Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), July 1990, Volume 37, Number 7, 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 from 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.
As Well As leading his own group and accompanying jazz giants world wide, jazz guitarist/composer Ricardo Silveira is a member of Brazilian jazz/pop supergroup Zil, his third LP will be out soon. Pianist/composer Chick Corea has always been one of Silveira's heroes, so he had a lot to say about Corea and his Elektric Band's latest album, "Inside Out."
Slightly South of the Border Department: Van Halen has opened its own club, The Cabo Wabo Cantina, in Cabo San Lucas. There is seating for 350, including the outdoor bar, and the band will bottle and market its own tequila. The cantina will serve food and have entertainment that will include locals, guest stars and an occasional Van Halen jam session. Oh, yes, the water's safe.
Mel Gibsons celebrated buns play a major role in Bird on a Wire (Universal) when a bullet lodged in his bottom has to be removed by a veterinarian he used to know intimately (the vet done to a T by Joan Severance, Playboy's January cover girl). Teamed with Goldie Hawn, Gibson is a man on the run, part of the witness-protection program because of his involvement in a shady drug deal 15 years earlier. Melflees--with Goldie in tow--by car, motorcycle and monoplane before they manage to obliterate the killers (David Carradine and Bill Duke) in an unlikely showdown at the zoo. Both romantic leads are cute--maybe too cute. Hawn--allegedly a lawyer but mostly portraying a ditzy blonde in the manner she must have patented by now--screams a lot and vows she'll soon throw up. Meanwhile, Bird (the title borrowed from a Leonard Cohen lyric about freedom) garners intermittent laughs but ultimately lays an egg. [rating]2 bunnies[/rating]
What does a film editor do, exactly? We asked Richard Marks, 46, who has spliced together such hits as Apocalypse Now, Terms of Endearment and Broadcast News, each earning him Oscar nominations for best editing ("Always a bridesmaid," he cracked ruefully). "Historically," he explained, "an editor sat in the cutting room, pulled the pieces of film together and tried to make sense of it." But things have changed. Having been working on Warren Beatty's new Dick Tracy for more than a year when we spoke to him, Marks acknowledged that he was "one tired man. Today, an editor is more involved with the actual making of the film. I'm on the set every day, assembling footage as it's shot, and I may say, 'I think we'd better get a close-up here.' Beatty and I work very closely; it's a collaborative effort."
One might guess that an anchor man would be too jaded by gritty reality to take any escapist pleasure from the VCR. Not so with CNN's Bernard Shaw. A flick buff since childhood, Shaw rents "two movies a week on average. My favorite genres are adventure and World War Two movies, such as The Dirty Dozen, Bridge on the River Kwai, Tora! Tora! Tora! and particularly The Caine Mutiny with Bogey. I like these sorts of movies for their portrayal of guts, survival, determination--and for the historical information, if, in fact, the film makers get their history right." Shaw says his wife "tolerates" these vid passions, adding that their mutual faves include Babette's Feast, Someone to Watch over Me and House of Games. One movie you won't find in the Shaw video library is Broadcast News. "I was more upset than entertained. Maybe things are that way at local stations, but there are no idiots working at any of the major networks." So there.
Basic Real Estate Investing with Chuck Baker, Vol. 1: Real-estate maven Baker makes no promises of overnight millions but gives sound advice on getting viable investment returns and watching out for hucksters bearing fine print (Summit Media).
Dual Deck: Not sure about the VHS-C camcorders? Don't like the idea of putting your tape in an adapter to play on your VCR? Rest easy. JVC has a VHS/VHS-C VCR on the way. Its multiformation loading tray simply slides out to accept either format. No adapter, no fuss.
Tackiest Porn Tape of the Month:The Best of Interracial Anal (two hours); Best Video Baby Book:Puppy's First Year; Favorite Video Hero:Wood Stork: Barometer of the Everglades; Kinkiest-Sounding Sports Video:Pumping Rubber with David Essel; Second-Kinkiest-Sounding Sports Video:Joe Beaver Roping Clinic; Best Thrill-a-Minute Video:Haircutting at Home; Best It's-a-Living Video:Framing Needlework, Vol. 3
Before he died, Malcolm Forbes's life had taken an odd turn. The idiosyncratic publisher had shed his wife and become an enthusiastic habitué of the New York club scene, showing up at clubs in his motorcycle leathers, helmet in hand, and chatting it up with androgynous Euro-trash guys who wore tight pants and had pierced ears. It wasn't a typical lifestyle for a wealthy 70-year-old man, and, apparently, Forbes felt a bit lost. One night, a certain club would be packed; the next, the same place would be empty. At one club, everyone would wear black; at another, you'd see colors. Forbes didn't like this trial-and-error method of research. He wanted some sort of early-warning system, a magazine that would tell him what was hip and happening before he left the mansion. So he invented one.
