Eric Spitznagel sat down for lunch with Jason Lee and his soup strainer for 20Q. "I met with him at a restaurant just a few blocks from his home. He had that bleary-eyed, just-got-out-of-bed look that people associate with his characters," Spitznagel says. "But that's Jason. He was born to be a little rough around the edges. That's what the audiences want, and that's what he gives them in My Name Is Earl. You can't clean him up, give him a shave and expect audiences not to feel betrayed. We ate on the sidewalk patio. Because Jason was wearing shades and an outfit that looked like it was taken off a homeless guy, not many people noticed him, but a few stopped for a second look. I'm not sure if they recognized him from his roles or if they were just in awe of his mustache—it really is remarkable."
Once again Playboy's party was the highlight of Super Bowl week. Held in an empty airport hangar magically transformed into the dazzling Eight Mile High Club, the party was packed with athletes, celebrities and Playmate Bunnies, generating star power Detroit hasn't seen since Motown's heyday.
The first two things you notice about Michele Merkin: She's six feet tall, and she has a raspy, bubbly voice that sounds like a bad stage whisper. It's conspiratorial, as if we were gabbing in the back row during third-period algebra class. She was a beanpole in high school; she played hoops, and people called her Giraffe or Manute Bol. Then when they weren't looking she turned drop-dead gorgeous. "I have good genes," she admits. "My Swedish mom is stunning. In the 1970s she was in the first Victoria's Secret catalog. But I don't have the rack for Victoria's Secret—didn't get the family jewels." She did get the endless torso of a Modigliani nude, though. "I've always gotten compliments on my stomach," she says. "I'll take any compliment I can get, and if people say they like my stomach, then I'll wear a bikini." Humility is as much the real Michele as all the brass and sass; ask about love and she's as sweet as a lemon-lime Slurpee. "I'm in love with love," she coos, which is surprising for someone who recently ended what she calls a "Black Hawk down" marriage. "I want everybody to be in love." We're falling for her as she says this, so the vibe gets weird. The subject needs changing. How about that wacky last name? "I was in eighth grade when I found out what it means," she recalls. "It was a big topic of discussion at school. Tragic. Now I laugh. I tell people my name and they ask me to spell it. I'm like, 'Yup, pussy wig, that's me.'"
I am disturbed by the reader who said he earns "penis points" from his wife that he can redeem for sex (February). This sad letter reflects the fact that American men have lost control of their sex lives. More and more of my middle-aged friends say their wives have informed them they have no use for sex and the men should "get over it." There is even an implied ban on masturbation. The attitude seems to be that men are entitled to only as much sex as their wives desire. If she wants to host a gang bang in the town square, the attitude is "You go, girl." But if she wants little or none, the assumption is that it must be the guy's fault for not being romantic and making her want it. Is this happening everywhere or just among my friends? Men need to get some balls and demand their right to get sex either at home or elsewhere. I don't think of myself as macho, but enough is enough. Is anyone willing to join the movement?—P.L., Cocoa, Florida
An informed citizenry needs to participate in the critical issues that challenge its civil liberties and privacy. But that isn't always what happens. Partisanship and attack politics are the rule today. Americans who have raised legitimate questions and demanded honest answers have found their patriotism questioned by an administration that doesn't seem to distinguish between selling a candidate and promoting its decisions on a broad range of issues. Sadly, we've departed from our long history of bipartisan cooperation when the nation's security is involved.
Ruby is on a crowded street, amid a throng of Westerners. Loose tassels on the singer's top flutter in the breeze, offering a generous glimpse of midriff with every rock-infused Arabic beat. Ruby is dancing—belly dancing—harder and faster than you've ever seen. The scene shifts and she's indoors on a couch, singing plaintively against an accordion riff.
From a Statement by ex-Smiths singer Morrissey after it was revealed that the FBI and British intelligence had questioned him about his criticism of the Iraq war: "I don't belong to any political groups, I don't really say anything unless I'm asked directly, and I don't even demonstrate in public. My view is that neither England nor America is a democratic society. You can't really speak your mind, and if you do, you're investigated."
