If you've paid attention to goings on in the Oval Office, you know that some White House tenants have style and some don't. F.D.R. and Eisenhower had it. Ford and Carter didn't. And no President's style has had a greater impact on the voting public than John F. Kennedy's. Now, on the 20th anniversary of Kennedy's assassination, his friend and advisor William Manchester has written a new book, One Brief Shining Moment: Remembering Kennedy (published by Little, Brown), which we excerpt herein. Manchester's account of Kennedy's historic 1960 campaign reminds us that style need not replace substance.
Playboy. (ISSN 0032-1478). December, 1983, volume 30, number 12, 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: Jack Bernstein, 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.
Hoopla (Knopf), by Harry Stein, is a fictional account of those years in the early part of this century when American life was so wide open that somebody even found a way to fix the world series. Stein beautifully catches the aura, the language and the characters of the time. Luther Pond is his inspired invention, a grizzled old sportswriter who covered that rigged 1919 White Sox series, and Buck Weaver was one of the eight Chicago players who were accused of throwing the games and then were drummed out of baseball for life. Between them, they meet just about everybody who was anybody in those years, from Ty Cobb to John L. Sullivan to Shoeless Joe Jackson to Jack London (whom Pond calls a lout and a bad writer). And so do we. At one point, Cobb goes into the stands to beat a nasty fan half-senseless, then leads a players' strike in the wake of the affair. That strike lasts only hours, though, because the rich men who owned baseball in those years were utterly shameless in their exploitation of the country boys who played for them. It makes it a little harder to begrudge the modern players their fat salaries or to believe that there were good old days when baseball was played mostly for the fun of it.
Director Robert M. Young skillfully squeezes pathos from The Ballad of Gregorio Cortez (Embassy), based on the true story of a Mexican fugitive who became a legend after shooting and killing a Texas sheriff in 1901. While there's no doubt that he pulled the trigger, Cortez' essential guilt or innocence is studied, Rashomon style, from several points of view. He is evidently the victim of mistaken identity, plus faulty translation by a sheriff's deputy who tries to ''talk Mexican.'' Whether hot on the trail or hunkered down with a trainload of Texas Rangers, the exhaustive man hunt that brings Cortez to injustice is painstakingly re-created here. The vintage lifestyle and locations are photographed by Ray Villalobos with an air of absolute authenticity. It's a class act throughout, yet Gregorio Cortez is distinguished mostly for a magnificent, low-key performance in the title role by Edward James Olmos (best known heretofore as the star of the stage and screen musical Zoot Suit). Olmos' wrenchingly honest underplaying stirs memories of Brando at his zenith in Viva Zapata. This conscientious chronicle doesn't begin to match that classic. Even so, Young makes it both sensitive and suspenseful--an underdog epic with plenty of bite. [rating]2-1/2 bunnies[/rating]
Sounds of Africa: Until recently, all that most Americans knew of African music was the ominous rumbling of drums in jungle movies. Only bits of the real thing have filtered into American pop music, via Hugh Masekela, Manu Dibango and the Missa Luba. Lately, though, action has stepped up, as Bow Wow Wow and Talking Heads have spiced their music with tribal drums and splashes of Afrobeat. If your curiosity has been aroused, here are a few categories to investigate.
Quote of the Month: About his new basement studio in Buffalo, Rick James says, ''I just put $800,000 [into it] so I don't have to record in L.A. if I don't want to. L.A. is expensive and L.A. is shit. Here, we can do a quality job and we're at home. I'm going to rent the studio out, too. If Michael Jackson wants peace and quiet, he can come here to record. He can even stay at the ranch.'' Are you listening, Michael?
Idol Gossip: This month's Yondah Lies da Castle of My Faddah Award goes to Paramount for picking Richard Gere to top-line--are you ready for this?--The Story of David (alternative title, An Israelite and a Gentleman). Set to shoot in Italy under the direction of Bruce (Breaker Morant) Beresford, the film will follow the progress of its hero from his days as an innocent shepherd through his reign as king of Judah. No other casting news was available at presstime, but Mr. T sounds appropriate as Goliath and Debra Winger might be good as Bathsheba. . . . God only knows why, but Columbia is prepping Annie II, with moppet Aileen Quinn set to reprise her title role. This one, they say, will be less a traditional musical and more an action-adventure flick with songs. (Can't wait for Annie 3-D). Independent film maker Jan Egleson, responsible for several worthy PBS productions, has been named as director. . . . Peter Boyle will play the leader of a Thirties New York gang who inducts Michael Keaton into a life of crime in Fox's spoof of old gangster movies, Johnny Dangerously.Danny DeVito and Dom DeLuise have also joined the cast. . . . ''I have promised to do a comedy if I mess this up,'' vows Bill Murray of his first serious dramatic role, a part in Columbia's production of W. Somerset Maugham'sThe Razor's Edge. Co-starring with Catherine Hicks, Theresa Russell, Denholm Elliott and James Keach, Murray plays a young man trying to come to terms with himself and the world as he finds it following World War One. (It's the role played by Tyrone Power in the 1946 movie version.) The new picture is being shot on location in England, France and the Himalayas. . . . Mike Nichols will direct the movie of Nora Ephron's best seller Heartburn.
