As this issue was going to press, a Federal judge ruled that the constitutional rights of blind persons had been violated when Congress cut funds for a Braille edition of Playboy. Even though the Braille edition contains no pictures, it is the sixth-most-often-requested magazine by the blind who patronize this Library of Congress service. To those readers we say, welcome back. It's nice to be in touch again.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), December 1986, Volume 33, Number 12. 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: Jack Bernstein, Circulation Promotion Director. Advertising: New York: Elaine Hershman, New York Manager, 747 Third Avenue, New York 10017; Chicago: Michael Carr, Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago 60611; West Coast: Katie Marin, Manager, 8560 Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles 90069.
You know how it is. You've attended 4793 weddings. And, not counting the odd anniversary or two, you've spent approximately $15,000 on bridal presents and bachelor parties in exchange for a vast number of warm champagne toasts and all the beef Stroganoff you could eat. You've rented tuxes; you've bought the Russ Meyer video and packed it off to the bachelor party. And by now, you're an expert on crystal stemware, Baccarat salad bowls and Marimekko sheets. Then, one day, it hits you like a bridal bouquet served by Martina Navratilova: Why don't you own any crystal stemware? When was the last time you heated up the leftovers in Le Creuset cookware? Do you possess even one set of matching sheets and pillowcases? Just take a look around.
Officially described as a follow-up rather than a sequel, Martin Scorsese's The Color of Money (Touchstone) can stand shoulder to shoulder with The Hustler, which hustled nine Oscar nominations back in 1961. (Walter Tevis' story was first published in Playboy in 1957.) "Money won is twice as sweet as money earned," snaps Paul Newman in a vibrant, enriched reprise of his role as pool shark Fast Eddie Felson. For Newman, a superstar who welcomes risk and improves with maturity, his portrayals of Eddie, then and now, merge into one shining entity among the screen's classics. Color of Money leaps ahead 25 years, reintroducing Eddie as a liquor salesman who now bank-rolls other pool hot-shots for a hobby. He sees his own upstart origins in an arrogant, unbeatable Chicago kid named Vince (Tom Cruise), whom he lures away from his supermarket job to train for the big time in Atlantic City. Eddie leaves his own lady (Helen Shaver) sulking back home but takes along Vince's live-in bimbo, played by Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio (see Fast Forward), for amoral support. Even her sex appeal is part of his plan: "We've got a race horse here ... a thoroughbred. You make him feel good, I teach him how to run."
In October, ex-Monkee Mickey Dolenz reviewed The Butthole Surfers' LP "Rembrandt Pussyhorse." Turnabout is fair play, so here's Gibby Haynes of the Buttholes on "Then & Now ... The Best of the Monkees."
Gathering No Moss Department: Mick is getting farther away from rock 'n' roll. His recent passion is hot-air ballooning over Normandy. But the Jagger sense of humor is intact: The balloon is shaped like a Harley-Davidson.
It would be nice if we could call I, Tina: My Life Story (Morrow), by Tina Turner and Rolling Stone senior editor Kurt Loder, an inspired rendering of one woman's struggle to overcome an abusive spouse on the road to a multiplatinum album, a movie role opposite Mel Gibson and McCall's ads. Alas, this book isn't inspiring--or very revealing, either. Anyone interested in how her dominating bandleader husband turned naïve Anna Mae Bullock into a rocking, dancing R&B dervish through shrewd instruction and regular beatings already knows the story. This real-life Color Purple has been the subject of innumerable magazine and television pieces.
This is the time of year for thick envelopes in college football. It's a time for all of the top-notch athletes who've been winning games for State, Tech and Old U to start collecting the bonuses that will accompany their under-the-table payments from boosters, agents, assistant coaches and pizza deliverers. It's also a period that reminds me of something I want to clear up. I have never said I hoped that a vast, mysterious crater would suddenly materialize in the center of the North American continent so that Mission, Kansas, headquarters of the N.C.A.A., would get sucked all the way to Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea. A hundred feet down would be deep enough, provided it could be paved over with enough concrete to prevent the organization's rampant hypocrisy from boring through to the surface.
