You tell us, are these grounds for a lawsuit? A young woman gives up all the glamor that defines life in Canada to move into a mansion in Holmby Hills. Servants are put at her beck and call and she's wrapped in haute couture, introduced to the rich and famous and launched in a modeling career. If that doesn't sound like intolerable cruelty to you, you have something in common with Playboy Editor and Publisher Hugh M. Hefner, the target of a $35,000,000 palimony lawsuit cooked up by his ex-lover Carrie Leigh and supported by her divorcing-for-dollars lawyer Marvin Mitchelson. The full story is told in The Great Palimony Caper; we might have called it Cash 'n' Carrie.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), August 1988, Volume 35, Number 8. 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.
Everyone thinks he can rap--football players, auto dealers, guys who write jingles for beer commercials. But if it's really that easy, why is Mike Ditka's Grabowski Shuffle so lame? Because Ditka isn't def, for one thing. We asked the very def Dana Dane, whose rap LP Dana Dane with Fame went gold this past spring, to give us a few tips on defness, which is sort of like coolness.
Surpassing Anything he has done since Splash, Tom Hanks in Big (Fox) fulfills all his early promise as a superlative light comedian. Of course, it helps to have an imaginatively wacky screenplay, this one by Anne Spielberg (Steven's sister) and Gary Ross. Theirs is a handy winner in the batch of body-switching comedies released recently--this makes four, by my count--all about identity swaps between men and boys. Big concerns a restive 12-year-old (David Moscow plays the younger Joshua) who makes a wish on an amusement-park dream machine and wakes up the next morning as a 30ish young man. Wouldn't you know his Mom absolutely freaks? How he flees home to become a hot-shot executive in a toy company might not be credible but for Hanks, who manages every transition with sly nuances and an amazing sense of truth. He's hilarious in business, where his childlike enthusiasm is interpreted as marketing genius, and even better in his romantic relationship with a co-worker (Elizabeth Perkins) who finds his boyishness irresistible, to a point. When she hints that she may stay the night at his place, visions of bunk-bed fun dance in his head. "Sleep over?" he chortles and asks to be on top.
Next to make the leap from mere director to mogul is Taylor Hackford, about to emerge from a merger with New Century Entertainment as production chief of a major studio to be called New Visions Pictures. Committed to conjure up 25 pictures in five years, on relatively small budgets of about $8,000,000 each, Hackford promises us movies with "a strong human quotient," plus plenty of music. Yes, music. This is the man whose platinum track record includes five hit songs in four successive films, from An Officer and a Gentleman and White Nights to last year's La Bamba (which he only produced). He also directed the Chuck Berry documentary Hail! Hail! Rock 'n' Roll. His first production under the new banner will be Rooftops, an urban drama with integral music and dance. Hackford's professional credo is straightforward: "Generally, there is some character struggling in my films, a working-class person making it in American society. Clearly, I am affected by the American work ethic, coming from the working class myself." Fact is, he worked his way up from the mail room to documentaries for public TV, then directed The Idolmaker (1980), a rock-star saga, and landed on top of the heap in Hollywood. Still to come while he's taking charge at New Visions is Everybody's All-American, a fall release co-starring Jessica Lange, Dennis Quaid and Tim Hutton, about a former football hero and his homecoming queen. This one, says Hackford without flinching, will show "how time erodes certain attitudes and changes circumstances, how the exalted can become diminished. It's about success and what we do to our human icons." Wish him luck.
Fleetwood Mac writer-keyboardist-singer Christine McVie says that Mac is in a hard-core working mode, now finishing its Tango in the Night world tour and gearing up for a new studio LP. Even so, we asked her to review the new one by Ziggy Marley, son of reggae legend Bob.
Dance Fever Department: When fans of Gloria Estefan and Miami Sound Machine rewrote conga history, representatives from the Guinness Book of World Records were on hand to witness the moment. The conga line was 119,984 people strong.
Joe Bob Briggs, nee John Bloom, has realized the dream of every working humorist--to publish the autobiography of his alter ego. It's modestly titled A Guide to Western Civilization, or My Story (Delacorte), and it's less an autobiography than an exercise in the kind of running, rambling Joe Bob bullshit that originally gained fame for that persona as a deranged newspaper columnist who reviews sleazy drive-in movies for their sex-and-violence content. The humor is regional in tone, with the subtlety of a Blazing Saddles, uncut and unedited, and can get a little tedious in the absence of much content. But Joe Bob fans will mine it happily in search of the tasteless quip, the outrageous depiction and the allusion to such things as the Texas State Hospital for the Criminally Flat-Chested.
