Here's our idea of Thanksgiving--a lavish feast of an issue full of sexy pictorials and provocative people, with tips for love on the road and a guide to fixing the planet. Did we mention the coolest clothes and the hottest sex in cinema?
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), November 1990, Volume 37, Number 11. 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 51337-4007. Please allow 6--8 weeks for processing, for Change of address, Send new and old addresses and allow 45 days for change. Postmaster send form 3579 to Playboy, P.O. Box 2007, Harlan, Iowa 51537--4007. 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.
This year, the annual Benson & Hedges Blues Festival, with stops in Los Angeles, Atlanta, Dallas, Chicago and New York, is hosting special evenings featuring the women of the blues. Blues legend Irma Thomas headlines the B.&H. show in Chicago on October 12 and in New York on October 19.
Both the opening and the closing scene of Postcards from the Edge (Columbia) feature Gene Hackman, in his customary top form, as a movie director in mid-movie. The rest of it is a mother--daughter showbiz saga that makes Mommie Dearest look trivial. If anything, an improvement on the book by Carrie Fisher, who also wrote the trenchant, witty screenplay, the movie isn't exactly about Fisher and her mother, Debbie Reynolds (Dad is singer Eddie Fisher, of course). All the names are changed. Who's really who doesn't much matter, anyway. What does matter are two sterling performances by Meryl Streep as the tough, tremulous young Hollywood star having an identity crisis, and Shirley MacLaine in a scorchingly funny but touching portrayal as her famous mother. Daughter has a drug habit; Mom prefers wine or vodka as a palliative. These two turn the blame game into a championship tussle, but everyone in Postcards--from Dennis Quaid as a Hollywood womanizer and Annette Bening as a sexy bit player to Robin Bartlett as Streep's best friend in the detox center--does a brilliant job. Postcards is electric film making, Academy Award quality, all the way to the end, when the amazing Streep gets low-down as a singer in I'm Checkin' Out (words and music by longtime Playboy contributor Shel Silverstein), the final musical blast in a movie-movie that scarcely stops for breath between showstoppers. [rating]4 bunnies[/rating]
Britain's Kemp brothers--Martin, 28, and Gary, 30--rock musicians who once hit the charts with a song called True, have temporarily laid their instruments aside to play two notorious brothers in a hot new movie, The Krays (see review). For the past decade, Martin has played bass and Gary has doubled as guitarist/songwriter for Spandau Ballet. "I'm not sure where that name came from," notes Gary. "We just liked the sound of it. I suspect we had a friend who'd drifted in from Germany and saw it written on a toilet wall." Neither brother is new to acting. "Gary and I were in a TV play when I was ten and he was twelve," says Martin. Gary adds that the Kemps are "not all that competitive," though The Krays features them toe to toe in a brutal boxing sequence. The film's violence has been attacked by some critics; Martin insists it's necessary. "Because the real Krays were glamourous criminals, we had to make the violence horrific and explicit--not like some Mel Gibson movie, where it's really glorified. You leave the cinema with a feeling of disgust for Ronnie and Reggie Kray. You're made sick by them, because the way we show it is how it was." Says Gary, who plays the gay, ruthless Ronnie, "The night of the movie's premiere, the man who'd had his mouth cut open with a saber [by the real-life Krays] was in the audience. He still carries the scars." What's next after their cinematic breakthrough? Musically, both brothers say, "We're taking a rest." Martin is reading movie scripts, but Gary's laid back. "Right now, I'm just an unemployed actor."
"I've had a wonderful life," declares best-selling novelist Sidney Sheldon in a sly nod to the beloved Frank Capra flick. But the successful author (his latest: Memories of Midnight) is anything but coy when it comes to the rest of his video hit list. "My favorite movies include North by Northwest--which is one of the all-time greats--The Best Years of Our Lives, Wuthering Heights and Rebecca." His passion for golden oldies notwithstanding, Sheldon also adores newer stuff. "Tootsie I run every other week or so, and I enjoy watching When Harry Met Sally ...--mostly for Meg Ryan. What a brilliant performance!" Ditto for Tom Hanks in Punchline. "That must have been a tough role for him, because he had to run the gamut of emotions. Yeah, Tom has a long career ahead of him." And who should know better about long careers?
Best Not-a-Bad-Idea Video:How to Buy a Good Business with Little or None of Your Own Money;Most Mouth-watering Video Title:Red Grooms Talks About Dali Salad;Best Won't-Even-Touch-It Video:Seasons in Beaver Country;Best Gesundheit Video:Gluckskinder;Best Thrill-a-Minute Video:Private Varnish Roundup;Best If-You-Have-to-Ask Video:Am I Normal?;Best Look-on-the-Sunny-Side Video:Spectacular Disasters;Favorite Automotive Video Titles:California Diesels and Ma's Motors;Best It's-a-Living Video:Build Your Own Bike Wheel.
