Contributing Editor John Blumenthal and writer Betsy Cramer tailed the entire cast of America's favorite cop show, Hill Street Blues, for this month's Playboy Interview. Says Blumenthal, "This is my second exercise in crowd control--the first was for Playboy's NBC's Saturday Night cast Interview in 1977. Next, I hope to interview Lebanon." We wish him luck--something that also helps when you're tracking down the female orgasm.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), October, 1963, Volume 30, Number 10. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Bldg., 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Ill. 60811. Subscriptions: In the United States and its possessions, 354 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.
Colleges are a lot like people, and in a period of recession, they can become desperate. Recently, our bastions of higher learning have been pursuing qualified students with the zeal that Ahab showed for Moby Dick. The exceptional prospect has been offered everything short of the hand of the president's daughter. And it's not too late to cash in. You, too, may be eligible for any number of the following scholarships.
A Hard Sell: If Malcolm McLaren had been born on this side of the Atlantic instead of in England and had taken up baseball instead of music, we would have another Billy Martin on our hands. While managing the Sex Pistols, Adam & the Ants and Bow Wow Wow to big-league contention, McLaren, like Martin, hasn't stayed at the same job--or away from controversy--for very long.
Call it nepotism of a different sort: Ricky Skaggs is using his new and lofty position in the music field to benefit a raft of relatives. More to the point, he has produced The Whites' new album, Old Familiar Feeling (Warner/Curb), featuring father-in-law Buck and other White family members, whose collective sound is mellow and country related but otherwise nicely indescribable. With mixes of dobro, mandolin, fiddle, piano and string-band staples, differing styles and fine harmony, plus tunes that include blues, bluegrass, honky-tonk, Gospel and a little western swing, it's like a listening trip across a Southern radio dial.
Question of the Month: What has four legs, millions of fans and great stage presence and will probably bring in more money than the U.S. defense budget? The answer? Elton John and Rod Stewart, who are planning to tour together during the summer of 1984. According to Elton, "It won't just be the two of us onstage doing an hour each; we've been working together to produce a special show." Rod did tour last summer, but Elton has no similar plans prior to going on the road with him. Instead, he'll be making a movie with Liza Minnelli called Hang Ups. We will keep you posted.
Previews: It is time, once again, to give you a look at the reading pleasures that await you this fall and winter. In fiction, we anticipate a new collection of short stories from Donald Barthelme called Overnight to Many Distant Cities (Putnam's), a new Len Deighton thriller, Berlin Game (Knopf), and Leila (Delacorte/Seymour Lawrence), by J. P. Donleavy, a sequel to The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman. We also note that prolific Joyce Carol Oates has a new novel set in the late 19th Century, Mysteries of Winterthurn (Dutton), in which detective Xavier Kilgarvan solves a series of murders. In the something-for-everyone category, look for Edward Gorey's third collection of stories and drawings, Amphigorey Also (Congdon & Weed).
