Any Man, or Woman, would be proud to call Terri Welles a friend. She's smart, beautiful and our Playmate of the Year. She's also her own woman: sassy, assertive and possessed of a potent wit that can either charm or send one running for cover. Inside, photographer Phillip Dixon's sizzling shots represent a--if you'll excuse the expression--job Welles done. If you think it might be a challenge to get to first base with Terri, consider how most National League sluggers feel when they confront Steve Garvey, the tenacious and talented first baseman of the Los Angeles Dodgers. We sent expectant reporter Samantha Stevenson to interrogate Garvey for our Playboy Interview; by the end of the project, newborn daughter Alexandra was accompanying Mom to Q-and-A sessions. If Alexandra later joins the Little League, we think we'll know the reason why: Diamonds are a girl's best friend.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), June, 1981, Volume 28, Number 6. 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; Michael Druckman, New York Sales 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 Angels 90010, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 4311 Wilshire Boulevard; San Francisco 94104, Tom Jones, Manager, 417 Montgomery Street.
Spills, not chills, are the order of the day in writer-director George A. Romero's Knightriders (United Film), which revives the chivalric code of the Middle Ages and brings it roaring into the small towns of Middle America. Jousters in armor, tilting lances at one another from the saddles of motorbikes, are the heroes of the piece--and there is no doubt at all that Romero meant to present these bruised macho men and their damsels as throwbacks to the era of the Arthurian legend. (Three of the performers, in fact, came from actual Renaissance-fair troupes.) They are the hippies of the Eighties, incurably romantic roughnecks who dream a little dream of honor, valor, integrity, community spirit. A far cry from the beleaguered bands of characters fending off zombies in previous Romero shockers (e.g., Night of the Living Dead), they could well ignite some of that youthful (and destructive) enthusiasm set off by the controversial The Warriors a couple of years ago. Rousing action sequences in the arena are the best of it, and the driving physical momentum of Knightriders tends to sweep away my critical qualms about an erratic script and some flatness in the acting. Everyone looks fine and clean-jawed, with Ed Harris as the Arthurian Sir William, Gary Lahti as a princely Alan and Tom Savini as the black-bearded Morgan, Sir William's chief challenger for the crown, all appropriately glittering knights opposite a bevy of fair ladies without much inner fire. Courtly love does not seem to be anyone's top priority. Hot-rod heroics amid the trappings of medieval pageantry have strong visual impact, and there's something about this movie that lingers in the mind--despite its simplistic values and the fact that I reviewed it in a rough, overlong, not-quite-finished state. Looking good, Knightriders ought to make a fascinating companion piece to John Boorman's new Excalibur, Round Table-hopping of the olde school. [rating]2 1/2 bunnies[/rating]
When Americans anointed the touring Pope John Paul II as Father Knows Best for the Eighties, something obviously was up. In Limits: A Search for New Values (Potter), Maxine Schnall claims we were looking for leadership. Our muddled sense of values, a result of the movements of the past three decades, left us thirsting for order. It's tempting to describe this book as Christopher Lasch's The Culture of Narcissism for beginners. Schnall continues Lasch's version of the greatest love story ever told--how we fell in love with ourselves and why the relationship is doomed. She says we're our own worst enemies: We've collapsed into a self-indulgent frenzy of freedom without limits. The key element in our failure has been the search for unconditional love. In the world according to Schnall, romantic love and casual sex are out. Commitment and something she calls rational love are in. Schnall writes most acutely about her own life: coming of age and marrying in the Fifties; first reacting negatively to, then identifying with, Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique; next becoming "self"-aware and subsequently divorced. She does less well with the generation that came of age in the Sixties, blaming Dr. Spock again for its excesses. Spock wasn't really all that permissive. The Sixties antiestablishment feeling more likely derived from the fact that the same kids who cleaned their plates on behalf of the starving Asian children were later asked to shoot what was left of them in adulthood. Still, this book could be for the Eighties what Passages was for the preceding decade.