Although it Was Tempting to watch with incredulity as violent protests against the Muhammad cartoons unfolded and spread, a new movie makes the important point that we still face similar forces here in America. Heard of the Beholder, which has screened on the film-festival circuit and is available on DVD, is based on the story of a young entrepreneur who ran afoul of religious activists in St. Louis when he stocked The Last Temptation of Christ in his chain of video-rental shops. The drama hews closely to the real-life 1988 attack orchestrated by Donald Wildmon's National Federation for Decency (now the American Family Association) against Ken Tipton and his Video Library business. The only chain willing to carry the film in St. Louis, Video Library was picketed, and the local prosecutor slapped it with a bogus obscenity charge. Tipton even received death threats against his children. Though Tipton won the court case, Video Library went bankrupt and he subsequently attempted suicide. In re-creating these events, Heard of the Beholder offers chilling message: Riots and Danish flag-burnings are analogous not only to the ugly, much-publicized gatherings (pictured) held in front of the home of Last Temptation studio head Lew Wasserman but also to the largely unrecognized intimidation of ordinary Americans like Ken Tipton.
"Sergeant Condom" Is the name of an educational brochure distributed by the Army. Among its words of wisdom: "Don't open them with your teeth," "Wetter is better," and "Never reuse condoms." For soldiers unfamiliar with safe-sex variants, the pamphlet delves into what it calls "Rip n Roll etiquette" and describes several different types of condoms, including "Big Johnson, one size does not fit all," "The Hugger, fits all shapes" and "The Tickler, ribbed and knobby."
Peter Jennings A Canadian who rose through the ranks to become the respected anchor of ABC World News Tonight. Career Detour: Jennings was poised to be the Canadian Dick Clark as host of Club Thirteen, a teen TV dance show. Big Break: When he joined World News Tonight, Jennings was part of a three-anchor team. He emerged as top dog after Tom Brokaw rebuffed an ABC offer.
This may be difficult, perhaps impossible, to believe, but until a few days ago I didn't exist. Sure, I had all the vestiges, properties and trappings of someone who could pass for being real: an apartment, a Social Security number, consciousness, outstanding college loans and a truly enviable collection of Xbox 360 games. Now, maybe that's enough to satisfy anyone who wants to reside in just boring old physical reality, but on the only plane of existence that still matters anymore, the Internet, this somebody wasn't anybody until I created a profile for myself on MySpace.
Ever since MySpace.com launched nearly three years ago, offering free home pages to whoever wanted one, users have flocked to hunt for "friends." With more than 64 million profiles on the network, it's like an all-you-can-eat socializing buffet. The greatest thing about this new kind of socializing: You can hunt for beautiful, charismatic members of the opposite sex easily and anonymously, visiting home pages to your heart's content. The only thing missing: nude photos, which are a no-no on MySpace. What's up with that? Isn't that why Al Gore invented the Internet in the first place? Naturally Playboy has a solution. We went looking for females in the network who were dying to share their gorgeous bodies with the world. And what do you know? We struck gold. Women came out of the woodwork, looking for a shot at their own nude glamour exposé. We photographed beauties in Chicago, Los Angeles, New York and Miami, putting together what you see here: a collection of some of MySpace.com's most stunning specimens.
Keller's flight from New York to Detroit was bumpy. That was okay. He didn't mind a little turbulence, but the pilot kept announcing every patch of rough air over the intercom and, worse, apologizing for it. By itself the turbulence wasn't that bad, and he could have dozed through it well enough, if the son of a bitch hadn't kept waking him up with announcements.
When I was asked to write a Playboy story on the world's top golf courses, I flashed on years of reading the magazine—the news-making interviews, the lifestyle tips, the big-name fiction. Okay, I flashed on the pictures. This magazine isn't just read; it's consumed. It's conceived with a lens and dedicated to the proposition that we all love rapturous vistas and killer curves. So I decided Playboy's list of courses shouldn't merely include the best—though they're here—but the best looking. These are the golf courses you'd love to stare at and roll around on, the ones you can picture on the catwalk, strutting their stuff. They're the sport's supermodels. With my years of playing professionally and doing CBS TV commentary (I'm the guy who got kicked off the air for saying the slick greens at the 1994 Masters had been "bikini waxed") I have spent my life ogling golf courses. Every football field or tennis court is pretty much the same, but golf courses, like supermodels, are different in thrilling ways. Each has its own graceful silhouette, its fragrances, its unique style and mystique. Not to mention its petulance. Okay, you beauties, step up and show'em what you got.
Why didn't you tell me there was something wrong with my vagina?" I said with a sigh when my fiancé called. I'd just come from the office of a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon who has become famous for his work with problematic pussies, and I'd been barraged with countless before-and-after photos. Protruding labia minora sliced down to size. Asymmetrical labia majora made to measure. Slimmed-down montes pubis. Trimmed clitoral hoods. It was enough to send a girl straight home to squat over a mirror. To be brutally honest, not until I flipped through the file of Dr. David Matlock's vulvic oeuvre did I have any clue what my pussy looked like in comparison with others. And because most women can't even tell their labia minora from their majora, I knew I wasn't alone.
