When Betty Friedan made her Playboy debut in the September 1992 Interview, the co-founder of the National Organization for Women said, "I think the movement has to become one of women and men." For her encore, the mother of feminist dissent makes good on her vows of unity with a compassionate look at the high cost of male stress in Why Men Die Young (illustrated by David Wilcox).
Playboy (ISSN 0032-1478), April 1995, Volume 42, 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 6-8 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: 730 Fifth Avenue, New York 10019; Chicago: 680 North Lake Shore Drive, Chicago 60611; West Coast: 9242 Beverly Boulevard. Beverly Hills, CA 90210; One Sansome Street, Suite 1900. San Francisco 94104; Detroit: 2000 Town Center, Suite 1900, Southfield, MI 48075; South: Zimmerman & Associates, 2221 Peachtree Road NE, Suite 10, Atlanta 30309; Boston: Northeast Media Sales, 8 Faneuil Hall Marketplace, Boston 02109.
They Mint acting awards for the kind of performance given by Peter Falk in Roommates (Buena Vista). Falk plays a benign, stubborn Polish immigrant who lives to be 107. During the last several decades of his life, this baker from Pittsburgh raises his orphaned grandson, Michael, sees the lad through medical school in Ohio, moves in with him, disrupts his sex life and generally makes waves in the world around him. As the adult Michael, D.B. Sweeney manages a persuasive mix of deep love and total exasperation toward the old man, echoed by Julianne Moore as the woman Michael finally marries despite his curmudgeonly grandpa's resistance. This poignant family drama written for the screen by Max Apple and Stephen Metcalfe was inspired by Apple's own grandfather. The story lapses into heartwarming sudsiness toward the end, yet director Peter Yates makes it work and then some: All his performers hit their marks, while Falk hits the bull's-eye with a dream role that any self-respecting actor would grovel for. [rating]4 bunnies[/rating]
Is Kelsey Grammar's taste in videos as recherché as Dr. Frasier Crane's? Perhaps. "My all-time favorite film is To Kill a Mockingbird," he says, "but Frasier would undoubtedly pick something more austere, like Ingmar Bergman's Persona." The Juilliard alum has a predictable penchant for the heady and serious: "I love Fearless (with Jeff Bridges and Rosie Perez), not only for its acting and direction, but also for its compelling subject matter." Grammer also has a rugged side. "I've seen all of John Wayne's stuff. It was great--he was great." Who ranks as Dr. Crane's favorite on-screen shrink? "I can think of only one," he says. "Streisand in Prince of Tides?" Maybe it was those legs.
Give Smashing Pumpkins and Snoop Doggy Dogg a rest. Swing, Swing, Swing!: Classic Big Band and Jazz Shorts from the '30s and '40s is the first entry in MGM/UA's long-awaited series, Cavalcade of Vitaphone Shorts. Hip precursors to today's music vids, these are the movie theater minifeatures that let the 78-rpm-buying public see their favorite radio music makers in action. Swing! stars the late hi-de-ho man, Cab Calloway, as well as the bop-along orchestras of Artie Shaw, Ozzie Nelson (sans Harriet) and Cuban caballero Desi Arnaz, years before he became Ricky Ricardo. The two-tape set replays almost three hours of blasts from the past; the five-disc version has loads more licks--nearly nine hours in all.
You thought Ed Wood was a bad director? Check out the dogs of Alan Smithee--that's the pseudonym used by filmmakers so bummed by their flick's final cut that they yank their own credit. Some of Smithee's best, uh, worst:
All hail The Art of Buster Keaton, a crisply remastered collection of silent classics starring Charlie Chaplin's nearest rival (some say his superior). An unsentimental, deadpan genius at war with a hostile universe, Keaton's stone face and breathtaking physical comedy are celebrated in three boxed sets, which include the brilliant Sherlock Jr., The General and The Electric House--altogether 11 features and shorts. On tape from Kino on Video, on disc from Image Entertainment.
Discophiles have a lot to learn, thanks to six laser lessons from Lumivision (800-776-LUMI): It's torch and run in the Oscar-nominated Fires of Kuwait ($39.95), a real-life scorcher that tracks the blazing mess left behind when Saddam's thugs ignited more than 600 gulfside oil wells (firefighting teams from ten nations came to the rescue). Walter Cronkite separates myth from mammoth in Dinosaur! ($69.95), a four-part history of the prehistoric pests that became Spielberg's leading lizards. For death styles of the rich and famous, A&E's spectacular documentary King Tut: The Face of Tutankhamen (two discs; $69.95) gives the lowdown on the mother of all mummies--from ancient Egypt to Steve Martin's rap-song send-up--in a captivating three-and-a-half-hour tour. Space cadets will get a blast out of Hall Columbia! ($39.95), the complete scuttle on the shuttle, whose maiden voyage in 1981 launched NASA into a new era of space exploration. No surprise ending in A&E's epic look at the Titanic ($79.95); sure, everything sinks, but the 200-minute laser ride is still a white-knuckler. If you liked Keanu Reeves' Speed, try the Imax documentary Speed ($34.95) as it clocks man in some serious motion.