Fat city slim: In case you didn't know, our nation is hip-deep in something Slim Whitman's fans call Whitmania. With a purry tenor vibrato that zigzags through a melody much as a crinkle cutter slices through a potato, Whitman has won the hearts and minds of America. Johnny Carson, Tom Snyder and Mike Douglas have all hosted him. High schools hold Slim Whitman Days, featuring prizes for the most Slim-like costumes. College booking agents are hot on his trail and someone's even marketing a Slim Whitman look-alike kit. He has sold more than 2,000,000 albums in just over a year. Not bad for a guy nearing retirement age.
A few years back, John Starling, a young, inventive country rocker, cut an album that he hoped to sell to Capitol Records. He had some impressive help: Emmylou Harris on backup vocals, Lowell George and Bill Payne of Little Feat in the band. The record was a gem, or so the knowing said: good singing, well-chosen songs, inventive instrumentation. But since the record company didn't buy it, its excellence was nothing but a tantalizing rumor. Lately, a tiny label called Sugar Hill has picked it up, titled it Long Time Gone and turned the rumor into a delightful, down-home reality. For those of us who labor amid the deepening stacks of new releases, it poses a riddle. Why is it that this prize got passed over when every day's mail brings in more mindless do-do from Eddie and the Zygotes? Who's in charge here, anyway? (If your local record mart knows nothing of Sugar Hill, you can reach it at P.O. Box 4040, Duke Station, Durham, North Carolina 27706.)
Reeling and Rocking: We're hearing reports that John Travolta will star in a film bio of the late Jim Morrison.... Plans are in the works to make a movie version of The Pirates of Penzance with Linda Ronstadt. But it could take as long as five years for us to see it. The play's producer, Joseph Papp, has signed a deal with Francis Ford Coppola that prevents the movie from being shown until the stage show, completes its run.... This Is Elvis!, starring guess who, should be in the theaters any minute. The Warner Bros, film was made with the cooperation of the Presley estate and Colonel Tom Parker and includes existing film footage of actual performances with dramatic re-creations of behind-the-scenes events.... Country singer Mickey Gilley, part owner of Gilley's, the bar featured in Urban Cowboy, plans to write a musical about his courtroom struggles with rival mechanical-bull manufacturers. He owns the patent on the original bucker.
Idol Gossip: We'll be seeing a lot more of Neil Simon's work onscreen soon if plans by 20th Century-Fox jell. On the list of 1981 film projects for the studio are no fewer than three Simon scripts: I Ought to Be in Pictures, starring Walter Matthau and Dinah Manoff;Max Dugan Returns, with Marsha Mason in the story of a schoolteacher struggling to raise a child; and The Curse of Kulyenchikov, about a town in which all the inhabitants are cursed with utter stupidity. Also on Fox's agenda: Modern Problems, a comedy about an air-traffic controller who suddenly develops telekinesis, starring Chevy Chase and Patti D'Arbanville;The King of Comedy, with Robert DeNiro and Jerry Lewis under the direction of Martin Scorsese;Making Love, featuring Michael Ontkean, Kate Jackson and Harry Hamlin in the story of a woman whose husband is cheating--with another man; Taps, with Timothy Hutton in the account of a takeover by students at a military academy; Charmed Lives, based on the Michael Korda best seller, with Nicholas Meyer set to write and direct; and The Scout, the story of a down-and-out baseball scout starring Peter Falk.... So much for movies. CBS has announced some of the series pilots it will order for the fall season. They are: Big Bend Country, a period piece set in Tennessee after the Civil War; Quarrel, a spy program about a State Department courier; Moonlight, a comedy involving a delivery boy who's recruited by a special intelligence network; and San Francisco Cop, about a single father who is a policeman. The feeling at CBS is that those shows, and others in its roster, will satisfy new feelings in America caused by social and political changes of the past few years.
The first flash of recognition came last June, at the end of a hairpin turn outside Aspen, near the top of Independence Pass, 12,000 feet up. Snow still cloaked the highest mountain cols and the thin, fresh air made a Rocky Mountain high more than just a song title. The scenery was as staggering as only mountaintop vistas can be; and the flash was that somebody in the neighborhood was really nuts.
A couple of guys at the office came up with a question that we think is a natural for the Advisor. Simply stated: If you were on your way home from work with only $15 and were planning to spend that money on a date, how would you spend it for maximum effect?--T. H., Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Pope John Paul II, having made the papers with his many pronouncements regarding sex, apparently has struck fear in the heart of Professor Joe Frantz, a prominent historian from the University of Texas who found himself in Rome at the very moment the Pope came down heavily on lust. Concern for his own safety behind enemy lines inspired him to submit the following report.