Three Years Ago, Scott Turow's novel, Presumed Innocent, was hailed as a triumph. It spent 44 weeks on the best-seller list and will soon reappear in a movie version starring Harrison Ford. That kind of initial success, as Scott Fitzgerald once noted, can ruin a writer. But in his second fiction outing, The Burden of Proof (Farrar, Straus & Giroux), Turow consciously stays with what he does best and triumphs again.
Time for the annual report on why men buy clothes that make them look silly. This has little to do with sports, except that elastic briefs for all the wrong people are available in our beachwear department, third floor.
This is one of those questions that we are going to have to answer, because the feminization of the American military is proceeding apace. The Service academies are sexually integrated, the Armed Forces now permit women to occupy most military billets and equal opportunity for women seems close to a reality in what used to be a masculine profession.
I have a strange relationship problem: More than a year ago, I started seeing a woman who was breaking up with another man. Part of the reason she started seeing me was to give her the strength to leave this guy. I knew that, and at the time, it didn't bother me--I was glad I could be of help. But there are a few things that I was kept in the dark about that now bother me. It seems that although this man was impossible to live with--he had a temper that could erupt at the slightest provocation--he was extremely intelligent and a great lover. And although my girlfriend doesn't want to return to this man, it appears that she still has a strong desire for him--and none for me. Her libido has gone from unquenchable to unwakable. She says that I provide her with the support and stability she needs and that she feels like she actually has a home with me. But she has no physical desire for me and fantasizes about other men, including this old boyfriend. Now, I think I could handle the situation if she simply had a weak libido, but in fact, she has a strong sex drive, just not for me. The worst part of it is that we are living together, so I can't simply cool things off with her and start seeing other women. I don't feel right telling her to move out, because physically, she has not cheated on me. I could move out, but my name is on the lease and I really love this house. I could move into a separate room in the same house, but I don't know what that would accomplish. Any suggestions?--S. P., Davis, California.
The way we see it, Universities are supposed to be hotbeds of controversy, citadels of diversity and the enlightenment that comes from challenge and response. Back in the Sixties, the term they used was psychosocial moratorium--a fancy phrase for free-for-all. It was the opposite of a trade school (there is only one way to do things--the Army way) or a theological school (there is only one truth--God's and/or Jerry Falwell's). It is not surprising that Universities were the breeding ground for the current world democracy revolution.
A sultry voice beckoned over the phone with a "Come on over, honey; Rasheeda is back in town. Let's party" routine. How could Washington mayor Marion Barry have known that his ex-girlfriend, a beautiful former model, was now working for the FBI and that he was going to get busted instead of laid?
• "Back on the Block," the latest hit album from Quincy Jones, may not sell as many copies as "Thriller," the all-time record-setting megahit he produced with Michael Jackson in 1982. It may not have the global impact of "We are the World," his superstar-studded 1985 musical event, which raised $50,000,000 to fight hunger. It may not earn him another Grammy award, though he has won 20 of them since 1963. But "Back on the Block" is certainly the most historic achievement of Jones's extraordinary career. It's also the story of his life.
Rarely do we get a look at the process of history through the promiscuous confusion of each day's news. Over the past year, however, events have moved so dramatically that we've been able to see the thing itself. From hour to hour, we've witnessed the unraveling of that postwar world to which many of us grew up and in which we've lived most of our lives.
Platinum hair. Cherry lips. Her giggle is equal parts music box and Mickey Mouse, but it's the only mousy thing about her. And she has a devil of a time keeping her clothes on. Strolling the beach, as captured in a filmstrip by Joel Beren, she's blonde deja vu. Marilyn Monroe? Almost. "People say I'm uncanny," says Rhonda Ridley-Scott, 23, who makes her living "doing" Monroe. "It's easy. I'm just like her." Rhonda dislikes the term impersonation, seeing herself rather as a reincarnation: "When I do her, I am Marilyn."
The Gas-Station Caper and other Tales of the Night
Marty is a slightly overweight, bearded man of 45 who is an executive in the publishing industry. Marty's luck is almost always good: Women seem to gravitate toward him like birds to a feeder. "I think they see me as a father figure at first," he says, "sort of a harmless older man who will protect them and listen to them and not jump their bones. That's OK with me. I'm happy to play Santa Claus for a while. Things usually get better after that."
