It's hard to be a fan of Columbia University's football team. As the Penn States and the Floridas of this world were chasing bowl bids, the Lions pursued the only record within their grasp--that for consecutive losses. In that quest they were unflinchingly cheered by Playboy Contributing Editor and 1963 Columbia graduate D. Keith Mano, who in one stretch attended 145 consecutive Columbia games. In this issue, Mano--author of seven novels--contributes his first piece of Playboy fiction, The Last Route, illustrated by Karl Wirsum. It's the story of an aging receiver who grabs a piece of glory in his final game; we're glad Mano has finally discovered a way to enjoy winning football.
Playboy,(ISSN 0032-1478), February 1987, Volume 34, Number 2. 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.
His fans, like it or not, will find that Harrison Ford has traveled light-years from Star Wars and Witness to his role as the obsessed, exasperating hero of The Mosquito Coast (Warner). He's Allie Fox, a self-styled visionary and survivalist who moves his wife and four kids to a jungle wilderness because he hates what's happening to America. He's also a dreamer, a tyrant who tolerates no opinions but his own and the mad inventor of an ice machine with which he hopes to hypnotize ignorant savages. Even Fox's family can't stand him, and the audience is invited to identify with their frustration under duress. Helen Mirren, as Mother, and teenaged actor River Phoenix, as the eldest son, are Coast's most sympathetic characters. Australian director Peter Weir and screenplay author Paul Schrader only half succeed in distilling the essence of Paul Theroux's best seller, a resonant tale of high adventure with dark, symbolic undercurrents. Getting any of it right does them credit, considering the thickets of vivid Theroux prose they have to wade through. On film, Mosquito Coast is bizarre and unsettling but smashingly photographed--on the Caribbean coast of Belize--and memorable for Ford's uncompromising portrayal of a man who intends to get away from it all but who has, in fact, taken it all with him. [rating]3 bunnies[/rating]
After a three-year silence, Motorhead, the British fellowship of speed and sonic boom, has produced a new studio LP, "Orgasmatron." We asked head Motorhead Lemmy Kilmister to talk about someone else with a nose for noise, Billy Idol, and his new album, "Whiplash Smile."
Very Heavy Department: We hear that David Lee Roth has applied to the Guinness Book of World Records on behalf of his equipment. He feels that his 97 tons of gear, which takes 120 people to put up and tear down every day, should set a record.
Everyone living north of 1-80 who's already suffering from Cabin fever this year, raise his hand. I thought so. Me, too. I've done a 20-year stretch so far in Chicago. In mild, sensible weather, I love it more than anywhere else. In winter, a season that covers a lot of ground here, I hate it. Forget the cold. It's the dull, tin-can sky for days on end, with not even a pale, weak sun shining through, and being trapped inside that get to me. After a while, as a semimasochistic act, I start reading books of travel and adventure set in exotic places, flagellating myself with the authors' enviable experiences--while I sit shivering under three blankets, doing nothing beyond wondering when the plumbing will explode and how we're going to pay the gas bill on this third straight day of -- 24 degrees, wind-chill factors drilling down into the low -- 80s, the cold seeping through the chinks and flaws in our old wooden house like water dripping into a cave. Sound familiar? If so, I've found several recent good books to let you drift away from it all--not all of them tropical.
"The ideology of the traditional family simply does not work," writes Rosanna Hertz in More Equal than Others (University of California). This excellent study of men and women in dual-career marriages points out that most of us are now living in three relationships: "His Work, Her Work and Their Marriage." No wonder you're tired, right? It's a whole new world out there, and all of us are improvising our way through it. Hertz writes about money, children, corporations and workaholism, and her in-depth interviews with dual-career couples have a strangely pacifying effect: We learn that we are not alone, that people everywhere are encountering the same problems and that slowly but surely, we're stumbling toward solutions.
My mind rejects the fact that ice hockey started months ago, back in early October, before the leaves had turned, before baseball was over, before most football players had even been shot up with painkillers.
It was one of those Chicago afternoons when the city behaves like an anthill. A big old thunderstorm had spent an hour dumping water out of the warm, heavy air, shining the pavement, driving the pedestrians indoors. When it broke, the ants filed back out onto the streets to do their business.
