Welcome to the May Playboy. It's fair weather and we're greased and ready. But not because we've been following Jane "work that butt!" Fonda or Arnold "pump up the volume" Schwarzenegger. Nope, this month, we have a new workout guru--William Barry Furlong, whose article The Fitness Myth warns against mindless exercise and tabulates its dire physical costs. After examining the inglorious fates of a few famous athletes, including the celebrated marathoner Jim Fixx, Furlong says that enough is enough. He checked with doctors and fitness experts at human-performance labs around the country and found that many of them believe that in working out, less can be more. If you're sweating just to feel the rush, Furlong tells you how to feel good faster. And our Minimum Maintenance chart, which accompanies the article, will help you choose what to do and how much to do it. Just remember, this is the age of easy does it.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), May 1988, Volume 35, Number 5. Published Monthly by Playboy, 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.
Because times have changed, audiences will see considerably more of Rebecca De Mornay in Roger Vadim's And God Created Woman (Vestron) than they saw of Brigitte Bardot in his 1956 film with the same title. Little else is the same. While the original picture thrust Bardot into orbit as a world-class sex symbol and established Vadim as a connoisseur of blonde goddesses, it's a safe bet that De Mornay with all her clothes off won't have half the impact of BB loosely wrapped in a bed sheet. Vadim's entirely rehashed new Woman is a wily vixen who gets paroled from prison after balling a blue-collar workman (Vincent Spano) behind bars, then paying him $5000 to marry her. Not quite ready for domesticity in the desert, she starts up a rock band and performs carnal acts off stage with a gubernatorial candidate (Frank Langella). Recycled and undressed, trash is trash in any era. De Mornay's competent but somewhat uneasy performance clearly suggests that she prefers singing to seduction; she was a far feistier bimbo when conducting Risky Business with Tom Cruise. [rating]2 bunnies[/rating]
During His Run as a Righteous Brother, singer Bill Medley took home a lot of hit records and left us with a new popmusic genre: blue-eyed soul. Currently coming off the hit single "(I've Had) The Time of My Life" with Jennifer Warnes, Medley is preparing an LP of new material for release this year. We asked him to audit the latest vinyl by another famous duo, Eurythmics.
It's not the motion, it's the meat department: Ted Nugent is looking for investors for an L.A. restaurant he wants to open called Red Meat. The Nuge says his idea is meant as "a slap in the face to the ridiculous notion of spa cuisine and the growing problem of vegetarians in our culture." His latest album is If You Can't Lick 'Em, Lick 'Em.
As He Grows Older, John Updike gets funnier. S. (Knopf), his latest and most hilarious novel, is almost Wodehousian in the offhanded and inoffensive breeziness of its satire, but you'd have to go back to Petronius for a comparison to the amoral joie devivre of his ribaldry. This book completes a trilogy, retelling The Scarlet Letter in modern dress from the three points of the adulterous triangle (unless there is still a novel to come from the point of view of Hester's bastard daughter, Pearl), but don't let that deter you from enjoying a story whose relationship to Hawthorne's original is about that of a third cousin's. Sarah Worth (the S. of the title) tells most of the story in a series of letters and tapes, the first to her husband, a wealthy doctor, as she flies West with half his earthly goods that she has raided from their joint accounts. In Arizona, she joins a commune that bears a morethan-coincidental resemblance to Oregon's scandal-ridden Rajneeshpuram (Updike gives due credit to Cities on a Hill, Frances FitzGerald's vivid account of that Utopian summer camp that so quickly and famously metamorphosed into a Dachau for New Age types; few novels have ever owed so large a debt to a single work of nonfiction). There, she climbs a social ladder whose rungs are the beds of the disciples of the Arhat, a guru who has had the marketing genius to package sexual freedom in the trappings of Hindu mysticism and sell it to refugees from WASP respectability. Sarah proves an equal match for the Arhat, both in bed and in her ability to taunt and bamboozle the commune's enemies and its dupes with Hindu double talk. And she's more than his match in dishonesty, for as soon as she has a chance, she is skimming hundreds of thousands of dollars from the commune's Treasury of Enlightenment. American literature (which surely is the territory in which Updike now operates) has few heroines to rival Sarah Worth for sheer feckless, unregenerate criminality; but that never dampens her intelligence, sense of humor or charm. One can only hope that, like Updike's Rabbit and Bech, she will be back after the age has accumulated enough new follies to merit her merry chastisements.
Women lie all the time about their sexuality," Maria said. "They aren't honest about it. You guys get caught in the middle of feminine hypocrisy. You're so busy acknowledging your own lechery that you forget to look at ours. And most of us pretend ours isn't there. Get it?"