Hand Job: So small it'll fit in the palm of your hand. That's the pitch for Panasonic's new Palmcorder, a VHS-C camcorder complete with electronic image stabilizer and Digital Auto Focus. A big plus: 90 minutes' worth of taping time.
Ex-Doobie Brother Michael McDonald has it all. He's a musician's musician and a gifted singer, composer and producer with stacks of hit records to his credit, the latest being "Take It to Heart." For review, he picked "Redux," the new album by Danny O'Keefe, a McDonald favorite.
Let's Keep It Down Department: Our award for weird rock-related legal act of the month goes to Susan Montgomery Williams of Fresno, California, who was fined $150 for disturbing an outdoor concert by popping her gum too loud.
Blame uncle walter. He's the man who turned being an anchor into being an icon. In fact, he literally became the first news anchor, back in 1952, when CBS, grasping for a term to describe Walter Cronkite's role covering the political conventions, went for a nautical metaphor and it stuck. Even with the fancy new title, Cronkite was just a guy in a tie who read the news five nights a week and ad-libbed without embarrassing anyone during election nights and space shots.
Mario vargas llosa's tenth novel, In Praise of the Stepmother (Farrar, Straus & Giroux), is literary art of a high order. Written in a richly sensuous vocabulary, this novel flows from idea to idea with ingenious, evocative phrases that stir the imagination and the intellect. His subject here is the erotic content of paintings by Fra Angelico, Titian, Francois Boucher and others (six paintings are reproduced in full color within the pages of this novel). Symbolically and philosophically, Vargas Llosa then connects the modern life of the body to the historical tradition of Western humanism.
You may call this an exercise in column as promo, but I call it public service. A book you must go out and buy and read immediately is Bootlegger's Boy, Barry Switzer's amazing autobiography, which is on sale as I write and is guaranteed to inform you, entertain you, touch you and shock you like no other book written by a coach, ex-coach, athlete, ex-athlete or semi-immortal in the sports world. I say this assuming you have at least a casual interest in how college football and higher education got all tangled up and went to bed with money.
Thanks to Florida state attorney John Tanner, adults in central Florida may have a hard time renting some X-rated videos and listening to rap music. Tanner persuaded rubber-stamp grand juries in Florida's Seventh Circuit to declare a number of videos and records obscene under Florida law.
Art and obscenity are politically hot buttons. Push them and you get your name in headlines and eight-second sound bites. Congressmen can debate Federal funding for the arts, a vision of a clean America filled with nice images, and rack up the votes back home.
Ed Greene figures he shot more than 20 children 22 years ago, when he was in Vietnam, reported the Los Angeles Times. No crime. The kids were thought to be carrying explosives, and no one in the U.S. Government seemed to mind. The only one who minded was Marine Greene, who had attempted suicide and had sheet-tearing nightmares until this year, when he decided to return to Vietnam for a healing visit. And that was a crime, according to the United States Government.
The outdoor orchestra kicks up Eubie Blake's "I'm Just Wild About Harry" and she whirls onto the dance floor in white palazzo pants and a jungle-red organza blouse, her red-white-and-blue ostrich boa beckoning forward the kingpin of Manhattan real estate.
I'd never really thought much about meat. It was there in the supermarket in a plastic wrapper; it came between slices of bread with mayo and mustard and a dill pickle on the side; it sputtered and smoked on the grill till somebody flipped it over, and then it appeared on the plate, between the baked potato and the julienned carrots, neatly crosshatched and floating in a puddle of red juice. Beef, mutton, pork, venison, dripping burgers and greasy ribs, it was all the same to me--food, the body's fuel, something to savor a moment on the tongue before the digestive system went to work on it. Which is not to say I was totally unconscious of the deeper implications: Every once in a while, I'd eat at home--a quartered chicken, a package of Shake 'N Bake, Stove Top Stuffing and frozen peas, and as I hacked away at the stippled yellow skin and pink flesh of the sanitized bird, I'd wonder at the darkish bits of organ clinging to the ribs--what was that, liver? Kidney?--but in the end, it didn't make me any less fond of Kentucky Fried or Chicken McNuggets. I'd seen those ads in the magazines, too, the ones that showed the veal calves penned up in their own waste, their limbs atrophied and their veins so pumped full of antibiotics they couldn't control their bowels, but when I took a date to Anna Maria's, I could never resist the veal scaloppine.