A full hour before our interview is scheduled to begin, Stephanie Larimore, a beautiful brunette with a heart-shaped face, is smiling and ready to go. How appropriate: This is a young woman who seems congenitally incapable of ever being late. "I was a preemie, born two and a half months early," she says. "I was one of those miracle babies and weighed only two pounds, three ounces at birth. Now every spring I do charity walks for the March of Dimes in support of premature babies. And yes, I am early for everything."
John Kruk says dieting is like getting a fancy present and then "eating the box." When a friend told him light beer had less fat listed on its label, Kruk said, "I didn't know beer had a label." Of the time he was too drunk to find is girl friend's house, he says, "I got so lost, I ended up every where." He says that after he stopped drinking, "I was still an asshole. I am getting dumber every year. I just don't think I've reached stupidity yet."
The designer label synonymous with Italian panache unveiled this season's best sportswear collection on an Adriatic archipelago once known as a playground for European aristocrats. No surprise, then, that its the polo event has put both Brionis back on the map. "The islands are synonymous with high style and have much in common with the heritage of the brand," Angeloni says. Following three days of backhand polo events are spurring a resurgence of Mediterranean elegance.
<p>Nearly half a century has passed since Ellen Stratton, Miss December 1959, became our first Playmate of the Year in 1960. The Mississippi stunner was a legal secretary with curves, to steal Hemingway's line, like the hull of a racing yacht. In the decades since, there have been 46 PMOYs, iconic beauties like Donna Michelle (1964), Shannon Tweed (1982), Anna Nicole Smith (1993) and Jenny McCarthy (1994). In all that time, there has never been a Miss June PMOY—until now.</p>
Is it a hotel? A sculpture? The cacophony of the world's top designers vying for your attention? Actually, it's all of the above. Madrid's Hotel Puerta América is a bizarre, ultra-chic hotel that began with a grandiose idea: Gather the biggest-name architects and designers in the world, load them up with cash and order them to turn their wildest fantasies into reality. In the end, the 19-member team, headed by French architect Jean Nouvel, had its way with the 12 floors and all 342 rooms. British architect Norman Foster took a floor. So did Iraqi-born modernist Zaha Hadid, the first woman to win the Pritzker Architecture Prize. Her white rooms, with nary a right angle to speak of, will make you feel as if you're sleeping in a glass of milk. Some of the funkier bits include Australian Marc Newson's sixth-floor hallways with red lacquered wood so shiny it resembles mirrors and Scottish-born Kathryn Findlay's sci-fi, all-white eighth-floor lobby (pictured). Frenchman Christian Liaigre, who did New York's Mercer hotel, designed the restaurant, called Black Tears. Some $90 million later, the hotel is ready for business. The rates, you ask? Between $250 and $1,800 a night. Or you can just show up, sneak into the elevator and commence wandering for free.
For 16 years Dane Cook has been steadily building a cult following on the underground comedy circuit with observational gems like "My dad bought us a Slip'n Slide. They should have called this ride Slip'n Bleed From the Anus." He approaches comedy, he says, like a musician. "When I started out, I thought, How cool would it be to have a fan base of diehards?" All went according to plan until recently, when Cook's reputation began to take on entirely different, larger proportions: HBO handed him a live standup special and bought his self-produced nine-part documentary, Tourgasm, which premieres this month. The project follows Cook and comic buddies Gary Gulman, Robert Kelly and Jay Davis on a rollicking and frequently raw tour on the college circuit. "We rented a beautiful tour bus, but after a few days it was our traveling prison," Cook says. We're guessing next time he'll spring for the Gulfstream, or at least his own bus, Madden style.
Playboy (ISSN 0032-1478), June 2006, Volume 53, number 6. Published Monthly by Playboy in national and regional editions, Playboy, 680 North Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Periodicals postage paid at Chicago, Illinois and at additional mailing offices. Canada Post Canadian Publications Mail Sales Product Agreement No. 40035534. Subscriptions: in the U.S., $29.97 for 12 issues. Postmaster: Send address change to Playboy, P.O. Box 2007, Harlan, Iowa 51537-4007. For subscription-related questions, call 800-999-4438, or e-mail email@example.com.
Vida Guerra—You'll Like it when She's here, But You'll Love it When She Walks away. She Claims Title to the World's Greatest Ass. Well, You be the Judge. The Queen of Guerra Firma Has Never been Seen Like This.
Below is 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 28, 31-34, 106-107,108-109 and 162-163, check the listings below to find the stores nearest you.