We'd like to introduce this issue with a little background music from Neil Diamond: "September morn/We danced until the night became a brand-new day/Two lovers playing scenes from some romantic play...." If September mornings (not to mention evenings) always make you feel that way, you've got company. Us. And what do we do to add romance to our lives? Well, we can't tell you everything, but you can get a few tips from We'll Take Romance!, our guide to the kinds of fanciful gestures that win a lady's fancy. It begins with an essay by Contributing Editor John Sack, illustrated by Jon Whitcomb, dean of the magazine-cover artists of the Forties and Fifties. Whitcomb told us he hadn't done a magazine illustration for four or five years; obviously, he hasn't lost his touch. The entire package was edited by a very romantic woman (Associate Editor Barbara Nellis) with inspiration from Senior Staff Writer James R. Petersen, our Playboy Advisor.
Probably, you can get anything you'd ever want at America's top 25 restaurants. Witness what is perhaps the world's most splendid potluck, right, at the Windows on the World bash. The 25 chefs from the chosen restaurants each supplied a delicacy representative of his eatery's fare. Not shown, several well-known gourmets pinching themselves to prove they had not died and gone to heaven.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), September, 1980, Volume 27, Number 9. Published monthly by Playboy, Playboy Bldg., 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Ill. 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States and its possessions, $48 for 36 issues, $34 for 24 issues, $18 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 60611. Russ Weller, Associate Advertising Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue; Troy, Michigan 48084, Jess Ballew, Manager, 3001 W. Big Beaver Road; Los Angeles 90010, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 4311 Wilshire Boulevard; San Francisco 94104, Tom Jones, Manager, 417 Montgomery Street.
We sent Editorial Assistant Bonnie Robinson to talk with writer-director Nicholas Meyer at his Laurel Canyon home. "He looks exactly as he did when we were in college together," she reports, "except his taste in clothes has improved."
National Review. Attractive WM polemical writer (work in progress--Ralph Nader: Vermin or Scum?) knows latest Ted Kennedy jokes and loves to discuss the evils of Government regulation. Have worked for Reagan, Thurmond and Goldwater--perhaps I could work for you. This Mr. Right loves realistic novels by Buckley, Agnew, Ehrlichman, Liddy, et al. Have many liberal friends who are fun to bait. My laissez-faire philosophy does not extend to beautiful women. I know all five sexual positions.
He takes his time, but when Stanley Kubrick makes a movie, he makes it right. There is still no serious science fiction to match 2001: A Space Odyssey, which was a decade ahead of its time. There's no subsequent black comedy of our nuclear age to beat Dr. Strangelove, and Kubrick's images of punk terrorists on roller skates make A Clockwork Orange now look like culture shock date-lined yesterday. The old cinematic magic boils over again in The Shining, his brilliant supernatural horror show adapted (by Kubrick in collaboration with Diane Johnson) from Stephen King's thriller. By working some subtle changes in the story, Kubrick creates a tour de force of sheer terror, sustained for incredible stretches of screen time against all odds, even against logic. The movie is more surreal than the book, nightmarish, making you think you see more graphic violence than is actually there--an easy error of perception when flash floods of blood start bursting through the walls.
Bertram Gross, in his book Friendly Fascism (M. Evans), sees something that the rest of us only vaguely sense: "The subversion of constitutional democracy is more likely to occur not through violent and sudden usurpation but rather through the gradual and silent encroachments that would accustom the American people to the destruction of their freedoms." In other words, it can happen here. And Gross shows us how we might be served Hitler with a grin, Mussolini with a PR package. He examines the roots of classic fascism and then extrapolates a more subtle and modern version of the Fascist state from those beginnings. He writes of our problems, "chronic inflation, recurring recession, open and hidden unemployment, the poisoning of air, water, soil and bodies," and suggests that those seeds may contribute to "a new despotism creeping across America," a fascism evolving "as an outgrowth of present trends in the establishment." Gross is neither totally pessimistic nor hand-wringing in his presentation, but he is tough-minded about our alternatives. Put it this way: You may have the urge to give this book to both your friends and your enemies, with the admonition that we've got a lot of work to do if we want to avoid an American Third Reich.