I have been married for almost 17 years. My wife and I have an excellent sex life. She has achieved orgasm nearly every time we have had sex. However, we have one area on which we don't seem to agree. I find it an extremely intense turn-on for her to masturbate, especially when she uses a dildo and stimulates her clitoris with her hand. In addition, she has a voluptuous body and large breasts with large nipples that I enjoy seeing her stimulate as well. Our problem is the frequency with which she delights me with my favorite turn-on. I think she has treated me only once in the past year, yet I would like this once a week or at least twice a month. I should add that she doesn't dislike this act, so it isn't a case of her being forced against her will. Considering the fact that all else is great--we have sex at least four times a week--do you think I am being selfish in asking for my treat more often? Should I just demand it or hint and beat around the bush (no pun intended), as I do now?--T. J., Charleston, South Carolina.
It has been said that there are two kinds of executives: those who make decisions and those who make speeches. Christie Hefner has been doing both of late. For the past few months, she has taken time away from her desk, addressing the National Press Club in Washington, the annual convention of the Video Software Dealers Association in Las Vegas and the Dallas Association of Young Lawyers, as well as debating members of the Meese commission on Meet the Press and The MacNeil/LehrerNewsHour. Her speeches have been cablecast on C-SPAN and broadcast on National Public Radio and have been excerpted in dozens of magazines and newspapers. We thought we'd share a few of her thoughts with the people who count most.
Joseph Sobran, syndicated columnist: "Here is my working definition of pornography: It is that which, if it were to fail to appear in the next issue of Playboy, would result in the magazine's ruin." Aha! Advertising is pornography.
Many journalists called it the new monkey trial or Scopes II, as though the hearings in Greeneville, Tennessee, were just another Hollywood sequel. They were wrong. What happened in Tennessee resembled Galileo's meeting with the Grand Inquisitor rather than part two of Inherit the Wind. And what happened in Tennessee--while not devastating in itself--is ominous. It will have far-reaching effects.
Responding to the Meese commission's official approval of pressure-group censorship, Waldenbooks staged a promotion featuring 52 volumes that had been "challenged, burned or banned somewhere in the United States during the past 15 years." The titles and the reasons for outrage against these books are so astounding that we decided to publish the complete list.
Quick, name a Mickey Rourke movie. Let's see...he was the arsonist in "Body Heat," right? Small role, real intense? And he had a featured role in "Diner"--the popcorn scene, right? Now, what else? Oh, yeah, "9-1/2 Weeks," but that didn't stay in town long, did it? And yet...everyone seems to know who Mickey Rourke is. That, ladies and gentlemen, is what is known in the brand-name Eighties as an anomaly: a movie star without a hit movie, a famous person who doesn't appear on TV, a million-dollar-a-picture man whose pictures don't make millions.
The Schoolyard that Wharton Lee Madkins oversees is one of many of its kind. The children he supervises six hours a day are typical of thousands across the nation. On a cul-de-sac in a quiet middle-class American suburb is the neighborhood recreation center over which he exercises authority. Today it is overrun, as it is six days a week, with citizens yet to achieve voting age, burning off enough energy to incinerate the place.
The death of Len Bias and the resultant resignation of University of Maryland coach Lefty Driesell have suddenly sharpened debate on just who's accountable for drug abuse on the basketball court. To assess the risks--of both drugs and drug tests--Washington Post columnist Thomas Boswell grilled an all-star panel of pro and college coaches.
Commercial-Airline pilots smoke marijuana in the cockpit all the time. They giggle and get silly and make P.A. announcements like, "If you look out the left side, you'll see a big wing." Then they gobble up the tourist-class desserts and collide with Piper Cubs. All the high school seniors in America are hooked on crack. They run through band practice tearing the uniforms off majorettes with their teeth. After school, they mug their moms and drive the nation's violent-crime rate through the roof. Many U.S. submarine captains take P.C.P., which is why they so often go into murderous frenzies, release Polaris missiles and start accidental atomic wars.
Bitten. There's an evocative name. It suggests what every guy who has seen her More Lights 100s cigarette ads would like to be by her. But for Bitten Knudsen, who left the cold comfort of Forslev, Denmark, for the hot lights of supermodeldom, the name suggests ambition, though it can be more nearly translated as "little one." Bitten by the modeling bug, she rose to the top of that field and set her sights on Hollywood. "So far, I've had teeny parts, like the gangster's girl in Hollywood Vice Squad. I was in a movie with Tina Turner, but both of us got cut," she says. Bad move, Hollywood. The cutting-room floor is no place for legs like Tina's or eyes like these. "I'm not worried, though."
Spring may not be in the air yet, but here's a sneak preview of what will soon hit the stores from four top designers--Nick Hilton, Bill Robinson, Sal Cesarani and Victor De La Rosa. Hilton and Cesarani represent the old guard; Robinson and De La Rosa, obviously, are the avant-garde. While each of the men has a design approach that's distinctly original, all share one common fashion thread--great taste. (For a peek at what the designers themselves look like, check the inset snapshots incorporated into each page.)
