If You're At All like us, one thing you used to feel pretty sure about was the difference between boys and girls. Then along came the wrestling match over women's rights and roles that characterized most of the past decade. In the aftermath, it was clear that, while no one truly thought the sexes were identical, those deeply etched lines that were supposed to divide them had all but disappeared. Or had they? Word has begun to leak out from the cool, impartial world of scientific inquiry that the pendulum has been boogieing anew. Data is accumulating that indicates that men and women are chemically and behaviorally as different as two sides of the same coin. Not unequal--different. The question before us, class, is: Just how different are men from women? It is, you will admit, a question worth pondering. And when we ponder something, there's a good chance you'll wind up reading about it. That's how we came to assign Man and Woman, an unprecedented series of articles on just that topic, to Jo Durden-Smith and Diane deSimone. Their first piece, The Sexes: A Mystery Solved?, in this issue, serves as an introduction to the subject. Taking our probe further, we assembled a virtual brain trust of psychologists, behaviorists and sociologists to help us produce the sexual-behavior questionnaire that accompanies the article. If you do your part--fill it out and send it in--in a few months, we'll publish a comprehensive report on what's going on between the sexes.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), January, 1982, Volume 29, Number 1. 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. 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; Milt Kaplan, 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.
<p>Fred Robbins talked with Kathleen ("Body Heat") Turner in Manhattan, where she lives. Robbins reports: "She wore a clinging dress that showed off her astonishingly attractive legs. And even though I was prepared for it, I was surprise by her vice--as deep, and sultry as Lauren Bacall's.</p>
It's tough for a lot of guys to decide whether or not to join a fraternity. A fledgling undergraduate asked some tough questions of William "Chug It" Frattman, sparkplug of Alpha Tau Zeta at seven different colleges and universities.
If you're a regular FM-radio listener, you may have noticed a strange sound clogging the airwaves of late. Nearly comparable to the sound track of Earthquake, it resembles a five-car, one-school-bus collision being regularly programed between cuts by Blondie and Talking Heads.
Giving a friend just the right slice of licorice pizza for Christmas tends to make the good cheer linger; herewith, then, our picks for this season. Anybody into thoughtful, passionate rock 'n' roll should get a solid boot from Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers' Hard Promises (Backstreet); while Santana's Zebop! (Columbia) is a tuneful blend of Latin and rock rhythms that avoids sounding overly slick. For those who like the harder stuff, Billy Squier's Don't Say No (Capitol) is one of the most polished heavy-metal albums in recent memory; and, believe it or not, Billy Joel really rocks on Songs in the Attic (Columbia), a nicely recorded crop of live cuts. Of course, there's The Rolling Stones' comfortably raunchy Tattoo you (Rolling Stones) and The Who's two-record compilation of hits, Hooligans (MCA). For songwriters, try Squeeze with East Side Story (A&M) and the group Any Trouble's Wheels in Motion (Stiff). On the more purely pop side, Rickie Lee Jones's second LP, Pirates (Warner), is a moody, expansive, musically adventurous album of jazz-inflected pop-rock that gets better with each listening. Fans of virtuosic pop vocalizing will greatly appreciate Manhattan Transfer's Mecca for Moderns (Atlantic) and Al Jarreau's Breakin' Away (Warner). Country music is now so well liked that you could easily wind up giving your shitkicking friends something they've already grabbed, so you might be wise to stay away from the popular artists and try some newcomers. Fans of both bluegrass and rock-a-billy will find them innovatively mixed in Ricky Skaggs's Waitin' for the Sun to Shine (Epic). Country-rock freaks will appreciate For the Sake of the Song (Alfa), by the tight and harmonic Corbin/Hanner Band. Moe Bandy--loving traditionalists will be happy to hear George Strait's Strait Country (MCA), which sports such glorious titles as She's Playin' Hell (Trying to Get Me to Heaven). Country-superstar albums are well represented this year by George Jones's I Am What I Am (Epic), Don Williams' Especially for You (MCA) and Willie Nelson's Greatest Hits (and Some That Will Be) (Columbia). Christmas Country (Elektra/Asylum) creates some wonderfully incongruous images: Mel Tillis and Nancy Sinatra singing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and those old outlaws Tompall and The Glaser Brothers singing Silver Bells. Rounder Records' Treasures Untold: The Early Recordings of Lefty Frizzed is the one for aficionados.