Normally, Brendan is mild-mannered, the soul of consideration. But when we rented some hard-core pornography, he became a monster. I stood with him in the video store, dead with embarrassment, while he went raging through the tapes and barking orders. "Hold this," he said, "and this, and this!" And pretty soon I was clutching a tower of filth. He narrowed the booty down to three tapes and made me go rent them. I had to say "Dickman and Throbbin" out loud to another human being. Loud enough for the gay guys renting Rear Entry and everyone else to hear.
In response to the contest asking to describe an act of room-service sex (The Playboy Advisor, December), I offer the following: My wife and I were in Cincinnati for the world figure-skating championships, and our accommodations were very comfortable. After a satisfying dinner and a nice bottle of wine, already brought to us by room service, we relaxed on the sofa to some soft music. As I embraced her, she ran her fingers gently through my hair. Then she whispered, "Call room service for the Alka-Seltzer." She must have read my mind. I called instantly for the old plop-plop-fizz-fizz! Room service arrived with the little gems and my wife became quite aroused. We both knew what lay ahead and did not waste time. After we undressed each other, we engaged in some erotic kissing, licking and some heavy petting. Then she whispered in my ear, "Is it time?" I said, "Yes, it's time." I took an Alka-Seltzer, broke it in half and inserted it into her wet pussy. It started to fizz, sending her body into helpless waves of ecstasy. I entered her and soon we both exploded in orgasm! Needless to say, we used up every bit of the remaining Alka-Seltzer. I wonder if they know what they actually have. Thanks, Speedy!--M. V., Akron, Ohio.
Obscenity is in the eye of the beholder, and when the eye of the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms beheld the bare-breasted woman adorning this wine label, it declared it obscene and prohibited the wine from being sold in the U.S.
On November 10, 1987, in a United States courtroom in Alexandria, Virginia, Dennis and Barbara Pryba were found guilty of racketeering under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations statute. Their business property was seized; they faced a combined sentence of 95 years in prison and $785,000 in fines.
As the Pryba case ground to a close, President Reagan announced a new offensive against obscenity, sending to Congress a 106-page Child Protection and Obscenity Enforcement Act. "This Administration is putting the purveyors of illegal obscenity and child pornography on notice. Your industry's days are numbered.... Isn't it about time we removed the profit motive from activities that are sick and obscene?"
If you're like me, you want to know who you are, why you're here and where you're going when you leave. And your personal spiritual odyssey in this new age of televangelists, trance channeling and celebrity gurus has taken you down some dead ends.
Humility, thy name is not Don King. As quiet as a 21-gun salute, as modest as George Patton, King is a character of both epic proportions (he's 6'4" tall and weighs well over 250 pounds) and epic pronouncements. "My life," he once said, "is a living testimony and is an incongruity and a contradiction to what America has hitherto asked for success." If that isn't clear, at least this is: Asked what he fears most in life, King unhesitatingly replied, "The repo man." Despite his success as a kind of latter-day, shock-haired P. T. Barnum, King is not a victim of hubris. Just ask him. "I am one of the masses, not the classes," he says. "I have exemplified Rudyard Kipling when he said you can walk with kings and yet keep the common touch. I've not lost my sense of balance. My equilibrium is impeccable."
"All Right, this is the way I picture it: We're in a busy midtown brass-and-fern bar, OK? Table on the sidewalk, umbrella says Cinzano on it, we'll see. Two women poking at salads, glasses of white wine. They're dressed very nice, expensive but not flashy, they pay attention to details, they accessorize, know what I mean? One's older, see, she's the mother, though you don't see the age difference. They could be sisters. Both blondes. The older one's got kind of a suit on, she's the dynamic woman on the go. The daughter sort of mirrors that, a subtle thing, nice blouse that says she's shopping the right stores, and she's never more than fifteen minutes out of style. This is like 'Beauty Hints of the Idle Rich' or something.
If and when I break into films," Denise Crosby told us back in March 1979, when she first appeared on these pages, "I'd like to capture the elegance of Dietrich and Garbo, but in a contemporary way." And what could be more contemporary than Crosby's current role as Security Chief Tasha Yar in TV's hot new syndicated series Star Trek: The Next Generation?
In the Rich, winy days of heretofore, when the measure of envied achievement passed from Schweitzer to Schwarzenegger, the best that could be said of exercise was that it wouldn't affect your mind. Today, you'd better hope that it does.