Vigilante Justice stirs to life in The Star Chamber (Fox), writer-director Peter Hyams' timely melodrama about a secret tribunal to punish criminals who escape through legal loopholes. Provocative but occasionally preposterous, the movie stars Michael Douglas as a conscientious L.A. judge suffering a guilt complex over all the dangerous misfits he is forced to set free. A series of brutal murders by a ring of kiddie-porn sadists sets the plot in motion, and Hyams keeps it spinning along on a medium-fast track somewhere between The Verdict and Death Wish. I get a whiff of fascism at work here--sheer exploitation of our fears about killers in the streets, with some tidy liberal thoughts tacked on after we've all enjoyed the sweet taste of vengeance. Still, Star Chamber is the kind of hard-edged saga of crime and punishment that ignites arguments, which seems a plus. I'd forgive more if it weren't for its underlighted, dingy look; it's one of those movies that somehow equate seriousness with dark shadows--and it gives L.A. today the somber, monotonous air of Moscow in winter. Why? [rating]2 bunnies[/rating]
Idol Gossip: Peter Yates will direct the film version of the award-winning play The Dresser, a suspense-filled comedy set in a theater in wartime England. The story of an eccentric English actor whose career is on the wane, the flick will top-line Tom Courtenay (reprising his stage role) and Albert Finney....Ex-Charlie's Angel Tanya Roberts has been selected to play the title role in Columbia's Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. The screenplay is being penned by David (Superman I, II and III) Newman...."Animal House on rafts" is how Samuel Z. Arkoff describes his latest film, Rafts, which just happens to feature two of Animal House's wild-and-crazy stars, Tim Matheson and Stephen Furst, as well as Hill Street Blues regular James B. Sikking. Set in Oregon, the movie involves a bunch of crazed collegiates who enter a white-water-rafting contest and end up, among other things, diverting the river through a house....Word has it that Orion's The Bounty, starring Mel Gibson, Anthony Hopkins, Edward Fox and Laurence Olivier, will try to show Captain Bligh in a more sympathetic light than previous portrayals have done....Charlton Heston, Brad Davis, Wayne Rogers, Paul Sorvino, Keith Carradine, Stephen Collins, Tess Harper, Victoria Tennant and Billy Dee Williams will star in CBS-TV's six-hour miniseries Chiefs, based on a novel by Stuart Woods. Shot in South Carolina, the special is about a small Southern town harboring a mass murderer whose crimes go undetected for decades and the three police chiefs who, one by one, attempt to solve the mystery....Michael(Mr. Mom)Keaton will play a James Cagney--like role in 20th Century-Fox's broad spoof of Thirties gangster films, Johnny Dangerously.Amy (Fast Times at Ridgemont High) Heckerling has been signed to direct.
We were living in Honolulu, near Kahala Beach, in 1972. The marriage was in final convulsion. Life in paradise had not been able to cover up the enormous fault line running down the center of our relationship. It was a mess, and as discontent rumbled through the house, I knew nothing was going to put Humpty Dumpty together again.
This year, I met a very attractive girl in one of my university classes, and we began to have frank and open conversations on the subject of sex. I learned quite early that she has herpes. However, despite that, I fell in love with her; she is a beautiful person. We began having sex and have taken measures to see that I don't become infected. She tells me when she is having an outbreak or is safe, when she is feeling run-down, etc. I make use of condoms to prevent any errors in judgment. My problem is that on one or two occasions, I accidentally let the fact that she has herpes slip out in the company of friends. Since then, word has gotten around. Now I've found that a few of my friends have begun treating me as though I have the plague, giving me a separate towel if I use their washroom. One friend even refused to allow me to kiss his bride after their wedding--all that, despite the fact that I don't have herpes! When I've become irate and have told those people that I don't have it, the response has been either "Sure, sure" or "I don't care; I'm not taking any chances." My girlfriend has told me that she avoids this by not telling anyone except the person she is seeing. However, now that I am in this position, I don't quite know what to do short of getting a certificate from a doctor attesting that I don't have herpes.--M. B., Vancouver, British Columbia.
We who edit Playboy know what the readers think of our Playmates. They write to us every month and tell us. We know what we think of our Playmates, because we pick them to grace the pages of our magazine. We were curious about what our Playmates thought of themselves when they looked in the mirror. So we decided to ask them.
A while back, I read an alarmist newspaper story reporting that an estimated 26,000,000 Americans smoke marijuana. About the same time, I read an alarmist magazine article estimating that 26,000,000 Americans legally own handguns. That coincidence struck me as more interesting than alarming and got me to thinking. The pot smokers I know tend to be fairly liberal-minded and nonviolent and tend not to own handguns (one toke over the line and it's all they can do to thread a reel-to-reel tape recorder). On the other hand, the gun owners I know tend to be conservative-minded, hard-nosed and booze-oriented (a few dozen middle-aged duck hunters could have quelled the celebrated youth rebellion in a matter of weeks). Both are a bit paranoid because of antipot and antigun campaigns, and both are angry at the Government. Both have a certain libertarian philosophy that rejects the tireless efforts of well-meaning reformers to tell them how to live their personal lives. Both like sex, generally speaking. But, for reasons of social and cultural prejudice, neither group much likes the other, partly because they don't really know each other.
