For the past few years, the guy next door has been a twit in a brie-fueled BMW. Then, last October 19, the stock market went through what analysts called a correction but what ordinary street criminals would call a mugging. And suddenly, we have a new breed of man on the planet. Let's call his species the Post-Yuppie Generation. The good news is that you'll never again have to blacken redfish. The bad news is that there's a whole new set of rules to live by. We give you a start in our trendproof guide, Getting Real. For more post-Yuppie advice, we turned to people we trust. In Taking Stock,John D. Spooner, an author, investment advisor and therapist, tells us where to put our money to cure postparty depression. At the time of the crash, he was working on an article for Playboy titled When to Get Out of the Market, about which he observes, "The world is 2,000,000 years old and we were a month too late." Oh, well. We sent Claudia Dreifus, who interviewed Daniel Ortega for the November 1987 Playboy, to talk with Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr. In Seeing Daylight, Schlesinger, a man who understands historical cycles, states flatly that Reaganism is finished, "an episode of the American past," and assures us that idealism is again just around the corner.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), March 1988, Volume 35, Number 3. 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 address. 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.
Actor/Bassist Gene Simmons, in his own words, "has tried to incorporate women, girls and females into the manifesto of the rock band Kiss, which is 'Anything that feels good is worth doing again.' And," he adds, "some of the panties I've collected have skid marks." Who better, then, to judge a Rhino Records vocal collection called "Va-Va-Voom!" by the world's all-time sex kittens?
Reeling and Rocking: We hear that a movie bio of Cab Calloway is in the works, with Kid Creole playing the young Cab and Lionel Richie playing the older. Stay tuned.... Kris Kristofferson has made a deal to turn his song Me and Bobby McGee into a movie. Kristofferson will serve as story consultant.... Look for Sting in Stormy Monday with Tommy Lee Jones and Melanie Griffith. He plays the gangster owner of a jazz club. In other Sting news, he, Miles Copeland and an unnamed former CBS executive have formed a new record company, Pangaea, which will release pop, rock, jazz, classical and avant-garde projects. The first releases are expected any day.... Expect a Tom Waits concert film.... Dionne Warwick will score and probably sing the title song in Force of Destiny, a Mob movie.
Homeless people who rave in the street probably want to tell us something about being society's dispossessed. That humane message comes through loud and clear in Ironweed (Tri-Star), adapted by William Kennedy from his masterful novel about some end-of-the-line bums in Albany, New York, back in 1938. Director Hector Babenco, whose Kiss of the Spider Woman had an equally depressing subject but became a surprise success and brought an Academy Award to William Hurt, beats the odds again with this downbeat, poetic but achingly beautiful treatment of a difficult theme. Stars Meryl Streep and Jack Nicholson have the charisma to draw crowds and the awesome talent to hold them. You can bet the family farm on Streep's getting an Oscar nomination for her portrayal of a broken-down former singer and concert pianist; when she croaks out a boozy ballad called He's Me Pal for a bunch of barflies, it's magic-moment time. Streep's part has been built up substantially for the movie, with rewarding results, and Nicholson is no less brilliant as the onetime ballplayer who keeps confronting the ghosts of his unhappy past. Carroll Baker and Tom Waits (see this month's 20 Questions) stand out in the vivid gallery of character portraits that catapult Ironweed into scoring position among the year's best. [rating]4 bunnies[/rating]
I. F. Stone was the great muckraking journalist of the Fifties and Sixties. Operating without benefit of syndication or a sponsoring newspaper, he published his own Weekly, in which he regularly scooped the country's major news media not by the derring-do detectivework of Woodward and Bernstein but by a close, skeptical reading of such dry-as-dust sources as the Congressional Record and other publicly available material. You could call it the Purloined Letter, or hidden-in-plain-sight, school of journalism. Stone stopped publishing his newsletter in 1971 and in retirement returned to his early thwarted loves, philosophy and history. With background of only one semester of Greek in college, Stone taught himself the language, steeped himself in its literature and applied his special brand of investigative reporting to the most celebrated criminal trial in ancient history. The result is The Trial of Socrates (Little, Brown), a work of classical scholarship that brings ancient history to vivid life not by the usual expedient of coloring the known facts with novelistic detail but by approaching the task with passionate partisanship. Stone regards Socrates not as the noble marble metaphysician of legend but as a right-wing apologist for those who had twice subverted Athenian democracy by military coups. He hates Socrates in much the way he must hate Pat Buchanan or Jerry Falwell--and philosophy has nothing to do with it. The animus Stone brings to bear is impressive, and the case he is able to construct seems watertight. I never have liked Socrates--and now I know why.
