As the summer heats up, so do many relationships. That can be either good or bad. When it's good, it can be very good, indeed. When it's bad, it often has something to do with money. Especially these days. Contributing Editor D. Keith Mano assesses this development in Money, Sex and the American Couple (illustrated by Teresa Fasolino)--and comes up with a foolproof way to find out if you and your mate are really compatible. Accompanying the piece is The Dow Jones Emotionals: 30 Issues on Which Relationships Rise and Fall, by sociologists Philip Blumstein and Pepper Schwartz. They wrote the book on the subject--American Couples: Money, Work, Sex.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), August, 1984, Volume 31, Number 8, 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: Walter Joyce, Divisional Promotion Director; Ed Condon, Director/Direct Marketing; Jack Bernstein, Circulation Promotion Director. Advertising: Charles M. Stentiford, Advertising Director; Michael Druckman, Jeffrey Kleinman, Craig Vander Ploeg, Senior Associate Managers; Jay Remer, National Alcoholic Beverages Manager, 747 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10017; Russ Weller, Midwest Advertising Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611; 3001 W. Big Beaver Road, Troy, Michigan 48084; Los Angeles 90010, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 4311 Wilshire Boulevard; San Francisco 94104, Tom Jones, Manager, 417 Montgomery Street.
You've got the time and money for a vacation, but nothing out there really inspires you. You've had one too many poolside piña coladas and rubbed coconut tanning oil on one too many beautiful women. Delirious sex with gorgeous female strangers no longer satisfies the explorer in you, nor does it sit well with your wife. Even seven days of rain in Bermuda is no longer the thrill it once was. What you need is a new vacation, one that fills those needs you can hardly express.
The Tandem title role in All of Me (Universal) is shared by Lily Tomlin and Steve Martin, and I couldn't have liked them more. Tomlin plays a terminally ill, wealthy shrew who announces to Martin, as her unscrupulous young lawyer, that she intends to come back from the dead. "What makes you think you can do that?" he asks. "Because I'm rich," she answers. And on that cheeky note, All of Me whips up a delectable batch of slapshtick madness, zestfully directed by Carl Reiner (Martin's collaborator on both The Jerk and Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid) from an appropriately zany screenplay by Phil Alden Robinson. It's not all quite as hilarious as the early scenes, which had me on the floor--when Lily's frigid, spinsterish soul accidentally turns up in Martin's ever-ready body. As the mystic responsible for the mistake, Richard Libertini might steal the show if he were in lesser company. But Tomlin's knowing twinkle brightens up her impersonation of a disembodied prude glimpsed mostly in mirrors, and Martin is spectacular in dealing with the problem that the left side of his body is male, the right side female. It's not necessary to be a Martin fan to savor this particular tour de force, but just try to keep a straight face when Steve's right-handed alter ego has to help him zip up in the men's room. Madolyn Smith, as his exasperated fiancée, and Victoria Tennant, as the stableman's conniving daughter who was supposed to inherit the dead woman's soul along with her worldly goods, perform their bitchery with flair. All aspects of All of Me are well balanced by Reiner, who knows how to blend knockabout comedy and sharp-edged satire so the seams scarcely show. [rating]3-1/2 bunnies[/rating]
Idol Gossip: Teri Garr and Peter (Shoot the Moon) Weller will top-line Paramount's Firstborn, a contemporary drama about a teenaged boy struggling to keep his family together. Tom Berenger, originally slated for the Weller role, was sidelined by an auto accident. Michael (Coal Miner's Daughter) Apted will direct... . Bud Cort will play the role of Sigmund Freud in 20th Century-Fox's The Secret Diary of Sigmund Freud, a spoof on the origins of Freud's theories. Co-starring in the film, which should be out shortly, are Dick Shawn as a patient with identity problems, Carol Kane as a beautiful nurse who lusts for the young shrink, Carroll Baker as Momma Freud, Klaus Kinski and Marisa Berenson. ... Louis Malle will direct Amy Madigan and Ed Harris in Alamo Bay, a drama about Vietnamese immigrants in conflict with local Texas fishermen... . Donald Sutherland and John Heard have been set to star in Tri-Star's Catholic Boys (tentative title), described by one source as "a cross between Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All for You and Animal House." ... Eddie Murphy, of all people, has been signed to replace Sylvester Stallone in Paramount's action comedy Beverly Hills Cop. Maybe typecasting is dead at last.