This is my lucky day. I've just received a letter from Citibank in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. I hadn't realized I was so well known in South Dakota, but evidently James L. Bailey has heard of me. He wants me to apply for the Citibank Preferred VISA Card. As a senior vice-president of Citibank, Bailey is offering me an initial $5000 line of credit that is expandable to $50,000. He writes that this offer is "for a very select group of people. People like you, who handle credit very responsibly and will find its unique advantages most useful."
I want to see a movie where there's this girl playing poker with a couple of people and a dark woman accuses her of cheating. The dark woman, incensed, stands up and pulls a gun. Then the girl's friend comes in and tries to smooth things over, the girl just keeps repeating she wasn't cheating, and finally her friend says, "I can't help you, Sundancette." When the dark woman hears the name Sundancette, she goes all white and weird.
The best moment I ever had in Evanston, Wyoming, was leaving it. I'd spent a couple of months there in the summer and fall of 1981, roughnecking on the oil rigs, living with other guys who had somehow become desperate enough to go looking for work in a boom town; and very soon, it was clear that I was in over my head. Again.
The following exchange took place between CBS Nightwatch interviewer Fred Graham and Judith Reisman, U.S. Justice Department researcher and supposed expert on child affairs. Graham asked Reisman for her view of sex education:
Last July, Attorney General Edwin Meese's Commission on Pornography issued its two-volume report based on a yearlong investigation of sexually explicit material. In many, many words, it claims that pornography is behind rape and child abuse, and it suggests ways to rid ourselves of this dangerous substance.
Bryant Gumbel began the day as he had done for the past four years, leaving home before dawn, riding in a company car through the barren city streets to a midtown skyscraper. As always, he was dressed impeccably: Robert Stock suit, monogrammed cuffs, matching tie and socks. And under his arm, as he rode the elevator to his third-floor office, a sheaf of precisely penned notes--homework, he called it--encapsulating the lives of the people he would interview in America's bedrooms and living rooms that day, as he'd done the day before and would do again the next day. But he wasn't complaining. It wasn't as tough as when he'd started, saddled with poor ratings and suggestions that he wasn't the man for the job. No way. Now the "Today" show was on top, everyone was his friend, he was well paid and, most important, happy. As he walked down the long hall to the make-up room, one could hear him humming contentedly, "Purple rain, purple rain...."
Nobody looked better in a top hat than Fred Astaire. Pop on a topper today, though, and people will assume that you sing telegrams for a living. That isn't civilized. Ditto for ascots. A civilized man brandishes no such affectations; he simply exudes smartness and elegance. The style is effortless and unflinching, like Jeremy Irons starring with the Royal Shakespeare Company or in his new film, The Mission. A civilized man is not afraid of tuxedos. He understands that you must always wear your tuxedo; never let it wear you. Act loose. Be a guy. The most elegant thing you can do in black tie is eat breakfast; take your date, postbinge, to a swanky old hotel dining room where business drudges can spy you over their eggs and wonder what they're doing wrong. Civilized men, of course, are better lovers. In conversation, unbridled eye contact succeeds over chatter. It is poor form to swagger and bluster. Dorothy Parker's idea of perfection: "His voice was intimate as the rustle of sheets and he kissed easily." These seem like good qualities to muster. Other de rigueur moves: Take her arm when strolling. Unfasten her pearls at night's end. Dip her fingers in cognac and suck them dry--what the heck. But what about a role model? Without question, Cary Grant is the avatar of the entire dashing breed. He essays the bracing mix of easy charm and sly panache like no other guy's guy. His credo: "We should all just smell well and enjoy ourselves more." Accordingly, the civilized man uses deodorant and cologne sparingly. He does, however, shower with a vengeance. Or, to echo royal snob Cecil Beaton, "What is elegance? Soap and water!" Blow driers, by the way, are the bane of civilization. Espresso is the height. Shoes should lace up, not slip on (loafers are for Yups, thank you). Civilized men read novels and not just mysteries. They know it's never too late to take piano lessons. If not passionate, they are at least patient about opera. And, perhaps most significant, they fully appreciate the wonders of bubbly. We like that sparkling scene in The Philadelphia Story in which Jimmy Stewart informs Cary Grant, "Champagne is a great leveler ... it makes you my equal."
