About the other models, I remember nothing. Possibly as much as ten years or so my senior, she was at once an impossibly mature woman and the girl of my dreams.Īfter repeated reveries followed by more or less imaginative masturbatory exercises I actually did read the interview with F. What fantasies I wove about that picture and that half-ordinary, half-exotic Chicago secretary. Half-turned, her breasts-and not much else as this was still the sixties-are exposed. She is pictured, as I recall, as sitting on her knees in a predominantly rose-colored tent-a photograph suggestive of an Arab sheik's harem, despite her sixties beehive hairdo. The one thing I most clearly remember about this treasure, beyond the guilt associated with its possession and concealment under papers in the bottom right drawer of my desk at home, is the centerfold of DeDe Lind. He simply took my money and gave me the magazine, which I then hid in my backback for exmination when I arrived and was alone at the cottage. He might even call the police! But he did none of these things. Surely, the cigar-smoking man behind the counter would refuse the request. This time, however, seized by the usual intense desire and unconstrained by familiar presences, I did stop and requested, quickly but in a clear voice, the current issue of Playboy. Long had I furtively glanced at its copies of Playboy, Gent, Swank and other adult magazines, but never before had I dared to stop. In the middle of the largest waiting area, amidst rows of seats, was a magazine/newspaper stand. Ringed with shops, including a tavern, it was approached through a tunnel which began just beyond the library steps. The old IC station was large, dirty and, suitably, underground. The anonymity of the busy IC Station made the sinful deed possible. I did this quite often during high school, but usually with a friend and most commonly with either Rich Hyde or Hank Kupjack. Then I'd walk-either the two-three miles from town or the half mile down Livingston Road.
#1967 playboy magazine driver
The trip involved taking a bus from the Edison Park neighborhood across Canfield/Ozanam border between Park Ridge and Chicago down to the Red Line of the CTA taking that elevated to the Illinois Central Station below what was then the central public library downtown getting on a Chicago-South-Shore-South-Bend electric train to Michigan City, Indiana switching to a Trailways bus headed north and asking the bus driver to let me off either on Livingston Road and Red Arrow Hwy or, if he refused such an irregularity, at Williams Drugstore in Bridgman, Michigan. Here for your delectation is theSPECTACULAR & RARE-PLAYBOY MAGAZINE SEPTEMBER 1967.SOME HIGHLIGHTS:COVER: Bo BussmannCENTERFOLD: Victoria Vetri (born September 26, 1944) is an American model and actress. Starting at age fourteen, Mom and Dad let me travel to grandmother's cottage in Lake Charter Township, Michigan alone. Along with another issue given me by a friend-the one with the interview with Norman Thomas, it was one of two issues that I cherished throughout high school, only tossing them before going to college. Use arrows to navigate, and see more here.This was the one and only issue of Playboy that I ever actually purchased. More noir images from camera of Leslie Jones, preserved on the Boston Public Library’s Flickr page. It’s bad things happening to bad guys, giving and getting the punishment they think they deserve. Noir is the bottom of underground capitalism, talking to itself. “In Shakespeare,” Lehane puts it, “tragic heroes fall from mountaintops in noir, they fall from curbs.” Noir heroes tend not to be gangsters of Whitey Bulger’s grandeur not tough cops either: they’re punched-out boxers and junkies, little perps, prisoners, victims reduced to victimizing each other and themselves. Hurts like a bastard.ĭennis Lehane, who wrote Mystic River, says noir is working-class tragedy - different from other kinds. Ever hear bones breaking? Just like a man snapping a shingle.
Same thing. They put your hand in a drawer. ” She whapped me right across the face with the ruler.
So one day I says, when she told me, “Stick your hand out” I says, “No. Whap! She’d knock me across the knuckles with a steel-edge ruler. Now get your hand out there.” You think about not doing it, you know. When I was a kid in Sunday school, this nun, she used to say, “Stick your hand out. There’s nothing personal in it, you understand, it just has to be done. You made a big mistake and now there’s somebody doing time for it.
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