Are you tired of seeing the same old faces on the Presidential-campaign trail, Bunky? And after months of looking at those guys, do you see them all kind of blended together in an indistinguishable mass of teeth and handshakes? Well, then, you have the bug that seems to go around every four years: the election blahs. Not to worry. We have the cure. It's Lewis Grossberger'sThe Composite Candidate (illustrated by Steve Brodner), an artful satire based on the premise that while a whole is generally greater than the sum of its parts, the opposite may be true when it comes to politicians. Then again, if you don't like anything about any of the candidates, Kevin Cook offers a few timely alternatives in Let's Get Tough!, a guide to men and women on whom we can depend, if we elect them, to win re-election the hard way: They'll earn it.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), June 1988, Volume 35, Number 6. 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.
Energy and exuberance must be bursting from her genes. That would explain why Carrie Hamilton, who is Carol Burnett's daughter, galvanizes her feature-film debut in Tokyo Pop (Spectrafilm) into a one-gamine spectacular. Granted, she has a talented co-star in Yutaka Tadokoro, a dynamo on a roll in the world of Japanese rock. But Hamilton, boyishly bobbed and blonde and making music that seems to well up like laughter, takes charge of an otherwise unexceptional rock-to-riches saga. The once famously wayward teenager (now collaborating with her mom on a book about her battle with drugs) has clearly evolved into a seasoned pro. After picking Carrie, co-author and director Fran Rubel Kuzui's second-best idea was to set this East-meets-West romance in Japan, where a punkish singer named Wendy goes to look for adventure, experience and stardom. She finds all three with a rocker named Hiro but has to come back home to really find herself. Got it? Don't sweat it. Tokyo Pop offers lots of amusing, exotic local color to glitz up its clichés, while Hamilton blithely carries the show.[rating]3 bunnies[/rating]
Talk about irony. Guess who's playing the plum title role in Patty Hearst, director Paul (Taxi Driver) Schrader's upcoming drama about the American heiress kidnaped by radical militants? None other than British-born Natasha Richardson, daughter of outspoken leftist Vanessa Redgrave. Natasha (her father is director Tony Richardson) doesn't share her mother's political views, but she's potentially just as talented an actress. "Paul saw me in Ken Russell's Gothic and got the idea," she says between transatlantic hops for some final chores on the psychological thriller shot in the San Francisco Bay Area, where Hearst was abducted by the Symbionese Liberation Army. "Patty wrote about 12 pages of notes on the script, which were quite helpful. Making the movie," says Natasha, "was a very harrowing experience for me as an actress, living what she went through. But I, at least, got to go home at night."
Gloria Estefan and Miami Sound Machine hit big with the international Spanish-speaking audience 11 albums ago. Since then, they've conquered North American pop with such hits as "Bad Boy" and "Can't Stay Away from You." Singer-songwriter Estefan clearly enjoys trying uncharted territory, and that's why she reviewed David Lee Roth's "Skyscraper" (Warner).
Tell it like it is department: When the Housemartins split up this past winter, we got what must be the most honest press release we've ever seen. Said their label, Go! Discs, "The band genuinely feel that they have taken things as far as they can without managing to break through the 'quite good' barrier." We'll really keep our eye out for those guys in the future.
Pico Iyer Set off to tour the East—Bali, Tibet, Nepal, China, the Philippines, Burma, Hong Kong, India, Thailand and Japan—and to find how American culture had seeped into those far—and somehow not-so-far—away places. In Video Night in Kathmandu (Knopf), he loads up the striking, sometimes hilarious contradictions that obtain in lands where the natives have adapted aspects of American culture whimsically and sometimes nonsensically. A kid who is likely to shout "Yankee go home" is also likely to be wearing a Springsteen Born in the U.S.A. T-shirt while doing so; a transvestite in Singapore, asked to name the best restaurant in a town celebrated for its combination of Chinese, Indian and Malaysian delicacies, answers, without hesitation, "Denny's." The Third World responds well to the images and cultural icons of the First World. But Iyer sees that when Westerners invade little pieces of paradise, their conquest is devastating: a kind of Coca-colonizing. Video Night in Kathmandu is an entertaining guide to places most of us won't ever see and a reminder that we may not be able to investigate a culture without changing it. Forever.
