The Month of August, of course, gets its name from Caesar Augustus. He was host number I of that big toga party called the Roman Empire. Augustus got his name for being a wise ruler, a great tactician and, as a student of his language, a Latin lover. We think he'd recline and fall for this month's Playboy. It, too, is sharp and combative. It's got new and revolutionary tactics for all lovers.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), August, 1982, Volume 29, Number 8, Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Bldg., 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago. Ill. 60611, Subscriptions: In the United States and Its Possessions. $40 for 36 Issues, $34 for 24 Issues. $18 for 12 Issues, Canada. $22 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 Deaver Road; Los Angeles 90010. Stanley L. Perkins. Manager. 4311 Wilshire Boulevard, San Francisco 94104, Tom Jones, Manager, 417 Montgomery Street.
Maybe you've noticed that Ed Brush-wood, who runs the True Value down at the shopping mall, is a dead ringer for Caspar Weinberger. Or your high school algebra teacher looked exactly like Spring Byington. You probably wrote it off to coincidence. But now there is scientific proof to the contrary.
When Alexis de Tocqueville toured America in the 1830s, he asked a lot of sharp questions and got a lot of candid answers from unsuspecting Americans whose comments later showed up in his famous work Democracy in America. In American Journey: Traveling with Tocqueville in Search of Democracy in America (Simon & Schuster), Richard Reeves asks equally good questions and elicits remarkable candor from modern Americans posted along the pathways the Frenchman traveled.
Very few movies get off to a better start than The World According to Garp (Warner). The brilliant title sequence plays peekaboo with a naked baby boy bouncing into the wild blue yonder of life itself. It would be hard to imagine a finer, funnier way to launch the hero of John Irving's absurdist novel (two prepublication excerpts appeared in Playboy's June 1976 and February 1977 issues), adapted by Steve Tesich and directed by George Roy Hill. The writer of Breaking Away and the director of The Sting and Slaughterhouse-Five ought to be the right combo for this job--particularly with Robin Williams in the title role as Garp the man. And, indeed, The World According to Garp often lifts off as the picaresque saga of the bastard son of a fiercely feminist New England nurse, Jenny Fields, who begets her child by mounting the more or less perpetual erection of a semivegetable World War Two veteran known only as Garp. "His last shot," as Irving puts it, gives us T. S. Garp--avid wrestler, writer, family man, who chases down speeding cars and lives in the shadow of his world-famous, freethinking mom after Jenny collects her thoughts in a phenomenal best seller titled A Sexual Suspect.
Sonny Rollins doesn't exactly reach for the stars on No Problem (Milestone). Rather, he plants himself firmly on the ground and roars through a set of earthy, rambunctious tunes laced with musical jokes--Camptown Races makes an appearance--and garnished with tour-de-force passages in which he goes beyond the range of the saxophone and makes good music out of squeaks and squawks.
Record Piracy: Teen idols have different troubles from the rest of us. "It's always a problem having hit records," sighs Peter Noone, formerly known as Herman of Herman's Hermits, "because it's a problem when you stop having hit records." In the late Sixties, Noone was the heartthrob of millions of teenaged girls who had never known a boy could be so cute. But Herman's hits, such as Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter, just didn't make it during the next decade of drugs, decibels and disco.
Reeling and Rocking: Debbie Harry and Chris Steín have written some songs for an animated Canadian feature, Rock and Rule.Cheap Trick, Lou Reed, Earth, Wind & Fire and Iggy Pop also contributed to the sound track. It should be in a theater near you this fall. . . . Since the 13-minute video clip that Lol Creme and Kevin Godley (former members of 10 cc) directed for Ringo's last album was nominated for an award at the Cannes Film Festival. The Cooler, as it's called, will be released on American TV. The video segment uses three songs Paul wrote for Ringo and stars Ringo, wife Barbara Bach and the McCartneys.
