As you probably know, playboy is a tremendously well-put-together magazine. And for the past 381 issues, the thing that has held it together, through thick and thin, through Marilyn Monroe and through Venice Kong, has been the humble, underappreciated yet regrettably old-fashioned staple. What you have in your hands right now is the first, spanking-new, tough-spined, staple-free playboy. Fittingly, publishing types say that we are now perfect-bound, which means that we are held together neatly with glue and we look more like a book. Inside, you'll find that we've incorporated a fresh new graphics approach, too. And for the historical record, humorist and playboy cognoscenteBuck Henry (pictured with October 1983 Playmate Tracy Vaccaro, a recovered staple victim and this year's July cover girl) explains how we came to take this important technological step in Farewell to the Staple (illustrated by Patrick Bailey).
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), October, 1985, Volume 32, Number 10. Published monthly by playboy, playboy building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611, subscriptions: in the united states and its possessions, 534 for 36 issues, 536 for 24 issues. 522 for 12 issues. Canada, 535 for 12 issues. Elsewhere, $35 (U.S. currency) 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. Advertising: 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.
"Dynasty's" following is unmatched in television's history. The "Dynasty" dynasty will probably last into the next century, because the show's producers have stuck to a winning formula--shameful behavior, shocking disclosures and infusions of new, big-name stars. But its ratings may pale in comparison with the numbers expected this season, when "Dynasty" pulls out all the stops as it plots for a 100 share with these upcoming episodes.
Imagine a hot New York night back in the Fifties when a tempestuous blonde sex symbol is shooting a street scene that calls for her dress to be blown around her body by the updraft from a sidewalk grating. Sound familiar? Wait, there's more. Before that steamy summer eve is over, The Actress winds up in a hotel room visiting The Professor, a world-renowned scientist. Joining them later are her husband, The Ballplayer, and The Senator, the latter a Commie-hunting zealot who's been urging the scientist to testify at a crucial hearing in Washington. Note that all the characters' names are generic. Any resemblance to Marilyn Monroe, Albert Einstein, Joe DiMaggio and Senator Joseph McCarthy is altogether intentional in Insignificance (Island Alive), adapted by author Terry Johnson from his own prize-winning London play. Director Nicolas Roeg has brought the movie version crackling to life like a Roman candle, and I'd say that Johnson's controversial drama could not have fallen into better hands. What Roeg has wrought is a surreal but sexually supercharged black comedy about nothing less than the decline of 20th Century civilization.
Reeling and Rocking: Motown Records has purchased the film rights to the Marvin Gaye bio by David Ritz, and there is already talk of Jermaine Jackson's portraying Gaye. Says author Ritz of Motown, "They put up with Marvin for years and years. They understood . . . the depth of his talent." . . . Look for former Go-Go Jane Wiedlin's acting debut in Clue, the movie based on the game.
Previews: Upcoming fall fiction includes some not-to-be-missed novels and short stories. We're recommending E. L. Doctorow's new novel, World's Fair (Random House), a re-creation of New York in the Thirties as seen through the eyes of a child; The Stories of Heinrich Böll and the last of Len Deighton's great spy trilogy, London Match, both from Knopf; Miss Marple: The Collected Short Stories (Dodd, Mead), all 20 Agatha Christie gems in one place for the first time; the new Robert Coover novel, Gerald's Party (Linden), which is part mystery, part British parlor drama, with a gallery of rogues thrown in; and, finally, Paradise (Putnam's), by Donald Bar-thelme, the story of a man on whom circumstances have bestowed a sudden gift: a year of his own to do with as he wishes--something we've all dreamed of. In nonfiction, there is great variety to look forward to, including Greed and Glory on Wall Street: The Fall of the House of Lehman (Random House), by Ken Auletta; George Plimpton's hockey book, The Open Net (Norton); James Baldwin's The Price of the Ticket: Collected Nonfiction, 1948-1985 (St. Martin's); Gloria Emerson's profiles of Some American Men (Simon & Schuster); and Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan's tome on Family and Nation (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich), full of disturbing facts and a few suggestions for national policy makers. Lastly, Random House will give us the chance to find out whether or not David Eisenhower can write, as his Eisenhower at War: 1943--1945 finally makes it into print. Pull up a chair by the fire and dig in!