Hot Wax: Bernadette Peters (MCA) is a class act. From the haunting Alberto Vargas album cover to the emotion-packed music inside, the entire effort is a sensuous treat. Grabbing love songs from throughout the century, Peters interprets each perfectly with that powerful whisper of a voice. And long after the last song has ended, you'll still find yourself staring at the cover.
The Flying Burrito Brothers had considerably more luck in Japan than did Clapton. Their Live from Tokyo (Regency) makes it sound like it's a pure joy just to be a hillbilly and alive. The Burritos have headed deeper back into the pure streams of country than in former rhine-stone-cowboy days and are pickin' and singin' the shit out of the classics--White Line Fever, Dim Lights, Thick Smoke, Rocky Top, Truck Drivin' Man, Six Days on the Road and an inspired Rollin' in My Sweet Baby's Arms. Recommended for urban cowboys and true shitkickers alike.
Reeling and rocking: Bernie Taupin is working on two film projects, a screenplay called Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, which will feature 20 songs he co-wrote with Elton John, and an animated feature, Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy. Captain Fantastic (based on the album of the same name, on which he also collaborated with Elton) will feature their animated counterparts on a journey to the city of Poptropolis, a place of pitfalls and promises not unlike those one encounters in the music industry. Yellow Brick Road will be about a Midwestern teenager who travels to New York and loses his innocence. No release date yet for either movie.... Clint Eastwood's duet with Merle Haggard in Bronco Billy isn't his singing debut. One has to count Paint Your Wagon and The Beguiled, even if Clint would rather not.... Right about now, we should know if John Travolta's Urban Cowboy did for country swing what Saturday Night Fever did for disco. We're pretty sure the hard-core group at Gilley's could care less.
Idol Gossip: Farrah Fawcett did it, Kate Jackson did it, and now Jaclyn Smith, the last of the three original Charlie's Angels, is making her feature-film debut, in Avco Embassy's Nightkill. Costarring Robert Mitchum, Mike Connors and James Franciscus, it's a suspense thriller about a woman (Smith) who plots with her lover to kill her husband. Why Jaclyn for the part? Says coproducer David Gil: "We wanted someone fresh, someone beautiful, someone relatively new to movies. Jaclyn is perfect--a face for the Eighties." ... Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.'s first novel, Player Piano, is finally finding its way to the big screen. Set for the lead is Alan Arkin, who will also direct and co-write the script. Shooting is set to begin in 1981... The Beatty Curtain is the name given by insiders to the veil of secrecy surrounding Warren Beatty's production of the movie Reds, based on the story of American journalist John Reed, the only American buried inside the Kremlin. In production since last August, the film has apparently undergone extensive rewriting and reshooting, and the original budget of $20,000,000 may ultimately reach $30,000,000. The film co-stars Beatty as Reed, Diane Keaton as his wife, Louise Bryant, Maureen Stapleton as Emma Goldman and Jack Nicholson as Eugene O'Neill. ... CBS will air a three-hour telefilm called Chennault: The Flying Tiger, based on the wartime diaries and other writings of General Claire Chennault, controversial founder of World War Two's famous Flying Tiger volunteer air force. Some location shooting for the project may take place in mainland China.
Can it be that your friendly neighborhood travel agent is about to become an endangered species? It's certainly possible, at least partially because the traditional patterns of travel sales and services are being altered by the guys who make many of the most important rules in this industry--namely, the Civil Aeronautics Board. Recent rulings and various other proposals may meaningfully affect the future relationship between you and your travel agent--if they have not done so already.
Please help me. Through some very dear friends, I recently met a man whom I find witty, articulate, charming and comfortable to be around, as well as a sensitive and remarkably compatible lover. However, he lives in Chicago and I live in New York. Although we both have careers in our respective cities, neither of us can afford to commute regularly. Can you offer any suggestions on keeping the flame burning?--Miss M. C., New York, New York.
In the harsh morning light, Joe Gideon stumbles into the bathroom, wolfs down a fistful of amphetamines, lights a cigarette, switches on a classical cassette, stands motionless--helpless, really--waiting for the speed to take hold. In the shower, the spray plasters his hair against his forehead, but the cigarette continues to dangle from his lips. Later, shaved, hair combed, teeth brushed (but cigarette still dangling), Gideon auditions for himself in the bathroom mirror. He passes, casts himself to play the lead in his life for another day. He smiles, causing the cigarette to jump. Then he turns the palms of both hands up and over, his eyes dance merrily and he says, "It's showtime, folks!"
