With the baseball season well under way (barring player, umpire or usher strikes), we can think of no better subject for this month's Playboy Interview than Earl Weaver, who retired last year after 14 seasons at the helm of the Baltimore Orioles. We didn't know whether or not we should send Playboy interviewer Lawrence Linderman to meet him wearing kneepads, a face mask and earplugs, because Weaver is a man who has been known to rip bases off their moorings, fling equipment around dugouts and (inadvertently, of course) maul umpires. But in truth, says Linderman, "He's got a sense of humor about himself that's wonderful. One time, I went golfing with him and a couple of his friends. As they teed off, one of the guys said—referring to this interview—'Now we'll finally get to hear all about Weaver's hot sex life.' He responded dryly, 'I ain't shit. Just ask my wife,' then he grinned at me."
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), July, 1983, Volume 30, Number 7. 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, $38 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.
One of the best things about last year's "Night Shift" was the film debut of comic Michael Keaton. A native of Pittsburgh, where he was raised a Catholic, the youngest of seven children, Keaton dropped out of Kent State and headed for Los Angeles eight years ago. Sleeping in his car, he quickly worked his way onto the stage of The Comedy Store and eventually wound up on the ill-fated Mary Tyler Moore variety show: "I learned a lot working with Mary. Everybody knows she's tall and pretty, with great legs; but beyond that, she's incredibly funny."
For the dozens of fans traumatized by the pro golfers' strike, we present this encapsulated history of the tragedy up to presstime. Perhaps by looking back, we can understand the turmoil of the present.
Three years ago, Al Schneider, a thoughtful fellow who serves as ABC's censor, gave a speech in which he called on his cable brethren to clean up their act. Cable, he said, was practicing a "nonpolicy of anything goes." The networks, by contrast, continued to "operate under the public-interest obligation, with self-imposed standards for programing." It was time, he said, for cable to "accept the responsibilities imposed by a mass medium."
After the wall: More than a decade after his reincarnation as Ziggy Stardust, David Bowie is still regarded as the personification of rock decadence—and so it was something of a shock to find him in the corner booth of a Manhattan diner the other day, drinking milk. "I'm an extremist," he admitted brightly. "But I've learned to curb that. You know, there's a very old cliché—'If I'd known I would live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself.' But you just don't. When you are young and enthusiastic and you've got a message, you just don't think about tomorrow. And then, when tomorrow actually arrives, you try to pick up all the pieces again."
On The Key (A&M), Joan Armatrading has once again given us an entire album of interesting lyrics, good melodies and brimming energy. Her voice is as muscular and as masterful as usual, but there are catchy, nearly grating close harmonies this time around that make us see Joan a new way—as a black, female, West Indian Tom Petty. The nearly singsongy choruses of The Dealer, for example, immediately evoke Petty's Kings Road. Whether or not you buy the Petty comparison, we bet you'll find this to be the best work of a woman who never makes bad records.
Reeling and rocking: Elton John has signed to co-star with Liza Minnelli in a Blake Edwards comedy—no singing, just acting.... Laurie Anderson is expanding her composition Big Science and will perform the new version in the movie The Keep.... Dionne Warwick is singing the theme song for Jigsaw Man.... Irene Cara has recorded Flash-dance, What a Feeling, from the new movie Flashdance.... The Thompson Twins filmed their recent American tour as part documentary, part fantasy.... The success of Time Rider: The Adventures of Lyle Swann has made Michael Nesmith a sought-after film producer. He is considering future offers and is currently producing a film called Repo Man, about a guy who repossesses cars.
In the Rarefied art of horror films, elegance is not enough. The Hunger (MGM/UA) is directed by Tony Scott (whose brother Ridley directed Alien), with Catherine Deneuve, David Bowie and Susan Sarandon to add their Beautiful People auras to an updated vampire yarn. That's about all it amounts to, alas, after a fast, fashionable start set to punk music, with everything smashingly photographed by Stephen Goldblatt. Sarandon also stirs initial interest as an earnest, sexy scientist whose newest book, Sleep and Longevity, naturally attracts the exquisitely undead couple played by Bowie and Deneuve. Bowie, only a couple of centuries old, has begun to age alarmingly fast. But I won't bore you with details. The hunger of the title is actually bloodthirst, handled pretty much as usual. A lesbian fling between Sarandon and Deneuve—the vampire queen's ruse for getting her teeth into an artery—is arguably the most provocative aspect of the movie but seems awfully cautious and tentative after a slew of rumors as to how red-hot it was going to be. Otherwise, Scott overplays his effects. In the contemporary New York seen here, even the halls and the inner offices of a modern research clinic look as befogged and as eerie as those cobblestoned byways where one usually finds Dracula or Jack the Ripper. The Hunger, though cinematically dressed to kill, is finally too foolish to be fearsome. [rating]2 bunnies[/rating]
Those home-vid buffs who own laser discs know what's meant by interactive TV, which puts the viewer in control. Such technology opens up new horizons of programing, best seen so far in the VIDMAX MysteryDisc: Murder, Anyone? Remember the old board game Clue? Similar but trickier and far more fun, the well-produced, slickly acted MysteryDisc sets up the murder of a nasty millionaire amid a gallery of prime suspects. Viewers, singly or in teams, are challenged to guess who done it, how and why—by electronically pursuing different paths of inquiry. It's soon to have a sequel, Many Roads to Murder.
