The battle of the sexes can be waged by fair fighters or by cheapshot artists. Shere Hite is a leader in the latter camp. In her bilious best seller Women and Love, Hite expends 922 pages to make the following point: Women are sensitive saints, and men--the uncommunicative beasts--don't deserve them. If that sounds like the Hite of absurdity, take heart--Senior Staff Writer James R. Petersen and Contributing Editor Asa Baber offer a different picture of male-female relations in this month's Playboy Forum and Men column. Read 'em and growl.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), February 1988, Volume 35, Number 2. Published Monthly by Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: $24 for 12 issues U. S. Canada. $35 for 12 issues. All other foreign, $35 U. S. currency only, for new and renewal orders and Change of address: Send to Playboy subscriptions, P.O. Box 2007, Harlan, Iowa 51593-0222. Please allow 6--8 weeks for processing for change of address, Send new and old addresses. 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.
Singer/Songwriter Timothy B. Schmit is presently thriving with a hot second solo LP called "Timothy B.," but he has a lot of history--12 albums with Poco and three years with the Eagles, just to spot the high points. We asked Schmit to describe the new LP of another rocker with a past. It's called simply "Duane Eddy" (Capitol).
Remember puyi? Probably not. So let The Last Emperor (Columbia) illuminate and enchant you with an unforgettable history lesson. It's the sort of epic that has to flash place names and dates on the screen now and then to keep the chronology straight. But Italian director Bernardo Bertolucci, filming in modern China with the ancient, splendiferous Forbidden City as a backdrop, retells the tantalizing true story of Emperor Pu Yi, who ascended the throne in 1908, at the age of three, and was deposed when China became a republic in 1912. Pu Yi subsequently ruled as a puppet emperor under Japanese invaders, spent ten years in a Communist prison after World War Two and ended his checkered career more or less content as a gardener at a people's park in Red China. Pu Yi as an adult is played strikingly by John Lone. His languid English tutor is Peter O'Toole, whose cool reserve in a relatively minor role indicates the film's deliberate style. Bertolucci's screenplay, written in collaboration with Mark Peploe, takes a semidetached view, emphasizing awesome spectacle over sentiment. Camera wizard Vittorio Storaro's cinematography guarantees breath-taking images from first to last--whether focused on the pageantry at court or on Pu Yi's frivolous middle years with his tragic empress (John Chen), who trades royal tradition for flapperish fads, turning in exile to drugs and lesbianism. Such glimpses of private imperial decadence echo Bertolucci's Last Tango in Paris. While tame and impersonal in comparison, Last Emperor is bravura movie magic on a scale that makes most of the current competition look puny [rating]4 bunnies[/rating]
William Greider's Secrets of the Temple (Simon & Schuster) is a 750-plus-page tome that will tell you everything you've never wanted to know about the Federal Reserve System and would never have thought to ask. Believe it or not, it's a fascinating book. Unlike the internal operations of the CIA or the Pentagon, the Fed's secrets are open ones, protected from public scrutiny by the ability of bankers and economists to camouflage momentous decisions--their control of interest rates and the money supply--as business as usual. They're protected, also, by the public's deeply ingrained passivity in the face of financial machinery designed to seem as autonomous as the solar system. But, as Greider repeatedly warns, "The paradox for democracy [is] obvious: The Washington institution that was most intimately influential in the lives of ordinary citizens was the one they least understood, the one most securely shielded from popular control." Greider fleshes out economic theory with behind-the-headlines anecdotage, and although he never manages to make his central character, former Fed Chairman Paul Volcker, seem very human, or even entirely organic, the book does make sense of the past ten roller-coastering years. No book on such subjects is complete without a dire prediction, and Greider offers up Japan as a late-Eighties rising power, heavily into financial speculation: "The situation began to look like a dangerous speculative bubble.... If Tokyo crashed.... " Why, then, it's bye-bye, high times. Reading Secrets of the Temple may not help you avoid the common fate, any more than reading The Fate of the Earth will shield you from nuclear winter, but at least you'll have the satisfaction, now that the next Crash is upon us, of having a clear idea of how we were ruined.
Have you done your reading for today, men? I assume you got up early and read your quota of women's magazines. Between the ads for nail polish and panty hose, I trust you found enough articles about the cruelty of men and the beauty of women to keep yourself in minimal pain.