The king is dead, long live the king. John C. Holmes, a.k.a. Johnny Wadd, died March 12, 1988. A lot of men took note of his obituary. It is rumored that he died of AIDS brought on by a bad drug habit and the sharing of I.V. needles. "His death was not the result of the excesses of sex but of the excesses of drugs," said Bill Margold, a former porn actor and longtime associate of Holmes's. "The result of a whole series of abuses to his body in one way or another."
In the movie Belle de Jour, Catherine Deneuve plays a woman living out her fantasies as a prostitute. One of her clients is a large Oriental gentleman who carries a wooden box. It's about twice the size of a cigar box, and a loud buzzing, like the sound of insects, comes from it. I've always wondered what's in the box. How is it supposed to have been used during their liaison?--J. E. H., Fairfax, Virginia.
A Planned Parenthood study released earlier this year concludes that network television is "bombarding" us with 65,000 "sexual messages" per year. The report, prepared by Louis Harris and Associates, claims that a typical TV viewer sees 14,000 of these messages but, alas, only 165 references to sexually transmitted diseases, sexuality education, birth control and abortion--and not one advertisement for birth-control products.
Page through the newspapers of the past year and read the AIDS-related headlines: "Man claiming AIDS charged in three assaults," "Charges filed against blood donor in AIDS case," "AIDS-Infected soldier faces trial for having sex," "Soldier with AIDS virus to be imprisoned for sexual contacts." AIDS, once thought to be strictly a medical issue, is fast becoming a criminal-law issue.
"If you take an act of fellatio out of context by photographing it, then publish the photo in a magazine with a title like Swallow My Leader, and sell it from the back rack of a dingy little newsstand, you invest the original act of fellatio with a lurid power it might not otherwise have had. Lacking any hint of the byplay of personalities, the picture becomes a mere symbol, a lightning rod for the cravings of its beholder.
By the time you read this, it will be all over except for the shouting, the funny hats and the streamers. And we expect that this year's Republican and Democratic delegates will change the words, but not the tune, of their 1984 platforms.
It was on a Sunday evening in June 1984 that Harvey Fierstein first imposed himself upon the national consciousness. Just announced as the Tony award winner for Best Book of a Musical for "La Cage aux Folles," he rushed onto the stage, smiled into the network-television camera and, in a Brooklyn rasp that has been variously likened to the mating call of a bulldog or a backed-up vacuum cleaner, declared his everlasting gratitude to his male lover.
On a crisp afternoon of high winds late in the summer of 2017 Frazier murdered his wife's lover, a foolish deed that he immediately regretted. To murder anyone was stupid when there were so many more effective alternatives available; but even so, if murder was what he had to do, why murder the lover? Two levels of guilt attached there: not only the taking of a life but the taking of an irrelevant life. If you had to kill someone, he told himself immediately afterward, then you should have killed her. She was the onewho had committed the crime against the marriage, after all. Poor Hurwitt had been only a means, a tool, virtually an innocent bystander. Yes, kill her, not him. Kill yourself, even. But Hurwitt was the one he had killed, a dumb thing to do and done in a dumb manner, besides.
In the great hall of Playboy Mansion West hangs a portrait of Hugh M. Hefner, a 1987 Christmas gift from two dozen of his friends. The painting is a romanticized, more mature version of the boy entrepreneur who turned being a playboy into a philosophy of life. For three decades--since the breakup of a boyhood marriage convinced Hef that, for him, at least, matrimony was antithetical to romance--he has lived by Woody Allen's law: "Marriage is the death of hope."
Mikhail Gorbachev. As I watched the man at a reception in the Palace of Congresses at the Kremlin, where my outstretched hand had been pushed aside by Yoko Ono's mad charge topresent the top Bolshevik with some memento of John Lennon's music, while off to the side, Gore Vidal sought to engage Andrei Sakharov, just released from his exile in Gorky, and Andrei Gromyko wanly smiled at Norman Mailer, it seemed as if we had all just stepped through the looking glass.
