For 35 Years, the crew of the starship Playboy has gone where no man has gone before, taking frequent strolls along the sexual frontier, checking out sex clubs, topless/bottomless bars, couch dancing, S/M clubs, massage parlors, discos, wet-T-shirt contests. Call it the quest for energy. Sadly, over the past few years, the frontier has been a little less traveled.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), April 1989, Volume 36, Number 4. 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 51537-4007. Please allow 6--8 weeks for processing, for change of address, send new and old address. Postmaster: Send Form 3579 to Playboy. P.O. Box 2007, Harlan, Iowa 51537-4007, 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.
Roxanne Pulitzer starred in Prize Pulitzer, our June 1985 pictorial send-up of her notorious divorce from Palm Beach millionaire Herbert Pulitzer, Jr. Since then, Roxanne's lively sense of humor has been maintained by sky-high sales of her memoir, The Prize Pulitzer (Villard), which has just come out in paperback from Ballantine Books. NBC plans to air the TV-movie version soon. Meanwhile, Pulitzer is completing her first novel.
Monty Python alumnus Terry Gilliam's mad and marvelous comedy The Adventures of Baron Munchausen (Columbia) features a pseudonymous star turn by a performer listed only as Ray D. Tutto. Well, folks, that's Robin Williams--playing the King of the Moon, a frequently disembodied floating head who has "tides to regulate" and no spare time for "flatulence and orgasms." Williams is fall-down funny in this cornucopious farce based on the vintage classic about a rollicking old soldier of fortune who spins tall tales. Gilliam, himself becoming a brilliant movie fantasist as far out as Fellini, calls Munchausen the conclusion of a trilogy that began with Time Bandits and Brazil, all concerned with "dreamers caught in an age of reason." Here, England's John Neville hams gloriously in the title role. He first shows up in a nameless 18th Century European city under siege by the Turks. After angrily denouncing a dramatized performance of the Munchausen saga by a tatty theatrical troupe, the wily octogenarian takes the stage to recap the "truth" about his misadventures in a movie within the movie. You follow? Don't worry. Just let yourself go in Gilliam's gifted hands. Munchausen is joined on his flights of fancy by a delightful, skeptical ten-year-old (Sarah Polley). They fly to the moon in a balloon made of ladies' knickers, get swallowed by a sea monster, visit the insanely lusty god Vulcan (Oliver Reed) and his bride, Venus (Uma Thurman, a Botticelli beauty if ever there were one). At intervals, Eric Idle, Valentina Cortese and Jonathan Pryce fade in and out of the magic-lantern show conjured by Italian cinematographer Giuseppe Rotunno, whose credits include a slew of Fellini classics. Wondrous is the word for Munchausen, a one-of-a-kind movie that slightly jaded children might recommend to incurable innocents of all ages.
Dr. Ruth Westheimer talks a lot about fantasies, so we decided to give her one: She's snowed in for the weekend with just her husband and the VCR. What videos would she watch until the plows arrived? "I'd want one Shirley Temple film, Gone with the Wind and Tootsie--I love Dustin Hoffman! I'd also rent a few sexy films, like Last Tango in Paris," she adds with her trademark giggle. "And Dirty Dancing was very sexy, but it wasn't explicit. That's good. Often, explicit scenes arouse anxiety in the audience, because people think if they don't have an orgasm the way it's shown on screen, there may he something wrong with them. Then again," she says, "I tell couples to rent X-rated movies to make their sex lives more varied, more interesting, more fun!" Thanks, Doc. Here's to snowy nights.
The Works: How super can Super-VHS get? Mitsubishi's HS-U80 S-VHS VCR ($2100) has insert edit, fine edit, jog wheel, variable-speed visible search, variable slow motion and frame advance, picture in picture and a digital feature that will display as many as 100 split screens at a time--just in case you want to watch everything at once.
Can't Sleep? Count Our Sheep: As if the video fireplace, the video sunset and the video fish tank weren't enough, now there's a vid cure for insomnia: a 60-minute tape of sheep jumping a fence, set to Brahms (Creative Consultants International).
