According to estimates by researchers in the field of drug abuse, 5000 people who have never used cocaine will try it within the next 24 hours. It will take you less than an hour to read Cocaine: A Special Report, by Contributing Editor Laurence Gonzales, and if you are among today's potential 5000, this piece may change your mind. Says Gonzales, who spent several months gathering the latest information on cocaine abuse and the newest methods of treating it, "Cocaine is more dangerous than heroin. Two factors discourage people from taking heroin: It can make you feel sick the first time you take it and it has a terrible social stigma. Cocaine doesn't--yet--have that stigma, but it can take a person to the gutter faster than any other drug." Gonzales, who prefers exercise to drugs, is also a computer maven who has just completed several books soon to be published by Ballantine.
A recent Time magazine cover boldly declared,"Sex In The '80S: The Revolution Is Over."The issue contained a comprehensive cover story delineating everything that Time knows about the birds and the bees. Its weighty thoughts inspired the following:
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), September, 1984, Volume 31, Number 9. Published Monthly by 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.
George Jones went up the charts and down the tubes at roughly the same determined pace, and his increasingly troubled life was echoed for a time in the classic tavern tearjerkers that went perfectly with one of country music's most distinctive and melancholy voices. Fiercely loyal friends and fans of the most traditional of country sounds are credited with helping George survive the hard times. His new album, You've Still Got a Place in My Heart (Epic), is a fine sampler that ranges from the old new Jones to the new old Jones: upbeat to downbeat and back.
Second Time Around: What becomes a one-album legend most? A blue-collar pragmatism about a dog-collar profession, that's what. Guitarist/songwriter Peter Buck of the pop/folk/rock R.E.M. is a terrific deflator of his band's critically inflated reputation. Now that Murmur's follow-up,Reckoning (I.R.S.), is hitting the racks and the review pages, R.E.M. faces such great pop-music-career killers as critical backlash, critical apathy or, worse, further inflation. Buck is ready.
They Say the Neon lights Are Bright in Baghdad: Iraq has launched a new battle in its propaganda war against Iran. The weapon? Michael Jackson singing Blame It on the Boogie. In an effort to sway public opinion, Iraq is beaming music and TV programs to Iranian viewers, reminding them of what life was like before the Ayatollah. Is there anyone in the world who doesn't know about Michael?
Charlie Haas's What Color Is Your Parody (Price, Stern, Sloan) is one of the funniest self-help books ever to cross our desk. Here are some of Haas's suggestions for job applicants: "Do not say, 'I'm a convicted forger, I am semiliterate, I pour a cup of Jack Daniel's on my Product 19 to start the day.' Instead say, 'I'm gifted in graphics, I am not hung up on verbal concepts, I have interesting recipe ideas.' "He also reminds women in the job market that "only men can wear power plaids." Who knows? Maybe this is the help we've all been waiting for.
Director John Huston's rather murky movie based on Malcolm Lowry's stylish, complex novel Under the Volcano (Universal Classics) is distinguished mainly for a magnificent all-stops-out performance by Albert Finney. As The Consul, a drunken ex-diplomat during the final day or so of his fateful journey to self-destruction, Finney finds the quick sting of truth in every cliché. As his former wife, loyal except for one crucial act of infidelity, breath-taking Jacqueline Bisset matches him with a sensitive portrayal that may be her best work ever. Considerably less compelling, England's Anthony Andrews doesn't enjoy equal opportunities as the hero's potent but opaque half brother. Opacity is a major problem here, since neither Huston nor Guy Gallo, author of the screenplay, provides any helpful clues as to what gnaws at these disenchanted English people going to hell in Mexico on the eve of World War Two. They are psychological kin to those walking-wounded expatriates who shamble through the works of Hemingway and Fitzgerald. But déjà vu is not the essence of screen drama. Huston reportedly dreamed for decades of making this film. Sad to say, his Volcano fizzles, particularly toward the end, coming up empty except for picturesque Mexican vistas (photographed by Gabriel Figueroa) and the superstar sparks created by Bisset and Finney. [rating]2-1/2 bunnies[/rating]
Idol Gossip: Harrison Ford will team up with Tom Conti'sReuben, Reuben heart-throb, Kelly McGillis, in Paramount's Witness. Directed by Australian Peter(The Year of Living Dangerously)Weir, the flick is a contemporary action romance involving a relationship between an Amish girl and a tough Philadelphia cop forced to hide out at her farm during a murder investigation. Filming will take place in Philadelphia and in the heart of Amish country: Lancaster, Pennsylvania.... There will be a sequel to and possibly a third installment of the box-office smash hit Police Academy. Meanwhile, two of the writers of the original are developing a project called The Kids on the Hill, a comedy about Senate pages, and Police Academy co-writer/director Hugh Wilson will be making a comedy Western called Rustler's Rhapsody....Sissy Spacek will play the lead in Warner Bros.' Strawberry, about a country girl who goes to the big city to make it as a comedienne.
