We have a friend whose business card reads, I manage. By that he means that he gets by, and each month, he somehow pays the mortgage. Obviously, he makes money the old-fashioned way. But managing is something else to the bearer of an M.B.A. from Harvard Business School, which is considered the citadel of American vocational training--mainly because its graduates come out of it earning nearly as much per hour as a topflight plumber. Anyhow, in What They Don't Teach You About Harvard Business School,Laurence Shames tells you what a Harvard M.B.A. has that you don't--credit for a cutthroat course called Administrative Practices, or Ad Prac, or Machiavelli for Beginners. Roughly speaking, if G. Gordon Liddy were an academic, this is the course he would teach. Ad Prac is great for M.B.A.s, but, according to Shames, it's not so great for the rest of us.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), May 1986, Volume 33, Number 5. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States and its possessions, $56 for 36 issues, $38 for 24 issues, $24 for 12 issues. Canada, $35 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 55230, Boulder, Colorado 80323-5230, and allow 45 days for change. Circulation: Ed Condon, Director/Direct Marketing; Jack Bernstein, Circulation Promotion Director. Advertising: New York: Elaine Hershman, New York Manager; Walter Kuenstler, Marketing Director, 747 Third Avenue, New York 10017; Chicago: 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago 60611; Detroit: 3001 West Big Beaver Road, Troy, Michigan 48084; West Coast: Brian Van Mols, Manager, 8560 Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles 90069.
Two Free-spirited, passionate young people on an Italian holiday with their elders start to strain against the ties that bind them to strait-laced Edwardian England in A Room with a View (Cinecom). Based on a classic novel written in 1908 by E. M. Forster, this impeccable adaptation by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala fits more snugly onto film than Forster's complex and sprawling A Passage to India, which carried off many of the top movie awards for 1984. Similarly starchy on the surface, Room is a sunny, stylish and delectable comic romance--about as close to perfection as such a literary bonbon can ever hope to be. As the distraught Miss Honeychurch, torn between the impulsive young swain (Julian Sands) who pursues her in Florence and the twit (Daniel Day Lewis) to whom she becomes engaged back home in Surrey, Helena Bonham Carter is a diminutive dream girl, revealing a startling lack of inhibition when she sits down to play Beethoven. Matchless Maggie Smith sets the tone as the heroine's skittish chaperone, and Denholm Elliott offers his usual brilliant counterpoint as the hero's gently eccentric father.
Robert Ludlum addicts, the fix is in. Jason Bourne is back in The Bourne Supremacy (Random House), and the assassin is pulled into service to stop nothing less than the destruction of the Far East. Those of you who read Ludlum (are there any of you out there who don't?) will know we're not exaggerating. This time out, Bourne (a.k.a. David Webb) is yanked from his academic duties at a Maine college and is recruited to find and kill the high-ranking Chinese official who is really the son of a Hong Kong gangster and who seeks to return China to its dynastic glory. But the real fun of any Ludlum book is the cast of characters and the practical information you absorb along the way. For instance, here we learn all the things a $500,000 bribe will buy in Hong Kong and what it's like wandering around Beijing without papers, and we take an extended swim in the murky waters where diplomacy and espionage spill into each other. Junior assassins will pick up some keen techniques (be sure to get that windpipe if you want throat slicing to be soundless) and fun axioms ("Rest is a weapon"). Supremacy is better than any TV miniseries; it has fewer commercials and is the sort of story you can't wait to get back to.
Signs of Creeping Middle Age: Night Ranger's manager, Bruce Cohn, put together an invitational golf classic to publicize his Northern California winery. Rockers from Night Ranger, Starship, Journey and Huey Lewis' News showed up. Even though they swung for charity, it's still golf.
As one who has been unable to decide between the investment firms of Arnold Palmer and Tom Watson on television, I was understandably excited when a big professional golf tournament came to my country club. I dashed right out to the club, of course, not only to pick up some portfolio advice but to see the famous golfers in their own flesh and checkered cottons.
The wimp bill." it was called, "the quiche bill." Last year, Elijah Cummings offered a bill in Maryland's House of Delegates that would create a commission to study the problems of contemporary men; his proposal was met with derision.