It was a truck stop just like any other. I parked my 18-wheeler and went inside to get off the road and out of the cold. It was Christmas Eve. Everybody with good sense was at home, but there I was, in a truck stop on Interstate 80 somewhere in Iowa, eating steak and eggs and drinking coffee and watching the snow outside. The road can be as lonely as the ocean.
I Suffer, like many women of my ilk, from Nick Nolte mania. I can't get enough of the guy. The rasp in his voice, the bewilderment in his eyes and even his certain extra beefiness make me go all funny internally. I especially like the way he shrugs his shoulders. It's a shrug that, if it could speak, would say, ''I don't know what is going on, and even if I did, I'd probably fuck up.''
[Q]My husband and I have been married for five years and had sex together at least three years before our marriage. During all that time, I have never had an orgasm from intercourse. My orgasms come from oral sex or masturbation, which I greatly enjoy--and my husband has said they really turn him on, too. But now he insists that I have a vaginal orgasm, which, it seems, I cannot achieve. During sex, he has refused me any kind of oral stimulation or even masturbation, stating that I will never learn how to have a vaginal orgasm if he does that. Needless to say, lovemaking has gone downhill for both of us. Is there anything I can do, any techniques or exercises I can learn? We have tried different positions and different angles of penetration, as well as different speeds, but nothing seems to help or even come close. I have tried to find books that may help me, but so far, I cannot find what I am looking for. Can you help in any way?--Mrs. A. C., St. Louis, Missouri.
One of the great myths of our time is that the sexual revolution has produced a generation of men and women who have rejected all traditional behavior. We thought we'd investigate this subject with our Playmate experts and get their views on being faithful.
It's one thing to call him the most popular male actor in America, as some in the publicity business have done. But People magazine raised the ante by calling him ''the Clark Gable of the Eighties,'' with ''the body of an N.F.L. linebacker and the head of a Viking sea lord.'' A Ladies' Home Journal reporter saw that and raised: ''I've interviewed Redford, Newman, Reynolds and Eastwood, and in terms of sheer physical impact, they don't even come close.'' But the man being burbled over hardly seems to be playing the game. ''I just happened to have had some luck with a TV series that hit,'' shrugs Tom Selleck. Then again, he may be playing the game exceedingly well.
Brace Yourselves: There is a bogus rumble in certain parts of the media to make you believe the sexual mood of America has turned from the open ground it gained over the past 20 years back toward the cold, mean shade of the old Puritan morality.
I am a thoroughly modern sports fan. That is to say, I am a relatively rootless middle-class, middle-aged American, almost totally without loyalty in my rooting habits, a citizen of the television age. I mention all of this by way of confession, for there may well be nothing in it to be proud of. But that is the way it is.
Beth in the office of Ways and Means Reardon told Karen in the office of Senator Bolter that Cecilia Dunn in the treasurer's office had refused to attend Ronald Devlin's wake. ''I couldn't believe it,'' Beth said. ''I said to her, 'Ceil, this is a guy that you knew all this time, am I right?' And she goes, 'Yeah, I guess so.' Like she wasn't really sure and stuff? And I go, 'Ceil, whaddaya mean, you guess so? This is the guy that two years ago when you first come in here, you get one look at the guy and you can't even talk for two days, am I right? This is the same guy and they got him laid out for two nights down at Donovan's, you're not even going, the wake?' And Ceil kind of just shrugs her shoulders and won't look at me, you know how she gets?''