Idol Gossip: Rumor has it that Steven Spielberg's next directorial project will be Always, a contemporary remake of the 1943 classic A Guy Named Joe, which starred Spencer Tracy, Irene Dunne and Van Johnson. In the original, Tracy came back from the dead to help Johnson make it as an Air Corps pilot. No word yet on how spielberg plans to update the action. . . . Sidney Lumet (currently in postproduction on The Verdict) has purchased the film rights to E. L. Doctorow's The Book of Daniel. . . . Ex-Saturday Night Live writers Michael O'Donoghue and Marilyn Miller are coscripting a spoof of female-prisoner movies, tentatively titled Caged Women in Chains. . . . Mary Steenburgen has landed the role of the late novelist Marjorie Kinnan (The Yearling) Rawlings in the film version of her memoirs, Cross Creek. Also starring: Rip Torn, Peter Coyote and Dana Hill. Francis Ford Coppola is presently wrapping up The Outsiders, based on S. E. Hinton's 1967 novel about three brothers who try to manage their lives after the death of their parents. A longtime favorite of teen readers, the book came to Coppola's attention a year ago, when he received a letter from a school library class nominating him as the best choice to direct The Outsiders were it to be made into a film. Coppola read the book on a plane, was captivated by the story and bought the rights. The flick stars Matt Dillon, Leif Garrett, Diane Lane, Tom Waits and a slew of other young actors.
My Father looked like Humphrey Bogart. He had about him, as did Bogart, a muted air of anger, a temper close to the surface, a thin line of steel behind the eyes that glinted when he was crossed. He was a rebellious man who sat on his wildness for the sake of his family, an alcoholic who never took a drink after I was born, a Willy Loman in a three-piece suit.
Ok, so what the hell is an Epcot? Well, it's an Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow, an idea Walt Disney had more than two decades ago. For the past several years. Disney planners and engineers have been making Walt's wildest dream come true on a vast tract of Florida woods at Walt Disney World, and by the time Epcot Center opens outside Orlando on October first, it will have cost more than $800,000,000 to build. Now, the Disney folks aren't known to squander money on boring park entertainment or worth-less technology. After a number of exclusive previews. I'm prepared to go on record as saying that Epcot really stands for the most extravagant amusement facility ever created, and you'll be reading most of this here for the first time.
I play racquetball at least three days a week, and my personal pride and money are usually at stake. So an hour or two before the game. I am a little nervous and edge. My girlfriend likes to calm me down. not with heavy sex but with a mellow blow job prior to the game. Could that affect my racquetball performance?--J. H., Los Angeles, California.
One of the questions that you readers keep asking is "Where can I meet girls like the ones in Playboy?" It's as if you thought we had perfected a magic act. So we decided to ask the Playmates themselves to tell you where they can be found.
Not since the days of comedian Lenny Bruce have state authorities seriously attempted to prosecute a performer for using profanity--except recently, in Texas. That case might have gone to the U. S. Supreme Court, but at the last minute, the Dallas County district attorney and Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission had sober second thoughts, and therein lies our tale.
Since its inception, the Playboy Foundation has advocated the importance of a free press and free speech as the rock on which this country stands. In 1979. it took a more active role in that area by initiating the Hugh M. Hefner First Amendment Awards, which annually honor individuals who have made some especially notable contribution in one of eight fields.
Campaign of Cunning: The Inside Story of Alexander Haig's Rise to Power
It Began almost quietly. Early in December 1968, at his transition headquarters in New York's Hotel Pierre, on Fifth Avenue facing Central Park, President-elect Richard Nixon introduced to the press his choice as National Security Advisor, an unfamiliar Harvard professor named Henry Kissinger. Typically, it began, too, with a little deceit on a matter that would prove monumental. Having vouchsafed beforehand to a gratified Kissinger that they would "run foreign policy from the White House," Nixon proceeded to announce to the reporters that his new assistant would confine himself to planning and leave diplomacy to a "strong Secretary of State" about to be named. Out of "eagerness to deflect any possible criticism," Nixon's public pretense was "substantially at variance" with their private intention, as Kissinger later delicately described it in his memoirs. It was also an omen of much more such variance to come.
Marilyn Michaels doesn't have an easy job. When Rich Little wants to do an imitation, he'll hunch his shoulders up for Richard Nixon, tilt his head for Ronald Reagan or maybe whip out a prop cigar for George Burns, but all he really has to do is get the voices right. It's a low-overhead job, and Little has become more than a little rich doing it.
