Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478). January 1993, volume 40, Number 1, Published monthly by Playboy, 680 North Lake shore drive, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: $29.97 for 12Issues, U.S. Canada, $43.97 for 12 Issues. All other Foreign, $45 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 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: 8560 Sunset Boulevard, West Hollywood, CA 90069; Metropolitan Publishers Representatives, Inc.; Atlanta: 3017 Piedmont road Ne. Suite 100, Atlanta, GA 30305, Miami: 2500 South Dixie Highway, Miami, FL 33133; Tampa: 3016 Mason Place, Tampa, FL 33629.
Expletives not deleted department: For the first time in its history, publishing giantTime Warner is letting the words fall where they may--in print. Quincy Jones' hip-hop publication Vibe features rap stars uncensored. Yo, Henry Luce.
The movie version of Josephine Hart's short but sizzling novel Damage (New Line) oozes upscale passion. Producer-director Louis Malle works from a literate screenplay by David Hare, with Jeremy Irons once more on a roll as the seemingly detached British M.P. who ruins his political hopes in reckless trysts with the mysterious young woman his son intends to marry. Rupert Graves wins instant sympathy as the naive lad, Martin, with Juliette Binoche enticingly enigmatic as the amoral fiancée who seems supercool about boffing her future father-in-law. "Damaged people are dangerous," she warns to no avail. "They know they can survive." After the love triangle reaches its tragic point of no return, however, Miranda Richardson makes her Oscar-worthy move, playing Irons' betrayed wife in an outburst of blind fury that shatters the mood of restrained sexual tension. A master at stylishly mounting scandalous tales, Malle shows family values reduced to rubble in his brilliant Damage.[rating]4 bunnies[/rating]
It has been a big year for Rita Rudner--stand-up comedian, movie star, co-author of the Peter's Friends screenplay (see review) and of a hot-selling book, Naked Beneath My Clothes. When we found her at home in Los Angeles between tour dates, Rudner noted, "I never know where I'll be performing next until they hand me the plane ticket."
MPI Home Video has you covered--indoors and out. This year it will serve up 194 episodes of The Frugal Gourmet, PBS' popular cooking's-a-cinch series hosted by kitchen whiz Jeff Smith; and the four-tape Complete History of Golf tells you everything you may (or may not) need to know about the game--from its 12th century tee-off to today's multibillion-dollar industry.... Couch potatoes no longer need drift through vid store aisles with the whining mantra, "Whaddya wanna see, honey?" From Random House comes The 1993 Must-See Movies desk calendar, a 365-page flick-a-day renter's companion featuring cinematic factoids and thumbnail reviews (e.g., "Jaws: the blockbuster that put Spielberg on the map and single-handedly ruined family beach vacations everywhere"). One comment: Yes, Miracle on 34th Street is the perfect Christmas Day rental. But Viva Las Vegas on January first?
Escapism, anyone? From MGM/UA comes a pair of behind-bars classics. Stanley Kramer's The Defiant Ones (1958) stars Tony Curtis and Sidney Poitier as convicts shackled together and on the lam. And Paul Muni is the in-again-out-again prison escapee in the pre-Production Code I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang (1932). Both discs, $35 each, include films' theatrical trailers.... All that jazz: Pioneer's eight-disc Montreux Jazz Festival pays homage to the annual rites held on the banks of Lake Leman. Best sets: hipsters Ray Bryant and Tommy Flanagan (Vol. 2: The Piano Masters) and the incomparable Joe Pass (Vol. 8: The Jazz Guitar). Completists may want all eight discs; novitiates can sample with impunity.
Although she's Deanna Troi on TV's Star Trek: The Next Generation, actress Marina Sirtis favors videos that are down to earth. "I like romantic stories," she says, "such as Steel Magnolias and Terms of Endearment--even though Brent Spiner, who plays Data on the show, tells me I only like movies that people die in." Other Sirtis faves include the original Wuthering Heights, with Laurence Olivier, Gone with the Wind and Goodbye, Mr. Chips. "But you see, people die in those, too." For "stupid enjoyment," Sirtis goes for Grease, and when she's with her guy, it's Terminator 2 and surfing movies. But doesn't the Enterprise's enchantress ever watch science fiction? "Back in England, I used to look at Star Wars. But that's just because I had a crush on Harrison Ford."
Nobody really wants to see Madonna spread out underneath the Christmas tree, do they? Well, if you insist on sharing the Material Girl's unusual erotic fantasies for the holidays, open up Sex (Warner)--with photographs by Steven Meisel--and pop the accompanying CD into your player. As usual, Madonna is on to something: This is clearly the year of the book-and-CD combination.
"I'm glad I found out my man was a jerk before I got too involved. But I was still angry about the energy I wasted on a pointless relationship. There are a lot of jerks out there, and a lot of women who are furiously trying to please them, even though it's hopeless.
Howie Mandel gave a concert to an audience of Naval Academy midshipmen in Annapolis, Maryland, this past August. At one point during his manic routine, Mandel invited the women in the audience to step up on stage and "perform oral sex," as the Associated Press so delicately stated it. In other words, Howie asked for a blow job. Which is vintage Mandel.
