Hold the magazine close to your chest. Feel that? It's called an Angie Everhart ache. We've been fired up about the redhead since she insured her legs as a model. Now we get to share our longing by presenting the star of TV's Dream Team in a pictorial by photographer Marco Glaviano. Call her Angie Everhot.
Playboy (ISSN 0032-1478), February 2000, Volume 47, Number 2, Published Monthly by Playboy, 680 North Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: U.S., $29.97 for 12 issues, 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 (212-261-5000); Chicago: 680 North Lake Shore Drive, Chicago 60611 (312-751-8000), West Coast; SD Media, 2001 Wilshire Boulevard, Suite 200, Santa Monica, CA 90403 (310-264-7575); Southeast: Bentz & Maddock Inc., 5180 Roswell Road, Suite 102, South Building, Atlanta, GA 30342 (404-256-3800). For subscription inquiries, call 800-999-4438.
Woman, you're still a girl department: There are currently half a dozen different Britney Spears dolls on the market. Some resemble her in her videos, others as she performs in concert. Do the accessories include a plastic surgeon?
Silence is golden, but it's also scarce in a movie audience. Not only does one have to contend with talkers in today's darkened theaters; now there seems to be no escape from verbal hucksterism. The Muzak-and-promotion "network" that plays in many theater-chain lobbies is even piped into rest rooms.
The Gifted Kate Winslet gives a naked performance--in every sense of the word--in Jane Campion's newest film, Holy Smoke (Miramax). As in all of Campion's work, sexual politics play an important role, which means one's gender may have something to do with one's reaction. But I don't think men or women will easily accept Harvey Keitel's character, an esteemed cult deprogrammer who takes on Winslet as his 190th case. She has fallen under the spell of a guru during a trip to India and is preparing to marry him--until her family intervenes. Although Keitel goes to work reluctantly without an assistant, he so quickly falls prey to Winslet's table-turning mind games (and sexual come-ons) that it's impossible to believe he has any professional skills whatsoever. Not that the film is a total fizzle: Jane and her sister, screenwriter Anna Campion, provide enough layers and quirky humor to keep the audience hooked. But if Winslet is truly Keitel's 190th case, I shudder to think what the other 189 were like. [rating]2-1/2 bunnies[/rating]
One could never accuse John Turturro of being in a rut. He's played everything from Groucho Marx to the voice of the hound from hell in Summer of Sam. But there is one common thread in his work: passion. It's certainly evident in such recent films as Tim Robbins' Cradle Will Rock, and Chuck Workman's The Source, in which he performs Allen Ginsberg's Howl.
We can only imagine how Andy Kaufman would have portrayed Jim Carrey. He hated the words comedian and comic, because he said such people promise to make others laugh, and he never did that. Zehme, author of Lost in the Funhouse: The Life and Mind of Andy Kaufman, selects Kaufman's ten greatest show business transgressions:
Dan Rather's favorite videos include: "Citizen Kane, because it's not only about journalism, it's a lot about life as well. Gunga Din, because when I was a kid, it was a tremendous adventure. It transported me someplace and stuck in my mind. And The Last Picture Show. Every time I see it, I say to myself, You know, that's really how it was when I was growing up. I suspect it's not true, but I believe it to be true."
