The name Donald Trump conjures up what the Eighties were all about: deal making, ostentation, fabulous wealth. Now that we're safely into the Nineties, we decided to check in with the man whose name is plastered all over the Eastern Seaboard (and now on our cover). Glenn Plaskin hounded the great negotiator for four months to produce a feisty Playboy Interview.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), March 1990, Volume 37, Number 3. 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.
The guy hosts NBC's Night Music, plays saxophone with most of his guests, records solo albums, tours, does session work and is a semiregular with Paul Shaffer and the World's Most Dangerous Band on Late Night with David Letterman.David Sanborn is possibly the most widely heard saxophone player in the country.
Matthew Broderick proves himself too lightweight an actor to carry, in Glory (Tri-Star), a film so top-heavy with noble intentions. Denzel Washington and Morgan Freeman, both superb, play black soldiers recruited for the 54th Massachusetts regiment in the Civil War, with Cary Elwes very fine as the white second-in-command. But you won't believe for a moment that any of them would follow Broderick's boyish, callow commander into the jaws of death. Based on the true exploits of the first black Army unit raised in the North to fight for the Union, Glory is explicitly gory, with spectacular battle scenes. It is also a fairly primitive hosanna to black pride, full of overstuffed heroics and heavenly choirs against a symphonic sound track that seems to suggest that a full orchestra might turn back the rebels. Director Edward Zwick, who also co-created TV's thirtysomething, cannot be faulted for thinking small. [rating]2 bunny[/rating]
He's constantly recognized as a big-screen bad guy, but not everyone knows that Bill Duke, at 46, also ranks as a major TV director. With his performances in American Gigolo and Commando well behind him, Duke will be seen next in Bird on a Wire, with Goldie Hawn and Mel Gibson. "David Carradine and I are drug dealers who go after Goldie and Mel. I don't end up very well in the end, but I'm used to that. When you're tall and black, as I am, you usually play the bad guy." Duke is deeply concerned with changing the image of blacks in Hollywood. "I've turned down bad-guy parts because they seemed to be buffoons. You have to know why a person behaves as he does. Fact is, I've known a lot of, bad black guys ... in my own family."
Best Video Comeback:The Hula: Lessons 1 and 2;Kinkiest-Sounding Royalty Video:The Queen and Her Ceremonial Horses;Best There's-Something-You-Don't-Do-Every-Day Video:Chinese Aerobics: Praying Mantis Form;Best Thrill-a-Minute Video:Baby-Sitting Basics;Favorite Porn Title and Teaser:Bimbo Bowlers from Boston ("Grab your balls, 'cause this ain't no tea party!"); Best It's-a-Living Video:Vehicle Leasing.
Watch My Car, Will Ya?: We predicted color TVs for cars and, sure enough, Hitachi now has a deal with Chrysler that will make a five-inch color LCD monitor with video cassette player a factory option on the 1991 Voyager minivans. Look for Ford and G.M. to follow.
Courtesy of Video Yesteryear's 900-title collection, you can now enjoy those 15-cent Saturday matinees your folks are always babbling about--complete with classic cartoon, up-to-date newsreel, heart-stopping serial and fabulous feature. Such as:
The San Francisco Earthquake: Are you at all surprised? Yep, the 15 seconds that rocked the West are stretched to 60 minutes of "dramatic" and "nightmarish" footage. Saving grace: Gives you the low-down on where to send bucks for victims (MPI).
"Big commercial films escape me," says actress and SCTV vet Andrea Martin. "Tons of money are spent on them and sometimes the soul of the film goes out the window. I'd rather get lost in the hearts of characters in small, low-budget films on video. Like Sid and Nancy or Gregory's Girl or Harold and Maude with Bud Cort." Other little gems that tickle Andrea are Robert Duvall's Tomorrow and her own Cannibal Girls, which has yet to see its vid release. "It's a Canadian gore spoof with Eugene Levy. We shot it in about two weeks for, like, thirteen bucks. The ad line is, 'These girls eat men.' Now, if that were on video, I know I'd get more film work."
The Angels, previously known as Angel City, are a tough, tuneful, smart Australian band that is led by Doc Neeson. Having finished his band's latest, "Beyond Salvation," Neeson took time out to assess "Y U I Orta," a new collaboration by rock veterans Ian Hunter and Mick Ronson.
Push me up where I belong department: Frederick's of Hollywood announced that the response to its temporary bra museum was so enthusiastic that it has established a permanent lingerie museum. Whose unmentionables are on display? Madonna's, Cher's, Mae West's and Lana Turner's, to name a few.
