The thing we like about February is that it's the last month of winter. Sure, it can still freeze--look, we're from Chicago; we've had snow and sleet in May--but come the second month of the year and we can say, "So much for winter." Mind you, Siberian cabin fever is always easier to take when you have the world's favorite men's magazine to keep you warm, and this particular issue is guaranteed to melt the mush off your mukluks.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), February 1990, Volume 37, Number 2. Published Monthly by Playboy, 680 North Lake Shore Drive, 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 addresses. 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: 680 North Lake Shore Drive, Chicago 60611; West Coast: Perkins, Fox & Perkins, 3205 Ocean Park Boulevard, Suite 100, Santa Monica, California 90405.
Dave Coulier, currently a star of the sitcom "Full House," also works as a stand-up comic, a writer-director-performer of jingles and commercials and a creator of cartoon-character voices. Here he assesses Rickie Lee Jones's new LP, "Flying Cowboys."
Save your Confederate Money Department: We don't know which of these stories is crazier, so we'll let you choose: First, the University of South Carolina's athletic director nixed a Stones concert on campus because one thing leads to another, and if he let Mick et al. in, he'd have to OK tractor pulls. Say what? Then we heard that marching bands are not permitted to play Louie, Louie at football games because the university's insurance stipulates against the song! Why? Because it makes people dance, which might damage the stadium's structure. Now we know why the Southland gave birth to the blues.
Spectacularly filmed across half of France, Milos Forman's Valmont (Orion) tells the same classical story as Stephen Frears' Dangerous Liaisons. In this case, with 1988's Liaisons still hopping off video-store shelves, odious comparisons are inevitable. Forman's younger, talented, less familiar cast seems almost to blunder into decadence. There's nary a trace of Glenn Close's cruelly calculating Marquise de Merteuil in movie newcomer Annette Bening's arch portrayal and scant evidence of Michelle Pfeiffer's pious sexual repression as Madame de Tourvel in Meg Tilly's gawky performance as the virtuous wife who cannot resist Valmont (Colin Firth). Firth slips easily into the britches of the irresistible seducer played by Liaisons' John Malkovich. Stressing the accent on youth, Henry Thomas (E.T's best friend) scores as the handsome, postpubescent music teacher, though his teenaged ladylove, the innocent Cécile, played by 15-year-old Fairuza Balk, is decidedly no Uma Thurman. As Valmont's dotty old aunt, Fabia Drake is the most accomplished performer of the lot. The film is also oddly nonerotic: Even in her bath, the marquise wears a wrapper. But Forman and cinematographer Miroslav Ondricek have re-created 18th Century France gorgeously, from cloister to château, from sun-dappled countryside to busy market place, from dingy tavern to the glittering Opéra Comique. Check out Liaisons if it's etchedin-acid characterizations you're after. To revel with sumptuously costumed starcrossed youth in an elegant, two-hour-plus visual feast, see Valmont. [rating]3 bunnies[/rating]
If showbiz insiders have it right, Irish-born 38-year-old Patrick Bergin is about to make it big in movies playing Richard Burton. No, not that Richard Burton. Bergin will soon be seen in Mountains of the Moon as the famed Victorian explorer and dedicated eroticist Sir Richard Burton, whose exploits included searching for the source of the Nile. In the movie, directed by Bob Rafelson, Burton's chief interests converge in a scene on a riverbank, where he is discovered cavorting with nude native women. "They were girls from Kenya, gorgeous and very flirtatious," says Bergin. "I wish there'd been more of that in the film, but the Kenyans don't approve of nudity." A former choir singer, construction worker and teacher, Bergin relishes portraying a man "who translated The Arabian Nights, The Kama Sutra and The Perfumed Gardens ... all those explorations of the art of love. I was fascinated with his work. My dad had copies of all his banned books. Obviously, Burton liked trying all the positions. He was supposed to be an incredibly well-endowed man, and the number of women he had was legendary." Mountains is macho adventure, says Bergin, "with a hint of homosexuality. There's strong evidence that Speke [Iain Glen as John Harming Speke, Burton's partner] was homosexual. But we don't state everything. That's the beauty of it." Next on Bergin's schedule: He's off to Phoenix to play Beelzebub in a Twilight Zonish thriller currently called Highway to Hell, and he'd like to do a musical he has written. "It's about a boy and a girl in Dublin, and I have hopes for it. Nowadays, they make musicals out of Tupperware parties."
