Thinking about a vacation? This is, after all, the kick-back-and-relax time of year. Maybe you're dreaming of an exile to a tropical paradise, where you could rehash the good old days, praise your friends, trash your enemies and cook up some revolutionary plans for the future. Some people actually live that way—specifically, deposed Philippines dictator Ferdinand Marcos and his controversial spouse, Imelda, this month's Playboy Interview subjects, who were questioned by Ken Kelley and Phil Bronstein. Veteran Playboy interviewer Kelley, who has conversed with Anita Bryant, Sparky Anderson and Arthur C. Clarke, among others, and Bronstein, the San Francisco Examiner's correspondent in Manila, joined the renowned couple in a comfortable upper-middle-class Hawaiian home, where the reputedly wealthy ex-presidential pair had been holed up waiting for the other, uh, shoe to drop back home. Despite Bronstein's sometimes scathingly critical stories during the years he covered the Marcos regime, he and Kelley were allowed to speak at length with the exiles. What was Ferdinand and Imelda's favorite topic? (No, not footwear, though that subject did come up.) Their comeback, of course. Nothing peps them up more than a little talk about returning to power in the Philippines.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), August 1987, Volume 34, Number 8. 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. Postmaster: Send form 3579 to Playboy, P.O. Box 2007, Harlan, Iowa 51593-0222. 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.
Love blooms at a mountain resort in Dirty Dancing (Vestron), all about a nice New York girl who finds romance and rhythm with a resident entertainer when his regular partner (Cynthia Rhodes) takes time out to have an abortion. Jennifer Grey (Joel's talented daughter) and Patrick (Red Dawn) Swayze, a former ballet dancer here strutting his stuff on film as if to top Travolta, generate body heat as the principal duo, whose only real problem is the girl's father (Jerry Orbach). Dad's a bigot on the subject of boys with dubious seasonal employment and names such as Johnny Castle. Set in a not-so-distant past where Flashdance merges with Herman Wouk's Marjorie Morningstar, Dirty Dancing moves in more ways than one. [rating]3 bunnies[/rating]
As of now, this column will hop up from a four- to a five-Rabbit rating system (see details below). The change is designed to be more precise, allowing a fairer shake—as well as fewer split hares—for films listed.
Without Question, Bruce Hornsby (with his band, the Range) is rock's rookie of the year—he's got the best-new-artist Grammy to prove it. Currently working on his second LP, he commented on another group making serious music—U2. Here's Bruce's word on "The Joshua Tree":
Born to shop Department: Musicade, known for the world's greatest rock-'n'-roll catalog, has opened its first store in San Diego. The store, like the catalog, will have, the owners say, the largest selection of rock T-shirts, posters and memorabilia anywhere. Look for a Musicade store in your city in the nottoo-distant future.
My girlfriend, Dorothy, and I spent a weekend at Heritage USA, the born-again-Christian resort and amusement park created by TV evangelists Jim and Tammy Bakker, who have lately been so much in the news. Dorothy and I came to scoff—but went away converted.
There is hope, sometimes rewarded, that biographies will provide a golden key, unlocking some essential mystery about a person of unique interest—that and some good gossip. Timeless insights into the human condition, plus a little dirt, are what we're after.
All of my patients are encouraged to drop by the office any time they wish, whether they have a session scheduled or not. Many of them do come just to sit around, drink coffee, read magazines, watch my secretary mail bills. Occasionally, some of them bring their deli sandwiches and sodas and have lunch in the waiting room. I would much prefer to have them here in the warmth and safety of my office rather than out on the street, where they might be tempted to go to another Red Sox game.
You're probably reading this while you're lying on the beach. You're probably looking around at the scenery every ten seconds. The hills and valleys and tan places with suntan oil on them—that's the scenery I'm talking about. You say it's taken you 15 minutes to read these four sentences? I understand.
My accountant and I met for the first time at a place called The Adventurers Club. Very damned appropriate, it seemed to me, because I'd been crouched in the deep bush for years and years without paying Federal income tax (Against the Wind, Playboy, April). I'd had my reasons at the time I went off the track, but I'd outgrown them; and now I wanted passage back over to the legal side of the border, which was going to take a guide who knew how to wield the big machete.
In the June 1986 Playboy Advisor, you advised that there is no safe way to increase the length of one's penis. Let me ask you, is there an unsafe way to do it? I'm sick and tired of missing out on so much action just because I am a dimple dick. I am attractive, affectionate and virile, but my erections are on the small side of average and the flaccid state is downright embarrassing. The sex "experts" insist that size really doesn't matter, but that is a crock! Just check out any of the swingers' magazines. At bars, women will give me the eye; but when they reach the crotch, the eye is all I end up getting. I love sex, have a pleasant personality, have no sexually transmitted diseases and possess all the other qualities of a good lover; it is just that the tool doesn't measure up. I'm ready to try anything. To me, it's worth the risk. After all, when a hooker takes one look at you and offers a discount—what more can I say? Thanks for any advice or referrals.—D. L., Cincinnati, Ohio.