Iam a 45-year-old male in good health and am not overweight. I don't smoke or drink or do drugs. My problem is that it's very difficult for me to reach a climax. I have no trouble getting and keeping an erection, to a point. It takes very fast motion and friction to bring me off, and then only when I'm standing up or lying on my back, tensing and straining vigorously. Needless to say, I cannot keep up the pace of moving fast enough and long enough to reach a climax; nor have I found a partner who, on top of me, can sustain the pace, either vaginally or orally. On most occasions, I can climax by masturbation with my hand or by my partner's masturbating me with the use of a lotion for lubrication. Even then, sometimes the demands of straining and tensing seem to rob my penis of blood and I start getting soft. I do manage to climax on occasion with a semierection. My partners think that I'm a good lover, but I sometimes feel robbed because I don't reach climax easily every time I have sex. Are there any solutions?--B. B., Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
Shere Hite's new book, Women and Love, "A Cultural Revolution in Progress," is presented as being social science. It's not. It is pseudo science. Hite uses misleading language, hypey headlines and 100 pages of abracadabra statistics to deceive the American public.
Two Olivers made news last year: One, a gap-toothed lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Marines, became a temporary TV folk hero as he explained how he had tried to vindicate the "noble cause," by implication, of American intervention in Vietnam by promoting a winnable war against the Communists of Nicaragua. The other Oliver, a gap-toothed screenwriter and movie director, walked away with the year's best-picture Oscar for a landmark movie that preached the opposite point of view: that Vietnam was a tragic folly and that Central America could become the next generation's debacle.
In Merry England and Scotland, Wales and Ireland, some 10,000,000 tabloid readers kick off the day with a nice reminder that the newsain't all bad. They check out the morning's topless models, a grand tradition in Britain since November 1970. That was when The Sun, the country's premiere tabloid, published a bare-breasted photo of model Stephanie Rahn, thereby setting off a lively circulation war with The Star and the Daily Mirror, the U.K.'s other major tabs. As is typical of newspaper battles on Fleet Street (the home of Great Britain's national press until the recent move by most publications to a new industrial site), the "War of the Nipples" offered up ribald fun, as well as a nice breather from England's other obsessions: football and royalty. In the last election, they even had a brush with politics: A pro-Tory paper threatened that a Labor victory would mean outlawing Page 3 Girls. Not a few of the Page 3 Girls--so christened because that's the page on the which The Sun runs its morning lovelies--have gone on to modest fame and occasional fortune, the most celebrated being singer Samantha Fox. In the interest of Anglo-U.S. relations, we picked our own favorites and had them photographed in a London studio exclusively for Playboy.
I'm in the Phoenix airport, 11:05 at night, between planes, when I see them sitting across from me in the Concourse Lounge, their long legs splayed awkwardly beneath the bar tables. I recognize them right away or, rather, him, since I don't know the other guy, though by his size, he must be a basketball player, too. Him is Magic Johnson, All-Pro guard for the Los Angeles Lakers, my used-to-be-favorite team. I say "used to be" because I don't live in Los Angeles now. When Marian and I separated a year ago, I moved to Denver. It's a nice city, but the basketball team isn't worth much, so I don't watch the games anymore.
Don't you believe it when a macho buddy tells you that real men like to shop for clothes alone. At least, most of the men we know don't. Guys, of course, want to look good for and to women, and the easiest way to avoid a conflict later on is to take the lady along when you're in a buying mood. With that thought in mind, this month we've added a new twist to our yearly Designer Forecast feature, in which we ask menswear designers to preview a sampling of upcoming lines. For a change, we've chosen four female menswear designers of international fame--Jhane Barnes, Corinne Delemazure, Oriana Girombelli and Cecilia Metheny--and asked them to give us the low-down on just how they like men to dress, with picks, naturally, from their spring/summer 1988 collections. The results may surprise you. But whatever your tastes--from a casual crew-neck and pleated khaki slacks to a wool-crepe evening jacket and Hollywood-waistband tuxedo pants--there's plenty to intrigue the ladies.
Good. Yes. I'm going to the bathroom. Awfully pleasant. High on a hill, in the flowers. The little bush hut is below; then a sea of mountains. Opposite is my tent. Very pleasant. One of the joys of life. Ah, the birds are singing; listen to that. Glorious morning!
