Welcome to our 1987 kickoff issue, the New Year's Eve party you can hold in your hands. Wait till you see the guest list. Start with a 94-year-old pioneer of art deco, Erté, whose historic works have recently been collected for huge exhibitions in Paris and London. Now a brand-new Erté decorates our cover. Marilyn Monroe, who highlighted our very first issue, shows up again in newly discovered photographs and artwork from the late calendar artist Earl Moran's private archives. Special insights vis-à-vis Monroe are provided in the text by our Editor-Publisher, Hugh M. Hefner. Playboy's ubiquitous celebrity interlocutor David Sheff made a double hit for this issue, targeting Miami Vice detective turned rock-'n'-roller Don Johnson for the Interview and getting an earful from one of America's most lovable cynics in Randy Newman's Guide to Life. And if you're still not convinced that our celebrity cup runneth over, take a look at 20 Questions--yes, it's that mad techie from Cinemax and star of the VDT, Max Headroom. We've even played Love Connection for Max--wait'll he gets a load of our very own technical knockout, Maxine Legroom.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), January 1987, Volume 34, Number 1. 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, Colo. 80323-5230, and allow 45 days for change. Circulation: Jack Bernstein. Circulation Promotion Director. Advertising: New York: 747 Third Ave., New York 10017; Chicago: 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago 60611; West Coast: 8560 Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles 90069.
Did you ever notice how Mom used to view all your favorite activities purely as opportunities for death and dismemberment? Her idea of safe fun was carrying out the garbage or cleaning your room. We wondered how often Mom's maudlin predictions came true, so we checked them against the records of the National Safety Council and other sources. Among other things, we discovered that garbage cans are at the root of 22,000 injuries per year and that household cleaners blind and maim thousands more annually. For more shocking results, follow our helpful index to Mom's predictions, below.
The Longest-Running superpower battle on earth, the one between men and women, has continued unabated since the first love-starved protohumans howled at each other over an antelope carcass. They might have clubbed and eaten each other, but they didn't, and the species is still thriving.
If you're making a list and checking it twice, we've got some perfect gift-book selections for you to consider this holiday season. Let's begin with armchair travel. As usual, nobody does it better than Sierra Club Books. Check out Mountain Light: In Search of Dynamic Landscape, by Galen Rowell, in which the photographer shows his fascination with varying qualities of light in alpine landscapes, and Hugo Van Lawick's Among Predators and Prey: A Photographer's Reflections on African Wildlife. Friendly Press has published The Most Beautiful Place in the World, impressions by ten photographers, including Rowell (again), Ernst Haas, Burt Glinn and Jay Maisel, of places from Venice to the Maine woods to Morocco. Coral Kingdoms, by Carl Roessler, comes from Harry N. Abrams, Inc., which publishes some of the most beautiful books in the world. This one, on undersea life, is proof positive. Or take a voyage down the Columbia River, from British Columbia through Washington and Oregon to the Pacific, with Earl Roberge in Columbia: Great River of the West (Chronicle). Finally, take the perfect urban trip with Sherlock Holmes's London: Following the Footsteps of London's Master Detective (Chronicle).
Winner of a coveted Golden Palm at Cannes as the best picture of 1986, director Roland Joffé's The Mission (Warner) is superbly acted, wildly beautiful and challenging. Joffé, who set a high standard with The Killing Fields in 1984, now plows through much tougher terrain, seeking to bring forth what is filmworthy in Robert Bolt's somewhat schematic screenplay about genocide in South America circa 1750. It's a cautionary tale of an innocent, Christianized tribe of natives being sacrificed for political expediency, slaughtered or sold into slavery while powerful Catholic Churchmen look the other way. You won't need a road map to trace The Mission's contemporary relevance, from the Holocaust and Vietnam to Afghanistan and Nicaragua.
Branford Marsalis, who has recorded and toured with Herbie Hancock, Miles Davis and Sting, among others, has just released a jazz LP, "Royal Garden Blues" (Columbia), and is now touring with his own group. For this month's issue, while his nine-month-old son wailed on his shoulder, Branford reviewed Paul Simon's "Graceland" (Warner).
It's History now Department: To those who lived through the Sixties, the events of that decade are still pretty fresh; but to this generation, they're long ago and far away. So the next time you're driving through Bethel, New York, look for the historical marker that has been placed at the site of the Woodstock Festival and don't let any 40-year-olds in the car steal it.
