight attendant for Eastern Airlines. She left the shy country girl behind, in the rolling hills and wheat country of eastern Washington, and moved to New York. "The job is a learning experience," says Miss May. "I've gone through the normal first-time-in-New-York experiences. Junior flight attendants always end up rooming together in apartments 'out in the country'--that's slang for Queens. It's a permanent party--you're always surrounded by friends. Now I share a place in midtown Manhattan: a chrome-and-glass apartment with a green door. I think it used to be a brothel." The apartment overlooks the East River. The sun comes through a wall of windows, past some house plants, to make patterns on the wicker furniture as we drink coffee and discuss the joys of flying. "The people you work with are fantastic. Independent, ready for anything. But tell your readers that we are also human. Don't come on with a line like, 'I bet I fly as much as you do.' Don't be rude or make absurd demands. We are there for safety reasons as much as for service. Show some sympathy for the job, some appreciation of our expertise, and you'll make friends." Martha is putting off the decision to return to school. She's having too much fun: "This city is crazy. I love to watch the acts. People on stilts at neighborhood fairs, the guys with headphones roller-skating in Central Park. New York is like a small town, except the people you see on the streets and in discos are the people you see in movies or read about. It's an open-air classroom. I may never leave." New York won't mind.
The sports coat has made such a splash returning to the fashion swim of things that it may very well be the most indispensable item in your wardrobe. For the economy-minded, a single sports coat can serve many levels of formality, particularly as dress standards continue to be relaxed. However, we recommend that you own at least two coats: perhaps an all-purpose white-silk single-breasted one, such as the type in our opening shot, and a double-breasted model, perhaps in tweed or a wool-synthetic combination that holds. Its shape and doesn't wrinkle easily. This (text concluded on page 160) will give you a solid base from which to branch out and try a few more adventuresome offerings, such as shiny fabrics and offbeat colorings. Buy wisely and you'll be surprised by the mileage you can get out of just a few coats. And by rotating them with a variety of nifty slack selections, you'll ensure longer wearability. That's good news for all sports-coat fans.
One of the treats for the eyes at the horse races these days is the delightful new breed of jean-clad female stable hands. Before each race at New Jersey's elegant Monmouth Park, these spirited young "grooms" stand along the rail at the finish line, halters in hand, to urge and cheer their horses home. Then, at the end of the race, after the jockeys have removed their tack and gone to weigh in, the girls smartly take the sweating, iridescent steeds in hand and lead them back to the barns. Shapely fillies all. --L.N.
Crushing heat and humidity flooded Manila's Philippine Coliseum on this October morning in 1975, enveloping the 25,000 spectators and the two weary and pained fighters in the middle of the ring. Muhammad Ali and Smokin' Joe Frazier were taking it to the mountain for the third time, both resolved to tear out the other's very soul and annihilate a rivalry that had spanned five bitter years. Only Ali, that child of the heavens, would touch the summit.
You can see them on the concourses of any of the world's airports, striding along in pairs. Women of mystery. Birds in perpetual migration, their plumage turned out by a top designer. They exude confidence and poise. A select and proud group, they have been culled from literally thousands of applicants to represent their airlines in the highly competitive air-travel industry. They are, of course, the flight attendants.
An aperitif. Isn't that what you order in a smoky Parisian brasserie, standing at a zinc-topped bar? But of course. And you also order it any time you want an appetite stimulator, a civilized, often pungent pre-prandial drink that doesn't anesthetize your taste bunds the way a double martini does, yet gets your gastric juices flowing, priming you for the meal to come.
Forget the Oscars. We don't know if it's acting, but we know what we like. Sigourney Weaver in Alien gets our vote for Best Hero. She did everything better than the guys. After her two movies about TV, Jane Fonda is our candidate to replace Jane Pauley on Today, while Peter Sellers showed definite possibilities as a Johnny Carson clone in Being There.
The world of movies extends far beyond the magic of the silver screen. There is also the world of movie memorabilia--the odd artifacts and news stories that surround the business that is show. For example, in the movie "10," Bo Derek tries to seduce Dudley Moore to the turgid rhythms of Ravel's Bolero. The moment is pure slapstick, but one man's satire is another man's sound track. A record store in New York reported a tremendous run on recordings of Bolero. All copies were sold out within weeks of the opening. The records were selling like Frisbees. It beats disco, but this is ridiculous. For those of you with children or kinky roommates, there was Kenner's Alien toy, available from J. C. Penney. For those of you who collect posters, there was the soon-to-be-collector's-classic Killer Nun, starring Anita Ekberg. (Other ecumenical titles: Satan's Slave, God's Gun.) In the area of creative publicity stunts, we had the stunning coincidence of Three Mile Island and The China Syndrome. The Nuclear Regulatory Commission has guaranteed an encore when the film is sold to television. Probably the worst promotional campaign of the year was McDonald's Star Trek Meal--a box lunch with a cheeseburger, fries, soft drink, cookies and toy. One bite and you want to beam up. At least it wasn't an Alien lunch box.
