When the Editors of Playboy suggested to Hugh Hefner that we celebrate our 35th Anniversary with a grand retrospective issue, his response caught us up short. "Sounds promising," Hef said, "but watch yourselves. Don't do a magazine that'll just show how smart we think we are. Do an issue that will get the essence of Playboy without any pretense. Do an issue," he said, "that a reader will savor, not one that an editor will gloat over."
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), January 1989, Volume 36, Number 1. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: $26 for 12 issues, U S. Canada, $39 for 12 issues. All other foreign, $39 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. 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.
One of National Public Radio's most popular call-in shows is WBUR Boston's "Car Talk." It features MIT graduatesTomandRay Magliozzi,brothers whose nearly lunatic whimsy is for car repair. Herewith, a brief encounter with the guys who call themselves "Click and Clack--the Tappet brothers."
Britain's Versatile Gary Oldman has been stretching his talent and setting the screen ablaze since starring in Sid and Nancy in 1986. As a Boston defense attorney in Criminal Law (Tri-Star), Oldman, with an impeccable American accent and a performance to match, leaps another big step up the career ladder. Opposite him, Kevin Bacon sheds his Brat Pack boyishness for a sharp change of pace as a smiling, insolent psychopath whose lawyer learns too late that he has won acquittal for a serial killer. That's merely the beginning of the attorney's involvement in the evil schemes his client devises to taunt him, perhaps even to seduce him. From a devilishly clever--though not always logical--screenplay by Mark Kasdan, director Martin Campbell adopts an abrasive but vibrant style, all screeching sirens and subliminal shocks. It works, though, to keep Criminal Law moving so fast that there's scarcely time to quibble or even to consider the film's obvious questions: Does just winning matter more than truth and justice, and who will be the next victim? Tess Harper and Karen Young portray the women in the case, bringing some soft-shouldered comfort to an otherwise chilling two-man show. [rating]3 bunnies[/rating]
You've seen the face: Glenne Headly, a mainstay of the Chicago theater scene who has made big impressions in small parts in such movies as The Purple Rose of Cairo, Nadine and Paper House. The last, not yet released, she calls "a sort of Edward Gorey thriller. I was the only non-English person in it and found out they'd dubbed me over with a British woman. So I had to hop to London and redo the whole thing with an English accent. Saved." Now, at last, she has a leading role in a major film opposite two male superstars: Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, with Steve Martin and Michael Caine, opening any day now. "They play two con artists on the Riviera. I'm the American woman they're conning, whom they erroneously assume to be naive. They both sort of fall for her. Uh, I'm not supposed to tell too much. Let's just say she teaches them something about people." Between takes, Headly learned a bit about her co-stars and confides that funnyman Martin, nice as he was, isn't the guy to keep a girl in stitches. "Strangely enough, Steve's much the more serious of the two. He'd talk comedy with me, discuss what he wanted to do in a scene, even ask how I came up with certain stuff. Michael talked less about work, more about where he came from, his working-class roots. I love Cockney slang." We'd already been warned not to inquire about her relationship with another noted actor-- her husband. Last fella who tried that was advised he was interviewing Miss Glenne Headly, not Mrs. John Malkovich. So, we say, "'Ats off to 'Eadly."
For someone who has her own production company and syndicated newspaper column, multimedia maverick Linda Eller-bee is a relative late bloomer in the video department, having got her first VCR only three years ago. Still, she has already managed to develop characteristic home-video tastes. "The common denominator of my video purchases is that I can watch them ad infinitum and love them every time: Apocalypse Now, That's Entertainment, The Big Easy. I rent trash musicals of the Fifties the way some women read trash romances and eat bonbons: Calamity Jane, The Seven Little Foys, anything with Gene Nelson or Mitzi Gaynor. If I'm having a mental-health day and not getting out of bed, it's Singin' in the Rain; if I need a good cry, please bring me The Way We Were. When my boyfriend gets to choose, we watch spy movies, war movies, Dirty Harry stuff; with my kids, it's things I never would have rented myself but thoroughly enjoyed. Like, I've seen at least two of the Police Academy movies. Yep, really. Two." Are there any tapes that Linda won't watch? "Yes. Elvis Presley movies, martial-arts films and any beach movie with Sandra Dee. You have to be from my era to understand the Sandra Dee problem." And so it goes.