Ernest Hemingway referred to George Plimpton's amateur excursions into professional sports as "the dark side of the moon of Walter Mitty." Perhaps that overstates the case, but Plimpton has done what every sports fan would love to do: He has played with the pros and lived to tell about it.
Lee Alan Dugatkin of the University of Missouri and Robert Craig Sargent of the University of Kentucky have just published the results of their study of the mating habits of male guppies in a weighty journal called Behavioral Ecology and Sociobiology. After reading about their work, I'm not sure I can trust my male friends anymore.
My wife and I both enjoy showing off her breasts, especially her areolae and her nipples. She gets the thrill of being a tease; I enjoy letting others see her provocative personality. We have experimented with a variety of techniques, from her wearing see-through lace camisoles, minimal-cup bras or sheer blouses to the seemingly accidental opening of a blazer or the plunge of an off-the-shoulder sweater. Unfortunately, she has pale areolae that sometimes can't be seen through even the sheerest material. Often she has worn an athletic top pulled down so the edge of the fabric is riding on the ends of her nipples and a good third of each areola is exposed above the top, only to go unnoticed. Is there a way to temporarily darken her areolae to draw more attention to them without irritating her skin or staining fabrics?--S.J., Fort Collins, Colorado.
In the past two decades almost 3000 Americans have been sentenced to death by state courts. Of these, 254 have been executed. And about 50 death row inmates have been found innocent and were released before the state could get them down the last corridor.
The equal-protection clause of the Fourteenth Amendment was designed to protect blacks in the aftermath of the Civil War. In recent years, there has been no clearer violation of the spirit, as well as the letter, of that amendment than in the way our drug laws are written and enforced.
In a joke that made the rounds not long ago, a beggar in New York City's theater district approaches a well-dressed man for a handout. "Neither a beggar nor a borrower be," the man says sanctimoniously. "William Shakespeare."
Herb called Annie at noon and said, "I'm taking the train home early. I have something to tell you." When he got home he told her his job was over. He had been called in and told he was through. Just like that. In all his adult life he had never worked for another company. Here he was, over 50, and he had no idea what he would do now, what he should do, where to start. He looked gray. It was as if the world had come to an end for him, but he was still alive.
If Barbara Keesling, Ph.D., could give just one piece of advice to men and to women, this sex therapist would say the following: "Sex is about enjoying yourself, not putting on a show. Guys, get over the performance thing. And ladies, don't expect your partner to know how to touch your body and how to find its hot spots until you know how yourself." Simple erotic wisdom is Keesling's hallmark in a trade she has plied for more than a decade. At 39, she has worked as a sex surrogate, earned a doctorate in psychology, written three books on lovemaking and launched a sex therapy practice. Keesling now includes Playboy on her very sexy résumé. "When I wrote my latest book," she says, "I hoped it might get me into Playboy. Looks like I was right." Her first two sex guides could be considered bedside primers. Sexual Healing, published in 1990, deals with treating sexual dysfunctions, and 1993's Sexual Pleasure explores the female libido and sensuality for couples. Her latest manual, How to Make Love All Night (and Drive a Woman Wild), unlocks the secrets of prolonged sex, notably a man's ability to achieve what was once considered an exclusively female treasure: multiple orgasms. Already in its second printing, the book is only the latest chapter in Barbara's study of the joys of the flesh. "There's always something new to learn about sex," she says, "and always something new that feels good." Born in Pasadena, Barbara attended Catholic high school in Torrance, California, then headed straight into the job market. "I did six years with the Postal Service," she says, "but spent most of my time there thinking of ways to get out." In 1980 she found one. While taking a course on human sexuality, Barbara learned about the sex surrogate business, and before you could say, "What's up, Doc?" she was getting naked with five clients a week. "I treated men by using touching exercises and hands-on counseling. And, no, I never found a client I was tempted to keep--though I must say they all came out pretty well." Fifteen years and three degrees later, Barbara now operates a counseling-only practice in California--that is, when she's not doing book tours and talk shows. With such a packed schedule, does she have any time left to meet men and practice what she preaches? "Not lately," Barbara admits, then smiles. "But I am hoping to remedy that situation."