Junkets of all kinds abound these days, but as far as we know, a rum tour of the Caribbean has never been proposed--an oversight we're about to address. It's a stay-at-home trip, so you won't need beachwear or nautical threads. In fact, all that's required is a receptive palate. Old Caribbean hands claim that English-and French-speaking islands are the sources of fuller-bodied specimens, while rums from Spanish-speaking areas are on the lighter side. Despite a few exceptions, that theory holds up rather well. (Obviously, the rum-sipping lass on this page is from an English-or (continued on page 233)Cane Mutiny(continued from page 129) French-speaking island.) Puerto Rico is a logical point of embarkation: Five out of six bottles of rum consumed in the States are from that commonwealth. Puerto Rico's whites are among the lightest rums on the market; those labeled gold or amber have a stronger flavor. Bacardi is the leading brand, followed by Ronrico and Don Q. There are pleasant surprises in Puerto Rican rums for those willing to explore. Captain Morgan Spiced Rum is made on a gold-rum base, lightly sweetened and laced with tropical botanicals and flavorings. It's aromatic and a good mixer. Also appealing to aficionados are the aged rums. They're smoother and richer than the ordinary golds--reflecting the extra years they've spent in cask. Bacardi Gold Reserve, Serralles' El Dorado and Viz-caya, marketed in a hand-blown decanter, are brands given longer aging time. Ron del Barrilito, not easily available Stateside, is favored by locals for its bold character and flavor. There are also a number of 151-proof Puerto Rican bottlings that are useful for flaming dishes and exotic punches.
We were about 40 minutes out of San Francisco when the crew finally decided to take action on the problem in lavatory 1B. The door had been locked since take-off, and now the chief stewardess had summoned the copilot down from the flight deck. He appeared in the aisle right beside me, carrying a strange-looking black tool, like a flashlight with blades or some kind of electric chisel. He nodded calmly as he listened to the stewardess' urgent whispering. ''I can talk to him,'' she said, pointing a long red fingernail at the Occupied sign on the locked toilet door, ''but I can't get him out.''
How's This as a plot line for Dynasty, ABC's soapy series of sex and corporate intrigue that's become a national mania: Alexis Carrington Colby--a woman so evil and conniving she makes J. R. Ewing look like Mother Teresa--decides to pose for Playboy. The word goes out to Blake, her slick and sometimes sinister ex-husband, and Krystle, his stunning, goody-two-shoes second wife. Of course, Alexis will have to tell her two sons, the mentally unstable Adam (don't (text continued on page 306)Joan Collins(continued from page 135) mention the word breakdown or he'll fly into a rage) and the homosexual Steven, who had such radical plastic surgery last season that it allowed the producers to pull the ultimate in soap-opera chutzpah--to fire one actor and replace him with another without changing the character.
Nearly All the members of the Yiddish Writers' Club in Warsaw, where I went in the Twenties, considered themselves atheists. Free love was an accepted way of life. The younger generation was convinced that the institution of marriage was obsolete and hypocritical. Many of them had become Marxists and proclaimed something they called ''Jewish worldliness.''
As Partygoers Know, it isn't just the halls that get decked out come the year-end holidays. Our guy at left forsakes the penguin look of basic black tie by choosing a wool double-breasted dinner jacket with Lurex thread that's combined with a vest and wool formal trousers, all from Tiger of Sweden, $550; plus a wing-collar shirt, by Yves Saint Laurent for After Six, about $55; acetate/satin bow tie, by Stephen J. Sotnick, about $8; and sterling-silver-and-onyx cuff links, $170, and studs, $200, both by Alfred Dunhill of London. (His date's dress is by Marc Bouwer, Ltd., New York.) Above: The heavy swell at left makes strong fashion waves in a cotton pin-point dinner jacket, $300, and mohair/wool formal trousers, $125, both from Windsor European Fashion; silk/cashmere/lamb's-wool sweater vest, by Yves Saint Laurent Menswear, $110; wing-collar shirt, by Henry Grethel, $40; and silk paisley bow tie, by Alan Flusser, about $25. His martini-drinking mate likes a silk-blend woven jacket, $235, silk denim tweed slacks, $125, and a pleated cotton shirt, $55, all by Jhane Barnes II; plus a suede necktie, by Stephen J. Sotnick, about $20; and a diamond-and-yellow-gold tie tack, by Ivan Gregorovitch, $300. (The elegant object of their affection has on a dress by Marc Bouwer, Ltd., New York; her jewelry is by Vanessa Strougo, New York.) Right: The winning look of winter white--a wool smoking jacket and wool formal slacks, both by D. Cenci, $850; wing-collar striped shirt, by Lazo Shirts, $95; silk herringbone bow tie, by Vicky Davis, $10; and leather-and-rayon suspenders with brass clips/slides, by Alan Flusser, about $50. (The lady wears a dress by Robert Molnar, New York; gloves by Sachiko for La Crasia, New York; and jewelry by Eric Beamon, New York.)