Don't be surprised if you see folks goose-stepping on the dance floor of your local disco sometime soon. Those savvy Germans--who were, after all, the first people to give the Beatles their due--have been exporting an arsenal of song hits recently that are exploding up our charts like so many V-2s.
We had only one question in mind when we called Rockwell (a.k.a. Kennedy Gordy, son of Berry Gordy, the father of Motown), and it had to do with the title track from his debut album, Somebody's Watching Me. So, Rockwell, we said, who's been doing all this watching, anyway?
Sometimes strange things happen to critically acclaimed bands. Sometimes they begin to believe they're Minstrels for All Time. R.E.M.'s first album, Murmur, won heavy awards from Rolling Stone, The Village Voice and Record. R.E.M.'s second album, Reckoning (I.R.S.), may well do the same. Its title, though, should be a clue that there's more grave contemplation on this album than in the Gettysburg Address. Maybe there's a critical conspiracy to bring you, the supposedly tasteless consumer, pomp 'n' circumstance dressed as rock 'n' roll. Reckoning is chock-full of fine, serious musicianship but a bit short on inspiration. But we reckon the awards will be rolling in soon.
The boys can't help it: Just one last note regarding Boy George: He turned down Michael Jackson's offer to do a duet. "I do admire Michael," said Boy, but explained that he doesn't want to work with anyone but Culture Club--"I think we're the best band around"--right now. Boy added that when Jackson called, he didn't believe it was really he; but since then, they've spoken several times, discussing, among other things, rumors that Jackson is a transvestite. "We both had a good laugh about it," Boy said.
You see them out there in all seasons: men with binoculars and walking sticks and bird books, looking confused, able to chart only a few of the birds that fly through the air and nest in the trees. Why this male inability and uncertainty? Because, until now, the Roger Tory Petersons of the world simply have not told the whole story. There are birds out there that have never been classified according to type, color, habits and habitat.
You know how you, as a man, have occasionally come upon a small group of women chattering in animated whispers that immediately stop as you approach? What do you think we're talking about? The great sex we had last night? How we've found an incredible laundry detergent that has done wonders for Johnny's old socks? Meat-loaf recipes? Needlepoint futures?
I am a 20-year-old male, not so good-looking and slightly overweight. I am engaged to a very lovely and caring 21-year-old who couldn't love me more. I love her just as much, and our relationship is fantastic. We've known each other for more than a year, and through many long talks we have learned almost everything about each other's past.
Have women had enough of the Alan Alda type, or has it become the model for what women really want? Or is the whole issue just another example of media hype? We wanted to know what our Playmate advisors had to say about this subject.
The Government of the United States never looks so foolish as when it takes it upon itself to attack "obscenity" and proceeds to drag our courts through the embarrassment of being a party to such a stupid endeavor. A recent case in point is U.S. vs. Various Articles of Obscene Merchandise, decided last year by the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit. Think of the image the case evokes: the forces of the United States arrayed against a menacing army of Swedish sexual appliances.
An actress once said that movies aren't plots or performances or philosophical presentations: "They are moments." If the audience left remembering a moment, if that moment was etched forever in the memory, then, she said, the endeavor could be considered worth while and successful. So, too, is it with sports in America. The moments are what is important.
Money, I needn't remind you, is a potent, launch-on-warning aphrodisiac. Why d' you think men keep condoms in their wallet? A male can add one inch below for every extra $100,000 or so of income--I mean, it's called long green, isn't it? Playboy's exhaustive sex survey (March 1983) showed that "the more money a man makes, the more likely he is to have an affair." Hotel room, silver fox, fake mustache, prostate massage: All that offshore drilling is expensive. And from another installment of the survey (July 1983): Men who earn more are also more apt to manage at least one ménage à trois. I know I'm more attractive with a $100 bill stuck in each ear. The connection between cash power and sexual success has been understood since first that sentence "He gasped and spent himself on her body" was written. Those aren't sperm you ejaculate. Those are tiny nickels.
Funny how strong personalities jump right out at a camera. Pam McCann--the fluffy one--smiles shyly and faces the lens with an earnest blink of long sable lashes. Linda Delgado--the one with the electric eyes--laughs wildly and challenges the photographer to catch her at it, but the shutter speed to match her hasn't been invented yet. Diane McDonald--the savvy, deliberate one--sizes up the camera and dares it to catch her off guard.
