Some say the ultra-macho man has become an anachronism, a dying breed we can do without. And if that's so, it explains why G. Gordon Liddy, the subject of this month's Playboy Interview, seems like a man out of phase with the rest of the world. Playboy interviewer Eric Norden says, "There's something about Liddy that's like a Japanese soldier in the jungle of an island in the South Pacific who doesn't realize that the war's been over for 30 years. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Liddy is a man waiting for the next war." Norden, who spent a month and a half trailing Liddy while he toured the nation to promote his book Will, says, "Liddy has the psychology of a soldier of fortune, or perhaps a samurai. He can talk about assassinating someone one moment and tell a joke the next, without skipping a beat." Norden's new novel, Scorpion, will be published by Richard Marek this winter.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), October, 1980, Volume 27, Number 10. 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.
Previews: Checking out the fall lineup of new dramatic and comedy series is somewhat like perusing a Biblical family tree--lots of begats, otherwise known as spin-offs. Also plenty of outright imitations hoping to duplicate the success of, say, Soap or Dallas or the big hit movies of yesteryear. When the new-season premieres begin in September, all three major networks will try their luck at moving cinema onto the home screen. ABC Television has Breaking Away (Saturdays), with Shaun Cassidy in the leading role as an Indiana boy who lives in a college town but doesn't go to college. What I have seen of it looks OK but almost identical to the Oscar-nominated movie. Only Barbara Barrie, as Mom, and Jackie Earle Haley, as Moocher, repeat their movie roles, though the film's Academy Award-winning screenwriter Steve Tesich is still around to assure some quality control if he can maintain his own pace. CBS-TV's crossover property is Freebie and the Bean (Saturdays), co-starring Tom Mason and Hector Elizondo as a promising team of San Francisco police sergeants whose unorthodox methods of gang-busting ought to be good for laughs. In the search for a viable answer to the phenomenal Dallas, NBC has reached all the way back to a 1949 Joan Crawford movie, Flamingo Road (Tuesdays). Cristina Raines takes Crawford's role as a tough-minded working girl named Lane Ballou, who fights the snobs and bigots in an oversexed Southern town. It's steamy adult stuff, full of scandals and nasty little secrets, belted out by a first-rate cast. Stella Stevens, Mark Harmon, John Beck, Morgan Fairchild (yummy), Barbara Rush and Howard Duff have prominent roles, and five'll get you ten that next year at this time there will be hell to pay if one of them, like J.R. of Dallas, is felled by a mysterious assailant. NBC's Harper Valley P.T.A. was a hit song first, then a top-rated movie on TV, now returning (Tuesdays) as a series, with Barbara Eden playing another bold young woman waging her private war against small-town hypocrisy. Shorter was better. I'd rather replay the record than watch Miss Eden--blonde, bouffant and badly dressed--getting even again and again.
Freddie Hubbard: 1.Chick Corea, Herbie Hancock, Keith Jarrett & McCoyTyner--an album by McCoy Tyner. 2. George Cables / Cables' Vision. 3. Sonny Rollins / Now's the Time! 4. Sarah Vaughan / Duke Ellington Song Book One. 5. Al Jarreau / This Time.
The fleet-fingered exuberance of Oscar Peterson and the world-wise reticence of Count Basie mesh perfectly on Night Rider (Pablo) as the two keyboardists--backed by the stalwart rhythms of drummer Louie Bellson and bassist John Heard--trade licks on a variety of standards and blues; special treats are Basie's organ playing on Memories of You and Peterson's electric-piano work on Blues for Pamela.
Reeling and Rocking: Carole Bayer Sager, whose lyrics are known to all, is branching out. She's working on an original screenplay of a contemporary comedy called Just for Now....George Harrison is financing another Monty Python production called Time Bandits, starring Sean Connery, Shelley Duvall, Ruth Gordon and Pythons Michael Palin and John Cleese. Harrison is doing the music.... A movie on the life of Mama Cass Elliot is being put together by her sister, Leah Kunkel.... Cheech and Chong are already at work on movie number three, Riding High.... The No-Nukes film has hit a few snags. Tom Petty has refused to allow the movie's producers to include footage of his performance, because it wasn't up to his usual standards. Petty's pull-out leaves Bruce Springsteen as the only "name" artist in the film.