No other wine has the charm and disarming generosity of champagne. It has quelled wars, tired hearts, given strength to the weak, brought giants to their knees. Napoleon's Josephine bathed in it; Beau Brummell had his boot polish made with it. Today, champagne is administered as medicine in many of France's maternity hospitals.
What the Great Chefs are Fixing at Home for the Holidays
Michael Foley (chef/owner, Printer's Row, First Street and Foley's Grand Ohio, Chicago): I like to think of my house as a noisy neighborhood bistro. When guests come in, they smell baking bread and cider.
Dancing, we have reason to believe, is the most civilized form of social intercourse; and the most scandalous of all dances is, unquestionably, the tango. Designed for sultry sophisticates who are unafraid to touch, it is pure libido dipped in salsa, scorched in Latin lust. Tango writhes and whirls and grinds and gropes with syncopated abandon. It's high drama accompanied by cervical whiplash and wanton disregard for shoe leather. In short, it is your best bet for cheap thrills under a flimsy veneer of haute style and impeccable manners. To demonstrate some of the more mesmerizing maneuvers of the fateful embrace, Playboy called on that fleet-footed paradigm of civility Jay Leno, whose series of late-night NBC comedy specials debuted this fall. His lissome partner in sublimity is our 1986 Playmate of the Year, Kathy Shower. We asked Leno, properly slicked down for the occasion, whether he felt like Valentino. "More like Vaselino," he said. "But it's the look you want to achieve. It's also important to try to make your sideburns resemble Spock's." He offers special insight into the techniques pictured here, beginning with the pose below left. "One: Always approach the most beautiful woman in the room with a small gift, like, say, a Ferrari, a Rolls-Royce, maybe even a rose. [Tip: It's considered good form to bite a rose stem while tangoing. Practice at home first on barbed wire.] Two: Be forceful. Before you even say hello, place your arm around her waist and pull her ankle up your thigh. Women like this. Three: As you dance, hold her with only one hand, leaving your other hand free to wave to your friends. And four: When lifting her leg up to expose her underwear, a gentleman will always turn her away from the bus boys who are watching from the corner. Instead, find a mirror."
When Dean Robinson finally made partner at his law firm, his life changed. Edward Hooper, one of the older partners, did everything he could to make the transition easy. Between conferences and dinners with clients, the days of free-associating in his office seemed over for Dean.
None of the women shown here will have trouble finding a husband when she's past 30, despite the results of recent studies. And if she has one already, she will be able to get a second one. All are Gorgeous Girls who will never have to worry about day-care centers or the best way to clean a refrigerator. Nor will you find them at The Salty Dog, being asked if they come there often. They are not that kind of woman.
That's my mark, Juanito told himself. That one, there. That one for sure. He stared at the new dinkos coming off the midday shuttle from Earth. The one he meant to go for was the one with no eyes at all, blank from brow to bridge of nose, just the merest suggestions of shadowy pits below the smooth skin of the forehead. As if the eyes had been erased, Juanito thought. But, in fact, they had probably never been there in the first place. It didn't look like a retrofit gene job, more like a prenatal splice.
Until three days before I left, I had planned to have my 15-year-old son Ari accompany me to a place I had previously visited with his sisters and his twin brother. It was his turn to explore Haiti with his dad and, as a drummer in a jazz band--in fact, in two jazz bands--he was especially interested in taping voodoo ceremonies and Haitian percussion. Other members of the family stringently opposed the trip, but his desires and mine--I'm a fanatic for Haiti--seemed to prevail. Then this news dispatch appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle:
Last April, the Southland Corporation announced that its 7-Eleven stores would no longer sell Playboy. Did we get mad? Did we get even? No. We got down! "Hey," said Assistant Editor Bruce Kluger to Managing Photography Editor Jeff Cohen, "let's do a Women of 7-Eleven pictorial."