If the movie business were a baseball team, Charlie Sheen would probably be its most valuable player. Fresh from roles in Platoon and Wall Street, Sheen has also laced up his spikes for Orion Pictures' Eight Men Out, Hollywood's version of the 1919 Chicago White Sox baseball scandal. If Sheen looks like a natural in these baseball-inspired outfits, it's because the former Santa Monica High shortstop considers America's pastime his first love. Judging by looks; from the comfort of casuals to more formal wear; these fashions and Sheen are batting 1.000.
Fly-fishing has been an irresistible passion for so many men for such a long time that it is hard to think of it as being trendy. But there is an increased interest in this timeless sport. All sorts of people are slipping into a pair of waders and stepping into a cold stream to cast for trout. Clean running water and elegantly colored fish, finely made tackle and exquisite technique-- these things appeal as strongly to the hard-pressed, fast-lane brokers of the late 20th Century as they did to leisured sporting gentlemen of another age.
Helle Michaelsen stands on the balcony of her West Hollywood apartment, eying the luxurious swimming pool three floors below. It's an unusually warm day for early spring--even by Southern California standards--with the thermometer hovering in the low 80s. Helle would be at the pool except that she has business to attend to. And Helle (pronounced hell-a) is very serious about business. "I want very much to be a success," she says in the charming accent of her native Denmark. "I love Denmark, but if you are a success-minded person, you cannot succeed there. That's what made me take the step to move to another country." Actually, Helle did succeed in Denmark. From an early age, she knew she wanted to be an actress, and by the time she was fresh out of high school, she was working regularly in Danish films and TV. Helle (who uses the first name Helena for acting) top-lined three action films that played Scandinavia and gained some notable publicity. But being a film star in Denmark is like being an auto magnate in Peru--the real game is in Hollywood, and Helle, who is now 19, wants to be a player. "I love being around people who really want to be successful," she says. Despite her accent and newcomer status, Helle has already found work and an illustrious social life in Hollywood. She recently worked as an extra in the upcoming Tony Curtis film Midnight. In Denmark, she was a leading lady; in America, she is still a bit player. "But that's good for you," she philosophizes. "You appreciate things more when you have to work for them." Socially, things are a bit more in keeping with her stellar past. She met fellow transplanted Dane Brigitte Nielsen at several parties, and it was the ex--Mrs. Rambo who recommended that Helle try out for Playmate. "Being a Playmate is important to me," says Helle. "It's a way of advertising myself." She plans to use her Playmate money to hire a voice coach to help her work on her accent, which sometimes stands in the way of bigger, better parts. As it turns out, Gitte isn't the only potentially helpful friend Helle has met socially. At another party, she was introduced to Gitte's ex, who, despite gossip linking him to superdeb Cornelia Guest, asked Helle to join him for an evening of champagne and dinner. "Sylvester Stallone is a very attractive man, whether he has money or not," says Helle. "For me, being around people like producers and actors is a learning experience. I look up to them, because I want to be the same as they are." Not surprisingly, Helle sees both Gitte and Sly as her kindred spirits. All three are dedicated to their careers, and all three are self-made. But Helle may feel a bit closer to her fellow countrywoman. "Brigitte is very sweet and very intelligent," she says. She laughs when Gitte's controversial reputation is discussed. "Scandinavian women have to live up to their reputations, right? I mean, we are free girls. We're out on the market," jokes Helle, adding with a mischievous wink, "and we usually like anything Italian."
While on a visit to the Holy Land, Jimmy Carter was given a private tour of the sights by Israeli prime minister Yitzhak Shamir. When they arrived at the Wailing Wall, Shamir explained that anything said near the wall was heard directly by God and suggested that Carter stand close if he had any special requests for Him to hear.
None of us came with an owner's manual. And so much of what we read is supposed to tell us who and what we are. Women's magazines -- that vast sea of lipgloss ads and erotic fashion layouts -- have elevated that chatter to a high volume.
Bearded, egg-bald and huge (6'8", 260 pounds), sports sociology professor Harry Edwards looks like a cross between Isaac Hayes and Paul Bunyan. The organizer of the black protest at the 1968 Mexico City Olympics--which climaxed in Tommie Smith and John Carlos' black-power salute on the victory stand--Edwards has become the principal torchbearer for minority athletes in America. In that capacity, he is kept busier than the Chicago Cubs bull pen. After long phone conversations with baseball commissioner Peter Ueberroth and the front office of the San Francisco 49ers (he's a consultant to both) and interviews with two TV news teams, Edwards addressed our questions with the casually ominous erudition that characterizes his demeanor. Says interviewer Robert S. Wieder: "My editors suggested that I ask tough questions to get a rise out of Edwards. Unfortunately, they neglected to ask where I wanted my personal effects sent."
