Clearly, AIDS is on a lot of minds; but have the deliberately pressed panic buttons had as great an impact on our sexual behavior as the national media would have us believe? We asked David Seeley to hit the streets to chart the second great epidemic, the fear of AIDS. Night Life in the Age of AIDS is the result of his talks with men and women on the edge of the sexual revolution. Few, he was relieved to discover, were quite as haunted by the AIDS specter as a reader who recently wrote to The Playboy Advisor: "If Person A has AIDS, the virus may be present in that person's blood, saliva, nasal mucus, tears, earwax, sweat, breast milk, sperm, seminal fluids, vaginal secretions, menstrual blood, urine and fecal matter. Theoretically, any of the 13 substances could come into contact with any of the eight receptor areas on Person B--mouth, nostrils, eyes, lactating nipples, penile opening, vagina, anus or any skin punctures. Thus, there may be eight times 13, or 104, modes of transmission of the AIDS virus from Person A to Person B. Of those 104 modes, I'm least worried about earwax in lactating nipples. But what about the other 103?"
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), July 1987, Volume 34, Number 7. 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 80322-5230, and allow 45 days for change. Circulation: Jack Bernstein, Circulation Promotion Director. Advertising: New York: 747 Third Avenue, New York 10017; Chicago: 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago 60611; West Coast: Perkins, Fox & Perkins, 3205 Ocean Park Boulevard, Suite 100, Santa Monica, California 90405.
Fiery Actress Elizabeth Peña has cleared her path for success with current substantial roles in "La Bamba" and Steven Spielberg's "Batteries Not Included." We asked her to check out the work of another spirited woman, Patty Smyth, whose first solo LP is appropriately slugged "Never Enough."
Reeling and Rocking: Yoko Ono is reportedly set to make her feature-film debut playing the wife of a man who has a heart transplant ... and David Bowie, Elton John, Bob Dylan, Julian and Sean Lennon and the three surviving Beatles will be among the people interviewed for a new documentary film on John Lennon, which will be accompanied by a book, an album and a home video.... Danny Sugerman, who wrote The Doors book No One Here Gets Out Alive, is writing a screenplay for his semifictionalized rock book Wonderland Avenue: The Tales of Glamour and Excess. The film version will be directed by Platoon's Oliver Stone.... Cyndi Lauper is set to play a psychic in her first movie, Vibes, co-starring Jeff Goldblum.... The Art of Noise is contributing a song and scoring the new Fat Boys film, Disorderlies....Bette Midler will be the executive producer of her upcoming film bio of Lotte Lenya.... It looks like Mickey Dolenz, who made a name for himself directing commercials, may be directing himself and The Monkees in their new movie.
So I'm sitting there, talking on the phone with Adam Yauch, a.k.a. MCA, who is one third of the Beastie Boys. I ask him the major question of our pop era: Why the Beastie Boys now? And I experience this epiphany that sheds neutron beams of new light on said question. To wit:
Seems fitting that former Beatle George Harrison should be an executive producer of Withnail and I (Cineplex Odeon), a wistful and wickedly comic ode to the woozy, boozy, drug-sodden Sixties. The time is late 1969. "We're 91 days from the end of this decade, and there's going to be a lot of refugees ... they're already selling hippie wigs in Woolworth's," notes a friendly neighborhood pusher (Ralph Brown). Writer-director Bruce Robinson, himself a former actor, who also wrote The Killing Fields, appears to be spicing nostalgia with bits of autobiography in his portrait of an unemployed English actor (Paul McGann as Marwood, the "I" of the title) and his friend Withnail (Richard E. Grant) who abandon their roach-infested London flat for a rural cottage owned by Withnail's uncle Monty (Richard Griffiths). A portly, flamboyant homosexual, Monty shows up for the weekend, panting to possess Marwood and ruefully recalling some "sensitive sins in a punt with a chap called Norman." Although the English accents of the cast occasionally thicken into porridge, Withnail bubbles up with hip, effervescent humor that overflows language barriers--particularly when the two city-bred thespians encounter rude locals, go fishing with a shotgun or improvise ways of killing and cooking a chicken delivered alive to their kitchen table. There are no significant roles for women in Robinson's homoerotic comedy, which looks back without anger at a decade when being young, wild, reckless and stoned seemed the only sensible way to go. [rating]3 bunnies[/rating]