Best Oh-Shut-Up Video:Jimmy Swaggart & the Crusade Team;Best Oh-Grow-Up Video:I Taw a Putty Tat;Best Annette-and-Frankie-in-Hell Video:Geek Maggot Bingo;Worst Video-Bio Title:Hitler: A Career;Silliest Video Couple:Scooby and Scrappy-Doo;Shortest-lived Video:John Paul I: The Smiling Pope (26 minutes); Best Special-Interest-Group Video:Gay Atheists;Best We'd-Rather-Not-Know Video:Clay in a Special Way;Best It's-a-Living Video:Have Fun with Frosting.
If You Care enough to give the very best this holiday season, be prepared to pay for it. The culturally suave are giving copies of Audubon's Birds of America (Abbeville), with more than 1100 life-size birds peering out of those classic engravings, for a mere $22,000 per copy.
Before The likes of Sade or Anita Baker, pop/jazz/R&B vocalist Angela Bofill was tossing out the rules of pop singing. Her ninth LP, "Intuition," continues the untraditional tradition. Toni Childs is a new rule breaker on the scene; Bofill was curious about Childs's debut album, "Union."
We are creeping up on that time of year when various clowns employed by the TV networks will again cross their eyes, blow spit bubbles and start to clamor for a play-off to decide the national champion of college football. It's not because they want to see a true national champion determined (as they lie through their teeth) but because they can envision a game played sometime in January that will attract 400 beer, car, hamburger and diet-soda commercials. TV people have always had the good of sports at heart.
I'm not sure there are any easygoing women left in America these days. I think they all checked into a Yuppie factory somewhere in California one night in 1970 for secret microchip brain implants. "Work, consume, work some more, don't let up, take yourself very seriously, work, remind everybody that you're working."
Last night, I went to Nell's, the posh New York night spot, where I oozed and smarmed my way past many monolithic doormen and hundreds of the surging fashionable to get within ten feet of the stage. There I presumed upon the friendship of a poor girl who thought she would be having an entire chair to herself, sat on the two inches of hard wood she allotted me, waited through more than an hour of having my knees smashed and my lap sat on by strangers. And why?
My lover and I have enjoyed a loving, sensuous and progressive relationship for the past two years. While I have had a number of lovers before, no one has ever been nearly as dynamic. When we were first nurturing this affair, before we actually engaged in intercourse, we had a number of heavy-petting sessions that left us both drained and longing for more. During one particular session, my boyfriend began massaging my nipples, bringing them to swelling points. He would roll them between his teeth and tongue, nearly driving me crazy. After no more than three or four minutes of this, I felt the beginnings of the most incredible orgasm I had ever had. However, he had not even touched me below the waist. As he kept up the pace with his tongue on my nipples, the waves broke over me, as real as if he had been using his tongue on my clitoris. I even felt the contractions that come after a particularly long and intense orgasm. Needless to say, I was blown away. Nothing like that had ever happened to me, and I was overcome with tears of relief and wonder. My lover was fairly matter-of-fact about it and acted surprised that I had never experienced this. He had me hooked from that point on, and we have repeated this act on occasion. It's the same every time, though he has discovered that if he whispers "Will you come for me?" it sets me off immediately. He usually waits until he has me thoroughly worked up before he pulls that trick out of his hat. My question is, Have any of your other readers experienced this before? Could it all be in my mind, or is it possible to reach a satisfying orgasm without being manually stimulated in the clitoral area? -- Miss H. L., Sarasota, Florida.
Sometimes reason speaks through a chorus of voices. Kurt L. Schmoke, the mayor of Baltimore, told the United States Conference of Mayors that it was time to start rethinking our drug policy. In a column in The Washington Post, he repeated the question: "Has the time come to add America's 'war on drugs' to the long list of history's follies?
In 1859, John Stuart Mill wrote the essay "On Liberty," in which he offered the following advice: "The only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others.... Over himself, over his own body and mind, the individual is sovereign." Mill's theory of individual autonomy is relevant today as we debate whether or not the Government should decriminalize drugs.
"A warning needs to be issued to those institutional representatives of organized religion who still claim the power to define morality. The church must abandon its irrelevant ethical judgments that arise from realities that no longer exist and enter the arenas where life is lived, where people are hurt, where love is experienced, where ideals are compromised, where people awaken from their dreams, and be a part of the debate that will separate the ethics of life from the ethics of death. The prohibitions of the past have been abandoned, not because people are evil 'secular modernists' but because life has changed and those prohibitions are simply no longer appropriate....
