It seems fitting to celebrate the spirit of adventure during the month of Thanksgiving. In America, it all goes back to those tough cookies, the Pilgrims. They refused to crumble in the face of all the odds, and we dedicate this issue to them.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), November, 1992, Volume 29, Number 11. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy BLDG., 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, ILL. 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States and its Possessions, $54 for 36 Issues, $38 for 24 Issues, $22 for 12 Issues. Canada, $27 for 12 Issues. Elsewhere, $35 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 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.
Since Pong first kicked the Foosball game out of the neighborhood bar, video games have issued ever greater challenges, thrusting players outward from the friendly confines of earth. Now Tron presents the logical extension of computer-game evolution, sucking us back to inner space, into the unfamiliar guts of the thinking machine. It's a jungle in there, and in a metaphorical search for the computer's heart, we encounter a mechanical solipsism in which the machine is the universe.
Copeland Clan-Destiny: Last year, The Police arrived in Cairo, Egypt, for a concert. Because of a religious holiday, customs, along with the band's equipment, was closed. The story goes that Miles Copeland III, the band's manager, placed a call to an associate of his father; shortly thereafter, the amps and the guitars were waved through on orders from high-level authority. Even The Police were impressed. The father, Miles Copeland II, was one of the founders of the CIA and, for various reasons--including the one described above--has been a welcome aide in his three sons' booming music careers.
Ever since Ray Charles asked the immortal question ''What'd I say?'' neither lovers nor dancers have sated their appetites for sweet, juicy American rhythm-and-blues. There were a few moments when disco automation dominated radio and dance floors and made embarrassingly successful forays into bedrooms, but the heartfelt romance of R?B is back, and the message is the same: It's five p.m. Friday, so let's party! Here, then, are a few imperatives to bear in mind when your local d.j. says, ''Just tell me what you want.''
Imagine a drunken movie star doing a guest shot on a major TV variety show called Comedy Cavalcade back in 1954, with one of the show's junior writers assigned to keep the superstar sober until air time. That's all ye need to know about the plot of My Favorite Year (MGM), an old-fashioned farcical mishmash full of wildly mixed blessings but mostly redeemed by a string of hilarious comic highlights. Peter O'Toole plays the flamboyant, swashbuckling actor, apparently someone a lot like Errol Flynn. Joe Bologna plays the TV star, someone not unlike Sid Caesar in his heyday. Movie newcomer Mark Linn-Baker is the young writer, someone rather like Mel Brooks way back when. Maybe. Anyway, Brooks's company coproduced the movie, a directorial debut for actor. Richard Benjamin, who is occasionally heavy-handed, but is helped by his step-lively cast. O'Toole oozes style and class from every pore, as usual, equally at home with drunkard jokes, sex jokes, Jewish jokes and knockdown, drag-out slapstick. Also, it's fun to see former-sexpot singer Lainie Kazan (whose last rescue mission was One from the Heart) emerge as a top comedienne. Here, she's cast as Linn-Baker's formidable Jewish mother, a dragon lady apt to greet a dinner guest with ''Welcome to our humble chapeau.'' Although Favorite Year doesn't gel half the time, the better half is fruity, firm and delicious. [rating]2 1/2 bunnies[/rating]
Graham Greene's Monsignor Quixote (Simon ∧ Schuster) is a nifty bit of literary updating. A simple country priest, who counts the fictional Don as an ancestor, is suddenly elevated to monsignor--a sort of knight of the Church. He sets off on a journey with the former mayor of his town, a Communist conveniently miscalled Sancho, in a Fiat-Five named Rocinante. En route, Sancho and Quixote manage to talk movingly about faith, doubt, communism and friendship. Is this a gentle, harmless book? Thank God, it isn't.