For Some, the aim of a summer vacation in the great outdoors is the experience itself. If you go rock-climbing or river rafting, the price you're supposed to pay is beans on a tin plate or a hard night in a sleeping bag on the ground. But for others--count me among them--the destination is just as important as the journey. If I've been out wrestling mother nature all day, someone else can set up the bivouac; I'll take a couple of mesquite-grilled lamb chops, a bottle of California cabernet and a nice new condo with a hot tub in the living room. That's my idea of a destination.
When I lived in Aspen, the favorite movie there was King of Hearts. They used to play it at the Wheeler Opera House two or three times a year, and it was very tough to get a seat. And if you did manage to jam in, it was tough to hear the dialog for the cheering and laughing and general yahooing that swept the beautiful old theater from the moment the film began to the moment it ended. The people of Aspen loved that movie, and when I finally saw it with them, I understood why. It's the story of a pretty little town that is abandoned entirely to the care of the inmates of an insane asylum. Alan Bates plays a soldier who stumbles into the place out of the "sane" world and eventually gives in to the deep charm of lunacy behind the notion that if everyone around you is hopelessly bent, playing it straight is crazy. A rose in a banana forest, after all, is a weed.
Karen Vaughan looked at her watch. "Oh, my goodness, I'm late," she exclaimed, for all the world like the White Rabbit. Her fork clattered on her plate as she got up from the table. Two quick strides took her to her husband. She pecked him on the cheek. "I've got to run, Mike. Have fun with the dishes. See you a little past ten."
Body Heat. You know it when you see it: the kind of temperature that brings a sheen of sweat to the curves we admire most. Sweat is the body's way of taking a shower from the inside out. It moves down your skin like a lover's lips. Sweat is the taste of salt on the rim of a glass filled with south-of-the-border-fever dreams. Summer, of course, is that time when all women look like Playmates and all Playmates look like goddesses. We love the beach, where we watch lithe turn to languorous. We love the wisp of cloth, the way the need for ventilation produces designs that cause the very breath to catch in our throats. The images of midwinter fantasies take shape and move through waves of heat. We invited Playmates Lynne Austin (opposite), Anna Clark (above left and right), Brandi Brandt (above center), Sharry Konopski and Pamela Stein (overleaf) to participate in a sunshine-expression session. Forget those wintertime swimsuit issues. Forget swimwear catalogs. Welcome to the tan for all seasons.
Ziggy Marley's first visit to Africa was the type the impressionable preteen would never forget. He was there with his family the day Rhodesia became the independent state of Zimbabwe; and as he stood in the stands, watching the British flag being lowered and the new standard being raised, there came the announcement: "Ladies and gentlemen, Bob Marley and the Wailers!" Any doubts the young Marley had about the unique role his father played--both in Third World politics and as the preeminent reggae artist of all time--were quickly put to rest. But that changed in 1981, when Bob Marley died of cancer. "Since Daddy died, reggae has stopped growing," says Ziggy, now 19. "I want to make it grow again." And he's doing it in a family way--his band, Ziggy Marley and the Melody Makers, consists of siblings Stephen, 15, Sharon, 24, and Cedella, 20. Conscious Party, its latest album, features mostly songs written by Ziggy and has become one of the year's most-talked-about LPs. He seems to have inherited his father's social conscience but insists, "I'm not trying to say politics, I'm just trying to say truth." Music, he thinks, should have a purpose, "not just to bullshit people. We are working for a better Jamaica, a better Africa, a better world." His dream gig, he says, is to play South Africa the week after apartheid ends.