First things first: They are always trying to frighten us. Take that as a given. No news affects us more deeply than news about our health and longevity. The media lean on that fact in all seasons. What better way to get us to read the newspapers, buy the magazines, watch the TV reports, than to try to scare us? "You might die any day now from this disease we're telling you about," they say, "but if you listen to us, there's a chance—just a chance—you'll be OK." It's great for ad sales and ratings, not so great for us.
First, we all had to have a hundred cups of coffee. Then we had to admire Erin's sweater. Then we had to have a boy (my son) connect the VCR. Then we had to decide how many of us had P.M.S. (two). Then we had to tell how many of us were estranged from our boyfriends (too many). Then we had to have my son start the VCR. Then we started to scream.
Every day, we read another story of how the AIDS scare has changed dating behavior. Are there any real statistics to show this change? Most of my friends, while saying they are more cautious, seem to be doing the same as a few years ago. Forget the headlines. Can you tell us what's really going on?—W. F., Boston, Massachusetts.
The Reagan Administration recently proposed legislation titled the Child Protection and Obscenity Enforcement Act of 1988. President Reagan rounded up Representative William Hughes of New Jersey and Senator Strom Thurmond of South Carolina to introduce the bill to Congress.
"Margaret Sanger, the founder of Planned Parenthood, was an advocate of what was called eugenics. She and her disciples wanted to sterilize blacks, Jews, mental defectives and fundamentalist Christians. I certainly don't favor getting myself sterilized. And I certainly don't favor the programs of the Nazis. But some of her literature undergirded the genetic experiments of Adolf Hitler. The long-range goal of Planned Parenthood ... in my estimation, is to provide a master race.
In 1913, an organization from Los Angeles set up two tents on a small plot of land in Duarte, California. A fledgling medical center was born. Its purpose was to help people with the incurable disease of tuberculosis.
Was Jimmy Swaggart a self-righteous hypocrite? Or was he the victim of sexual repression? Playboy has long argued that repressive attitudes toward sex cause harmful behavior. The writings of Jimmy Swaggart reveal a mind-set that all but guaranteed a liaison with a prostitute in a cheap motel. His philosophy blames television, counseling, movies, pornography, the Devil and masturbation and never once allows for individual responsibility. Here is a man with a tortured soul and a Teflon conscience.
In 1983, Cathy Kuhlmeier, a Hazel-wood, Missouri, high school student and editor of the school paper, picked up the May 13 issue of Spectrum and found two of the six pages missing. It took some investigation before she identified principal Robert Reynolds as the person who had killed two articles before the paper went to press. What did he kill? Stories about teenage pregnancy and the impact of divorce on Hazelwood students.
More than a decade ago, when NBC's "Saturday Night Live" was still being regarded as anything from "sophomoric" to "subversive," one of the cast's resident loonies took it upon himself to make his presence on the show even more bizarre. "Good evening," he began his weekly mock-newscast segment, "I'm Chevy Chase, and you're not." Then, with the slightly off sobriety of a Dan Rather on acid, he would deliver a smug, hip rundown of the week's top news stories.
She May look like the queen of camp, but don't let the far-out threads fool you. Phoebe Légère is a pulchritudinous pop-rock phenomenon who presents herself gaudily gift-wrapped in a style she likes to call "my insane-Pilgrim look." The Pilgrim reference is well taken, because Phoebe, a Mayflower descendant and Vassar graduate who studied piano at the New England Conservatory of Music, has already become a demilegend among the night people of New York's downtown underground cultural scene. She rocks, she shocks, she shakes the rafters playing piano, accordion or hot-pink guitar. And she sings—with a pure, remarkable four-and-a-half-octave range that makes Madonna sound tone-deaf. There's no reason to suspect that the sultry blonde Légère preening in those ads for Amaretto liqueur is a bombshell of talent as well, yet Phoebe has wowed audiences from Manhattan's Carnegie Recital Hall and the trendy Tramps to the Hilton Hotel in Nairobi. Backed by her band, Blond Fox, she's currently steaming up movie screens in Mondo New York, a celebration of the bad and beautiful downtown entertainment world, where drag queens, perverts, nudists, masochists, rap singers and legitimate performing artists mingle. Phoebe's show-stopper is Marilyn Monroe, her own composition, released as a single by Great Jones