Although the First Amendment has been part of the Constitution since 1791, it was not truly part of the American experience until this century. In 1920, a scholar preparing a book on freedom of speech would have had about 20 Supreme Court cases to ponder. In 1949, he would have had about 100 cases; in 1974, more than 400. Jamie Kalven, in his introduction to A Worthy Tradition: Freedom of Speech in America (Harper & Row), concludes that freedom of speech is an adventure that is unfolding in our lifetime; the court cases reflect "the law working itself pure."
Outside his bungalow at the Château Marmont, two state-of-the-art exercise machines -- one for the legs, the other for the arms -- are about to be picked up by the company that delivered them to Robert De Niro during his stay in Los Angeles. Inside, his trunks are packed and he is eager to return to New York, the only city in which he feels comfortable enough to call it home, the city whose rhythms he understands and one that has served as a backdrop for so many of his films -- "Taxi Driver," "New York, New York," "Once upon a Time in America," "Falling in Love," The country's most respected actor is going home.
In the Autumn of 1953, at a card table in his living room, a skinny guy in khaki slacks, sweat socks and penny loafers put together a new magazine for men. He called it Stag Party, then changed his mind at the last minute and decided to call it Playboy. The rest, as they say, is history.
Telephones and Telephone Bells have always made me uneasy. The worst is when the telephone rings in the dead of night. By the time I manage to grab the receiver, I am outwardly calm, but I get back to a more normal state only when I recognize the voice at the other end and when I know what is wanted of me.
For Years I have been bumbling along in the naïve belief that the women's magazines were devoted solely to such matters as how to chintz up the living room and get a cake to rise. But it seems I was wrong--the most worrisome problem facing milady's monthly gazettes is how to muss up the marriage bed and keep one's mate aroused.
The Lean Young man in ivy stepped into the spotlight on the small stage of The Cloister in Chicago. "We have a celebrity with us in the audience this evening," he said. "Sitting ringside is the star of the show that opens here two weeks from tonight. The management is sparing no expense in bringing him to you. Let's have a big hand for the lovable Adolf Hitler."
Playboy Contends that a Gentleman's Bed is much, much more than a place to placidly assume a supine position. It is, or should be, a major furnishing in any well-appointed bachelor's diggings, a sumptuous haven in which the gentleman can take his ease, with eyes open or closed, yet not be completely cut off from the niceties and conveniences of apartment living. In addition to the solid comfort of the bed itself, he should have finger-tip control of what goes on, and off, in his pad, plus a convenient, functional setup for assuaging his basic entertainment and gustatorial needs.
What can you say about that decade of decades--the incomparable Sixties? A generation later, we're still trying to sort it out. It was a decade that began with a freshening of the winds. After the Stifling Fifties, change was in the air. Ike was still President, but there was an election nearing, and a handsome, vigorous young man stood poised to win the hearts and minds of the American public. His name was Bond--James Bond.
The Sting Ray was about six feet from wing tip to wing tip and perhaps ten feet long from the blunt wedge of its nose to the end of its deadly tail. It was dark gray with that violet tinge that is so often a danger signal in the underwater world. When it rose up from the pale, golden sand and swam, it was as if a black towel were being waved through the water.
Whenever I am Asked my opinion of the current state of the civil rights movement, I am forced to pause; it is not easy to describe a crisis so profound that it has caused the most powerful nation in the world to stagger in confusion and bewilderment. Today's problems are so acute because the tragic evasions and defaults of several centuries have accumulated to disaster proportions. The luxury of a leisurely approach to urgent solutions -- the ease of gradualism -- was forfeited by ignoring the issues for too long. The nation waited until the black man was explosive with fury before stirring itself even to partial concern. Confronted now with the interrelated problems of war, inflation, urban decay, white backlash and a climate of violence, it is now forced to address itself to race relations and poverty, and it is tragically unprepared. What might once have been a series of separate problems now merge into a social crisis of almost stupefying complexity.
With monotonous regularity, apparently competent men have laid down the law about what is technically possible or impossible -- and have been proved utterly wrong, sometimes while the ink was scarcely dry from their pens. On careful analysis, it appears that these debacles fall into two classes, which I will call Failures of Nerve and Failures of Imagination.