In 1974, Marlene Eddleman had to choose which side of the rodeo reviewing stands she liked better. She was the Colorado all-round high school rodeo champion, state high school rodeo queen and first runner-up for national high school rodeo queen. "They started grooming me for Miss Rodeo Colorado," Eddleman recalls, "but I didn't like the politics. I would rather win the rodeo. When I win, I want it to be recognized as fair and square--and that clock doesn't lie." Eddleman, now 31, learned to ride when she was three and first competed in barrel racing (picture a horseback-slalom event) when she was 13. In 1983, she was the sport's pro world champion. Eddleman saw her Colorado ranch just ten days that year, because she raced in 120 rodeos, so she decided to cut back--sort of. Last year, between product endorsements and marketing a line of saddles and rodeo-training videos, she rode in about 75 and still managed to take away a second-place world rating. She also competes at all-girl rodeos in such butch events as goat tying and calf roping (in 1976, she won an intercollegiate championship in the latter), but she'd rather not. "Not that the danger scares me," she drawls. "It's not a very feminine sport."
Last February 21 in San Diego, golfer Steve Pate, 26, stood over a six-foot putt worth $117,000. "Guys like me are supposed to make good shots--that's why we have our names on our bags," he said after knocking it in. "If you think about the money, you're in trouble; so I just blocked everything out and hit the ball." In his first six months of hitting the ball with Nicklaus, Norman and the rest back in 1985, his biggest payday was $900. But as he drove north from San Diego to his home in Simi Valley, California, he stood second on the 1988 money list, with $229,888 in winnings. "The worst thing about playing the tour is the traveling," Pate says. He consoles himself with frequent-flier miles, six-figure winner's checks and the thought that "playing a game for a living is pretty hard to beat."
New York photographer Cindy Sherman was perfectly content to receive negative notices on her latest series of photographs--truly repulsive yet intriguing images of vomit on a picnic spread, a corpse half buried in the sand and a large mooning ass covered with festering boils. "It just seemed creepy that no matter what I did before, I would get good publicity. I didn't trust it," Sherman explains. "I think sometimes people collect art because they're told to. I wanted to challenge collectors and museums; they really have to think seriously before they put a pimply ass on their walls." Sherman, 34, has her work in dozens of museums world-wide, including the Museum of Modern Art and the Metropolitan in New York and the Pompidou in Paris. "I don't see these photographs as gory or scary or disgusting as much as funny," she says. "I guess it's just strange that they could be art." Sherman's huge Tribeca studio, where she also sleeps, looks like the prop closet of a B-grade horror flick--it's filled with plastic body parts, wigs, busts and containers of Slime (a toy gel that resembles mucous). Now that she has reached a unique zenith of gauche, Sherman is unsure of what to do next. "I've sort of cornered myself now," she says. "People think I'm going to wallow forever in the lower depths of taste."
Comedian Jerry Seinfeld has a lot on his mind--none of it very important. "The things that interest me are usually these minute, overlooked little things. Like kicking your underwear up in the air and trying to catch it when you get undressed at night. I feel that God looks down at man at times like that and says, 'I should've given the baboons a shot.'" Seinfeld, 34, is obsessed with making people laugh. He spouts his good-natured sarcasm around the country and on talk shows, traveling at least 200 days a year and never taking more than two nights off consecutively. While comedy insiders are among his biggest fans, his over-all fame has been slower to grow. "I don't have any strange clothes or props, and I don't do any screaming," he says. Still, Seinfeld's droll comments have made him a headliner, but the prospect of switching to TV or film doesn't thrill him. "Stand-up is what I want to do," he says. "What's the big deal in having someone tell you where to stand, when to move, what to say? Is that like a step up?"
What's white and shabby and hanging behind your bathroom door? The same old buddy with a ripped belt loop and a torn pocket that you've been wrapping your after-shower body in for years. OK, but your terrycloth robe isn't that bad, you say. Sure, fella, tell that to the pool attendant. Towels with arms have escaped from the back-of-the-door hook and emerged as swim cover-ups that make a stylish statement all their own. There are ample looks to choose from, including white terries with contrasting piping, reversible and hooded models, bold stripes and bright patterns. But the bottom line is that a terry robe is a towel to go--with pockets. See you at the pool.
Fan-tastic is about the only way to describe the new Boca Raton--model ceiling fan with a seven-foot blade span of broadcloth silk strung to fiberglass fishing rods that rotate on two bicycle-sprocket hubs. Three light fixtures are available, in four color combinations, by Casablanca Fan Company, City of Industry, California, $1500. Without the light, $1250.
"Goldwater"--Exclusively in Playboy, one of the most respected senators of recent times has his say about McCarthy, Ike, J.F.K., Nixon and Reagan but saves his best shots for today's politicians and media moguls--By Barry Goldwater with Jack Casserly