Four A.M. Friday, and Charley is in his usual spot, sprawled out on the couch, watching Canadian football on cable television. For a long time now, Charley has looked upon television as his companion and sometime night light, which is why his wife, Sheilah, has taken off with his partner, Sy, that loud and obnoxious man who needs to trim the hair in his ears. Charley had grown to feel more comfortable watching a midget rodeo on cable than sleeping with Sheilah. (Sex is like a bull ride, he'd say: Mount the beast until you're turned loose, then try to stay on for one minute. Time, 58 seconds.)
You turn on MTV to watch Tina Turner strut across the screen. Do images of Mom at home in the kitchen whipping up peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches pop into your head? Or you catch Frank Zappa on the news, turning surly and belligerent at questions that displease him. Can you imagine walking up to him and asking, "Hey, Pop, OK if I borrow the keys to the station wagon?"
For the ladyfriend of a heavy-metal-music man, Laurie Carr is pretty low key. Texas-born and Wisconsin-raised, she lives by the code of the heartland (honesty, loyalty, family) and seems out of place at a Ratt concert-- until she shifts into dancing gear. A new model, she has this to say about her present Carr-eer: "I'll think I know where my life is going, then it'll turn 180 degrees. I was studying commercial art in Texas but found I didn't like its business end. I guess I'd had one too many accounting classes. I realized it was time to do something radically different. A friend sent my pictures to Playboy, I came to California, and now I'm a model." Laurie wants to return to her drawing table one day. For now, commercial art's loss is our gain.
Every Time they got a call from the leper hospital to pick up a body, Jack Delaney would feel himself coming down with the flu or something. Leo Mullen, his boss, was finally calling it to Jack's attention. "All three times they phoned before," Leo said, "I seem to recall you came down with some kind of twenty-four-hour bug. That's all I'm saying. Am I right or wrong?"
The Oxford Dictionary of Current English defines insider as "one who is in on the secret." In the spring of 1986, Dennis Levine, an investment banker with Drexel Burnham Lambert, was arrested in New York, charged with taking more than $12,500,000 in illegal stock-trading profits. Weeks later, another group of young men was charged in the so-called Yuppie case, accused of profiting from inside information on impending corporate mergers.
Here we have something we guarantee has never decorated your Christmas tree before: an exclusive work by contemporary art's superstar graffitist Keith Haring. In your choice of designs: Folded one way, it's a man happily dancing on a box; folded another, it's a mass of humanity more intimately intertwined than a crowd in a New York subway station--such as Haring used to decorate. Buy two magazines and your tree can wear both versions of the ornament; it's Haring's way, with a little help from his friends at Playboy, of bringing joy to your world.
It may say something about the sexual temperature of America in Reagan's Eighties that a fresh-faced, wholesome blonde whose career has heretofore largely been limited to flipping through the alphabet and identifying the loot on a television program should be the number-one throb in the hearts of millions of her countrymen (and -women). But Vanna White, hostess of Wheel of Fortune--a (text continued on page 164) syndicated game show seen daily by some 43,000,000 people, including Mick Jagger and Armand Hammer--has become just that. In other years, a woman who qualified as a sex star was likely to have a steamier image--sleeping with rock musicians or flashing in discos, say--but midway through this decade, times have changed, which is a nice way of saying that nobody's getting any without a great deal of difficulty. Anything beyond the missionary position, and that only with a partner certified celibate for the past five years, is suspect. What better era could there be for Vanna's white-bread appeal?
Our foldout photo this month features luscious Carrie Leigh, by now well known across America as the first lady of Playboy Mansion West. Ever since we published our July 1986 pictorial of her, readers have been writing to us to request another look at the lady who makes Hef feel even more like a king. To satisfy her fans, we present, once more, all of Carrie--and that's a lot of woman. The shot is by Phillip Dixon. Another very sexy woman, in her own way, is one of our favorite illustrators, Olivia De Berardinis, who painted the naughty but cute picture on the other side of our foldout. Olivia has her own line of greeting cards, and this is one of 12 illustrations she uses for her Christmas selections. When we asked her to interpret the goings on with the wee people, she explained, "It's Mrs. Claus making the elves happy while Santa attends to business elsewhere." After all, a guy can't be expected to build Erector sets all day without some relief. Olivia's catalog is available for two dollars from the O Card Corporation, P.O. Box 541, Midtown Station, New York, New York 10018. And remember: If you find any manufacturing flaws in your Christmas presents this year, it isn't Mrs. Claus's fault.
