At one time, the radio waves were clogged with traffic reports, news updates and tired jokes by guys with odd voices. It would have stayed that way had Howard Stern not turned his program into a real dog and pony show with such call-in fare as Bestiality Dial-a-Date. You might think he's bad on radio, but at least he's restrained. Here, in an interview with the unflappable Marshall Fine of Gannett newspapers, Stern chats without a dental dam about penises, porn and the lure of lesbians. Meanwhile, in the more private medium of personal computer networks, keyboards are becoming kinky sex toys that you don't have to hide. For his piece on modem sex, Lust Online, fast-fingered Associate Editor Matthew Childs goes under the electronic blanket and tells how pushing the right buttons will melt hearts and hard drives alike. If you're not e-mailing these days, you're missing out: Playboy's address on the Internet is Playboy@class.org.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), April 1994, Volume 41, Number 4. Published Monthly by Playboy. 680 North Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: $29.97 for 12 Issues, 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-B 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: 730 Fifth Avenue, New York 10019; Chicago: 680 North Lake Shore Drive, Chicago 60611; West Coast: 9242 Beverly Boulevard, Beverly Hills, Ca 90210; 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.
Class Struggle and union organizing in a French coal-mining town at the turn of the century are the heavy business of Germinal (Sony Classics). Directed by France's Claude Berri, co-author of this adaptation from the Emile Zola classic, the grueling saga stars Gerard Depardieu, Miou-Miou and Judith Henry, with French folk singer Renaud in a pivotal role as Etienne. It's the itinerant Etienne who spells trouble, stirring the local miners to strike and prompting the rebellious mine owners to strike back. The destruction that results is graphic, especially when the enraged townsfolk murder and mutilate a grocery-store owner who has been gouging his impoverished customers for years. With all of its most appealing characters either suffocated, shot or spiritually wasted by the end, Germinal is beautifully played but deadly. [rating]3 bunnies[/rating]
And you thought football season was over. Polygram has teamed with NFL Films to produce A Woman's View of Pro Football, a 45-minute homage to the gridiron by the likes of Ivana Trump, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Teri Garr and presidential press secretary Dee Dee Myers. The ladies weigh in on such topics as the huddle (Joan Rivers swears the players are talking about her; Judy Tenuta says they're making out), being a football hostage in a house full of men (from Howard Stern sidekick Robin Quivers) and their near-unanimous fondness for watching the players' behinds. And we thought they liked Madden's chalkboard.
Look who turned into couch potatoes just like the rest of us. When not watching reruns to check out how they looked a quarter-century ago, the real-life Brady Bunch likes to veg out at the VCR. "Howards End is one of my all-time favorites," says Brady mom Florence Henderson. "I also love It's a Wonderful Life and Gone With the Wind." And sweet little Cindy? Grown-up Susan Olsen's vid tastes are anything but Brady-like: "Aliens, Evil Dead 2 and any movie directed by David Lynch." Chris Knight--Peter to fans--looks for laughs from across the sea. "I'd have to go with A Fish Called Wanda or Monty Python and the Holy Grail," he says. Then there's Mike Lookinland, who watches at home with his three-year-old son. (Bobby Brady has a kid?) "My favorite videos are 101 Dalmatians and The Brave Little Toaster. And I've seen Bambi about 4000 times." Which is just about as many times as we've seen The Brady Bunch.
Spooky spring for disc fans: Paul Schrader's Cat People (the 1982 remake of the Forties classic with Simone Simon) gets the full litterbox treatment from MCA. And while it may lack the original's eerie black-and-white cinematography, Nastassja Kinski's kinky turn as the film's feline fatale makes the update worth it.
For months after Bill Clinton's election, Washington partyers and poseurs fluttered in anticipation of extravagant and aerobic elbow-rubbing. After all, we had just elected the youngest, sexiest and smartest ticket in history, one with more than a half-dozen degrees and activist buzzwords to match. And the entertainment rolls at the dozen or so inaugural balls read like a Rolling Stone readers' poll. The Blues Brothers were in, Brooks Brothers was out.
Paul is still the cutest beatle department: BMI says that Yesterday is the most performed song in its catalog of 2 million works. Paul's ditty has been played on the radio in the U.S. 6 million times. No doubt he'll perform it again when the Clintons finally get their McCartney concert this year. Paul is the prez' favorite Beatle. It figures.
For Hairy-Chested fiction at its best, check out Rogue Warrior II: Red Cell (Pocket Books), by Richard Marcinko and John Weisman. Women, minorities, AA members and wimps stand back when the former leader of SEAL Team Six shows up and scorches the air purple just saying hello.