Summer's here, with its beach action, poolside horseplay and weekend sojourns to the country for some well-earned R&R. That's the good news. The bad news is swelter and sizzle. How does one overcome? The same way as before the world became air-conditioned--with frequent infusions of tall, frosty coolers liberally laced with compatible spirits. Mention tall-and-frosty concoctions and one's thoughts, of course, turn to gin and tonic, vodka and fruit juice or light rum and cola--the classics. But those clear-white spirits are extremely versatile and lend themselves gracefully to any number of quenching quaffs. So why restrict your pleasure to a few old reliables, inviting though they are, when there's such a wealth of exuberant alternatives? Astute mixologists brighten their offerings with exotic syrups and mixers, ripe seasonal fruits or berries and invoke uncommon spirits when opportune. Add a decent blender, a mechanical ice crusher, plus ice, and you're ready to qualify for your M.S.--master of summer drinks. There's a knack to operating a blender. The first imperative is don't overblend, as it warms the contents of the container. Also, there are times when you want a slightly grainy texture rather than total smoothness. If some elements in the mix resist liquefication, shut off the motor; the solids will settle at the bottom, close to the blades. Then rev up again (concluded on page 90)Long, Tall Coolers(continued from page 86) and work in short bursts until the recalcitrant morsels are broken down. Summer-drink formulas often call for shaved ice--a chip off the old ice block that's difficult to achieve at home. You'll find finely crushed ice, about pea size, quite satisfactory. Ice both chills and dilutes, so shake or stir to the point of optimal coldness, not a second more, and don't recycle ice in the shaker or the pitcher. Start every round with a fresh batch. It also helps to chill all ingredients and utensils beforehand.
Gene Wilder would be funny in a nudist colony. But put him in some great-looking Italian threads (and drape gorgeous Kelly Le Brock on his arm) and he becomes damned impressive. And impressing someone is just what Wilder's latest screamer, The Woman in Red, is all about as he pursues Le Brock--who is, of course, the woman in red--all over San Francisco. We won't tell you the ending, but we will say that if he'd gotten a little help from the manufacturers of the three drop-dead outfits featured here, his quest would have been a snap--or, better yet, a zipper.
Her eyes are like planets. They seem larger than life, cinematic, wide-screen. People see Suzi Schott and assume that they've seen those eyes before. "I've been mistaken for Marie Osmond, for the girl in Flashdance, Jane Fonda and Mackenzie Phillips. I don't mind people's making a comparison, as long as they don't dwell on it. Really, now. Mackenzie Phillips?" The waitress comes up to our table and asks, "Aren't you Brian De Palma's wife?" "See what I mean?" We tell her that will change when she becomes a Playmate and the August issue is on the stands. She will be Miss August 1984 forever. In fact, someone passing through the Playboy offices recognized Suzi when he got a look at her layout: "She's the girl who lives in the high-rise across from me. I see her swimming all the time." Already, she is famous.
Looking tough and comfortable in jeans, T-shirt and boots, a chain-smoking Kurt Russell sprawled on a small chair in the office of an L.A. publicity firm that once represented his girlfriend, Goldie Hawn. Although then onscreen in "Silkwood" and now appearing in "Swing Shift" (co-starring Hawn), Russell does not like to overdo his press exposure. But according to Contributing Editor David Rensin, who sat opposite him, "He quickly began to enjoy himself, firing off opinions on everything from the foibles of his generation to the designated-hitter controversy. He also seems very much in love."
Remember when pro football was fun? A brisk autumn afternoon spent yelling for the home team; tail-gate parties before and after the game; heated arguments in the corner tavern about who was the best linebacker. Players were superstuds or duds; coaches were omnipotent or impotent. If the home team won the Super Bowl, we enjoyed an off season of celestial bliss. If it lost, we waited sullenly for Next Year.
After months of traveling and modeling for Playboy, Playboy Models and Playboy Video Productions, it's no surprise that our 30th Anniversary Playmate, Penny Baker, one day insisted that turn-about was fair play. Since she had spent countless hours in front of the lens, why couldn't she spend a day or two making snap decisions while hanging out at Playboy Mansion West? Never one to refuse a lady and sensing that there might be an interesting story in the works, we equipped Penny with five brand-new cameras that list for $300 or less and told her to snap away. Our premise was that you can be just as creative--and have just as much fun--with an inexpensive camera as with one that's a wallet buster. Most snap shooters are photojournalists. They do not construct elaborate sets and spend hours carefully lighting them. Rather, they excerpt slices of the reality around them and commit to permanence an instant from the flow of events.