Least Intimate Video:Kumbha Mela: Fifteen Million People Gather for Hindu Spiritual Festival;Best Video Digest:A Three Thousand Year History of Pornography, Volume One;Best We-Don't-Even-Wanna-Know Video:Buglin' Big Bulls;Best Thrill-a-Minute Video:Pants That Fit;Even Briefer Thrills:Warren Miller's Exercise Shorts;Favorite Video Yuks:Films of Barbara Hammer, Volume Two: Lesbian Humor;Best It's-a-Living Video:The Care and Tweaking of the Three Tube Camera.
Paris 1989: Footage from the '89 Paris air show, including the crash of the Soviet MiG-29 (pilot survives), as well as cockpit views of an F-16 pulling nine gs, a 360-degree turn and a vertical climb (Aviation Week).
"My favorite video of all time is The Best of Eddie Murphy--Saturday Night Live," says Dr. Joyce Brothers. "I think he's so funny, but the real reason is that I'm in it--in the Celebrity Hot Tub scene. Eddie plays James Brown and I'm his guest." If the psychologist-author's top video choice comes as a surprise to you, get ready for this: Her other faves include Fatal Attraction and Death Wish. "I like movies that change the culture in some way," she explains, "movies that mirror or affect behavior." Hmm, Dr. B., would you like to talk about it?
With the Nineties upon us, MPI Home Video wants to make sure we don't forget decades past with a 14-part series, The Greatest Television News Stories of All Time, a replay of some of ABC-TV's biggest scoops, reported as they were happening. Some highlights:
Gore Vidal is, by far, our most talented fictional interpreter of American history. In five previous novels (Burr, Lincoln, 1876, Empire and Washington, D.C.), he explored eras in the growth of our nation from its 18th Century origins to the inception of the 20th Century. With Hollywood (Random House), subtitled "A Novel of America in the 1920s," he brings his chronicle into the modern age of world wars and mass media. This book is Vidal's most powerful and entertaining yet, because his themes--the vitality of the American spirit, the corruption of political power, the imprint of personalities on history and the divine comedy of great events--are played out in settings easily identified by the contemporary reader.
When my boyfriend and I started having sex, he had no problem bringing me to orgasm when he was on top. Then, as a change of pace, I rode him once and found that my orgasms were a lot more intense and satisfying. The problem is, now my boyfriend hasn't been able to bring me to orgasm except when I'm on top. We've tried everything--extended foreplay, oral stimulation, other positions. He says it doesn't matter to him that much, but it's frustrating for me and making sex less enjoyable. Any suggestions?--Miss J. T., San Diego, California.
In these conservative times, the sight of a little skin can start folks frothing at the mouth. Consider the reaction to the Nivea ad featured in the October issues of Mademoiselle, Ladies' Home Journal, Glamour, Redbook and Cosmopolitan. Stores received complaints about the ad's being "pornography" and nervous retailers pulled the offending issues off the stands. Three hundred and four Vons supermarkets, 1326 Wal-Mart stores and 77 Krogers caved in to overreacting customers.
Last spring, Time magazine reported that according to Soviet sociologist-sexologist Igor Kon, "things are changing" in the U.S.S.R., that "women's sexuality, which was previously denied, is starting to be acknowledged." Pretty encouraging news, right? But not the whole story. Here's what Time and the good doctor left out: Soviet women are sexy, exciting, smart, beautiful, determined and bursting with life. We ought to know--we were there. In an unprecedented expedition that took almost two years to plan and demanded the cooperation of more than 100 photographers, models, editors, liaison personnel, translators and government officials, Playboy made the journey to the Soviet Union's most famous stretch of soil--Russia--and discovered the biggest secret behind the iron curtain: Russia's women. For years, Playboy Managing Photo Editor Jeff Cohen had been getting pitches from independent photographers eager to make the trip to the land of the hammer and sickle, but it wasn't until Gorbachev made glasnost a household word that Cohen decided the time was right to take the gamble. Selecting Russian photographer Alexander "Sasha" Borodulin--the son of famed photographer Lev Borodulin--to do the honors, Cohen at first sat Stateside, reviewing the film as it arrived via overseas mail. Captivated by what he saw, he eventually made the 6000-mile trip himself in order to get a closer look at just what it took to create a Russian pictorial. (For an account of Cohen's delightfully revealing adventures in the Soviet Union, see page 82.) Ultimately, we wound up with much more than just a pretty scrapbook. In many cases, we were able to put a few myths to rest. For example, almost all of our models confessed that they adored the U.S.--the country and its people. "I would like very much to take a look at America with my own eyes and experience its sweet life," one told us. "I think Americans are klëvye [swell]," said another. They called us "businesslike, cute and neat"; they labeled us "hard workers, warmhearted and good guys." And they were all dying to meet us. As for sex, we had our sock-skis knocked off as our stunning coterie of Russian ladies candidly voiced a sizzling sensuality that would make some Americans blush. "I worship sex--I place it on a pedestal," one model admitted. Another confessed, "The desire never ends." So let it be said that the Cold War has finally, blissfully ended and that beauty is beauty--everywhere.