Michael Parfit's The Boys Behind the Bombs (Little, Brown) is a fine piece of investigative work with a misleading title. The book should be called The Boys Behind the MX Missile, because that's what it's about. Those boys include such people as Seymour Zeiberg, William Perry, John Toomay, Albert Latter, William Crabtree. Proving once again that fictional techniques work just fine in journalistic endeavors, Parfit lets the boys grow on you the way they did on him. That's interesting, of course, because you get to know some human beings. But what's frightening is to read how the MX itself evolved—by default, by hook and by crook, by bureaucratic manipulation and Pentagon perverseness. (Example: Want to know why they chose the name MX? Because it was safe, it was good ad copy, it was vague. "The conclusion we eventually came to was it wouldn't mean anything and it could mean anything," Parfit quotes a former Pentagon official.) Parfit brings to his work a reporter's attention to detail, of course, and a rigorous emotional honesty, a way of pulling you into his consciousness. You share with him the distinct impression that boys will always be boys and that there has yet to be a toy they won't sooner or later want to play with.
Idol Gossip: Jack Nicholson has been signed to play the role of fictional former astronaut Garrett Breedlove in Paramount's film adaptation of Larry McMurtry'sTerms of Endearment. Nicholson co-stars with Debra Winger and Shirley MacLaine.... Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell will top-line Warner Bros.' Swing Shift. Set during World War Two, the flick is about the thousands of women who enlisted in the home-front work force to spur wartime weapons production. Hawn plays an aircraft-factory worker; Russell is her co-worker and love interest. Jonathan(Melvin and Howard)Demme directs.... Indiana Jones and the Temple of Death is the title of the next in the ongoing Raiders of the Lost Ark series. George Lucas will be co-executive producer, Steven Spielberg will direct and Harrison Ford will return as the death-defying Indiana Jones. Gloria Katz and Willard Huyck (who penned Lucas' American Graffiti) have written the screenplay.... When producer-director Hugh(Chariots of Fire)Hudson began his search for an actor to play the title role in Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes, he was seeking an actor capable of portraying a wild man who comes to terms with the complexities of Edwardian society and not simply your garden-variety Charles Atlas look-alike. Hudson has chosen 25-year-old Christopher Lambert, a relative unknown in America whose credits include several French films. Unlike previous Tarzan epics, Greystoke adheres strongly to Edgar Rice Burroughs' original story of an aristocratic baby brought up by apes who subsequently takes his place in Edwardian society: As Tarzan himself puts it, "Half of me is the Earl of Greystoke and half of me is wild." ... Richard Gere and Gregory Hines will co-star in Robert Evans' The Cotton Club, set to begin production in July. More on this one in upcoming columns.
"For men who go one step beyond," the headline read. It caught my eye. One step beyond what? It was an article by Diane White in The Boston Globe. She was having fun and being serious at the same time. She was handing out awards. That's OK; it's the season for awards.
I have a problem that makes me feel uncomfortable, to say the least. While my girlfriend was enjoying our sex one evening, she remarked that my erection had a noticeable bend to the left. I asked whether or not it irritated her and she replied no. But I noticed afterward that she seemed to shift as if it did. I have since dropped the girl and haven't started any new romances. Is there anything that I can do to correct the situation?—R. L., Portland, Oregon.
This month, the Playmates discuss sexual maturity. That's not so simple a question as, When did you lose your virginity? As Lorraine Michaels said, "You mean at what age did I feel I had it all together sexually?" That's exactly what we mean.
