The word of God is being heard over the land, but just who's doing the talking and what does it mean? Flo Conway and Jim Siegelman traveled 10,000 miles, crisscrossing America, researching what they call Holy Terror--the use of religion to intimidate and manipulate for social and political ends. Their article is called Holy Terror and is excerpted from their thorough new Doubleday book of the same name.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032--14711), June, 1982, Volume 29, number 6, Published monthly by Playboy, Playboy Bldg., 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Ill. 60611, Subscriptions: In the United States and its possessions, $4B 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. Chance 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 50611, 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.
Scholars in the Middle Ages had extended arguments about how many angels could dance on the point of a needle. The count went up into the thousands, but you have to wonder whether such debate explained very much about life and death. In much the same manner, I suppose we will hear a great deal of talk about the nature and extent of our next splendid little war, wherever it is. Some will compare it to Vietnam, some will bridle at the suggestion. It doesn't matter.
Kenneth Moffett,the 50-year-old director of the Federal Mediation and Conciliation Service, has helped avert or settle innumerable labor conflicts during the past 20 years. His handling of last year's major-league baseball strike is just one example. We asked Contributing Editor David Rensin to interview Moffett at his Washington, D.C., office during a break in the mediator's busy schedule.
Remember summer camps? Mosquitoes, beaded wallets and Kool-Aid? It's not like that now, you know. Today's camps are classrooms with leaves, serious learning experiences for kids on the way up in life. From Camp Occupant, the lovely resort for teenaged direct-mail enthusiasts, to Concentration Camp, where kids learn to stop their minds from wandering, the range is enormous. Here are a few of extra-special interest.
Jill Clayburgh, seems to me, spends an awful lot of screen time talking to psychiatrists. She's back on the couch in I'm Dancing As Fast As I Can (Paramount), adapted by her husband, playwright David Rabe. from Barbara Gordon's harrowing autobiography. That best seller described how a successful producer of TV documentaries more or less lost her mind when she abruptly withdrew from the massive doses of Valium authorized by her shrink. That's a gross simplification of Gordon's story, but so is the movie. Actresses suffer gloom gladly, and Clayburgh depicts agony with great skill, though Rabe's wildly uneven screenplay turns the first half of Dancing into an overwrought psychological horror show. Gifted Nicol Williamson, playing Barbara's lover, comes on as a one-dimensional creep who ties her up, beats her and won't let her have medical attention when she's plainly going to pieces. I fully expected he'd be brought to trial after the heroine was hauled off to the relative safety of a mental hospital. Instead, he disappears from the story altogether, filed and forgotten during the Snake Pit period of Gordon's slow return to normalcy. I'm afraid the movie on the whole looks like two indistinct halves, though the jumble occasionally begins to jell under the direction of Jack Holsiss, who picked up a bundle of prizes for bringing The Elephant Man (the play, not the movie) to Broadway. Dancing's most dazzling scenes--evidently Rabe's invention, since they don't occur in the book--feature Geraldine Page as a dying cancer victim submitting to a TV docudrama about her fight for life. With just a few extraordinary scenes. Page steals the movie and briefly transforms this downbeat catalog of woes into luminous art. [rating]2 bunnies[/rating]
Ronnie Dugger's biography of Lyndon Johnson. The Politician (Norton), is the first of two volumes and may not get rave reviews. Dugger, who knew Johnson personally, is both a journalist and a historian, and purists might object to that mix. But this book should be required reading for the nation, now that we have another pseudo cowboy in the White House, because what Dugger does better than anybody else is describe the psychology of the frontier politician as President. The Vietnam war was inevitable, Dugger claims, once L.B.J. saw himself as the sheriff who had honor and mother and country to defend from screaming Asian hordes. A vital, prophetic book.
Not fade away:You'd think that millionaire rocker, founding member of The Rolling Stones and superbassist Bill Wyman would just take it easy at his home in the south of France after the Stones' exhaustive U.S. tour last year. But noooooooo; Wyman's busied himself preparing a photo book, recording a new solo album. "Bill Wyman" (A&M), and writing a film sound track. Stan Hyman and Vicki Greenleaf spoke with Wyman about his various projects and found him witty and energetic.