This is the time of year when 22.6 percent of the population endeavors to tell the other 77.4 percent what's going to happen during the college football season, but I, for one, don't need a Stat-Lock-Power Index-Diff-by-Gold-sheet-Hotline-Biorhythm-Dial-a-Wizard-Bail-Out Analyzer to tell me that 77.4 percent of Gerry Faust's home will be burned to the ground if he loses too many games at Notre Dame. I already know what to expect from the season at hand. The New Saviors, primarily TCU's Jim Wacker, South Carolina's Joe Morrison, Maryland's Bobby Ross, Florida's Galen Hall and Washington State's Jim Walden, will try to "finish the job we came here to do." Meanwhile, the Old Saviors--old in the sense of familiarity: men like Pat Dye at Auburn, Jackie Sherrill at Texas A & M, Earle Bruce at Ohio State, Fred Akers at Texas, Ray Perkins at Alabama and Faust, of course--will try to keep hanging by a thread while they each order breakfast the same way ("Eggs over easy; hold the hand grenade") and watch angry alumni drive their tanks across the old quad. What the season will not have, unfortunately, is a dream game. The only dream game would match those two recruiting zealots, SMU and the University of Florida, in the Ferrari Bowl for permanent possession of the Leavenworth Trophy.
I'm not sure, but what I think is about to happen here is the temporary crackup of a columnist. I've been trying to be good and fair and understanding about men; that's my job. And I've always been quite sure that basically, I adore men. But I'm fed up; I desperately need to have a temper tantrum. Who can blame me? I live in New York City.
Frank Hawley nodded me over to the starting-line guardrail at the Gainesville, Florida, speedway. Jerry Boozer and his wife, Brenda, were 30 yards away, leaning against the hood of their pickup, talking quietly. "I can strut around here with my diamond rings and all my sponsors," Hawley said. Then he pointed toward Brenda and Jerry. "But that's where this sport came from."
I'm writing in the hope that you can comment about my husband's sexual practices. I say they are grossly abnormal. He says he just likes "a little excitement." Please look at these examples of his style of "fun" and let me know what you think:
It had all the elements of high drama--some would say melodrama--and a few of Greek tragedy: A handsome, powerful and charismatic tycoon whose car company was failing was video-taped in the act of apparently buying a bag of cocaine, pronouncing it "better than gold," was arrested on drug-trafficking charges and was put on trial with his gorgeous wife at his side.
In the lean years, he waited on tables, even drove a cab around New York. When he decided to be a race driver, a lot of people told him he'd never make it. But this year, as winner of the Indy 500, Danny Sullivan made it big. "You just have to keep at it," he says. "Nothing good in life ever comes easy." Now Danny Sullivan's life is racing. And his magazine is Playboy.
Remember the pinup girls of the Forties and Fifties? Sweet but not too sweet. Risqué but not too revealing to be displayed in barbershops and gas stations. Jerry Hall remembers. Before she became a world-famous fashion model and "the boss" in Mick Jagger's life, she was an ardent student of pinup photography. "I spent hours," she says, "looking at pinup calendars, the Frederick's of Hollywood catalog and the Vargas girls." It just so happens that celebrity photographer Annie Leibovitz also loves the pinup, and when she and Jerry worked together in Rio (where Leibovitz was documenting the making of videos for Jagger's new album), the two decided to collaborate on recreating some of the classic pinup poses. "At first, we were just doing it for fun, as satire," says Leibovitz, "but Jerry became more serious about it. After shooting a dozen or so poses, we thought, Hey, let's see if we can get them published." They'll be available in calendar form later this month from Workman Publishing Company, Inc;, but if you buy the calendar, you won't see the photo of Jerry for December that you see in our exclusive prepeek.
The golden age of erotic comics reached its zenith with the eight-pagers--crudely drawn, broad-stroke parodies of well-known cartoon characters in sexual situations. Popeye and Olive Oyl, Mutt and Jeff--even Little Orphan Annie--were not safe from the illustrators' dirty (and hilarious) daydreams. The booklets took their name from their format--the strips ran eight full-frame pages. GIs stationed in the Southwest referred to them as Tijuana Bibles, and collectors of erotic Americana are now laying out large green for the originals. Here at Playboy's Office, we wondered how contemporary characters would behave in an atmosphere of eight-pager sex-charged mischief. Managing Art Director Kerig Pope and Senior Staff Writer John Rezek conspired with humorist Gerald Sussman and the illustrators listed below to produce these updated versions. Once we settled on targeting the Yuppies, we were struck by their contradictions. While they roar down the road to success, Yupsters don't have time to give their libidos a pit stop. When your life centers on balsamic vinegar, cappuccino machines and designer water, who has time for sex?