Anyone for a power-chord pastiche with big, big boobs? The recent arrival of the animated feature Heavy Metal on a collector's series DVD (Columbia Tristar, $28) makes one feel a little like Pete Town-shend: jumping up and down in an air-guitar jam one minute, pitching a lamp at your TV screen the next. But this surprisingly compelling package is enough to warm even a hardened rock cynic to the curious charms of the 1981 Gerald Potterton project. It featured the voices of SCTV greats John Candy, Joe Flaherty and Eugene Levy. We also found the making-of material more interesting than on many discs, because it involves the coordination of a variety of directors and animation styles and six distinct science fiction stories, linked unconsciously by a common appreciation of large breasts. Of the vignettes, the futuristic Gotham-hack-in-hot-water story "Harry Canyon" merits a few replays and must deserve at least partial credit for inspiring the Bruce Willis character in The Fifth Element. Still, no measure of time will soften our stance on most of the music here--Stevie Nicks and Devo, heavy metal? At least there's a little Ozzy Osbourne and Blue Oyster Cult. Oh, when will we be able to strap on a jet pack like James Bond did in Thunderball? In 1965, when Bond used the gadget in the movie's precredit sequence, it seemed like a real year 2000 travel option. Of course, the credit sequence itself then opens with underwater shots of undulating beauties, followed by frogmen seemingly firing harpoons at them. Happily, we didn't require that Bond movies make sense. But check out MGM's latest Bond DVD releases, including seven of the films that are featured in a $200 gift set: Goldfinger and Thunderball (1964 and 1965, with Sean Connery); Live and Let Die and For Your Eyes Only (1973 and 1981, with Roger Moore); License to Kill (1989, with Timothy Dalton); Goldeneye and Tomorrow Never Dies (1995 and 1997, with Pierce Brosnan).
Robert Capa was a photographer in five wars, including the Spanish Civil War, World War II, the first Arab-Israeli war and the French Indochina war. His last assignment was in Vietnam, where he was killed by a land mine on May 25, 1954 as he accompanied French troops through the Red River delta. In terms of courage and grace under fire, you would be hard-pressed to find anyone braver than Robert Capa, a man who ran enormous risks to take pictures that still speak to the world. His photographs are considered classics--and none more so than his coverage of the Allied invasion of France on June 6, 1944 (otherwise known as D day, and the focus of Steven Spielberg's film Saving Private Ryan).
I just moved in with my boyfriend. Sex will never be the same. In April 1999, Playboy ran an article titled Is There (Oral) Sex After Marriage? We learned that the longer couples have been married, the less sex they have. When couples have kids, fuhgeddaboutit. This worries me. I plan on getting married someday; I don't plan on making 60 Minutes priority one and hot sex priority two. I know--it's easy for me to say. I'm 25 years old. I'm young and horny. I'm not a wife. I'm not Mrs. Anybody. "Give it time," the married people warn. "Once you settle down for good, you're no longer selling." Am I about to find out that I'm capable of saying, "Not tonight, honey, I have a headache?" Or am I about to embark on a fabulous sexual journey? I grilled five of my girl-friends who are living with their men to find out the pros and cons of move-in sex.
My friends and I enjoy an evening of poker once a week. During one hand, play came down to me and another player. I declared a full house and my buddy declared two pair, though what he showed was a pair of fives and another pair of fives. I argued that I had won because a full house beats two pair. Realizing his rather daft error, my buddy claimed that what he'd said didn't matter because four of a kind is four of a kind. The other players wisely left the table to get more beer. My buddy and I settled on splitting the pot, and the situation hasn't come up again. Who was right?--D.B., Livermore, California
Last year, The Washingtonian revealed that Janet Reno had "much of the Justice Department" working on a document to chronicle what she considered to be her legacy as the nation's attorney general. "It is to comprise 16 chapters that will summarize her accomplishments and spell out the challenges to her successor," the magazine reported. "Attorneys working on the project say that she has urged them to 'speed it up.'"
In 1995, when state troopers in Wyoming pulled over a Cadillac with a burned-out taillight, they did not suspect one of its passengers, Sandra Houghton, of wrongdoing. An officer approached the car and noticed a syringe sticking out of the driver's shirt pocket. Upon questioning, the driver allegedly admitted that he had used the needle to inject drugs. The troopers arrested him and ordered Houghton and another passenger out of the car. Officers then searched the car, as well as a purse Houghton had left on the seat. The purse contained methamphetamine.
Fearful that a couple of ornamental orbs dangling from George Washington's pocket watch could be mistaken for the general's testicles, educators in two Georgia school districts went to extraordinary lengths to alter the Emanuel Leutze painting Washington Crossing the Delaware. The image appeared in an elementary school history textbook. The superintendent of Muscogee County schools had a team of teacher's aides spend two weeks painting over the offending image in more than 2300 books, while some elementary school administrations in Cobb County simply tore out the entire page. The children are safe.