Santander Jimenez was one of the towns that ringed the Malsueno, a kind of border station between the insane tangle of the rain forest and the more comprehensible and traditional insanity of the highlands. It was a miserable place of diesel smoke and rattling generators and concrete-block buildings painted in pastel shades of yellow, green and aqua, many with rusted Fanta signs over their doors, bearing names such as the Café of a Thousand Flowers or The Eternal Garden Bar or the Restaurant of Golden Desires, all containing fly-specked Formica tables and inefficient ceiling fans and fat women wearing grease-spattered aprons and discouraging frowns. Whores slouched beneath the buzzing neon marquee of the Cine Guevara. Drunks with bloody mouths lay in the puddles that mired the muddy streets. It was always raining. Even during the height of the dry season, the lake was so high that the playground beside it was half-submerged, presenting a surreal vista of drowned swing sets and seesaws.
"Life is too Short to be uncomfortable," says Paul Smith, a whimsical 44-year-old British menswear designer who sees his clothes as "a constant tongue-in-cheek joke on myself and my Englishness." Smith's latest collection includes a navy-blue blazer combined with a hooded sweat shirt, and a pinstriped double-breasted suit worn with a denim shirt and a brightly flowered tie, as well as print shirts decorated with photos of a friend's horse, taken by Smith himself, jeans with postman's pockets sewn on, plus plenty of soft, unconstructed jackets and loose pleated trousers. "If you happen to be a serious guy, I also sell striped shirts and ties with little ducks on them." When Smith opened his first clothing store in London back in 1970, his customers were mostly artists. "I wanted people to leave feeling that the store was strange or crazy or beautiful, something that caused a reaction." Now, with shops in Japan, plus stores in London, Nottingham, New York (108 Fifth Avenue) and a collection in Europe, Smith finds himself on the go seven months out of 12, traveling to oversee his far-flung operations. "You can wear my latest sports jackets with old chinos from a thrift shop and your father's shoes--if they fit. My clothes let you be yourself. I strongly believe that individualism will be very important in the Nineties. But one thing will be out. The total-black look. It's fading tremendously." Sorry about that, Johnny Cash, Father Guido Sarducci and all you ninja warriors. Smith's eclectic fall collection includes suits, sports jackets, shirts, vests and outerwear, deep, rich jewellike colors and back-to-the-earth tones, plus a tremendous variety of accessories and toiletries, including watches, socks, scarves, ties, cuff links, belts, sunglasses, underwear, hand luggage, soaps, cologne, shampoos, toothbrushes and deodorants. Paul Smith's name is everywhere. "I attract creative people who like interesting clothes that are easy to wear. People who know. And that's a lot of fun." We think his innovative creations are a lot of fun, too.
Jacqueline Sheen--Jackson to her friends--is about to go water-skiing, barefoot, on the crystal-blue inlet that is her back yard, a finger of water off Clearwater Harbor on the Gulf Coast of Florida. Jackson learned to ski barefoot from the best, she says--a man named Cooke--"Pronounced Cookie. If you're going to write about my barefooting, he should get the credit." Just what does it take to glide across the water on her heels? For starters, she begins by grabbing the tow rope while floating on her stomach and pushing to her feet when the boat picks up enough speed. "One of the most important things about barefooting is that you have to go fast--the faster the better." That comes naturally to Jackson, who, since 1985, has made the fast track her home. That was the year she began selling condos for a living in Oklahoma, having moved there from her native Texas. One year later, she took a job with a sporting-goods manufacturer and within five days was nurturing an account worth some $150,000 to the firm. Since 1988, she has been prospecting for more customers in Florida. "I took one look at Clearwater, fell in love with the beach and decided to move. That's all it took." These days, her life is a veritable balancing act, with a Things to do pad that looks like the Manhattan Yellow Pages. In addition to Jackson the saleswoman, there's Jackson the scuba diver ("I'm now certified"), Jackson the family girl("I'm back in Texas at least once a month") and now Jackson the Playmate. "I was in California on business and decided to give Playboy a call. By the next morning, I was already doing my test shots." Enough of this talk stuff: Jackson wants to show us how she skis sans slats. Shouting to us over the rumbling engine of a sleek Baja speedboat, Jackson tells us, "What I love about barefoot skiing is the freedom! It's the most exhilarating feeling!" Suddenly, she's interrupted by the roar of the boat's engine; the Baja lurches forward and tears off. Jackson hangs tight to the rope, cutting through the wake like some supercharged mermaid. A few quick twists of the body and she's up--zipping across the water and laughing back at a dock-bound admirer.