The woman in the polyester red polka-dot dress stopped eating her apple pie. Her fork dropped, her mouth hung open and she nudged her womanfriend next to her. In moments the whole place had turned into a real-life remake of the E. F. Hutton commercial. A second of silence and then the buzzing began. In the corner, three men in pinstriped suits stared. Across from them, a boy, probably playing hooky from school, waved. Steve and Cyndy Garvey walked through the room unfazed. Steve sat down at the table and, life being a training table, ordered steak. Cyndy, the adventurous one in the family, ordered a fancy chicken dish.
The word Survival, because of its most recent connotations, has come to be associated with those pessimistic souls who are convinced that a Communist-inspired world economic collapse ("It"), an urban uprising ("Them") or some other catastrophe is going to force middle-class white Americans to the hills, where they will have to live off the land and defend themselves against whoever the enemy turns out to be, domestic or foreign, according to their ideology. Judging from the voluminous literature of "survivalists" (as they call themselves to show they're not just passive survivors), Armageddon is going to be like a homicidal boy-scout outing.
For Your Eyes Only is the 12th in the series of 007 adventures. The exact details of the plot are, as usual, a matter of international security, to be revealed on a need-to-know basis at the proper time and with a side order of popcorn. It seems that this time out, James Bond must locate a top-secret naval device that has been lost in the depths of the sea, somewhere off the Greek-Albanian coast. Agent 007 encounters a Greek millionaire whose idea of a good time is tying Bond to a young girl (Carole Bouquet), then tossing the two of them to the sharks. The chase leads Bond to Italy's ski resort Cortina d'Ampezzo, where he meets a figure skater played by figure skater Lynn-Holly Johnson. Need we say more? Oh, yes. For those of you who rely on the Bond movies to tease you with state-of-the-art automobiles, there is a Lotus Esprit Turbo--with extras, no doubt. For those of you who rely on the Bond movies to tease you with state-of-the-art women, just keep reading.
Milk, eggs, cigarettes, the paper. As Frank Robins enters the Micro Mart, he nearly stumbles over Alice Kibbert, who is squatted near the door, putting together the sections of the Sunday New York Times. He stands over her, panting, sweating lightly, as she collates the different piles of newsprint, the "Arts and Leisure" section, "Book Review," "The Week in Review," and so on. Alice looks up at him sullenly, and Frank smiles at her. She thumps a completed Times down at his feet. Frank picks up the paper and moves on to the dairy case.
Date line Summer '81: That lucky old sun will soon be beating down on some of the best-looking swim trunks, tops and casual cover-ups to come out from cabanas and onto the strand in years. Color is going to be a key factor; shades will range from blinding brights to funky offbeat pastels and even some black and white. Patterns and prints continue to wash ashore in profusion--many punctuated with a dash of wit. (Case in point is the French beer emblem Coq Hardi appliquéd to the Wong swim trunks, overleaf.) Added dash comes from the increased use of shiny fabrics. Swim-trunk manufacturers are continuing to deep-six blatantly sexual bikini styles in favor of the square-leg or mid-thigh look. That isn't to say that you can't look sexy in the longer lengths, but rough-and-tumble beach games and surfside jogging are more fun in trunks that provide extra protection. And after the beach ball is over and you want to cover up and nurture that budding suntan, look for lightweight terrycloth zip-front jackets, easygoing pullovers and soft cotton slacks that you can wear right on through cocktail hour and into the evening. Beach bum's the word, mates.
Her name was Anna Griffin. She was 20. Her blonde hair had been turning darker over the past few years, and she believed it would be brown when she was 25. Sometimes she thought of dyeing it blonde, but living with Wayne was still new enough to her so that she was hesitant about spending money on anything that could not be shared. She also wanted to see what her hair would finally look like. She was pretty, though parts of her face seemed not to know it: The light of her eyes, the lines of her lips seemed bent on denial, so that even the rise of her high cheekbones seemed ungraceful, simply covered bone. Her two front teeth had a gap between them and they protruded, the right more than the left.