Imagine a world in which sex is inescapable. Visual erotica turns up in odd places. Women expose themselves and men autofellate in church carvings. Copulating couples cavort in the margins of manuscripts passed from hand to hand by bored young men.
A brilliant computer scientist and would-be entrepreneur named Jeff Bezos was huddled with his cronies, sipping lattes and crunching biscotti. plotting and planning. The setting was ironic: a cozy café in the Barnes and Noble store in downtown Seattle. Why ironic? Because Bezos and his friends were conspiring to nuke this and every other Barnes and Noble store. What Bezos didn't realize at the time is that they were creating a way of shopping that would change business forever.
It's the four-letter word of the moment. If the Seventies were the Me Decade and the Eighties the Greed Decade, we're now in the Decade of Rage, the era of the raised middle finger, the throat-popping, lip-splitting Fuck You. It comes in one flavor--bitter. There's road rage, sky rage and work rage, and now "rageaholic" has entered the vocabulary. It's the stuff of Saturday nights. "Smack my bitch up," the hit refrain of Prodigy, is the anthem. The angry beat continues through Sunday morning, when pundits and politicos rail at one another on television talk shows. Howard Stern, Rush Limbaugh, Newt Gingrich, James Carville and Pat Buchanan all speak the language of rage.
Playboy managing photography editor Jim Larson got an offer that was hard to refuse. Would a photo crew and a handful of Playmates like to fly to Fiji, stay on a 100-foot vessel, spend two weeks scuba diving and record the excursion for a pictorial? Larson, who has traveled to Africa and Iceland for exotic Playboy layouts, thought about it for a nanosecond and signed on. So did Miss August 1997 Kalin Olson, Miss April 1997 Kelly Monaco and Miss January 1996 Victoria Fuller. After traveling 7000 miles from Chicago to Fiji, the Playmates donned their gear (minus those pesky scuba suits) and headed underwater, where they swam with tiger fish and barracuda. Then La Niña hit. "Rain, wind and lightning disturbed the clarity of the water for photos," Larson says. "At times, the waves were so fierce that it sounded like our boat was being smacked with a baseball bat." Stirred but not shaken, the group traveled to the coast of Honduras to wrap things up. "It became more of an adventure than we wanted," Larson says with a chuckle.
I was 41 when I finally got a seat at the table. I had been a cop since about the time I could walk into a bar without an adult. But until 1994, when I was appointed deputy commissioner of the New York Police Department, I felt very much on the outside, my cheeks red from the cold and my nose pressed against the window. At that time there were separate police forces in New York for the streets, transit and public housing. Only one had nearly 36,000 officers and a reputation equal to that of the New York Yankees. For most of my career, I was with one of the other two.
Because crooks typically prey on women or the elderly, the average guy doesn't think he could be a target. But crooks with weapons or a dear advantage in numbers will attack anyone if they anticipate a big payoff. Nice clothes, a thick billfold or a flash of gold attract miscreants like the sparkle of bait fish attracts a barracuda.
Two things about our men of style: They're real guys, and they know how to look their best. It's all about putting in some time and effort. Men's fashion has matured. When Fubu begins making men's suits, it's easy to see where the trend is heading. "I'm not stylish in a flaunting way," says LA Dodger Eric Karros. "I'm not looking for attention with the way I dress." Similarly, Pierce Brosnan sets the current standard for classic looks--his clothes are handmade by Gianni Campagna, the owner of Caraceni, label of choice for Fred Astaire, Bing Crosby and Cary Grant in their heydays.
Suzanne Stokes is taking it all in. The Sears Tower. Bustling commuters. Drafty weather. The group of tipsy revelers downing beers at an outdoor café. It's Friday evening in Chicago, and if the 20-year-old Florida native has learned anything during her tour, it's that she's not in the Everglades anymore. Add to Suzanne's journey the over-zealous valets at Michael Jordan's tony restaurant, One Sixtyblue, who throw elbows in a race to open her car door, and her green eyes widen. "This city's so fast-paced," she says, laughing. Suzanne, who was born in Naples, Florida, is certainly new to urban momentum, but she's no stranger to wildlife. Her parents own an alligator farm and an air-boat and tram company that gives tours of Florida's exotic environs.