Doesn't anybody down straight shots anymore? Apparently not, and with good reason. Why toss back bar whiskey when you can shoot a bazooka joe that tastes like bubble gum? Who needs hair of the dog when you've got a happy jack to chase your hangover? Shooters can be either mixed or poured, but they are always served in a tall, slim one-to-two-ounce glass. Mixed shooters, shaken with shaved ice and then strained, are smoother than poured ones, but you can't beat poured shooters for their distinctive taste and look. To pour shooters, fit your bottles with standard bar speed spouts and control the flow of the liquor by manipulating your forefinger over the spout. With your other hand, hold a teaspoon over the shot glass, with the tip just touching the inside rim. Slowly pour the liquid over the teaspoon (concluded on page 200)Shooters! (continued from page 98) until the glass is filled to the desired level. Always pour lighter ingredients on top of thicker ones. Here are 12 shooters to help set you straight.
It had been dark for more than half an hour when Walker's road began its snaking descent from high desert to the canyon floor. His headlights were focused on a wall of deepening green that seemed to spin before him; the indifferently banked road felt as though it were falling away beneath his tires, threatening to send him out of control. At last, to his relief, the road ran flat and straight. He kept to the center, wary of animals, riders, pedestrians--and in less than a mile, he saw the hotel's sign.
The coolest guy in my high school was Calvin Hamrick. Not that I ever spoke so much as a word to him; I was a freshman when he was a senior, and none of us 14-year-olds would have dared approach him. Hamrick was a letterman in football, basketball and baseball; he was a sandy-haired, firm-jawed fellow who strode the hallways with absolute self-confidence and total grace. Calvin Hamrick may have merely been on his way from study hall to algebra class, but he made it seem like the most dramatic of walks through the O.K. Corral.
We kept the perch we caught in a stone pool in front of the living-room window. An elm shaded the pool, and when the heavy drapes of the living room were drawn so my mother could see the sheet music on the piano, the window reflected the barred shapes of the lake perch in the pool.
Cynthia Brimhall's day has gotten off to a bad start. She's in a dither of indignation as she huffs in, ten minutes late, for lunch at Le Dôme restaurant. "You won't believe what happened to me this morning," she says in a grandly theatrical style, somewhat reminiscent of Lucille Ball--a very sexy Lucille Ball--in a snit. While her eyes roll heavenward, the eyes of many in the restaurant are focused on her microminidress. "Some pervert stole all my underwear," she explains. "All of it."
Classic design endures because somebody finally got it right. It transcends tastelessness and trends; it resists the vagaries of the moment. And it does so without compromise to purpose or utility. On these pages are some tasteful examples of what we mean. The Milliman bar cart will tote your liquid assets with effortless grace, and the limited-edition Vanity Fair leather chair that was originally designed in 1930 will not only rest your weary bones but uplift your aesthetic sense as well. The adjustable Eileen Gray smoking table holds your cigarettes at just the right height, next to your martini--straight up, of course. Le Corbusier liked to relax after a hard day at the drafting table, and his chaise is a master's response to that part of the day known as Miller time. Furniture can be comfortable without being clunky; and what we show here will help keep the rest of your decorating act looking crisp.
Actress Rosanna Arquette, at 25, is this generation's answer to Jane Fonda and Meryl Streep. Aside from such movies as the hugely successful "Desperately Seeking Susan," America knows her as the inspiration for Toto's 1983 hit song "Rosanna," sung by her then boyfriend, keyboardist Steve Porcaro, and also as Gary Gilmore's wildly sensuous girlfriend in "The Executioner's Song." Claudia Dreifus caught up with Arquette in New York. Her report:
The phone rang at three in the morning. It was Hef, as he is always called by those who cannot pronounce his full name. I recognized the voice immediately because of its distinctive timbre and its unmistakable sense of urgency and because he had already called at two o'clock, 2:30 and 2:45.