It was two full days before I heard the first space-shuttle joke, and it was a strange relief. Two days seemed an unnaturally long pause between disaster and the rough humor that always bubbles up in its wake from nobody knows where. This particular joke, which I can't tell here because it has a brand name in it, came to me over the phone from a woman friend. I laughed harder and more spontaneously than I wanted to. Then I had a moment of emotional whiplash while the small parts of me that are still reverent came up, saying, "What the hell's wrong with you, anyway? Seven people are dead. We threw them up there like fireworks."
Over the past year or so, I've noticed in your magazine several references to a style of fellatio that for want of a better name could be called the goodbye kiss. In Susan 'Squire's article on oral sex (Who's in Charge Here?, Playboy, July 1985) and in Bruce Jay Friedman's humor piece The Biological Need for Boys' Night Out (Playboy, December 1985), it is suggested that some women perform oral sex just as their boyfriends are leaving the house. The notion is that this will drain them of desire and give them something to think about. Does this really work? If I go down on my boyfriend when he goes to work, will it keep him from fooling around?--Miss D. S., New York, New York.
It is sweltering. It's a wet and musty heat, the kind that stirs people, incites them. Ned Racine turns to leave Matty Walker's home, but he makes the mistake of looking back to see her again. Her husband's not home. She's wet with sweat. He's hotter than the night.
This was the year of the one-man army. In real life, Bernie Goetz became a hero after taking on subway thugs with a pissant revolver. In reel life, Sylvester Stallone took on the Russians in Rambo with a handful of neat weapons and, in Rocky IV, merely with his hands. Arnold Schwarzenegger took on barracks full of nearsighted mercenaries. Chuck Norris took on the city of Chicago and fended off terrorists in Florida. President Reagan, a man who is sometimes unable to differentiate between movies and reality, started quoting Rambo at press conferences. Our favorite hero? Mel Gibson as Mad Max. Anyone who goes mano a mano with Tina Turner gets our vote.
Franz harary knows all the benefits of being a magician. At the age of 23, not only has he made a top hat full of money (allowing him to maintain homes in both a fashionable part of Los Angeles and his home town of Ann Arbor, Michigan) but magic has put him center stage--center field, in some cases--doing massive illusions for sporting events (such as the Rose Bowl and the White Sox opener) and rock shows. When Michael Jackson floated off into nothingness during the Victory tour, that was Harary behind the scenes, designing and operating the illusion. He and Jackson are still close friends, and the Victory tour's success has given Harary even more work in the lucrative concert field.
We called ourselves the Austin Mafia. Nearly all of us had gone down to the University of Texas and come back to Dallas to take up our lives, some of them ruinous and some successful. But Jack and Peggy and Lee and Hancel and Rich and Anne and I had always stayed together, hanging out at night and going to drive-ins and loaning each other money. We were all sort of shiftless, younger than our years, incapable of more than two consecutive serious thoughts. Marriage and babies? They were almost inconceivable, to none of us more so than Jack and Peggy. Jack was a brilliant, passionate goofball who put "boy scientist" on his IRS forms and made a meager but satisfying living repairing calculators, doodling with computers and playing drums for a band called the Shitty Beatles. He was a jokester, a private stand-up comic for our gang, a 27-year-old going on 15. The idea of some baby's calling him Daddy would make your sides split with laughter--or your palms sweat with anxiety.
If a Band of extraterrestrials opted to invade our hunk of planet Earth, they'd do well to schedule the attack for a Sunday at high noon, the traditional coming-down time. That's when the entire country, at least the adult population, is engrossed in the weekly bloody-mary ritual--preparing and serving the sanguine sip. There are many coming-down drinks, but the bloody mary is the only one designed for that purpose. The bloody-mary story has been told before: how it was conceived at Harry's New York Bar is Paris during the roaring Twenties as succor for the morning trade; how it was brought to the States in 1934 by Pete Petiot, the gent who first compounded the drink at Harry's; how it languished, all but unnoticed, until Smirnoff got behind it in 1955; how it then zoomed to popularity, hitting the top ten on the cocktail charts, where it has remained ever since.
Sam Donaldson, ABC White House correspondent and self-styled bad boy of telejournalism, is hip-deep in traffic. Note pad in hand, he darts among a snarl of automobiles outside Geneva's Inter-Continental Hotel, barking commands into a high-powered walkie-talkie. "Donaldson to transportation desk! Transportation, this is Donaldson! I need a car out here, now!"
