When your car starts to give you gas, you call a mechanic to fix things. At tax time, you pass on Uncle Derwood's offer to prepare your return and rely instead on a C.P.A. You need advice, comfort, support? You find an expert. So do we when the way the world turns strikes us as reckless. In contemplating our future--next year, to be exact--we wanted an oracle, and we found him. In E. L. Doctorow'sOn the Brink of 1984 (illustrated by Mark Hess), the author of Ragtime takes a long, hard look at the similarities between the fictional world of George Orwell's visionary novel and the current real world. Once Doctorow gets your brain into high gear, you'll find there's more to reflect upon in our Playboy Interview with author Gabriel García Márquez, whose work, including One Hundred Years of Solitude, earned him the Nobel Prize for Literature last October. Executive Editor G. Barry Golson, displaying the same kind of prescience that inspired him to obtain an interview with Jimmy Carter when Carter was merely one among a wide assortment of Presidential hopefuls and the historic last interview with John Lennon, assigned Claudia Dreifus to interview García Márquez in Paris several months before he received the coveted Nobel Prize. But nothing, perhaps, will make you reconsider your fate more than our two-part feature composed of David Harrop's appropriately titled A Penny for Your Thoughts--a breakdown of the hourly wages of American jobs ranging from nurse to crooner--and Roy Blount Jr.'s wry commentary on Harrop's figures, Why Wayne Newton's Is Bigger Than Yours, illustrated by John Craig (that's John pictured).
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), February, 1983, Volume 30, Number 2. 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 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.
Jessica Lange, 32, is a beautiful survivor. Her film career began in 1976, when Dino de Laurentiis launched her as King Kong's love interest. When "Kong" flopped, Lange became a Hollywood unemployable. For the next few years, until Bob Fosse cast her in "All That Jazz," she found little acting work. But in 1981, we saw her as the steamy-sensual Cora in "The Postman Always Rings Twice," a film that bombed at the box office but won her terrific reviews. Lange is currently onscreen with "Tootsie" and "Frances." One of the main men in her life is ballet's Mikhail Baryshnikov, who is the father of her child, Alexandra. Claudia Dreifus told us, "Lange is likable and charming but a vigilant protector of her privacy. Our interview was friendly combat."
For many years, the Federal Government has been diddling with national holidays in an effort to make them more convenient, but maybe it should spend some time trying to make them reflect the national mood and pastimes. Were our leaders a more visionary crew, they might think of creating a new category of dates for celebration and remembrance. Consider the following:
She is already a sensation in Europe; now it's our turn to ogle scrumptious Clio Goldsmith, whose title role in The Gift (Goldwyn) should clinch her status as an international prize package. Here, she's frequently unwrapped as a callgirl hired to be a trick retirement gift for a middle-aged bank clerk (Pierre Mondy) on his last business junket to Italy. Goldsmith's seductive, casual sexiness is the major asset of this frothy French boudoir farce by writer-director Michel Lang, whose over-all comic invention is too arch and contrived for my taste. Much of the action occurs in various hotel bedrooms in Venice, with Mondy as a mediocre man suddenly thrust into a world of wealthy Arabs, jet-set women and high finance. It's the kind of comedy that relies heavily on mistaken identities and untimely knocks at the door. Playing Mondy's Italian-born wife back in Paris, Claudia Cardinale--glorious as ever--looks somewhat like a riper, well-seasoned reflection of La Goldsmith. Which makes The Gift, all in all, a glossy showcase for two of cinema's most smashingly beautiful women. What you see is what you get. [rating]2 bunnies[/rating]
A rock reporter once asked Miami Steve Van Zandt (E Street Band member and producer of Gary Bonds and South-side Johnny) if not paying attention to the technical details had much effect on the sound of the E Street Band. Steve replied, "No, I'll tell you, I've got a secret technique. I just play everything at ten. That's the great equalizer."
Gumbo and Grigri: New Orleans is the birthplace of jazz, of course, and, arguably, the birthplace of partying in these United States. And one of its parties not to be missed, better in its way than Mardi Gras, is the ten-day New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival every May. We caught a weekend of the last one, and it was simply the best party we'd been to in years. Some samples:
There are many ways to promote records. You can rent limos for critics or give away T-shirts, buttons or dependable pharmaceuticals. The recordings on these lists got here the old-fashioned way: They earned it.