These kids that slashed the top on the Saab (ain't it a shame, 1200 miles on it, a black rag-top, turbocharger, five-disc sound system), these kids called me Chop-a-Leg, which is what I had done to me. They chop a leg when the foot turns gang green. I had diabetes 12 years and wouldn't quit smoking. My podiatrist warned me the day was drawing near, but I didn't listen. I was still out there trying to get my kicks. Now I traded the five-speed in for an automatic since when you been chop-a-legged, your prosthetic foot don't rightly feel the clutch and that can mean smash your ass!
The look this spring is all-American, according to menswear designers Calvin Klein, Paul Smith and Donna Karan, with bold colors and preppy styling reminiscent of the Fifties. Softly structured suits are being paired with bright, solid-colored shirts and equally vivid ties made of retro iridescent fabrics. Although the three-button single-breasted suit still dominates the menswear scene, two-button styles are making a strong comeback. So are such Ivy League classics as oxford shirts, argyle V-neck sweaters and madras jackets. We like the latter worn casually with a crewneck shirt and a pair of plain-front khakis as pictured on page 84. You can complete this look, or any of the other looks in this feature, with saddle shoes, penny loafers (forget the pennies, please) or even white bucks, which Pat Boone would love.
Before we get started, I want to make one thing clear: I'm not a teacher of golf, or of anything else, for that matter. Yes, I've been called the duffers' guru, the high priest of the high handicappers and the Bobby Jones of bad golf. But I prefer to think of myself as a lifelong student of the game who happened to get a look at a few of the answers when the real teachers left the class to peek through the window of the girls' locker room. Now, I'm not saying that golf can't be taught. Golf can be taught. It's just that it can't be learned. This fundamental and unalterable fact explains why many aspiring players spend so much time and money taking lessons yet never seem to improve. In fact, they usually get worse. Of course, that doesn't explain how so many golf pros can still make a comfortable living teaching the sport, but then there are a lot of things about this great game I don't understand. People have always told me, "Leslie, if you were to write down everything you don't know about golf, it would fill a book." Well, I guess they were right.
When she still felt rotten after two weeks, the blonde made an appointment with her physician. "Frankly, Ms. Harris," the doctor said after his examination, "I'm stumped. You're either pregnant or you have a cold."
Two weeks before Christmas, when preparations for O.J. Simpson's trial were reaching fever pitch, Johnnie Cochran Jr. took a few hours off from his star client's case. He went down to Watts, climbed into the back of a white Cadillac convertible and rode through the streets as a star in his own right, the grand marshal of the Watts Christmas parade. The crowds adored him, and Cochran, resplendent in a purple blazer, black turtleneck and gold-rimmed designer shades, loved them back. He flashed his Eveready smile and waved with the panache of a big-city mayor. He told a television reporter that he was there as a role model: "Children in this community," he said, "need to know they can be anything they want to be." As his Caddy cruised by, some onlookers called, "Hey, Johnnie! Hey, Johnnie!" and others shouted, "Free O.J.! O.J. must be freed!"
Darlene knows she was asked to play only because they needed a fifth for the game, but she's worked 17 straight days now, and the Friday night options for entertainment on this little island are not good. She is determined to be one of the boys. There's the cook, two maintenance electricians from the fish plant, a Filipino man she's seen driving a fork-lift on the dock and her. She hasn't won a pot all night and is down almost $30, but she's promised herself she's not going to get bent out of shape over every damn thing. That was the whole point in taking the cannery kitchen job on this rain-soaked chunk of Alaskan rock. Getting away from the pressures of city life a little, learning to relax. Anyway, this is only a two-dollar-limit game, and with the salmon season in full swing and the plant running three shifts, there are plenty of dishes to wash and she's getting all the overtime she can handle.
Playboy's History of Jazz & Rock Hope I Die Before I Get Old
They ran in-to each other on the London subway. Mick Jagger was carrying an armload of records he had just received in the mail from Chess Records in Chicago; Keith Richards was knocked out that Jagger had them. They were amazed that they were both into Chicago blues and Chuck Berry.