In the Irish night, the moon looked smudged and insecure through the microscopic mist. My face and raincoat were soaked. I had a huge scarf tied around my head, looking like my own Jewish grandmother as I stood at the edge of the lake in a quiet valley surrounded by the hulking mountains of Connemara. I heard a dog bark from a farmhouse a mile away. The 18-year-old boy put his arm around my waist. "Kiss me," he said.
Every day I see attractive women who arouse me sexually. My girlfriend knows and doesn't mind, saying, "I don't care where you get your appetite. Just come home for dinner." But by the time I get home, even my sexy lover has trouble turning me on. Maybe I'm too tired. Maybe all those sexual zings during the day deplete me. What do you think?-- W. T., Forest Hills, New York.
An evaluation of the newest justice's first year on the bench, this article was deemed too controversial (or ironic), according to the New York Times law column, for Reconstruction, the noted black journal that commissioned it. The article is presented here with minor editing. The author is a law professor at Indiana University.
Gwen Jacob was arrested for indecent acts because she shed her shirt one warm day in a town in Ontario, Canada. In court she argued that breasts are not sexual organs and that men's and women's breasts should be equal under the law. Judge Bruce Payne didn't think so. His judgment: "Anyone who thinks that the male breast and the female breast are the same is not living in the real world."
A recent issue of the Reverend Donald Wildmon's American Family Association Journal offered a congressional scorecard for "family values." The idea was to indicate the correct vote for congressmen. Our idea? Look at what Wildmon calls family values. To wit:
The sight of Carl Bernstein being pecked at by Gypsy women, their kids kicking the shins of this famous journalist when he didn't pony up the hard currency, told me all I needed to know about the sorry state of Mother Russia. Bernstein and I were in Moscow for a conference with Russian investigative journalists, but it doesn't take much digging these days to discover how messed up things are.
People still approach him on the street and ask for his autograph (they don't get it--he hands them a preprinted card instead). They plead with him to do the shtick they remember from his many appearances on "The Tonight Show" and "Saturday Night Live."
Welcome to the 21st century. It seems to have arrived sooner than anyone expected, but then, most things do these days. Everything happens fast. Blink and you'll miss the latest trend. Go on a two-week no-media vacation and entire empires might fall without your knowing a thing about it.
What's more than 11-1/2 feet tall, hotter than a firecracker, sultry as sin, able to spin glamour into gold and to flip coins with superb stomach muscles? Has to be the Barbi twins. Sprung from San Diego on an unsuspecting Hollywood three years ago, they're the 5'9" pair with identically incendiary looks and surprising talents. "We're a fantasy," says Shane, the rationalist. "We're a freak show," says Sia, the kidder. In 1989 they were belly dancers doing back bends and flipping coins around their navels. A billboard on Sunset Boulevard led to a Playboy debut and the rest, as they say, is winning twinning. Fans in Paris cried "Les Barbis!" and formed a Barbi queue to touch Shane and Sia. Where are they now?
"The People are wonderful," George Allenson had to agree, there in Kenmare. His wife, Vivian, was 20 years younger than he but almost as tall, with dark hair and decided sharp features, and it placed the least strain on their marriage if he agreed with her assertions. Yet he harbored an inner doubt. If the Irish were so wonderful, why was Ireland such a sad, empty country? Vivian, a full generation removed from him, was an instinctive feminist, and to him, an instinctive male chauvinist, any history of unrelieved victimization seemed suspect. Not that it wasn't astonishing to see the 80-room palaces the British landlords had built for themselves, and touching to see the ruins--stone end walls still standing, thatched roofs collapsed--of the hovels where the Irish had lived, eaten their potatoes and drunk their whiskey, and died. Vivian loved the hovels, inexplicably, since they all looked alike from the outside, and when it was possible to enter a doorless doorway or peak through a sashless window-hole, the inside showed a muddy dirt floor, a clutter of rotting boards that might once have been furniture and a few plastic or aluminum leavings of intruders like themselves.
The party season! Rapturously welcomed by some; by others, greeted with fear and loathing. But everyone understands that in some social situations there are shoals, and these have to be navigated with care. Some demand of you a facility for small talk, which some of us simply don't have, requiring us to make do with what we have, or to veer sharply to one side or another of the reef. Then there are those special perils, the awful bores. These are all the more difficult to circumvent because--unlike the shoals that lurk hidden by at least a few inches of water--the bores are more like stalagmites, rising directly between you and your objective: the bar, the beautiful widow, your best friend.
"You have shortened sail and it is late at night and there are only two of you in the cockpit. You are moving at racing speed, parting the buttery sea as with a scalpel, and the waters roar by, themselves exuberantly subdued by your powers to command your way through them." --William F. Buckley, JR.
Besides the seemingly countless bays and anchorages to explore while sailing through the British and U.S. Virgin Islands, there are hundreds of things to do and see ashore. Each island group has its own attractions. Here are a few:
The Retired Marine colonel had two broken legs, both in casts from the soles of his feet to the tops of his thighs. His name was Robert Townsend; he was a tall and broad-shouldered man with black hair and a graying mustache. In the hospital in Boston, he had had five operations; neither leg was healed enough to bear his weight, he had rods in both femurs and his right tibia, and now at home he was downstairs in the living room on a hospital bed whose ends he could raise and lower to evade pain. The bed was narrow, and his golden-haired wife, Lydia, slept upstairs.