Records and inspired by a dream she had after watching Some Like It Hot on TV. But let Phoebe tell it: "In my dream, I was swimming with Marilyn, and she sang a lovely song in my ear.... I woke up, and as the sun came over the hill, I wrote the song." Fanciful, maybe. Typical, also, of the pearls issuing from the painted crimson lips of a free spirit whose life literally began with a bang. "I was born on July 4, 1961, in Lexington, Massachusetts. Légère is my real name, and I am obsessed with music and beauty; can't you tell?" She paints, sketches, designs erotic lingerie, undaunted by any art form. Says Phoebe, "I never met an art I didn't like." Phoebe credits Vassar for outfitting her with aplomb as an articulate sex symbol who can rattle on about the works of Plato, Kant, Darwin and Count Basie without missing a beat. "The art director who does the Amaretto ads fell in love with me from a song I sang, Sex Object, which I had written as part of a performance spectacular called Folies Légère. That I describe as total art synthesis. I had with me the tallest, most beautiful nubile women I could find, all undulating through the creation myth. I took the audience through five billion years of earth's history in half an hour.... Well, of course, you put Darwinism together with high-fashion tits and atonal music, you have the makings of a big flop. Everybody hated it." Except the art director from Amaretto. Nowadays, her mixed reviews are more often mixed (text concluded on page 132)Mondo Phoebe(continued from page 75) with superlatives calling her fabulous, charismatic, extraordinary and comparable to Edith Piaf. She has also been labeled "the Mae West of rock and roll," and one critic rhapsodized that Phoebe's act combines "the virtuosity of Jascha Heifetz with the showmanship of Lucille Ball." Still with us? The air gets heady up here in the glowing ionosphere of showbiz hype.
Election 1988 is nearly upon us, with its challenge to choose a President of bold vision, courage and leadership, a challenge that will be rendered even more difficult than usual by an appalling field of candidates.
It takes approximately two seconds for Olympic gold medalist Greg Louganis to go off the deep end. The time he spends airborne may be golden in the eyes of his fans, but hitting the water at 35 miles per hour off the ten-meter (33 feet) board still "hurts some," Louganis confided in an awshucks-it's-no-big-deal-to-do-this-50-to-80-times-a-day kind of way. Now 28, Louganis, of course, was the diving darling of the 1984 Olympic Summer Games in Los Angeles, where he picked up two gold medals while redefining the expression personal best. Other accolades: a silver medal in 1976 (when he was 16 years old), five world championships, 21 world titles in three-meter springboard diving and 26 world titles in ten-meter platform diving. Plus, he is the only diver to score a perfect ten in national and international competition. A singular accomplishment.
Around the World in Eighty Days is a book Emily Arth has read. And it's a book she has lived. OK, it took her more than 80 days to see the world, but she did it, nonetheless: Japan, the Philippines, Hong Kong, Indonesia, Mexico, Germany, Czechoslovakia, Saipan, France, Hungary, Switzerland, Haiti and Kenya are only some of the fantasy lands she has visited. The daughter of a man who has held jobs all over the world, Emily had ample opportunity to travel—and she grabbed every chance. She has explored places as disparate as Bali ("an island paradise"), Salzburg, Austria ("I went there for the music"), and Nairobi, Kenya ("It's so different, it's like everything in Out of Africa and more. It's one of my favorite places").
On April 10, 1985, Robert Schwab left Subic Bay in the Philippines in a small sailboat. His destination was Vietnam, and his goal was to win the release of his Vietnamese fiancée, from whom he had been separated during the fall of Saigon ten years earlier.
A generation ago, we thrilled to the sight of the NBC peacock unfolding on a 21-inch color TV set and marveled at the sonic sock that stereo brought to our hi-fi systems. If we adjust yesteryear's dollar to what's left of today's buck, that vintage video cost as much as, if not more than, today's best monitors, and the venerable Garrard turntable of early stereo systems cost more than a basic CD player does now. Well, start saving pennies to boost your audio/video budget, because the consumer-electronics (continued on page 148)Disc, Dat(continued from page 107) industry—which had been struggling under the burden of a sluggish economy—is about to rise again and tempt you with previously undreamed-of viewing and listening experiences. In 1959, Rod Serling figuratively welcomed viewers to a new dimension in his Twilight Zone series. In 1988, we invite you—literally—into the new dimensions of home electronics.