"I was Sitting ... in the outer seat of a table for four in the Pullman dining car of the Orient Express. On a curve just outside Munich, owing to a rail's being out of place, our carriage suddenly leaned over hard to the left and I was forced violently against my companion. When the carriage righted itself, I found that an Austrian couple had both fallen over, making a complete somersault. The lady's head (concluded on page 146)The Orient Express(continued from page 137) had got underneath our table and her legs were upright in the air. While the other ladies in the carriage screamed with laughter and the men endeavored to keep grave faces, I grappled with the difficult task of holding the inverted lady's petticoats together and at the same time freeing her head from the table legs.
Years Ago I went to Hollywood looking for a job. Actually, I had seen an ad in The New York Times that said, "Boy wanted, part time, to direct Cleopatra." So I went out to the Coast and while I was there, I went to this big party. I took a producer's very unattractive daughter, but I was social climbing. She was a really bad-looking girl. Facially, she resembled Louis Armstrong's voice. And while I was at the party, I met a very big Hollywood producer who spoke to me about a job. At that time, they wanted to make an elaborate CinemaScope musical comedy based on the Dewey decimal system, and they wanted me to punch it up. I had worked as a writer in New York. I had written a TV show called Surprise Divorce. We used to take a happily married couple out of the audience every week and divorce them on television. Anyhow, I got the job.
Discothèques, in the past few years, have become the delight of New York's international jet set. Le Club (left), most exclusive of these pulsating pleasure domes, was the first "pure" (records-only) discothèque in Manhattan. It still flourishes in the smart East 50s, under the guidance of publisher-social arbiter Igor Cassini. Playboy artist LeRoy Neiman was impressed with the Old World flavor of Le Club. "It suffuses the whole atmosphere," Neiman said. "The joys of the dance are celebrated in a 16th Century Flemish tapestry of heroic proportions. Opposite it, over the hearth, is a full-length portrait from the Louis XVI era. Looking down on the fruggers is a set of regal deer heads, surrounded by antique hunting horns and firearms. The only overtly modern furnishings are the vertical speakers flanking the tapestry. The members, all socialites and celebrities, dress with studied formality." Of course, there are discothèques that are more accessible to Manhattanites with a contemporary terpsichorean bent. Sybil Burton's Arthur remains de rigueur on the disco circuit. Ondine -- which, like Arthur, has a live-music policy -- appeals to the madly Mod set, while the Andy Warhol spirit of the East Village is vested in The Dom. And ebullient teeny-boppers of all ages are their own best entertainment at The Scene, Downtown, Trude Heller's or Cheetah. Says Neiman, "Whatever their differences, all of these clubs manifest a common spirit. The people who frequent them are out for wiggy kicks, and they're full of adrenaline -- but they go about it with style and aplomb. The male discothèquenician has become much more fastidious about his appearance since the antediluvian Peppermint Lounge phase of the rock revolution. Clothes may not make the man, but apparently they help make the woman; and today's young blade tends to be as modest about his out-of-sight Mod outfit as a peacock is about its plumage."
A Few Months Ago, I was interviewed by a correspondent for a European business publication. After asking a great many questions about my business career, he paused, shook his head sadly and declared, "It is a pity your countrymen of today do not enjoy the same opportunities to achieve success as were present when you started in business."
Was she Really Pretty, at 12? Did he want--would he ever want--to caress her, to really caress her? Her black hair cascaded over one clavicle and the gesture she made of shaking it back and the dimple on her pale cheek were revelations with an element of immediate recognition about them. Her pallor shone, her blackness blazed. The pleated skirts she liked were becomingly short. Even her bare limbs were so free from suntan that one's gaze, stroking her white shins and forearms, could follow upon them the regular slants of fine dark hairs, the silks of her girlhood. The iridal dark brown of her serious eyes had the enigmatic opacity of an Oriental hypnotist's look (in a magazine's back-page advertisement) and seemed to be placed higher than usual, so that between their lower rim and the moist lower lid a cradle crescent of white remained when she stared straight at you. Her long eyelashes seemed blackened and, in fact, were. Her features were saved from elfin prettiness by the thickish shape of her parched lips. Her plain Irish nose was Van's in miniature. Her teeth were fairly white but not very even.