When the Meese commission issued its findings on the connection between pornography and violence, some of the researchers who had testified before the commission said that their work on pornography had been misinterpreted. Violence, not erotica, they said, causes harm to society. That point became a rallying cry for people who wanted to protect Playboy from the pious anti-pornographers who wanted to keep Debbie Does Dallas out of the clutches of the National Federation for Decency.
A fatal disease that's transmitted by sexual contact and that as yet has no cure is bound to lead to hysterical or outrageous action. And despite almost daily reporting about AIDS in newspapers and on television, there are still people who are misinformed about this disease.
On a good day, Ferdinand Marcos rises with the sun, does a few stretching exercises and gazes out at his domain: a couple of acres of grass and flowers in the hills of Honolulu, with a decent view of Diamond Head.
A Slow tropical breeze wafts through the sun-baked marble veranda overlooking the walking ring at Hialeah Park. It is ten minutes to post time for the eighth race, an event that now seems certain to deny me the $96,000 Pick-Six payoff that should be mine, all mine. So far today, I have been the Lord of the Races, picking the first five winners in the Pick-Six, horses that looked like baffling long shots to the mere mortals in the stands but were routinely brilliant selections for a Lord of the Races. Now, though, I have only one horse going for me in the sixth and final leg of the Pick-Six, a filly named Clay Path, and I am certain she will lose.
When she was a 15-year-old kid in Paris, at an age at which most girls are still sleeping in kitten-print flannel pajamas, trying to make sense of trigonometry and dreaming of boys they'd never have the nerve to talk to, Paulina Porizkova was living in night clubs, dancing on tables and pouring drinks down the necks of strangers. Her tiny Latin Quarter apartment served as headquarters to a horde of fashion-industry kids who stumbled in at dawn, only to revive hours later for more raucous revelry. That, though, was years ago. This past spring, the world's hottest model—also the world's smartest, brashest and most controversial model and, arguably, the world's most beautiful woman—turned 22. The days when she is said to have worn her too drunk to fuck T-shirt are apparently history.
Hey, who's that guy in the subway, the one who looks tall, dark and famous? Isn't that ... ? Yeah, it was, but he's gone. Zoom! Ron Darling is on the run, and the question is, Why? He rushes to a cable station to do some dinky talk show on dancing, of all things. He rushes to his about-to-open restaurant, gets down on his knees and hammers flooring. He rushes to the gym and hammers away at his body, which you'd swear looked perfect already. Now he's off to school to lecture kids about evil Mr. Drug Abuse. Now to a photo studio to get his comely mug on some magazine cover.
Gray-Wool-Flannel Slacks, a crocodile belt, a striped shirt of Sea Island cotton and a double-breasted navy-blue blazer with gold buttons—these are the cornerstones of a well-built wardrobe. But don't kid yourself: The luxury of wearing things that wear well doesn't come cheap. The initial dollar outlay, of course, is returned to you in the quality and the longevity of the wardrobe you build. Call it investment dressing. A single-breasted gray-pinstripe suit is a tried-and-true mark of a gentleman that pays back dividends every time you wear it. A cashmere pullover is an old friend that just gets better with age. Whether you choose a richly textured cardigan, a pair of custom-made shoes or an ancient-madder dressing gown, the result is the kind of personal satisfaction that comes from the ownership of something that never goes out of style. Give yourself a pat on the well-tailored back.
I used to tell my students at the seminary that an evangelical wrestling match was a morality play for our time. Gone were the days of politically ideological wrestling, of grunting Iranian tag teams and fat, sweating pseudo sheiks. Now saints and sinners grappled with each other on a stage of sin and redemption, the struggle between good and evil so clearly delineated that even the most obtuse spectator could comprehend and shout, "Hallelujah!" We could now—thank you, Jesus—see the power, not of a man or even a country, but of the Lord. God was not only good, He was bigger and better than ever.
If you're ever in Longview, Washington—a logging town beside the Columbia River where firs, cedars and alders brood until Sharry Konopski's dad and his men cut them down—stop at Bruno's Pizzeria. There you'll find the prettiest pizza slinger in the great Northwest. "Someday I'll be a model, actress, mom or all three," says Sharry with a smile that could fell the tallest fir or the most macho lumberman. "Right now, I'm 19. I'm still figuring out my life. I'm a waitress, a good one, who also happens to be Playboy's Playmate of the Month. It's my way of saying to the world, 'Voilà! Here I am!'"
