Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), July, 1985, Volume 32. Number 7. Published Monthly By Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611, Subscriptions: In The United States And Its Possessions, $54 For 36 Issues, $36 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 80322, And Allow 45 Days For Change. Marketing: Ed Condon, Director/Direct Marketing: Jack Bernstein, Circulation Promotion Director, Advertisings: Charles M. Stentiford, Advertising Director: Joe Mangione, Advertising Promotion Director; Jeffrey Kleinman, Craig Vander Ploeg, Senior Associate Managers: Jay Remer, National Alcoholic Beverages Marketing Manager: Brian Van Mols, National Automotive Marketing Manager, 747 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10017: Linda Malanga, Chicago Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611: 3001 West 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.
Chevy Chase, in the title role of Fletch (Universal), often seems to be up to some private mischief, perhaps a Saturday Night Lively spoof of the character he's supposed to be playing for real. Seeing him ain't necessarily believing him, yet his throwaway comic style may be the freshest element of director Michael Ritchie's implausible but entertaining movie based on Gregory Mcdonald's award-winning mystery novel. The action is smoothly paced and the trimly tailored adaptation by Andrew Bergman suits Chevy's impersonation of a smartass investigative reporter, an insolent, martini-dry jokester who drops one-liners and dons frequent disguises while introducing himself to various dupes as Igor Stravinsky, Ted Nugent or Harry S. Truman. He's in pursuit of a hot story about drugs, bigamy, a faked murder and high-level corruption, following seemingly unrelated clues from Southern California to Utah and back again. Tim Matheson, Dana Wheeler Nicholson, Joe Don Baker and Richard Libertini interrupt his itinerary one way or another, all helping Fletch tighten up any loose parts. [rating]3 bunnies[/rating]
Idol Gossip: Sexy Rebecca De Mornay, who played the feisty hooker in Risky Business, will team up with Jon Voight and Eric Roberts in Cannon Films' Runaway Train, an action drama about a lone woman trapped with two escaped convicts on an out-of-control train. . . . The Flying Karamazov Brothers, noted for their comedic juggling act, will play a group of whirling dervishes in Fox's The Jewel of the Nile . . . . Hbo and Silver Screen are partners in no fewer than three feature-film projects now in various stages of production. The first of these is Sweet Dreams, a biopic based on the life of country singer Patsy Cline. Jessica Lange will play the lead, with Ed (The Right Stuff) Harris co-starring and Karel (The French Lieutenant's Woman) Reisz directing. Next in the line-up is Volunteers, with Tom (Splash) Hanks and Sctv'sJohn Candy playing a pair of unlikely Peace Corps volunteers raising havoc in Thailand. Nicholas Meyer will direct. And rounding out the agenda is a big-business comedy called Head Office, in which Judge (Beverly Hills Cop) Reinhold portrays a recently diplomaed M.B.A. leaving the rarefied halls of academe for the turbulent rat-race of the business world. Danny DeVito, Eddie Albert, Jane Seymour, Don Novello, Michael (Saturday Night Live) O'Donoghue and Wallace Shawn have been set to co-star.
Idol Hands: "When you can't play basketball or football, you do what's necessary to get laid," says Steve Stevens. So you could conclude, as with other guitarists, that fate and hormones thrust his guitarness upon him, and thereafter he had choices: between the guitar and a big bar mitzuah, between the guitar and handball, between the guitar and the viola (much preferred at the High School of Performing Arts), between the guitar and the security of a regular job. Stevens chose the guitar on every occasion and is now on the verge of vast fame and wealth as Billy Idol's Keith Richards. He has not, however, forgotten his roots as a short virgin from Queens.
Rumor of the Month: We've heard that there is a small but steady ground swell to make Louie, Louie the Washington state song. We like thinking about the possible ramifications of this: Can you picture the Walla Walla Kiwanis Club's opening a meeting with a rousing chorus of the state song?
Despite efforts on the part of the Anti-Warm Beer League and the Society for the Prevention of Toenails in Pork Pies, it looks as if they're going ahead with Wimbledon again. That's good. We need this tournament, Wimbledon---ah, the grass courts, the strawberries and cream, the flowered hats, the ivy-covered linesmen---to remind us of what tennis was like, at its best, before it died.
As most travelers and shoppers know, the British lease on Hong Kong---extorted during the so-called Opium Wars of the 19th Century--- expires in 1997. Although new accords between Chinese and British negotiators are supposed to ensure an orderly, 50-year-long transition from British to Chinese administration, no one really believes that will be true. The planned stationing of Chinese troops on Hong Kong soil suggests that the erstwhile crown colony's freewheeling, free-enterprise atmosphere may be at least a little restrained. All of which means that travelers who have never experienced its unique appeal---and those who have and want to return before Hong Kong becomes a Chinese satellite---have little more than ten years to do so.