If you, like us, think that staying in shape need be neither grueling nor ruinously time-consuming, we have good news. It doesn't have to be. Fitness is a lifestyle decision. Forget those articles that require that you burn 2000 calories doing the butterfly--or the effort is wasted. At every level of effort, there's a benefit. The accompanying chart, prepared with the help of experts in the fitness field, invites you to select your goal and then outlines the minimum maintenance required. We start with Basic Fitness. The goal? To minimize the risk of heart attack and injury without strenuous exercise. At this level, your physician is your partner. Begin with a complete checkup. Recreational. This level prepares you to play weekend sports in suitable shape, to be fit for running to catch a bus, vacation sports. Lifestyle. The goal here is a top level of cardiovascular conditioning; to benefit from the high that can accompany rigorous sports activity. Competitive. With this, you can be gratified that you're in the best shape, for your age, that you can be. You will notice that each level builds on the previous one; approach your plan for fitness that way. Move ahead gradually as you step up. Educate yourself. And, above all, determine first what you want from fitness.
General motors chairman Roger B. Smith once lost his composure over a raw egg. He witnessed a demonstration of a new touch-sensitive robot, which picked up an egg with its mechanical fingers and handed it to him without cracking the brittle shell. The chairman became almost giddy with excitement and for days waxed eloquent to anyone who would listen about the technological miracle. The egg clearly held the embryo of Smith's corporate rebirth.
Helmut Newton is known for high-fashion photography that conveys surprise, a sense of the edge. In the past, he has shown models posed enigmatically with mannequins, saddles and riding crops. Put something compelling, something startling, in the center of a picture, and you strip away the polite façade. You say, This is serious.
Ralph and I met at the Kentucky Derby in 1970, and it took me about 14 seconds to spot the Jekyll-and-Hyde quality in him. He looked straight, but I knew he wasn't. I don't think I'd even seen his work--maybe he sketched a little--but I recognized the fiend in him immediately...that dark whistling sound that comes with the shock of recognition. Here was this kinky fucking Welshman, first time in the United States, and I could tell just from talking with him that the way he saw things was unique, original, hopelessly twisted. He didn't know a fucking thing about the Derby. I'm from Louisville, so I knew all about that shit, and his perceptions convinced me right away that I had found a true monster, a man who would gnaw the ears off children. We understood each other.
Diana Lee is the sort of woman who pursues her goals with passion. Always has. When she was six years old, she climbed her first piano bench and tackled classical music. Next, she took up the flute and was soloing with the Seattle Philharmonic while her fellow seventh graders were still tootling in the school band. At 17, accompanied by the Seattle Symphony Orchestra, she played Mozart's Concerto Number Two in D. "I also ran track and joined the gymnastics team at school--it wasn't as if I skipped all the things other kids did," she says, "but I was always drawn to the self-expression of music and dance." Diana's Chinese immigrant parents endowed her with a work ethic, which she applied to honing her own talents. At the State University of New York at Purchase, where she went to major in music, she became entranced by modern dance, but an instructor told her she was too old to consider that career. Dancers, like tennis players and musical prodigies, start young. "I took that as a challenge," she says, "and made dance my passion." She saw a performance by a dance troupe from the University of Utah, fell in love with the "unaffected grace" of the dancers, packed up and followed them back to Utah.
John found himself amid a crush of excited people as he entered Gary Hart's national campaign headquarters. He started to fight his way to the front of the crowd, when he recognized a coworker. "What's going on?" he asked.
"Ah, Brother Shoate," Dennis Carnes said in the crowded concourse outside the district courtrooms, "and what brings you out at this ungodly hour to this din of inequity? Dressed up like a regular bandleader--as usual, I might add." Teenagers in jeans and tank tops jostled one another in the line outside the probation office while they waited to state their names and addresses for the later purpose of the judge's setting bail. Aloof from them and sneering stood five men in their middle 20s, their hair long and greasy, their leather vests studded and carrying insignia consisting of a grinning red Devil carrying a naked blonde woman and the legend Satan's Apostles. As far away as possible from both groups, and self-consciously apart from each other, were two teenaged girls and four men in their late 30s wearing suits, shirts and ties.
Robert Crane caught up with the effervescent Teri Garr at her office in Los Angeles. He reports, "Teri is as pretty, funny and full of doubt in person as she is on the big screen. Angst could easily be her middle name. A dancer in nine Elvis Presley movies, Garr prominently displayed her fabulous legs while wearing a business suit straight out of 'Mr. Mom.' In case you were wondering, she doesn't enjoy being asked what it's like to be David Letterman's girlfriend."