Idol gossip: Italian director Sergio (A Fistful of Dollars) Leone is back behind the cameras shooting a film that has taken him no fewer than 15 years to get off the ground. Budgeted at a cool $28,000,000 and starring Robert De Niro, Treat Williams, James Woods, Elizabeth McGovern, Tuesday Weld and Louise Fletcher,Once Upon a Time in America is Leone's answer to the Godfather films--a grand epic covering more than 40 years in the lives of a family of Jewish gangsters. Is the man who gave us the spaghetti Western starting a new genre--the matzoh-ball gangster film? We'll have to wait till 1983 to find out. . . . Burt Reynolds and his current squeeze, Loni Anderson, will co-star in Hal Needham'sStand on It, a comedy in which Burt plays a race-car driver. . . . Presently in the works at CBS-TV is America's Sweetheart, a biopic of silent-screen star Mary Pickford. . . . Pia Zadora will top-line The Lonely Lady, based on Harold Robbins' best seller about a beautiful young writer seeking recognition. . . . Comedian David Steinberg is directing Numnuts, starring and written by members of SCTV. The film, says Steinberg, is so crazy it defies description. Stay tuned for details as they erupt. . . . Having recently completed work on The Outsiders,Francis Coppola has decided to bring yet another S. E. Hinton youth drama to the screen. This one, called Rumble Fish, is, in Coppola's words, ''a mature, tough drama in which the events take place at night and the young protagonists race against the clock, as in High Noon.'' Matt Dillon and Mickey (Diner) Rourke star.
Male sexuality is up front, outstanding, penetrating, erecting, swollen--there. Sorry about that, but it's true. We spend much of our lives being haunted by our condition. But maybe it's time for us to stop blushing, banish the shyness and end the uneasy silence. The world depends just as much on our being there as it does on women's being receptive. If we refuse to admit our basic sexual nature, then we pervert any honest search for ourselves.
I'm looking for a second opinion. I have a number of photos of a few ex-girlfriends. The problem is that my current girlfriend finds it hard to accept the fact that I keep them. I've explained to her that I don't look over those pictures with a heavy heart and longing for the past. It's just that I took the time and the money to get them, and I don't see anything wrong with being able to go back over my past to remember what I've done and whom I've done it with. I told her that I know why she doesn't accept the fact that I hang on to them; it's because she's afraid that someday, she'll be just another addition to the stack. She told me I was right. In one of Ann Landers' columns, a newlywed complained that she had asked her husband to throw away all of his ex-girlfriends' pictures and he'd refused. Asked who was right, Landers said the bride was. I agreed somewhat, since they'd just been married, but as long as he put them away without bringing them out and going over them frequently, I really didn't see any harm. I'm an avid amateur photographer, and I simply love to take pictures not only of girls I may be involved with at a certain period in my life but of many other things as well. What's your view?--J. M., Los Angeles, California.
One useful thing this column can do is take on some myths and explode them. In the past, we all assumed there were some problems that only men had in social relationships. Now we know differently. We asked the Playmates to tell us how they've handled more than one relationship at a time and whether or not such a situation bothered them.
In 1979, Thomas Lynn ''Doodle'' Brady received two consecutive life sentences for twice abducting and raping a young Asheboro, North Carolina, woman the previous year. She testified that she had recognized him as her attacker when he came into the store in which she worked to pay a bill. No physical evidence connected him to the crimes, and he had an alibi wilness, but the woman's vivid testimony, plus his ''outlaw'' appearance and the fact that he had fled the courthouse when the jury left to deliberate, resulted in his conviction. Last spring, he wrote to the Playboy Defense Team and included letters from Randleman private investigator Tom McDonald, who had joined Randolph County sheriff's lieutenant Don Andrews, Asheboro fire marshal Jim Smith and others to prove Brady innocent. Attorney P. Wayne Robbins of Carthage then filed a motion for a new trial. The hearings were attended by Playboy Senior Editor William J. Helmer, who in last month's ''Playboy Casebook'' supplied the background for the case.