Her Blonde Mane frames sea-green eyes and painted lips. Her whispery, girlish voice sounds a bit incongruous coming from a body that's clearly all woman. Immediately, you know why comparisons to Marilyn Monroe have followed Teri Copley throughout her adult life. In fact, she's about to start a feature film, The White Rose, in which she plays a beautiful MM type. By now, Teri has learned to appreciate the comparison. "There was an innocence and intelligence to Marilyn," she says, "that I think I have, too. I would hate to be looked at as just another blonde with big breasts and a pouty mouth." Copley, of course, is best known as Mickey MacKenzie--the bubbly housekeeper who lived, quite chastely, with two young New York City bachelors in the TV sitcom We Got It Made. The show has had two incarnations, debuting on NBC in 1983 and rising again, with Teri and one new bachelor, in syndication four years later. For Teri, this appearance in Playboy is also a return engagement. She graced these pages in July 1984 as the focus of a fashion spread titled Blonde on Blonde. But that was then, and this is hotter. Her photo shoot with Contributing Photographer Richard Fegley marked the first time that the actress bared all for the camera, and she was nervous. "I'm not shy about my breasts," says Teri, "but I've never showed them off before. It took a while for Richard to coax me out of my shell." Strangely, though, her Playboy shooting parallels a situation Teri acted out in the TV movie Married a Centerfold, in which she played a character who shied away from a men's-magazine photo session until she was encouraged by her mother. "It's funny," says Teri. "When I was eighteen, someone asked my mom if I would pose nude. She wanted me to, but I said, 'No way.' I was way too shy." California-born Teri remembers her early years as difficult. She was skinny and buck-toothed. Like many an "ugly duckling," she had few friends--classmates always seemed to mistake her timidity for conceit. "In grade school, girls would want to fight with me because they thought I was stuck up. But I was just painfully shy." Finally, her body blossomed--along with her self-confidence--and Teri entertained the notion of becoming an actress. Her first break came while she was working as a waitress in a San Fernando Valley pizza joint. After reading a newspaper article about a producer who was seeking new faces for a movie, her mother phoned the producer's office, pretending to be an old friend. Amazingly, the gambit worked, and Mom managed to talk the exec into meeting with her daughter. Teri didn't get the part, but while waiting by the elevator outside the producer's office, she was spotted by an associate of Hollywood talent agent Meyer Mishkin, who signed her. That bit of kismet led to her first acting job, a small part on Fantasy Island. Next came a starring role opposite Rock Hudson in the 1981 miniseries The Star Maker, in which Hudson played a Hollywood director who molded starlets into superstars. One of them was Teri. "I loved working with Rock Hudson," she says. "He taught me about old Hollywood, offered me acting tips and even corrected my grammar! I was only nineteen and it meant a lot--he became like a father to me." Teri graduated to bigger roles in TV movies such as In the Line of Duty: The FBI Murders and did guest shots on Quantum Leap and Monsters. Her feature films include Down the Drain, a bank-robbery comedy, and Transylvania Twist, a horror send-up. She fell in love with the stage during a stint with a touring company of William Inge's Bus Stop. So enamored was she with the playwright's work that she hopes to produce a version of his play Loss of Roses early next year. "It's about a woman who believes in, and wants very much, the fairy-tale life of being loved by a good man and living in a house surrounded by a white picket fence--a house filled with children. I think the play fulfills the fantasies I have about my own life." In the meantime, Teri is filming an action/adventure film with Ken Wahl called Final Cause. At 29, she lives in Los Angeles with her two little girls, Ashley, seven, and Anastasia, three. Between her two marriages, Teri was linked in a much-publicized romance with then-single sitcom stud Tony Danza. She describes her current beau, a professional hockey player with the Montreal Canadiens, as "my best friend." It's too early to tell if he will be the man with whom she moves to a kid-filled house behind a white picket fence. But Teri knows that if this relationship doesn't last, her ideal man is out there somewhere. "I want a man who has a lot of heart," she says, "who can be giving and compassionate, yet very strong." Most of all, she wants a man who will make her the center of his universe, "who will love me unconditionally."