Reeling and Rocking: The video cassettes of Fleetwood Mac's final tour stop in Long Beach, California, should be out now.... Willie Nelson and Richard Pryor are teaming up for a movie about Depression-era gamblers called Slim and None. ... Roger Daltrey plans to make a film about the Kray twins, a pair of London hoods who murdered and pillaged their way around the East End until they were captured and given life sentences.... George Harrison contributed some music to the movie Gandhi. ... Gregg Allman wants to bring his life story to the screen, because "There are just some things that need to be said."
The job of the book-review editor is to pick the books and assign the reviews. The reviewer can say thanks or no thanks, that's not my beat. This month, instead of business as usual, we asked a bunch of our regulars to pick their own books. The result is an interesting and eclectic mix of recent books they think you, the reader, should know about.
Idol Gossip: William (Body Heat) Hurt and JoBeth (Poltergeist) Williams will co-star in writer-director Lawrence Kasdan'sThe Big Chill, described as "an ensemble comedy about life in the Eighties."... Word has it that screenwriter Carol (Five Easy Pieces) Eastman is finishing a screenplay called Man Trouble, set to top-line Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson. No plot details were available at presstime.... Jacqueline Bisset, Cliff Robertson, Rob Lowe and Andrew McCarthy will star in Class, billed as "a comedy about coming of age and awakening sexuality." Lowe and McCarthy play the young boys whose sexuality is awakened by--you guessed it--the alluring Miss Bisset. Insiders describe the project as falling somewhere between The Graduate and Arthur. ... Twyla Tharp will choreograph the film version of the Broadway hit Amadeus.Milos (Ragtime) Forman will direct.... Lou Gossett, Jr., Dennis Quaid and Bess Armstrong have been set to star in Universal's Jaws 3-D. ... Director Mark(On Golden Pond)Rydell will helm the film adaptations of two plays--Children of a Lesser God and Nuts, both on the agenda for Universal.... We hear that Neil Simon is writing a female version of The Odd Couple with Joan Rivers and Nancy Walker as Florence and Olive (Felix and Oscar in skirts).
Skulking through a dank, doom-laden dungeon, feet tingling in your newfound elfin boots, you peer into dim corners for slivers of gold light. Needles of fear run up and down your spine. There are wraiths nearby. You cast a spell of light toward the nearest dripping wall. Hot damn, a treasure chest! Two thousand gold pieces glister inside.
Here are a few questions relating to the male orgasm that I have really been wondering about: Is it possible to ever run out of come? If I want to orgasm many times in one day, what (if anything) should I do to keep coming? If I do not orgasm for a couple of days, it seems that when I do, there is a lot more come. If I want to come a lot in a single orgasm, is there any way of increasing the amount of come I release? Should I exercise or relax a certain muscle, or are there certain foods that relate to the sperm-producing organs of the body?--E. W., Essex, Maryland.
Last month, we asked about envying men and responses from the Playmates were not at all predictable. This month, we wanted to find out who should or who does dominate relationships in these socially confusing times.
In our December 1982 issue, we published James R. Petersen's "Viewpoint: That Old-Time Religion," challenging a series of frightening assertions that Time magazine made in a cover story on herpes, which Time termed "The New Scarlet Letter." The letter that follows adds fuel to Petersen's ire.
The Nobel Prize is at once the most prestigious and the least predictable of honors, so it was an unexpected pleasure for us when it was announced that the 1982 winner for literature was the Latin-American novelist Gabriel García Márquez. Not only has Playboy published his fiction for more than a decade but we had recently sent a reporter abroad to engage him in the most extensive interview of his career. So when it was announced that he would be making the traditional journey to Stockholm in early December to receive his award, we had the satisfaction of offering our readers a fortuitously timed interview. The world's literary community, however, may claim that the announcement was not unexpected. For years, critics had been waxing ecstatic about the author of "One Hundred Years of Solitude," hailing him as one of the world's great living novelists, comparing his work to that of William Faulkner and James Joyce. Indeed, among the literati, García Márquez--"Gabo," as he's known to his friends--has long been talked of as a Nobel contender. The only question was when, not if.