On January 15, 1981, NBC inauspiciously aired an hour-long series pilot called "Hill Street Station." Covering a single day in the life of an inner-city police precinct located in an undesignated metropolis and featuring an oversized ensemble cast of relative unknowns, the show had a frenetic pace and a grittily realistic style. Characters walked in and out of frame, dialog was choppy and overlapping, action was sudden and gut-wrenching and individual dramas never seemed to reach resolution. Suddenly, without warning, unsuspecting viewers were thrust into the chaos of a police station: There was precinct captain Frank Furillo's ex-wife barging into his office to demand her overdue alimony check; just outside, a scruffy undercover cop with a reputation for biting felons subdued a rowdy low-life; the beautiful and cool public defender Joyce Davenport walked by; the precinct's elder statesman, polysyllabic Sergeant Phil Esterhaus, whispered into a telephone to his teenaged sweetheart; suave but sleazy Detective J. D. LaRue was unceremoniously doused with a cup of hot coffee while eloquent Lieutenant Howard Hunter dispensed dime store wisdom on the pervasiveness of inferior races; and, finally, there were the two blues, beat cops Andy Renko and Bobby Hill, walking innocently into a ghetto ambush in the dark recesses of a condemned building. The staccato pace and the unfamiliar style didn't let up--not for a minute--and one thing became immediately apparent: Nothing quite like "Hill Street" had ever been seen on television.
It Started out as a lark and ended up as a cause célèbre when Billerica (Massachusetts) Memorial High School senior Loretta Martin wrote under Ambition in the high school's yearbook, "To do a spread for Playboy." Her mother didn't mind. Her friends thought it was funny. But it was definitely not funny to Billerica Memorial officials, who deleted the line. Martin wasn't the only student whose statement was edited. of 550 students in her class, 110 made yearbook entries that were removed without their permission. Of those 110, however, only Loretta got mad enough to fight back. After unsuccessfully pleading her case with the yearbook's advisors, the student council and the principal, she went, accompanied by her mother, Beverly Trullo, to school superintendent Paul Heffernan. "He told me that if I were his daughter, he'd turn me over his knee and spank me," says Martin. Heffernan rejected her request that her ambition he reinstated, partially because "I didn't think that type of comment belonged in a yearbook. I deal with the parents of all the students, and I think they want a tasteful yearbook." Viewing the censorship as less a matter of good taste than an infringement on her freedom of speech, Martin enlisted the aid of the American Civil Liberties Union to apply legal pressure on her behalf. Soon the media got wind of her story, and one morning she woke up to find crews from NBC and CBS outside her home. ABC News interviewed her on the phone, as did a reporter from Good Morning America. Articles were written about her in newspapers around the country, and she was invited to appear on Donahue. Oh, yes. And we invited her to our Chicago studios to make her ambition come true. The Billerica yearbook was printed before Martin's A.C.L.U. lawyer had time to file an injunction to prevent its publication, so that case is moot. But Loretta learned a lot about life before it was over: "I learned how cruel people can be. A week after my story appeared in the Lowell, Massachusetts, Sun, I walked through the lunchroom and students were calling me names. I figured they were repeating what they'd heard their parents say. That's sad. But I also learned that there's a whole big world out there, and I'm glad to go into it as an adult." Welcome to the major leagues, Loretta.