Every Saturday morning, a number of reputedly sane men congregate on a baseball field in West Los Angeles for the weekly softball grudge match between the Nighthawks and the Sea Gulls, the sole members of the Claw League--so christened to commemorate a couple of birds whose feathers were mortally ruffled in the bigs not long ago; namely, a nighthawk hung out to dry on a frozen rope off Rickey Henderson's bat and a sea gull intercepted by a Dave Winfield outfield toss. What makes these contests different from 10,000 other life-imitating-a-Miller-Lite-commercial gatherings across the country is that the clubs' starting line-ups feature some of show business' top executives. On the mound for the Sea Gulls: Brandon Tartikoff, president of NBC Entertainment. At first base for the Sea Gulls: Larry Lyttle, senior senior vice-president of creative affairs at Warner Bros. TV. Scattered elsewhere around the diamond are enough writers (erstwhile Newsweek editor William Broyles, Jr.), musicians (Was [not Was]'s David Weiss), journalists (Rich Turner, TV Guide's West Coast bureau chief), moguls without portfolio (Peter Greenberg, onetime Paramount and MGM/UA TV honcho) and hungry Hollywood hustlers (they know who they are) to take a significant bite out of the weekend trade at Nate 'n Al's deli.
It's been said that experience is what you get when you don't get what you want, and that's about all we got from the Vietnam war: experience. Not the kind we wanted, maybe--and considering the millions of casualties and the ensuing political trauma suffered by the people of Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos and Thailand, not the kind they wanted, either. It was a largely innocent and overwhelmingly uninformed America that went to war in Southeast Asia--unaware of the stakes and oblivious to the lessons of history. Now we know better--or do we? Where Is Nicaragua? (Simon & Schuster) raises the possibility that we don't. Author Peter Davis directed Hearts and Minds, a Vietnam documentary that in many ways was a testament to the pitfalls of arrogance and ignorance. This time, he unravels the twists in the patterns of recent Nicaraguan history, touring the cities and countryside and interviewing the leaders and the led on both sides of the Sandinista/Contra issue. This is a thoughtful and absorbing guide to the problems facing Central America's problem republic. Pre-emptive journalism, you could call it--the kind we could have used back in the early Sixties, when a little country called Vietnam looked like an easy mark.
You remember Yossarian, the bomber pilot in Catch-22? Yossarian knew that he had to be crazy to fly bombers through heavy concentrations of flak and that such craziness could get him killed. So he went to the flight surgeon and asked to be grounded by reason of insanity. But the flight surgeon reminded him that there was a catch to his logic, Catch-22: By recognizing the madness of war, Yossarian proved he was sane, so he had to keep flying.
Here is the classic New York evening among single people these days: We sit around, talking of this movie and that restaurant, then maybe a broken relationship, then the new babies everyone is having. Then somebody says something about being sex-starved, then somebody else agrees that it's a sex-starved era and we sit and nod for a moment, lamenting the easier times when sexual alliances formed at the blink of an eye. And, of course, it's inevitable--somebody mentions AIDS.
I am worried about contracting a venereal disease during sex. What should I do? Also, I suffer from premature ejaculation. Any suggestions? And finally, I would like to increase the size of my penis. What do you recommend?--J. W., New York, New York.
Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker of the P.T.L. (Praise the Lord, People That Love, Pass the Loot, Praise the Libido?) Club took a nasty tumble recently when reports of his sexual indiscretion and her detox woes surfaced. Well, were we shocked! Who would have expected such things from men and women of the cloth? Our attempts to probe led us back to the source--the collected works of Jim and Tammy Bakker, which include the major early writings, I Gotta Be Me, Run to the Roar, Move That Mountain and You Can Make It! Good titles. Good people. Here's the credo.
U.S. district judge W. Brevard Hand recently ruled that secular humanism is, indeed, a religion and that its tenets are put forth in more than 40 textbooks in use in the Alabama public schools. He ordered the books removed from the schools because they violated the First Amendment's separation of church and state.