Your name may have gone up on the office door, but that doesn't mean you have to cash in a six-month CD to look smart. Moderately priced $395-to-$500 suits have come of age--savvy executives are discovering that they don't have to flaunt megabuck three-piecers or double-breasteds to be taken as serious corporate players. True, you may not get hand-constructed jackets, authentic horn buttons or fabrics as luxurious as cashmere, but the mostly wool and wool-blend suits feel right at home power-lunching with the status imports. Look for designer labels in cuts that range from two-button single-breasted to the newest three-button or six-button double-breasted styles. For a bit of panache, swap the vest of a charcoal or navy three-piece suit with a plaid vest, or accent a colorful shirt with a slightly eccentric tie. And remember, pinstripes will still be in style long after you've settled into the executive suite.
At First Glance, John Henry Sununu does not seem the kind of man who could bend others to his will. He is five feet nine inches tall and weighs about 200 pounds, and his body is a study in softness, from the rolls of flesh bubbling out over his collar to the equatorial expanse of his belly. He wears nerdy metal-frame aviator eyeglasses and has trouble keeping his shirttail tucked in. But look again. There is an imperious tilt to that double chin, the set of those lips suggests a snarl and those eyes are as hard as Monday morning. George Bush's Chief of Staff has the face of a man who is very comfortable with the use of brute power.
Frequent Fliers, take note: The skies have never before been quite this friendly. Meet Miss November, Lorraine Olivia, flight attendant aboard United Airlines. When she suggests that you fasten your seat belt low and snug across your lap, listen up. We met Lorraine at a party following an arena-football game in Chicago. As she remembers it, "I was looking pretty grody in a T-shirt and tights" when she was approached by one of Playboy's photo staffers, who told her, "I'm with Playboy. You should come in for a test shoot sometime." Lorraine's reaction: "I thought I'd heard every line, but this beats them all." When the assistant showed her proper credentials, however, Lorraine became a believer. So did we when her test photos were developed. It's really no surprise that we met Lorraine at a sporting event--she's quite the jock, enjoying aerobics, racquetball and tennis. She used to play golf, too, but recently told us, "I've put my clubs in storage." We've thought about doing that ourselves. As is evident about anyone who would voluntarily attend arena-football games, Lorraine also likes spectator sports. Her most profound passion as a fan is the Chicago Cubs. She started rooting for them during their big 1984 season;they were the cause of frequent no-shows at the car dealership and the (text concluded on page 120) pharmacy where she held jobs: "I always had to ask myself, Did I use that excuse last week?" (Note to future employers: Lorraine's favorite excuse was that she had to "check out colleges.") Fortunately, free afternoons are more plentiful in Lorraine's current line of work, so she doesn't have to fib to get out to the ball park. She applied to United in the fall of 1989, and to her surprise (but certainly not ours), she whisked through the group interviews, public-speaking tests, role-playing exercises and one-on-one interrogations to join the high-flying world of the flight attendant. Now she is yet another good reason to visit Newark, New Jersey: That's her flight base. Those of you reading this magazine in flight may want to take another look around the cabin. Locate all flight attendants and determine if any matches the photos included herein. If so, you may begin to feel lightheaded. Press your call button; perhaps Miss November will assist you with an oxygen mask.
I Awoke screaming in the middle of the night, my eyes filled with visions of an environmental hell that would have frightened Hieronymus Bosch: rivers transformed into angry, bubbling flows of lifeless, radioactive matter; dark skies weeping never-ending acid rain; twisted, cancerous mutants--human beings only in the broadest definition--prowling a bleak, treeless landscape....
From its inception, rap was one of the most potent musical forms of the Eighties. At its slightest, it was filled with sexual braggadocio and almost obsessive self-absorption: The subject of most rap music was, in fact, rap music. But groups such as Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, who recorded "The Message," and Kurtis Blow, who hit the charts with "The Breaks," demonstrated that rappers could be articulate and stridently political.
Is Sex Necessary? asked humorists James Thurber and E. B. White in the title of a jaunty book written at the tag end of the Roaring Twenties. The answer was breezily affirmative, but hordes of uptight moralists might argue their conclusion today. With conservatism and surveillance rampant across the land, Congressional antismut crusaders and social critics are seeing blue not just on screen but in song lyrics, art exhibitions and the scripts of TV series.
You wouldn't leave old car bills or obsolete road maps on the front seat of your car, so why stash them in the glove compartment? That's the place for such road-smart accessories as a high-tech miniflashlight with a laser-sharp beam that cuts through the night. Or a battery-powered radar detector no bigger than a pack of cigarettes that eliminates the tangled cords of other units. Or a voice-activated microcassette recorder for capturing brilliant thoughts while you're rolling. Below, we've collected a glove box--ful of such goodies. Some are as practical as an auto jack. Others simply make motoring more fun. There's room for both, as well as plenty of your own stuff. Hit the road, Jack.