Baseball will miss Earl Weaver. When Baltimore's fiery skipper retired at the end of last season, all he'd done in 14 and a half years was guide the Orioles to more victories than any other major-league team had compiled during that period. In baseball's long history, in fact, only two men have ever topped Weaver's .596 win-loss percentage: Frank Selee, who managed the Boston Braves and the Chicago Cubs from 1890 to 1905, and Joe McCarthy, who handled the Chicago Cubs, Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees from 1926 to 1950.
From the beginning of Time, Man has been on the move, ever outward. First he spread over his own planet, then across the Solar System, then outward to the Galaxies, all of them dotted, speckled, measled with the colonies of Man.
Unless, like Rip van Winkle, you're just coming up for air after an extremely long nap, you're already aware that there'll be two James Bond movies vying for screen space in 1983. It's been 20 years since Sean Connery quaffed his first vodka martini ("Shaken, not stirred") in Dr. No, ten since Roger Moore took over with Live and Let Die. Rumor has it that Moore's kid thinks Connery is the real Bond. You can cast your own vote at the box office: Will it be Moore and Maud Adams in Octopussy or Connery, Barbara Carrera and Kim Basinger in Never Say Never Again?
You can call it supply-side entertainment. A direct free-market competition between two classic James Bonds—Sean Connery in Never Say Never Again and Roger Moore in Octopussy—to see once and for all who's the biggest box-office draw. It's a challenge Agent 007 himself would love. Of course, there is something Bond loves as much as, if not more than, a challenge. Over the past 20 years, in 13 previous films, 007 has encountered some of the world's most beautiful women, and despite stiff competition from special effects and spectacular stunts, the resulting scenes have been among the most memorable in movies. We've designed a quiz to see just how much attention you were paying to those amorous adventures. The following multiple-choice questions cover some of Bond's sexiest escapades, so grab a pencil and pour yourself a vodka martini (shaken, not stirred, of course). You'll find the answers and a way to tell how well you scored on page 196.
<p>Hanging out with Ruth Guerri is a tonic. If she were bottled, the label would say, Dr. Cuerri's Elixir—cheers you up, mellows you out; gets the blood flowing and quickens the pulse; feel free to O.D.</p>
Hello, Muddah, Hello, Fadduh, here I am at computer camp in Mooclus, Connecticut. Soon there'll be 100 children here to devote some of their summer to staring at the pallid blip, blip, blip of a computer's cursor rather than at a council fire's light. As many as 5000 little kids will be doing their daily Qwertys at computer camps from here to California, and I'll be at one of the nicest ones, on these 300 acres of clover leaves. For one half month, I'll live in a pine-wood cabin with an assortment of eight-, nine- and ten-year-olds, and I'll sleep, wake up and press on the enter key with them. I'm overage, but I'm supposed to investigate this for Playboy.
When the Sun goes down and the tempers and the tantrums come out at the Carrington mansion on ABC's superhit Dynasty, it's time to get smart and get lost—as two stars from the series, John James and Kathleen Beller, have done here. (In case you've spent the past year in a cave, James plays Jeff Colby, who was formerly married to Blake Carrington's daughter, the ferocious Fallon; he's now married to the luscious Kirby Anders, played by—you guessed it—Beller.) When choosing what to take for a long-summer-weekend getaway, do as James has done and pack a minimum wardrobe that will give you maximum mixing-and-matching mileage. Whether you're heading just across the state or all the way to Baja California's Hotel Cabo San Lucas—where we shot this feature—one garment bag for a jacket and shirts and one carry-on bag for sportswear should suffice. Make your color selections harmonious. James, you'll notice, has toted a black poly/rayon jacket to wear with the pants from the tan polyester/cotton suit he traveled in. If your destination calls for a dressier look in the evening, coordinate the jacket with a formal wing-collar shirt coupled with a dark bow tie. (If the collar and the tie are a bit too tony for your taste, you can always pack a more conventional dress shirt and tie instead.) By sticking to neutral colors in your sportswear—while mixing in some primary shades—you can put together a variety of looks that should see you nicely through most social situations short of an audience with Queen Elizabeth II. Happy landings!
