Eight Years Ago this month, Patty Hearst was abducted from her apartment. What then happened seemed like a leftist public-relations-man's dream: Spoiled little rich girl sees the political light and robs banks to finance the overthrow of the state and maybe get back at mom and dad while she's at it. So many questions about her involvement persist that we sent Contributing Editor Lawrence Grobel to get some answers. Adding to Hearst's Playboy Interview is a portion of her book, Every Secret Thing (Doubleday), written with Alvin Moscow.
Above, Hugh M. Hefner shares a few moments with Dinah Shore and Henry Winkler. Shore premiered her new night-club act during the entertainment segment; Winkler was master of ceremonies and honorary chariman of the event. Others attending included Billy Crystal, Bonnie Franklin, Linda Lavin, Michele Lee and Vic Tayback.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), March, 1982, Volume 29, Number 3. 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 sub. Scriptions and Renewals. Change of Address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, Post Office Box 2420, Boulder, Colorado 80320, 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.
James Pridaux is 26, but the lines beneath and at the sides of his eyes sugest an older man. He drives a yellow cab in Manhattan 70 hours a week, lives in the Bronx and hopes one day to own his own taxi.
Want to plan ahead for your financial well-being? Do you think it's too late to invest in coins, stamps, gold, antiques? Relax, Bunkie. Andrew Feinberg has assembled this bumper crop of untouched possibilities. Start your collections today.
Before he gained national fame as Dr. John, the Night Tripper, he was Mac Rebennack, the much-sought-after Louisiana session pianist. It's that earlier part of his career that Dr. John delves into on Dr. John Plays Mac Rebennack (Clean Cuts). Although Dr. John's playing is competent enough technically, the thrill of this music is something transcendent, ephemeral, the stuff from which legends spring. Here, Rebennack pays homage to most of the piano greats from his native New Orleans, including Professor Longhair, Fats Domino and Huey "Piano" Smith, plus Bloomington, Indiana's, Hoagy Carmichael, whose The Nearness of You merits the only vocal treatment on the album. This is a beautiful solo effort, nicely recorded and produced by one of those young, independent labels. Don't let that fool you--it's at most record stores.
A Real Shaggy-Bird Story: You may have heard that the Man in Black, Johnny Cash, keeps a flock of ostriches in the back yard of his Nashville home. Well, one of those alleged pets went on a rampage and kicked out the jams--Johnny's jams, that is--and fractured three of the singer's ribs. We think the bird should get a black belt in karate and go on the road as a bodyguard. Then, If some drunk got really rowdy, the bird could drop-kick him into the next county.
The sun-bleached skeleton of a long-horn steer lay sprawled beside the heat-cracked road like a corny omen in a Ron Reagan Western, but few of the 7000 or so cyclists stampeding past it seemed to notice. Pumping and panting, they climbed the first long hill leading out of the Mexican border town of Tecate, hell-bent on pedaling 72.8 miles through high desert and rugged ranch land to the Pacific Coast port of Ensenada. According to the rules, the bicyclists had seven hours to reach their goal, where a full-blown tequila blitz was already raging in their honor. The organizers dubbed the event the 1981 Tecate to Ensenada Fun Bike Ride, but by the time the vultures started circling, even the handful of punksters in the multifarious mob--kids who on another weekend might amuse themselves by worming and head-banging to the Plasmatics-- were wondering aloud about this unique application of the word fun.
Armchair travelers and timid tourists can rely on Paul Theroux to transport them to countries they'll never visit. He's taken readers to Malaysia, to darkest Africa, to South America and on the Orient Express. Now, in his new novel, The Mosquito Coast (Houghton Mifflin), Theroux travels to Honduras for his story about Allie Fox, a brilliant but crazy inventor of ice machines and other peculiarities. Allie, convinced that the demise of the U.S. is imminent, hauls his wife and four children to a wilderness area of this Central American country. He sees his family as the new Swiss Family Robinson, but their life is hardly as harmonious; Allie is a tyrant and his children eventually rebel. Theroux captures a feeling for Honduras and its inhabitants that few writers could match; besides, he tells an incomparable adventure tale.
As co-author (with Trevor Griffiths), producer, director and co-star (with Diane Keaton), Warren Beatty may have gone into Reds (Paramount) wearing at least one hat too many. What results is a fascinating, intelligent, muddled and wildly ambitious failure more memorable for high aims than for actual achievement. However, merely to attempt such a long and costly movie (three and a half hours, well over $30,000,000 at last tally) about a dedicated American leftist is an act of aesthetic bravura that strikes me pink with admiration even while I appraise the wreckage.