Vatican sources report that during Oral Roberts' dollars-or-death vigil, the evangelist called the Pope and asked if it would be possible for him to be buried in Vatican City should the Lord call him home. The Holy Father replied that that would be most unusual, but he promised to take it up with the cardinals and get back to him.
Forget the heat, ignore the humidity. People with summer smarts know that the antidote to thermal blahs comes in a tall, frosty, spirit-laced goblet tinkling with ice. In fact, sipping such a cooling quaff is one of the great leisure-time activities—attested to by generations of visitors to Caribbean resorts.
Dennis Conner did it. After losing the America's Cup in 1983, the first time in 132 years an American skipper had suffered such humiliation, Conner came back three and a half years later to compete again for sailing's Holy Grail. After dispatching 16 other 12-meter yachts in a series of 43 round-robin challenge races, he blew the Australians away four—zip in the showdown finale. Dennis Conner, the carpet salesman from San Diego.
In 1983, programing chief Tartikoff launched nine primetime bombs, all of which were off the air in a matter of months. But in the best comeback fashion, he was able to clear the rubble and build NBC into the number-one network by 1985. Still, he's more than willing to rerun the disaster, that others might steer clear.
Bushnell's Atari Corporation, a bleeping success story in the Seventies, crashed hard when video gaming went bust. At the same time, he also lost all the dough he'd invested in a restaurant chain called Pizza Time Theater. Now Bushnell's back on a roll in the toy biz, but his memories of disaster are horrifically clear.
Nelson Vails, 26, a National Sprint Cycling champion, Pan-Am Games gold medalist and 1984 Olympic silver medalist, learned to ride on the streets of his native New York. Friends called him Cheetah for his speed and competitive drive. Irate drivers called him less flattering names for his hell-bent style. Vails served as technical advisor for the 1986 movie "Quicksilver." He also starred in the film's opening sequence, a mano a mano race between a cab and himself on wheels. He is now training with the U.S. team for the upcoming Pan-Am Games.
We had suspected for quite a while that something was, well, happening in the southernmost of our contiguous states. What with its burgeoning economy, sunny climate and relatively low cost of living, Florida seems to be attracting the sort of adventurous young woman who used to head for San Francisco or L.A. Could Florida be turning into the California of the Eighties? We sent Contributing Photographers David Mecey and Arny Freytag to crisscross the state—from the fast lanes of Daytona to the tequila sunrises of the Keys and points between. What did they find? Replied Mecey, "Remember that song California Girls? Let's just say it doesn't tell the whole story."
Contributing Editor David Rensin met with the Louis Prima of rock, David Lee Roth, on the San Francisco leg of his "Eat 'Em and Smile" tour. In his hotel suite, Roth shed a safari jacket, offered some sparkling water and nuts, asked his ladyfriend to amuse herself in the bedroom for a couple of hours and started talking even before the tape was rolling. Rensin asked us afterward, "What can I say about Dave that he hasn't already said himself?"
Before most of us are out of pajamas, Deborah Norville's workday is finished. As the new anchor of NBC News at Sunrise, she rises at two A.M., arrives at the midtown Manhattan studio before four and appears fresh and alert as the broadcast rolls at six A.M.—actually before sunrise during the winter. For 29-year-old Norville, it is "the ideal job in television," allowing her to deliver news "that for some people is the only information they get to begin their day." It's also quite obviously the start of a major major-network career for Norville. Her intelligence, friendly Southern voice and ingénue manner have caught the attention of NBC's brass, who ask her to sit in on the Today show during Jane Pauley's absences. Norville, in fact, has always turned heads; in the late Seventies, a CBS station manager's wife saw her working as a college intern on the Atlanta PBS channel and tipped her husband off to her. "I think everybody hated me at the University of Georgia when I returned for my senior year," Norville admits. "They were asking, 'How did you get that job?' and I didn't have an answer." Later, at Chicago's WMAQ, she became a popular "anchor fox," as some fans called her; but she quit to take over the New York rooster shift from Connie Chung, who advised her, "Get used to being tired." "Obviously, if I could change anything about my job," says Norville, "it would be the hours."