World war two, somewhere in Europe. A jeep sits half in, half out of a shell crater, one wheel wedged pathetically under the chassis. A burly sergeant stands facing away, left hand over his eyes, right hand holding a .45 automatic to its hood. He is about to put the injured mechanical beast out of its misery. Such was the love of the World War Two GI for his faithful motorized mule—as depicted in that famous Bill Mauldin cartoon. The jeep (the name is an alteration of the initials G.P., which stand for general-purpose vehicle) carried food and supplies to the trenches and the wounded to safety. They served as command and reconnaissance cars, towed trailers and chased tanks. "It does everything," wrote war correspondent Ernie Pyle. "It goes everywhere. It's as faithful as a dog, as strong as a mule and as agile as a goat. It constantly carries twice what it was designed for and still keeps on going. It doesn't even ride so badly after you get used to it." Well, old Ernie would be happily bouncing in his grave if he could climb aboard one of the current crop of four-wheel-drive (4wd) vehicles that are bounding over the boondocks and burning up the highways. Today's machines are the most civilized, most comfortable, easiest-to-operate sports utilities ever built, and their appeal reaches far beyond the farmer/forest-ranger types who bucked aboard early postwar jeeps. They're ideal for anyone who wants reliable daily transportation, along with the security and freedom of 4wd for bad weather and for the occasional camping, hunting or fishing foray. They're ruggedly handsome, with quiet, opulent interiors and option lists as long as IRS forms. They seat you high above the traffic yet ride and handle more like modern (continued on page 210)Off the Road Again!(continued from page 137) cars than like the tall, tippy 4wds of old; and they're equally at home arriving at a country club or ascending a steep mountain slope. For our 4wd showcase, we've selected six very different vehicles. Four are domestic, two are Japanese. Sizes range from small to hulking, and base prices start at well under five figures. For work or play, off road or on, there's something here for everyone.
The French Are Different from the rest of us. First of all, they dress better. They also talk faster and move their hands a lot. Their jobs allow them to spend most of the afternoon in smoky cafés, where it takes them an hour to drink a tiny cup of coffee. The worst thing a Frenchman can do is lose an argument. The best thing a Frenchman can do is think about women. This he does all the time. Thinking about women takes on a sacred dimension for him. Much of the French language is used to describe the intricacies of women: how they walk, how they look when draped in clothes, how they might look without them. Frenchmen know from a very early age that women are going to occupy most of their waking hours and some of their sleeping hours as well. It goes with the territory. Francis Giacobetti's name doesn't sound French, but the person who owns it is relentlessly Gallic in his tastes. And he has adopted his adopted country's obsession with women. (Note his remarks on the pictures below. He does not treat his subject lightly.) Unlike most Frenchmen and most Americans, Giacobetti can indulge his interest and get paid for it. That's because he's a photographer—one who continually redefines what film can say about women and who discovers which of their secrets can be coaxed to show up on emulsion. His experiments established the pictorial style of France's Lui magazine. And then he turned to the movie camera and directed Emmanu-elle, the Joys of a Woman. We asked him to describe what it is he docs and he replied, "I take pictures of thousands of women with not many clothes on them and I steal from them tenths of seconds and sometimes a little part of their lives. They become my most beautiful trips and my softest landscapes." He takes his work seriously. Turn the page and see.
Robert Crane caught up with the diminutive daughter of Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher at her home in Laurel Canyon. He reports, "Carrie Fisher lives in a log cabin. Really. The only tip-off to her wealth is a Mercedes 450 SL parked in the driveway. Carrie talks fast and loud and doesn't forget the audience for a moment. She takes charge, like Princess Leia, but is much more attractive in person without that costume and the doughnuts on the side of her head."
When Henry Ford cranked up his first Model T, he didn't realize that he was also starting an automotive aftermarket that would rival the motoring industry itself. After all, why slide through the night behind weak, factory-installed headlights when you can have a halogenic experience? Why time your zero to 60 using a dinky timepiece when you can calculate your trajectory on the watch Neil Armstrong took to the moon? Why drive at all if you're just going to roll down the road? Except for four thin strips of rubber whispering to the pavement, driving is simply flying at the lowest possible altitude. And if you're going to fly, you may as well do it in style.
If you're into reruns of Sea Hunt and you like the way Gumby looks on Saturday Night Live, then forget about the wet suits pictured here. Basic black and bulky they're not; in fact, you don't have to be into scuba diving to enjoy them, as their lightweight construction and body-hugging cut make them ideal for surfboarding, wind surfing, water-skiing and kayaking. While thickness in wet suits ranges from a wafer-thin half millimeter (1/50 inch) to a heavy five millimeters (1/5 inch), we've picked medium-weight examples that crest from 1mm to 4mm. Some even have mixed thicknesses for movement and warmth. So climb atop your board and shove off. Nobody's going to mistake you for a seal.
"The Navy VS. Paul Trerice"—When his son died on the U.S.S. Ranger, Bill Trerice started asking questions. The answers, such as they were, were frightening. A True story of horror at sea—by Bruce Henderson