In countries around the world, aiming a 1.68-inch-diameter ball at a four-and-a-quarter-inch-diameter hole is a sacred ritual that millions practice each Sabbath. As in other religions, golf embodies high ideals—play the ball as it lies, play the course as it's found, do what's fair—and exhorts adherents to enter not into temptation. Of interest to theologians, moral philosophers and students of human nature, perhaps even to those trying to cure their slice or improve their putting, is a peculiar moral imperative: Golf demands self-inflicted punishment for transgressions of its rules.
By Kitschy Hollywood standards, it's an architectural land-mark—a round building 13 stories high that looks like a stack of records with a needle on top. True, that wasn't the intent of architect Welton Becket, designer of the Cairo Hilton, when Capitol Tower opened in 1956. Instead, he claimed he was looking for "economy of construction, operation and maintenance, plus maximum utilization of space." Round buildings, or so it seemed at the time, were the coming trend, and if they didn't exactly catch on, the company that commissioned the tower, Capitol Records, was destined to become one of the legendary names in music. Today, the Tower is more than just the only round building in town, it's a major tourist attraction, complete with a beacon that has blinked out H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D for more than 31 years. It has been on postcards, in movies and on TV, and it's arguably the only building in the world that makes an onlooker automatically think of music.
Less than a year ago, things weren't working out all that well for India Allen. She was thinking of retiring from the hectic world of modeling without having achieved her goal: getting her picture on the cover of a major magazine. "When you're in fashion and in your 20s, it's all downhill," she reports. At the age of 22, India thought her only chance to save her career was moving to New York, but that meant giving up both the active, outdoorsy California lifestyle she loved and leaving her fiancé, Bill Garfield, a Lawndale, California, veterinarian. Today, however, things are looking up. For one thing, India's dream, gracing the cover of a major magazine—this one—has come true, and her financial worries are things of the past, thanks to the $100,000 check from Playboy Enterprises that goes along with being named Playmate of the Year.
Theresa Russell gives off strong sexual heat and magnificently intelligent performances in interesting films. She is married to film director Nicolas Roeg and lives with him and their two young sons in London. Claudia Dreifus caught up with Russell while the actress was passing through New York City on a recent afternoon. She reports: "All the men I know are crazy for Theresa Russell—and when you meet her, it's easy to understand why. The woman is bright, sensuous, funny—and wonderfully candid. Incidentally, she wears black-leather minidresses better than anyone alive except Tina Turner."
As Los Angeles grows in importance as an art center, more attention is being focused on figurative painter D. J. Hall. Her large photo-like oil paintings of beautiful Southern California women lunching beside swimming pools have been shown in more than 30 exhibitions as far away as West Germany and have been sold to major corporations for sizable prices. "I paint blondes because they are everyone's idea of what a successful woman is," says Hall, smiling. "I look for women with great clothes, great teeth and a wonderful pair of sunglasses." Hall, 36, a graduate of USC, works from a montage of photographs taken of her attractive models in such moneyed locales as Palm Springs, Marina del Rey and Las Vegas. "I'm creating a fantasy of the ideal life for myself," she admits. "If I paint beautiful women enough, I'll be a beautiful woman. If I paint blondes, somehow I'll stay blonde. If I paint young women, I'll stay young." Hall's New York City representative, O.K. Harris Works of Art, thinks she's eccentric. "My stuff is wacky," she says with a shrug. "My models and I poke fun at everybody's idea of the L.A. woman." Working out of her Venice studio, Hall is finishing a series of paintings destined for a one-woman show in New York this fall. "Painting the human figure is the hardest thing you can do," she maintains. "I'm less vicious in my painting now, because I'm accepting myself more." She's also more secure: "A hundred years from now, when the current curators are gone, I expect my work to be hanging in museums. It's not going to end up in the trash heap."
Terence Trent D'Arby isn't your ordinary expatriate. Last year, his debut album, Introducing the Hardline According to Terence Trent D'Arby, with its unique blend of Gospel-derived dance rock, made the 26-year-old son of a Florida preacher Europe's—and now America's—Next Big Thing. Along the way to making Hardline a hit, D'Arby discovered a knack for inciting controversy. He bitterly denounced America's rampant racism and refused to play Vienna as long as Austria was ruled by "a known Nazi conspirator." D'Arby also boasts that he "became known as this habitual womanizer." He doesn't seem to bear much of a grievance about it, pointing out, perhaps needlessly, "I don't want to be the boy next door." He's more worried, he says, about America, "which feels so threatened by black male sexuality it needs to emasculate its stars—Lionel Richie became everybody's uncle and Michael Jackson's been neutered. I really had to think for a long time if I was willing to go through that."