The Lights come up and a thin curtain covers the screen, but the sign behind it telling everyone to please visit the concession stands in the lobby while they're getting ready for the next feature can still be seen, and the ripply picture on it of a huge, drippy banana split is too much for her rumbling tum, so she decides to go out and see what she can find with less than a zillion calories in it. Her friend, who's flirting with some broken-nosed character a row back in a high school letter jacket and sweaty cowboy hat, turns and asks her jokingly to bring her back a salty dog--"Straight up, mind!"--making the guy snort and hee haw and push his hands into his pockets.
The Tough Times are finally over for Antoinette Giancana, daughter of Chicago Mob boss Sam Giancana. And it hasn't been easy from the very beginning, as she'll be the first to tell you. Family life just isn't all that much fun when your father is someone Time magazine summarized as "cruelly violent," with "the face of a gargoyle and the disposition of a viper." That description appeared in June 1975, the week after Giancana was found in his Oak Park home, shot in the face and neck with seven slugs from a .22 pistol. At the time, he had been implicated in a conspiracy between the CIA and the Mafia to assassinate Fidel Castro and had recently been questioned by a Federal grand jury probing Mob activities in Chicago. In the year after his death, Antoinette, the oldest of Giancana's three daughters, hit rock bottom, and she'd been headed down for a long time. She'd already divorced her husband, lost custody of her children, been denounced by Sam, cut out of his will and fought a losing battle with drugs and alcohol. Even Sam's old friends in the Mob avoided her. She was finally reduced to living in a cheap room over a bar and grill in St. Charles, Illinois, surviving on hard liquor and hamburgers. Then, one rare sober morning, she had a liberating insight: "I realized that all of my life, I'd defined myself as Sam's daughter but never just as myself, Antoinette. But now Sam was gone--all his power and also all the pain he caused me. And the life I'd lived as a Mafia princess suddenly seemed like a game to me. And I said to myself, 'OK, the game's over. Now I have to find out what I can be on my own.' And right then, I started to get myself together again." Part of getting herself together was a health-and-fitness regimen that she's been working at for eight years. It began with her quitting drinking and smoking and progressed to a nearly meatless diet and a six-day-a-week exercise routine that includes an hour on Nautilus equipment and an hour of aerobic exercise every session. But perhaps the most important part of her rebirth was getting the big load of being Sam Giancana's daughter off her chest in her best-selling autobiography (written with Thomas C. Renner), Mafia Princess: Growing Up in Sam Giancana's Family, which hit the bookstores in 1984 and was immediately made into a prime-time television movie starring Susan Lucci.
These are the best of times to be alive and sipping the black brew. There are more options, more varieties, more high-quality coffees in the market today than at any other time in history. Consider the proliferation of beans from all corners of the coffee-growing world: mild, aromatic Hawaiian Kona; winy Colombia Medellín; spicy, medium-bodied Guatemalan Antigua; rare, complex Yemen Mocha; and fragrant Jamaican Blue Mountain, named as the best coffee in our January guide The Best. (Note that Jamaican High Mountain, Mountain Peak and other sound-alikes are not the same as Blue Mountain.)
<p>Every now and then, our readers' suggestions are influential in the selection of a Playmate. When Julie Peterson appeared in our February 1986 feature Women of Alaska, she struck us as a potential centerfold candidate. Then your letters started coming in, and there seemed to be an awful lot of Julie Peterson fans out there. That did it. How could we refuse? If your next-door neighbor is one of the guys who wrote to Playboy asking to see Julie again, we know you'll want to call him up and thank him profusely.</p>
The bank robbers arrived just before closing and ordered everyone to disrobe and lie face down behind the counter. One nervous employee pulled off her clothes and lay face up on the floor. "Turn over, Cindy," whispered the girl lying beside her. "This is a stick-up, not an office party."
Winter scene: There is a slight crust of ice on the snow, which lies tight against the meadow. My skis make the sound of a zipper closing as I approach the mineral springs at Yellowstone. The superheated water throws off plumes of steam. Buffalo move, or don't move, as they see fit. Their hides are covered with mica chips of snow and ice. They look like mint-condition nickels set into blue-velvet air. I look around. There are no tourists, no crowds, no cameras. Only this memory.