When it comes to best live rock LPs, most connoisseurs' lists include Live at the Apollo, Vol. I, by James Brown, The Who Live at Leeds, the Stones' Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out and Bob Seger's Live Bullet, which helped break the soulful Michigan belter nationally back in 1976. Now Seger has released his second live double-LP set, Nine Tonight (Capitol), and it comes respectably close to topping that earlier classic. The Silver Bullet Band no longer plays with the same just-out-of-the-bars street funkiness it sported in the mid-Seventies, but its current musical polish nicely suits Seger's later pop-rock hits; and the band comes as close to authentic barrel-house boogie as world-class arena rock gets these days.
Reeling and Rocking: We hear tell that Billy Joel will make his movie debut in The Bobby Darin Story.... We also hear that a bio of John Lennon called John Lennon: Death of a Dream, by George Carpozi, Jr., has been bought for the movies, which will be followed by a TV miniseries. The producers are talking to Yoko about playing herself.
Some people are afraid of success. For them, Elvis Presley's life was the confirmation of all their fears. In Elvis (McGraw-Hill), by Albert Goldman, Presley emerges as the non theroic kind of guy who enjoyed a meal of burned bacon and mashed potatoes, liked to have pillow fights with 14-year-old girls and gifted his one-night stands with 88 Pysthon handguns. More fascinating than the myriad eccentricities of the Sun King, though, is Goldman's Portrait of Presley's renowned manager, Colonel Tom Parker. While the county courts scooped Goldman's finding that the would be corn-pone Parker is really a Dutch immigrant, no one else has ever chipped away so successfully at Parker's favorite fairy tale--that he is the king of the flimflam men. It appears that Parker not only cut Elvis out of a lot of bucks but often settled for less than top dollar for his "boy," Goldman claims an expensive gambling habit placed Parker in a compromising position when it came to negotiating Elvis's contracts. It's probably no coincidence that the old carny wound up marketing America's most famous geek. The colonel worked hard to isolate Presley from anyting that smacked of normalcy, placing him in a social limbo that Presley resisted more and more by erratic behavior. Goldman, who has become the Plutarch of modern showbiz, leans heavily on hyperbole: but he did his homework and therefore provides the most readable and detailed Elvis story to date.
Holiday cheer to all. Here's our annual gift-book selection to aid you in your shopping. As usual, you won't go wrong choosing some of the very special fiction previewed in Playboyduring the past year: Rabbit Is Rich (Knopf), by John Updike, brings Rabbit into middle age and forces him to deal with his own kid's lack of direction; Zuckerman Unbound (Farrar, Straus & Giroux), by Philip Roth, is the story of a writer who wrote a best seller about being Jewish, Sexy and plagued by his mom (sounds suspiciously like Portnoy, doesn't it?); God Emperor of Dune (Berkeley/Putnam), by Frank Herbert, is the fourth of the Dune s-f thrillers. Thomas Berger's Reinhart's Women (Delacorte), A Flag for Sunrise (Knopf), by Robert (Dog Soldiers) Stone, and another Ed McBain 87th Street Precinct mystery, Heat (Viking), round out the list.
In the beginning was The Story. There were many stories. Nobody knew where they came from or who made them up, but the Old Ones would sit around their fires, repeating the stories, adding a bit here or forgetting a bit there, and leaping up every now and again to repel an attack by the saber-toothed flying rhinos that made life so difficult in the foggy swamps where the Old Ones made their home.
Transforming a London-Broadway the-atrical hit into a first-rate film is seldom easy, but director John Badham considerably surpasses the stage version of Brian Clark's Whose life Is It Anyway? (MGM). From a screenplay expertly Americanized by Reginald Rose (sharing credit with Clark), Badham asserts his identity as a moviemaker whose claim to fame was some what obscured by storms of stardust when he steered John Travolta through Saturday Night Fever. Here, in a role originated by England's Tom Conti, Richard Dreyfuss also has the part of a lifetime and gives it everything he's got as a quadriplegic sculptor embarked on a right-to-die crusade after he is hopelessly crippled in an auto accident. Arguing that he be allowed to choose death with dignity over a meaningless life as an anguished basket case, the hero runs the gamut from brave gallows humor to impotent rage to pure desperation--which means an Oscar nomination for Dreyfuss or, by God, I'll swear the race is fixed.