Best Oh-Get-a-Job Video:Make a Puppet--Make a Friend;Yuppie Video of the Year:Space Law: Real Property Rights in Outer Space; Best Think-We'll-Pass Video: In the Land of the Owl Turds;Favorite Sporting Life Video Titles:Bowhunting in Zululand, Bowhunting Pronghorn Antelope, Hunting Bugling Elk with Jim Zumbo, Hunting Trophy Hogs, Hunting Big Muleys and--what the hell--Handgun Reloading;Best It's-a-Living Video:The Art of Turkey Calling.
In a Spring unusually crowded with excellent books, John Irving's latest novel, A Prayer for Owen Mean (Morrow), leaps off the pages with an imaginative passion that is startling; it demands to be read first. The title character is an extremely short person with a strange, emphatic falsetto voice--"a permanent scream," expressed by Irving by putting all of his dialog in capitals--who believes himself to be an instrument of God's will in the most literal sense. From the time that he kills his best friend's mother with a foul ball in a little-league game to the moment of his amazing foreordained death, Owen Meany lives with a sense of purpose that is touching, comical and--depending on your point of view--either a bit crazy or miraculous.
Before Guns n' Roses, Poison or Cinderella came Ratt, clanking its heavy metal on the charts. Lead singer Stephen Pearcy took time out from relentlessly plugging Ratt's sixth LP, "Reach for the Sky," to comment on the third album by another pioneering band, the Bangles.
Sweat and Tears Department: We don't know how you feel, but Elvis mania seems to be taking a turn toward obsession. Georgia artist Joni Mabe has a Traveling Elvis Museum devoted to such artifacts as one of the King's toenails and a container of his sweat. You'll probably want to skip it when it comes to your town.
Thanks to checkbook journalism, I am in possession of a recruiting diary that was kept by Bubba Don Supples, an assistant football coach at Jesus and God University, and I am herewith going to publish some excerpts from it, because not only do they tell the whole story of the university's efforts to recruit Maxell Washington, the best running back in the country, they leave no doubt in my mind that college sports are getting cleaner.
It happened one evening last November. I was sitting in the Grand Ballroom of the Chicago Hilton Hotel on Michigan Avenue, attending a dinner. The food was excellent, the company grand, and I even managed to be sociable, not always an easy task for me. But I was engaged in more than small talk. Something private and very powerful was taking place: Although he had died in 1960, my father's presence surrounded me there in that ballroom that evening. It was as if he were there in person.
I am a happily married 28-year-old female. I would like to start by saying I consider my marriage to be very satisfying and our sex life to be totally fulfilling. Recently, my husband and I met a couple in our neighborhood, and since then we have become very close. When I say close, I mean extremely close! We have a lot in common with them and really enjoy our time together. Our friendship started to take on a whole new meaning when we spent a weekend at the lake together. We thought that we were only participating in a harmless night of skinny-dipping, but it has led to a release of feelings that we have never experienced before. Other occasions arose for more skinny-dipping and everyone seemed eager to participate. Speaking from a woman's point of view, the water flowing over my naked breasts was in itself a sensuous experience. One night, we went on one of our midnight cruises in the boat and ended up nude. Becoming sexually aroused, we stopped at a small island and made love under the stars with our spouses. Another weekend, we decided to stay home together. After a beer or two, we ended up nude with each other's spouses. It started with innocent massages and led to a more sensuous expression of pleasure. This continued through the night with increasing desire. Since none of us felt a need to discontinue our weekends of ecstasy, we continued our nights with our new friends. After the first few nights together, each of us seemed not to think much about what was happening. But now we are probing our minds to find out why we are so comfortable with this new expression of togetherness. We would like to savor our new-found feelings and experiences with this couple. That is why I am asking for your help in analyzing this situation. What heartaches or pleasures lie in store for our exciting weekends together?--Mrs. L. M., Montgomery, Alabama.
Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) was founded by a woman whose daughter was killed by a drunk driver. It is now the foremost anti-drunk-driver organization in the country and has performed one public service that should earn it a towering monument: It has dismantled the image of the drunk as a comical figure, as in the cross-eyed cartoon character wearing top hat and tux, hanging on to a lamppost and a whiskey bottle outside a night club at three A.M., singing "How dry I am!" Now a drunk is usually a fool, and often a fool with problems, who is a peril to himself and others when behind the wheel of a car. The kind of drunkenness once considered laughable has become less socially acceptable, and the country is the better for it.