I was planning to drop a nuclear weapon on Chicago more than 20 years ago. I had all the maps, charts, weather reports and other classified data I could possibly need. Using special grids, I calculated that for a single one-megaton warhead exploding on the ground, there would be total destruction and burnout for some 2.6 miles in all directions. If, however, I ordered an air burst at 10,000 feet above the city, the area of burnout would extend to 60 square miles.
Back in prehistoric times, before feminism, women allegedly did things like pull each other's hair and scratch each other's eyes out over men. They initiated vicious whispering campaigns against each other in offices; they told a friend "Gorgeous hairdo, Gladys!" when Gladys was looking particularly like a gas-station attendant; they stole recipes and husbands and were, just for the hell of it, generally hateful and vicious to those of their own sex.
In the September Playboy Advisor, you sardonically question whether or not a letter writer had really had 50 or 60 women in his lifetime, as he claimed. I believe he was in his late 20s. I don't know what to attribute it to (though I was a flower child in the Sixties), but I have--honestly!--had 45 women as sex partners. I am only 34 years old. I have lived with three of those women for periods lasting as long as four years. I prefer women my own age or a little older. Almost all of them have kept detailed lists of the number of men they have slept with. They have shown me their lists, and about half of them had slept with more than 50 men by the time they were 28. I know they have not made the lists up, because there were too many details that would have been hard to fake. We're not talking sluts here. I am referring to nice, sexy, healthy, smart women--most of whom have never had V.D. Last, but not least, I am not rich, do not have the looks of a movie star, don't drive a fancy car; you get the drift. I am direct, Italian and very good in bed, but I am not consumed by sex. It is not the most important thing in my life, though I do love it a lot.
Red Channels [was] a paperback book, published in June 1950, which served to destroy, interrupt or retard numerous careers in radio and TV. It was issued at a time when hysteria was mounting over whether Communists and Communist sympathizers were working in media and lending themselves to propaganda uses. The book listed the names of performers, writers, composers and producers--with brief dossiers on each--who were alleged to be friendly to Communist causes or dupes of the Red conspiracy. The listings served immediately as a basis for blacklisting: Advertisers, networks and program packagers backed away from the names that would create controversy and bring pressure upon them.
As recently as the early Sixties, when a few of us kooks were crusading for Goldwater, we liked to say that the Government had gotten too big and too intrusive, and we cited as evidence the fact that the Bureau of the Census was asking people how many bathrooms they had in their homes. Of course, when they asked, you had to tell them. If you didn't, you could go to jail. We even had a hero in W. S. Rickenbacker, who stood up to the Census bureau, said it was none of its damned business how many bathrooms he had in his house and risked getting put away for his principles.
Political cartoonists had a field day with Reagan's drug-testing proposal. Some saw it as another image-making move by the PR President. Others recalled the sins of the McCarthy era, viewing the tests as new loyalty oaths.
If anyone can be said to embody the glitter of fame in the mid-Eighties, Don Johnson surely has a two-handed shot at it. Just three years ago, he was known as a veteran of Hollywood's frenzied party-and-drug world, having lived hand to mouth--and spoon to nose--for years as a struggling actor, not always staying this side of the law, seemingly headed for early burnout and minor TV oblivion. Last year, Johnson, now an international television star and sex symbol and the most potent fashion force since Fred Astaire, headed off to dinner at the White House, taped a commercial for Nancy Reagan's drug-abuse campaign, then returned to work on the fall season of "Miami Vice," that American byword for hip and cool that also happens to be a TV series.
Heather Thomas, who co-stars with Lee Majors in television's The Fall Guy, now in syndication, is, according to the Starmakers poster company, "the most popular pinup gal in the history of the poster industry." More popular, you ask, than Farrah or Raquel? Apparently. Heather posed for her first poster in 1982 and has done three more since--and they're all best sellers. Obviously, she has something. Whatever it is, you aren't likely to see more of it than you do in Greg Gorman's Gamma-Liaison photo here: Heather's a modest girl. And we just thought you Heather Thomas fans ought to know that she's recovering from her nasty automobile accident (she needed six hours of surgery) and is looking forward to the release of her new film, Cyclone. So go see it and make her happy. And save this picture of her. It's the next best thing to being the towel. On the flip side this month, you'll find one of our favorite Alberto Vargas paintings. It first appeared in Playboy in January 1968, in a feature called The Vargas Girl--From the Thirties to the Present. They just don't make lingerie like that anymore. But they ought to.