Ever since our old friend prehistoric man crept guiltily back to the family cave with a telltale smudge of woad on his hairy cheek and a slightly dented club, the world has been full of masculine mischief. And despite occasional deterrents, such as late-night television, things seem to be getting worse rather than better--particularly when man reaches those golden years of common sense and maturity that come between hot-blooded youth and harmless dotage. Students of sociology are always trying to explain why it is that men who are old enough to know better are constantly being caught, figuratively and sometimes literally, with their trousers down. No section of society is immune: cabinet ministers and vicars, plumbers and milkmen, schoolmasters and longdistance lorry drivers--they're all at it, providing the News of the Screws with endless material. The explanations put forward by learned observers of this continuing phenomenon vary from a desperate attempt to recapture the joys of young manhood to a charitable urge to take wayward girls in hand, but these are merely symptoms of a more fundamental conflict.
Dale Murphy is mine. This may be news to Nancy Murphy, the slugger's wife, but she doesn't love him like I do. Does she kiss his replays? When the Atlanta Braves' cleanup hitter muscles a moon shot, I pound my chest, do a little Murphmaster non compos mentis boogaloo and perform frottage on the TV.
In April 1984, Kathy Shower made her debut on our cover. A year later, our April Shower became Miss May, and during her reign as Playboy's Playmate of the Year 1986, she co-starred on TV's Santa Barbara. Last year, she shot up the big screen in Commando Squad; this year brings a new action flick, The Further Adventures of Tennessee Buck, and a wild comedy, Frankenstein General Hospital, in which Kathy stars as "Dr. Alice Singleton, shrink." Before she flew to Africa to shoot her fourth movie, Pray to the Moon, we persuaded her to stop off in Jamaica to relax and refresh the memories of Playboy readers who first fell in love with her four years ago. When we first met her, Kathy's acting career had been limited to commercials, TV bit parts (sometimes it seemed to her that she specialized in falling out of moving cars) and a role in a Broadway show she demurely called The Best Little Blankhouse in Texas. Now that her vehicular-vixen days are over, Kathy steers clear of the fast lane. In Ocho Rios, she idles in a cool Caribbean breeze. Kathy can't sit still for long. Faster than you can say piña colada, she takes a walk off the end of a short pier, dives into the crystalline waters of Ocho Rios and emerges, gleaming, looking like Venus in a mythic wet-T contest. Soon she will be 5000 miles from here, starting a series of 14-hour days on location in South Africa. For now, she is content to while away the day working on an allover tan. Kathy may hate to waste time, but on this trip, she's willing to let the day ebb. By nightfall, she will be stretched out on the sand, contemplating the setting sun--and memorizing her lines.
It May not have been the number-one box-office draw of 1987 (Eddie Murphy's Beverly Hills Cop II topped the charts), but it was the film most likely to be discussed over lunelt, dinner or bedtime snack. Fatal Attraction coupled hot sex and sudden death and earned $129,400,000 by the end of the year. It was known as the AIDS movie, because it put in human form the consequences of casual sex, it embodied the message that has been screamed in headlines for the past few years. Have sex and die. Hollywood had been criticized for showing carefree lust. Now it would still show sex, but there would be responsible, cautionary, fear-mongering counselors around the canipfire. In short, the industry would take the sure-fire success formula of the teen slasher movies and repackage it for adults. The moral logic of those movies is familiar: You always know who Freddy (left) or Jason (below middle) will go after--the first girl to show a nipple dies. The first couple to make out ends up as chowder. Only the virgin survives. In 1987, the message was, if you have sex, maybe even your whole family dies. We're talking boiled buny. Hollywood hadn't made movies like that for adults in years, not since Jessica Walter threatened Clint Eastwood's love life (Donna Mills) in Play Misty for me (below). Ah, remember the good old days, when all of us were single and the only thing we had to worry about were psychopaths with butcher knives?
No one would ever accuse Matt Groening, 34, of being a great artist, but his crudely drawn, angst-filled characters--notably rabbits named Binky Bongo and Sheba--have made him, and his Life in Hell comic strip, a favorite of malcontent Yuppies and disaffected collegians. Groening (rhymes with complaining) syndicates his strip to 60 newspapers and has published three collections: Work Is Hell, School Is Hell and Love Is Hell. The last of these includes the nine types of girlfriends, from Ms. Nice Guy ("Tickets to the boxing match? Oh, darling, you shouldn't have") to the Woman from Mars ("I believe this interpretive dance will explain how I feel about our relationship"). "The frivolity of drawing rabbits can get to me,"Groening admits. "That's why I hope to write something that will be taken a little seriously."