"Years ago, manhood was an opportunity for achievement, and now it is a problem to be overcome. Plato, St. Francis, Michelangelo, Mozart, Leonardo da Vinci, Vince Lombardi, Van Gogh--you don't find guys of that caliber today, and if there are any, they are not painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel or composing Don Giovanni. They are trying to be Mr. OK All Right, the man who can bake a cherry pie, go play basketball, come home, make melon balls and whip up a great soufflé, converse easily about intimate matters, participate in recreational weeping, laugh, hug, be vulnerable, be passionate in a skillful way and the next day go off and lift them bales into that barge and tote it. A guy who women consider acceptable.
Ted Danson's recent public blunders are matched for sheer stupidity only by the missteps of, say, officials at NASA. You might think Ted's mid-life crisis is strange, but that's because as a celeb he's living it large. He's actually no different from the rest of us. Here's proof.
In the film Serpico, Al Pacino portrayed a New York cop who battled police corruption within his own department. The movie was based on the saga of Frank Serpico, who put his life on the line and took a bullet in the head. But what happened next to Serpico is also high drama--and it's an experience that could affect any man.
Imagine walking into your supermarket and asking for two of the plumpest pork chops in the display case, only to be turned away because the butcher is an Orthodox Jew who will not handle swine. Frustrated, you grab a cold six-pack and walk to the checkout line. "I'm sorry," says the cashier, "but I think alcohol is sinful and I just won't ring it up, even though it's legal and you are clearly of age."
Believing with you that religion is a matter which lies solely between man and his God, that he owes account to none other for his faith or his worship, that the legislative powers of government reach actions only, and not opinions, I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their legislature should "make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof," thus building a wall of separation between church and State.
When the California municipal Gallery Concord sent out the call for entries in its We're Only Human exhibition, it asked for artwork that expressed the human condition. I submitted a piece, He Said...He Said, which is a large oil painting depicting the Senate confirmation hearings of Clarence Thomas' appointment to the Supreme Court. The jury selected my piece from more than 500 works for inclusion in the show. Four days after delivering it to the gallery I received a call from Peter Brown, the exhibition coordinator, telling me the gallery wouldn't hang the piece because it was afraid of political repercussions (lost funding) from the right-wing city council. Shortly thereafter I got a call from Hawley Holmes, the gallery director, insisting that I remove the piece because of a small image of sexuality that she felt was inappropriate for public viewing. Through California Lawyers for the Arts, Karl Olsen, the noted First Amendment attorney, came to my aid. He advised Concord's city attorney that he would begin proceedings to take the issue to federal court if my piece wasn't on display when the show opened. Because of my attorney's strongly worded statement, the media attention and the fact that five other artists removed their work in sympathy, the piece was hung in a private office with a disclaimer on the door. I visited the show and was met by handshakes and pats on the back from members of now. So scrap the "sexually offensive to women" argument. The issue remains that this painting explored areas of American political life that still cause the right wing to bristle--and that is enormously satisfying.
Insurance agents think David Castle, an artist in southern California, is gay and has AIDS--even though he is straight and healthy. This devastating bit of misinformation is on his medical record because Castle's doctor and a radiologist bungled communications and then gave the information to a record service that makes medical records available nationally. Since this mistake occurred, insurers have been unwilling to give Castle disability or health coverage.
Two years ago the Food and Drug Administration frightened the daylights out of the 2 million American women who have had breast implants. The FDA imperiously banned the sale of silicone gelimplants, suggesting that silicone may be carcinogenic and pose serious risks to a woman's health.
The Roots of America's Russian Mob run deep beneath Zagrebsky Boulevard in St. Petersburg, where Andrei Kuznetsov grew up. Built in the Soviet era, Zagrebsky is a place of brick factories and crumbling eight-story tenements, of weedy vacant lots and rattling trams. If there were truth-in-labeling laws in Russia, this part of the city would still be called Leningrad.
Marianne gravatte, Playboy's Playmate of the Year 1983, doesn't work out at a health club, but she's in terrific shape. "I run around after them," says Marianne, smiling at her three thrill-a-minute sons, who tumble and shout around us. She's not complaining. She spent her whole life building up to the title of "Mom." Her first prize--the Playmate crown--was pretty special, too. "I'll look back on it forever," she says, "thinking how lucky I was." She feels this way despite the fact that she got a thorough ribbing on national TV--from David Letterman, no less. Although she preserves her memories, she did have to dispose of the Porsche she won as a Playmate prize: There was no room in it for the kids. Her son Cody was born in 1987, then came Justin and Matthew. To fully enjoy the chaos of home, Marianne quit her modeling career and now, with her husband, Mark, runs a sports bar. She's the sultriest supermom in town.