Idol Gossip: Alan Arkin and Christopher Lee have been set to co-star in The Return of Captain Invincible, a musical adventure yarn featuring tunes by Eric Clapton, Rod Stewart, Fleetwood Mac, Peter Allen and Air Supply. . . . Mel Brooks's next comedy send-up will be Robin Hood, to be filmed entirely in England this spring. At presstime, Brooks had not yet cast the title role but said he was looking for today's version of Errol Flynn. Spike Milligan and Marty Feldman will have roles, Pamela (History of the World--Part I) Stephenson will be Maid Marian and Brooks himself may appear as one of the Merry Men. . . . Rumor has it that Brian De Palma's next project, presently known only as The De Palma Project, is actually a remake of John Huston's classic The Treasure of the Sierra Madre . . . . British director John (Ghost Story) Irvin will helm Dino De Laurentiis' long-planned epic The Bounly, a big-budget remake of the Clark Gable-Charles Laughton starrer that will, accrding to reports, concentrate less on the actual mutiny and more on Captain Bligh's survival on the stormy seas. "It'll show a different Captain Bligh from the one most of us know," Irvin reportedly has said. "He was a great sailor, highly resourceful and very fair. His only problem, apparently, was that he had trouble dealing with people."
Why check out Mexico's Pacific Coast? Well, there's the perfect weather, the resort where Bo Derek frolicked in "10," the great weather, the superb beaches littered with lithe bodies, the incredible weather, the guy who regularly plies waitees outside his restaurant with squirts from a wine-filled goatskin, the fantastic weather, several dazzling new hotels, the sensational weather and the horseback gallops through surging surf.
I have been living with a woman for almost four years. The other night she mentioned that we had not made love in what seemed like weeks. I hadn't really noticed, but her question bothered me. Is it normal to go without intercourse for such extended periods of time?--K. D., Dallas, Texas.
This month we asked the Playmates about an important moment in sexual etiquette, one that needs to be handled with finesse. Each of them thought it was a tough--but necessary--element of a crucial conversation with a man.
Illinois Congressman Henry Hyde, one of the sponsors of the Human Life Amendment, has tried to reassure us: Never mind that doctors, scientists, philosophers and theologians cannot agree on when biological life becomes human life. "Defining when life begins," says Hyde, "is the sort of question Congress is designed to answer, is competent to answer, must answer."
The difference between a procurer and a seducer has been affirmed by a California superior court and it boils down to this: You can be a procurer or you can be a seducer, but you can't be both--at least not simultaneously. What's more, a seducer can employ a little deception without breaking the law.
Before the night of February 4, 1974, few people had heard of Patricia Campbell Hearst. To those who knew her, she was a 19-year-old Berkeley college student majoring in art history and living with her fiancé, Steven Weed, 26, a graduate student in philosophy. Her family, of course, which controls America's largest privately owned media-and-land conglomerate, is well-known, not least because of the exploits of Patricia's grandfather, the publishing lycoon immortalized in "Citizen Kane." But until that night, Patricia's own concerns didn't extend beyond the butterflies she felt over her impending high-society wedding.
The following is an excerpt from Patricia Hearst's book of the same title, starting with the period immediately after her release from a closet in which she was indoctrinated, psychologically tortured and raped, through her "conversion" to the S.L.A., ending with her description of the fiery shoot-out in Los Angeles. Hearst refers to the S.L.A. soldiers by their code names, so the cast of leading characters is: Cinque--Donald DeFreeze; Teko--William Harris; Yolanda--Emily Harris; Zoya--Patricia Soltysik; Fahizah--Nancy Ling Perry; Cujo--Willie Wolfe; Gelina--Angela Atwood; Gabi--Camilla Hall.
Maybe you'll recall this scene from countless movie musicals of an era long before Alexander Haig, nuclear reactors or even I Love Lucy. An earnest, struggling starlet is making ends meet by running an elevator in a posh office complex when she hears that her favorite star--a sexy young male singer--is about to show up for his manager's birthday party. Can the starlet ditch her post long enough to meet her idol? What will happen if she bursts into song? And what will they think of the silly Phillip Morris bellboy uniform she's wearing? Sound familiar? Adjust your timing to 1981 and you have the true-life saga of Melani Martin, a bubbly young showbiz hopeful who used to run an elevator at the Berwin Entertainment Complex in Hollywood. Her life, at that time, consisted of classes--lots of them. There were acting classes, singing classes, dancing classes, all taken with one goal in mind: stardom, a classic celluloid fantasy of a young woman tap-dancing her way onto the silver screen.