Previews: We hope you'll forgive a moment of smugness from us. Since the American Booksellers Association Convention was held in Chicago last spring, we're feeling on top of the fall list--after all, it had its debut right here. Under the category of nonfiction are these riches: David O. Selznick's Hollywood (Knopf), by Ronald Haver; Carl Sagan's Cosmos (Random House), based on his 13-part TV series; The Next Whole Earth Catalog: Access to Tools (Random House), edited by Stewart Brand and expanded and updated; Private Power: Multinational Corporations and the Survival of Our Planet (Morrow), by Axel Madsen; Independent Journey: The Life of William O. Douglas (Harper & Row), by James F. Simon; and, finally, The light on Synanon: How a Country Weekly Exposed a Corporate Cult--and Won the Pulitzer Prize (Seaview), by Dave and Cathy Mitchell and Richard J. Ofshe, Ph.D. There's plenty of exciting fiction to look forward to, as well: Congo (Knopf), by Michael Crichton, who also wrote The Great Train Robbery; a major and definitive collection, The Stories of Ray Bradbury (Knopf); Earthly Powers (Simon & Schuster), a new novel by Anthony Burgess; Fault Lines (Little, Brown), by James Carroll, the author of Mortal Friends; and Garson Kanin's latest, Smash (Viking), about the making of a Broadway musical. So get cozy near the fireplace and read up!
Two fabled diamonds and essence of mummy must be pilfered to activate The Fiendish Plot of Dr. Fu Manchu, which offers the late Peter Sellers twice over lightly: He's predictably droll in brocade and wrinkles as Sax Rohmer's archvillain who circa 1933 has attained the ripe age of 168 and needs the stolen treasures to concoct a restorative elixir; he's even more deliciously dry as Fu's nemesis, Nayland Smith, one of England's "top authorities on Chink crime." Smith's cases are apt to involve poison orchids and blowguns. Although director Piers Haggard receives sole screen credit, parts of the film were reportedly reshot by Sellers himself, usually a sign of trouble. There's bound to be trouble in a comedy so careless about talent that Sid Caesar, as an FBI man named Capone, stands around with nothing to do. Fu's primary handicap is not its stately pace so much as an overworked but under-inspired scenario weighed down with notions that reach too far to be really funny. For example, giving the cerebral Smith an English cottage that's hoisted aloft by a giant balloon is to put the diabolical inventions appropriate for Fu Manchu in the wrong hands. Sellers as Smith, or as Fu doing a vintage musical duet with Helen Mirren (an un-wilting English rose who can play the saxophone or a Cockney), keeps The Fiendish Plot afloat. [rating]2 bunnies[/rating]
Idol Gossip: According to those who've seen the rushes, Lauren Bacall and James Garner really heat up the screen in The Fan, based on Bob Randall's 1977 best seller. A suspense-thriller centering on the glamorous world of the New York theater, the flick co-stars Maureen Stapleton, Hector Elizondo and newcomer Michael Biehn as the letter-writing fan whose adoration turns to vengeance. Bacall plays an actress making a comeback in a Broadway musical and Garner plays her ex-husband, a Hollywood film maker, who returns to New York to find his former spouse trying to cope with both the pressures of her new role and an obsessed fan's violent threats. Executive producer Kevin McCormick says the film "is a chilling dramatization of the flip side of the adoration fans offer their stars."... Opera star Luciano Pavarotti will make his motion-picture debut in MGM's Yes, Giorgio, a romantic comedy featuring Pavarotti as an Italian music professor visiting the United States. Says Pavarotti about his new career, "If I succeed, I don't think it will change my attitude. And more than everything, I hope I will not lose my sense of humor."... John(Rocky)Avildsen has been signed to direct the Zanuck-Brown production of Thomas Berger's latest novel, Neighbors. Shooting is tentatively scheduled to begin before the end of the year.... Barbra Streisand has taken the role formerly held by Lisa Eichhorn in Universal's All Night Long, a romantic comedy co-starring Gene Hackman. The film is scheduled to be completed in time for Streisand to begin her own project, Yentl, which she will both star in and direct.
One of my friends is getting a divorce. I was the best man at his wedding and feel that I ought to offer some kind of moral support during the current crisis. One of the guys at work suggested that we get together and throw a born-again-bachelor party. What do you think?--D. S., Cleveland, Ohio.
For the past two years, Playboy has observed and reported on the antics of a splinter group of the feminist movement called Women Against Pornography. The faction has staged highly visible demonstrations in major cities, including widely publicized "Take Back the Night" commando raids on sex stores. Its tactics vary, ranging from boycotts of magazines containing "sexist" images--Vogue is a frequent target--to the trashing of bookstores that sell Playboy and Oui. (The movement's apotheosis to date came when one of its leaders, Marcia Womongold, fired a rifle through the window of a Boston periodical store.)