What You're Not Supposed to Know about the Arms Race
Early on the Morning of July 27, 1960, I was participating in a classroom exercise at the First Marine Division's ABC (Atomic, Biological and Chemical Warfare) School at Camp Pendleton, California. My job that morning was to plot the theoretical destruction of a city by a nuclear warhead. In this case, the city chosen for the exercise was Chicago. There was some irony in that: Chicago was the city where I had been born and raised and where my parents still lived.
Mae West knew how to do it. Marie "The Body" McDonald didn't. Dolly Parton can do it. Edy Williams never quite got the hang of it. What we're talking about is a woman's knack for referring to her most obvious assets without seeming cheap, while at the same time retaining her attractiveness. The key, of course, is a sense of humor. Mae had it. Dolly has it. Cathy Larmouth, the lady with the fabulous pair of binoculars pictured at right, definitely has it. When asked if she feels like a celebrity because she has been chosen a Playmate, she replies, "I don't want to be famous, don't particularly want to be an actress or a model. I just want a good man and a family. I hardly think showin' your bazongas to 6,000,000 people qualifies anybody as a celebrity. On the other hand, it's a great way to meet people." There's something earthy and at the same time old-fashioned about Cathy that puts the inner man at ease. She says things that are so completely unliberated, so utterly unchic that the intellectual/liberal/ (text continued on page 147) feminist supporter in us cringes and starts to protest. But there's another, deeper part of us that's secretly comforted by Cathy's philosophy of male-female relations. "I'm not against E.R.A., but the fact is that men are very different from women. For instance, a lot of women may hate my guts for saying this, but I think women are more emotional than men. I don't think blurring the sex roles makes any sense. Pretty soon, you'll be calling your grandmother your grandperson. That's not my style." So where do you think Cathy's from? Maybe somewhere in the Deep South, right? Nope. Manhattan Beach, California, just south of Los Angeles. A place heavily populated by the fabled California surfer (Homo surfboardus), a peculiar breed of American that, taken as a whole, is probably the largest segment of our society comprised of persons holding no opinions on anything whatsoever. Cathy, needless to say, is opinionated, which is one reason she wasn't destined to be a surfer. "I never made a good beach girl. I tried; I really tried. I got the darkest tan, I sun-bleached my hair (concluded on page 235)Lady of the lake(continued from page 147) and let it grow down to my butt, but I just couldn't carry it off. I'm not a good swimmer, for one thing, and I could never stay up on the surfboard. But more than that, I just didn't look the part. The perfect beach girl is Bo Derek. Blonde, willowy, Nordic-looking. I always looked kind of different. The Eurasian girl next door, maybe."
There are two safe bets regarding summer vacation this year. The first is that any place you go will probably be very crowded. The second is that a vacation definitely will be more expensive this year than last. So if you intend to survive with nerves intact and wallet not held hostage, you'll need clever tactics and a flair for the unconventional. Our summer-vacation survival guide provides some of both.
Terri Welles is on a roll. Just a few short months ago, her domain was seats 10A to 20D on a United red-eye. She was a flight attendant. It's an OK gig and she was good at it, but you don't ask a thoroughbred to pull a plow. Any passenger half into his morning coffee could see this woman was several cuts above the ordinary. Goodness knows, we saw it. Scant moments after meeting her, we cleared the cover of our May 1980 issue for her act; in that outing, a simple stun and run, she was pictured sitting provocatively in a flight uniform to herald our legendary pictorial on stewardesses. It all came about when an old friend of Terri's, who happened to be the brother of Playmate Sondra Theodore, took her to Playboy Mansion West for a visit. It was a fateful evening for Terri and for us. We saw a woman with sparkle and verve about to blossom into something very special. (text concluded on page 203) Playmate of The Year (continued from page 162) Terri saw an opportunity for a fling in the world of modeling, a career she previously had toyed with between hops around the country. It was only a one-shot, a cover on a prestigious national magazine. Just the thing to get a new career into gear. But neither we nor Terri expected the enormously favorable response of our readers to that cover. They were intrigued. They wanted to see more of this fresh-faced, leggy stew from California who at that time was known as Terri Knepper.