Kari Kennell is wearing skintight black pants and a floppy gray sweater (which she's forever pulling away at the neck so that she can blow cool air downward), and she's talking about a party she attended not too long ago. "There were all these glitzy, beautiful ladies there," she says, somehow overlooking the fact that she's no slouch in the beauty department herself, "but I was most taken by this woman who was a natural beauty--you know, wearing ordinary pleated pants, a plain white T-shirt, no make-up and a simple ponytail. And that's how I'd like to think of myself," she adds, running a hand through her own thick blonde hair. "A natural, down-home, no-make-up, no-nonsense type of person."
Father Casey called in sick one Sunday morning so he could play golf. On the first tee, he sliced his drive deep into the woods. As he approached the ball, a bluebird picked it up, flew 300 yards down the fairway and dropped it into the hole.
There came a day in the life of Joseph D. Duffey, chancellor of the University of Massachusetts, when he suddenly said, "No more" One hundred students were occupying a floor of one of his buildings on the Amherst campus. They were protesting the recent presence of two representatives of the Central Intelligence Agency. The spooks had conducted interviews with U Mass students who wanted to ask questions about working there. There are 10,000 such interviews of graduating college students conducted every year by the CIA. We don't know how many people are hired and won't know unless one more Marine sleeps with one more K.G.B. agent and slips her the combination to the safe that harbors those figures; the CIA is a secret organization. No one is disputing that. But at U Mass, the question before the house was, really, Why spy?
Back in the early Sixties, when Floyd Patterson was still heavyweight champion of the world, an intelligent and high-spirited boxing writer named Jack McKinney was passing an afternoon in Darien, Connecticut, with Cus D'Amato, talking, among other things, about Patterson's upcoming fight with Sonny Liston. D'Amato, of course, was Patterson's manager.
Call me irresponsible, if you must. Lying out here on the hot, dry dunes of New Mexico's White Sands. A sky full of clouds the size of cathedrals. Just me and Lucien Clergue and Lucien's 35mm Minolta. No lights, no distractions and no noise. He likes to shoot in the silence. He says the desert helps him think. As for me, I'll do what he asks: Lie here, walk there. So quiet! So still! So hot! Is this bliss, or what?
Just as this issue of Playboy went to press, Chicago mayor Harold Washington suffered a fatal heart attack at his desk in city hall. Senior Staff Writer Walter Lowe, Jr., who had conducted this interview with the 65-year-old Washington one month before his death, recalled him this way: "Harold--and everyone who knew him called him just Harold--was coming into his prime as a political leader. He had proved that he could run the city, and run it well--he was the 'mayor for all the people of Chicago' that Mayor Daley always claimed to be. He was probably the nation's most eloquent spokesman for the concerns of American big-city mayors. They, like the rest of us, have lost a great champion."
So tell us about your parents, Gilbert. "Well, my father's actual name is Adolf, but his friends call him Buck. Buck Gottfried." Do you think you'll ever have children? "I'd have to achieve an erection first." How was your childhood? "I wasn't an unhappy child," he explains. "I'm an unhappy adult." While Gilbert Gottfried, 32, is not very forthcoming during interviews, at least he's very funny. And he does divulge this much: He's Jewish, he's close to his mother, he's goodhearted and robustly eccentric. He is also the odds-on favorite to be this year's most talked-about comic. The credentials are all in place: the obligatory cable special, an album released ("I was thinking of calling it Sgt. Pepper," he says, but apparently chose Gilbert Gottfried Naturally); he pops up all over TV and is a major draw on the comedyclub circuit. Not everything, of course, has been a hit. "I tried to play the Catskills," he complains, "but they think I'm too Jewish."
It was in 1981 that Nicholas Dunlop hatched his ambitious scheme. As the director of Parliamentarians Global Action, a group of international leaders opposed to nuclear arms, Dunlop, then 24, decided to up the pressure. His plan: to organize half a dozen heads of state into a high-level antinuclear group that would "shock the nations of the world into taking nuclear disarmament more seriously." Considering Dunlop's age and his limited financing, his goal was audacious at best. But three years later, the presidents of Mexico, Argentina and Tanzania and the prime ministers of Greece, India and Sweden delivered a joint statement urging the superpowers to halt the arms race. Recently, the six world leaders moved beyond their original declaration, calling for a comprehensive nuclear-testing ban and offering to monitor it themselves. The next step, Dunlop hopes, is for the leaders to serve as negotiators between the world's two nuclear giants, the U. S. and the U.S.S.R. If that seems unlikely, remember the quixotic nature of Dunlop's original quest. "All you need to achieve difficult things in politics is a certain amount of nerve," he points out. "The key thing is not to be afraid of being laughed at."