The press had been gathering since three A.M., and by eight A.M., there were over 100 reporters, photographers and television cameramen camped on the steps of Connecticut's Danbury Federal Prison. When the door finally opened and a slim, wiry man with thinning black hair and a bristling mustache slipped out, he was almost swallowed up in the swirling, shouting crowd. As newsmen jostled one another for position, the newly released inmate embraced his attractive auburn-haired wife and stowed his prison gear in the trunk of their son's 1971 Ford Pinto. "How does it feel to be out of jail?" one TV newsman called over the din. The object of their attention snapped, "Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich starker." There were blank stares from the crowd until a reporter who knew German translated: " 'What doesn't destroy me, makes me stronger.' It's from Nietzsche." The Pinto pulled out of the prison driveway, hotly pursued by five Ford Granada press cars, and a screeching 70-mile-an-hour chase ensued until the driver of the lead car finally shook off his pursuers after a series of nerve-shattering maneuvers that left his wife collapsed in tears in the front seat. "God," she snuffled finally. "After all these years, you haven't changed at all." She sighed, "I don't suppose you ever will."
Fall and Winter fashions this year mirror the nation's social and economic mood; thus, there's little coming up that's fun, frivolous or unique. Still, it isn't all the deadly seriousness of, say, the Fifties. In fact, while the current fashion scene lacks the kind of wild and crazy looseness that's been present in the past, it does offer solid values and tasteful conservative looks that won't go out of style overnight. One way to jazz up your wardrobe--and, of course, get extra fashion mileage from your selections--is to think creatively about what you've purchased. Instead of wearing an ordinary business shirt with your new pinstriped suit, try a silk one. Or combine a bow tie with a shirt and a pair of sweaters instead of sporting a sports jacket. In short, go for the unexpected. You'll come away a winner.
In Darkness, Highway 80 across Alabama holds no more answers than it does in blinding-white Southern summer daylight. But for some reason, that insignificant strip of road, that dangerous two-lane through the black belt was a political and spiritual magnet for thousands of people. Under overcast morning skies and on rain-soaked afternoons, a nonviolent revolution took place along Highway 80 when people demanded the right to vote. And in darkness, a woman from Detroit named Viola died there and now her children want to know why.
Back in the old days, when men were men and women were in the kitchen, terms like biceps, triceps, bench press and dead lift were exclusively associated with the male of the species. But not anymore. There's a revolution taking place in the gyms of America and at the forefront, leading the charge, is Lisa Lyon, the world's first Woman's Body-building Champion. Diminutive in stature (she stands 5'3" and weighs only 105 pounds), Lisa can dead-lift 225 pounds, bench-press 120 pounds and squat 265 pounds, two and a half times her own weight. And, as evidenced by her long list of credits (every talk show from Donahue to Snyder, several TV specials on women's body building, numerous athletic competitions and a book, Body Magic, to be published by Bantam), Lisa is hoping that all of this will catch on big. "I honestly think we need a new definition of female beauty for the Eighties," says Lisa, "and a high-tech body that's not only beautiful but useful as well, may be it." A cum laude graduate of UCLA, which she followed with a three-year stint as a story analyst for American International Pictures in Hollywood, Lisa first entered the world of body building four years ago, when a series of traumatic experiences caused her to seek an outlet for her aggressions. "I was studying kendo," she recalls, "and my classmates were all men. The more seriously they took me, the more I was getting beat up, so I realized that I needed to be stronger." To achieve that end, she started lifting weights on a special program devised by bodybuilder Franco Columbu, who, says Lisa, "thought I was joking at first. But then I started to see my body changing and moved to Gold's Gym. Again, I was practically the only woman, but the men at the gym loved the idea that a woman was in there doing it, so they were very helpful." Outside the gym, however, reactions to Lisa vary. "People think that because I'm strong I like to dominate men. I don't want to dominate. I like rough trade. I don't like sissies," she told a writer for SohoNews. After four years of work, Lisa has achieved her goal--a sort of animal aesthetic, as she says--where muscularity shows but is not cumbersome. "If you looked at a cougar," she says, "you wouldn't say ooh, that looks so masculine because it's so muscular. You'd say that's a very good-looking cat, perceiving that muscularity is not masculine or intrinsically sexual. I want to be seen as a well-developed human animal."