Luciano Pavarotti was late. He was supposed to attend a friend's song recital at the Bank of America building in San Francisco. He flagged a taxi, telling the driver to take him to the Bank of America and hurry. ''Which one?'' the driver asked. ''How should I know?'' Pavarotti replied. ''The biggest.'' The driver found the right building. Pavarotti reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of crushed tissues and three $100 bills. ''Please,'' the driver said, ''this one is on me. It's my pleasure.'' Inside the building, Pavarotti looked in vain for a sign to indicate where an auditorium might be. When an elevator discharged a few dozen people, Pavarotti grabbed the first, businessman he saw. ''Where's the recital?'' he asked fervently. The startled young man looked at the large, recognizable Italian whose face had appeared in the newspapers and on TV all week and smiled nervously. ''Anywhere you want it,'' he said.
Cassadaga was Famous. At least 20 pages of Hartmann's Directory of Psychic Science and Spiritualism were given over to its closely printed ads. It was famous for its occult hardware--tiny heart-shaped planchettes and Ouija boards like odd altars or artists' palettes, pocket breath controllers, aura charts, the rich colors painted on linen and attached to rollers like window shades. Aurospecs, seance trumpets, gazing crystals, spirit restraints, prisms, joss sticks, tarot cards, exorcism salts, sheet music, lullabies for the infant dead, marches for soldiers fallen in battle, witch waltzes. There were dictionaries of magic words, Seals of Solomon, mock-ups of left- and righthanded palms, telekinetic dice, outdoor séance furniture, occult recipes, three-dimensional models of the human soul, wands and charms, bells, books, candles--all Sorcery's fee-faw-fum, all Belief's hocus-pocus doininocus.
On May 12, 1982, Braniff Airways ceased operations, the first step toward declaring bankruptcy. Some Braniff staffers heard the news on their car radios. Some sat stunned as TV newscasters interrupted regularly scheduled programing with the bulletin. For others, it was not so simple. Glenna Hand was on a flight from Denver to Dallas. The plane was kept on the ground in Denver for hours before being allowed to take off. When it landed in Dallas, the crew began to suspect that something was out of the ordinary: ''There were 70 planes parked by 20 gates. We could barely get to the gate. When we got off the plane, there was no one there. No gate attendants. No one (text concluded on page 218)Women of Braniff(continued from page 101) to unload baggage. We walked through an empty terminal. It was like a scene from The Twilight Zone.''
The Democrats . . . ah, the Democrats. There they march, talking, arguing, shouting, laughing, moving in a dozen directions at once and jostling one another as they go, streaming across the political landscape as they have done since the beginning of the republic.
Above: Get it together in a wide-wale corduroy iacket, $135, a wool cablestitched sweater, $140, and a cotton shirt, $52.50, all by Henry Grethel; coupled with corduroy slacks, by Sedgefield Sportswear, $29; and a touch of tweed--a tie, by John Henry, $11.
There is no song associated with the Quad Cities area. You won't hear ''I left my heart in Davenport, Rock Island, Moline and East Moline . . .'' along the Iowa-Illinois line. But if there were such a song, Marlene Janssen would be the one to sing it.
During a shift break at the plant, an enthusiastic young worker remarked to one of the old-timers, ''Guys seem to stay with this company forever, Gus, so working here is sort of like a good marriage, isn't it?''
Circle of Deceit: The Hypocrisy of College Athletics
The whispers are stirring the stink of college sports again. They started when a top-ten basketball factory recruited one of those pubescent giants everybody wanted, and they will grow louder and nastier and more insistent until the kid inevitably turns professional. The coaches who didn't get him will tell you he's already a pro, of course, and once the bourbon begins to fuel their braggadocio, so will some of the school's high-rolling alumni.