The news is out: America has finally discovered an aphrodisiac. It is not something you buy. It is not something you can slip into the drink of an unsuspecting girl. It's no big deal, but it will make you better in bed. It's called romance. We first told you about it in the December 1978 Playboy. Since that time, we've seen the original impulse go astray. Some of you have suffered massive anxiety attacks, bought new wardrobes, opened charge accounts at the local florists, memorized the screenplays to Cary Grant movies. Relax. Romance is the result of style, of timing, of tiny gestures. It's like personality. If you are alive, you have one. If you like women, you are romantic. Romance is playful, not serious. It is natural, not acquired, the result of happy accidents and a willing accomplice--not artifice. It is improvisation, not practice. It is so easy it can happen in spite of your worst efforts. It is important enough that we thought you might need the little refresher course beginning on the next page. We've asked John Sack--a self-confessed prisoner of romance--to start things off by getting right to the heart of the matter.
I saw it coming a couple of years ago, when Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson started getting popular with friends of mine who had never been west of the Mississippi or south of the Smith & Wesson line. I should have seen it coming even before that, when fancy restaurants started letting in people wearing expensive suits made out of denim. I knew it was too late when I started seeing regular ads for cowboy boots and hats in The New Yorker.
A Playboy photo shooting is, more often than not, an afternoon of quiet, intimate moments, punctuated by the soft mechanical noises of a motor-driven shutter. It is a series of shared discoveries between photographer and model. It is serious business. It is art. It sells magazines. The shooting on the afternoon in question started like any other. Playboy photographer Ken Marcus was establishing a good working relationship with his model--actress Evelyn Guerrero, who was taking time off from the role of a sexy welfare-office worker in something called Cheech & Chong's Next Movie. Marcus is a craftsman, a master of studio lighting techniques. He was not prepared for what happened next. Marcus was about to be transported to The Twilight, or maybe The Crazy, Zone. Without warning, lo and behold, a couple of maniacs were driving a motorcycle through the door of the studio and into the carefully arranged set. Who were those cutups? Were they Hell's Angels outcasts? A couple of representatives from a bizarre collection agency? Escapees from a local funny farm, perhaps? No, they were none other than Cheech and Chong, friends and co-workers of Evelyn's, who had just finished a day's shooting on Cheech & Chong's Next Movie and were looking for trouble. As you can see from the pictures above, Evelyn was quite upset by their arrival and tried to get them to leave immediately. She tried to persuade them by hugging them, which didn't work. Marcus wasn't too wild about the interruption, either, but what could he do? They're celebrities. So, in the interest of history, he instructed his assistant to continue with the shooting. Not that any student of history could conclude anything from these ridiculous proceedings. "We'll see what we can salvage," he said.
In the summer of 1979, an invisible hand reached out from an island in the Atlantic and quietly began tightening its grip on the world's supply of silver. The fingers of that hand extended to London, New York, Dallas, Zurich and Jidda. But the only visible clue to its existence was a newly formed Bermuda shell corporation called International Metals Investment Company Ltd. That dull-sounding little trading company was not just another offshore tax scam but the operating front for a secret partnership seemingly capable of controlling the world price and supply of silver.
To really get to know Lisa Welch--not an altogether simple task, since she is, by her own admission, "a shy, reserved person"--one must delve a bit into her past. For starters, she's the daughter of a career military officer and, as a result, spent most of her youth traveling from town to town. "Up until I was ten," she reminisces, "we didn't live anyplace for more than three years. Half the time, we lived on Army bases. I sort of liked it then, though--always going someplace new, meeting new people." Altogether, she has lived in Maryland (where she was born), West Germany, Alabama, Arkansas, Missouri, Alaska, Hawaii and San Francisco--quite an itinerary for someone her age. The peripatetic nature of her life came to a halt several years ago, though, when Lisa's father was transferred from San Francisco to Hawaii. By then old enough to make her own decisions, Lisa opted to remain in Frisco and has lived there ever since. "It's so hard for me to think of anyplace as home," she says, "and when people ask me where I'm from, I usually just tell them I'm an Army brat. San Francisco is about the closest I've come to having a real home." After completing high school at the age of 16 (she has always been the youngest in her class), Lisa attended the College of Marin in Marin County and studied fashion retailing for two years. Her feelings about the infamous Marin County were mixed: "Believe it or not, they still say things like 'invading your space' a lot there, but I never really got into the typical Marin lifestyle of consciousness raising and all that." Following college, Lisa worked two jobs at once--travel agent during the day, restaurant hostess at night--but the experience wore her out. "I was working so much," she says, "my dog was having emotional problems." Then, on a short trip through Los Angeles, she stopped at the Playboy modeling agency just for the hell of it and was persuaded to try out for Playmate. "The whole Playmate experience has been very beneficial for me," says Lisa. "Most importantly, it's helped me overcome my shyness. I'm not nearly as reserved as I used to be."