They're taking away our role models. In movies, books and television shows, men are being trivialized, and the message is this: You guys are mostly dumb, frivolous, awkward and mouselike---and if you don't agree with that, you're sexist.
There I was, minding my own business, reading my March Playboy, when an essay called What Else Do Women Want? struck my face. I read it, my eyes growing wilder as I was told that we feminists were "deranged and flabbergastingly disingenuous," "just another piggy little special-interest group" and "without regard to logic, principle or justice."
I've always gardened some, but several years ago, while I was living in a balmy little crease in the hills north of San Francisco, I went after the dirt around my house as if it were going to save whatever small scraps of sanity I had left, and maybe it did. Not that it probably looked sane from the next property. I'd still like to hear my neighbors' version of the spring day I walked into the middle of my unplanted garden plot, dropped my pants and sat to test the folk theory that if the soil is too cold for your bare ass, it's too cold for the seedlings you're getting ready to plant. I had a fine garden that year---corn, four kinds of tomatoes, onions, cukes, peppers, chard---and by the time I'd eaten the last of it, I was feeling pretty good about the job I'd done and the fun I'd had making the earth say beans instead of grass, as Henry Thoreau put it.
I am a 29-year-old businessman very happily married to a woman of the same age. My problem concerns our sexual relations---or at least my fantasies about our sexual relations. There's something missing from our sex life that I constantly fantasize about and would dearly love to experience: spanking---that is, my spanking her. This obsession may sound rather absurd, but my particular "perversion" doesn't seem to be quite as rare as I once imagined it to be---at least from what I've read and heard. My wife came from a rather conservative family and was sexually naïve when I married her, but she has since, I think, come to enjoy sex and has been willing to try new things. My problem is, how do I ease spanking into a regular part of our sex life? Do women ever fantasize about being spanked? This particular need of mine has been with me ever since I was an adolescent but has had no outlet for satisfaction other than in fantasies---I was simply afraid, as I am now, that if I told a woman about this, she'd pack up and leave. Mind you, I wouldn't dare hurt her. It's just that whenever I see her gorgeous, slightly plump little ass wiggling around the house, I have an enormous hard-on and fantasize for the next week about taking her over my lap, pulling down her jeans and panties and paddling her with my bare hand or a ping-pong paddle. There are variations on this, of course. All this, I'm sure, does make me sound like a sadistic pervert. Maybe I am. But assuming no one gets hurt (and I have no intention of hurting her beyond mere light spanking), what's the harm? Any suggestions?---S. S., Chicago, Illinois.
It seems that some people can't get enough of a bad thing. In May 1984, Indianapolis mayor William H. Hudnut III signed into law yet another attempt at an end run around the First Amendment. Even though his effort was struck down last winter, the mayor has vowed to fight on. Meanwhile, proponents of similar ordinances in New York, Los Angeles, Detroit and other cities are watching and waiting.
Grace Jones is on the prowl again, raising hackles, eyebrows and a lot of hell along the way. No one else assaults the senses as Grace does. One moment aggressively feminine, the next curiously masculine, she transcends gender. There's a hint of menace, the vague possibility of violence in her demeanor. She is alien, the embodiment of the unknown. And she draws you to her as a flame draws a child.
Hot Town, summer in the city---and now that you've tried skinny-dipping under an open fire hydrant and deep-sixing yourself in a vat of gelato, maybe it's time you made a smart cool move and updated the clothes sticking to your back. Summer is the season for unlined and unconstructed sports coats in fabrics such as cotton and linen. Being more absorbent than synthetic blends, natural materials keep you cool, and rumpled-looking. When the temperature hits 80, nobody wants to wear a tie that's knotted like a hangman's noose, so loosen up and unbutton your collar, too. Hot summer light colors include the neutral hues worn together, or try mixing beige tones with gray or indigo for a dressy hot-summer-night look. The heat goes on.
Black stitching over the left pocket of his white-silk shirt read chuck in cursive script His pale, wiry arms were crossed below the name; his large Adam's apple moved arrhythmically above. Before him on the small lima-bean-shaped green table the 200 playing cards were fanned out, awaiting fresh players.
The party didn't start until Hope Marie Carlton got there. Hope brings it with her, you see. Mostly legs and ramrod straight, she strode through the crowd greeting people with a laugh and a hug, like a salesman or a politician, though she had nothing to sell and wasn't up for any office. It's as though she has trouble finding a reason not to be happy and wants to spread the word.
Ever Since Tom Wolfe's book was published, the question I'm asked most often and which always annoys me is whether or not I think I've got The Right Stuff. I know that golden trout have the right stuff, and I've seen a few gals here and there who I'd bet had it in spades, but those words seem meaningless when used to describe a pilot's attributes. The question implies that a guy who has the right stuff was born that way. I was born with unusually good eyes and coordination. I was mechanically oriented, understood machines easily. My nature was to stay cool in tight spots. Is that the right stuff? All I know is, I worked my tail off to learn how to fly, and worked hard at it all the way. And in the end, the one big reason I was better than average as a pilot was that I flew more than anybody else.