William Manchester's friendship with John F. Kennedy began in Boston immediately after World War Two, when both were young veterans crippled by wounds. Their relationship continued during Kennedy's White House years, when Manchester was the President's trusted confidant. Early in 1964, Jacqueline and Robert Kennedy asked the author to write ''The Death of a President,'' his definitive account of the Dallas tragedy. This fall, Manchester published his 15th book, ''One Brief Shining Moment: Remembering Kennedy.'' Here, he recalls the heady days of the 1960 Presidential campaign, the days of Camelot in the making, when the future was bright and everything seemed possible.
Route Two winds along the Charles River in Boston before leaving behind the red-brick buildings of Harvard, the white sails and the flashing oars, the jogging scholars, to head northwest toward Concord. The shot-heard-round-the-world Concord. It had been years since any girl we knew lived next door to a national monument, but Terry Nihen (pronounced Ni'-yen), our first Massachusetts Playmate in recent memory, does. Of course, Concord bridge is still there, but New England is changing. The Colonial houses are still there, tucked in the dense green New England forests. But at every crossroads, there is a computer company, another building with Data or Digital in the company name. Terry Nihen grew up in this region, in Acton, and she has changed. In a part of the country where every child goes on to college, if not graduate school, she opted to enroll in a technical-trade high school in nearby Lexington. ''I wanted to try something new, to test myself against other kids. The school drew people from seven or eight towns. I was thrown in with a new crowd of very bright kids, just like that. I was studying something I was interested in.'' After graduation, she worked for a bank for four years. She added two more jobs to pay her way through a local community college. She changed direction and went to work for a firm she calls Digital-in-the-Woods. ''I looked at other places that were too ultraprofessional. I've learned that what appears to be professional isn't. A preppie look isn't enough. I like something flexible. I get the work done and laugh.'' She worked in an employment-relations program: ''I was relating not just to computers but also to people. The best of both worlds.'' Because her company had offices throughout the U.S., Terry decided to leave New England. She settled on Atlanta. She had apparently forgotten to pack the famous New England modesty--lucky for us. ''I was a contestant in a bikini contest at a disco. First prize was a trip to Fort Lauderdale. Melinda Mays [Miss February 1983] was one of the judges. She suggested that I try out for Playmate. I was fairly rude about it. There were other girls in the contest who were better-looking. It had never crossed my mind that I could be mistaken for one of the women in Playboy. But I thought about it for a day, then called her.'' There was no question in our mind that Terry Nihen deserved to be a Playmate. We had seldom seen a woman in such great shape. ''I taught an exercise class three times a night. I got shin splints and had to cut down, but I'm still pretty active. I want to get into weight training. I don't want big muscles, just to get everything really hard, to be the best I can be.''
As she delightedly unwrapped each Christmas present, the grateful mistress insisted on expressing her appreciation to her generous lover with a quickie. ''Darling,'' the man panted after the fourth, ''couldn't we consider a deferred-payment plan?''
In 1975, The American Film Institute gave Orson Welles a star-studded banquet in the Los Angeles Ballroom of the Century Plaza Hotel to present him with its Life Achievement Award. Film clips of the past two winners, director John Ford and actor James Cagney, flashed on a giant screen as the announcer said, ''Tonight, we honor the third man.'' Nelson Riddle and his orchestra struck up the theme from a movie with one of Welles's most famous performances, The Third Man. Spotlights focused on the paneled door as the announcer continued, ''The American Film Institute spotlights a director, an actor, a writer, a producer--and here they are: Orson Welles.''
She's a maniac on the floor, and her dance is stripped-down, flashed-up. Come explore. You've seen the movie, heard the music, hyperventilated to the video. Zoom in, now, for a look at the women who make flashdancing the musical model of sensory overload. It has set off the last blast in disco's demolition, done more for torn shirts than Brando and made leg warmers seem more disarming than light sabers. Its practitioner kicks sparks. She may not be your basic girl next door; but, then, we're living in the age of flash.
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.
You know, today's advanced technology staggers the imagination. And yet, one essential area of human activity has been conspicuously left out of the onslaught of automation . . . Sex. How can that be? My theory is that most inventors are prudish introverts and feel ill at ease dealing with this altogether normal life function. I, personally, harbor no such inhibitions and, to prove it, have created the following suite of erotic appliances, such as KWIK-LIK, the pacifier at left, designed for the teat-totaling executive. Let my work stand as one man's rebuttal to the shortsightedness of 100 years of geniuses, rest their souls.