There is the good, there is the better and then, way over in a class by itself, there is the best. This quintessence has such an uncrowded place in the sun that it gets an even tan. Sometimes it is easily discoverable: It bumps you on the nose and introduces itself in a confident manner. Sometimes it takes some rummaging around and some coaxing to find the truly superlative. But what's important is that there's something with which we can battle all the junk that clutters our lives. So, as a holiday antidote to all we've been made to put up with, here's reason to live: a collection of our preferences, of things that represent excellence in its many splendors. And we're not talking simply about the most expensive. Quality is what counts, that irreducible gleam of perfection, that moment when someone finally got it right--whether in a piece of serious business or in a comic strip. In these uncertain times, it's reassuring to know that some problems have elegant solutions. We can stop worrying about them and keep moving. And if some of the best things in life aren't exactly cost-free, well, that's why they invented money in the first place. And sometimes they've even made that beautiful, too, while they were at it. So here's a feast of the finest things, on us.
It doesn't seem possible, but it has been almost a quarter of a century since Marilyn Monroe died. Marilyn and I were born the same year (1926) and we grew up in the same sexually repressive America of the Thirties and Forties. Nudity became a symbol of sexual freedom to both of us, and it played an important part in both of our lives.
She was 31 years old, her lover was 20 years old; should that have worried her? She knew it was a mistake to get involved with him, but she couldn't prevent it from happening. She hadn't known he was suicidal at the time.
Early in 1985, a stocky public-relations man in his middle years named John Scanlon, a vice-president of the firm of Daniel J. Edelman, began what he came to call his Believe It or Not file. From newspapers across the country, he clipped every story he could find of outrageous claims in personal-injury cases. There was the bishop in Florida who injured his knee while playing on a U.S. Navy tennis court and sued the Government on the grounds that he had trouble genuflecting. There was the woman who sued a college chancellor because he had failed to impregnate her as promised. There was the man who jumped in front of a subway train and survived to sue the transit authority on the grounds that the train had not stopped quickly enough. These and many others went into Scanlon's file.
<p>Luann Lee doesn't waste time. Get a good look as she gallops past, because Miss January never occupies a space for long. A Valley girl with a Wall Street turn of mind, Luann was graduated from Thousand Oaks High School a year early (of course), then turned the full force of her attentions to the challenge of making it big, Yuppie style. She wanted to be a singer, but not a poverty-stricken one. So she got down to business first, becoming, at 21, one of the youngest Metropolitan Life insurance agents in the company's 114-year history. She left the Met to be a national sales rep for one marketing firm, then became national marketing director for another. At which point she put money in the bank and went back to singing. Sounds easy, doesn't it? Now, at 25, she's lighting up Las Vegas' Maxim Hotel as the newest of Playboy's Girls of Rock & Roll. And she's starring--VCR owners, rejoice--in the fourth Playboy Video Centerfold, available now if you hurry. Luann makes the most of her investments, both of time and of money. Guess what she bought last month. "A hundred and twelve thousand pounds of sugar," says the fledgling commodities trader. "Sugar futures have to go up only a few pennies for me to parlay that into a chunk of money. Cotton may be next." This is the consummate late-Eighties woman. "I'm pragmatic," Luann says. "I didn't want to starve to be a singer, so I followed the business route. Now I'm singing again. Things have worked out wonderfully. Working hard when it's worktime and playing when it's playtime--that's the way to be a Yuppie." She is actually a Yguppie-- a young, gorgeous urban professional--with two bits of advice for Playboy readers. The first: When you're hung over, try an Agatha Christie novel and popcorn. "This is my theory," she says. "The mystery keeps you engrossed, while the popcorn gets to your stomach and absorbs everything." The second: Bid those sugar futures up.</p>
The English nobleman returned home unexpectedly and surprised his wife receiving the energetic attentions of her lover. The enraged husband reached for his shotgun and aimed it at the encroacher. Just then, the gentleman's butler touched him on the shoulder. "Remember, you're a sportsman, sir," he whispered. "Get him on the rise."
The Eighties male has taken a step up the phylogenetic ladder. From his new perspective, he knows how to cook a gourmet dinner and equip his apartment with more than just a Stratolounger, a futon and a six-pack, and he's not afraid to think about his wardrobe without asking his mother or his girlfriend for advice. The four men pictured on these pages--Mitch Gaylord, Michael Keaton, Jay McInerney and Wynton Marsalis--are successful at figuring out what the Eighties are all about and are fearlessly engaged in the fabric of their lives.
If, in those days, you walked up from Trafalgar Square into Charing Cross Road, you would come in a few minutes to a shop on the right-hand side that had above the window the words William Buggage-- rare books.