We like to visit the campuses of the Pac 10. Nowhere else in America do you encounter such extreme examples of the dualism of mind and body. On one hand, you have the West Coast mania for physical fitness, the pride of body and grace that leads some women to pose for playboy. On the other hand, you have the full-tilt feminist sensibility of N.O.W. groups and the strangle-hold intensity of fundamentalist Christians, proclaiming that nudity is either a political crime or a sin. During our latest search for coed beauty, protesters picketed hotels where playboy photographers were interviewing prospective models. Some people tried to tie up hotel switchboards by phoning in for fake appointments. Others pushed computer-printed handbills under hotel doors to warn guests of what was going on down the hall. The most pompous circulated rhetoric-laden petitions: "We, the undersigned members of the Stanford community, would like to express our objections to playboy's visit to Stanford. While not the most heinous of pornographers, playboy reinforces sex stereotypes by portraying women as sexual objects and thus furthers inequality in our society." We would publish the signatories' names, but why bother? We suspect they're the same people who will be lining up to buy this issue, the same guys who walk a picket line with a sign that says that they are prosex, pronudity, pro-erotica, antiporn. Our point, give or take a little, but why split pubic hairs? playboy photographers David Mecey and David Chan braved picket lines to find women willing to celebrate unashamed, to defy peer-group pressure, to pose for the pure fun of it. Freedom of expression is easy to defend. Witness the results.
A revolution is going on in college sports. Until recently, it had burned beneath the surface, hidden from the casual fan, but the eruptions of the near future will shock everyone. Some people--such as win-at-any-cost coaches and unscrupulous alumni--will be devastated. And college football will soon be a more rational, more civilized and even more entertaining game.
America is hot. From food to film, a new patriotism is booming. And now, fashion has come home. A while back, Ivy League started here. So did charcoal gray. Then European designers began to get the idea. They borrowed the American look and changed it a bit, adding a certain relaxed style. This season, American designers are reclaiming that classic feeling, with some touches of their own. Traditional grays and browns are accented with bolder colors. Lines have been altered to show off the muscular results of the physical-fitness boom. At last, clothes are being created with real men in mind. To capture this new style, we crossed the country to find the people and places that best represent the spirit of the new American fashion.
For three months now, I've needed shoes. The collars and cuffs of my dress shirts are frayed. I should buy a new suit. But I do nothing. I make notes to myself, marking shoes and shirts and suit on my calendar, with little arrows pointing to them for emphasis. I cut clothing and shoe ads out of the newspaper and tear pages from magazines. Still, I do nothing. I walk the streets on soles so thin I can tell you the date on a dime. I wear shirts that make me look like a failed lyric poet. I appear in public in a suit that has seen the Dodgers play in Brooklyn.
There's a mighty slick video uprising going on, and it's happening at Hayman-Chaffey Designs, a showroom at 137 East 25th Street in Manhattan. Hayman-Chaffey's high-low TV cabinet once and for all solves the problem of where to hide the one-eyed monster when you're not watching The Playboy Channel or Dynasty. At the push of a switch or a remote-control button, the video screen (or computer, stereo system, bar or anything weighing up to 400 pounds) lowers into a sleek cabinet with a superglossy chip-, stain- and alcohol-resistant Vitricor finish that's available in just about any hue you can imagine and some that you can't. It's an uprising we like. You will, too.
Just program the pampering," says the promotional leaflet for Kohler's Masterbath, and this is one instance in which the ad is an understatement. Are you tired of having a bathroom that just sits there? Has the thrill of the electric toothbrush worn off? Is bathing a bore? No more. For the price of a new car, you can own one of the ultimate luxuries--a bathing environment that responds to your every whim at the touch of a button. Be Neptune, Apollo or Eros, calling the water or the sun to soothe your muscles or to set up the perfect romantic situation. Wind, rain, sun, sauna, steam--they're all at your command in a setting created by the most recent commingling of high fashion and high technology. The Environment Masterbath is the opposite of a sensory-deprivation tank--there's so much to do in this self-contained spa that the outside world may soon pale by comparison. The world of the Masterbath has its limits, of course. It won't transport you physically to Tahiti, though you'll be hard-pressed to tell the difference once you're inside. It won't snow, but it won't drop acid rain on you, either. And it won't undress you, but there should be plenty of volunteers for that. (If there aren't, there will be--right after word on what's waiting in your bath leaks out.) A few years ago, you could be the first guy on the block with a hot tub. This year, Masterbath owners will be showing off their units' teak interiors and gold-plated faucets. You can't be master of your fate, but now you can be master of your bath. And if that's not a reason to celebrate, you've been leading a very jaded life.