It had been another busy day for Terry Moore, or, as she currently signs autographs, Terry Moore-Hughes. The day began with a series of telephone interviews--from Pennsylvania, Detroit, even Canada--all with the now-familiar question, What was Howard Hughes really like? A stretch-and-tone class, along with a three-mile run on the beach, followed, keeping Terry's 55-year-old body in a shape even a 20-year-old could envy. A quick shower and she was ready to greet a writer from Us magazine, who probed and pried into her past life with you know who. Next came a high-level confab with executives from Pocket Books, the publishers of The Beauty and the Billionaire, Terry's book about her favorite subject. Later, she met with her publicist to discuss her plan to pilot a jet around the world as a tribute to ... yup, you guessed it. After still another interview appointment--this one with a Playboy staffer for the piece you're reading--she was scheduled for an evening songwriting session with composer Jerry Goldstein. They hope the result will be the theme to the TV movie based on Terry's book.
As far as we know, the first Olympics weren't televised, possibly because most of the participants back in 776 B.C. competed in the nude. It was thought then that clothes merely restricted free movement.
Bob Seagren (above). One of the greatest Olympic psych-out artists of all time, this handsome and powerful pole vaulter stunned track-and-field fans at the '68 Mexico games by coolly passing up a crucial vault. He re-entered at 17′8-1/2′ and on the basis of fewest misses, won the gold.
The Olympics date back almost 3000 years to ancient Greece. While the tradition and styles of the ancient Olympiads were vastly different from those of today (no one wore Adidas), many of the events were similar. Wrestling, boxing, diskos and javelin were part of the first program. The stade race was much like today's 200-meter sprint. Other events included the diaulos (400-meter sprint), chariot racing, skamma (long jump) and hoplitodromos (a foot race in battle armor). Tons of fun. In 394 a.d., the almost 1200-year Olympic tradition was laid to rest by Emperor Theodosius I, who declared the games a pagan spectacle and banned the selling of souvenir T-shirts. The arena was later destroyed, but the tradition was not. Centuries later, a Frenchman named Baron Pierre de Coubertin proposed the idea of a modern international Olympics. The torch was rekindled, and in 1896, a new era of games began. Here's how the modern Olympics played out.
Much of the real glamor in today's games can be found in the gymnastic events. A lot of the credit for the boom belongs to such female performers as Olga Korbut ('72) and Nadia Comaneci ('76)--it was their grace under pressure, as well as their sheer sex appeal, that made fans of television watchers everywhere.
Forget all you know about wrestling, both pro and amateur. Olympic wrestling is a sport unto itself--two sports, actually: Greco-Roman and free style. And there are ten weight divisions (ranging from 106 pounds to superheavyweights' unlimited weight) in each style.
Once upon a time, the U.S.A. could count on picking up an easy gold medal in men's basketball. No longer. While the U.S.A. is still the odds-on favorite for '84, basketball's increasing popularity in Italy, Spain and elsewhere (as well as the continuing trend of U.S.A. college basketball standouts to reject the Olympics in favor of turning pro) keeps U.S.A. coach Bobby Knight from taking anything for granted.
In the first Olympics, the Greeks ran barefoot. That saved a few bucks on equipment but made the use of spikes rather messy. Today's track-and-field shoes are scientifically designed to withstand the demands of each event and each athlete. Here, a sampling.
Rob de Castella (above). Cuban-born New Yorker Alberto Salazar may be better known, but this Australian biophysicist beat him handily in Rotterdam last year. De Castella's secret to marathon success: perfectly timed finishing sprints combined with a finely tuned intelligence.
Think it's all been agony and ecstasy? Think again. Some of the best moments in Olympic history have been the just plain weird. Take the case of the giant wrestler Milo of Croton, who ate an entire bull one day at Olympia. Or, in modern times, the British boxer who couldn't produce urine for a routine test. Or the German track-and-field star who was banned from competition for being a hermaphrodite.
Jesse Owens (above). The son of an Alabama cotton picker, he reigned over Hitler's parade in the '36 Berlin games by meeting or setting 12 Olympic records and winning gold medals in the 100 and 200 meters, long jump and sprint relay.
This is the stuff of which official Olympic memories are made. You can eat these things, drink them, wear them, throw them. They cost anywhere from 35 cents for a can of soda to more than $5000 for a gold watch. Believe it or not, we've included a relatively small sampling here. Since souvenir collecting might be the 25th event of these games, consider this a warm-up. How many can you spot?