"[A] woman is free to make the basic decision whether to bear an unwanted child. Elaborate argument is hardly necessary to demonstrate that childbirth may deprive a woman of her preferred lifestyle and force upon her a radically different and undesired future. For example, [women who are not allowed to have abortions] are required to endure the discomforts of pregnancy; to incur the pain, higher mortality rate and aftereffects of childbirth; to abandon educational plans; to sustain loss of income; to forgo the satisfactions of careers; to tax further mental and physical health in providing child care; and, in some cases, to bear the lifelong stigma of unwed motherhood, a badge that may haunt, if not deter, later legitimate family relationships."
To polish its image a little, the National Rifle Association put out a coloring book, My Gun Safety Book, warning children who find an unattended gun to get away fast and report it to a responsible adult. Since there are firearms in half the households in the country and plenty more on the street, I didn't see how anyone could fault the basic message, even if it came from the N.R.A. But in antigun circles, the response was outrage. In Chicago, for instance, the Illinois Council Against Handgun Violence said it was "deeply distressed by the N.R.A.'s cynical effort to encourage the use of handguns. Supplying the coloring book to school children is as effective as supplying clean needles to drug addicts. We must go cold turkey on guns." A Chicago Police Department official, who apparently liked the drug imagery, agreed that "it's sickening to inject this type of garbage into the minds of our youngsters."
Last summer, the Reverend Donald E. Wildmon waged holy war against the distributors of The Last Temptation of Christ. Sending forth his troops to petition, boycott and picket Universal Pictures and local movie theaters, Wildmon provided the kind of publicity money can't buy--and the movie became an instant box-office hit. Not surprisingly, Wildmon's A.F.A. Journal claimed that "Christian Activism Wins Resounding Victory with last Temptation Efforts." However, the real victory for the fundamentalist group was the fact that, as a result of the uproar, Wildmon collected an estimated $1,125,000 in donations. That feat earned the reverend the "Panhandler of the Year" award from a Massachusetts research group called The Freedom Writer, which monitors the activities of the "fund-raising-mentalists," as it refers to the religious right.
Last October, in "The Big Lie: Reisman Revisited," we reported the strange case of Judith A. Reisman, Ph.D. Despite the fact that Reisman does not have a bachelor's degree (it was waived in lieu of her "professional experience" as a songwriter for Captain Kangaroo) and that her doctoral dissertation was an analysis of mail sent to a local television commentator, she managed to obtain a $743,371 Government grant to study what she terms "images of children" in cartoons and photographs published in Playboy, Penthouse and Hustler. Her aim was to prove that magazines such as the one you now hold in your hands are dangerously obsessed with underage females and intentionally promote the sexual abuse of children.
Belfast: When we think of the embattled Catholic ghettos, the images that come to mind are of gritty streets strewn with burned-out cars, walls scribbled with graffiti that proclaim I.R.A. Forever and Brits Go Home. Now and then, we see pictures of some wretched street kid hurling rocks and homemade grenades at the armored cars of British soldiers. We also see pictures of young British soldiers on patrol, looking by turns terrified and ominous.
Question: What rips into Florida every year at this time, spends six weeks tearing through a small oceanside town and keeps right on trucking until it finally blows itself out? If you're guessing Hurricane Hannah, guess again. In reality, the tempest is comprised of 400,000 college students who descend on Daytona Beach, Florida, for their annual rite of spring. Their mission is a simple one: to party nonstop. Last year, Playboy risked putting itself at the center of the storm and walked away with the kind of scrapbook you don't leave out on the coffee table. So pull up a stretch of sand, rub on plenty of suntan oil and turn the page. Welcome to spring break!
NB.A. draft day, 1985. Big guys have waited their whole lives for this. At the same time they were learning to put the ball on the floor, during those endless hang-time moments when they were pretending they were Bird or Magic or Dr. J, they were also working on their draft-day cools. That's right: Go up on stage, shake the commissioner's hand, check out your highlights on the video, sit down with Rick Barry, let him tell the world. "I'm a first-round draft choice," they say. "I'm about something here."