Remember Samuel L. Jackson in "Ragtime," "Sea of Love," "Coming to America," "Do the Right Thing," "Mo' Better Blues," "Jungle Fever," "Goodfellas," "Eddie Murphy Raw," "White Sands," "School Daze," "Patriot Games," "Juice," "Amos and Andrew," "True Romance" and "Jurassic Park"? We didn't think so. Jackson likes it that way. Disappearing into a character is a favorite pastime. Jackson's romance with anonymity is over, though. His turn in "Pulp Fiction," as Jules, the Bible-quoting hit man who experiences a sign from God, is as unforgettable as the character's Jheri Curl hairstyle. Next, he will appear in "Losing Isaiah" with Jessica Lange, in "Kiss of Death" with David Caruso and Nicolas Cage and in "Die Hard With a Vengeance." Contributing Editor David Rensin spoke with Jackson while the actor was wrapping up production on "Die Hard." Says Rensin, "Jackson not only loves to act, he needs to. He's been known to take just about any role that comes his way. 'I do it because actors act and waiters wait,' Jackson said. 'A producer told me a long time ago that there's something very right about actors who work and something very wrong about those who don't.' Now all he needs to do is find time for more golf."
It all started in 1969, with Ron Rice's burning desire to save his skin from the Florida sun. Rice, then a high school chemistry teacher, figured he could concoct a natural tanning product that would work better than synthetics. So he went into his garage, threw some aloe, bananas, coconut oil, avocado and other good stuff into a garbage can, stirred well and--voilà--Hawaiian Tropic suntan oil was born. Soon after came his second brilliant idea: to show off his product on the perfectly tanned hides of the Girls of Hawaiian Tropic. Today, these bronzed ambassadors travel the world in their work uniforms--string bikinis--to promote the product in a most effective way. Hawaiian Tropic women have appeared in an MTV broadcast, at the Cannes Film Festival, at the Indy 500 and in Moscow's Red Square. But until now, you've never seen quite this much of them. So put on a pair of sunglasses and start turning the pages.
Get past the cute graphics on Sony's Magic Link and you'll realize that this personal communicator is one smart tool for staying organized and in touch on the road. Based on General Magic's software, Magic Cap, the handheld Magic Link combines functions of a personal computer, fax machine and pager. By tapping on icons with a stylus, you can update your schedule or list of contacts, for example, or fire off e-mail to friends on America Online or the Internet. Need to send a fax? Magic Link can do that--complete with graphics, animation and audio. You can even track your expenses with Pocket Quicken Smart Wallet, financial software (pictured below left) that looks like a billfold and empties like the real thing.
CREDITS: PHOTOGRAPHY BY: P. 3 PATTY BEAUDET, JONATHAN BECKER, MARION ETTLINGER, CHUCK GALLYON, ANDREW GOLDMAN, (2), DAVID GOOMAN, RICHARD HOWARD, RON MESAROS (2), KIM MIZUNO, ROB RICH (2); P. 10 ELLEN VON UNWERTH; P. 16 GEORGE GEORGIOU; P. 20 MONTY BRINTON/CBS 1994, STEVE CONWAY; P. 24 CONWAY; P. 26 INTERSCOPE COMMUNICATIONS/NOMURA BABCOCK & BROWN, UNIT ONE FILM PARTNERS; P. 28 GORMAN/LIAISON; P. 30 PARAMOUNT PICTURES, KINO ON VIDEO; P. 48 WILLIAM M. GAINES, AGENT; P. 61 STEVE EWERT; P. 111 CONWAY (2), GEORGIOU, MICHAEL OCHS ARCHIVE; P. 112 THE BETTMANN ARCHIVE, CONWAY, ROLAND FREEMAN--MAGNUM, JIM MARSHALL (2), MICHAEL OCHS ARCHIVES (4); P. 113 ARCHIVE PHOTOS/CAMERA PRESS, CONWAY, MICHAEL OCHS ARCHIVES, MARSHALL (5); P. 114 CONWAY, RICK GRIFFIN, BOB KALMAN/THE IMAGE WORKS, MARSHALL (2); P. 115 JAMES IMBROGNO; P. 160 CONWAY (2); P. 161 DAVID CHAN, IMBROGNO (2). P. 111 AND P. 113 GUITARS COURTESY OF HARD ROCK CAFE. P.120 SYGMA, STYLIST; KITHE BREWSTER/IVY BERNHARD AGENCY NEW YORK, LISA EMERSON/DIE HARD 3/CHARLESTON, GROOMING BY MARILYN PEOPLES/DIE HARD 3/CLOTHES BY PAUL SMITH. P. 41 "STUPID GOVERNMENT TRICKS" 1995 BY JOHN J. KOHUT, PUBLISHED BY PLUME, AN IMPRINT OF DUTTON SIGNET, A DIVISION OF PENGUIN BOOKS USA, INC. P. 87 "LESLIE NIELSEN'S STUPID LITTLE GOLF BOOK" 1995 BY LESLIE NIELSEN AND HENRY BEARD.