Conway and Loretta, as they are known to their fans, aren't likely to be recording together much more, since Twitty left MCA records, where Lynn remains. Their latest solo LPs indicate that little else has changed, though. Lynn's I Lie (MCA)--especially its A side--is a nice mixture of contemporary and traditional styles, with a slight accent on the latter; Twitty's Southern Comfort (Elektra) offers quite a bit of his usual steamy, sometimes hilarious, straight-faced double-entendre. Brandnew example: Something Strange Got into Her Last Night.
The Sky's the Limit Department: The McCartneys are rock's F. Scott and Zelda. They are rich and famous and no fan begrudges Paul the fruits of his labor. But maybe a few fans begrudge Linda, who has become one half of the best-loved songwriting team in popular music without really contributing all that much. So when we see an item announcing the Linda McCartney calendar, filled with her photos of things like coat hangers, we have to laugh. Members of Paul's fan club are being offered this prize for only six dollars. We call that Winging it.
Idol Gossip: Former Wonder Woman Lynda Carter has been tagged to portray Rita Hayworth in a three-hour telefilm of the legendary actress' life story. "It's important for me to have Rita Hayworth's approval," Carter was recently quoted as having said. "I want her to realize that the film we're going to make is not going to be exploitive or in bad taste." David Susskind and Carter's husband-manager, Ron Samuels, will produce the picture for CBS-TV. . . . Following production of their latest film, Things Are Tough All Over,Cheech and Chong plan to interrupt their movie schedule for a stint on Broadway. They're currently putting together a musical comedy geared to appeal mainly to young folks. . . . Director Michael Cimino's first film since Heaven's Gate was shut is Nitty Gritty, a black comedy about the electronic news media. You can bet executives at CBS Theatrical Films will be keeping a close eye on the budget....Mark (On Golden Pond) Rydell will direct the film version of Tom Topor's stage drama Nuts. . . . Writer-producer-director Robert (Personal Best) Towne's next work is likely to be Tequila Sunrise, a romantic thriller set in San Pedro, California. Rumor has it that Towne's buddy and onetime collaborator Warren Beatty may agree to appear in the flick. . . . Diana Ross will produce and star in The Josephine Baker Story, now in development at Paramount. The biopic has been a pet project of Ross's for years. . . . CBS-TV has unveiled a slate of upcoming telefilms. Among them are Svengali, starring Peter O'Toole and Jodie Foster;The Rosemary Clooney Story, in preproduction; and Cold Reading, an Agatha Christie--type thriller top-lining Lynn Redgrave and Robert Preston.
The attractive young woman in the front row had been trying to muster the courage to raise her hand throughout the question-and-answer period. I'd spent an hour talking about the nuances of "single" travel, and the Q & A time was drawing to a close. Finally, her arm shot skyward, and her question was obviously the one that was on everyone's mind: "Sure. I'm interested in saving money and seeing the world, but where is the best place to meet someone nice?"
Not long ago, I brought a new lover home for a weekend of sexual delights beyond my wildest expectations. So much for the good news. The morning after she left, as I was brushing my teeth. I noticed a cut. or sore, on the underside of my tongue (on the tiny vertical fold of skin that attaches the tongue to the mouth). I'm afraid to go to the doctor. Is it herpes or some other dread venereal disease?--W. L., Chicago, Illinois.
This month we tried to find out a little bit about the meaning of apartment politics. What exactly should a date expect from an invitation to visit your apartment or what would be expected of you if you went to your date's house? We asked the Playmates to respond.
Last fall. Chicago newspapers devoted a few column inches to the bizarre case of an 18-year-old girl who became pregnant, shot herself in the abdomen and was charged by the Cook County prosecutor with performing an illegal abortion--on herself.
In his November 1975 "Playboy Interview," Muhammad Ali predicted that after he retired, no fighter would ever again earn as much as $5,000,000 for a single bout, and most ring observers agreed with him. They couldn't have foreseen that boxing in America would enjoy such a tremendous resurgence that by the end of the Seventies, a welter-weight named Sugar Ray Leonard would be pulling down purses twice the size of Ali's largest.