With Balmy Weather just around the corner and with it the itch to look sharp, we've taken this year's spring-and-summer fashion forecast and separated the clothes into three distinct looks: tailored, easygoing dressy and casual. It should make your wardrobe selection a lot simpler. Remember that tailored clothes are a significant investment, so you'll want to make your choices carefully. The smart money this season will be on double-breasted jackets with wide peaked lapels and soft, sloping shoulders and multipleated trousers that drape. Dress shirts will echo this casual mood with soft, straight collars. Neckwear will remain wide, three and three fourths inches being the maximum. (At left: A wool six-button suitwith double-pleated trousers, about $1250, worn with a striped cotton shirt, about $130, and silk crepe de Chine tie, about $75, all by Er-menegildo Zegna.) When it comes to easygoing dressy--that relaxed but stylish fashion zone between tailored and casual--the two stalwart choices remain blazers and sports jackets. This year, both double-breasted styles and the traditional single-breasted three button are the favorites. They often look best when combined with a tieless shirt and khaki trousers. (Worn with a pair of walk shorts and a polo shirt, they become a shorts suit, as seen at right, which includes a three-button linen blazer, $355, pleated plaid linen shorts, $100, both by Andrew Fezza; and a cotton knit polo shirt, from Basco by Lance Karesh, $52. Sunglasses, by L. A. Eyeworks, $125.) For the casual look, there'll be plentyof vested interest in vests this year. What could be more casual than a sleeveless jacket? (Below left: A cotton floral-print vest with antique-style buttons, $125, triple-pleated cotton walk shorts, $100, both by Paul Smith; and a linen sport shirt, by Kermit Smith for Krunch, $180.) Other choices include loose-fitting, tropical-print camp shirts and lightweight, brightly colored jackets. Follow our advice, guys, and you'll be making all hits and no misses all season long.
<p>The Five Guys who followed Jennifer Lyn Jackson out of a crowded elevator at Chicago's Drake Hotel on a recent wintry evening looked, well, kind of stunned. And very happy. As if the elevator doors had magically opened onto some exotic tropical beach scene instead of onto a big-city hotel lobby. You could see the heads turn as she walked through the crowd, a dazzling flash of beauty on an otherwise chilly night. People must have been asking themselves: Who is that lady? Well, we could have unmasked her for them. We found her in the Great 35th Anniversary Playmate Hunt and she's our choice as April's Playmate. Jennifer's a double-major student (finance and business management) at Ohio's Kent State University, and she sees a master's degree and a Ferrari in her future. Her family and closest friends call her J. And she has a pet ferret whose name is Shmeebee. (text concluded on page 100)</p>
An attorney was working late in his office one night when the Devil suddenly appeared and offered him a deal. Beginning immediately, Satan said, the lawyer could win all of his cases, make twice as much money, work half as much, be loved by his partners, be worshiped by the office staff, be attended to by a beautiful nymphomaniacal secretary and be assured of living to a happy, healthy, virile old age.
Reeves Callaway is not your basic auto mogul. Were he to some how appear in the corporate board rooms of, say, General Motors or Chrysler, real moguls such as Roger Smith or Lee Iacocca would have him thrown into the street. After all, would they want a 41-yearold former art major from Amherst College who builds 200-miles-per-hour hot-rod Corvettes telling them how to manufacture more ambulatory blister packs for the proletariat? Callaway is an elitist. And there is no room for elitism in the egalitarian world of big-bucks auto marketing. Volume is a word Callaway reserves for his stereo. Automobiles are to be built one by one, with a jeweler's devotion to detail, and then driven at speeds that would make your mother faint. Consider this: (continued on page 158)Fire in the Belly(continued from page 108) The Callaway Corvette, featuring a specially converted 350-cubic-inch, twin-turbocharged L-98 Chevrolet V8 "small block," developing 382 horsepower, and a carefully tuned suspension, will accelerate from 0 to 60 in 4.6 seconds, run the quarter mile in 13 seconds and howl down the interstate at a top speed of 191 mph. Better yet, at 70 mph, it will stop in 170 feet and generate 0.91 g force on the skid pad--a number barely obtainable by many purebred race cars. When measured in the five basic categories of performance--acceleration, top speed, quarter mile, road holding and braking-the Callaway Corvette outmuscles such fabled marques as the Ferrari Testarossa, the Lamborghini Countach and the Porsche 911 Turbo. There is no other production automobile in the world, with the possible exception of the Ferrari F40 (whichis a stark, ultralight, quasi race car costing almost four times as much--$220,000 vs. $60,000), to equal it.