Christine Richters was standing in the lobby of the Villa Vera Hotel in Acapulco, where she had arrived moments earlier, hot, tired, five hours and a cab ride out of LAX. We managed to catch her eye with a friendly smile before she was taken to her room. Later, she told us it was her first time out of the country--if you didn't count the ten years she spent in Dodge City, Kansas. "Yeah, the main place to be in Dodge is Wyatt Earp Boulevard. Everyone parks in the Boot Hill parking lot and then cruises up and down Wyatt Earp. It's really boring. There's nothing there. The music is, like, a month behind. In Dodge, once you've been to Boot Hill, that's it." There is no irony intended in that last remark--nor any malice. Christine is burdened with the ennui of a generation accustomed to rapid change. When you can adjust your perspective to any of 20 channels with a click of a remote-control device, the impact of an outlaws' cemetery fades quickly. Everything's temporary, and the wispiness of the future makes a prudent girl seek stability. No fast-paced singles' life for Christine. "Those guys out there," she says, shaking her head disgustedly, "I know what all those guys are like at night clubs. I don't want to have to go to bed with all those guys, and that's what they expect. That's just the way they are. So I'm afraid to get into those situations. They make me nervous. And the younger guys--they don't go to school, they don't learn, they just listen to MTV all the time, you know. So I don't even want to deal with it. I'd just rather get married and not have to worry about anything." It's hard to blame Christine for her outlook, especially since her experiences with men haven't been the best. "I've never really met my dad," she laments. "My parents got divorced when I was three; he lives in Fullerton somewhere. I went through the Department of Motor Vehicles to try to find him, but the address at the D.M.V. is wrong. I hope he'll see my picture and call." Boyfriends have given her trouble, too. "I had one boyfriend," she says, laughing, "who used to tell me that I'd never find another boyfriend if I left him. He was crazy. He was really mean to me, too. He would tell me he was coming home and then not come home all night. And then he went to bed with my best friend. Of course, she's not my best friend anymore." Christine is resilient, though, and she hasn't given up yet. "I'm real insecure when it comes to boyfriends, but I would like to have the security of having someone there for me all the time." Her current relationship is reportedly a big improvement. "I don't see how it could get better," says Christine happily. That and the budding of a modeling career have made her think about some minor lifestyle adjustments. "I haven't found anything to do that I really like since I was in school. At least then, I had to get up at a certain time and I had to be there. But lately, since I haven't been doing anything, I just have gotten lazy. I was eating junk food all the time, but now I take vitamins and stuff. Now that I'm working with Playboy, I'm more into keeping myself up. I have a reason to. I mean, I have to. I look at all those other Playmates and that kind of gives me a push." Although she does dream about owning a little land for a wild-animal park, that's for the future. For now, Christine is content. From the vantage point of an Acapulco beach, things don't look half bad.
What happened happened on a Thursday night, late. I was in the gym, on the bike, not overdoing it. The attendant and the only other customer were sleeping on weight benches. My dog, Dolores, slept at my feet. The front doors were open, so you could hear the city--buses and trucks changing gears. The music was Lou Rawls. That kind of night.
Kim Basinger is nobody's fool. Since abandoning a successful cover-girl career for a life in the movies, she has beaten the model-turned-actress syndrome with an eclectic body of work that includes such TV fare as a movie of the week called "Katie: Portrait of a Centerfold" and film roles in "The Man Who Loved Women," "The Natural," "Never Say Never Again" and her latest, "Fool for Love," with Sam Shepard. Since Basinger and Contributing Editor David Rensin recently stayed in the same New York hotel, we asked Rensin to go upstairs and take his tape recorder. Said he, "Kim wore gray sweat pants, high-topped tennies and a loose cotton shirt. She looked great. She moved constantly on the couch, doing stretches, burying her face in the cushions when she laughed, and kept the energy level high. I should have known. Just before we began, she flashed that unforgettable swollen-lipped smile and said, quite unexpectedly, 'Ask anything. I don't care what you ask me.' So I did."
What They Don't Teach You About Harvard Business School
In 1985, a bland, frugal year in America, the going rate for freshly minted Harvard M.B.A.s was around $45,000 per annum. Some 8,000,000 Americans couldn't find a job, and the typical second-year B. School student was being courted by 15 corporate recruiters. So spirited was the bidding for the grads that scouts who had run the salary offers to the limits of their authority resorted to sweeteninig the kitty with such fringes as a $5000 "image bonus" for picking up togs at Brooks Brothers. Banks threw parties for the imminent M.B.A.s, ad agencies took them to tennis matches, investment houses chartered yachts to show them Wall Street from the water. Amid all this wooing of the season's business debutants, everybody was wondering if the much-talked-about record salary offer would be topped: One member of the class of 1985 sashayed out of the B. School into an entry-level slot that paid him a slightly hilarious $140,000.