How secure is freedom in America? On the eve of the 200th anniversary of our Constitution, the U.S. Supreme Court has decided, in Bowers vs. Hardwick, that any American can be prosecuted under a statute providing a maximum penalty of 20 years in prison for engaging in "any sexual act involving the sex organs of one person and the mouth or anus of another." Neither married couples nor any other consenting adults have a "fundamental right" to have oral (continued on page 238)Courting Disaster(continued from page 171) or anal sex in the darkness of their bedrooms.
When Barbara Crampton landed the role of Megan Halsey in Re-Animator, last year's surprise horror hit, she had little idea it would become a cult classic. "We thought it would be either a hit or a piece of junk," she recalls. "We only knew that it was funny." Later, when it hit the theaters, Re-Animator--based on an H. P. Lovecraft story--garnered the type of rave reviews even experienced moviemakers dream of.
Koko is the most celebrated gorilla in the world, and for good reason. She is the first gorilla that can use a human language. Dr. Penny Patterson has been her teacher since Koko's birth and is the director of The Gorilla Foundation in Woodside, California, where Koko now lives.
"I felt that there was a need to publish literary works that were too long for magazine articles and too short for books," says Noel Young, 62, explaining how he created Back-to-Back Series, the latest innovation from his Santa Barbara--based Capra Press. Borrowing a technique from Fifties pulp novels, Capra puts two works back to back in one book, with each getting its own cover. For one side, he approaches such literary big-leaguers as Raymond Carver and Herbert Gold, publishing their essays, novellas and short stories. The other side often contains the work of an unknown. "The newer writers in this series--such as Daniel Pearlman and John O'Brien--are young and just emerging," says Young. "We've got to keep nurturing fresh talent. Raising new crops of writers can only be a healthy sign for us as a culture."
Funny, they don't look like the diabolical masterminds behind murders most foul, featuring such unseemly elements as cocaine, incest and even a sex-change operation. Instead, Cris Lehman and Bob Moog, both 30, seem more like the mainstream BMW crowd. That's not surprising, either, because Lehman is a C.P.A. who worked for Price Waterhouse and Moog has a Stanford M.B.A. "We came from pretty dry academic backgrounds," acknowledges Moog, a distant relative of the fellow who devised the music synthesizer. "We could be on Wall Street or working for a Fortune 500 company, but this is much more fun."
For someone best remembered for spraying gunfire at Al Pacino's cocaine-crazed Tony Montana in Scarface, Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio, 27, is noticeably lacking in killer instinct. "I used to watch people go to casting calls and sucker themselves out to producers and directors, and it just never occurred to me to do that. I thought, Surely, there must be a way to get work and maintain your dignity."
Excluding Mork from Ork, there's something stylishly snappy about a man who wears suspenders. It's a statement that you're a person to be reckoned with--and to get that point across, you can always give the elastic a resounding thwap. Furthermore, suspenders allow you to make a subtle personal statement; bikini-clad ladies on a tie are corn ball, but put them on suspenders--as we've shown here--and it's a look that even a banker from Boston can sport. There's even a club, The International Society of Brace Collectors, whose members quest for suspenders the way oenophiles do for rare wines. One caveat: Suspenders should button to your pants. The clip-on kind is strictly for kids.
The Bauhaus dictum that form follows function wasn't lost on Dr. Ferdinand Alexander Porsche. When he began to design a series of elegant, urbane accessories several years ago, he brought to the line the same clean, uncluttered look and superb craftsmanship that his four-wheel creations have enjoyed ever since his first Porsche automotive design, the 904GTS, rolled off the assembly line. Some of the Porsche Design products pictured here are made of titanium, a metal with its own tactile turn-on. The leather is fine calfskin, hand-crafted in Germany and protected by aniline coloring. Like Porsche cars, Porsche Design accessories are the fast lane of fine design. Get in it.