Backcountry is where it's at. Scan the ads and editorial pages of ski and snowboard magazines and you'll see few shots taken on the groomed slopes of a resort. Advertisers from Rossignol to Ralph Lauren use images of powder pushers and cliff dwellers to hawk their gear. And Valdez, Alaska--which doesn't even have a ski lift--has replaced Aspen as the status destination. It's part of a backlash against what many skiers--especially boarders--see as the regimentation and regulation of their sport by traditional resorts more interested in catering to aging boomers than to hard-core skiers. In fact, until recently, snowboarding was outlawed at most resorts (and still is at ski-only destinations such as Aspen, Deer Valley and Alta). That negative vibe, coupled with the fact that a snowboard works especially well in powder, drove many boarders into the woods, where they could ride with abandon. There, they joined the original back-country cliques, woolly free-heelers who would rather hike for turns than pay for a lift ticket, and affluent heli-skiers who could buy a piece of heaven. Mix in the airborne influence of first-generation extreme skiers such as Scot Schmidt and Glen Plake, and the retirement of board god Craig Kelly to the backcountry of Mount Baker, Washington, and you have an industry focused on creating the illusion that nobody skis on runs anymore. Nobody cool, that is. Brian Litz, founding editor of Back Country magazine, gets Zen when explaining back-country's appeal. "The real essence is the transcendent experience of skiing untracked, lighter-than-air powder snow in the shadow of stunning peaks," he says. "Many people are being drawn back to the wilderness because the ski experience at resorts has become so homogenized and packaged. Backcountry offers a chance to reconnect with the roots of the sport and, at least for a few hours, enjoy a true adventure." Of course, that adventure comes with a healthy dose of personal responsibility. There's no ski patrol in the backcountry, but there is plenty of danger--from avalanches to equipment failure. "My snowboarding style changes completely in the back-country," says Luke Edgar, sales manager and backcountry expert at K2 Snowboards. "Because I usually walk in, I'm milking the terrain to get the biggest payback from every footstep. I might make 100 turns in the same distance I'd make ten at a resort. I'm also in complete control of every situation." You may not be ready to follow in the footsteps of a rider like Edgar. But that doesn't mean you can't get a taste of the back-country. New gear, including fat skis and even fatter snow-boards, turns intermediate resort hackers into passable powder pilgrims. Sno-Cat operations and guided backcountry tours, often available near resorts, are an affordable alternative to helicopter sessions and deliver the virgin powder experience with minimal commitment. So if you have the skills, we offer the details: equipment, schools and backcountry destinations with terrain that's challenging enough for even the most jaded skiers and boarders. We even address the cost of getting your butt saved when things go bad. The snow and freedom are out there. The blue sky is not guaranteed.
When John McCain moved to Arizona in the early Eighties and immediately announced that he was running for Congress, people dismissed him as a carpetbagger. He put his future constituents in their place by pointing out that the longest he'd ever lived in one spot was in Hanoi, where he was a prisoner of war for five and a half years.
"I have no idea of the difference between sex, erotica and pornography," says Benedikt Taschen. And that's good. The enterprising publisher is building a Great Books list of erotic photos and images. He finds them, he collects them, he publishes them. He has the zeal of a monk in the Dark Ages and his tallow is burning bright. Whether full of contemporary underground fetish photos or post-Civil War era nudes, these manuscripts require no illumination. "I've never found anything bad about any of them," Taschen says. "I just want the books to be stimulating to readers." No problem there. In a Taschen book. we catch episodic, almost stolen, glimpses of private and lost worlds. The older images are the kind that Grandpa would have brought back from Juarez in 1923. As the introduction to Taschen's definitive tome. Erotica Universalis, explains. "There is only one real antidote to the anguish engendered in humanity by its awareness of inevitable death: erotic joy." And people have sought to depict that joy since they could scratch on cave walls. Erotica Universalis shows Egyptian friezes and Greek vases decorated with images of sex worthy of the Starr report. They may have thought the earth was the center of the universe, but they knew all the positions under the sun. 1000 Nudes includes photos of lovelies from the 1860s who helped Civil War soldiers fix their bayonets. Taschen's adult titles also highlight individual artists. Eric Stanton, Elmer Batters, Gil Elvgren, Serge Jacques and Roy Stuart have all been singled out. "I have the greatest respect," says Taschen, "for people who dedicate their lives to their passion." And that passion is repaid: The Elmer Batters book--a foot fetishist's dream--comes bound in a stocking. Another package. Exotique, is a boxed reprint of the 1951--1957 editions of Leonard Burtman's zine of the same name. Burtman's "digest of the bizarre and the unusual" took as inspiration the bondage-oriented pin-up photos of Bettie Page by Irving Klaw, and Exotique was an early outlet for the themes explored by Klaw, photographer Bunny Yeager and cartoonist Eric Stanton. In their pages history comes alive.