He spots the maroon button as soon as she walks in the door. Approaching her, he flashes his card. She checks his certification, they swap verification numbers and place a call to confirm the data. No, this is not the opening of a new Robert Ludlum novel--and these two aren't calling H.Q. They're ringing up The American Institute for Safe Sex Practices (P.O. Box 54992, Santa Clara, California 95054) to ensure that each other's AIDS tests are as negative as the I.D. cards indicate. The Play It Safe button is issued by the institute to signal the fact that the wearer is a safe bet in bed. Could the line "May I see your card?" replace "Haven't we met before?" as the opener of the Eighties?
At times, the courtroom at John Gotti's trial was a hit like a high school classroom with the bad boys lounging in the back. As Jimmy Breslin said, all they wanted to be was absent. But here they were, bad boys in their 40s--the men of the Gambino crime family, trapped in detention once again and hating it.
The letter (reproduced below) bounced around the office for a while. It had opened up an area of debate in which no one stayed neutral. Some editors were impressed by Ellen Stohl's pluck. Just as the movie Coming Home--about a disabled vet--had transformed our views about love and even lust, so did Ellen force us to reassess our view of the handicapped as "victims." Here, after all, was a woman who refused to let a disabling accident spoil her dream. She embodied true grit. There was, however, a vocal minority of editors who worried that running Ellen's pictorial would leave the magazine open to charges of questionable taste. Surely, the argument went, people would misunderstand, would fail to see the celebration of life in these pictures. We hope not. Meet, therefore, Ellen Stohl. She's a full-time student, a part-time actress, model and a public speaker; she drives a car, rides a horse, skis, studies martial arts--and is confined to a wheelchair.
Little Richard scared my grandmother in 1957. I was 11 years old, on the way to her house for dinner with my parents, and had just shoplifted for the first time. Right in the five-and-dime, and Mom and Dad hadn't even noticed. Easy pickings--the 45 rpm of Lucille on the Specialty label. My favorite record. I felt happily defiant in the back seat of the car with the sharp edge of the single jabbing my stomach beneath the sweater. Once inside Granny's, I made a beeline to her out-of-date hi-fi and let it roll. "L-u-c-i-l-l-e! You won't do your sister's will!" came blaring through the house like a pack of rabid dogs. It was as if a Martian had landed. My grandmother stopped in her tracks, face ashen, beyond comprehension. The antiques rattled. My parents looked stunned. In one magical moment, every fear of my white, middle-class family had been laid bare: An uninvited, screaming, flamboyant black man was in the living room. Even Dr. Spock hadn't warned (continued on page 140)Little Richard(continued from page 76) them about this.
In real life, rhythm-and-blues-pop star Gregory Abbott wears coats of many colors. Not only is he a talented writer and producer, but his recent gold album, Shake You Down, and award-winning video of the title song have precipitated a world-wide promotional tour this spring and summer. On these pages, however, Abbott's dinner-jacket color is basic black or white. Peacock hues in tuxedos are for the birds--and we're not talking about the gorgeous one on his arm.
Are you afraid of AIDS? If you're straight and you aren't, it's probably only a matter of time. This past spring, after a series of events--the deaths of Liberace and other celebrities, the controversy over AIDS testing and condom ads on TV, the passing out of free Trojans at a New England church and reports of increased AIDS cases among heterosexuals--people who'd rarely talked about the disease were suddenly talking about it constantly, in health clubs, in singles bars, at the office. In cities across America, local TV news crews turned their lights on in churning discos and asked heterosexuals, "Are you nervous about AIDS?" If they hadn't been nervous before, being asked the question made them think twice. And simply seeing those reports on TV made people wonder if they were in danger. Could making love to a stranger, or even a longtime lover, be an embrace with death?
The semiannual Consumer Electronics Shows held each year in Las Vegas and Chicago are the ultimate adult-toy stores. Everything you'd ever want in the way of products for the eyes and ears, as Ed McMahon would say, is there to be seen and heard. But away from the hurly-burly of the show floor, in the cozy confines of hotel suites, much of the real electronics action takes place. That's where manufacturers unveil to preferred customers and a few lucky representatives of the press the technical wizardry they'll be coming out with next. And that's what you have here: a sneak preview of six electronic products soon to come (barring unexpected glitches, of course). Some are just coming out from under wraps; thus, the manufacturer won't even hint at a price. Others are almost on the trucks, so prices have been fixed. Think of this feature as a wishbook. And we all know that wishing makes it so.