American travelers traditionally head for Paris in the greatest numbers in summer--after all, the brochures all describe it as the "peak" travel season. Paris in the summer when it sizzles, right? So these trusting souls, all paying top prices, routinely arrive, only to become mildly apoplectic when they discover that virtually every important restaurant in France is closed for the entire month of August. Furthermore, it's no accident that the greatest French chefs routinely shutter their culinary premises in midsummer--it's usually unbearably hot in the French capital in August, so those cooks wisely head for the beaches of Biarritz or Deauville. Pity the poor traveler who's spent all his hard-earned vacation money on peak-season fares and nonpackage hotel arrangements, only to find himself in the gastronomic capital of the planet without a prayer of getting even a three-star crouton.
While Self-Proclaimed Epicures were busy tracking the vast complexities of Chinese gastronomy from Cantonese to Hunanese, or mastering the intricacies of Japanese sushi and sashimi, other Oriental cuisines have quietly taken root here. In case you haven't noticed, there has been a flowering of Thai, Korean and Vietnamese restaurants, and their appearance is welcome. Neophytes won't find these viands totally strange, since all bear Chinese characteristics--a product of geographical propinquity and the historic tendency of the Chinese to acculturate neighboring lands. Many cooking techniques are similar and a number of seasonings are (continued on page 130)Spice from the East(continued from page 115) familiar: fresh ginger, garlic, scallions and coriander leaves, among others. Nevertheless, each is distinctive in its own way.
Mardi Jacquet was born in Châteauroux, France, adopted by an American doctor and his wife and raised with four stepbrothers on a ranch in California. Mardi does not dwell on her personal history ("I sort of make up my life as I go along"), but it does, perhaps, explain some of her more curious traits. We suspect that Miss October is the first Playmate ever to harbor a fantasy about driving in a demolition derby. "Well, I was raised with four boys. I put away my dolls when I was five and started playing with cars. There's nothing I like more than taking my Maverick out into the desert and doing 360s." There's plenty of desert around Scottsdale, Arizona, where Mardi landed when she struck out on her own. "I came into town with my clothes in the back of my car and half a tank of gas. I've done a little bit of everything to get by. I've detailed cars, cleaned apartments and worked on an Arabian-horse ranch on the edge of town. I love this place. The people are friendly, laid back, easygoing. Arizona is more of a party state than California. I can go tubing down the Verde River and everyone on the bank will invite me to join their picnics. I can go into a bar and see a hundred friends." We'd like to thank one of those friends. When he suggested to Mardi that she try out for Playboy, she had a girlfriend snap a few Polaroids. She sent them, we saw them and the rest is history. Now you can see why she has a hundred friends.
With inflation outpacing interest rates, people are pulling their pennies out of savings and looking for investments that won't lose them their nest eggs. But what? Stamps? Chunks of Alaskan tundra? Boring. Charles Martignette's solution: antique erotica! A Boston dealer in and collector of antique art, he's spent the past ten years searching out the rare treasures shared here with Playboy readers--but a fraction of his 3500-piece collection, which has been valued at $1,000,000. (Wouldn't you rather have these around than a set of Chippendale chairs?)
As a kid, I spent a lot of time throwing rocks. The best place to do it was under a bridge, where there were always plenty of rocks and bottles--targets as well as missiles. You set up the bottles on one mudbank, then crossed over to the other side and you were in your own private shooting gallery. It was the only childhood activity I knew that ever involved anything like a warm-up. You would start out just lobbing the rocks, gradually working up the pace ("velocity," as the ballplayers now say) until you were zinging them in pretty hard, beginning to get the range. Finally, everything warm and working well, your arm loose, feeling strong, you'd find yourself really powering each throw, rearing back in unaffected natural windup bringing them home. There is peculiar appeal in such rhythmic, repetitive activity, and this was one you could really bear down on. I think that was important.
When 13 rowdy North American colonies declared their independence from England back in 1776, two others--Nova Scotia and Quebec--stayed put. 'Twas ever thus with the United States and Canada: one the fiery upstart, the other the reserved keeper of Old World values. Canadians by nature avoid fanfare. You won't hear them bragging much, except about their hockey teams. But don't let that fool you--they've got plenty to brag about. Take Montreal. Not only is it the world's second largest French-speaking city but its French restaurants will dazzle even the epicure. Canadians are in such dogged pursuit of the good life that several provinces started a civic holiday in August simply because there was no holiday that month. We remember friends who whisked themselves away for a rather long sojourn to Canada in lieu of an all-expenses-paid trip to Southeast Asia. Gosh, were they willing! And now we know why. Phone calls up there still cost a dime. Gas is cheaper--on the average about 85 (U.S.) cents a gallon. Legal drinking age is 19 (18 in some provinces). And if you still have any doubts about the quality of life north of the border, we offer in these 12 pages 31 great reasons to visit Canada.