When Santo R. stepped into my little office in Partinico last fall I barely recognized him. He'd been a corpulent boy, one of the few in this dry-as-bones country, and a very heavyset young man. I remembered his parents--peasants, and poor as church mice--and how I'd treated him for the usual childhood ailments--rubella, chicken pox, mumps--and how even then the gentlest pressure of my fingers would leave marks on the distended flesh of his upper arms and legs. But if he'd been heavy then, he was now, at the age of 29, like a pregnant mule, so big around the middle he hardly fit through the door. He was breathing hard, half-choked on the dust of the streets, and he was wet through to the skin with sweat. "Doctor," he wheezed, sinking a thumb into the morass of his left pectoral, just above the heart, "it hurts here." An insuck of breath, a dab at the brow, a wince. I watched his bloated, pale hand sink to cradle the great tub of his abdomen. "And here," he whispered.
If You followed our advice last spring, then you already own a linen suit. And if you didn't, it's time to take another look--the fabric is still the warm-weather favorite of American and European designers. This season, however, relaxed linen lineups from Calvin Klein, Giorgio Armani, Joseph Abboud and others go beyond suits and sports jackets to include dress and sport shirts, trousers, sweaters, outerwear and shorts. As you can see on these pages, comfort crosses the line between casual and dressy, and colors do, too. The same textured beiges, tans and steel grays that are found in the latest double- and single-breasted suits, for example, turn up in drawstring pants and camp shirts. What's more ties have gone soft (the top styles are silk knits), the newest shirts feature laid-back pajama-type collars and more adventuresome guys are wearing sandals to work. Sans socks, of course!
A Photograph Sometimes develops a life of its own. Or in this case "magic," to use Roberto Rocco's word. The Italian photographer anticipated nothing magical when a fashion magazine in his home country sent him to shoot Detroit-born Elizabeth Nottoli. It was just another job with a gorgeous model--a bit more exciting than most, perhaps, considering his subject's unusual allure. When they met, though, it was the photographic equivalent of love at first sight. "We agreed to have an open shooting, which meant I could shoot whatever I felt, anything at all," says Rocco in his musically accented English. "Elizabeth was so spontaneous, so comfortable with her body, so beautiful, it just got better and better." Elizabeth (whose surname Nottoli rhymes with bodily, almost) felt the same charge in the air. "I got the best vibe from Roberto," she says. "He's a cool guy. No matter what your flaws are, he makes you feel like a beautiful woman." She told him that they might be creating something scandalous: She had just done a major campaign for the nouvelle couture firm Bisou Bisou in which the childless Elizabeth breast-fed a baby. There might be some conflict between that wholesome image and her nudity in these new photos, she said. But it didn't matter; she was equally proud of both incarnations. For his part, Rocco was so delighted that he decided to take the results of his photo session with Elizabeth to Los Angeles, where he showed them to Playboy's West Coast Photo Editor, Marilyn Grabowski. She knew Nottoli from Bisou Bisou's billboards in Los Angeles. "That's where I spotted her," says Grabowski. "She's incredibly striking. Elizabeth is a knockdown gorgeous girl." Such praise will not be news to the readers of Harper's Bazaar and the many other magazines in which Elizabeth has appeared, though some may be surprised to see her here. But the element of surprise is part of the story.
The Thought of having sex with someone and using a computer as an intermediary hadn't entered my mind until I met Pam at a computer privacy conference in Washington, D.C., where she works as a specialist in computer security for the United States Treasury. We struck up a casual conversation, during which she told me about some pretty sexy things happening on computer bulletin boards and online networks. "It's great," she said. "The things you can do are really wild, and the people are amazing." I was interested, in an academic way, of course. I owned a computer and a modem, and I had at least a passing interest in sex. But modem sex? Is it really sex? I decided to find out for myself.