The world of mystery and detective fiction has grown so large that searching for particular titles requires a literary sleuth to investigate entire bookstores now devoted to the subject. Happily, a new edition of the most comprehensive guide to crime fiction, A Catalogue of Crime (Harper & Row), by Jacques Barzun and Wendell Hertig Taylor, has just been enlarged to include books published through 1988. For still more recent additions, however; here's the docket:
It happens every weekday morning. How do I know? Because I watch it. Not every day; I don't have the stomach for that. But I see it as part of my job to tune in and chart the television industry's manipulation of the American woman as she watches Oprah, Phil and Geraldo (and sometimes Sally, though she usually tries to be fairer to men than the rest of that crew).
Recently, I joined a health club that is well equipped. It has aerobics, tanning rooms, a swimming pool and a jogging track, as well as various free weights and machines. When I see some of the stunning women there in their tights and such, all I can think of is Oh, my God, would you look at that! while I stand there with my teeth in my mouth. What can I say to them to break the ice and not be identified as a throbbing cock? The club is in a shopping center with a nice restaurant nearby that I'd like to use to my advantage. If you can offer any low-risk, casual openers that won't make me look like an idiot to anyone else around if they don't work, I would appreciate them tremendously.--K. C., Annapolis, Maryland.
In my nine years as a sex therapist, I've treated hundreds of individuals and couples. I've worked with various people who couldn't get it up, couldn't get it off, couldn't get enough, didn't want to do it and who were, sexually speaking, afraid of their own shadows. But I've never treated a single sex addict. That is because sexual addiction does not exist.
"Moralistic intolerance, when embedded in the law, creates unjust stigmatization and criminalization of people who engage in private, consenting sexual conduct. Intolerance does not stop premarital sex. It does not even reduce extramarital sex. Intolerance cannot prevent homosexual sex. Nor does it preserve the pro-patriarchal family. Intolerance can never make America a respected world power. Instead, intolerance produces pain, suffering and injustice. Jonathan Swift said more than 200 years ago, 'We have just enough religion to make us hate but not enough to make us love one another.' Despite the claim 'to hate the sin but to love the sinner,' moralistic intolerance remains more than enough to make us hate but far from enough to make us love one another."
The Kinsey scientists "disseminate, directly and indirectly, their absurd and dirty bleatings and pagan ideas.... It seems strange to me that we credit ... so-called experts but ignore the overwhelming testimony of the true experts like ... J. Edgar Hoover."
Call me a sentimentalist, call me a romantic, but when Saint Valentine's Day rolls around every year, I am reminded that it marks the anniversary of that wintry day in Chicago in 1929 when Al Capone's bootleggers machine-gunned six members of the Bugs Moran gang. The Saint Valentine's Day Massacre helped convince Americans that nine years of Prohibition was not only failing to stop alcohol abuse but actually making it worse. In fact, it was making everything worse: It reduced the country's social drinking but made drunkenness fashionable; it produced unprecedented gang violence and political corruption; it acted as a growth hormone to the organized crime that has since become a permanent and crippling feature of American society. In short, Prohibition was a "noble experiment" that blew up in the country's face.
The story broke last Thanksgiving. The New York Times declared: "AIDS Study Warns of Women's False Sense of Security in 'Safe' Sex." The Chicago Tribune was more direct: "Man Infects 11 Women with AIDS Virus."
This has been a pretty good year for flag burners, particularly in the Communist countries, where in one people's republic after another, the hammer and sickle has gone up in flames. And as each totalitarian regime crumbles, Americans seem determined to become a bit less free. We have a President whose juices seem to flow only over the prospect of forcing the citizenry to pledge allegiance to a flag that it must, under threat of a year in Federal prison, treat as a religious shroud.
Nobody gets out of these blues alive. Last October, Guns n' Roses was one of the opening acts for the Rolling Stones' show at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. The other act on the bill was Living Colour. Despite suggestions that the world's best all-black rock band would do something more provocative, Living Colour played its set straight through without comment. But what could be more provocative than such songs as Open Letter to a Landlord, Which Way to America and Funny Vibe? Especially the last, sung by young black men who've had it with getting the fisheye from white folks for no good reason: "No, I'm not gonna rob you / No, I'm not gonna rape you / No, I'm not gonna beat you / So why you want to give me that funny vibe?"