Not long ago, Elisa Florez was stumping for Ronald Reagan as a diligent Republican National Committee operative and working the phones in the office of conservative Utah Senator Orrin Hatch, a strait-laced Mormon. Today, she can be seen on video screens across America, being ravished by hoofed and hairy-thighed man-beasts and a swarm of lusty vestal virgins wielding industrial-strength vibrators. For Elisa Florez has lately become Missy, star of the campy "safe sex" porn film Behind the Green Door--The Sequel, the follow-up to the 1972 X-rated classic. What do we have here? Another wholesome girl from the heartland, corrupted by drugs and sold into the flesh trade? Don't bet on it, says 24-year-old Florez, who prefers the moniker Missy. She insists that she is still a political activist, but now she campaigns for freedom of sexual expression and the judicious use of latex in the age of AIDS. "You've heard of Reagan's freedom fighter? I am," declares Missy in her characteristically blunt but sweet way, "a freedom fucker." America is a land of born-agains and quick-change artists. We are all well acquainted by now with the stories of the virile athlete, the holier-than-thou Congressman, the celebrity drug fiend who suddenly changes his sex, confesses his craving for boys, finds God--or does (continued on page 178) Meet Missy all three. Nevertheless, when Elisa abruptly turned herself into Missy, colleagues from her past were flabbergasted. Missy's family of well-connected Republicans from Utah promptly banished her. Senator Hatch, more gracious, was no less flustered. "I remember her as an excellent worker," a perplexed Hatch told the wire services. She "worked long hours trying to elect Republican candidates."
Spencer Ridgeway had always liked Kirk Matthews, and even while, in the messy wake of his affair with Dulcie Matthews, he was being legally battered by him, Spencer found something to admire, something warriorlike and sterling, in the barrage of registered letters, hand-delivered summonses and grim-voiced telephoned ultimatums--all intended, Spencer felt, less to discomfit him than to panic Dulcie into an easy divorce settlement. Spencer had been noticing Kirk, indeed--on the train, downtown on Saturdays--long before Dulcie made any impression on him. He was taller than Spencer, with a full and fluffy head of hair gray in just the right places (temples, sideburns, a collielike frosting above the collar), whereas Spencer was going thin on top and combing the remaining strands across his pate from a parting closer and closer to the tip of one ear. Kirk had a year-round tan and one of those thin, no-nonsense mouths, with two little tense buttons of muscle underneath, that Spencer envied; he had always been embarrassed by his own big, soft-looking lips. As the men and their wives happened to be, more and more, at the same cocktail parties, and on adjacent tennis courts at the club, and in the same conservation groups, the couples drew closer. Kirk laughed at Spencer's jokes--Kirk himself could not make jokes; his tongue wasn't hinged that way--and took him on as a golf partner, though he was a solid eight and Spencer a courtesy 20.
Her Bewitchingly wicked portrayals of a string of naughty ladies have cinched Jane Seymour's title as the queen of the miniseries and made-for-TV movie. One critic dubbed her "the epitome of evil" in ABC's memorable East of Eden, from which she segued to roles as Hemingway's racy Lady Brett Ashley in The Sun Also Rises, as identical twins (one a psychotic) in Dark Mirror, TV's remake of an Olivia de Havilland classic, and as a predatory sexual adventuress in last year's Crossings (a girl so bad, says Jane, "she makes Alexis on Dynasty look good"). Next: a stunning change of pace as Sir John Gielgud's niece in Herman Wouk's War and Remembrance, a sequel to The Winds of War. It's the role originated by Ali MacGraw, and ABC and I are betting on Jane to wow 'em in the lavish 30-hour follow-up, which promises to be the most costly in TV history.
Discount Broker Charles Schwab leads off his book of advice by describing an "eager-beaver stock salesman" he says he knew who took a prospect to look at the boats in the harbor. "As they surveyed the various luxury craft floating before them," Schwab writes, "the salesman pointed out all the yachts owned by successful brokers. 'But where are the customers' yachts?' the prospect innocently inquired."
Max Headroom is the world's first "computer-generated" talk-show host and author, whose hit biweekly Cinemax program gives new meaning to the word eccentric. His personal history is a little murky, but we do know that he started out as Edison Carter, a television news reporter investigating something called blipverts--tiny series of condensed TV commercials that enter the human brain, causing home viewers to explode. Alas, Carter got a little too close to the nefarious source of the blipverts and suffered a motorcycle smashup under mysterious circumstances. Upon recovery, he took his name from the last thing he had seen before the crash: a warning sign that read Max headroom 2.3 Meters. We settled down in front of his monitor for a chat and found his reception quite good.