Where are the classic couples of yesteryear? Bogart and Bergman. Tracy and Hepburn. Nowadays, the most exciting onscreen chemistry occurs between same-sex couples: second row, left to right, the good buddies of The Deer Hunter; Ugo Tognazzi and Michel Serrault in La Cage aux Folles; Nick Nolte and Mac Davis in North Dallas Forty; Dustin Hoffman and Justin Henry in Kramer vs. Kramer; Tom Berenger and William Katt in Butch and Sundance: The Early Days; Alan Arkin and Peter Falk in The In-Laws. Holding the fort for heterosexuals were Malcolm McDowell and Mary Steenburgen in Time After Time (top left), not to mention Kermit and Miss Piggy. The Worst Sexual Chemistry Award goes to John Travolta and Lily Tomlin in Moment by Moment (top center). It seems Hollywood had the hots for cripples: Witness the disfigured heroine in The Promise (top right), the blind skater in Ice Castles, the deaf girl in Voices, the comatose Talia Shire in Rocky II. If this is chemistry, true love is a telethon.
How to Get a Head in Hollywood. The two primary concerns of cinema are (1) sex and (2) death and destruction. Since Playboy regularly deals with the former in Sex in Cinema, we thought we'd take this opportunity to discuss the latter. Decapitation was a big trend in Hollywood last year. In Apocalypse Now (top left), Marlon Brando tosses Frederic Forrest's head into Martin Sheen's cage. In The Silent Partner (bottom left), Christopher Plummer uses an aquarium as a guillotine, leaving Celine Lomez' head afloat amidst the fish. In Robert Altman's short-lived Quintet, Nina Van Pallandt (far left) gets an arrow through the head, earning her the Dumbest Steve Martin Impersonation Award. In Dawn of the Dead, a Hare Krishna gets his head shaved down to the neck by a helicopter. That should teach them not to solicit at airports. So much for death. They say the only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys; well, the only difference between men and directors is about seven figures. Tinseltown rumor has it that the Hollywood Boulevard plane crash in Steven Spielberg's spectacle 1941 (above) cost in the vicinity of $1,000,000 per take and that perfectionist Spielberg shot the scene three times. Ah, wretched excess.
A few seasons ago, Time's review of the Silver Streak suggested that the dialog sounded as if it had been written by the Playboy Advisor. Thanks. We liked the movie, too. Last year, however, movie dialog sounded like letters written to the Advisor. In Manhattan, a lady at a cocktail party in the Museum of Modern Art comments, "I finally had an orgasm, but my analyst says it's the wrong kind." In Starting Over, Candice Bergen turns to Burt Reynolds the morning after and sighs, "When we made love last night, I had a vaginal orgasm." We thought Masters and Johnson settled that debate. In Being There, Shirley MacLaine dutifully tries to find out what arouses TV addict Peter Sellers. He replies, "I like to watch," indicating the boob tube. While Sellers tunes in to a yoga class, MacLaine masturbates--unwitnessed--on a bearskin rug (above). Later, she confesses she never had it so good. Self-help is the best help. In "10" (opposite page), Dudley Moore portrays an urban astronomer with a somewhat similarly inclined neighbor, who tells him, "I've given you X-rated, all you've given me is PG." He may eat those words. When George Segal bailed out of the leading role, his lawyers charged that "10" was a porn movie. Sure, George. Luna (opposite) shows one mother's attempt to deal with the question "Do you know where your kids are tonight?" Jill Clayburgh solves the Oedipal conflict by jerking off her son. Funny Freud didn't think of that. Finally, we noticed that Hollywood had a strange obsession with sex, violence and baldness, frequent concerns of the Playboy Advisor. The bald-headed lover in Bloodline, above, strangles his women. The bald-headed vampire in Nosferatu (opposite page) sucks--blood. The bald-headed Persis Khambatta in Star Trek--The/Motion Picture (top right) is turned into a machine by a mysterious intruder. She finally goes off with her childhood lover in a cosmic parody of computer dating. In Apocalypse Now (top), a bald-headed Marlon Brando manages to fuck an entire movie.
They say the West is dead--the old wild West, that is--where men were men and you shot first and checked a guy's politics afterward. Today we hear that the rough-and-tumble days are now long gone and that they live on only in reverent memory--or on television or in the movies.
Should you decide to outsmart to-day's stock market and seek more wisdom than you might get from your own broker, there are currently more than 1000 stock-market newsletters you can buy to advise and comfort you, and even--more often than not--apologize to you because what they said in the last issue must be contradicted in the latest one. For this good counsel, you can pay about $500-$500 a year.