Quantrill first appeared in the village the Tuesday night before Christmas. I know it was a Tuesday, because we were in the pub, playing cards. The usual group--Blister, Wickie, Jim the milkman. Barton and me--playing our usual game, nine-card brag. Nothing extravagant, mind you; a couple of pounds in the ashtray, winner take all and buy the next round. That's the way we normally play. A few of the wives and girlfriends sat by the fire, gossiping, teasing old Jim about his new theory that eating turkey makes you go deaf.
Classics with a Twist sums up the fashion direction for this fall and winter's menswear looks--the twist being dressy, more citified cuts and colors in both tailored clothes and sportswear. Suit-coat shoulders will be broader, and you'll see more self- and sweater vests. The pocket square also is returning, bringing with it a dash of color and texture that will brighten more somber fall hues, such as charcoal gray, brown and navy. Leather, both polished and suede, continues its winning ways; matte-surfaced soft-leather slacks, for example, look and feel lived in when new without appearing old. Loose-fitting, dropped-shoulder sweaters with dimensional textured effects will highlight pullover and cardigan styles. But enough words. Pictures tell the real story. Read on.
The Spread A Sporting Man's Guide to College Football
John A. Walsh
"The Race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong," Damon Runyon wrote, "but that's the way to bet." Runyon could have been alluding to college football during the past decade. The meek may inherit the earth, but in the college game, the weak don't cover the spread. The wars will always be won by those who can put the biggest, quickest and most talented youngsters into pads and helmets.
Ok, the thrill is back. The decade of dullness has come and gone. Cars are exciting and driving is fun again. Showrooms across the country are overflowing with high-output Camaros, Firebirds and Mustangs, twin-cam Supras, turbo T-birds and Z-cars, STEs, 944s, Quattros, Corvettes.... The bad news is that you can't touch one of those for less than ten grand, and many go for $15,000 or more. Some for much more. Cheer up, leadfoot. There's a new breed of machine in the land: the pocket rocket--your basic economy sedan or coupe with a massive horsepower and handling transfusion. It's inexpensive to buy, economical to run and more fun than a swimming pool full of Playmates. (Well, almost.) General Motors' Chevrolet division gets credit for designing the American-market pocket rocket by dropping a high-output V6 engine into its Citation X-car three years ago and calling it an X-11. Soon, the Pontiac, Oldsmobile and Buick divisions followed suit with H.O. V6-powered Phoenix, Omega and Skylark X-cars of their own. But the class was redefined for 1983 when Volkswagen of America let loose its four-cylinder Rabbit GTI, a domestic version of the parent(continued on page 200)Pocket Rockets(continued from page 117) company's very popular European Golf GTI budget Q-ship. Imagine the expression on the face of the typical smug Mercedes driver doing 100-plus on the autobahn when one of these wolves in Robert Hall Rabbit's clothing fills his mirrors and flashes past. The GTI's look is understated. You recognize it by the monochromatic exterior (black, white, red or silver), the oversized Pirelli P6 radials and the little red identification badges. Viewed from the deeply contoured driver's seat, only the black-out dash, the console-mounted gauges (water temperature, oil temperature and clock) and the chunky steering wheel give clues to the rapid Rabbit's personality transplant. But you have to light the fuse to set off the dynamite.
When an unpertentious Manhattan chophouse mounts 20 single-malt whiskies on its back bar, aged vintage Armagnacs appear on the shelves of the neighborhood liquor stores and racy new liqueurs seem to bloom every day, people in the gusto lane see the handwriting on the wall. What all that says is welcome to a new era of taste.
At the center of it all is the blending of color and motion. Willie Mays, magic number 24 emblazoned in blue on his back, bludgeons one more left-hand fast ball through a ripple of yellow and goodbye. A tennis player, wrong-footed, spins his Nikes back to the corner he just left. The ball is dying; he races to keep it alive. Banners splash the sky with red as 20,000 leaping spectators blend into a froth of colors.