Her Approach is regal and confident, as if she were breezing down the runway at a beauty pageant. Her release appears flawless. But suddenly, sensing disaster, Becky DelosSantos starts gesturing wildly and shaking her pelvis like Elvis. Unfortunately, Miss April's body language is in vain. Her pink bowling ball spins into the gutter at a North Miami bowling alley. "It's my toe," she pouts. She is not making a lame excuse. Two days earlier the playful Becky broke a toe, sprained a finger and skinned her knee while horsing around with a water gun at a party. Still, she insisted that we go bowling. "I'm addicted to games--canasta, chess, backgammon, Pictionary. You name it, I play it." Becky attributes this infatuation to being an only child and having to entertain herself while growing up in tiny Marshfield, Massachusetts. One of her earliest memories is of playing Go Fish with her grandmother. These days Becky plays games to pass time when she works (modeling swimsuits and lingerie), which is often. "The delay between shots or when the weather's bad can really drag, especially when I'm in an exotic location that I'm dying to explore. When I was in Istanbul and in Phuket, Thailand, I loved haggling in bazaars." Becky now lives in south Florida, but she spent six years modeling throughout Asia and Europe, settling in Milan for the last two. Between assignments, she skied the Alps, ice-skated and learned to speak Italian. But after 14 years of modeling (she landed her first job when she was eight after a photographer was dazzled by her First Communion pictures), Becky is considering a less hectic lifestyle. "In about three years I'd like to retire to New England, but not to Marshfield. My friends there think that going to Boston is a big step and that Massachusetts is the world. I thrive in large cities, though my dream is to live on a remote ranch with horses and my two cats, Stoli and Snow." The closest she gets to New England now is watching the Bruins and Celtics on TV at a hole-in-the-wall Irish pub she frequents in Miami. It's here that Becky guides us to more games. First, there's darts, which she wins handily. Then, in the sexual trivia category of Pitboss Superstar, she reels off five straight answers before stumbling over "What does the Skene's gland do?" (For all you nongynecologists, it emits lubricant.) Over a few games of eight ball, Becky reflects on her image of the ideal man. "Looks aren't at all important... nine ball, side pocket. I want someone who can make me laugh. Someone who doesn't need to be constantly reminded that I love him... 14 in the corner. I just like to have fun. My idea of a perfect date is to get dressed up, have an elegant dinner and then play miniature golf." With that, Becky lines up the ten ball and--egad!--misses the shot. "Hey, it's my toe," she jokes.
Film Historian Leonard Maltin's ass is much bigger than I would have imagined. It's a blinding left hook for me. Not that I've given the size of his keister much thought, but if I had thought about it, I wouldn't have imagined it quite this large. I look across at oddball auteurs Joel and Ethan Coen and try to flag their gazes, to no avail. The brothers stare numbly at the middle of the room, wearing the look of postal workers listening to voices that instruct them to kill their neighbor's dog. Leonard Maltin's ass might as well be a million light years away.
In considering the Proliferation of boxed sets, reissues and strong catalog sales, we can say with certainty that there is life after death. The current commercial successes of Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Bob Marley attest to it. There is life after sabbaticals, too. Just look at the sales figures for the new Streisand and Sinatra. Even Meat Loaf, who coasted for more than 15 years on steady sales of Bat Out of Hell, came back in 1993 with a double-platinum sequel.
Born Robert Nesta Marley in Jamaica in 1945, the son of a British army captain and a Jamaican woman, Bob became reggae music's international emissary. Anyone lucky enough to attend a performance by Marley and the Wailers experienced the excitement generated by their trademark blend of rock, R&B, soul and Jamaican rhythms. By the mid-Seventies, the king of reggae--already regarded as a national hero in Jamaica--had reached an American audience with his songs of rebellion, love and faith. Before his death from cancer in 1981, Marley hoped reggae would find new leaders. "It's not only one man to carry on," he said. "I just want to play reggae music and give my message." Message received.
Eddie Vedder stood onstage in New Orleans and threw back his arms. He thrust out his chest, a momentary he-man. "I want you to spit on me," he said. The audience obeyed immediately. Gobs flew into the light, and Vedder moved as if he were catching a spring rain on his face. After a minute, he called a halt.
What's a no-compromise, autobahn-bred German sport sedan that won't cost you much more than a Honda Accord? The answer is tearing around this spread. Volkswagen has shoehorned a 172-horsepower V6 into its subtly restyled Jetta III GLX, and the result--ach du lieber! It couldn't happen a minute too soon for the company that once dominated America's small-car market. Volkswagen's recent sales slump was largely the result of its focus on emerging markets such as eastern Europe and China rather than on developing new models for the U.S. But that may soon change. The Jetta III GLX is a tough little five-speed runner with power rack-and-pinion steering, gasfilled rear shocks, electronic traction control and fourwheel disc brakes with ABS. The hot V6 under the hood delivers zero to 60 in under seven seconds and has a top end of about 135 miles per hour. The price for all this indecent fun is $19,975--about half the cost of a BMW 540i and $10,000 less than a 325i. And for the money you get an all-leather interior (including a fat, leather-wrapped steering wheel), heated bucket seats, alloy wheels, cruise control, an antitheft system (you'll need it), power sunroof, AM/FM/cassette stereo and power seats, doors and windows. In fact, the only two options available are a four-speed automatic transmission and a trunk-mounted CD changer. And there's more: Jetta's bettered its already fine safety record. The GLX boasts dual air bags, improved side-impact protection, bolstered safety-cage construction and a front-end design that progressively diffuses crash energy during frontal impact. If you're in the market for a slightly bigger sedan, Volkswagen already offers a Passat GLX fourdoor powered by the same V6 engine for about $23,000; a station wagon version costs an additional $425. (A V6-powered Golf should also be arriving in auto showrooms later this year.) Yes, you can still get a new Jetta GL/GLS equipped with a 115-hp four-cylinder engine for less. (The base price starts at about $13,000.) But one ride in a GLX should persuade you to take the rocket route.