It was the year of aging gracefully. Sure, U2, INXS and R.E.M. kept us in XTC. Prince, we (love) U. Midnight Oil boiled; Tracy Chapman and Guns n' Roses--gentle Miss Jekyll and Messrs. Hyde--made superstar. But everywhere you looked, there were ghosts of concerts past. The Top 40 virtually creaked with forever-young rockers who had topped 40. Elvis, who would have been 53, wowed the faithful with his "11th anniversary" comeback. Mick, 45, cut his second solo, Primitive Cool.Keith, 45, cut his first, Talk Is Cheap.God, 44--now known to a new generation as "Clapton, the guy in the beer ads"--resurged clean and sober, a rockin', tee-totalin' demigod. Elton John, 42 but still standin', cleared his surgically repaired throat and sold out his Reg Strikes Back tour. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, cumulative age 181--those harmonizers from another age--staged their own harmonic convergence, crooning four-part nostalgia on their first album since Nixon, 76, was elected.
There's a new Cole on the swimwear fashion scene--no relation to the giant California concern. This Cole isa true Brit and one of Playboy's favorite ladies. Marilyn Cole has, indeed, come a long way since her teenage days in Portsmouth, when, she admits, she disliked wearing swimsuits: "I was afraid my legs were too thin." That was before shemoved to London and landed jobs--first as a Bunny, then as public-relations director for the Playboy Club in Park Lane. Within months, Marilyn was Miss January 1972, and in June of 1973, she showed up in Playboy again--as Playmate of the Year. Marilyn now lives in London with her husband, former Playboy executive Victor Lownes III, who recently sold his popular Stocks clubs in London and the Hertfordshire countryside. Her Playboy exposure long ago convinced her that there's nothing wrong with the way she looks in a swimsuit. But how did she make the leap from wearing them to marketing them? Let's hear the tale from Marilyn herself.
For the past eight years, Wayne Gretzky has dominated hockey as no other professional athlete has ever dominated a sport. But last season, after reigning as the N.H.L.'s scoring champion for seven straight seasons and M.V.P. for eight, the undisputed king of the rink lost both honors to Pittsburgh Penguins center Mario Lemieux.
They don't have the intellectual rep of, say, the Ivies; they don't project as macho an athletic image as the schools of the Big Ten. In fact, had they not been lumped together as an N.C.A.A. basketball conference--and a damn good one, at that--the nine colleges that make up the Big East would probably have nothing to do with one another. But they do, and to uncover their finest off-court assets, we asked Contributing Photographers David Chan and David Mecey to pay a visit to this necklace of colleges draped along the Eastern Seaboard. It wasn't an easy project: Many of the schools are small and six of them are Roman Catholic institutions. Consequently, the usual protests were unusually heated. Most school papers refused to run our interview ads; we were picketed and booted out of hotels. But our two Davids returned victorious. Meet the Girls of the Big East.
Rebounders: "Hell, I hate to rebound; I want to shoot, but somebody's got to do the job. But there are guys who, when they tighten up their shoes before the game, are saying: 'Give me thirty boards tonight.' I look at them like, 'Fool, you're crazy.' These guys are talking about some glass. We call it 'eating glass.' That's all they like to do. They will run over the coaching staff and the referee and half the team out there to get that rebound--at all costs."
The heat is on, gentlemen, and it radiates from an old friend--the pocket lighter. An elegant accessory for an evening on the town or the ultimate source of instant fire, the pocket lighter's evolution includes the classic Zippo and a dazzling array of shapes and sizes. The latest pocket cigar lighters fire up with a split flame that's perfect for igniting a cherished cheroot; pipe smokers can opt for a lighter with an angled flame that won't burn the bowl of their favorite straight-grain. Other contemporary styles, such as the Gigi rotary-action quartz lighter or Cartier's silver-plated anniversary model with gold and sapphire accents, are the ideal urban companion when you're making night moves.