We Once Saw a T-shirt in a store in Jackson Hole that proclaimed simply: The Man Who Dies with the Most Toys Wins. It seemed appropriate in a ski town. Skiing is a sport designed to satisfy man's deep and abiding affection for high-tech equipment. Changes in equipment have changed the sport, making it easier and more thrilling. In the past few years, we've seen advances in the materials used to make skis and accessories. We've seen creative solutions to problems of a sport that mostly takes place in less than humane climates. New fabrics and insulating materials let us go where no man has gone before--or, at least, where no man has gone without freezing his ass off. (concluded on page 170)High Tech(continued from page 93) So, gentlemen, choose your weapons. No matter what variety of skiing--Alpine or Nordic, leisurely or lunatic--there is a tool for the job.
The Bad Czech was really cranky. He had an awful headache. The base of his skull hurt, both temples hurt and the top of his head, where his heavy black hair was parted by a cord of white scar (compliments of an N.V.A. mortar fragment at Khe Sanh), hurt most of all. Even his eyebrows seemed to hurt. There was nothing like the central city, growling and farting and belching forth a pall of smoke and pollution, for intensifying an already brutal hangover. The Bad Czech lurched along his beat on smog-choked Alvarado Street with the old black cop Cecil Higgins and looked like he might commit murder. Which he tried to do within the hour.
Even if the last big-game hunt you were on began in a singles bar, there's still a little bit of Francis Macomber in all of us. And with high-adventure films and TV series (such as Raiders of the Lost Ark, Tales of the Gold Monkey, Bring 'Em Back Alive!) proliferating, it's not surprising that designers of menswear have joined the fashion safari. If all of this seems a bit Walter Mitty--ish, remember that dozens of popular styles--including the bomber and baseball jackets--were derived from specific occupations and sports. So take your best shot and bag yourself a neo--survival look. Happy hunting!
The generation gap symbolized the differences between the baby boomers and their parents. But a more detailed concept is needed to make sense of the divisions in the B.B.s' own ranks--not to mention between the B.B.s and their rapidly developing younger brethren and sisthren. Thus, the Decade Gap.
The first time you meet Melinda Mays, she's likely to smile and say in her soft, husky, little-girl voice, "Hey." On the other hand, she might not. Because of pressure from boyfriends who've told her she's too friendly to men ("They say I might give guys the wrong impression"), Melinda is trying to cut down on her natural gregariousness. It's impossible, of course. You can see it in her eyes. It's also nearly impossible to interpret Melinda's "Hey" as a come-on: This is one very sweet, innocent (well, relatively) young girl. The kind of girl you want to wrap your arms around and protect for life against all those sleazo guys out there. But then, that's the charm of Southern women. They make you want to protect them. Besides, friendliness has certainly done Melinda more good than harm. It helped her get a job as an aerobics-and-exercise instructor at an Atlanta-area health club, and it keeps her students smiling. Melinda, who was born and has lived all her life in Georgia, is the kind of exercise coach fat folks dread and love at the same time. Her workouts are grueling (take it from us; we saw one) and her attitude toward excess avoirdupois is merciless. "As far as I'm concerned, people are in trouble if they're ten pounds overweight. They may not think they're fat, but I think they are. Of course, I don't tell people that. I just stress the fact that they can lose weight if they really want to. Some women think they look better with a little extra weight. That's fine with me. I just try to help each of my students get his or her body into the shape he or she would like." Naturally, Melinda has never had to battle the bulge the way some of us have. Not only has she never been fat, she was her high school's prom queen and the hottest thing happening in the small town of Conyers, where she spent most of her teen years. "Hanging out around the ice-cream parlor was about the most exciting thing we kids did." Melinda says she was a good student until "I suddenly got distracted by other things. Like guys. I hated boys when I was in grammar school. Once a boy kissed me and I got so mad I cried." After high school, Melinda eschewed college for employment. While job hunting, she signed up for an aerobics class at the club where she now teaches. "I had no idea how hard it would be," she says. "I teach three 45-minute classes in a row, with 15-minute breaks in between. Often, when I go home at the end of the day, I'm just too exhausted to do anything." However, since she was chosen as a Playmate, Melinda has suspended her classes for a while (sorry, all you fat guys in Atlanta who were ready to sign up tomorrow). She has also gained five pounds. The weight gain is understandable: Melinda can eat. The afternoon we took her to lunch, she had broiled scallops, potatoes, salad, two glasses of wine and a chocolate brownie smothered with ice cream. "Ice cream is one of my weaknesses," she confesses. "I'd say I go to Baskin-Robbins for ice cream at least four nights a week." We proposed that perhaps the best ploy for a guy who wanted to woo her would be to offer her ice cream. "Definitely," she laughed. "And now that you mention it, one guy did just that. One day, I was shopping for clothes, and a guy just came up to me and asked me if I'd like to go get an ice-cream cone. I couldn't believe it. I would have loved to go have one but if there's one thing I love more than ice cream, it's shopping." We suggested that perhaps a better ploy would be to offer an ice-cream cone with a credit-card topping. She laughed again.