Idol Gossip: Ever since The Sting proved a box-office champ in 1973, producer Jennings Lang has been trying to put together a sequel. After Robert Redford and Paul Newman both declined offers to reprise their roles, Lang approached such unlikely combos as Peter Boyle and Walter Matthau, Jackie Gleason and Richard Pryor, but the project never got off the ground. Finally, though, it has, and The Next Sting, starring Gleason and Mac Davis, will begin with a vow of vengeance from the duped Lonnegan (played in the original by the late Robert Shaw, this time by Oliver Reed). David S. Ward, who wrote the original, will pen the sequel, and Jeremy Paul Kagan is set to direct.... Home Box Office has commissioned the first made-for-pay-TV feature film. Titled The Terry Fox Story, the two-hour biopic involves the much-publicized saga of 22-year-old cancer victim Fox, who ran the breadth of Canada.... Oliver Stone, who won a Best Screenplay Oscar for Midnight Express, has been signed to write (and possibly direct) the film adaptation of P. D. James's acclaimed novel Innocent Blood.... Blaming "creative differences," Zanuck/Brown Co. announced that Robert Redford will not Star in The Verdict, based on Barry Reed's novel about a Boston lawyer who takes on a malpractice suit against a Catholic hospital. A replacement had not been chosen at presstime.... Despite the death of former Nazi armaments chief Albert Speer, ABC plans to go on as scheduled with its five-hour miniseries based on Speer's Inside the Third Reich.Marvin Chomsky, who made Holocaust, will direct.
In a recent Advisor letter, someone wanted to know the difference between a natural and a theatrical female orgasm. The honest female orgasm consists of three to 15 rhythmic contractions of the outer third of the vagina at .8-second intervals. Unless those contractions occur, you can dismiss her moaning, groaning, kicking, clawing, begging for mercy and screaming filthy religious epithets as bargain-basement histrionics. The male orgasm is also at .8-second intervals. Small world. Having a problem relating to an .8-second interval? That's the beat of the song Surfing Safari.--L. M., St. Louis, Missouri.
Last month, we asked our Playmates if they were able to take the initiative in making a date--to hang their own egos out on the line. This month, we want to do a turnaround: If women can deal with getting rejected, can they also painlessly deflate a man's hopes?
Sexual harassment is something few people want and nobody needs. Its implicit prohibition by the Tenth Commandment suggests that it has been with us for a long time and the enactment of Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 indicates that it hasn't gone away.
It began in 1970 on a typical September night in Las Vegas, as the early show went on at Howard Hughes's Frontier Hotel. The men and the mink-draped women in the theater appeared equally prosperous and provincial. A sign at the theater entrance read, Welcome, Award-Winning Salesmen.
Anne's Father's Hand felt warm and even strong, though he lay unconscious, dying. In this expensive pastel room of the nursing home, he was starving, he was dying of thirst, as surely as if he had been abandoned in a desert. His breath stank. The smell from the parched hole that had been his mouth was like nothing else bodily she had ever smelled--foul but in no way fertile, an acid ultimate of carnality. Yet the presence was still his; his gray face, in its unconscious struggle for breath, flitted, soundlessly muttering, into expressions she knew--the helpless raised eyebrows that preceded an attempt at the table to be droll, or a sudden stiffening of the upper lip that warned of one of his rare, pained, carefully phrased reprimands. A lawyer, lost to his family in the machinations of cities and corporations, he had been a distant father, reluctant to chastise, and the dinnertime joke his most comfortable approach to affection. He had spent his free time out of the house, puttering at tasks he had no son to share. In New Hampshire, over several summers, he had built a quarter mile of stone wall with his own hands; in Boston, there had been the brick terrace to level and weed; in the suburb of his retirement, compost heaps to tend and broken fences to repair and redesign. In the year past, his hand had lost its workman's roughness. There was no task his failing brain could direct his handto seize. Unthinkingly, Anne had asked him, this past summer, to help one of the children to build a birdhouse; manfully, chuckling with energy, he had assembled the tools, the wood, the nails. His pipe clenched in his teeth as jauntily as ever, he had gone through the familiar motions while his grandson gazed in gathering disbelief at the hammered-together jumble of wood. The old man stood back at last, gazed with the child, saw clearly for a moment and abandoned such jobs forever. Dry and uncalloused, his hand rested warm in his daughter's.
I was driving north on Interstate 95 outside Boston in May of 1980, just back to America after a week at the Cannes Film Festival, where I had stayed in an overpriced hotel room, drunk beer at the scarifying price of $3.50 a bottle and eaten mostly ham-and-cheese bar sandwiches, because about all I could drag out of the shambles of my high school French vocabulary was "jambon et fromage." For me, everything about Cannes had been a bummer. Everyone was talking too loudly. All the men seemed to be wearing white pants and white shoes. There were too many cars, too many desperate-looking women, too much flak, too much hype. There were fat Germans, fat Frenchmen, fat Englishmenand fat Americans, all of them bellowing at one another over stupendous, overpriced drinks.