That new guy who has such a reputation in classical poetry has no appreciation of the academic proprieties," sniffed a female member of the English Lit department to a confidante. "During our date last night, he wanted to screw me doggerel style!"
While going to college may be serious business these days, that's no reason for your wardrobe to be all that somber. Clothes with imagination and flair have replaced the scruffy, rebellious nonstyles of a few years ago, and undergrads are discovering that they can come on looking good and still express their individuality. Not to be overlooked, of course, are practical items for warmth, longevity, etc. But even with such predictable stand-bys as flannel shirts and corduroy slacks, interesting color--and design--innovations abound. Also of particular interest this season are sweaters--wool/polyester V-neck sleeveless ones in Jacquard weaves, bulky crew-necks and even Argyle-patterned looks straight from Harold Teen comic strips. Outerwear, of course, always will play an important fashion role on campus. Quilted coats with Sherpa-type convertible hoods and hefty topcoats are big at Midwestern schools, while down South, many students rely on turtlenecks and tweed sports jackets to keep out the chill. And remember, too, that no matter how casual your collegiate lifestyle is, you will need a suit or two when you go for job-placement interviews and for that special date when Dad loosens up and agrees to pop for a big night on the town.
Where do pretty girls come from? It's the kind of question that sparks the spirit of adventure in us. Surely someone must once have said to himself, "I wonder where the headwaters of the Amazon are," and then gone out and found them. Darwin must have had such a question in mind when he set about tracing the roots of life on this planet. The search for the origin of life, we grant you, was interesting; but a search for the source of beauty--now, there's a challenge. One that we at Playboy, as true scientists, could not ignore. After nearly six months of intensive research, we can report that we think we've found it--the source. The mother lode. The sine qua non of American beauty may just be the Southwest Conference. Beautiful women are there in quantity, gliding across the sun-baked campuses of the Bible Belt. They are healthy, vibrant and unmistakably feminine. These are the kind of girls that make all too brief appearances in our dreams. The ones who are just out of reach, just as we wake up. The only difference is that they are here, in the Southwest, in the flesh. The proof of all this became apparent the first time we wandered onto a S.W. Conference campus. We saw girls there who knew how to wear (text continued on page 159) Southwest Conference (continued from page 143) jeans. Nowhere else in the world do girls wear jeans the way they do in the American Southwest. Not your big-city Vanderbilts, mind you. These are Lees, Levis and Wranglers cut to quarter sizes. Our cultural analysts have told us that the wearing of well-fitted jeans bodes well for any society. We do not quarrel with the cultural analysts. Of course, any sort of scientific inquiry has its ups and downs. Amazon explorers ran into piranha. Darwin's theories led to the Scopes trial. Our explorers, the Playboy photographers, had Abner McCall.
We chanced upon our September Playmate II, Granny, crossing the quad at ol' Hit & Miss, a school with the largest student body in the conference. "Large bodies turn me on," says Granny, "if everything else is in proportion." And how does she like matriculation? "Whatever gets you through the night," she blushes. "They don't call 'em Evereadies for nothing." Granny has decided on a physical-education major because she's always been an athletic supporter. "My two favorite sports," Miss September II confides to us, "are Joe Namath and Secretariat--and not necessarily in that order." What does she like about college? "The student union," Granny cackled, "wherever it takes place." That's Granny, folks.