Winter driving is treacherous, because it's so unpredictable. Just when you're sure everything is under control, some idiot in front of you slows unexpectedly. A soupy fog bank lurks over a brow. A patch of ice under the slush waits to spit you into the puckerbush.
Yes, it's cleanup time. Drinking-age limits have been raised, AIDS is scaring the bejesus out of casual sex and recreational drug abuse is, thankfully, being cracked down on. All to the good, we say. But, we wondered, how are college students reacting? Are campuses really turning into monasteries? Or is there a parallel universe out there where kids are doing what kids have always done?
Even as a high school student, Brian Ross showed the instincts of a good investigative reporter. Covering the city council for a local radio station, he decided to check up on a councilman who had skipped six meetings in a row, always pleading urgent business. "I drove right out to his house during a city-council meeting," Ross, 38, recalls, "and caught him in his back yard, barbecuing."
Eric Bogosian is one of the few performers who've actually wanted the audience to throw bottles at them. "It was in 1979, and I had a lot of punk energy. I was trying to create the same nutso pandemonium as bands like the Screamers were generating," remembers the 33-year-old monologist, whose volatile one-man shows portray a seamy mix of drunks, junkies and killers. After starting in the dives of SoHo, Bogosian moved to off-Broadway and an Obie; and if his new movie deal with 20th Century Fox stays on track, he'll progress to Hollywood. While his audience may have become mainstream, Bogosian claims his work will not. "I'm not into pastels," he says. "I like hard edges and loud music."
"This stuff is going to be very big," predicts Anthony Terlato as he pours some Aperol into a glass. The slightly citric, 22-proof aperitif is the latest venture for Terlato and the company he heads, Paterno Imports, the nation's leading importer of premium Italian wines. And because he's the man who introduced Corvo wines, Fresco-baldi chianti and Gancia asti spumante to America, his predictions carry a lot of weight.
"I think it's fun to go barging into people's lives and screw them around," says Merrill Markoe, 37. But when she barges, she does so with a camera crew, first as a producer-writer on "Late Night with David Letterman"--where she sent the host out of the studio to engage shopkeepers in funny banter--and now on her own, as the resident humorist on L.A.'s channel 13 news.
'We knew nothing about retail and nothing about business," recalls Mel Ziegler, 41, president of the Banana Republic Travel and Safari Clothing Company. That lack of knowledge did not stop Mel and his wife, Patricia, 37, from leaving their jobs at the San Francisco Chronicle (he was a reporter, she was an artist) in 1978 and opening their first store dedicated to jungle-chic apparel. What the Zieglers lacked in business savvy they made up in knowledge about travel, comfortable clothes and publishing--and as a result, they now have 55 stores across the country, grossing a reported $60,000,000 in sales in 1985, and a catalog that is better than many magazines, with such Banana Republic fans as Garry Trudeau, Nora Ephron and Roy Blount Jr. contributing "reviews" of the clothes. The catalog is so successful, in fact, that it may spawn a new travel magazine. "We are a couple of artists who made life work by discovering business," says Mel. "We call it profitable bohemianism."
The world's first pocket-sized cellular phone" is how Walker Telecommunications Corporation of Hauppauge, New York, describes its 15-ounce pocket phone. And with measurements of only 7 1/4" x 2 7/8" x 1 1/4" (that's about half the size of other portable cellular phones), we'd say that Walker's new pint-sized product will be a ringing success. Furthermore, the pocket phone is available with an optional car mount; powered by rechargeable batteries, the unit can work while you're in your wheels and then stay with you for the rest of the day. And a handy readout of information on a dot-matrix display lets you know both the strength of the signal and the battery strength. More cellular power to you, fella.
When you're shopping for a new whiff to splash on, the current profusion of colognes for men can really put you off the scent. So we've selected a random sampling of designer colognes, figuring that if the likes of Ralph Lauren, Pierre Cardin, Calvin Klein, Oscar de la Renta and others are willing to give them their olfactory stamp of approval, the products must be up to sniff. Each has a citrus top note that evaporates to reveal the cologne's distinctive characteristics. The base-note finale blends fragrance with body chemistry to create an aromatic aura that ought to leave the ladies saying, "Boy, does that guy smell good." If it does, call it the sweet smell of success.
"Cocaine and college basketball"--In the wake of Len Bias' death, the author of snow-blind takes a hard look at the dangerous mix of drugs, pressure and profit in America, the world's first society to make higher education subservient to sports--by Robert Sabbag plus: "The view from courtside"--a noted columnist asks big-time college basketball coaches, among them louisville's Denny Crum and duke's Mike Krzyzewski, what (if anything) can be done to remove cocaine from the sport--by Thomas Boswell