It was the first week of December and the weather in Georgetown was chilly. It was not, however, just the first blasts of winter air that were causing some of the more prominent residents of that elite community to shiver when they got out of bed that Tuesday morning. In this year of 1988 it was also the growing mood of apprehension that had begun to grip Washington since the first week of November. The fear that had been mounting during those 30 days was that everything would start to unravel--soon--and that the United States in 1989 could find itself dumped into a situation where the economy, the dollar, the banks, Chrysler and, yes, even IBM would all go into a dive, one after the other.
People used to feel sorry for the frequent flier, the man who spent his jet-set life trying to catch sleep on a four-hour layover in St. Louis. In 1987, that same man is probably earning valuable bonus miles for his hardship--in fact, he may even have rerouted himself specifically to accumulate mileage in his frequent-flier program. There are more than 100 airlines in the United States, as well as several international carriers, that offer such programs. The concept is simple: A frequent flier earns program miles on the basis of the number of actual miles flown on a particular airline. In addition, the large carriers are tied in with hotel and rental-car chains that offer additional mileage. In 1986, more than one billion dollars in frequent-flier awards was issued by the airlines. If you don't think that you fly often enough to justify enrolling yourself in a frequent-flier club, consider this: On most major airlines, including American, Continental, Delta, Eastern, Piedmont, TWA, United and Western, it takes only 10,000 miles to win the minimum award. This ranges from a first-class upgrade on American to a 25 percent discount on a round-trip ticket on Piedmont.
Ah, yes, said Fitzgerald to Hemingway. "The very rich are different from you and me." "Yes," said Hemingway. "They have more money." And if you follow the prime-time soaps Dynasty and Dynasty II: The Colbys, you'll know the rich also have a fatal attraction for bitches. That famous chronicle of Western civilization, People, caught on to the main attraction of The Colbys almost immediately: "With her icy beauty, withering stare and the British accent she wields like a poison dart, Stephanie Beacham might just be the one to show Joan Collins the real meaning of she-deviltry." Welcome to another class of Playboy's Celebrity Archaeology 101. We uncovered these 1972 shots of Miss Beacham in our files. Back then, Stephanie was living "as a happy hippie," doing theater in London. She played lead roles for two of England's most important repertory companies, the Bristol Old Vic and the Oxford Playhouse. She played Mary, Queen of Scots, in a BBC production of The Queen's Traitor. She played opposite Donald Pleasance in Harold Pinter's double bill The Basement and Tea Party. She posed for Canadian artist André Durand and was voted by one organization as "the most sedate nude of the year." In 1972, we asked Doug Kirkland and Patrick Lichfield (that's Lord Lichfield to those of you who follow the real-life dynasty) to take a few photos of Stephanie. Our Photo Editor gave them the following assignment: The shots should be "beautiful, sexy, ethereal, fun, erotic, provocative, sensitive, interesting. Not asking for much. I'll settle for any three of the above."
Ed Begley, Jr., is arguably the hippest guy in series television. For five seasons, he has expertly portrayed the toadying sexist-clown resident Dr. Victor "You're a pig!" Ehrlich on NBC-TV's distinguished hospital-vérité series, "St. Elsewhere," garnering four Emmy nominations for himself along the way. The son of the legendary angry actor for whom he is named, Begley has become king of the comic-cameo film appearance and shortly will be "seen" as the son of the invisible man in the forthcoming John Landis production "Amazon Women on the Moon." He has the slipperiest sibilant S in show business and swears that his hair has never been bleached.
Call it designer adventure. The only limits to back-country skiing are conditioning and common sense. How well can you fend for yourself in the great beyond, especially when the great beyond is as cold at night as it was 20,000,000 years age? We recommended that you head into the high country with an experienced partner---or, better yet, a professional guide. Several outfits offer hut-to-hut or the even more exotic yurt-to-yurt skiing. (A yurt is an igloolike tent.) Some of our favorite routes: (1) Aspen to Crested Butte via the Alfred A. Braun Hut System. Contact Ashcroft Ski Touring Unlimited (11399 Castle Creek Road, Aspen, Colorado 81611; 303-925-1971.) (2) The tenth Mountain Division Trail Hut System from Aspen to Vail. Contact Paragon Guides (P.O. Box 130, Vail, Colorado 81658; 303-467-0553). (3) Sawtooth Range with yurts. Contact the Sun Valley Trekking Company (P.O. Box 2200, Sun Valley, Idaho 83353; 208-726-9595) to play Connect the tents. (4) Karhu Cross Country Ski Center (P.O. Box 269, Teton Village, Wyoming 83025; 307-733-2292) offers tours of the Huckleberry Hot Springs and Teton Pass in the Targhee National Forest.