The most intricate and exciting computer game around is Buying a Computer. It's fraught with mystery, danger, intrigue and close calls. As in any adventure game, the primary players--whether they're searching for the Lost Ark, the Maltese Falcon or the Right Computer--wonder, Whom can I trust? It's a question worth pondering.
The sex stars of 1983 proved again that those old organs can still play mighty tunes if properly serviced. Although middle age is only a state of mind, the calendar can nonetheless exact an annoying toll on some of us. Thanks to John Travolta, however, we physical wretches could sit back on our cellulite and be happy we don't have to stay in shape for sex stardom, great though the rewards may be. To get ready for Staying Alive, Travolta trained for four months under Sylvester Stallone, pumping iron for two hours each day, dancing for three. In addition to a limited high-protein diet, he stuffed himself with multivitamins, mineral pills, zinc tablets and wheat-germ capsules. Then, when his 29-year-old body was finally transformed, Travolta accented the new shape by waxing off a lot of body hair and undergoing special sun tanning.
In the past decade, college basketball has enjoyed the most explosive growth in popularity of any spectator sport since Romans started tossing Christians to the lions. Arenas sell out months in advance. Television audiences multiply astronomically. Schools where basketballs once dribbled through the shadows of the football program now construct immense arenas. Dozens of small, otherwise obscure colleges are producing top-ranking teams. Lightning-quick point guards and seven-foot centers are becoming household names, and--perhaps most significant of all--an avalanche of bucks is pouring into athletic-department coffers.
You know about aerobics, don't you? It's exercise combined with dancing combined with skintight leotards with wocka-wocka necklines--tons of fun for everyone. More to the point, there are those who believe in doing aerobic exercises and those who believe in watching those who believe in doing aerobic exercises. This feature is for the latter group, those who truly appreciate great moves. No matter that you follow more sedentary pursuits. You can still have a good time participating in Annie's aerobics class, whether you're cutting through the skies in your Learjet or lolling by the quay on the fantail of your yacht at St.-Tropez or accelerating through the metropolis with your current inamorata on the cross-town subway. Just get rid of the bimbo and hie yourself away to some private place you can call your own. Take out this copy of Playboy, if you haven't already, and turn to page 00. Slip on your leg warmers. Pop the paper flap. Curl as directed. And stroke, stroke, stroke. If you follow our instructions carefully, you'll have a wonderful experience seeing Annie actually move. In fact, you'll see her entire kinky aerobics class move. And if you're very, very lucky, you'll be moved, too. Wocka-wocka!
A long, long time ago--somewhere around the turn of the decade--life and home-entertainment systems were a lot simpler. If you wanted to make beautiful music together, you bought a basic stereo system: turntable, tuner, amp, preamp, speakers. Only if you were in the avant-garde did you add video to that system. Video usually meant a no-frills VCR patched into your existing television. Well, we are here to tell you that home entertainment isn't what it used to be. No, indeed. It's so much more.
1. Remote possibility. For those who'd prefer to spend time turning on a date instead of a stereo, we offer Acoustic Research's Stereo Remote Control (SRC-1). A control unit that hooks up to both your A.C. power line and your stereo system is activated by a hand-held wireless transmitter. It turns on or off, regulates volume and balance and can select an outside source. There's even a sleep timer that turns off the music after 30 minutes of play. You get the lights. $160.
Back in 1784, a chess-playing automaton named The Turk had Paris and London all agog as it defeated beginners and masters with equal aplomb. Its secret, of course, was that its flowing robes actually housed a human (some say a very smart midget). It's no secret that Milton Bradley's Grand-Master houses an advanced chess computer with 12 levels of skill. But what distinguishes it from other electronic chess games is that your invisible opponent's pieces move by themselves, just as though you were sitting across from Claude Rains. If that's too bizarre, there are electronic Scrabble, bridge, backgammon or Ms. Pac-Man. All make worthy foes when you feel like challenging a microchip.
The women in our lives give us so much that it's hard to come up with the perfect yuletide gift that says thanks without being cloying or corny. How can you let a woman know that you really appreciate the times she's forgiven you for showing up late and lit? How do you tell her that when you add up your assets and liabilities, she somehow manages to top the asset list--even ahead your beach house on Montauk? Well, to get the point acros you have to let go of some cash. Not mortgage the fart necessarily; but there's something about the cool silence extravagant jewels and furs that will articulate the ineffabl Besides, she'll have all year to thank you. Suggestions follow.