It has been said that a little blonde dish named Sonja Henie invented the winter Olympics. She won the gold medal in figure skating in 1928, 1932 and 1936. It has also been said that Sonja Henie tried to kill the winter Olympics by becoming a movie actress.
I was thumbing through some of my lover's Playboy issues and ran across your questions on the "fictitious" Venus butterfly of L.A. Law. Well, after reading a few of the responses, I realized that Venus butterfly was the perfect name for what I had been doing all these years with my lover. It not only requires instruction to perform, it requires mood. Here's how it happened: The motel room overlooked the slowly flowing river and my partner motioned toward the phone. I knew if I wanted it, I would have to make the call. I lifted the receiver and dialed room service: "Yes, I would like the peacock feathers out of the centerpiece in the main dining room, please. That's right, room 969." As we awaited the familiar knock on the door, my partner and I exchanged baited glances and began to undress. The bellboy would leave our request outside the room; we'd been here before. I took my position on the dresser, my bare back against the cold mirror, legs slightly bent and perched upon adjacent chairs. The anticipation was killing me. My nipples were growing hard and the tingling in my most sensitive place was beginning to hurt. The knock.
Sexually explicit comic books, written to inform readers about AIDS, have received some harsh words from Senator Jesse Helms for "not encoraging a change in that perverted behavior."He added,"I may throw up.
If you could poll some of the characters in Billy Crystal's repertoire for a joint assessment of their creator, the response might be something like this: "Tonight, friends, someone absolutely mahvelous and unbelieeewuble--and we mean that--Mr. I Hate When That Happens, Mr. Forget About It, Mr. Don't Get Me Started: Billy Crystal! Can you dig it?"
Pesto change-o! The day the Yuppies died, a joke began to circulate amid the rubble of Wall Street. It cheekily pointed out the difference between pigeons and young stock-brokers: A pigeon could still make a deposit on a BMW. This was come-Yuppance, providing perhaps the only grin on the otherwise ashen face of new fiscal reality. Indeed, some considered the market crash just deserts--sans cappuccino or something chocolate and flourless. It was the end of a soulless, self-involved era that canonized robber barons (Ivan Boesky) and clown potentates (Donald Trump), plagiarists (Joe Biden) and Kennedy impersonators (Gary Hart). It was a remorseless time driven by strident status seekers; call it the So Sue Me Decade.
[Q] You've theorized that American politics is cyclical--moving from conservatism to liberalism and back, decades at a time. If so, where are we now"? Will the Reagan Presidency give way to something like the Camelot days of the early Sixties? Are the times a-changin' once again?
It is a time for philosophy. Whenever there is a crisis, I call upon people who know history, who can perhaps see a light at the end of the tunnel and convince me that it isn't a freight train. Such a person is Henry the Red, whose nickname comes from the color of his former hair and who for many years has been in the maternity-dress business. The motto of his company is "You knock 'em, we frock 'em." The business runs itself, allowing Henry the Red to read books, indulge his hobbies and comment on the passing scene.