The Fundamental questions for most men center somewhere in here: What are we supposed to do with our wildness? How can we control it? Where do we put it? Why does it seem that a cosmic joke has been played on us, giving us incredible energy and then placing us in a society that demands obedience?
I Have a New Watch that's black, flat, square, watertight to 25 fathoms, and it beeps and flashes and has about 12 functions, including a stop watch, which is what I brought it for. It's Japanese, of course; it cost me about $40; and though I've worn it every day since I bought it, I don't like it much. For one thing, it's digital, which means it's never half past or quarter to in my life anymore. Instead, it's 11:32...16-17-18-19, as if I needed the information the way the lead oarsman in a racing shell needs it. And instead of sweeping around a fixed point, the way the planet sweeps around the sun, the minutes sort of mince down an infinite line, which forces you to think about time the way a forgotten writer thought about life when he described it as just one damned thing after another. I've always liked to think of time as a circle. After all, the old sweep watch face gives you all 12 hours right there, so you can look forward or back without doing any math. On the digital display, when a moment's gone, it's gone, without so much as an "Excuse me" to the past or the future.
How many times have you heard someone say "It's not what you say, it's how you say it"? Well, that's true at the office but even more true in a relationship. We asked our Playmate advisors about sexual communication--the verbal kind.
As to Caesar's health, there seems to me no cause for alarm. The symptoms you mention are, indeed, visible, though perhaps a little theatricized by your informant. Caesar has always been a whirlwind of energy and for that reason subject to nervous attacks, sudden tempers, funks and so forth. When I was young, I confidently put it down to excess of blood, a condition complicated (said I) by powerful intermittent ejections of bile; but phlebotomy agitates instead of quieting him, sad to say (sad for my diagnosis), and his habitual exhilaration, lately increased, makes the bile hypothesis hogwash. I speak lightly of these former opinions of mine, but you can hardly imagine what labor I've put into the study of this man, scribbling, pondering, tabulating, while, one after another, the chickens rise to confront a new day and my candles gutter out. All to no avail, but pride's for people with good digestion. I bungle along, putting up with myself as best I can. (You'll forgive a little honest whining.) No man of science was ever presented with a puzzle more perplexing and vexatious than this Caesar, or with richer opportunity for observing the subject of his inquiry. He's interested in my work--in fact, follows it closely. He allows me to sit at his elbow or tag along wherever I please--an amusing spectacle, Caesar striding like a lion down some corridor, white toga flying, his black-robed physician leaping along like a spasm behind him on one good leg, one withered one.
At First Glance, you can't quite believe that the tawny, long-legged beauty in front of you is the same Anne Carlisle who portrays both Margaret and Jimmy in the freaky, phenomenal Liquid Sky. The real-life Carlisle has a Park Avenue air and totes a chic outsized carry-all, looking more like a Ford model than like a far-out underground superstar. Anne, it turns out, fits both descriptions. She's a cultural chameleon with 1001 ideas about identity, happy to be registered at Ford, even happier about her current celebrity as a punky New Wave Manhattan model whose sexual partners are zapped into the cosmos the instant they reach orgasm. "People are disappointed sometimes, especially kids in the street," she says. "They've seen Liquid Sky, then they see me and can't believe I'm not Margaret, even though I look very different from that."
"Well," She Said, and when this particular woman talks, she aims her big blue eyes right at you, "if you're going to publish an article about frigid women, don't you think you probably ought to do one about frigid men? There are plenty of them out there."