Contributing Editor David Rensin followed "Saturday Night Line's" rubber-faced funnyman Joe Piscopo around 30 Rockefeller Center with one burning question. Says Rensin, "From the 'S.N.L.' set to Joe's dressing room to wardrobe to his office, I had to know: If the name Piscopo were a verb, what would it mean? Piscopo didn't know but later revealed that his surname meant bishop in Greek. What follows, then, is also a '20 Questions' with Joey Bishop."
Rock and Roll: I Gave You the Best Years of My Life
We ware in the middle of Gloria, the part where Berler sings out the letters to the girl's name and the rest of us who sing--P.J., Gabby, myself and Drew, though at that point Drew wasn't with us yet, Pablo still being our rhythm guitarist--shout back, "Glo-ria!" when we felt the building shudder. The Del-Crustaceans are used to odd vibrations, but this was different. The sound was deeper, more structural than the stomping, alligatoring and table-dancing noises that sometimes accompany our music.
Redheads are like other women--only more so. The first thing you notice is a soft fire around their faces--an auburn halo that vibrates in high gear. A kind of heat that has nothing to do with temperature radiates from them like a visual perfume: a curious, insistent allure. Redheads come in several shades and temperaments. For example, there are fiery redheads with strong voices and keen wills--Lucille Ball is that group's acknowledged patron saint. There are fiery redheads who have their thermostats on permanent simmer--picture Ann-Margret when she's not dancing but is dressed as though she might at any minute transform her hips into a metronome. There are redheads who look as if they have just come from a shower and are pink from vigorous towel drying--Annette O'Toole has part of the franchise on that look. There are redheads with historical purpose (Elizabeth I), redheads with social purpose (Margaret Sanger), redheads with chops (Lizzie Borden). By a happy coincidence of pigment and spark, redheads improve the world around them.
I have never bet a nickel on a football game, and I never will. That doesn't make me unique among sports fans, but it must mystify many. After all, as Playboy's seer on the game (pro and collegiate), I probably have more access to more inside information about more teams than any other person in the country. By dialing the phone, I can speak with coaches, pro scouts, even team physicians. That's what I do for a living. So I could, presumably, lay a lot of smart money on a lot of games. But I don't.
Almost no one seriously believes that the networks will ever again command the automatic access to prime sporting events that they enjoyed through the end of the Seventies. Even in the Seventies, the most prestigious heavyweight boxing events had long since been claimed by closed-circuit and pay cable-TV systems. As the Eighties began and a new political mood of free-market competition unleashed several restraints that had kept cable TV artificially dormant; a new generation of entrepreneurs began to slash away at the over-the-air barons' most prized sports holdings.
I'm lying on my back and I'm not alone. I've been exchanging sexual gestures of growing intensity with my partner for ten minutes, and the slow buzz of the arousal stage before orgasm has begun. The muscles of my pelvic floor want something to press against. That's why I've gotten horizontal. The seduction has been near perfect; I'm not sure who's been seducing whom. Like call and response, I nibble, he licks; I press, he tugs. We make forays into each other's body cavities, and I think I have a launch. He penetrates me, and I figure, Sure, I could do this for a couple of hours. He's thinking the same thing and gushes, "Your body was just made for sex."
Bertie Wooster had his Jeeves, and you, old bean, have your servant problem solved, too. Damp bath towels--like Aunt Agatha's soggy crumpets--are banished with a towel rack that starts heating up when you turn on the shower or the tub tap. And while Bertie's slacks were the worsteds for wear when Jeeves went on holiday, yours will be as crisp as a dry martini when you hang them in a heated oak trouser presser. Catching some Zs in the four-poster and someone's at the door? A Videophone visually announces who it is and allows you to admit him electronically. No discussions about wages. No cold stares when you plead poverty. To the manor born, that's you.
"My Dinners with Andrey: Inside the Cold War"--It all started innocently enough, but it ended in a dance with a Russian Spy. A true-life story of an American reporter's entanglement with the FBI, the K.G.B and the Ghost of Lee Harvey Oswald--By Carl Oglesby