From Dawn to dusk and coast to coast, we staged a transcontinental romance with thousands of beautiful women. In Tampa's Bay Harbor Inn, Detroit's Omni, New York's Doral Tuscany, the Union Square in San Francisco, the Delta Place in Vancouver and Hyatt Regencies from sea to sea, phones rang, cameras clicked and women undressed for photographers Kerry Morris, Pompeo Posar, David Mecey and David Chan. The Hunt for Playboy's 35th Anniversary Playmate was on. Husbands and boyfriends, barred from the scene sublime, stewed in hotel bars many floors below. "Some of the boyfriends were cranking a few drinks," said Miss September 1978, Rosanne Katon, who joined the Hunt's staff in New York. As their men fidgeted downstairs, the hopeful prey of the Playmate Hunt posed and dreamed other dreams. "I've dreamed of being in Playboy since I was a baby sitter," said Vancouver's Valerie Gulyban. "I wouldn't take my clothes off for any other magazine," said Clearwater, Florida's, Pam Ward. Perhaps Terry VanWinkle of Lenexa, Kansas, put it best: "I have fantasized about Playboy since my teens. I think every girl wonders, dreams and wishes she could be in Playboy just once--it's as much an American institution as baseball and Mom's apple pie!" The Hunt attracted women from all 50 states and a sizable fraction of the rest of the globe. There were 17 flight attendants, 16 nurses, 15 strippers, two nannies and a beekeeper. There were doctors, cops, a mortician, a psychic and a cowgirl. From Honolulu came Honey Bruce Friedman, Lenny Bruce's widow. There was a minister, a witch and an acrobat. Four thousand, three hundred and two women later, we had our 35th Anniversary Playmate. You will find her lurking modestly in the next few pages. Good hunting and Happy Anniversary.
<p>A "Bean-Pole wallflower" at Beverly Hills High, a too-tall sock-hop reject, she thought she was ugly. Her high school date total was zero. Then came breasts, cheekbones and a trip to France, where she was discovered by Elle, the Parisian fashion magazine. A few months later, strolling the Champs Élysées, she saw Elle on a newsstand. "I looked at the cover and thought, That girl's pretty," she says. "Then I thought, Wait a minute, that girl's me!" Was that the moment she knew she was beautiful? "No," says Fawna MacLaren. "This is."</p>
Leaving the poker party late, as usual, two friends compared notes. "I can never fool my wife," the first complained. "I turn off the car's engine and coast into the garage, take off my shoes, sneak upstairs and undress in the bathroom, but she always wakes up and yells like crazy about my being late."
As Decades go, the Seventies don't get much respect. They were a comedown from the Sixties. Apart from Vietnam and Watergate, what was there to the Seventies besides glitter and gas lines? Well, at Playboy, it seemed an exhilarating time--full of drama, upheaval and good conversation (much of it on tape).
June 17, 1972. Nine o'clock Saturday morning. Early for the telephone. Bob Woodward fumbled for the receiver and snapped awake. The city editor of The Washington Post was on the line. Five men had been arrested earlier that morning in a burglary at Democratic headquarters, carrying photographic equipment and electronic gear. Could he come in?
A Yuletide Toast! Lift the brimming beaker to the much-maligned and badly misunderstood figure in Christmas lore, Ebenezer Scrooge. A heavy too long in hearthside morality tales, Ebenezer deserves an immediate rehabilitation, if only for one reason: His classic two-word description of Christmas is so elegant, so succinct and so true that saying anything more seems almost redundant. "Christmas? Bah, humbug!"
It was as Nice a little whorehouse as you ever saw. It sat in a green Texas glade, white-shuttered and tidy, surrounded by leafy oak trees and a few slim renegade pines and the kind of pure clean air the menthol-cigarette people advertise.
[Q] Playboy: Since you seem bent on setting the record straight, let's discuss the strong criticism you've received about your reputation for being difficult and the obsession you seem to have for taking control of whatever projects you are involved with.