Now That one of Saturday Night Live's funniest funnymen, Jim Belushi, is enjoying the show's hot-weather hiatus by selectively unwinding, we've taken the opportunity to get him out of his workaday wardrobe, which includes a T-shirt, a U.S. Blues Club Chicago jacket, jeans and break-dancing tennies, and into something befitting a man of his waist and means. Belushi, being the well-rounded talent that he is (he's a cofounder of the film company Eggboy Productions and is creating and producing ten short films for Oak Communications and working on projects for Home Box Office), wasn't at all opposed to getting a little help from his friends at Playboy, who chose three looks--casual, business and formal--for him, all tailored to his particular physique. For casualwear, we coupled a pair of slimming black-leather slacks with a dark sweater. The brown business suit (brown is going to be an important color this fall) works for Belushi, and the striped shirt and low collar slim his chest. Last, Belushi slipped into a dinner jacket with peak lapels and vertical-striped trousers that made his legs long and lean. His comment when he dropped by and we showed him these pictures: "Hey, guys, I look hot! You captured meeeee."
Fantasies? Oh, I have lots of fantasies." Kimberly Evenson mentally inventoried her store of daydreams, searching for one that might not be too revealing. "One of my favorites iso being out in nature, feeling really healthy and being with the greatest guy, somebody like--Tarzan. Maybe that's a common fantasy, but it's a great one if you think about it." Kim would make a proper Jane, all right. She's at least as tough as any urban ape man. "I've always been an athlete. I love sports. I was always the fastest runner. I'd play football with the boys and they'd never catch me. In soccer, I'd always be put against the biggest, fattest monster on the field. I didn't care; I'd just go for it. They'd call me an animal!"
In 1982, a man--call him Tom--was hospitalized for aplastic anemia, a bone-marrow disease. Tom underwent surgery twice. He was 22 years old and psychologically normal, according to his physicians. One effect of his illness was sores in his mouth. As part of his treatment, for pain, he was given the topical anesthetic cocaine--about a third of a gram every four hours for 16 days. It got into his blood stream the same way cocaine gets into the blood stream of people who snort it: through the membranes that line the nose and mouth. A report in the New England Journal of Medicine explained what happened as a result:
Thorpe, Grange, Nagurski. The very mention of the names of those hallowed immortals of yesteryear inspires reverence. But most of us are unaware that those superstars performed at a level far below today's athletic standards. The norms of physical excellence have risen so much in the past half century that most of the demigods of the past couldn't win a starting position on an average team today. Size, speed, agility and sheer numbers have increased dramatically.
Should Your Neighbors ask you, as you glide by, what kind of car the Lagonda is," sneers the Aston Martin ad, "by all means tell them. Should they ask where they can get one, tell them they probably can't." At $152,000, the hand-built Lagonda stands at the top of a class of car that's drool quotient is higher than the national debt or Don Rickles' blood pressure. We call it a Beautiful Screamer. A Beautiful Screamer is a profile car, one that is meant to be seen--and driven. It's a distinctive piece of machinery that's as fast and sinewy as it is stunning. More important, it's a symbol. It speaks volumes about the individual lucky enough to own and drive it. In the eyes of others, you are what you drive. And if you drive a $152,000 Aston Martin Lagonda, baby, you have arrived. All Aston Martins, of course, are completely hand-built and have been since 1913, when car enthusiasts Lionel Martin and Robert Bamford named the beast in which they'd been competing in the Aston Clinton Hillclimb competition an Aston Martin. Eventually, their cars became favorites of British royalty; and the beautiful DB5, introduced in 1963, gained recognition as James Bond's machine in Goldfinger and Thunderball. It soon gave way to the stunning DB6 and it, in turn, to a larger four-seat sports car named the DBS. This model, later powered by a sophisticated four-cam aluminum V8 engine and upgarded in styling, forms the basis for today's four-car Aston Martin stable: the $100,000 V8 coupe, the $110,000 high-performance Vantage, the $125,000 Volante convertible and the futuristic, wedge-shaped Lagonda sedan. About 3300 hours of loving labor go into each massive Lagonda. The body is hand-hammered aluminum, separated from its supporting structure by thin sheets of linen and finished on its surface with 23 coats of hand-rubbed lacquer. Eleven pampered cowhides are selected to match and are then hand-cut to make up the interior. Every panel of decorative wood is mirror-matched; the strip on one door exactly matches that on its opposite--it's just one cut deeper on the log. Only four men in the world are certified to assemble the jewellike 5.4-liter V8 engine; a valve-cover plaque identifies which one of them invested nearly a week of his time in it.