I Am Contemporary. I am conglomeroid. I am postcausal, contralinear, peptomodern. To be anything else is to be dead, nezpah? Is to be a fossil. A sense of infinite potential and a stance of infinite readiness: That's the right philosophy for our recombinant era. Alert to all possibilities, holding oneself always in an existentially pliant posture.
For a night of midsummer madness, your best bet is to keep stylishly cool with simplicity and understatement. The black-and-white image of classic formalwear is a good starting point, but if the occasion calls for a more casual look, there is a multitude of variations on that basic theme. An open-neck wing-collar shirt and black-and-white wing-tip shoes, for example, contrast nicely with a plain black linen suit. Or try a luxurious linen sweater-jacket instead of a sports coat, or a white sheet-weight-cotton unconstructed double-breasted blazer over a white trim-fitting T-shirt. Remember, however, that there is an art to being understated. Even if the mood of the evening is quietly sophisticated, it doesn't mean you can get away with coming on too thoughtlessly casual. (The fuji-silk blouson jacket pictured on the opposite page is an excellent alternative look to single- and double-breasted jackets; it's nonchalant yet elegant.) The bottom line of all this is that while much of today's fashion excitement is about color, pattern, diversity and, in general, a more freewheeling spirit, there are times when sophistication and attitude also play an important role. Whether it's cocktails at Harry's Bar in Venice or champagne and a pianist fond of Gershwin at New York's River Café, you've got the invitation. Grab your duds and go.
The House on Stradella Road in Bel Air had tall iron security gates, which were standing open. Sitting in the center of the driveway--and blocking the entrance--was a black Cadillac limousine with darkened windows. A chauffeur dressed in black was sitting behind the wheel of the car, listening to the radio and reading a copy of The Hollywood Reporter.
Sometimes, You Get Lucky. You get a beautiful package, open it and find something even more beautiful inside. It was that way for us when Cathy St. George showed up at our West Coast offices back in 1980. A free-lance make-up artist and a model, she came to us on a routine modeling call for a possible cover shot. During the interview, she mentioned that she also did make-up. She was hired on the spot--to pose and to do her own make-up. The next day, she was called back--this time to beautify another model--and her career was launched. For the past two and a half years, Cathy has been entrusted with the most critical of duties associated with this publication: preparing our pictorial and centerfold stars for the camera. She has done make-up for several pictorials, hundreds of Playmate tests and at least 15 Playmates. And in August of last year, she finally got that cover.
Since the Deaths of 11 rock-'n'-roll fans at a 1979 concert by The Who, some observers have made rock music itself the culprit for the tragedy. While the practice of "festival seating"--a first-come, first-seated system that encourages stampeding--was clearly at the root of that horror in Cincinnati, many social critics have professed to find a "death orientation" in the music as well.
Flip Through the family album and you get the impression that your 19th Century ancestors were a bunch of stiffs. Were the Victorians really that stilted and joyless? Hardly. Primitive photography technology meant that subjects had to hold steady for long exposures. It was only when film grew more sensitive and lenses more receptive to light that action shots became feasible. Photographic progress has continued and that lucky old sun doesn't have to roam the heavens to enable you to take pictures. The moon will do just as well. And the message you leave for your descendants is that your generation had plenty of fun where there wasn't any sun.
If i Weren't a compulsive reader, I'd have missed the announcement. It came in my morning mail as part of a catalog of traveling weekend workshops for health-science professionals sponsored by the Proseminar Institute, a San Francisco outfit. I'm on the mailing list, I suppose, because I write about science and medicine.
August may be a drag for many (it's the only month without a holiday to relieve the torpor), but it's a time of growing excitement and zesty expectation for committed football fans. As we wallow in oppressive heat or fight toe-to-hoe battles against weedy lawns, early press reports from pre-season training camps and confident predictions by visionary sportswriters can lighten our days with the prospects of autumn Sunday afternoons. But that's not the case this year. The bickering, infighting and general unpleasantness of union-management strife threaten to spoil our fun. However and whenever the technical issues are settled, the acrimony will leave us with a sour after-taste. We ordinary people can only wonder how those incomprehensibly wealthy employers can be involved in such a vitriolic confrontation with employees who already draw six-figure salaries for less than six months' work.