Clokwise from one: For your cherished straight-grain briars and your well-aged meerschaums, a hefty silver-plated four-place pipe stand, from Hermès, Chicago, $465; holding two Alfred Dunhill of London pipes--a full-bent root briar, $260; and a Cumberland billiard shape, $200. Below the pipe stand is another nifty Alfred Dunhill of London smoking accessory--a 14-kt.-gold pocket pipe knife containing a single blade, plus a handy tamper, pick and reamer, $495. Proceeding clockwise: The daily quotation on your fávorite stock grows bigger when it's magnified with this handsome magnifying glass with a handmade staghorn handle that's been polished on one side and left rough on the other, from Originals by Pierce, Inc., Wareham, Massachusetts, $25. Beneath the staghorn handle is the perfect spirited accessory for a hike in the woods or a day at the track--an English-made stainless-steel-and-leather four-ounce flask with an attached cap, from Polo/Ralph Lauren, $80. Next to the flask are a man's hand-crafted coiled 14-kt.-gold cuff bracelet and a man's hand-crafted 14-kt.-gold flat-hammered cuff bracelet, both from James Russell Goldsmiths, Rockport, Massachusetts, $335 each. Under the bracelets, a sterling-silver bar knife that's designed for peeling lemon twists, spearing olives and maraschino cherries and opening bottles, from Tiffany, New York, $64; and a calfskin passport case with reinforced brass corners that also has compartments for credit cards and an I.D., from I Santi, Chicago, $87. To the right of it: A Chinese-lacquer-and-24-kt.-gold hand-crafted butane lighter, by S. T. Dupont, $410. The small brass pillbox next to the lighter is made in India and features an Indian coin on top and bottom, from Accents ∧ Images, New York, $16. For those with expensive choppers, a toothbrush with a removable gold-plated handle, from Henri Bendel, $170. To accommodate some of the ministuff that accumulates on a man's dresser, an Italian-made hand-tooled-leather box with a velvet lining, from Paul Stuart, New York, $50. For short notes and great inspirations, a silver-plated memo pad containing a note pad and a matching silver-plated pencil, from Reed ∧ Barton, $22.50. To the right of it: A sterling-silver Pilot fountain pen engraved with a dragon and fitted with a 14-kt.-gold fine point, from The Flax Company, Chicago, $160. Next to the pen is a sterling-silver money clip, from Tiffany, $25. Above the money clip is something truly snaky-looking: an Italian-made iguana-skin belt with a polished lizard-and-brass buckle, from I Santi, Chicago, $83.
What do Jack Lemmon, Willie Nelson, auren Bacall and Earl Campbell have in common? They're all friends of Jack Daniel's. And periodic infusions of Jack Black allegedly help keep Ole Blue Eyes young. But Frank Sinatra, who's inclined to play the field, is also partial to Royal Brandy Ice, a silky blend of California brandy, créme de cacao and English-toffee or butter-brickle ice cream. In Palm Springs, he usually orders a round for the table at Lord Fletcher's, creator of the concoction; like it or not, you get one if you're in the man's entourage.
You'd Think that here in the age of People magazine, such an exercise in celebrity spotting would be a snap. That's what we thought, too--until we passed around the yearbook pictures you'll find on the following spread. Nobody got them all. We've made the challenge a Title easier for you by including the very text that ran with these shoots--as well as people's real names if they've since been changed.
This year, while The Clash introduced combat rock, others brought back swing-era jazz. Now it's up to you to decide who really had the beat--in the annual Playboy Music Poll. You'll find our suggestions listed at right; if we've missed your favorite, a write-in is fine. But, please, if you're voting for someone whose name appears on our list, help our ballot counters and use the numbers beside the name. When You've finished side one, flip the ballot over and make your choices for Hall of Fame and Best LP categories. Only official ballots count and they must be postmarked before midnight, November 1, 1982. For results, see our April 1983 issue.