Some people have big ones; some people have little ones. Women have been shorted on them. Nobody really wants to know--but, on the other hand, everybody does want to know--how his stacks up next to the other fellow's. It's not so much the size of them as what you do with them and what goes along with them. (Sure!) There is a taboo against revealing them.
A Well-traveled drinking buddy of ours confessed recently that his latest bibbing kick was drinking cold and bold. From time to time, he loads five or six shot glasses with imported vodka and puts them in the freezer for future consideration. In that arctic temperature, the raw spirit takes on a viscous texture, turning sensuous and silky--with a racy sting of alcohol in the finish. The man is by no means unique. Lately, sophisticated swiggers are taking their vodka neat and frigid, straight from the freezer, skipping ice and mixer. After decades of hearing that vodka's major attribute was an ability to blend discreetly with juices, tonic, liqueurs--almost any thing--some find (concluded on page 203)Some Like It Cold(continued from page 119) that quite a turnaround. Its genesis can be traced to the unexpected popularity of imported vodkas started by Stolichnaya, with Finlandia, Wyborowa, Absolut, Silhouette, Burrough's, Suntory and a dozen more following Stoly's lead.
In the afternoon, the wind changes and the color of the water changes with it, darkens and takes a bigger bite. In the afternoon, it could be a different ocean. Above that, the moon and the gulls are floating, pale and timeless against the sky; and, as it happens in this life, I find myself on a porch on Cape Cod with a television director who, 19 hours ago, interrupted his drinking long enough to kill a 52-ounce rum kamikaze that may have come with orchids floating in it, and he is looking a little pale and timeless himself.
On the mountain, World Cup down-hillers were preparing for the last two races of the season. Dressed in skintight Lycra suits, wearing helmets and clutching oddly bent poles, they hurtled down the fenced-off course at heart-stopping speeds. On one of the tamer slopes, your basic collection of Hollywood celebrities was holding a pro-am slalom. George Hamilton played host to the likes of Sonny Bono, Joyce DeWitt, Barbara Bosson and Jill St. John. An announcer's voice echoed over the slopes: "This is your chance to see Christie Brinkley without a bathing suit." It was the height of Winternational, when Aspen invited the world to a party. But what was the local news? The front page of The Aspen Times showed Playboy Contributing Photographer Arny Freytag shooting one of the women of Aspen. Skiing you can see any time. Aspen is proud of its women. When we had placed an ad a few weeks earlier, more than 200 (text concluded on page 202)Women of Aspen(continued from page 125) women in a town with a standing population of 4000 had responded. (If we had the same response in New York, we'd be dealing with 353,000 women.) Aspen has a right to be proud; we only wish we had the pages to show you everyone we talked with. The women of Aspen are world-class.
When 32-year-old Russian comic Yakov Smirnoff (green card A21702322) arrived in the U.S. six years ago, he knew no English. He has since learned enough to make audiences see humor in life in the U.S.S.R. When Contributing Editor David Rensin saw Smirnoff's act in Los Angeles, he brought him to our attention. Rensin's report: "Smirnoff lives in the Hollywood Hills. He drives a Mercedes 450SL that he recently bought in Germany. His bedroom is equipped with a stereo and video system. I think he likes it here."
Arabians are more muscular and have more endurance than thoroughbreds. Costing $1,000,000 each, El Paso (also called Tex, above left), from Poland, and the Russian champion Pesniar (above right) are at stud in the U.S. and may be the progenitors of a new class of race horse.