One day in New York, the best stand-up comic in the country--no, really--stares at his hand. The look on his face says, Man, I'm a real idiot. "She asked me to touch it and I did," he says. "'Go ahead, feel it.' So I did. I touched a toilet seat. I can't believe it. That's the most unclean thing." He's back in his room at the Rhiga Royal Hotel. Earlier, to kill some time, he conned the concierge into setting up a tour of a penthouse suite. That's when a young hotel manager with an artful smile introduced Robert Schimmel to the ultimate crapper--a heated toilet with perfumed spritzer, blow-drier and padded seat. Does everything but belch when you're done. Now he looks at his hand and starts to freak. "She's probably going, 'Man, I can't believe he played around with a toilet seat just because I told him to,'" Schimmel says.
When we heard that Angie Everhart's legs are insured for $1 million, we couldn't help wondering, How much is the policy on the rest of her? And what are the premiums? Now that she's become a screen star her assets are rapidly approaching the status of priceless. After almost ten years of strutting those formidable legs down runways all over the planet, the Flame-Tressed One took a role in the 1995 film Jade and abandoned modeling at the height of her career. Will the 30-year-old beauty ever go back? "Absolutely not. Modeling is a high-burnout field. I wasn't using my brain." After busting her chops in films such as Bordello of Blood and Another 9 1/2 Weeks, Everhart currently plays a spunky Navy Seals trainer on TV's The Dream Team, which she describes as "Charlie's Angels goes G.I. Jane goes James Bond, with a little bit of Baywatch." Everhart has several big-screen films on the horizon, too, so who's her dream co-star? "I'm really into Edward Norton and Kevin Spacey. Of course, I wouldn't mind kissing Brad Pitt, either." So what does a guy need to get her attention? "A sense of humor and security with himself. I like confidence, not cockiness--the kind of guy who has abs but isn't afraid to cry." And what's the significance of the tattoo at the base of her spine? "She's my guardian angel. I got her at a difficult time in my life. You have to have someone watching your back." Amen.
W ith his signature do-rag swaddling his head, and with billowy shirt and boots, Steven Van Zandt is easily recognizable. He has been described as an "urban swashbuckler whose frigate just got towed away for double parking." Now he's being recognized all over again for his role as Silvio Dante, the manager of the strip club Bada Bing in last year's hottest television show, The Sopranos.
Carroll Shelby's newest snake, the CSX4000 pictured here, is the spiritual descendant of his Cobras of the Sixties--mean, fast and intimidating. Sorry, it has no top, side windows or AC. Its massive engine and transmission throw off so much heat you may not need the optional heater and defroster. There's also no spare tire, but you can squeeze a fair-sized suitcase into the trunk. The dash lacks a radio but sports a plaque that proclaims the car is a genuine Shelby Cobra. You even get a manufacturer's statement of origin signed by Shelby. Original Cobras sell for about $250,000. This one costs about $90,000--more if you want leather interior and other extras. The fiberglass bodies and wiring harnesses that Shelby uses in his cars are made by inmates at the Nevada State Correctional Facility. It's a plan that's been great for Shelby and the prisoners.