Mighty John Marshall, who may well be the last great AM rock jock in America, lives with his wife and three kids in a tract-style house in Brewer, Maine. He drives a mongrel of a van, which is always full of sound equipment; most of it looks as if it had seen better days. The oversized speakers have a particularly evil look, and Mighty John explains to me that he used to tie them to the top of the van to make more room inside. One icy January night, they flew off into the passing lane of I-95--and they've never been pretty again.
West out of Nashville in a red-and-white Mustang, Braxton Cox swung too fast around a curve, and his body remembered old times. All of a sudden, he felt in a sweet slide. He felt the rush again, the gliding just above the asphalt, just free of friction. The Mustang bucking, he toed off his loafers and splayed his bare foot over the accelerator pedal. A sun like money and a moon from a song bounced ahead of him big in the sky together.
Perhaps it's a turn in the fashion wheel after several decades of studied casualness or the influence of the decorous couple quartered in the White House, but black tie is back. People are slipping into formal threads at the drop of a cuff link and loving the effect. A host is way ahead with a black-tie bash; ritual rags create an aura of elegance and great expectations, spontaneously. Add the mystique of champagne--the only liquid refreshment you need serve--and you're home free.
John Derek has the enviable habit of marrying the world's most beautiful women and then taunting the rest of us with wonderful pictures of them. It seems to be his life's work. He didn't start out that way. Born Derek Harris to Hollywood director Lawson Harris and actress Dolores Johnson, it seemed natural that he should become an actor. His boyish good looks condemned him to pretty-boy romantic leads (All the King's Men, Prince of Players); later he appeared in The Ten Commandments and Exodus. Acting bored him, though, and he chose to become a photographer. He had married the French actress Patti Behrs and fathered two children with her, son Russell (now 29) and daughter Sean (25). That marriage ended in divorce in 1955. A few years later, he met Ursula Andress. She spoke only a few words of English--Derek's only language--but the difficulty with verbal communication wasn't enough to squash the affection that was building between them. he made her his project--changing her hair, changing her eyebrows, encouraging her to lose weight and, in the process, marrying her. Film critics who saw her in Dr. No and She were appreciative: "The most awesome piece of natural Swiss arhitecture since the Alps," one remarked. John and Ursula went their separate ways in 1965; Ursula became linked with Jean-Paul Belmondo, Ryan O'Neal and others--most recently, Harry (Clash of the Titans) Hamlin, by whom she has a son. John didn't stay home and twiddle his thumbs, either. He met and married Linda Evans, whom we first saw on the television hoss opera The Big Valley. John starred her in his own movie, Wildflowers She now drives John Forsythe and Bo Hopkins, as well as several million TV viewers, to distraction in Dynasty. While she and John were together filming a low-budget movie on the Greek island of Mykonos, John found himself getting more and more involved with the film's 16-year-old- co-star, Mary Cathleen Collins, who used the stage name Bo Shane. When Linda left Greece, John and Bo Started living together. The situation was not easy for Linda, and she divorced John, who then, in 1977, married Bo. But eventually, all became friends: For example, on John's 53rd birthday, Ursula, Linda and Bo all showed up wearing T-shirts with John's picture on the back.
Remember when cars were fun? When gas was cheap and you couldn't wait till the new models came out? When you could still tell them apart? Before the spoilsports of the world told you they were unsafe and polluted the air and were the root of all evil? Maybe you liked to hop them up, or pull the chrome off and customize them, or just drive them from here to there on a warm summer's night. In the Fifties, a lucky few discovered the joys of light, agile European sports cars, and many more thrilled to the awesome power of Detroit-built muscle machines of the Sixties. And then, just at the height of American auto mania, the door was slammed shut.
The Only Ugly Part of a gymnast's body is his hands which are like a ballet dancers feet--a perpetual challenge to the miracle of tissue regeneration. Once while I was walking around a gymnastics gym, I stopped a roll of tape that was trucking across thefloor and returned it to its owner. He extended what was supposed to be a hand but looked more like a catcher's mitt with fingernails. There were more layers of Calluses than layers of civilizations in the Holy Land. They all have hands like that the toll of endless hous on side horse, ring's horizontal bar, parallel bars. I once watched a row of prommel-horse performers pass along a jar of hand cream like drop sharing of joint. Then I remembered a gymnast in high school telling me all his teammates went to bed with hand cream and gloves on.