There lived long ago near Ballaghaderreen a man named Owen Mulready, who should not have had a care in all the wide world. Owen was blessed with a kind master and a fine little plot of ground. But there was one small thing that weighed upon him. He had never had what the old folk called a brionglóid guagach--a wet dream.
Even the most casual fan no longer believes that college football is a purely amateur sport played for the purpose of building character and bringing glory to dear old alma mater. Long gone are the halcyon days when gentlemen scholars met on friendly fields for the simple joy of physical combat and the entertainment of friends, family and alumni. Nowadays, the more talented players view their college years as a necessary boot camp to prepare them for the riches waiting for them in pro football. Even ordinary players see the game as a free ticket to a college education. To university administrations, a successful football program can open a wellspring of alumni contributions. For a winning coach, college football can provide $100,000 in income per year.
While Fleeing Through The Spaceport Bazaar From The Dread Reptilian Secret Police On The Planet Up-thine--our Daring Adventuress Takes Refuge In An Android Shop!Hope This Works...Could Be The Perfect Hiding Place!--among Those Brand-new Female Androids!
Your new shirt has no button-holes? You got bumped from the 9:07 to Dubuque? Your expensive mail-order steaks arrived unfrozen? Don't let the system kick sand in your face. You can duke it out with even the biggest corporations--all you need is basic consumer judo.
By now, cowboy chic has saddle-broken our most irascible clotheshorses, but it's been a long, rhinestone-strewn trail--probably starting as far back as the 12th Century, when Arabs introduced boots to the Spanish, who eventually brought them to America. Now, of course, some Arab oil sheiks wait as long as a year and a half for a Texas-sewn pair of Luccheses.
Secretly, you've always considered yourself the pinball wizard. In college, exercise to you meant keeping your flipper fingers in tone on the pinball machines in the pub. Now that you're older, smarter, full of executive savoir-faire, we present to you this new, more beguiling challenge: At right you will find a two-dimensional version of Bally's Playboy Pinball Game--a dizzying maze of seductive Playmates, teasing Femlins, Club keys and the alluring Playboy Grotto.
Once man discovered iron, he began turning it into blades, without much thought to elegance. That was the next step, and after a few millennia of cleavers, cutlasses, dirks, daggers, swords, scimitars, machetes, bowies, bayonets and battle-axes--from the purely utilitarian to the ceremonially ornate--we arrive at the classic American pocket-knife refined to the level of art. Functional art, to be sure; a gentleman's tool, if you like. Quality cutlery, in any case, though a man might think twice about skinning coons, playing mumblety-peg or whittling a piece of oak with his $1000 Puma.
As we mention in this month's Back to Campus fashion forecast, undergrads have definitely gotten their clothing act together and given the old heave ho to tattered grubbies that don't deserve closet space. And while you're in the mood to clean house, guys, give the boot to that pile of run-down footwear that's under your dresser. Shoes are just as important to an over-all fashion look as any other item you wear and manufacturers have come through with a wide variety of handsome yet inexpensive styles from which to choose. A basic check list would include a pair of lace-up dress shoes, some loafers and hiking/foul-weather boots and (fresh) sneakers. But keep in mind that while any particular shoe will work well with several different outfits, having a few extra pairs will give your wardrobe a welcome lift and variety.
Guys standing on the corner watching all the chicks go by have nicknamed this new breed of portable hi-fi the Box. And, in a way, that name fits, because these rugged self-contained sound systems are a real surprise package of style and value and a delight to play, on the shelf or on the road. All house an AM/FM radio and a cassette unit--plus twin speakers, of course--but there the similarities stop. If you want to bring back live sounds, Sanyo has a unit featuring both built-in condenser mikes and twin external mikes that are so sensitive they'll practically capture the zzzzzs of a gnat snoring. And hi-fi addicts who like to record from one cassette to another or who want to capture up to two hours of straight sounds on tape should check out Sharp's new double-cassette system that not only doubles your recording time but also has two short-wave bands, just in case you'd like to tune in to Radio Morocco or some Jamaican reggae. Best of all, you don't have to float a loan or hock your watch to purchase one of these babies. The most expensive model below is about $540, with some much less. Turn them on!
"The Sweet Spot in Time"--It doesn't matter whether you're swinging a racket or a bat, running the mile or clearing the high hurdles; when it all comes out right, the feeling is downright sensuous--by John Jerome