If Miss October 1999 Jodi Ann Paterson doesn't get you lathered up over the romantic bath products featured on this page, maybe it's time for a testosterone patch. Valentine's Day is here and you don't need a better excuse to go shopping for exotic soaps, effervescent tub tablets and other sensual bath products. Cleopatra reveled in the pleasure of a milk bath, and Napoleon's sister, Pauline Borghese, immersed herself in one before posing nude for sculptor Antonio Canova. (You do remember his marble statue of her on a couch, of course?) Caswell-Massey's version contains whole milk and milk protein, plus aloe and glycerin, which act as skin conditioners, and several soothing herbs. (One ounce per bath is about all you need.) Fresh's orange-chocolate bath and shower foam combines dark bitter cocoa extract with exotic fruits and tea essences. Mix it with the milk bath and your tub for two will smell like a chocolate shake. (Just don't drink the water.) Scented candles are a must. Our favorites are the seven scents from Rigaud, a Parisian firm that's been producing elegant, hand-poured candles for generations. Add luxurious accessories such as a mother-of-pearl soap dish and a matching wastebasket (which doubles as a champagne bucket when you're in the mood for bubbly with your bubbles), a long-handled bath brush for those hard-to-reach places, cotton bath sheet with velvet stripes and a cashmere robe that's as soft as, well, use your imagination, and you can forget going out to dinner.
If you're considering trading in your Motorola StarTAC cell phone (right) for a newfangled model that stores your schedule, contacts and to-do lists, first check out the clipOn Organizer. This $300 gadget from Motorola and Starfish attaches to the back of the StarTAC, providing quick access to all the aforementioned information on a liquid-crystal display that's easy on the eyes. Especially cool is the clipOn's ability to dial numbers directly from the phone directory with the touch of a single button.
Few resorts rival Aspen for skiing, and none can touch its nightlife. Après-ski socializing begins early at the bar in the Little Nell, the town's premiere hotel (675 E. Durant Ave.). Then head to another leading hotel, the Jerome (330 E. Main St.), for a second round in the Library bar (there are great stogies in the humidor). Across the street at 303 E. Main is Matsuhisa, sister restaurant to chef Nobu Matsuhisa's establishments in New York and Los Angeles. Order the omakase (chef's choice) tasting menu, which includes six to eight courses of such Japanese cuisine as tempura crab claws and jalapeño yellow-tail tuna. (Expect to pay $90 to $120 per person for the experience.) Or try the recently opened Olives of Aspen (315 E. Dean St.), a spin-off of the famous Boston eatery, for Mediterranean cuisine. The dining room in the Little Nell is also considered one of the best restaurants in town. Aspen's two top private clubs offer temporary memberships. Club 426 (426 E. Hyman Ave.) is modern and minimalist (short-term membership is $400 a week). The Caribou Club (471 E. Hopkins Ave.) is old-line and comfy (a week's membership is $375 to $1000, depending on the season). For something less expensive: live music at the Double Diamond (450 S. Galena St.), a ski town roadhouse.
The secret of Carl Hiaasen's success is not merely his cockeyed sense of humor but also his anger at the way all the greed heads have turned the south Florida paradise of his youth into condo heaven and murder central. Two cases in point are Kick Ass (University Press of Florida), a hefty compendium of Hiaasen's passionate muckraking columns for The Miami Herald, edited by Diane Stevenson, and Sick Puppy (Knopf), his new novel. Kick Ass offers 200-plus examples of his hard-eyed, often hilarious critiques of the real crime, corruption and lunacy in his home state. In fact, it shows you that Hiaasen's seemingly implausible fictional premises aren't really far-fetched at all. He just knows Florida. Sick shows us how he strings his Herald observations into a shaggy mad dog tale centered on a former drug dealer's attempts to turn a little toad sanctuary into a flashy tourist trap. The drug dealer's allies are a sleazy lobbyist who has a passion for canned big game hunts and a sadistic killer who is hooked on 911 tapes. Opposing are Twilly Spree (an inventive young ecoterrorist), former governor Clinton Tyree (a rare continuing Hiaasen character who lives in what's left of the wilds and dines on roadkill), and the infirm canine of the title. The result is a savagely satiric novel that's one of the author's best.