An oft-anthologized short story by Irwin Shaw is The Girls in Their Summer Dresses; a collective title for the films of 1982 might well be The Boys in Their Summer Dresses. Clint Eastwood, it would seem, is the only major star who hasn't as yet climbed into drag. The tone was set, of course, by Blake Edwards' comedy hit Victor, Victoria. In it, not only does gay, graying Robert Preston wind up the show performing a wild kind of Carmen Miranda impersonation in a night club, he also persuades the prim and proper Julie Andrews, playing an indigent singer, to disguise herself as a man and go on to stardom as a female impersonator--much to (text continued on page 206)Sex in Cinema(continued from page 160) the consternation of James Garner, a macho Mobster from Chicago who finds himself unaccountably drawn to him/her. In The World According to Garp, towering John Lithgow plays a transsexual, a former football star who feels far more at home in his new identity. (It's probably the first time that the screen has treated a guy in drag with such compassion and dignity.) Steve Martin switches twice in Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid, at one point matching up (more or less) with Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity and later subbing for Jimmy Cagney's mother (!) in White Heat. In Garry Marshall's spirited parody of TV hospital shows, Young Doctors in Love, chunky Hector Elizondo spends much of his footage in blonde wig and frilly dresses to outfox some Syndicate hit men, while Cheech and Chong employ the same pretext to elude a couple of irate Arabs in Things Are Tough All Over. And even as this is being written, Dustin Hoffman is in New York shooting Tootsie, which reads like a reverse Victor, Victoria, with Hoffman masquerading as a woman to land a part in a soap opera; the film should be out before the end of the year.
<p>Frank Zappa's 30-odd albums include such rock classics as ''Lumpy Gravy,'' ''We're Only in It for the Money,'' ''Hot Rats,'' ''Sheik Yerbouti'' and ''Burnt Weeny Sandwich.'' Now his daughter Moon Unit has catapulted herself into the rock limelight with the father/daughter collaboration ''Valley Girl.''</p>
Today, we find our heroes in the laboratory of the brilliant, though slightly deranged, dr. Wray, where they have been sent by star command to observe the first attempt to clone a living being Electronically!
Like lava from an overheated volcano, the evidence against the hypocrisy of college sports continues to bubble to the surface. It comes from coaches and athletes; some realize how corrupt the system is, some don't--but in either case, we can't say we haven't been warned. Testimony has come so often and in so many forums, in fact, that it would take a considerable effort to ignore the big lie of collegiate athletics. Anyone who glanced even occasionally at the nation's sporting press, for instance, would have discovered the following basic truths.
Anyone who's ever opened up his machine just to blow the carbs out or seen his vacation budget dwindle because he inadvertently moved on down the road a mite too briskly knows how crafty state and local patrols have become in catching speeders. So, to even the score (and, incidentally, remind you when you are speeding), we've rounded up seven of the most sophisticated radar detectors available. All seven feature super-powerful superheterodyne circuitry that's fully capable of sniffing out X and K radar bands behind curves or over hills.
After years in Siberian exile (for ideological crimes against the state of fashion, we presume), hats have been granted a parole. Harrison Ford's fedora in Raiders of the Lost Ark and the brutality of our past few winters certainly didn't hurt the hatmaker's cause, but it was really the proliferation of styles, from knit watch caps such as Baretta wore to the turned-down brim of a crushable Cavanagh-style chapeau, that put hats back on top. Before you buy any lid, of course, check it out in a mirror. A tweed cap looks sporty on the right guy; if you're on the portly side, think twice, or you may come away resembling Jackie Gleason playing The Poor Soul. --David Platt
Germany's Porsche has long been known for legendary sports cars. Fast, agile, unique, exciting. The rear-engined 356, Speedster, Carrera, 911 and 930 Turbo; the awesome turbocharged racers; the current front-engined V8 928. Well, not always. There have been a few duds. Take the Buglike rear-engined 912 or the nimble but unreliable midengined 914. The 924 was finely sculpted but, as a post-fuel-crisis economy sports car, rather mild-mannered. Scorned by purists as a parts-bin Porsche with an Audi engine and a largely VW-based suspension, it was priced too dearly, at $17,000 in 1982, for its undistinguished content and performance. The $21,500 turbocharged version was faster but lacked a smooth power band and never quite cut it with hard-core Porscheophiles.