Somewhere in the lonely middle of the high Wyoming prairie last February, I picked up a hitchhiker who'd been standing for an hour in a hard snowstorm, in a wind that was 14 degrees below zero. He looked to be about 55 years old and he was about half frozen by the time he climbed into my rented Oldsmobile. He was toting a beat-up leather suitcase with a rag for a handle, and he'd been on the road for six days, from Youngstown, Ohio, He said he was broke and had been out of work for six months and that he was on his way to Jackson Hole because someone had told him they were building a Holiday Inn there, and he thought maybe they'd have a construction job for him. Said he hadn't hitchhiked since 1953, and he didn't think he'd ever do it again. He'd asked the police in Moorcroft if he could sleep in their jail, but they told him their insurance wouldn't cover it. So he'd slept the night before in an abandoned house that didn't have any windows or doors. Hard times, he said.
To understand Karen Witter, you have to ignore the fact that she's pretty. What you see in Karen is cosmetic glamor, fresh wax on a Formula I. An attractive sheen that belies the power and deeper sense of purpose underneath. The impoverished people of Jaramillo in Baja California, for instance, wouldn't recognize this Karen Witter. They do know a blonde dynamo with dirty fingernails who gave up a Long Beach summer to build them a schoolhouse a couple of years ago. But this glossy gringo is a stranger. Poised, straightforward and razor-sharp, Witter hates labels but an "adventurer" tag would not be far off the mark. Consider her recent job as a stewardess on a hot-air balloon, casually serving champagne to joy riders high above the California desert. "I'm not afraid of doing most of the things others are afraid of doing," she tells us. "I'd rather do something physically dangerous than go along on an even keel." That's an apt metaphor. Karen is a sailor. More than that, at 20, she's a sea creature, at home on or in the water. She has made a pact with the ocean that weekend tars and motorboat dilettantes only dream about. "I like being on the ocean away from people; you wake up and look out and there's nothing around you but water. You could be on your way to China if your navigation were off. Sailing is sensuous. I love the smell of the water, the feeling of the wind and the sun. If there's a storm, it's even more exciting. You know the boat could die at any moment. Or fog. I've been in fog so thick at night you couldn't see the bow from the stern."
During a rather rowdy party, one unattached female guest kept disappearing into a back bedroom with one man after another, including the host. This did not go unnoticed by the host's wife, who was smoldering but kept her composure. It was still fairly early when Miss Willing approached her looking somewhat frazzled and rumpled. "I'm sorry to rush off," she explained, "but I don't feel too well."
My wife is precise, elegant and well dressed, but the sloppiness of my mistress knows few bounds. Apparently, I am not the sort of man who acquires a stylish mistress like the mistresses in French movies. Those women rendezvous at the café of an expensive hotel and take their cigarette cases out of alligator handbags, or they meet their lovers on bridges in the late afternoon, wearing dashing capes. My mistress greets me in a pair of worn corduroy trousers, once green and now no color at all, a gray sweater and an old shirt of her younger brother's that has a frayed collar and a pair of very old, broken shoes with tassels, the backs of which are held together with electrical tape. The first time I saw those shoes, I found them remarkable.
Playboy's Spring and Summer Fashion Forecast, Part I
As we turn the corner into spring, the fashion news--if not the nation's economy--definitely isn't for the birds. Colorful plumage has replaced a whole flock of drab styles nesting on the fashion landscape. Rest assured, however, that freakishness for its own sake and costumed juvenile delinquency have been pruned from the market place. So much is happening, in fact, that we've divided our annual Spring and Summer Fashion Forecast into two features: This month focuses on dressy styles, with next month showcasing sportswear. Check out these pages and you'll note that suit and sports-jacket looks are anything but restrictive. While over-all cuts and configurations remain the same (i.e., two button, three button, single-breasteds and double-breasteds, etc.), it is the bolder use of colors and, more importantly, the return of patterns that characterize the new attitude. Checks, stripes, plaids and tweeds from the very subdued to the boldest madras have emerged in force to lift tailored clothing out of the doldrums of drab classicism. Shirts, ties and other wardrobe elements, however, tend to be on the calmer side. While there are no hard and fast rules against mixing patterns, a little restraint is always in good taste. To mix properly, let your coat of many colors be the guide. By blending one or two colors in a suit or sports jacket with the shade of your slacks and/or shirt and tie, you'll pull the whole outfit together successfully. The finished look should lead to some mighty interesting nesting--and with luck, you'll certainly have something to crow about.