If the prospect of learning a foreign language conjures up unpleasant memories of high school, you're not alone. Most people don't relish the thought of conjugating a list of Spanish verbs. But taking up a new parlance, whether for business, travel or just the challenge of learning something new, can be a practical and pleasurable venture if you choose the right program. Some instructional methods use a conversational approach: others favor the written word. For many novices, however, too much emphasis on grammar is a stumbling block--and a deterrent. Individual instruction, with a teacher or by yourself, is faster and more expedient than classroom training, particularly if you're pressed for time. The following conventional and not-so-conventional techniques, geared for doing it solo, will have you communicating in something other than your mother tongue in no time.
Is there no end to the long line of artist Ervin L. Kaplan's diminutive chaps whose occupations are an integral part of their anatomy? Apparently not, as this latest collection will attest. Indeed, Kaplan's appropriately hung fellows have become a penile institution. Name the vocation and he can supply the suitable appendage. Which makes us wonder what he'd do with someone who was, say, an editor.
Some people think Hercule Poirol was just a figment of Agatha Christie's imagination. Not so. The dapper little Belgian was Hef's guest at Mansion West a while ago. And, as it happened, Hercule helped Hef out of a potentially embarrassing situation. Hef had invited five Playmates to the Mansion for a small dinner party at which Hercule was the guest of honor. Just before they arrived, Hef confessed his quandary to M. Poirot. "They're all beautiful women," he said, "they're all Playmates, but I haven't seen them in a while and I just can't sort out who's who. I've been looking at these snapshots, but they're not really helping me much."
Does the idea of parachuting Blow Your Mind? Sky Divers will tell you that Minds are like Parachutes; Unless fully Opened, they will not Work. Macho Mitch, Sky-Dive Instructor, will tell you Minds are like a Woman's Legs--Student Annie, Practicing Sky Diving at the Zephyr Desert Parachute Center, has thus far Managed to keep her Chute open and her Legs closed.
The next time you go traveling, do yourself a favor and tuck a pint-sized travel alarm clock in the corner of your suitcase. The latest models are superaccurate (some to within a few seconds a month), lightweight and ruthlessly persistent; all (except the digital car clock) pictured here emit a wake-up buzz that's virtually guaranteed to get you to a plane or a sales meeting on time. And back home from a trip, they work equally well by your bed or in the guest room.
Although it would take a certain amount of nerve and verve (as well as a pair of good-looking legs) to wear them to the office, shorts are decidedly on the scene for summer. To be sure, the energy crisis has been a motivator to cooler dressing. But the currents of fashion evolution have been independently heading toward the same goal. As men have become more self-aware about dress, so have they tended to be less uptight, less inhibited. And the booming interest in getting and keeping in shape has led to a desire to demonstrate the results. If you're still not convinced that shorts are for you, even in casual situations, think of them as a ploy to encourage a tentative trend in women's wear: the return to short skirts and hotpants. To make a long story short, we think that's a cause for which no sacrifice is too great.
Scoring at the office is no problem for Harry Hahamovitch, who, at 39, is chairman of the board of his own construction company in Miami and a self-proclaimed racquetball nut. No, the action in Hahamovitch's life doesn't take place in a sleazy motel on the wrong side of town, it's all right there behind glass, 20 feet from his desk, in a regulation-sized racquet-ball court incorporated into his office building. But Hahamovitch, who often works in game clothes, has discovered that, rather than be a distraction, watching friends play an energetic sport ups his own energy level, too. And, of course, there's no hassle or waiting when he's in the mood for a game. Hahamovitch himself drew the basic plans for his unusual office, then had an architect work up the blueprints. The result cost him no more than a modest-sized yacht would have, and probably is a lot more fun. (The upkeep is certainly cheaper.) The maple floor of the 20' x 40' x 20' court consists of three layers for extra bounce; and five tons of cool air is pumped into the court round the clock to keep moisture out of the floor and to make it comfortable for the players. Nearby is a shower/changing room equipped with extra togs and rackets; a huge circular sofa makes a comfy place to collapse. Hahamovitch has an outsized desk flanking the sofa--and his conference table is also impressive: a ten-foot slab of marble resting on an aluminum-and-mica base that Hahamovitch made. Other executives Hahamovitch's age might head for a bar after work. Hahamovitch thinks his routine is healthier: a game of racquet-ball from five to seven P.M., a shower, then drinks with friends in his office. By the time he's headed home or going out to dinner, he feels refreshed and has missed the rush-hour traffic. "I call racquetball 'nature's tranquilizer,"' Hahamovitch says with a grin. We call his office terrific.
"The Myth of Air Safety"--We Put a lot of faith in both man and Machine when we strap ourselves into an Airplane Seat. A Frightening Amount of that faith may be Misplaced: First of two parts of Playboy's In-Depth Investigation--By Laurence Gonzales