Never before has there been a wave of models as great as the ones we're seeing today," says photographer Peter Beard. "And Janice is just the greatest of them all." With plaudits like that, Janice Dickinson--whose face has launched half a thousand issues of Vogue, Cosmopolitan, Harper's Bazaar and practically every other fashion magazine in the Western world--might have been forgiven for becoming a stay-at-home, for sticking with the New York--London--Paris fashion axis that made her famous. Did she really need a grand Kenyan safari? She had conquered Vogue. She was that Cosmo girl whom the reader could only dream of being. Did she really need tsetse flies? A Brooklyn girl who reached the summit of her profession by dint of "hard work, the belief that I could do anything" and the "timeless beauty" she laughingly cites instead of giving her age, Janice could have settled cozily into the satin sheets of that world she knew best--bright lights, big cities, Blass menageries of designer duds and hourly wages that might make Don Mattingly blush. Instead, she took a flier. Before it was over, she had logged 14,000 frequent-flight miles, suffered some serious sunburn and endured several hundred insect bites--not exactly what she had anticipated at the outset. "There was an excitement to this that was unlike anything I'd ever done before," she recalls, "because it was Playboy, because it would take me to Africa, because I'd be working with Peter--I expected it to be the most unusual shoot I had ever done. And it was." She took the redeye to Nairobi (every flight to Nairobi is a redeye), a short distance from Beard's Hog Ranch near Kenya's Ngong Hills--a region made familiar to Westerners by Karen Blixen, who wrote under the pen name Isak Dinesen. Upon her arrival in Kenya, however, Janice's first thoughts were of getting Out of Africa. "It was not," she says, "the Club Med." Southern Kenya was, in fact, a vast wilderness dominated by wild beasts, strange sounds and men who killed without blinking an eye--much like New York but without hot-dog stands and Thai restaurants. Janice, a woman more at home in a limousine than in a mudencrusted Land-Rover, mentally itemized her luggage and realized she had forgotten to pack the necessities--things like matches, Pepto-Bismol and crocodile repellent. Here she was, a glamorous, worldly sophisticate in a land where Bazaar meant "a large tent where you haggle over used-camel prices." Nevertheless, there was no denying the grandeur of the place in which she suddenly found herself. This was the site of Karen Blixen and Denys Finch Hatton's love affair--and of their filmic reunion, played out by Meryl Streep and Robert Redford in the movie Out of Africa. It was a land both harsh and ineffably romantic. Life was simple in Kenya, where mosquito netting took the place of evening gowns, where animals you were accustomed to ogling in zoos might make dinner out of you. Janice Dickinson of Brooklyn, New York, gritted her teeth, stripped down to the bare essentials and set out to tame Africa.
Traditionally, men tend to play it conservatively--especially around the ankles. any flair is saved for the necktie, a splash of color in the pocket square or snappy-looking suspenders--when one feels expansive.
Jack Purse thought his father's plan to get his recently foreclosed farmland back by fighting his last pit bull was a sign the old man was losing his grip on things. No one was going to bet against a dog that always won. It was as simple as that.
If the lady beside that 1953 Chevy pickup (left) seems familiar, she probably is. You first saw Susie Owens as one of the nurses we featured in our November 1983 pictorial Women in White. She started working at 22 as a nurse in Oklahoma City hospitals, where in seven and a half years she went from delivery-room duty to cardiology and finally oncology--cancer care. Her appearance in Playboy caught the eyes of the producers of an Oklahoma City television sports-talk show, who invited her to host a five-minute segment devoted to health and fitness for women and men. As she says, "I was ready to get out of the illness part of health care and into the wellness area," so the show was the perfect remedy. Her TV stint sparked an idea that came to fruition a year later, right after she returned from a trip to Los Angeles, where she'd noticed that a large number of personal trainers actually made a decent living.
The Scottish sergeant major walked into the local pharmacy in full military dress. As the chemist approached, he pulled a torn and tattered piece of paper from his sporran and carefully unfolded it to reveal a perforated, used condom.
This country had a love affair last summer. Televised testimony held us riveted for several days in July, while a series of posters and magazines and video tapes and paperback books presented a new hero to the American people. Lieutenant Colonel Oliver L. North, United States Marine Corps, fascinated us with his handsome features and his sincere words and gestures.