There I was, travel-weary and apprehensive, in Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport, holding a huge nylon duffel bag that was oozing women's underwear. Bras, panties, camisoles, the works. Up ahead was a Sherman tank of a Soviet customs inspector. What would she think of this American man, traveling alone, with suitcases containing women's intimate clothing and six pairs of high-heeled shoes?
Out there in the chilly zone of the Pacific, somewhere between San Francisco and Hawaii, the sea was a weird goulash of currents, streams of cold stuff coming up from the antarctic and coolish upwelling spirals out of the ocean floor and little hot rivers rolling off the sun-blasted continental shelf far to the east. Sometimes you could see steam rising in places where cold water met warm. It was a cockeyed place to be trawling for icebergs. But the albedo readings said there was a berg somewhere around there, and so the Tonopah Maru was there, too.
Finding a skin for all seasons is no easy task. Polished leather is too warm for those lazy, hazy days of late fall, and fur looks and feels best when there's a dusting of snow on the ground. That's why we opt for suede as our year-round cover-up of choice. Lightweight suede (goatskin is the softest) in a short bomber jacket, a shirt-style cut or even a three-button sports coat is the obvious choice for layering over a sweater and a long-sleeved shirt or a turtleneck. (The colors to look for should include the earthy spice tones--from curry brown to the hottest mustard hues.) If old man winter is really breathing down your neck, you can still top the ensemble with an overcoat. As the weather warms, you simply trade the shirt or sweater for a lighter-weight one while retaining the chill-cutting comfort of suede. Best of all, suede, like fine wine, ages beautifully. How suede it is!
Kissing is our greatest invention. On the list of great inventions, it ranks higher than the Thermos bottle and the Airstream trailer; higher, even, than room service, probably because the main reason room service was created was so that people could stay in bed and kiss without starving.
Dennis Mukai plays with a traditional form, the human figure--the ultimate aesthetic challenge. While the contributing artists for Vogue use vibrant color and electric line to describe clothes, he uses the same tools to depict women. The resulting images have captivated both male and female viewers. "What takes it away from normal portraiture art," says the 32-year-old Japanese-horn, California-raised artist, "is the gestural play. Pinups were realistic. You could reach out and touch the skin of a Vargas girl. Here you are playing with the illusion, the art of design. For some artists, line and flat color are inspired. For me, it's what is missing--sometimes there's nothing there and the eye has to fill in." Mukai acknowledges that comparisons between him and his late teacher and friend, Patrick Nagel, are inevitable, flattering and occasionally frustrating. When Dennis was a student at the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, he studied with Pat. Mukai was influenced by the subject matter. "Today, anyone who does a beautiful woman gets compared with Patrick," he says. Like his late colleague's. Mukai's popular images have found welcome homes at Playboy (his paintings illustrate The Playboy Advisor each month). Mirage Editions and galleries throughout the world. There are important differences between the two artists, however. Nagel idealized women, turning every one of them into a Nagel woman. "I don't want to just idealize them," says Mukai, "I want to keep the portraiture. A lot of it is what I am naturally attracted to--for the paintings to be compositionally strong, I need to use the power of full lips, intense eyes, a well-defined jaw line. These are the things I need to enhance." The rest is artistry. Both men and women buy his paintings. Men tend to buy the portraits that stare you down; women are attracted to the softer, more lyrical images with sidelong glances. When asked by one reporter why he drew women, Mukai replied, "I prefer drawing women as opposed to still lifes and landscapes because women are mysterious, sexy and interesting." His paintings are a tribute to the irrepressible sensuousness of women, neither sexist nor sexual, but animated and vibrant. Arigato, Dennis.
With all due respect to canines, a man's best friend is surely his microwave oven. It sits like a TV set on the counter or is built into the wall. You press a few buttons and, in the time it takes to make a couple of martinis, presto! Cuisine (not just food) happens. No small leap for mankind, this gizmo. The beauty of it all is that you don't need to know a damn thing about cooking to turn out dishes that make it seem as though you've been tinkering in haute technique your entire adult life. But it's not only the nuker's utter simplicity that makes it so appealing, it's the speed. With a microwave, (continued on page 155)Withdrawal(continued from page 101) you don't have to stand in the kitchen wolfing down cold pizza because you're too starved to spend an hour cooking. And you can invite a friend for dinner without spending the day up to your elbows in preparations. Suddenly, a dinner party for six is no big deal to pull off.