You can get typecast for roles depending on the personality you project in interviews," insists Eric Stoltz. "I don't want that at all." Certainly, the 24-year-old actor ran little risk of falling into a rut portraying a deformed teenager in Mask, a performance that won him critical plaudits. "I loved the make-up for Mask," says Stoltz. "It let me get some respect for my work and preserve my anonymity at the same time." He is without camouflage in his newest movie, however, playing a car mechanic and budding artist in Some Kind of Wonderful, the latest release from teen-Zeitgeist expert John (The Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller's Day Off) Hughes. But Stoltz claims that even a big hit won't change his mania for privacy. "I do try to be understanding about personal questions," he says. "I simply don't answer them."
He's made a star out of youth--his own and others'. At 27, Morgan Entrekin, the Wunderkind editor at publishing giant Simon & Schuster, hit pay dirt with 20-year-old Bret Ellis' Less than Zero (and that was after Entrekin had steered The Living Heart Diet, by Dr. Michael DeBakey, up atop the best-seller lists). Indeed, he was editing Kurt Vonnegut novels for Delacorte while he was still getting carded in bars. Now a ripe old 32, he has just teamed up with Atlantic Monthly Press to publish ten or 12 books a year under his own imprint. Typically, he isn't the least bit fazed by his more imposing, seasoned rivals.
Back on that steamy August day in Manhattan in 1977, it was just o nice, icy fantasy. "You can't drink beer all morning at the office," figured Connie Best (left). "Fruit juices are too heavy," chimed in her pal Sophia Collier (right), "and soda is full of sugar and chemicals." So the duo concocted a dream soda. "It was one of those 'Wouldn't it be great...'conversations that you usually forget about the next day," recalls Collier, a 30-year-old gourmet cook. But instead, she started experimenting in her kitchen; the neighbors roved about the results; and a year later, the women had scraped together $20,000 and started Soho Natural Soda. It pioneered three firsts: the first chemical-and preservative-free soda, the first soda made with real fruit juice and the first flavored water. They named the new brand after the artsy loft neighborhood in Lower Manhattan--and their first order arrived, appropriately, from a Soho deli. Today, Soho is produced at two plants and distributed in more than 30 states, with retail sales of $20,000,000. Although the company has grown so large that Best, 33, had to relocate to San Francisco to keep watch over the Western half of the business, Collier remains in New York, where it all began--and almost ended. "In 1983, we were still pushing the sodas everywhere, but no one wanted to take a chance on us. I went into the warehouse, and it was stocked to the max; a few days later, I went back and it was empty. I thought we'd been robbed." In fact, Soho had sold out its inventory for the first time. How did the pair celebrate? "What do you think?" laughs Collier. "We had a few beers."
It takes real sass to pull off both sex and comedy; it takes Sandra Bernhard, 31. "I am witty, funny, urbane, sexy, beautiful, honest and I sing," says the modest comic, who is also one of the most outrageous regular guests on Late Night with David Letterman. "David and I have a unique relationship. Last year, I went on the show mock pregnant. Part way through, I told David that my water had broken, so he threw me a Late Night sponge. I sponged my crotch. He walked off the show and I took it over." Although Bernhard first received national attention for her performance as the crazed kidnaper in Martin Scorsese's The King of Comedy, she has turned down most of the roles offered to her since. "I'd rather have people say, 'Why hasn't Sandra done another movie?' than have them say, 'Why in the world did she do that one?'" Instead, she spends much of her time on her performance-art show, scheduled for spring. "Performance art is just like one big cocktail party," she explains, "except that I do all the talking."
Paranoid patients need never again fear that Doc has nodded off behind their backs. The latest in state-of-the-art psychotherapy is alert to the drone of any neurosis; it's a computer. The brain child of L.A.-based psychiatrist Roger Gould, 51, the Therapeutic Learning Program has already been tested on 1800 people, with results, claims Gould, that can be both cheaper and more efficient than talking to another human being. In defense of his machine, Gould says, "People look at a computer and see hardware. But it is really a humanizing agent."
The ability to point a single scull down-river and pound out a fast 2000 meters may help you get a scholarship to the lvies, but you won't even be near the water when you break a healthy sweat on Bally's Liferower. You begin by selecting your workout level, from rank beginner to Olympic oarsman. The starting gun sounds--and the race is on. Two boats appear on the Liferower's 13" color monitor--a computer-driven pace boat and yours. Readouts give you your recommended stroke rate, your actual stroke rate, the distance you're ahead or behind, total distance traveled, time remaining and calories burned. You hear oars, but there's no cold spray. Stroke!