First you Feel the power. The intensity and thrill rise and fall as you move the throttle. Beneath you, the boat is almost alive with movement, slashing across the waves, throwing up brilliant white plumes of spray. You feel the wind in your face, tugging gently at the corners of your eyes. But first you feel the power.
The club is crowded, but people automatically step out of the way to let him pass. He's a big man--massive, barrel-chested, ominous--and he walks with a deliberate and slightly threatening strut. If he crossed the street while you were stopped at a light, you'd instinctively lock your car doors.
Ed O'Neill is flat-out on a couch in a Sunset Boulevard rehearsal hall, one leg draped over the sofa's broken back, a rumpled jacket puddled around him. It's Monday morning, half an hour before the cast and staff of Married ... with Children will sit at a long table and read this week's script for the first time. And here's O'Neill, looking for all the world like Al Bundy, his sit-comic persona. He looks weary. He looks beaten but unbowed. He's sunk into the only piece of comfortable furniture in the room, one long, loose sprawl of ex-jock bulk.
Sharon Stone has a voice like honey poured over a night of whiskey and smoke. She makes an answering-machine tape--"Leave me a message and I'll get back to you"--sound like an invitation to seduction. Now that she has finally grown into it, she likes that voice but candidly admits that it was somewhat embarrassing when she was a teenager in a two-traffic-light town in Pennsylvania. An appetite for adventure and better food than she could get at the local diner drove her from Meadville to New York City. Her drop-dead good looks and that seductive voice didn't hurt. She modeled for Eileen Ford, studied with an acting coach--and waited. Not, as it turned out, for long. Woody Allen cast her in a small but pivotal role--that of the blonde goddess he glimpses on a passing train--in 1980's Stardust Memories. A role as the delectable waitress turned petulant movie star in Irreconcilable Differences, opposite Shelley Long and Ryan O'Neal, followed. Some 15 films later, Sharon still looks like an ingenue. A rich ingenue. She drops a wad of cash in Giorgio Armani's the way other people in L.A. drop names. It's a town where, as she's the first to admit over dinner, "people are more concerned with being fashionable than with being decent." Sharon says what she thinks--and she thinks a lot. "Just when I think I've reached capacity--ploop!--another bizarre concept drops into my head, where I was positive I had no more room, and my mind is stretched. I'll bet the inside of my head looks like a pregnant woman's stomach. I shudder to think what I am preparing to deliver. Probably another smart remark." Some men don't understand Sharon. Others adore her. Buck Henry says, "Sharon has the kind of face I'd leave my wife for. Since I'm not married, I'll have to leave someone else's wife." Sharon is a piece of work. Great long legs. Clairol-commercial blonde hair. White, sparkling teeth. But she laughs off compliments. "Some men used to think I was a bit formidable. Unfortunately, I was too young to realize it at the time. But I've reached the age at which they're starting to look at me as a breeder. They say, 'I want those genes. I want those long legs and that blonde hair and those white teeth. I want them now!' Of course, those men are usually short, dark and nearsighted, which is lucky for me, because that happens to be my type." Meanwhile, there's her acting career, which has always gone well but somewhat unevenly. She characterizes the two pictures in which she co-stars with Richard Chamberlain--a remake of the H. Rider Haggard thriller King Solomon's Mines and its sequel, Allan Quatermain and the Lost City of Gold-- as "those awful African movies."
Ten years ago, Matt Groening was making money by delivering copies of the Los Angeles Reader, an alternative newspaper that had begun running his talky, simplistically drawn comic strip called "Life in Hell." Today, he delivers just the strip--to more than 200 newspapers, whose readers ignore their own feelings of victimization long enough to sympathize with such unlikely protagonists as a rabbit named Binky, his one-eared illegitimate son Bongo and two possibly gay identical twins named Akbar and Jeff. (The strip also contains a host of nameless and deleterious authority figures.) Late last year, a new family of Groening characters--the Simpsons--debuted on TV, giving the Fox Network a Sunday-night hit that has cemented its immediate future.
With golf enjoying such a renaissance, we're pleased that manufacturers have kept an innovative eye on the one accessory that every player (or his caddie) totes--the golf bag. Synthetic fabrics such as nylon have helped lighten the load, but many golfers still opt for status bags that are all or part leather.
"Softball has been Bery, Bery Good to Me"--Forty Million Americans can't be Wrong. Playboy Chronicles the Nation's True Pastime as We show you how to knock one into the Parking Lot and, Most Importantly, How to Play Ball with Women--by the Author of The Dickson Baseball Dictionary,Paul Dickson