The Greater Vancouver Water District denies it, but there must be something in the city's drinking water. Vancouver, Canada's third largest city and the jewel of British Columbia, used to be a rugged lumber-mill town. Now its principal export seems to be beautiful women. One of Playboy's greatest beauties, 1980 Playmate of the Year Dorothy Stratten, was a Vancouver girl. Ditto the reigning Playmate of the Year, Kimberley Conrad, Mrs. Hugh Hefner, and seven other Playmates. Now comes Pamela Anderson, a native of nearby Ladysmith, who moved from tiny Comox, B.C., to Vancouver a couple of years ago and now steps onto our centerfold as British Columbia's newest jewel. As a towheaded teen in Comox (population 6000-plus), Pamela first became famed as a volleyball player. She starred for the British Columbia Provincial Team, a squad of all-star spikers who took on the best prep volley-ballers in the land. Shortly thereafter, the sports-minded Pamela took in a B.C. Lions football game in Vancouver and made a national spectacle of herself. Duded up in blue, the signature color of Labatt's Beer--she was then living in a house with a couple of Labatt's employees--she caught the eye of a national-TV cameraman. Football fans all over Canada called the network to inquire about the sideline stunner at the Lions game. Next thing she knew, Pamela was a Labatt's poster girl. "Things started happening fast," she says: other posters, print ads, TV commercials. To keep her wits about her, she kept a journal in which she recorded her experiences. "This is the beginning of a new life for me," she wrote. She moved from Comox to the big town across the Strait of Georgia. In Vancouver, she worked as a model and studied airline routes in her spare time. She got her certification as a travel agent, just in case her plans for an even bigger move didn't work out.
The fact is, no one watches TV anymore; we drive the beast. Sitting there with our remote controls, we careen wildly from network to cable to VCR until, like a kid on a barstool, we're dizzy and sick from too much fun. But let's suppose that for just one night we were able to put it all to rest--stop changing channels, stop the manic hunt for more and better entertainment. Let's say that on this one perfect, dreamlike evening, we could erase all the boundaries of TV programing--put on as many shows as we wanted, introduce stars from one program into another, ignore all the usual constraints of time and break for commercials only when we felt like it.
Dwight Yoakam was born 33 years ago in Floyd County, Kentucky. Although his family had to migrate north to Ohio in search of factory jobs, they returned home every weekend. Dwight was thus able to grow up in the local holler and absorb a way of life that is now almost extinct.
By the time you hit 15, you lost count of the boys who've come in your hand. There are plenty you've jerked off intentionally, too. But you lose count of the ones who grabbed your hand when they needed it. The one who did it Christmas Eve in St. Patrick's to O Come All Ye Faithful. When it happened in a Stingray Corvette, you thought he was downshifting. Once, you got it waiting in line at a funeral. Some you couldn't call hand jobs. Some were thigh jobs. Boys pressed into you by the lockers and in elevators--elevator jobs. There was a dance called the fish, where you held each other close and didn't move your feet--fish jobs. Silhouettes was a good song for that. On Daddy Cool, the flip side, you could dry off and get ready for the next one. There were forearm jobs. Dry humps, wet humps. Everybody's smelled different. It smelled like ammonia, Chinese food and blue stuff your dad poured into the car. Vic's was green, oozy green, thicker than rubber cement. Smelled like lima beans. Even when you loved him, there was nothing positive you could say about it. All those sweet boys shaving once a week, grabbing your limp, unwary hand, pressing their dicks into it. Somebody's, Harry's maybe, had sparkles in it. Somebody's glowed.
Every so often, eyewear enjoys a fashion renaissance. And this is the year. In fact, eyeglasses for men are so hot that even guys with 20/20 vision are wearing "planos"--frames with clear lenses. When choosing a look, remember that opposites attract. If you have a round face, go for square glasses. A square or angular face calls for round or curvy frames. But whatever you choose, the rage these days is 1920 styles. A pair of round or semiround wire rims or contrasting yellow-and-black tortoise frames make a strong style statement on the right man. And speaking of strong, the Clark Kent look--a heavy black or tortoise frame--is an appealing style for men of steel everywhere.