Tom Crowell goes into the little kitchen of his apartment, pulls a Bud out of the refrigerator. To save money, the place is conditioned to only the mid-seventies. He pulls off the ring tab and tosses it into the trash. Then he goes into the living room and turns on the TV news. The couch squeaks as he flops down onto it. Even in the mid-seventies, it isn't new.
Carmen Berg's father is an auctioneer in Bismarck, North Dakota. From the time she was five or six, he took her along when he went to do the fast talk to sell off someone's house or farm. "I think it would have made him happy if I'd gone to auctioneer's school and followed in his footsteps," she says now. But Carmen never learned to talk fast enough and instead set out on her own at the age of 19 to seek her fortune as a model. She eventually wound up in Chicago, which is both our good fortune and a long way from Bismarck.
A famous golfer was on trial for beating another golfer senseless. The defendant's attorney appealed to the judge, "Your Honor, the plaintiff was drunk and abusive and kept interrupting the game. My client, in desperation, beat him unconscious with a golf club."
So I pass this woman in the hall. I'm leaving my room at the office, entering a corridor--it's a big office, three floors of this just-up building inside the Loop, Philip Johnson or something. Arquitectonica. So here comes this woman--neat, got a nice suit, lemon-colored high heels, the usual--so I'm reading this memo I just got from Harriet Somes, our director of personnel, not really reading it but sort of holding it, and I look up as I pass the woman, because that's what I always do, and ... well, she's the most extraordinary three-dimensional construct on the planet in more than 40 years, without exception. Person--person on the planet. So, anyway, I'm cool. I don't jump her, I just look, but I'm stunned like somebody's hit me with a floor lamp. Maybe I gawk some. I must seem like a goon to her--I mean, she's a young girl, I don't know, maybe 22, 21, 17, and she's not used to people looking the way I'm looking, not guys like me, three-piece guys. In the world of high finance, we don't do mouth drops at our women in the hall--she has a right to be scared. Me, if I were her, I'd scream. But she's very relaxed. She's 5′9″, maybe a trace over that, to start with, and has a little constellation of freckles perfectly deployed across the bridge of a nose from antiquity--unassailable, impeccable, prototype. It's got this curve to it, a rim at the nostrils--we're talking slight, barely perceptible, so fine it might as well be an optical effect, a passing condor emerging from a gray-green cloud bank casting a shadow that flickers through the mirrored exterior of our building and spins then, distorted and partial, up off the polished corridor floor, up into my eye. And the freckles, sweet and off center, specks floating before her face, under the eyes, hovering like scout ships in advanced mathematical formation, fractals, ready for some mission into this soiled universe. Ready for Buster music. I don't know--it's like some scene from Trancers, full of New Age stuff, thunder volume, my redundant heart. A big thing. All backed by the eyes, guarded and protected, and yet clear as some glass-flute melody lilting from out of nowhere over flat, distant grassland at last light on a disarticulated winter's afternoon in Montana, Wyoming or some other state of that persuasion. These eyes are not blue, thank God. These eyes really aren't any color you'd recognize or be able to name, and they are probably not any color that exists elsewhere in our planetary system, though in the universe, I am certain, the painstaking research assistant might locate a color proximate with respect to hue, holding aside the paradox of texture. Of course, neither color, which in our radically diminished world of prepared things we'd call brown, nor texture, which remains elusive to verbal signification (i.e., can't be named), adequately suggests these eyes through which this young woman in the hall of our architecturally up-to-date corporate headquarters looks out upon a world that must seem to her a vile parody, host site for yet another thin-walled condo community wherein lesser beings, their cramped hopes whitened by grip, scoot hither and thither in search of niggling satisfactions. These eyes swell with hope and anticipation, ambition, crushing vulnerability, quick wit and vivid imagination, large heart, sweet disposition (which I had thought lost to the 18th Century), all compressed in a two-dimensional array the size of a radio knob, or two thereof. I hasten to add that this is not all they swell with, but the merest sketch still some significance short of beginning to hint at the outline of a rendering of an artist's concept of a TV reporter's version--we got aces on the eyes. We got a fine nose, freckles in the proper