Mariette Hartley has appeared in at least ten motion pictures and more than 150 television shows, but she is best known, and most lusted after, as the sarcastic beauty who steals the last frames from James Garner in their popular commercials for Polaroid. Free-lance writer Dick Lochte met with her at her home just outside Hollywood. He reports: "She has an answer for any question. I had wondered if it had been Laurence Olivier who had finally legitimized commercials. Without missing a beat, she smiled sweetly and replied, 'Actually, it was Ricardo Montalban.' No wonder Garner doesn't stand a chance."
Summer is the season for loosening our grip. Things slip happily through our fingers. Part of us goes to a kind of summer camp, a perfect summer camp, and many of our critical faculties are simply left behind. No one seems to mind that reruns are running TV, that mediocre fiction becomes inexplicably riveting, that pastel drinks with umbrellas in them taste wonderful. The evolutionary process that made us achievers now urges us to buy a midweek ticket to the ball park. The tanned body becomes languid--a condition impossible to synthesize with drugs or with any other transforming medium. Summer dawns on us: Suddenly, life acquires a soft focus. We sometimes find ourselves not holding up our end of conversations. We lose our mental starch. The world is ripe and life is sweet again. Turn the page and see.
Some of us tan well and some of us don't. Ronald Reagan, for instance, looks a youthful 71 and (left) looked a very youthful lifeguard, too. And there probably hasn't been a moment when he hasn't had a bronze sheen.
Wolfman Jack: The best summer I can remember was 1965. Three major movements in rock 'n' roll came together: Motown, the British invasion and the summer surf sound. They gave the music charts the most versatility of any period. We haven't had anything before or since like that summer.
Most people take their vacations during the summer--and sometimes at their desks. The soul has to recharge, and while a few weeks seems the absolute minimum to clear the head of what's getting in its way, sometimes smaller parcels of time away from the grind are just as necessary and restoring. Half days off and long weekends should be taken as seriously as medicine. Doing something you've never done before can move you into a new mental Zip Code--and that's always a good idea in summer.
They Appear for early test runs in Malibu, La Jolla, North Beach, Big Sur and Carmel, Mill Valley, Mendocino; and sometimes they hurry off coltishly to jobs in San Francisco, L.A. or San Diego, even to San Jose and Sacramento, where they reconstitute springtime for everyone. In coffeehouses, alighting from sports cars, in the racquetball and squash clubs, on the tennis courts--everywhere in California--the California girl, bless her, has a tendency to turn life into a festival. A festival that starts on the first day you see her.
Television sets have become a fixture in our homes, and that's one of the problems: They are so much of a fixture. Sure, a wide-screen or projection set is perfect to watch the world series on, but there are times and situations when you want your video image to be more discreet. Fortunately, TV manufacturers have become small-minded, too, and there is currently a bumper crop of Lilliputian battery- and/or A.C.-powered black-and-white and color sets ready for your night stand, desktop or tummy. Some models turn themselves off--or start your day. And truly mini ones, such as the Panasonic pictured below, take you out to the ball game without your having to leave your desk--and rest in a drawer after the final out. TV wants to be a smaller part of your life. As Mies van der Rohe said, "Less is more."
Audi's awesome new full-time four-wheel-drive Quattro has two problems. One is the dangerously seductive feeling of total invincibility that takes over as you rocket along behind the wheel, oblivious to weather and road-surface conditions. The other is the number of speeding tickets you'll collect unless you religiously monitor the Quattro's speedometer. Unlike ordinary 4wds, the Quattro doesn't sit high on road-grader tires, ride and handle like Gabby Hayes's buckboard or gobble gas like Sheik Yamani's bulletproof limo. It's only subtly different visually from Audi's nice but mortal 4000-based Coupe; the deep front air dam, a rear spoiler, businesslike bulges around the wheel openings, fade-out four-ring logos on the doors and tasteful Quattro decals on the quarter windows are the major clues.
"2010: Odyssey Two"--First of two thrilling episodes from the author of 2001, in which American and Russian Scientists team up to find out what happened to hal and the crew of the Discovery--by Arthur C. Clarke