Flower is her name. She got it while growing up in San Diego (her real name is Cheryl Flor, and ftor is flower in Spanish) and it's stuck since, serving her well through several incarnations--housewife, model, disco queen and international singing star, roughly in that order.
It Was One of the damnedest things that had ever happened in the history of the San Diego Police Department. They were still talking about it a whole week later, when, halfway through the second watch, rookie patrolman Harry T. Lomas told Communications that he was on a code seven and went into Clancy's Diner, on the beat next to his own.
This American Student washes down the boat that belongs to her current host, an Arabian oil chieftain. She's been yacht-hopping during part of an adventurous summer in St,-Tropez. She likes the sun, the exercise, the generosity of the people she's met. The poodle noir was given to her earlier in the summer off the coast of Sardinia, the gift of a Japanese electronics magnate. The sheik provided the diamond-studded collar. She has worked her way around the Côted' Azur, acquired a great tan and experienced "real life." At season's end, she will return to college wiser in the ways of the world.
ter-ror (ler-aar) n. 1. Intense, overpowering fear. Anything that instills such fear. 2. Violence toward private citizens, public property and political enemies promoted by a political group to achieve or maintain supremacy. 3. An annoying or intolerable pest; nuisance. Often used in the phrase "a holy terror."
Maybe It Began when the active-sportswear movement brought more practicality to men's fashions, or maybe it was just that guys grew tired of settling down shoreside in skimpy little bathing suits that did nothing for their physiques unless they were built like Arnold Schwarzenegger, but the bikini--at least for now--has gone out with the tide in favor of swim togs that give the wearer comfort, color and style. Not that it's a question of modesty us. immodesty; rather, menswear designers are aiming their summer swim hits directly below the belt and creating good-looking trunks (tops, too) that give smart sons of beaches a variety of styles from which to choose. As you may have suspected, the aforementioned active-sportswear looks heavily influence what's available. Long surfer trunks, for example, are continuing to ride the fashion crest much as baggy-looking "jams" did back in the Fifties. Wet looks and other slick styles that fit tight as a seal's skin are welcome alternatives--if you've got the bod for them. If not, don't despair; the ubiquitous sweat shirt has trotted from the jogging path to the beach, and its loose, easy-flowing lines--available in a variety of colors and fabrics--cover a multitude of high-living sins. When it comes to summer shorts and tops, there's more than one way to get it on.
Some years ago, that doughty minstrel of British hegemony, Rudyard Kipling, proclaimed: "Oh, East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet." Old Rudy wasn't much of a prophet. Toyotas and Datsuns, stars of Eastern freeways, have become Yankee-Doodle dandies. Made-in-Japan cameras and TVs captivate consumers of the Western world. Now here comes a freshet of Nipponese alcoholic quaffs: whiskies, liqueurs, vodka, wines, beers, et al. And all this time, you thought the Japanese drank only sake.
Jourdes Ann Kananimanu Estores seems to have sprung forth from a fantasy recorded in a shipwrecked sailor's log: "After 40 days on the open sea, clinging to what was left of my lifeboat, I washed up on a South Pacific beach. I lay there virtually lifeless for I don't know how long. Suddenly, a native girl appeared; a dark-haired angel so beautiful that all thoughts of thirst and hunger left my body.... I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was not hallucinating...."
Although professionally acquainted with many actresses, I have learned--unfortunately, the easy way, as an armchair sexual athlete, book open before me--that to make love to a movie star is arrogance, pure folly or a heroic adventure at least as perilous as hang gliding. The crash comes, of course, a decade--perhaps several decades--later, when she brings out her book and tells all the world about you. No, not about your perfect musical pitch or incredible perception, not about your total recall of Shakespeare's sonnets or of selections from Robert Frost. What the lady will remember is your staying power. How good you were, and how often. And expect no mercy for any of your shortcomings. Neither thinning hair nor insufficient funds, temporary impotence nor premature ejaculation can stay these tattle-tales from the ruthless completion of their memoirs.
Convertibles were the stuff of dreams, proclaiming freedom, independence and a devil-may-care sort of spirit. Who cared that they also shook, rattled and leaked? Come the first sunny weekend in May, you and your ragtop were king of the road. (text continued on page 158) and you continued to rule all the way through late October, when you finally had to put the cap on your automotive fun for the winter. Then came the social-conscious Seventies. Domestic car manufacturers, anticipating a law against softtops and seeing their convertible sales wither, decided lidless living was a thing of the past and began phasing them out.