"There have been times in history when smoking was punishable by death, and other, times when it has been mandated as a remedy for everything from the common cold to impotence," muses Gary Blumenthal. "If the Surgeon General called to get my opinion, I'd tell him he's not the first person to go on a crusade about smoking." Not that the C.E.O. of Tinder Box International, the nation's largest chain of tobacco stores, is waiting by the phone. In three years, Blumenthal, 33, has dragged his company into seven-figure profits—at a time when lighting up is sometimes seen as the moral equivalent of clubbing a seal. His most inspired move was adding upscale gifts to his inventory. But while he'll wax eloquent about Lladro collectibles and many other noncarcinogens in his stores, Blumenthal's true love is tobacco. "Like wine, a cigar is a natural product, blended from different crops and enjoyed for its texture, aroma and flavor. When you have a cigar, you close the world off for a little bit and enjoy yourself," he says. "It's statement. It's a way of life."
For a stand-up comic, Rita Rudner, 32, is pretty straitlaced. In fact, she's straighter than most accountants, insurance salesmen and an occasional Supreme Court nominee. "I was put on earth to make people feel guilty about the way they live their lives," she explains, almost apologetically. "I've never been wild. The worst thing I've ever done is read in a bad light." She started her show-business career as a dancer, leaving home in Miami and moving to New York at the age of 15, two years after her mother died. She worked steadily, doing commercials and dancing in six Broadway shows, including a long stint in Annie, before switching to comedy. "I was petrified the first time I performed [at New York's Catch a Rising Star], but I knew I'd never be that scared or that bad again," she recalls. "I don't know what possessed me, but I just had to keep at it." She's now using the same determination to break into film, and while she has landed a couple of small parts, she's still learning the Hollywood way of doing business. "I've had so many lunch meetings about my career," she says with a sigh. "At first, I got excited when people called. Then I got a little less excited. Now I just hope the food is good."
Don't call Stacy Peralta (far right), 31, chairman of the board, unless you're talking skate boards. Along with George Powell, Peralta has created a mini empire that's built on a rolling foundation of maple wood and polyurethane wheels. In nine years, Powell-Peralta has gone from 500 skate boards per month to 28,000, maturing from a wild idea into a $10,000,000 business. That is not to say that the partners are guided solely by sales. "We approach this as the combination of a business and something we really love," claims Powell, 43, who designed the better skate board after taking a spin on his son's decidedly inferior model. Spurred by its success, the company has branched out into clothing, skate-boarding video tapes and a company-backed team that's coached by Peralta, a former skate-boarding champ himself. In fact, Peralta keeps his hand in with his own back-yard skate-boarding ramp. "I ride the ramp and thoroughly enjoy it," he admits. "It's something I expect to be doing for at least another ten years."
When the talk turns to Japanese money, the figures begin to sound inflated, impossible, absurd. Yes, it is true that memberships in Tokyo's most prestigious golf spread, the Koganei Country Club, are now trading for $2,600,000. Ads brokering membership to Koganei and a dozen other clubs requiring at least $1,000,000 can be found in golf magazines. (As with heavily armed fortresses, such as the Los Angeles Country Club or Augusta National, don't even bother to apply if you sing or act for a living.)
Madison was a runt. John Adams was a pain in the butt. Washington brushed his teeth with Lemon Pledge. None of them would be elected today. They weren't cuddly. The founding fathers were stubborn s.o.b.s who called honor sacred and fought for what they believed. In 1804, our third Vice-President, Aaron Burr, shot and killed ex–Treasury Secretary Al Hamilton in a duel.
Ever since ancient Chinese jurists began wearing tinted lenses so that the look in their eyes wouldn't give away a verdict, sunglass wearers have had it made in the shades. When picking a frame, go for whatever fits your face and mood: maybe an aviator-style happy-wanderer look trimmed with leather, a funky vintage type of clip-on, a matte-finish-metal style or a colorful wild-and-crazy model that's a complement to a pair of surfer trunks. Lenses can be the color of your choice (cool green is red-hot), but make sure that they cut as close to 100 percent of the ultraviolet rays as possible while still allowing you to see true colors. Here's looking at you, kid, through great-looking shades.