Kimberly Mc Arthur answered the phone in I her hotel room at a ridiculously early hour. Before we could ask if she had time for an interview, she was off and running. "Hey," she said, "have you read Woody Allen's Side Effect? You have? Well, do you remember this part?" She proceeded to read, in a delightful Southern drawl, a section about UFOs, Government investigations and the notion of traveling at 186,282 miles per second. "It says here your hat would blow off. Which reminds me. You know there is a skill to putting on a cowboy hat. The main trick is to pull it over your ears without getting your thumbs stuck." Such was our introduction to Miss January. She had just flown into Chicago from her current home in Dallas. She was playful, teasing. She suggested that we conduct an interview while walking along the shore of Lake Michigan. "I love long walks along the beach. Or, for that matter, short walks around the bathtub. What would you like to know about me? I tried out for the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. I didn't make it. Why? I didn't kick high enough. The girls who did make it had kicks that looked like exclamation points. An average day? Well, I wake up in the morning, turn on the TV and exercise along with Richard Simmons, the weight saint. I practice my kick. I play with my cat. We do cart wheels on the carpet. I go to work at a video-game company. I go home. I cook. I fall asleep listening to Barbra Streisand records through the headphones. I listen through only one ear--I try to sing along and match her modulation. One of these days, I'd like to sing like that." The interview moved into serious topics, Kim's childhood (she had to drop out of high school in her home town of Fort Worth to help earn money for her family) and her career: She wants to be an entertainer. "It's something I've been doing all my life. If someone I know is really down, I'll launch into a brogue, do a whole skit. You should see me do a five-minute version of The Wizard of Oz. I play all the parts." She then proceeded to demonstrate. Several passers-by stopped to appreciate the impromptu performance. "They're probably wondering how long I've been out,"Kim laughed. The word for her behavior is irrepressible. "What would your readers like to know about me? This could get very complicated, you know. How does this sound? 'Kim likes the simple things in life: mink underwear. Large sapphires.'" It turns out that she does like the simple things in life. "I like the signals given at dinner. The knowing laugh. Where, just for a moment, you and the person you love step outside the crowd and share something private. I like Fort Worth. There's a place called the Lone Star Chili Parlor, out by the reservoir. You walk out back and it's like being transported to Paris or Venice. I like having dinner with friends, having the evening end with hugs, knowing you've shared something special." We end the walk knowing that we have shared something very special--a few minutes in the life of a very likable lady. A Southern star.
Definitely, there's something to be said for marrying a girl with a serious smoking problem," stated the antitobacco crusader. "By limiting my recent bride's indulgence to a cigarette after we've made love, I feel I've achieved real progress."
As January is the month that marks new beginnings, we have for nigh onto a decade celebrated by asking renowned menswear designers to give us their predictions of male fashions to come. For this year's prognostications, we approached five leading names--Lynn Novak, Nino Cerruti, Jeffrey Banks, Pierre Cardin and Don Robbie--and gave them a specific request: Define for us the direction you see suits and sports coats (in other words, tailored clothing) taking in the near future. After all, sportswear has had most designers' creative attention, while tailored clothing remains relatively unchanged. Take a look at the illustrations on these pages and see if you don't like what's on today's drawing boards.
Travel, especially foreign travel, evokes images of romance and glamor. Exotic locales, unfamiliar languages and traditions that span centuries combine to promise an experience both unusual and wonderfully satisfying.
When John "The Tooz" Matuszak isn't playing defensive end for the Super Bowl champion Oakland Raiders, he's playing larger-than-life characters in movies such as "Caveman" and "North Dallas Forty." Free-lance writer Craig Modderno met with The Tooz over dinner in Beverly Hills. His report: "A lot of people cower in the presence of the self-proclaimed enforcer of football's renegade Raiders. At 6'8" and 280 pounds, Matuszak is, after all, physically imposing. But he also is intelligent, charming, funny, tough and moody--often within the space of a single sentence. If the Russians ever invade America, I hope they meet up with Matuszak first."