Once Again, We've turned loose five of the best automotive journalits money can't buy--plus race-car driver and Playboy products spokesperson Kevin Cogan--to choose Best car in a variety of categories. Sure, we include Best Car to Impress Clients (its the Bentley Eight, pictured above), but we haven't forgotten that not everyone can afford heavy English metal, so you'll also find expert input on categories that mere mortals can relate to, such as Best Car to Tell Your Girlfriend to Buy. (No, the criteria did not inlude a comfortable back seal.) Some background information on expert panel follows.
There was no exchange of body fluids on the first date, and that suited both of us just fine. I picked her up at seven, took her to Mee Grop, where she meticulously separated each sliver of meat from her phat Thai, watched her down four bottles of Singha at three dollars per and then gently stroked her balsam-smelling hair while she snoozed through The Terminator at the Circle Shopping Center theater. We had a late-night drink at Rigoletto's Pizza Bar (and two slices, plain cheese), and I dropped her off. The moment we pulled up in front of her apartment, she had the door open. She turned to me with the long, elegant, mournful face of her Puritan ancestors and held out her hand.
How long has lingerie been around? It has certainly been around for quite a bit longer than Frederick's of Hollywood. Although lingerie as we know it today was actually invented in 1723 by a Parisian professor of art named Jean-Pierre Lingerie (pronounced Lan-zhe-ree, incidentally--not Lawn-zhe-ray, which refers to a form of lingerie, the grass underskirt, worn on Oahu), there are definite indications of a rudimentary type of lingerie in the Homo habilis fossils unearthed by anthropologist Louis Leakey at the Olduvai Gorge in Tanzania.
Most people know singer-songwriter Tom Waits as the poet of late-night metropolitan areas, the bard of smoky lounges and cue-ball moons. But lately, Waits has been experimenting, both on his past three albums, which have included songs nailed together from pieces of "found sound"--deafening jackhammers, sirens, strains of an Irish jig--and as an actor ("The Cotton Club," "Down by Law," "Ironweed"). Writer Steve Oney showed up at a favorite Waits hangout, a seedy café on the fringes of downtown L.A. "Waits, now 37, arrived looking wild-haired and mystic-eyed and dressed in a parson's black suit and tie," he reports. "He was insistent upon talking into a tape recorder for fear of being misquoted, but he began the conversation with the warning, 'I'm going to pull your string from time to time.' "
Democracy is a growth business." declares John Aristotle Phillips, 32, who ought to know. His Washington, D.C.--based company, Aristotle Industries, is the nation's first and largest political-campaign-software company; it stream-lines campaign chores such as fund raising, mailings and polling, and sells the programs at prices even a novice pol can afford. "We're making political technology available to anyone who wants to take part in the democratic process," explains Phillips. A tireless self-promoter, he unashamedly calls his company a "K mart for office seekers." (In addition to selling franchises, A.I. offers a frequent-buyer plan, with VCRs and cruises among the incentives.) Phillips is no stranger to notoriety--he was dubbed the "A-bomb kid" as a Princeton junior in 1976, when his research paper on how to build a nuclear bomb almost fell into Pakistani hands and triggered a diplomatic storm--but the 1988 campaigns should give him and his 11-year-old company plenty of attention. Already, more than 2000 winners and losers have bought the software, and current customers include Representative Richard Gephardt, Senator Lloyd Bentsen and ABC, which uses it to analyze candidates' financial backgrounds. Although Phillips himself undertook two unsuccessful Congressional campaigns (1980 and 1982) in Connecticut as a Democrat, he maintains a strictly nonpartisan stance when it comes to business. "After all," he reckons, "if we sold to only one side, we'd have to charge twice as much."