There once lived a poor couple with three sons, Juan, Pedro and Diego. They lived on a small estancia with a few trees that grew pears. Juan and Pedro were handsome and scornful. Diego had a slight crook to his back, but he had a good nature.
Heavenly Hosts: A beginner's guide to television evangelists
Spin your Channel-Selector knob these days and you'll find a bold new breed of American preacher--a made-for-TV evangelist with a studio for a pulpit and an 800 number for a collection plate. Even his message seems new, and it's not just because it's been jazzed up and born again in a talksy-entertainment format like some kind of Ed Sullivan Show Gone Baptist; the hell-fire and brimstone and specter of rampaging evil are still evoked with all the energy of the old Sunday-morning fever, but today's TV preacher exhorts his brethren, millions strong, not to turn the other cheek--it's time, he urges across the airwaves and into America's living rooms, time for Christians to rise up and get involved politically and economically, time to run the sinners out. Sinners, as always, are generally defined as those whose views the preachers don't agree with.
Marjoe Gortner knows most of the TV God squad from his days as a child evangelist on the sawdust trail. Now he's working on "American Gospel," a film about evangelism. We asked him to assess the techniques of the current crop of TV preachers.
Winston Churchill used to paint the exotic gardens of the internationally famous Mamounia Hotel in Marrakesh. I concentrated on sketching the action at its poolside. Morocco is a blend of conflicting time frames, the modern and the traditional, as it tries to Westernize. Witness my upper-class, affluent and privileged Moorish textile honcho arriving at the poolside locker rooms in his pristine white jellaba and embroidered babouches, only to emerge moments later in contemporary beach gear.
Sooner or later, we all spend money on interior decoration, whether it's for a truckload of Chippendales or just a bucket of oyster white. But most of us are dabblers, apt to squander our decorating dollars. The solution? Hire a professional interior designer, for three good reasons:
Dowsing is making a big comeback. Dowsing? you ask. Isn't that where a guy holds a forked stick over the ground and waits for some sort of vibrations in the stick to indicate the location of an underground well? Well, yes. That's it, more or less. Actually, the term dowsing can apply to any method of using a nonelectronic hand-held instrument--such as a pendular bob on the end of a string, for instance--to find anything; a subterranean stream, a load of mineral ore, a buried sewer pipe or electrical cable, a lost wallet, a corpse, a buried treasure. Anything.
Men of the world know that there's a global movement afoot. Good-looking spheres in a variety of sizes, from a jumbo Italian-made model that does double duty as a bar holding bottles, ice and glasses to a futuristic earth-in-space style that displays stars, clusters and constellations have come out of the classroom and into the pad as a romantic (and practical) alternative to a piece of sculpture. Of course, you may not care that Rangoon, Burma, is on the opposite side of the earth from Kingston, Jamaica, but that lovely young thing lounging by the fire just might. So don't just sit there, give globes a whirl.
Although it began as something of a fad, the phenomenon of the cowboy boot as citywear shows no signs of walking off into the sunset. Any explanation as to why this peculiar trend continues to sit tall in the saddle would have to include the fact that cowboy boots are surprisingly comfortable (after they've been broken in), eminently practical (they keep your feet high and dry) and psychologically satisfying (there's a little John Wayne in all of us). But another aspect of their popularity is coming to light as designers create the next generation of boots, looks that are prized for their tooled artwork as well as for their practicality. Through a combination of exotic materials and colors, intricate patterns and designs, cowboy boots have become a means of urbane self-expression. Ain't that a kick in the head, Hoppy?
Renewed Anglo-French hostilities have flared up on Stateside soil as a pair of fine new midrange sedans start rolling off the boats. France's Peugeot 505 replaces the 12-year-old 504, while England's Jaguar Rover Triumph brings the Rover name plate back to America after a nine-year absence.
Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing We thought our May Playmate, Martha Thomsen, was pretty spectacular. We had no idea she was making strong men short of breath. But a picture is worth a thousand words, right? We hope singer Marvin Gave revives in time for his next series of concert dates.
"How Washington Works: A Message to Our Next President"--Running the country's a breeze compared with running the nation's capital. A look at the Real separation of powers in the town that makes its own rules--by Nicholas Von Hoffman. Plus: "Ten Tough Washingtonians Tell How Things Get Done"--D.C.'s Cognoscenti reveal the power connections--by contributing editor Peter Ross Range