The '84 Olympics have been on television for more than a year now--at least in Colorado Springs. That's the site of the Olympic Training Center, where coaches have been using an assortment of Sanyo portable video equipment to record and evaluate performances.
To get you into the true spirit of the Olympics (not to mention passing the time during station breaks), we suggest that you create your own event. One refreshing idea is a beer-tasting competition. There are a lot fewer rules than in the official Olympic competitions; this is one event in which you can improvise as you go along. Here are a few pointers.
Ebenezer Scrooge had Bob Cratchit, Johnny Carson has H. & R. Goniff and you, old moneybags, have a whole portfolio of blue-chip products to choose from when you go shopping for an accountant to keep watch over your investments. None will break your piggy bank--even when you add in the monthly leasing or yearly subscription costs of several of the items pictured below. And one, the U.H.F.-TV--AM/FM clock-radio, even picks up the Financial News Network, and keeps you informed on stock-market news whether you're at the beach or in the board room. Of course, if your investments still go belly up, you can always make your money the really old-fashioned way and marry it.
Maserati. Like most Italian names, it fairly rolls off the tongue. Ferrari, Lamborghini, Maserati. Sleek, fast, rare, expensive. Perhaps also, like exotic Mediterranean women, beautiful, passionate, emotional and temperamental. BMW: the initials for Bavarian Motor Works, or, in German, Bayerische Motoren Werke. FBI, CIA, BMW. Businesslike, purposeful, straight to the point. Perhaps also, like most German-built machinery, cool, competent, sturdy and functional. The Biturbo (bee-turbo) is a whole new direction for Maserati. It's not rare and it's not terribly expensive. At a bit under $26,000, everything included, it's the affordable Maserati. Fast it is, powered by a 2.5-liter, twin-cam, twin-turbocharged 185-hp V6 and capable of seven-second zero-to-60s and 130-plus-mph speed. The theory is that two small turbos give less low-speed "lag" than one larger one when you put the boot to them, and it works--despite conventional carburetion and an old-fashioned manual choke. The 325e (about $21,000) is a new six-cylinder version of BMW's second-generation three-series sedan, direct descendant of the famed 2002 that established the German maker in America and essentially created today's sport-sedan class some 16 years ago. The e stands for the Greek letter eta, scientific symbol for efficiency, and represents BMW's low-rpm, high-economy power train, first developed for the larger 528e sedan. The silky-smooth, electronically injected 2.7-liter six develops 121 hp and a healthy 170 pound-feet of torque that propels the new baby Bimmer to 60 mph in about nine seconds and to 118 mph flat-out. Both are driven by their rear wheels through five-speed overdrive transmissions and are harnessed by power-assisted four-wheel disc brakes. Both are at home squirting through city-traffic gaps, sprinting down twisty two-lanes or cruising serenely on America's speed-limited freeways. That's where the similarities end. We tested the 325e in its own best element, up and down a narrow, curvy, treacherous mountain road high in Arizona's ski country. It functioned like the coolly competent, well-oiled machine it is, completely unruffled, hanging on to the road like a terrier to a shoe, seldom so much as squealing a tire. For the extra five grand, the Biturbo adds pavement-wrinkling performance and additional flash to the sport-sedan equation. Even jaded Rodeo Drive types (who have seen it all) do double takes, not sure what it is, then grin approvingly at the unmistakable Trident logo. And it has a warm Italian plush interior, with leather seats and a soft suede-look headliner that probably matches the elbow patches on your favorite sports jacket. Maserati created its legend primarily with sleek and sexy sports and racing cars; BMW made its name first with airplanes, then with motorcycles and, eventually, with handsome, finely crafted automobiles. Now these two famous European makers come face to face with very different approaches to the same terrific concept: the small six-cylinder sport sedan. Rejoice, four-wheel fans. There must, indeed, be a benevolent God in car-enthusiast heaven.
The belief persists that women don't use erotica to become aroused. Certainly, that belief is central to the feminist antipornography movement. But it is not true, at least according to sex therapist and author Lonnie Barbach, who has edited a book that is bound to be controversial, Pleasures: Women Write Erotica. It's a collection of nonfiction accounts by women about their most erotic experiences. Barbach decided to produce this book after women with whom she talked in her work as therapist complained that they couldn't find adequate turn-ons. While video pornography is made with arousal in mind, its male orientation sometimes turns women off. Romance novels are remarkably popular with women, but by definition, they stop short of actual depictions of sex. Barbach decided to seek out real-life stories, believing that true erotic tales would ensure their value as turn-ons.