Prague. A gemstone in the heart of Europe. So haunting in its beauty that Hitler, the great sensitif, could not bring himself to ravage it, choosing instead to add the city, untouched, to his collection of architectural treasures. If cities can be said to have a gender, Prague falls into the feminine column and is best described in terms that are politically incorrect--languorous, coquettish, alternately sly and accommodating. Landlocked, surrounded by covetous and historically unreliable neighbors, the gray enchantress has had to use what once were called feminine wiles in order to survive.
Sean Young is not so crazy. How could a woman who wouldn't even steal the bathrobes from a hotel possibly leave mutilated dolls and other horrors on the doorstep of actor James Woods--much less affix his penis to his leg with Krazy Glue? And just because the 33-year-old actress wore a latex Catwoman suit when she invaded the Warner Bros. lot to face off with "Batman" director Tim Burton, does this mean that she's unbalanced?
David Hackworth joined the U.S. Army in 1946, when he was 15 years old, and quit with the rank of colonel in 1971. Along the way he was awarded more than 80 medals for valor and eight Purple Hearts for wounds sustained in combat in Korea and Vietnam. In 1989 he published the best-selling "About Face: The Odyssey of an American Warrior," co-authored by Julie Sherman. Hackworth stays in close touch with soldiers and wars. He provided distinguished reporting for Newsweek during Desert Storm and more recently from Croatia, Bosnia and Serbia. He is one of America's preeminent military journalists and has fought in or reported on eight wars. Playboy asked him for his assessment of the U.S. military at the end of the 20th century.
You don't need psychic powers to surmise that a girl with the offbeat name of Echo has parents who were products of the Sixties. But Echo Leta Johnson herself is very much a woman of the Nineties. Take the way our January centerfold--who turns 19 this month--chose to celebrate her 18th birthday. "My best girlfriend and I jumped into her convertible and drove straight through from Santa Fe to Las Vegas and had a blast gambling and going to floor shows every night, sleeping in late and then basking in the sun all afternoon. We blew our stash in three days, but the memory is worth every cent. We were like Thelma and Louise, only we didn't pack a pistol." Not that Echo needs one. Her good looks and her flat-out attitude toward life are lethal enough. Last June, just after graduating from Santa Fe High School (Echo was born, and now lives, in Austin, but she grew up in Ecuador--her father was a hat exporter there--and Santa Fe), Echo entered a local beauty pageant and was promptly crowned Miss Santa Fe. She caught the attention of a photographer shooting for Playboy Germany and suddenly was the toast of New Mexico. Although Echo's triumphs have accelerated the pace of her life, they don't seem to have turned her head. "People keep asking me why I don't go to Hollywood, but the starlet route has never appealed to me. I want more control over my life than that." Her intention is to move to Dallas--the apparel-mart capital of Texas--to attend SMU to earn a degree in fashion merchandising. "My dream is to someday own and run a hip, upscale clothing store for men and women. My boyfriend, Alex, and my brother both have absolutely great builds, and I just love to dress them." They are also both naturally great dancers, she adds. "I love everything from the Texas two-step to dirty dancing and hip-hop. If a man can't dance and doesn't look good in his clothes, he'll never get mine off," she vows--a promising threat if we've ever heard one.
IPulled into the self-serve island of Herve's on Highland, up where it meets the freeway. I got out my two five-gallon provers. I put the regular nozzle into the red prover and squeezed. When the pump read five gallons, the bottom of the meniscus rested on 4.59. Herve was coming out to watch, wiping his hands on an oily rag.
Here they come, with their steel faces and inflamed eyes, their fearful visions and apocalyptic solutions: the New Victorians. The Cold War is over and Americans are desperate for a new enemy. The New Victorians have found one and, as usual, it is other Americans.
The Chicago in which I wanted to participate was a worker's town. It was, and, in my memory, is, the various districts and the jobs that I did there: factories out in Cicero or down in Blue Island, the Inland Steel plant in East Chicago, Yellow Cab Unit 13 on Halsted.
Funky conversational ties may have been the big thing last season, but these days, talk has switched to another menswear accessory: the vest. Available from virtually all of the top designers--Gianni Versace, Donna Karan and Paul Smith, to name a few--this once conservative fashion item is now the focal point of the holidays' hippest looks. Trendy? Perhaps. But the latest vests are also versatile, so you'll get more than your money's worth in wear. In fact, all of the colorful styles shown here team as well with a sports jacket and trousers as they do with a T-shirt and jeans. Some, such as the leaf-patterned look by Gaspar Saldanha, can even be worn in place of a cummerbund and braces when going black-tie. How's that for a wise investment?
Getting a Grip on Karen Karen Russell is a dancer, in videos for Billy Joel and Bon Jovi, onTV and in shows such as Michael Jackson's and Alice Cooper's tours. She even danced her way through a Budweiser commercial. We'll two-step with her any time.