You're looking at our new baby, Playboy by Design, a feature that will be the open-sesame to some of the most exciting rooms in the world. Rather than explore every facet of a home, it will be a tip sheet filled with architectural and furnishing ideas that should spark some notions of how you can update your own digs. Take the room pictured here. Designed by Anthony Antine in association with Marc Polo, it's a vanishing act done with mirrors, and what disappears is the five-foot Mitsubishi front-projection television screen when matching sets of mirrored bifold doors are closed. The companion projector, disguised as a lacquered cocktail table, sits directly across from the screen. Six brushed-stainless-steel columns functionally anchor the room's design: Two house a pair of 6'8"-tall Beveridge speakers, a third is outfitted as a bar and the remaining three are for storage. It's a sexy, sleek space that's great for a movie screening or a night of quiet reading by the fire.
In Summer, when the sun is still high, a glass of beer naturally comes to mind. Beer is sociable. It is also decidedly American---in a melting pot sort of way. It has come to our shores along with the rest of us. The hop is the product of some promiscuity; its distant relations include the grape, Cannabis and asparagus---a hedonistic family, indeed. Eating hop shoots is believed to purify the blood, and the custom dates back to Roman times. As a tradition, it is not big in the New World, but you never can tell. Americans may have to make do with asparagus. Served in a light, buttery omelet, with a glass of a dry, aromatic, pale Belgian import such as Duvel (Devil, in Flemish), it makes a sinfully luxurious Sunday-brunch dish.
President Reagan was at his ranch, sitting at a desk outdoors in the morning fog. He had just signed a tax-cut bill, and he was the soul of amiability as he fielded questions from the press. It was August, and everyone was delighted to be in Santa Barbara instead of Washington. The President's dog strolled over.
Lock Away your daughters! Bar the doors! Harley-Davidson is about to give birth to a wild three-wheeled child, and the streets will never be the same again. Its new offspring is named the Trihawk and, yes, Virginia, it is a motorcycle--- at least as far as the Feds are concerned. But climb into the cockpit as though you are getting aboard a Formula I machine, turn the key, listen to the torquey burble of the four-cylinder engine through twin tailpipes as you wind it up through five gears, and then try to tell us that you're not driving one fun car. We're talking serious pleasure. Major action on three wheels. Troll with a Trihawk and your only problem will be where to stuff all the crumpets you've collected.
Despite her days as the queen of the screams and the tantalizing glimpses of skin to which audiences were treated in "Trading Places" and "Love Letters," there is more to Jamie Lee Curtis than an unforgettable figure and a banshee wail. She is an actress on the move---and she can be seen moving this month with co-star John Travolta in "Perfect." We asked Contributing Editor David Rensin if he would mind spending a few hours with Curtis in the Lower Manhattan apartment she shares with her husband, Christopher Guest. Said Rensin quickly: "No problem."
Twenty years ago, Vietnam was a distant domino, a reddening spot on the map that some of us couldn't find if we tried. While Gemini VII orbited the earth, Doctor Zhivago opened down the block and the American Foot-ball League was challenging the N.F.L. to something called a Super Bowl, Hugh Hefner opened his mail and found the following letter, dated November 1965:
Tracy Nelson travels in the fast lane. His motorcycle-accessory company, Tracy Design, in Santa Barbara, California, manufactures mighty slippery fairings and luggage. While it may or may not be true that if you've seen one fairing you've seen them all, the same can't be said for Nelson's latest creation, The Tracy Oasis, which he describes modestly as "the ultimate beach chair." Incorporated into its aluminum frame are JBL speakers coupled to a booster hooked to your personal stereo stored in a sealed cabinet. Another compartment stashes a six-pack and a freeze pack. And when your day at The Oasis is done, the chair can be folded and rolled home. Roll on, Tracy!
To make a room look bigger, you should (A) paint it pink, (B) dump your furniture, (C) wear glasses or (D) line your walls with the thinnest, most advanced technology this side of Arthur C. Clarke's famed monolith. If you answered A, B or C, take off, turkey. Skinny tech is here, and soon everyone will be wondering what fat tech was all about. See the baby monolith below? It's a receiver and cassette deck about two and a half inches thick that hangs on the wall. The TV/radio and the phone machine are similar space savers. So slim down your electronic environment and start using your living space for (A) a dance hall, (B) conventions, (C) living or (D) all of the above.
Ron Howard reveals which actresses he'd like to direct in nude scenes, denies those persistent rumors about drug dealing on the usc campus and describes his dad's illustrated sex-ed guide in a lively "20 Questions"