Not every up-and-coming actress can hit Sean Connery square in the forehead with a dinner roll and live to tell about it. Virginia Madsen did. The 25-year-old Chicago-born actress, who co-starred in Slam Dance, Hot to Trot and Mr. North, was having dinner at the free-for-all Le Pirate in the south of France. "The place looks like a shipwreck and you're allowed to throw food and dishes," she explains, "and Connery was sitting in the dead center of this insanity. No one would dare throw anything at him. I finally threw a roll, and he raised one finger, shook his head no and went back to eating. He was as clean and as handsome when he left as when he walked in." At home, Madsen likes to play hostess, especially at daylong Sunday brunches for her Brat Pack chums. "Those guys are great," she claims. "They haven't been vicious and abusive and they haven't been boring to be around." Her L.A. apartment, however, is no Animal House. "I love to clean and cook," she admits. "It surprises people that I am so domestic, because I tend to be one of the boys."
Had a TV producer been paying closer attention, Bruce Greenwood, 31, might still be belting out Bruce Springsteen covers as lead singer of a Canadian bar band. "I got my first big break because a producer came up to me and said, 'Hey, I loved you in First Blood,'" recalls Greenwood. Greenwood was in the movie, all right, but for only two seconds as an extra. "The guy mistook me for someone else," he laughs. That mistake took him to Hollywood and Eventually landed him the heart-throb-in-resi-dence slot on St. Elsewhere. Like Mark Harmon before him, Greenwood has discovered that the show is a natural step-pingstone, with offers pouring in for both films and series since the St. Elsewhere producers called it quits. Right now, the idea of doing a movie intrigues him most, but he has learned to be philosophical about the process of getting a job, including his breakthrough television role. "I just happened to be the last actor auditioning for the part who didn't fall through the screen."
Danny Goldberg's day job involves managing such acts as Don Johnson and Belinda Carlisle (formerly of the Go-Go's) and putting together sound tracks for movies and TV shows (he was behind both the Miami Vice and Romancing the Stone albums). At the age of 38, he has been in the music business half his life. And he's smack in the middle of the age group he's shooting for with his newest venture, Gold Castle Records, an exercise in nostalgia that he swears isn't nostalgic in the least. Gold Castle's roster includes three of the biggest names from the great folk-music scene of the Sixties--Peter, Paul and Mary, Judy Collins and Joan Baez, three acts that have been without recording contracts for much of this decade. Goldberg is gambling on his hunch that there's a massive demographic group that has aged along with the folkies--a graying baby-boomer generation that is far more comfortable with acoustic guitars than with the Beastie Boys. "If this were a nostalgia label, we'd put out old songs," points out Goldberg. "We're not releasing any old songs at all." So far, his instincts have paid off, and Gold Castle has tapped an audience the larger labels ignored. "Most people don't want to think their best years are behind them. Peter, Paul and Mary aren't trying to look like they're still 18; they accept who they are," he says. "I don't think we're carrying on a flame--I think we're lighting a new one."
As the owner of two of the hottest comedy clubs in the country, Caroline Hirsch hears a lot of jokes, but her favorite didn't come from the likes of Steven Wright, Sam Kinison or Pee-wee Herman--it came from competitors who thought her idea of a sophisticated comedy club on a low-rent block in Manhattan would never succeed. "We proved that if you have the right product, people will go anywhere for it," says the 37-year-old Hirsch, who opened Caroline's in 1982. As a cabaret, the club sputtered, but once Hirsch started booking comics, it became one of the top venues in the country for both new and established talent. Five years later--with more financial backing from her computer-tycoon husband Neil--she opened a second Caroline's in the downtown South Street Seaport and once again had a good punch line for those who thought it couldn't be done. "Comedy is just getting bigger and bigger," says Hirsch, who still greets customers most nights. Business is so good. Hirsch is branching out, producing an up-and-coming comics show for the home-video market and preparing a cable special. Caroline's All-Stars, featuring her family of regulars. "Never in a million years did I think I'd be doing this, but it really is a lot of fun. I can sit in the club night after night and hear the same jokes and they just get better."
With a return to the great white way of classic tennis sweaters and shorts comes a reappreciation of that stalwart staple of the courts--the white tennis shoe. Styles in rainbow hues and ninja black are fun footwear looks, to be sure; but this year, white's right when it comes to tennies, and, better still, the rulebook on how or with what you can wear them has been all but tossed out: with socks or sockless; with shorts or sports pants; or, of course, casually coupled with your favorite pair of jeans. (Is there any better way to unwind?) One caveat: Don't match your belt with your white shoes unless you're on your way to a chicken breeders' convention in Keokuk.
"Vietnam Love Story"--A hero of the saigon evacuation sets sail in an 18 1/2foot boat to rescue the woman he left behind, only to land in jail. finally, They're reunited, with a little help from us--by Robert Schwab