You can spend a lot of money on a good suit and still look as if you bought it off the rack at a warehouse sale. Why? Because for a suit to look good, it has to be a perfect fit. Before you confront the man with the pins in his mouth, here are some things, to keep in mind: When you go to try on a suit, wear appropriate shoes. This is important, because heel height has a great deal to do with where your trouser leg breaks over the shoe top. If you regularly wear a sweater vest under your jacket, take one along. Put the items in your pockets that you normally carry--wallet, eyeglasses, .44 Magnum (just kidding, Clint). Pay attention to the critical areas: the chest (if it's very tight, the jacket should not be altered), the lapels (they should drop straight down the chest and should not buckle when the jacket is buttoned), the armholes (they should fit comfortably high in the armpits but should not actually be felt) and the length (a suit or sports jacket should not be shortened more than three fourths of an inch and it should not be lengthened at all). And always be fitted in front of a triple mirror. The impression you create going is equally important as the one you create coming.
Janent hightower, Playboy Staff Photographer David Mecey and Senior Photography Editor Jeff Cohen had just finished a relaxed expense-account dinner (a dozen oysters and a lobster apiece) at North Houston's Pappas Seafood House & Oyster Bar Restaurant when Hightower's beeper sounded. It was the moment Mecey and Cohen had been waiting for since they arrived in town the previous day. Hightower was about to fight a fire. "Better to work on a full stomach than hungry," she said, heading for the door.
Welcome to The Playboy Gallery, a monthly feature that offers our readers an opportunity to start their own collections of Playboy's best art and photography. Save these, frame them, hang them over your stereo or in your bath. Of course, if you like both sides of the sheet equally, you'll have to buy two copies. Pass the extra one along to a friend. It's always nice to share a good thing when you can. That's why we've started The Playboy Gallery. We want to make your life beautiful. This month, we feature a sizzling photo of redhot actress Kathleen Turner, by Contributing Photographer Arny Freytag, and one of our favorite illustrations by Pat Nagel.
Where pornography ends and literary merit begins is a question that has long vexed scholars of literary erotica. It can be answered graphically with several pages from The Notebooks of Gatling Wessex, the work of a self-avowed pornographer who has written about sex with an intensity and poetry that would rank him as a great writer in any other field. Wessex' career has been distinguished by an extraordinary level of craftsmanship. From the ambitious searching of early novels such as A Legend in His Own Pants and Knee-Deep in Nectar through the mature perversity of middle-period novels such as Blondes in Brass Brassieres, Pig-Iron Panties and Galvanized Garter Belts and Slaves of the House of Pancakes to the experimental boldness of Post-Holocaust Proctologist and Corgi and Bess, his work has always illuminated sexuality with literary deftness. Here, for the scholar of eroticism--or the merely horny reader--is a selection from his recently published notebooks.
You might expect a self-proclaimed mediocre student who got into Princeton on the basis of his impressive S.A.T. scores (1480 out of a perfect 1600) to harbor warm feelings for the testing process. Not John Katzman. "That just shows what bullshit the tests are," he says.
"Here's a great Kentucky meal," says Kentucky-born Dwight Yoakam, 29. "Stewed squirrel, fried apples, squirrel gravy and homemade biscuits. Now, that's a dinner!" Unfortunately for Yoakam, that meal exists mostly in his memories. Since moving to L.A. nine years ago, Yoakam has been eating more mainstream victuals, while playing country music that would please a purist--as well as some of his more unusual fans.
Paula Poundstone remembers her childhood well. "Some people found me amusing," she recalls. "Some found me annoying." Such reactions made the choice of a career seem clear. And now, at 26, Poundstone is one of the most-talked-about comediennes on the club-and-college circuit. Robin Williams tells interviewers she's destined for stardom, and David Letterman has brought her back four times.
"Ultimate Pleasure: The Secrets of Multiorgasmic Women"--Nothing is as wondrous to behold as a woman who comes early and often. Here, some lucky Ladies tell how they got that way--by Marc and Judith Meshorer