number and distribution. We got tall. The hair's good--why, the hair's from the edge of Orion. Shines. Sways back and forth. Got a wispy aspect. Got secrets in it so marvelous as to rewhack the plexus. It's about a thousand colors, each so close to the next that the mordant eye can't tell the difference, only knows up there there's something otherworldly. Soft-looking hair, floats around at the telling moment, otherwise sits like pure angel grace. It moves slowly, a rocking motion, coming toward you, then dodging away at the instant of maximum extension, in perfect sync with the smile, which gets you to the teeth--white like small wet cliffs and straight enough to set your watch. No untoward lip curling, either--they retain their exquisite shape through the whole procedure, do these lips, they slide a little, opening into a gesture of welcome as if readying the private whispered report of some lovely indiscretion, something to brace the skin. There is, about this young woman, some quivering possibility I cannot place, a wonder that veils her like the barest morning mist, an interior surprise, a perfect curiosity regarding this time and place that strikes the onlooker more powerfully than icy Oriental scents. One is inclined, against one's will, to follow, to disregard caution and to throw, with all might, the self at the other. And yet I, in the cooling afternoon light of this outer corridor, restrain all still-operative nerve tissue, reduce and control motor behavior, and I do not, I am pleased to report, knock the young woman to the corridor floor, drag her by the gray-veined hair to my dark little post. No. I am an adult. I am a decent man. I grip a potted plant, lean inelegantly against a carpeted wall, gape like a monkey at the biggest banana ever to prowl up out of a tree, but I do not accost, maul, mash, whistle or deliver myself of some gratuitous oral discharge apropos her stride, her skirt, her slight little ivory-shadowed calves, the taut muscles of which I can already feel swelling into my curled palm. No. I take what is given. As she passes, I bathe in the fragrance of 1000-year-old lilacs on a stone path at misty dawn in Shanghai; and, when she turns the corner and leaves my sight, I return to my own boxy place, where there is little to agitate the senses, sit in my gray-vinyl chair, cock my feet on the round-cornered desk and, lips pursed, eyes shut like vault doors, I count blessings, first health and family, then friends, finally appliances, working my way from the large to the small.
The joys of summer. String bikinis, as flimsy as dental floss, on lean ladies' loins. The sound of The Beach Boys, vintage and today. The tactile sensation of oil on skin tanned to a supple mocha. Need we say more? The surf is up, the sun is high, we're heading for the beach and you're coming along. There'll be plenty of beach noise, because we'll tell you how to create the ultimate beach tape. We've got the perfect drink and lots of beach toys, including a surf-rider's-eye view of the brand-new Kawasaki Jet Ski 650SX. And pages of beach girls--who prove, once and for all, that less bathing suit definitely means more fun. Speaking of less suit, there's even a guide to the world's best nudist beaches. Come on in. The water's fine!
Those lips! That hair! And a sense of humor, too. Garry Shandling, though well known for his relationship-oriented comic routines and for guest-hosting "The Tonight Show," has recently resurrected the Burns-and-Allen style with great fanfare. And success. "It's Garry Shandling's Show," on Showtime, has just been renewed for three years. Contributing Editor David Rensin spoke with him between script meetings at the comedian's Los Angeles office. Said Rensin later, "While interviewing Shandling, I realized that I had seen him three weeks before in a restaurant, dining with four very attractive women. At the time, I figured he had to be David Brenner."
What kind of guy are you? Are you the kind of guy who carries a handful of cents-off coupons into the supermarket each week and who calls driving over to Pizza Hut a big night out on the town? Are you unbelievably dull but prudent?
He began his career as a notorious casualty on the cutting-room floor (he played the dead guy in The Big Chill), so 32-year-old actor Kevin Costner now takes extra trouble to remain in the frame--he even insisted on performing his own stunts as Federal agent Eliot Ness in Brian De Palma's updated version of The Untouchables. "I did a lot of walking the ledges of 12-story buildings in Chicago," says Costner, who also starred in Silverado and the upcoming No Way Out. "I like to keep as close to the camera as possible, so if I'm on a horse, you're on a horse. If I'm not in a shot, it's because someone has his hand on my neck, saying no." Does this mean he might become a stunt man? "Hardly," he sniffs. "They never get to kiss the girl."