Forest Whitaker, a big bear of an actor with the softest voice, is still making his name in uniform. A veteran of Platoon, he's also appearing in this year's take on the war, Good Morning, Vietnam, a M*A*S*H-like dark comedy starring Robin Williams as an Armed Forces radio disc jockey. "I always wanted to do a project on Vietnam, the right project. When Platoon came along, I knew it was it," Whitaker says. "I think the war still needs to be understood." A product of the USC School of Drama, Whitaker, 26, hustled a memorable game of pool from Paul Newman in The Color of Money, played a detective in Stakeout and has learned the sax to play Charlie Parker in his upcoming film biography. "I don't mind if I play good guys or bad or crazy guys," Whitaker says, "as long as they have something to Say."
it's no wonder that Margaret Smith, 33, is known as the Emily Dickinson of comedy. She looks frail, frazzled and deadly serious, even on stage at a comedy club, where she mumbles sorry-sounding punch lines about her alienated social life and her crackpot family, "lt's that time of the month again," she sighs. "The rent's due." Her romantic life is terrible--"I'm always attracted to men I can't have. My first love was the guy on the dime"--but her career is going great. She's been on the HBO young comedians' special, has a role in the upcoming Vibes, with Jeff Goldblum, and has even learned talk-show etiquette (when David Letterman invited her to take a seat next to him on Late Night, she droned wearily, "No, thanks, I've been sitting all day"). Now there's even talk of a sitcom. But will success cost Smith her cynical edge? "Cynical?" she asks, sounding genuinely surprised. "Cynicism implies that you don't have any hope, and I could never preach that. I'm more like an idealist who gets let down all the time." --
When Andy Narell was eight years old, his father--a Jewish social worker on Manhattan's Lower East Side--began using steel drums as a lure to keep young gang members off the street. The instrument has a legacy that intrigued the disadvantaged youths--it had been created out of 55-gallon oil barrels by blacks in Trinidad in the late Thirties and Forties when oppressive British colonialists outlawed conga drums. But no one was more intrigued than young Narell himself, and now, at the age of 33, he's the acknowledged master--which makes him a major star in the Caribbean, where the drum is a national treasure. "I can't even get through customs without being recognized," he boasts. "I walk down the street and people call out my name." Now that he's recording with Wind-ham Hill, the company that has cornered the market on New Age music, Narell may get similar acclaim from stressed-out Yuppies. But that doesn't put him in the New Age slot. "It's a delicate subject," he admits. "My music is for stimulating, not meditating. This whole New Age thing is just a name for a bunch of people they couldn't find a category for."
"A lot of actresses stop getting roles when they turn 40," complains Julie Carmen, "and I'm not the type to live on a scrapbook." So Carmen is preparing an unusual fallback career, as a psychoanalyst. Currently in her fourth year of training, she also plans to nail down a Ph.D., which hasn't intimidated casting directors: Carmen, 29, has just finished her biggest role to date, as the fiery, sharp-tongued female lead in Robert Redford's long-awaited The Milagro Bean-field War, to be followed by that of a lusty peasant opposite Raul Julia in The Penitent. With a very mixed heritage, Carmen isn't worried about being stereotyped as a Hispanic. "I don't accept Chiquita Banana roles," she insists. "Milagro doesn't have any derivative characters; they're all unique, whole human beings. I think it will help do what La Bamba has already started--bust open the door for Hispanic projects." That boom will no doubt mean more work for Carmen, but she isn't giving up her psychoanalytic training. "In that profession, the older you are, the better you get. That's not always the case with acting."
Traveling bars, flasks and other appurtenances for the executive road warrior provide not only sustenance for the journey but also a sense of panache upon arrival. Why hunker down in a hotel bar when you can relax with a snifter of your house call and a hot bath before heading out on the town? Remember that drink accessories, both contemporary and antique, have as much style and grace as today's luggage--they boast rich leathers with flashes of stainless steel and sterling silver that mix well with glass flasks and shiny jiggers. Whichever your favorite one for the road, from a flask walking stick to a leather-cased bar, such elegant accessories definitely make traveling easier.
The Pentax SF1, pictured here with the SMCP-F 35-70mm zoom lens, is the first autofocus SLR camera to incorporate built-in flash with motor drive. A beep tone signals when the focus is right and a large LCD readout panel monitors the camera's functions, eliminating guesswork. SF1 body and 35-70 lens, $500.
"Will the real Michael Jordan please jump up?"--If the bulls' superstar couldn't make a living on the basketball court, he could do it on the golf course supposing he needed money, that is. profile by Michael Kiefer