When she was seven years old, she shot pool on I've Got a Secret. At 13, she was the Women's U. S. Open Pocket Billiards champion--the youngest national champ in American sports history. She challenged, and smoked, the legendary Willie Mosconi. Since then, Brooklyn's Jean Balukas, 28, has won nine more U. S. Open titles, five Women's Professional Billiard Association titles and, in her spare time, has taken on the best male players in the world. "There were a lot of bad attitudes from the men at first," recalls Balukas. "But I won matches. I proved I was a legitimate competitor." She abhors the sleazeball image movies such as The Color of Money project of her game. "We need corporate sponsorship, and to get that, we will have to clean up our image. A lot of the bigger tournaments are now asking players to wear tuxedos. I like that," she says, "There's a company that plans to make very feminine silk tuxedos, and I'm going to be the first in line."
She is, as they say, "one of Hollywood's fastest-rising young actresses." And Meg Ryan, so she says, is confident that she can avoid the ultimate show-business trap. "Going Hollywood has to do with what you drive, the size of your entourage and where you have dinner. Power lunches are not happening for me." Ryan, 26, parlayed a three-day role as the wife of Tom Cruise's buddy in Top Gun into starring roles in Innerspace ("I got to kiss Dennis Quaid and Martin Short at the same time"), the upcoming D.O.A. and Promised Land, in which she plays her dream role, a tattooed, pink-haired prostitute. "I'm sexy sometimes," she says, "but I'm never going to be a glamor puss. I'm comfortable with people treating me like a goon." Her stint on the New York -- based soap As the World Turns armed her with an East Coast get-it-done work ethic that has served her well. "If you have the ethic instilled in you and you apply it to L.A. culture, you can get anything done," she maintains. However, she's quick to point out that she's not always like the upbeat, charming characters she plays. "I'm really a very dark soul who reads Jean-Paul Sartre," she says, smiling. "I've seen every one of the Friday the 13th movies. It's a vice of mine."
Los Angeles has more than its share of hip eateries, most of which are as known for their limited life spans as for their fickle Brat Pack clientele. Peter Morton has created the most notable exception. His Hard Rock Cafe not only endures, it's successful enough to survive transplantation. Morton, 40, now rules over five new Hard Rocks, from Honolulu to Chicago, with two more restaurants set to open later this year. (The ones in New York, Dallas, London and Stockholm are now owned by a former partner.) Each branch is maniacally noisy and has an ambience Morton describes as "the Smithsonian Museum of Rock 'n' Roll," with rock artifacts lining the walls. In such a setting, the Hard Rock's biggest surprise is the food -- classic American fare such as chicken, ribs, chili and burgers -- which is good enough to impress even the most jaded critic. "It's probably better food than it has to be," admits Morton. "We've got high standards."
I was Married to a CIA case officer assigned to covert operations, in the elite spy section of the CIA that targets the Soviet Union and the K.G.B. For ten years, I watched the CIA in action, not only from the vantage point of my kitchen but from the streets of Europe, shoulder to shoulder with my husband. I helped out, as other wives have, as a second pair of eyes and ears. I acted as telephone contact when touchy operations were under way and carried sandwiches to an audio team holed up in a safe house to monitor Russian radio transmissions. I stood in freezing rain watching an apartment belonging to a Russian military-intelligence officer my husband hoped to recruit. And I attended all-CIA parties, three or four a week, where my husband and his case-officer colleagues topped one another's stories with ever more polished versions of their lives as spies.
Created by: The catbird seat of prime-time TV. The creator gets a royalty check every time an episode airs--typically $2500 to $5000 but often much higher. That's chump change compared with the windfall he receives if the series is sold to syndication. Then the creator splits the bulk of syndication profits with the production company--receiving anywhere from five or ten percent to as much as 50 percent of the take. For a sought-after series, that could mean a check with more zeros than the old Japanese air force--$40,000,000 to $50,000,000.
Close-to-the-body cycling clothes have come off the velodrome tracks and the bike paths and raced onto the international menswear scene. Cycling-length shorts in cotton or blended knits with spandex or Lycra added provide form-hugging flexibility. (And you'd better believe the ladies especially like the look.) To top them off, there are plenty of jerseys with bold graphics and daring designs from which to choose. One caveat: If you have love handles like the wattles on a turkey and a derrière that takes up half a lane, think twice before pouring yourself into cycling clothes. But for all you guys in really good shape, now's the chance to lead the fashion pack by at least a lap.