Three Horribly Unfair Jokes You Can Tell About Lawyers
Lawyers, as a group, have never been particularly popular ("The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers," Shakespeare had one of his players propose), and yet in America's litigious soil they have flourished, twining a tangled, strangling and near impenetrable mesh. Some of my best friends are lawyers-- and they agree. There are more lawyers in the U. S. than in the rest of the world combined. Half a million! West Germany makes do with just one fifth as many lawyers per capita. France manages with one tenth as many. Japan has one 25th as many lawyers per capita (but seven times as many engineers).
While waiting for Barbara Carrera to show up for lunch at a swell French restaurant in New York, I am eying this blonde at the top of the curved stairs. Some dame. Mickey Spillane would have loved her. Hair in a platinum pageboy, wearing a big, baggy, bright-red sweater over a body that just won't stop. Tight pants and heels. Only a heel would think what I'm thinking. Slowly, the blonde turns. Coming my way. Now her hand's on my arm. "Darling," she murmurs, not quite suppressing a giggle, "didn't you recognize me? Oh, I love it!"
The Soviets shook us from the somnolent Fifties when they threw Sputnik up over our heads. Our national ears heard the thing beeping up there in the darkness, and we were sure somehow that all its flashing lights were angry red. That first artificial satellite sent us on a technological tear for a dozen years. We trained tons of astronauts and space-age engineers and won the race to the moon. We sent men there and brought them back; and when repetitions of that feat got boring, we (continued on page 242)Waves of the Future(continued from page 157) piped Richard Nixon's voice through the vacuum of space (eerily appropriate, that) and introduced lunar golf. Since then, we've been mostly content to let the outer limits sit there like a national park we've been to once and don't really care to see again.
Louis Rukeyser was born with a ticker tape in his mouth. His father enjoyed a considerable reputation as a syndicated financial columnist; but despite Rukeyser's own career as an award-winning economic journalist, he is most visible as the host of PBS' long-running "Wall Street Week" and the syndicated "Louis Rukeyser's Business Journal." His wit, his expertise and his fervor for the little guy come across so intensely that they almost make one forget he earns a high six-figure income.
Until the fall of 1980. Williams Electronics limited its production pretty much to solid-state pinball machines. While Atari, Stern Electronics, Bally's Midway Manufacturing Company and other game manufacturers were making a killing on games such as Space Invaders, Pac-Man, Asteroids and Berzerk, Williams hadn't even marketed its first video game. But when it did, the game was a doozy.
Love them Jamaican Hills!Them's Annie's Hills!"The Hills are alive"Where'd you meet last night's ladyfriend, Jamaica?Nope! Jamake yours?!Hi, Annie! might as well come to the nude beach with me. You're already dressed for it.Pooee! Pooee!They're blowing the conch for lunch.Blowing the coach?The Conch! it's a primitive sea-shell horn.Pooee!This is a recording.A light breeze stirred the palms and rippled the bright-blue waters.
If you think that some of your nights are uneventful, just punch in the frequency of any metropolitan police department and find out just how wild and crazy things really are. Or search the local radiotelephone channels for a dose of daily soap opera as the phone-in-car wheeler-dealers on wheels chat up their latest ladies or argue over alimony with ex-wives. Because the new generation of programmable scanners need no crystals and can search entire bands, the simple police radio has evolved into a sophisticated piece of V.H.F./U.H.F. monitoring equipment that can pick up anything from marine, aviation, sheriff and rescuesquad broadcasts to hams, hospitals, trains and even cabs and buses. It's 11 P.M., folks. Do you know where your cops are?
As more and more guys discover the joy of pampering their bodies at La Costa, The Golden Door and other health resorts, serious sybarites are re-creat-ing the spa experience back in their own pads. Many skin-care products previously stocked solely at spas are now available in stores--and there's been a proliferation of such specially installations as saunas, hot tubs, whirlpools and aquatic bubble machines designed for the home. A total spa-type shower, tub and dressing area-- as depicted here--is the ideal way to take the plunge. But if that's over your head, begin with basic products and swim upstream as your current finances allow. It's your move, Mr. Goodbody.
"Today Texas, Tomorrow The World: The War on Drugs"--There's a full-scale battle going on in the lone star state, and it's spreading fast. Looks as if 1984 is on The Mark. A Chilling Report--By Laurence Gonzales