Frieda Zamba carries her trithruster Hope past grommets into killer peaks and shreds. Translation: The top-ranked female surfer in the world carries her three-finned board past younger, less accomplished surfers into eight-foot waves and kicks the ocean's butt. Zamba, 22, hung her first ten in the mushy peaks off her Flagler Beach, Florida, home eight years ago. She passed the grommet stage ("Grommets are surf rats," she explains, "young surfers--the kids on the beach first thing in the morning with zinc on their noses, messed-up hair and beat-up boards") with flying thrusters, rose through the amateur ranks, joined the Association of Surfing Professionals and found the pro surf circuit rough at first. "It's harder for women," she says. "Only the top four or five women get full sponsorship; probably the top 20 men do. I didn't get a good sponsor till I won my first title." This summer, having shredded the dreams of male grommets by getting married in June, she is on her board as usual, trying to avoid her least favorite thing: "Finishing second. I hate it. It feels the same as finishing last." Pro surfing, of course, presents other problems. "Traveling can be great, but you miss things from America. You can't get Pepto-Bismol in Australia. So I just surf and forget about everything."
As you'd expect from the hottest choreographer in music videos, Paula Abdul's past is littered with dance lessons--classic ballet, tap, jazz, and even a scholarship to the prestigious Bella Lewitzky Dance Company. But when her big break came, Abdul wasn't dancing, she was jumping around as a cheerleader for the Los Angeles Lakers. A cheerleader? "Cheerleading has made a major breakthrough," she says proudly. "Nowadays, cheerleaders don't just lead yells--they have to know how to hear the music and how to dance to it." Abdul also began choreographing routines--not a bad showcase in the entertainment capital of Los Angeles. "One of the season-ticket holders was a record-company executive and he asked about our choreography," she remembers. "Then he hired me to do his videos." Since then, Abdul, 23, has come up with the moves for Janet Jackson, Dolly Parton and ZZ Top. "ZZ Top wanted a step that was cool, that only they could pull off," says Abdul, who created the Velcro Fly for them. She also choreographed videos for Duran Duran and the Pointer Sisters, and she staged tours for Jermaine Jackson, Klymaxx and Kool and the Gang. The funny thing is, the only wallflower is Abdul herself--men simply won't ask her to dance. "Guys are afraid," she moans. "They think I'm going to dance like I'm in a video. They just get all nervous around me."
Michael Sonnenfeldt likes to build big. But he also builds with an eye on the bottom line; he is a prime mover behind an effort to rethink the way the Federal Government spends its money. Sonnenfeldt, 31, made a name for himself when he spearheaded the largest commercial renovation in American history--the Harborside Financial Center on the New Jersey shore across from Manhattan. "That area was perceived by the locals as a wasteland," he recalls. "But I noticed it was three and a half minutes by subway from downtown Manhattan." In five years, the project will be worth one billion dollars and it will have significantly expanded Manhattan's prime office district. Sonnenfeldt has also been directing his energies toward Business Executives for National Security, a group of C.E.O.s banded together to force the Government to restructure its priorities. "I have a responsibility to use my skills for social good," he says. "Spending money carefully seems to be one of them."
To hear Jim Swift tell it, he's not attempting to cash in on a Yuppie craze with his fast-growing Gelare premium ice cream, he is simply upholding standards of a bygone era. "When I was growing up, there was an ice-cream parlor that produced a high-butterfat ice cream, and I became a complete fan." When the parlor changed hands and the quality plunged, Swift made a vow: "One day I would seek out the original owners and resurrect their great ice cream." It took him ten years, but Swift finally got that recipe. "It happened that I'd also just visited Italy and tasted their ice cream, so I decided to create a hybrid." The result is Gelare, an ultrarich, ultrapricey ice cream. "We have a loyal following," claims Swift, 41. "But I have no expectations that we're going to be a major force in the industry. Right now, we're just stepping around the elephants."
Call them huaraches, espadrilles or just good old-fashioned moccasins. They all have one thing in common--no socks. Whether you're at the beach, bicycling or just lazing in a hammock, softly constructed footwear is the perfect alternative to sneakers. Casual basket-weave patterns and the more open weaves let air circulate on a sweltering day; thin suede married to buttery leather or pliable linen is another choice for fancy footwork. Beach neutrals, bright solids and stripes are the colors and patterns we opt for. The look is old money and down home. Sundowners in the solarium? Cocktails on the quay? Better put some shoes on, old boy. Hey, nice huaraches!