Score one for technology and score five for Playboy! If you thought that the most fun you could have with office automation was reproducing your buns on the copy machine, we have news for you. Last year, when Managing Photo Editor Jeff Cohen suggested that we ask women to fax us their photographs and biographies, we figured a handful would respond. We were wrong. The facsimile machines installed in our photo studios worked overtime as the hottest form of communication today kept getting hotter and hotter. Faxing everyday figures on charts and graphs from office to office turned out to be not nearly as much fun as transmitting figures of the sort that we were looking for. Emerging from an impressive pile of nearly 100 faxes, a final quintet--in full fax, above, and on the following pages--was chosen by our editors. The group includes a real-estate saleswoman, an office administrator, a business owner, a hair stylist and a student. Selecting them was, to say the least, an infaxtuating process.
Ever Since the uncomfortably starched detachable Gladstone collar made its de-but in the late 19th Century, collars have defined the lines of a finely tailored shirt. Although they're no longer detachable, thank God, they are the finishing touch that brings together one's jacket with a choice of tie. Long and pointed narrow-spread styles are hot right now, as they both flatter a suit's silhouette and highlight a narrow-knotted tie. Men with thin, elongated faces, however, should opt for shirts with medium-spread collars. When shopping, also look for the new high-stance buttondown and button/ tab collars that accentuate the tie by hugging the neck. (Incidentally, the rule of thumb for proper shirt-collar height is about one half inch above the back of the jacket collar.) Many shirt styles have bold or antique-style stripes on ecru or off-white backgrounds. Just remember to wear them with a suit or a sports jacket that has a minimal pattern. With the resurgence of interest in men's jewelry, cuff links and tie bars, clasps and clips (see Ties Are Barred in Playboy on the Scene) are back, bigger than ever. Ties are still wide, soft and colorful, with only a minimum of lining. Patterns run from prints such as fruits and vegetables to abstracts reminiscent of another era. Tie one on today!
Oats. Used to be only horses and Englishmen ate oats. But now we are all urged to strap on the feed bag and devour oats. For our own good health, of course. When The New England Journal of Medicine announced that the oats you ate turned around and ate cholesterol, and then scoured out your bowels, for good measure, there were oat riots as Yuppies mobbed the health-food stores.
A Little more than 100 years ago, General George Custer paid the ultimate price for not keeping in touch at the Battle of Little Big Horn. Today, anyone who wants to stay in the know can board a jet in New York that's bound, say, for Los Angeles and tote along a laptop computer equipped with a modem for easy access to another personal computer or a fax machine; a personal pager that delivers financial quotes, sports scores or a hot phone number to call; or a cellular phone that eliminates standing in line to make a phone call. Even while aloft, it's simple to conduct business from a cordless Airfone system while settling back for a second cup of coffee. So, Mr. Big, if you want to keep in touch--really keep in touch--here are the latest ways to do so.
On a beautiful evening last spring, I found myself sitting on a balcony overlooking San Francisco Bay with a trio of strange men. We were all guests at a Passover Seder, and since this was California, we were drinking sauvignon blanc instead of Manischewitz and we were talking about sex instead of God.
"I'm Daring," says Deborah Driggs. "I'm outgoing, edgy--an explorer. There's not a lot I haven't done, but if you have any ideas, try me." Miss March hails from sunny Southern California, where new ideas are a dime a dozen. While her schoolmates--male and female alike--at Orange County's Saddleback College were bleaching their hair to match the local beachin' ideal, she stubbornly remained a brunette. "This is my virgin hair," she says, shaking it out over her shoulders. Deborah Driggs, no slave to fashion, makes her own rules. She spent her formative years as a junior figure skater, wowing the crowds at ice palaces throughout the Los Angeles Basin. She remembers waking at four A.M. and practicing until 7:30, then racing to school, changing her clothes in the back seat of her mother's car. "Mom would tell me when a truck was coming, so I could cover up." A potential champion, she quit skating when she was still a teen. No discipline could hold her for long. At first, she says, she searched for an outlet for the energy she had put into skating competition. "When something that used to take up all your time stops, you have to search for something new," says Deborah. "I did a little drinking. I even tried drugs. That wasn't for me. So I decided to go all out for life." Give the woman a ten. She may not be as famous as Katarina Witt--yet--but Miss March has cornered the market in style points. As a cheerleader ("song leader") at Saddleback College, she sang her heart out for the Gauchos, who made her homecoming queen in 1983. After college, Miss March took the advice of dozens of friends and resolved to concentrate on modeling. Her first job, a TV ad for a Japanese coffee creamer called Creep Christy, paid $700 a day. "I said to myself, 'I think I can stand this.'" Modeling built her bank account; ambition fueled her drive to take up acting. Now a familiar face in L.A., she does compulsories, Hollywood style--every night, she digs angst out of her soul in acting classes. "I don't want to sound like every other young actor," she says (Deborah thinks the distinction between actor and actress is sexist), "and say I am going to win an Oscar. I mean, I know I've got a lot of work ahead of me. But you never know if you don't try, right?" Deborah Driggs is outgoing, edgy, curious--and determined. She knows there are thousands of young beauties in Hollywood angling for the same acting jobs she wants. No matter. All a woman can do is her best. "I'm just intense enough to think that if you have it inside you--the need to perform--good things can happen." Miss March says she is between relationships this year. She broke off an engagement in February of 1989--"That was a tough Valentine's Day"--and has not had a steady man since. "I know Prince Charming is going to ride up on his Harley someday," she says. "When he does, I'll be ready." She has an idea of what her prince will be like. He'll have a fast motorcycle, for one thing. Reservations at a four-star hotel in San Francisco, for another. He will be gentlemanly and funny. And an amateur masseur. After that, anything goes. "Surprise me. I like to be blown away. Nothing ordinary. Something to get your engine going." Advice for student princes: "Try something new. Take me away. All of a sudden--boom!--I'm yours." This month, she charms millions of Playboy readers. Next year, the world.