The Murky High Sierra dawn was lightening to pigeon gray as the army of runners pressed intently toward the top of the first climb. Like most of the others, Doug Latimer was silent, listening to footfalls and labored breathing as he measured his strides on the steep dirt road. This year it would be different, he assured himself. When the grade steepened, he fell to a brisk walk; less cautious runners streamed past on either side. Latimer clenched his teeth, fighting the compulsion to move faster. He was determined to restrain himself this time, a strategy born of the pain and futility he had endured in this race the previous two years. When the course abandoned the road and the pitch became steeper yet, he began pausing every two or three strides to rest his legs. At 8000 feet, oxygen has a hard time making its way to muscles, a deficiency that takes a cumulative toll. Only a fool will push it those first five miles, with another 95 beckoning.
In 1980, at the age of 31, Brandon Tartikoff was named president of the entertainment division of NBC-TV--one of the youngest chief programers in television history. His TV career started in 1971, when he landed a job in the promotion department of the ABC affiliate in New Haven, Connecticut; he was a natural and everything he touched turned to gold. After he succeeded to the promotion staff at the ABC affiliate in Chicago, he developed Hodgkin's disease, from which he completely recovered. His work didn't seem to suffer, and he was quickly noticed by television's then wonder boy, Fred Silverman, who personally lifted Tartikoff out of the rank and file and deposited him in the fast lane, where he has been racing ever since. Sam Merrill caught up with Tartikoff in his New York apartment at eight A.M., followed him through a day at the office, a business dinner, the airing of a Steve Martin special and the all-night party that followed.
I Got UP that morning feeling pretty good. Pretty loose, ready to go all the way around Pebble Beach one more time without losing my concentration. Sports are concentration as much as anything else. Any professional athlete will tell you that the competition is a lot more mental than physical when you get to a professional level. In my case, I guess you'd have to say it was almost all mental.
The Sun Glares Down At Los Angeles. Out on the hillsides, it bakes the underbrush close to combustion; but in a house in Holmby Hills, it is filtered through cut-glass windows. It scatters bright mosaics on the carpet and dances warmly in the eyes of Shannon Tweed.
There was a friar in Naples who was a well-known evangelist. His big bassoon voice and his glittering eyes frightened many a sinner into repentance, but, I am very sorry to say, his tongue rolled out the rhetoric while his poor brain struggled to catch up.
Diane's story reflects the personal side of Holy Terror, but today the movement's greatest dangers have risen to higher levels. On the national scale, Holy Terror is masked by a broad coalition of fundamentalistright political-action committees, lobbies and foundations--and by the amiable smile of the President of the United States.
Good News, sports fans! Annie and Wanda have joined the U.S. Knockers mud-wrestling team. They have all the qualifications: Long Legs, round and Tapered thighs, ample Bosoms, pretty faces -- they can't do diddley squat as far as wrestling goes, but who cares about details?
Remember that scene in Body Heat in which Kathleen Turner and William Hurt just couldn't keep their cool, so they dumped the ice from an ice bucket into the tub they just happened to be sharing? Sound like fun? You bet. We call that the romance of the ice bucket. Of course, you don't have to be in the tub to use one. And it goes without saying that you could also just cram your bubbly into the fridge to chill.
When nylon print shirts went the way of double-knit leisure suits, you probably celebrated their demise as much as we did. Still, upon reflection, it wasn't so much the idea as the execution of the prints that turned us off. Fortunately, fashion designers this summer have the innate good taste--and the short memories--to let bygones be bygones and once again think wallpaper. (We're not kidding. One of the shirts pictured here bears the same print that's on the walls of a famous Los Angeles hotel.) Print shirts in natural fabrics, such as cotton or silk, have a sexy summer style to them--as hula dancers have been swaying for years.
"High Noon in Skidmore"--Last summer in missouri, 60 people stood by while the town bully was shot to death on the main street. There's a lot more to this story than you saw on 60 minutes--By Carl Navarre