Black and white and spread all over the toniest publications in America, the photographs of Wayne Maser feature libidothrobs dressed in denim. The sultry, scorchy scenarios he's shot for Guess? jeans during the past four years have expanded the parameters of print advertising and heated up controversies aplenty. "I suppose I make taboos palpable," shrugs Maser, a boyish 40-year-old whose possum-playing demeanor makes him seem incapable of conjuring images of swollen-lipped nubiles teasing truckers and mounting cow pokes. "Somehow, I author my own fantasies," he says. "I mean, anything can happen outdoors—it's real. What's funny is that people read more sex into these pictures than really is intended." Hollywood, of course, is intrigued: Maser has recently shot movie posters (9-1/2 Weeks, Fatal Attraction) and directed a Daryl Hall music video, with a slew of other offers piling up. "The interesting thing is, everybody seems surprised that I'm this very normal guy," he chuckles. "I think they expect me to have a cattle pen in my bedroom."
Will the real Corey Hart please stand up? Is he the rock star with the spiky-haired cuteness and boyish sex appeal who's the subject of so much hormonal gush from the teen-fan mags? Or is he the serious musician, the darling of critics who praise his "elliptical phrasings" and treat him like the rock incarnation of Samuel Beckett? "To be honest with you, I really don't see myself either way," insists Hart, 25. "If I ever started to believe any of that, I'd be in serious trouble. I think it's all kind of funny." What's not funny is the success Hart has had since his first hit, Sunglasses at Night. Since then, he's been in the upper reaches of the charts with Never Surrender and I Am by Your Side. He's sold more than 5,000,000 records, and he's done it with songs that have content. But does the teen-fanzine crowd even know it's getting music with a message? "I honestly believe that the bulk of my fans are at my shows because they love what I do musically. They may want to know about my personal life, but when I sit down at the piano to play a song, I know they're listening to me sing."
For the past five years, Kim LaHaie has worked 12-hour days in an auto shop, changing rods and pistons, retooling crankshafts and replacing cylinder walls. If that sounds prosaic, consider the fact that the motors she tinkers with propel the 3000-horsepower nitro-burning dragster driven by her dad, racer Dick LaHaie. Car Craft has twice nominated her for Crew Chief of the Year, a heady honor, considering her age—27—and the fact that she's the only woman to run a top-fuel pit. Of course, drag racing's most notable woman, Shirley Muldowney, made her name behind the wheel, something LaHaie dreams about doing when she revs Daddy's hot rod before it hits the starting line. "We've talked a lot about my driving someday," says Kim. "It's a question of time and money. It's a costly thing. In these cars, you can make a mistake that costs you $20,000." Of course, with a little luck—and the right mechanic—you can fix those mistakes back at the shop.
If I seem weird," apologizes comedian Taylor Negron, "it's because I never fully recovered after they switched Darrins on Bewitched." And while that hardly explains Negron's terminal on-stage nerdiness—when it comes to comedy, he may well be the quintessential nerd—a glimpse of his childhood may help. "In school, I was the one who came into class wearing slacks, a retainer, a dickey and clogs—you know, the one pushing the projector," he says. What's worse, he was an audio-visual nerd in Glendale, an L.A. suburb so dull, he claims, it "makes Burbank look like Berlin in the early Thirties." That background gives Negron plenty of on-stage fodder and hasn't hurt his burgeoning film career. His first and briefest role was a memorable cameo in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. "I delivered pizza to Sean Penn," he remembers. "Without me, there'd be no Sean Penn." Up next are two more impressive roles, one in Moving, with Richard Pryor, and another in Punchline, with Tom Hanks and Sally Field. Still, Negron, 30, insists he'll continue to work night clubs and college concerts, despite filmdom's obvious benefits. "In stand-up, you have to wait backstage with prostitutes and drug dealers," he observes. "In films, you can have them come directly to your trailer."
Las Vegas may be tacky; it may be inhabited by polyester pod people. The noise from the slots may cause brain damage. But it's still the one place you'll find serious high rollers, gamblers who, in the words of gambling writer Howard Schwartz, play "with a bank roll that has a comma after the first number." They're attracted to Vegas by more than the desert air—not only do many of the major hotels and casinos woo big spenders with free room and board (and, for those who establish a credit line of $20,000 or more, free air fare and a suite of rooms fit for Liz Taylor) but the more adventurous gaming rules make winning, or losing, large amounts of money easier than at a race track or in Atlantic City.
Not long ago, the only patterned sock a man would, or could, wear was the familiar diamond-plaid Argyle. Now, when he puts his feet up on his desk, he's making a fashion statement. Socks today are a rainbow of color and a daring mixture of fun patterns and designs. Modern technology and the Nigata computerized knitting machine have turned the sock industry heels over toes. The Nigata makes possible intricately knitted designs that previously had to be applied by a printing process. Whether the knit is a richly textured Jacquard weave, a kicky over-all pattern or a clock design on the outer side of the sock, you definitely have something stylish to step into before stepping out.