How Much do you Actually Know about President Ronald Reagan? You have observed, no doubt, that his cheeks are exceedingly red and that he sports one of America's few remaining pompadours. You're aware, of course, that he is the soul of amiability and that he is adored by his wildly uptight wife. You've certainly perceived that he hates communism, welfare cheats, taxes and abortion, and that he loves riding horses, telling the same jokes over and over again, waving and sleeping. Did you know, though, that he sometimes fails to recognize the members of his Cabinet? Had you heard about the time he forgot his own dog's name? Have you really absorbed the information that the leader of the free world believes what he sees in movies and has been known to lose track of what country he's in? A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and we've never had a President with less. The object of this game is to test your mastery of the Reagan era in the following categories: The President's Men (PM), Family & Friends (FF), Foreign Affairs (FA), Presidential Wit (PW), Words of Wisdom (WW) and Odds & Ends (OE). With the 1984 election close at hand, you may find this game not so trivial a pursuit, after all.
Mis for Michigan, Wolverines' lair; I is for Iowa--Hawkeyes gawk there; S is for State on a couple school bios; East Lansing's S is Michigan's, Columbus', Ohio's; I's for Illini, who bubble Champaign, while MSU's Spartans are much less Urbane; N's for Northwesterners, paying tuition as OSU's Buckeyes reach football fruition; Wisconsin's girl Badgers may bite--it's inherent; Indiana's young Hoosiers can boast a Knight errant; M's Minnesota, where Gophers are gilt; and P's for Purdue, where girl Boilers are built. Put them all together, they spell Miss, I'm No Wimp. That's the introduction we hit upon for this age of the macha matriculator. If you're hitting up on any of this year's Girls of the Big Ten, forget the "slice of brie, jug of Perrier and thou" routine. As you've noticed by now (if, like a sensible person, you scanned the pictures first), the coeds are changing. Today's college girl is likely to prefer strength to chic, nuclear policy to unclear poetry and Indiana Jones to California Cabernet. And the Big Ten girl is more levelheaded than most, though that's her only lack of curvature. Our big group of tens includes future doctors, lawyers, politicians, anchor women and ranchers, as well as Katherine Leigh, whose ambition is to be "a rich, powerful woman." (She's got the last part down already.) Step right up, meet the students of success. It's OK if you offer to carry their legal tomes and microengineering manuals. Just remember--no wimps need apply.
This Magazine has always had a special relationship with the college crowd. It goes beyond the fact that Playboy is the best-selling men's magazine on campus. As in every successful relationship, it's all a matter of give and take. This year, we've decided to underscore our commitment by greatly increasing our college coverage. This first Back to Campus Guide includes such updated favorites as our annual college fashion preview, plus features on putting together a complete "real-world" wardrobe for $750; a super selection of great gear (from the hottest computer to the speediest scooter); and a survival handbook that no one true to his school would want to be without.
Your senior year. It's not time to chuck the sweat shirt and jeans, just time to add to them and pull together a "real-world" wardrobe that will give you a smooth fashion transition from school to job interview to starting the job. What you see on these two pages is a starting wardrobe that costs just under $750.
We must be still and still moving," wrote T. S. Eliot in 1940, anticipating the wave of today's massage merchandise. In Eliot's day, the only form of electric massage was a lightning bolt; now science is bringing much--kneaded relief to working stiffs everywhere, and vibrant health is just a trigger finger away. It's enough to send shivers up your spine; these marvels of modern massage are to Magic Fingers what the computer is to the abacus. They'll shake, rattle and roll you the moment you find an outlet for their many applications. So loosen up--head for the nearest massage--machine parlor and load your car with the latest in spine--tingling tech.
"Real Men/Real Women"--After our Intrepid Investigator recovered from profiling William Hurt and studying Frigidity, We sent her to a workshop to learn what males and females really want. The Mortified College Boy, The Spinologist, The Executive Secretary and The Swinging Sexologists had some remarkable answers for E. Jean Carroll