I went down to Costa Rica recently to buy some land at a place called Golfito, on the Pacific coast just north of the border of Panama. A man in Florida had been sending me property listings and I could hardly believe the prices he quoted. Talk about bargains!
If you Love cars, hold on to your helmets. The Nineties are about to explode with the greatest array of exciting models we've seen in years. It's going to be a far cry from the stumbling late Sixties, when crude first attempts at adding safety and pollution-control devices begat ponderous cars burdened with bulky bumpers and gutless engines strangled by primitive antipollution devices. For a while, it looked as though we were doomed to drive what Playboy's late and great auto writer Ken W. Purdy described as turgid, jelly-bodied clunkers.
If you were planning the definitive trip to take in the world's most beautiful sites, your itinerary would require stops in at least 12 distant places: Argentina, Australia, Brazil, Germany, Greece, Hong Kong, Italy, Japan, Mexico, the Netherlands, Spain and Turkey. How did we come up with this list? Easy. We have an eye for beauty. And, of course, these locations also happen to be ports of call for Playboy's legion of foreign editions. We've made arrangements to bring 26 international beauties home to you. So stow your worries in an overhead compartment, fasten your seat belt, sit back and get ready for a stunning world tour. We won't even lose your bags.
After a 30-year career that has featured more dead ends, deaths and resurrections than a "Road Runner" cartoon, actor-director Dennis Hopper inhaled his way into our collective nightmares and revived our respect as "Blue Velvet's" psychosexual deviant, Frank Booth. That same year, 1986, he earned an Oscar nomination for his role in "Hoosiers." Next, thanks to Sean Penn, he helmed "Colors," his first major Hollywood directing job since "Easy Rider." And again, controversy followed--this time over the movies theme of gang violence. Hopper weathered the publicity--as well as the stories about his recovery from substance abuse--and went back to work. Last year alone, he acted in and directed "Backtrack," with Jodie Foster; acted in "Chattahoochee," a film about a mental institution; and co-starred in "Flashback" with Kiefer Sutherland. Contributing Editor David Rensin visited Hopper at his home in Venice, California, just after he'd returned from directing Don Johnson and Virginia Madsen in "The Hot Spot." Hopper calls the film a kind of "Last Tango in Texas." Says Rensin, "When I arrived, Hopper was separating his just-unpacked clothes into plastic laundry baskets. He was also helping some workmen hang three new art pieces in his downstairs gallery/screening room. Later, while talking at his banquet-sized dining table, Hopper spoke softly, evenly, often lapsing into a thoughtful whisper. throughout, he breathed normally."
Every so often, an accessory is created that serves a specific function. As the years go by, it evolves into a decorative fashion statement--something it never was intended to be. Take the simple tie clip, for example. First worn in the early 1900s, tie holders--clips, clasps or bars--were worn for exactly that purpose, to restrain a man's tie so that it didn't drag across his plate when he sat down to dinner. This year, the bar is back and it's damn the minestrone, full speed ahead. Today's holders are meant to be worn about one third of the way below the knot, riding just above the top button of a suit coat or a jacket, so that they push the tie up. At last, the clip gets class.
"The Burglar who Dropped in on Elvis"--Inquiring Minds at the Weekly Galaxy send Reformed Thief Bernie Rhodenbarr to Graceland to Photograph Elvis' most Private Quarters, his Bedroom--Fiction by Lawrence Block