Syndicated television reporter Nancy Collins met with Jack Lemmon in the presidential suite of the Westwood Marquis Hotel in Los Angeles. Lemmon had just spent three days hyping and interviewing for his movie "Tribute," for which he received an Academy Award nomination. Collins tells us: "It was perhaps one o'clock in the afternoon and Lemmon was sipping a martini and smoking a cigar. He was relaxed and extraordinarily warm. He really likes questions about his wife, Felicia Farr. He is noticeably very much in love with her after 18 years of marriage."
Once a year, the men who make motorcycles gather in Cologne, Germany, to compare notes, display their wares and, occasionally, to make public the figments of their imagination. They are manufacturers. They provide goods. They are bound by the law of supply and demand. They are not free to build what they want; they have to build what the customer wants. Sometimes, for the pure joy of it, the designers play with the possible, the fantastic, the if-only. At the last gathering, Honda unveiled a 500-c.c. turbocharged wonder, a collection of moving parts so special that the bike qualified for 230 U. S. patents, just sitting there. Not to be outdone, BMW offered a sleek aerodynamic sculpture called the Futuro. To top it off, Porsche presented its idea of the motorcycle of the future. Alas, the prototypes may never make (continued on page 271)Futurebikes(continued from page 188) it to the market place, but the message is clear. Given half a chance, these guys can do anything. We began to wonder what bikes will look like in the Eighties. We talked with experts, designers, marketing men at each company. They were secretive about details but agreed about the general direction of motorcycling.
To paraphrase an old saying: Them that has it all gets it all. It's certainly true that Terri Welles has it all and we've tried to match nature's gifts to Terri with a veritable department store full of goodies. If it seems we or the manufacturers went a little overboard, just remember, this is the Playmate of the Year we're talking about.
For reasons of style, performance or other endearing characteristics, certain automobiles become highly desirable after they're no longer manufactured. The few remaining machines are primped, polished and hoarded like the jewels they are. They change hands at ever-increasing prices and are driven only on sunny Sundays. Restoration of such a faded gem is also possible but usually takes three times the time and money you think it will. You're not likely to get much driving enjoyment out of owning a classic car, either, because the fear of doing bodily harm to it is always just around the next corner. Hence the advent of replicars.
No longer just a step on the way to a driver's license, bicycling has earned its place as a rewarding, healthy activity on a par with skiing, running and tennis, with bonus applications--commuting and long-distance travel.
You may know their first movies, their latest divorces, their favorite foods and if they like to sleep in the nude. You may secretly have fallen in love with any one of these lovely ladies many times over. But how attentive an admirer are you really? You may know the outlines of their legendary lives, but can you identify the outlines of their legendary bodies?
As our audio and video habits become more complicated, we are prone to equipment sprawl. Most rooms don't have an ample amount of counter space on which to put components. The solution, of course, is to stack those babies in racks, mindful that there be sufficient room for ventilation. Not only do racks unclutter your entertainment area but they also make it possible for you to take advantage of the optional features of your system. Racks hide those klutzy-looking cords, too.
A plain black-leather belt is a cinch winner threaded through the trouser loops of your gray business suit, but it's got no business holding up a pair of sporty slacks. This is the summer for color, especially in the area of accessories. And, as we've previously noted, such items as socks and neckties are taking the lead in liberating males from the mantle of drab plumage that has settled on us in the past few years. Using accessories to create interesting color combinations also makes sense because it's easy on your wallet--and more fashion mileage can be gained from a number of innovative items than from one wild and crazy outfit that can't be teamed with anything else. The latest looks in belts come in a variety of styles from fabric to tooled leather.
In 1964, Ford introduced the Mustang, a four-seat sporty car based on the compact Falcon, and created a whole new class of automobile: the affordable "personal" car. It was aimed straight at the sizable mass of war babies who had just entered college or the labor force, or were about to. Expected to be a mild success, it shook the industry by setting a new first-year sales record of nearly 420,000 units and helped establish an exciting new image for its maker.
"Beyond the Pill: Birth Control in the Eighties"--A Generation ago, it was a man's responsibility (A Condom in every wallet). Then it was the woman's (A Pill Dispenser in every Nightstand). Now it's something to be shared--by David Black