The color orange screams for attention. It's one of the brightest, most intense colors in the spectrum. It's almost combustible. Fire is orange. The sun is orange. And orange is the color of the silky, micro gym shorts worn by the Hooters girls. Stare long enough and that orange will burn a hole right through your gray matter. Top off those orange shorts with a tight, white T-shirt (usually knotted in the back to emphasize the chest and bare midriff), and the results are death by Creamsicle. There are worse ways to go.
The director of "Boyz N the Hood," John Singleton, says Laurence Fishburne reminds him of Omar Sharif. Producer David Burke, who gave the actor his recent Emmy-winning role in the series "Tribeca," sees Fishburne as Spencer Tracy. The 32-year-old actor's range is impressive. After three years on the soap opera "One Life to Live," he landed his second film role--at 14--in Francis Coppola's "Apocalypse Now" and spent his wonder years in the Philippine jungle. He came home burned out and turned on--good practice for his most recent successes: making a human being out of Ike Turner in last year's Tina Turner biopic, "What's Love Got to Do With It," and playing a homeless chess master in "Searching for Bobby Fischer." He is slated to star in the Jimi Hendrix biopic next. There have been many other roles, including Cowboy Curtis on "Pee-wee's Playhouse," the fabulously criminal Jimmy Jump in the cult classic "King of New York" and Sterling in August Wilson's play "Two Trains Running," for which he won a Tony. We sent Contributing Editor David Rensin to Vancouver, B.C., where Fishburne was filming the post--Cold War spy thriller "The Tool Shed" with Ellen Barkin. Said Rensin, "Fishburne, once Larry, is now Laurence. He says he gets more respect. But he still lets close friends call him Fish."
Playboyexpands your purchasing power by providing a list of retailers and manufacturers you can contact for information on where to find this month's merchandise. To buy the apparel and equipment shown on pages 26, 31, 82-89, 114-117 and 165, check the listings below to find the stores nearest you.
Credits: Photography by: P. 3 Patty Beaudet, Gern Blanston, Steve Conway, Andrew Goldman, Barbara Kretzschmar, Ron Mesaros (2), Keri Pickett, Rob Rich (2), Loni Specter, John Whitman; P. 10 Arny Freytag; P. 17 Ralph Nelson/Hollywood Pictures; P. 24 Breton Littlehales/Giannini Talent; P. 26 Conway, New York Yankees; P. 39 George Georgiou; PP. 120-121 Photofest; P. 122 Outline; P. 127 Outline; P. 132 David Chan; P. 135 Chan, Jennifer McQuistion; P. 136 Kim Mizuno, Chan; P. 138 Renee Delaporte; P. 140 Randy L. Donatelli; P. 144 Michael Grecco; P. 165 Gamma Liaison/Greg Gorman; P. 168. Steve Conway; PP. 82-89 Women's styling by Basia Zamorska for Marek, NY, Men's grooming by Losi for Pierre Michel at the Plaza, NY, Women's makeup by Cindy Joseph for Jean Owen, NY, Women's Hair by Gabriel Saba, John Sahag workshop; P. 115 Antique Venice opera poster courtesy Colletti Gallery, 67 E. Oak St., Chicago. 312-664-6767; P. 144 styling Xavier Cabrera/Grooming Wendy Ann Rosen for Cloutier.
Don't let the name fool you: There's a lot more than just boom in today's boom boxes. Many of the newest models offer the kind of state-of-the-art technology formerly found only in home stereo systems. For example, Sharp's portable CD player, shown below, will provide you with at least eight hours of traveling music. Digital technology has enabled manufacturers to make boom boxes programmable, meaning you can instruct the machines to play compact disc tracks randomly or in any chosen order. (The Sharp model has 32-track programmability.) And if you spend a lot of summer downtime at the shore, Sony offers a sporty CD/radio/cassette player in hot yellow that's virtually impervious to the elements. Hit the beach!