One morning, just before breakfast, Oedipus, the king of Thebes, got a letter informing him that quite inadvertently he had married his own mother, Queen Jocasta. At first he suspected this was his brother-in-law Creon's idea of a practical joke, but Creon had no sense of humor, and also, the letter was signed by Tiresias, a blind seer of well-attested probity and independence of judgment. Moreover, the letter was accompanied by an affidavit from the shepherd who'd taken the infant Oedipus from Thebes and given him to another shepherd who, in turn, had passed him on to King Polybus and Queen Periboea of Corinth.
In the 28 Years since we published our first Playmate, the delightful process of finding and photographing the world's most attractive women has been much like that of bottling fine wines. There've been good years, very good years and great years. In our estimation, 1981 was a great one, for beauty and talent as well.
Not many centuries ago, a certain prince named Shah Baham ruled over India, a man who was ignorant to the last degree. The only things he seemed to understand were the absurd and the unnatural. His only fascination was with the most curious stories of the world.
This is a special time of the year for us. It's when we get to encourage and reward the writers, artists and photographers who've made the past year's Playboy such a joy to read. It's a time of hard decisions, too, since whatever appears in these pages has already been culled from the best contemporary work we can find. So these awards are, in effect, for "the best of the best." The award itself--a check for $1000 and a handsome medallion for the mantel--while substantial, is secondary to the honor, because it represents an endorsement of the artisan's good work by the editors of Playboy. We also hope it serves as an inspiration to the winners to continue production work of superior quality. Without their efforts, Playboy would be less informative, less influential and less attractive. We thank them all.
In the early seventies, the Playboy Foundation commissioned Morton Hunt and an independent research institute to conduct a nationwide study of the American way of sex. Our intention was to take the nation's sexual pulse a generation after the landmark research of Alfred Kinsey. The questions before us then were clear: Had there been a sexual revolution? How different were our sexual behavior and attitudes at the end of the turbulent Sixties from what they had been in the Forties? That Playboy/Hunt study--a landmark of its own--was published in a book titled Sexual Behavior in the 1970s. It charted a sea change in what Americans did in the bedroom and what they thought about what they were doing.
On floor exercise, there is a mat 12 meters square and one and a quarter inches thick on which the gymnast, within a strict time limit of 50--70 seconds, is supposed to choreograph a combination of multiple somersaults, flips, tumbles and jumps that displays his strength, balance, technique, control and flexibility in several passes across the mat. This is the only event with no apparatus. Says Kurt Thomas: "You've got nothing to hold on to but air."
Portnoy Manages this place?It's the leading isolation-tank center. And portnoy's researching a book on sensory deprivation. It's fantastic! You float in total darkness.Yesterday, for the first time, I took a float.I took a Sink.No tanks!Want to share my tank, blue eyes?If you came here for sensory deprivation, bub you've got it!She's into A.S.C. (altered states of consciousness), but I prefer O.O.B. (out-of-body experiences)!You are going to have an O.O.B. unless you X.Y.Z. (examine your zipper)!A float makes me feel so young!You are young, you little Dum-Dum!Annie, wanda, over here!
Oenophiles who live in Normandy castles have dank cellars in which to stash their choice vinos. Wine enthusiasts who live in high-rises, however, often must make do with bedroom closets where the saunalike temperatures too often prematurely age choice bottles or, even worse, cook them into undrinkableness. So as the price of a good Bordeaux, Burgundy and California wine continues to skyrocket, more and more serious sippers are putting their money into portable wine-storage units that keep bottles at about 55 degrees Fahrenheit and also double as handsome pieces of furniture. They may not be as romantic as a castle, but the taxes are less and there are no servant problems to deal with. Think about it, bibbers.
Things may not have changed much as far as what you wear in bed, but a new sense of style has awakened in the category off loungewear. Call it what you will--a renewed sense of decorum or perhaps the revival of romanticism--the fact remains that for casual at-home entertaining, undershirt macho is out. Jogging and warm-up outfits probably started the trend to loose and easy lounge-wear, but whatever the reason, robes (both long and short), kimonos, smoking jackets and dressy pajamas that seldom slip between the sheets have become the order of the night. Thermostats may be down, but with styles such as these, we'll bet breakfast in bed that there'll be something soft and cuddly nearby (and it won't be the dog) to help keep you snug as a bug indoors.
Monograms have definitely made their mark in history; Greek and Roman coins were stamped with the initials of rulers and even Chrysler's limited-edition Imperial, the Frank Sinatra special, has an FS discreetly positioned on the front quarter panel. As with most items that are personalized, less monogramming is definitely more. An initialed brass business-card case is classy, but a monogrammed sweater is déclassé.