It looked, for a while, as if we weren't going to have anything to talk about in this department this year. Had the Moral Majority, Women Against Pornography and others of their shrill ilk succeeded in driving everybody underground? Or were people so worried about the sagging economy that they couldn't get anything else up, either? Most of the stories that crossed our desks were about censorship (the cable-TV show that had to be shot in two versions; the record sleeve for Queen's single Body Language--featuring, naturally enough, a couple of tastefully bared bodies--that had to be shipped with an optional plain white sleeve). Folks in Muncie, Indiana, who are obviously getting their concept of teenage lingo from Happy Days, talked PBS brass into scissoring an episode on real teens from its theretofore highly praised Middletown series, mainly because they were horrified at the kids' use of swear words. While some professional ditherers were worrying about steamy sex scenes on cable TV, others were pointing the finger at good, gray Phil Donahue for the variety of unconventional topics discussed on his popular network show. Some titles: "Children of Gays," "Underwater Births," "Transsexual Twins," "Teen Birth Control" and "Incest: A Family Crisis," featuring a woman who claimed her father had molested her as a child--along with said father, who admitted it, and his wife, who told how she felt about it. Father Knows Best was never like this. Time ran a cover story about herpes and another about the baby boom, the combination of which sounded to some of us like papal bull (don't do it unless you're married, and then only if you're making a baby). Professor Barry Singer resigned under pressure from the faculty of Cal State Long Beach, reportedly for offering students extra credit (text concluded on page 168)Year in Sex(continued from page 138) for such activities as trips to gay bars (though it was later rumored that some of his coeds had been offering cherries rather than apples to the teacher). Judge William Reinecke of Grant County, Wisconsin, described a five-year-old rape victim as "sexually promiscuous" and was resoundingly re-elected. In the there-ain't-no-justice department, we also had the case of attorney Michael Morgenstern, who wrote a book titled How to Make Love to a Woman, about which he said, "There are many books about what women should want; this book is about what women really want." After his work was published, Morgenstern was arrested for allegedly drubbing his live-in girlfriend and breaking her jaw. News of that event, claims Morgenstern, caused the sales of his book to double.
Until recently, not even the most laid back of weekend photographers would have considered venturing forth without an industrial-strength single-lens reflex camera and five lenses slung around his neck. Now everybody--including the camera industry--has gotten it together: The current point-and-shoot 35mm models are so simple to operate and so inexpensive (most are discounted below the prices we list here, so it pays to shop around) that they make picture taking literally a snap. And since f-stop and shutter-speed decisions--and in some cases, even focusing and film winding--are taken out of your hands, there's little margin for error. Aim and fire!
Like the flip side of a hit record, the back of a coat, jacket or shirt has all too often been given short shrift as manufacturers have concentrated their attention on the way one looks coming rather than going. Now that's all changed and it's to the rear, march! Designers are discovering that the front of an outfit needn't have all the fun just because you don't have eyes in the back of your head. Your company's chairman of the board (George Steinbrenner excluded), of course, may not wish to appear sporting the name of his favorite baseball team on the back of his navy pinstripe, but in casual gear, there's no reason for you to be flat on your back.
Attention, humanoids. This is Commander Playboy speaking. Mission is accomplished and you no longer need to go Berzerk, repel Space Invaders, gobble dots or rescue a helpless damsel from the clutches of Donkey Kong every night of the week. Yes, there is another form of fun and games out there that isn't video oriented, and we're not talking about Parcheesi or mah-jongg. A number of innovative companies that don't know a micro chip from a cow chip are producing challenging board games that actually pit you against a human being. In fact, the only electronic accessory we've pictured here is Monopoly Playmaster, and we've included that because it speeds up Monopoly so much that you'll think you're wheeling and dealing in a brand-new game. (The unit allows players to conduct special auctions, electronically roll the dice and compute loans--and it even plays appropriate tunes, such as We're in the Money.) Other games, such as Tournament Shufflebug, are more classical: That one has a four-foot-long butcher-block maple playing field that's as durable as the kind you find in singles bars. (Hustlers can even tote their own set of polished-brass pucks in a special storage case.) If all this sounds like good old-fashioned fun, it is. And when you do return to the video firing range, just think how rested your fingers and eyes will be.
"The Little Drummer Girl"--In a tantalizing taste of the latest novel from the author of The Spy Who Came In from the Cold and other thrillers, Israeli agents weave a complicated web to trap a P.L.O. terrorist--By John Le Carré