Freddy Python was a well-known developer around Boston, always putting together real-estate packages that, though they seldom came to anything, somehow kept him in sports cars, tailored suits and attractive women. He lived with his mother and a Filipino servant in a choice slice of house on the good side of Beacon Hill. His first and only marriage had ended quickly, without children. In the decade since, he had almost forgotten this wife; she was the most distant figure in a long line of women he had escorted and seduced, enjoyed spats and vacations with, got sunburned and frostbitten with, loved and forgotten each in her turn. In his memory, the succession was clamorous and indignant, like the Complaints line in a department store, with a few conspicuously silent, sullen sufferers hoping to make their case that way. Freddy had finessed them all: the weeper, the screamer, the tedious reasoner, the holder of heated silences. At the end of a date, however fraught, he would skillfully sail his Porsche through the bright morass of Park Square and the erratic rapids of Charles Street traffic, tack uphill into his narrow alley and nose the car to safety in its space below his mother's window. He would let himself in softly and ascend the carpeted stairs to his bedroom, a vast master bedroom that floated, all puffs and pillows and matching satin, like a dulcet blimp above the contagion of the city and its dreams. The Filipino would have turned his coverlet down. His mother would have left him a note, saying, "The mayor called" or "Don't forget your lecithin." Freddy would undress, checking his gym-hardened body for signs of wear in the full-length mirror before unfolding his pajamas. Composing his pajamaed self for sleep, he closed his eyes and folded his mind around the evening's seized pleasures. His trophies were about him, from the framed citation of the Charlestown Realty Board to the plated statuette signifying second prize in the Maiden Teens Tennis Competition in 1959. His mother was below him. The Hill was quiet but for the burst of a muffler or the scampering footsteps of a mugging. Corinna (or whoever) was alone in her (rumpled) bed. Freddy was alone in his. What a life.
May you live in interesting times," goes the old Chinese curse. Well, things got real interesting for Playboy in the Eighties. Americans were being held hostage by the ayatollah, interest rates were high and we had a President who carried his own luggage. What's worse, no one had yet had the decency to put disco out of its misery. When Reagan was elected, those of us who disagreed with his politics thought, At least he'll lay off Playboy; he wants government off the people's backs. But noooooooooo. Instead, we got more self-righteous finger wagging than in any decade since the Fifties. And Lord, those TV evangelists....
The Centauran, seeing the red carnation in Eitel's lapel, lifted his arm in a gesture like the extending of a telescopic tube, and the woman smiled. It was an amazing smile and it caught Eitel a little off guard, because for an instant, it made him wish that the Centauran were back on Centaurus and this woman were sitting here alone. He shook the thought off. He was here to do a deal, not to get into entanglements.
It is dark in Rick's apartment. Black-leader dark, heavy and abstract, silent but for a faint hoarse crackle like a voiceless plaint and brief as sleep. Then Rick opens the door and the light from the hall scissors in like a bellboy to open up space, deposit surfaces (there is a figure in the room), harbinger event (it is Ilsa). Rick follows, too preoccupied to notice: His café is closed, people have been shot, he has troubles. But then, with a stroke, he lights a small lamp (such a glow! The shadows retreat, everything retreats: Where are the walls?), and there she is, facing him, holding open the drapery at the far window like the front of a nightgown, the light flickering upon her white but determined face like static. Rick pauses for a moment in astonishment. Ilsa lets the drapery and its implications drop, takes a step forward into the strangely fretted light, her eyes searching his.
[Q] Playboy: Let's go back to that night of February 4, 1974. You and Steven [Weed, her boyfriend at the time] were in your Berkeley apartment when there was a knock on the door. The next thing you know, you're being carried outside, screaming, and thrown into the trunk of a car. What was going through your mind?
[Q] Playboy: The word is out: John Lennon and Yoko Ono are back in the studio, recording again for the first time since 1975, when they vanished from public view. Let's start with you, John. What have you been doing?
She Had Been Famous as Lisel--simply "Lisel"--for a period of about 18 months. And then her fame had been primarily a downtown phenomenon: She had done some modeling, she had been interviewed, she had been featured in a number of Myron Falk's "experimental" films. Beyond Manhattan, it was doubtful that anyone had ever heard of her--or that her name was remembered for more than those quick 18 months.
In the fall of 1979, the author returned to a high school he had attended briefly some years back. He registered as a student under an assumed name with the cooperation of the principal, who was the only one to know the secret. Because of his youthful appearance, he was never under suspicion and was able to mingle freely in the classrooms, the schoolyard, the students' homes and the fast-food parlors that were the focus of the lives of the kids in a typical town in California. The author has changed the name of the school, its location and the names of the students and teachers with whom he lived. The events and the dialog, however, are real.
Late One Night in Greenwich Village, early in the Fifties, there was a scratching at my door. When I opened it, a bedraggled, sodden man fell into my apartment babbling incoherently about needing money for a magazine. I thought, of course, that he wanted to buy Time or Newsweek to catch up on the news. Since that seemed like a nice thing for a man who was so down and out to want to do, I gave him 50 cents for a magazine. Apparently, it was that 50 cents that started what became this extraordinary empire.