Your dressed and undressed girls, girlfriends, teens, women and wives – enjoy!
Friday, February 26, 2010
Valentine Vixen - Kim Farber, Miss February 1967
Besides being possessed of arrestingly modern looks (it is truly startling how easily this photoshoot could have been done in the cheap-and-chic, Ikea-styled apartment of some sweet young hipster last weekend), Kim Farber is also unique in the pantheon of vintage playmates because she worked nights as a “Theater Bunny” at the Chicago Playboy Theater before being selected as Playboy’s Miss February 1967. To my mind, that gives her a very special position in the empire’s history.
Photographed by Stan Molinowski.
Playboy opened the sadly short-lived Playboy Theaters — notable for screening not exclusively the racier content you might expect, but also rare classics, indie flicks, and films that had been met with censorship in their attempts at playing nice with other distribution channels — in only a scant, lucky few cities.
So far I have only chased down for sure the origins and present doings of the sites in Chicago (more on that in a sec) and New York, where the theater was in Manhattan on W. 57th street.
I had a false lead in Corpus Christi, TX, but I went ahead and called and, believe it or not, the town’s own official website has mislabeled the Harbor Playhouse Theater as the Harbor Playboy Theater: the venue is not now and has never been a Playboy Enterprises property. Simple typo which the city of Corpus Christi has yet to notice or rectify, but it gave the guy I asked about it earlier this afternoon a good laugh.
I ironed out the discrepancy (a google search turned up the town’s link to the theater under the name “Playboy” but yellow pages and all other sources called it “Playhouse;” I couldn’t let mysterious sleeping dogs lie!) by straight-up calling the theater and asking them myself. As I said, the guy I spoke to laughed heartily and said no way. I didn’t bother explaining that there were, at one time, Playboy Theaters, as the difference between cinema and stage work sometimes makes people whose life passion is working for actual factual live theaters a little uppity and superior about plays vs. movies, plus, why interrupt the flow of happy karma? I laughed too and thanked him for his time.
That’s not the only telephone digging I’ve done this week, actually. Several days ago, I also called San Diego Rattan to ask if there was any chance they were ever known as “House of Rattan,” the shop run by the mother of Miss February 1969, Lorrie Menconi (answer: again, no). The very confused woman on the other end of the telephone assured me the store had only been called “San Diego Rattan” throughout its history.
I then asked in as friendly and “sane” a way as possible if she had any idea what had ever happened to the House of Rattan (she did not, as she moved to San Diego from Redondo Beach in 1999 and had never heard of House of Rattan).
I said my Girl Scout leader grew up in Redondo Beach, and her daughter (my dear Sarah-fina) was born in Torrance; plus, a sorority sister from college was from nearby Rancho P.V., so we talked briefly about Redondo, the merits of Rancho Palos Verdes vs. Palos Verdes Heights — or “PVH,” as the cognoscenti call it — and how Girl Scouts used to have so many more badges for water sports. (Not the sex-and-urine, super-kinky kind, but rather the kayak-and-diving, woman-against-the-sea kind). She was mainly very confused and almost concerned, it seemed at the start of the conversation, about my rattan line of questioning, so I felt like I needed to regain emotional lost ground with friendly, “aren’t-I-so-normal,” bantery small talk.
She was not annoyed — she was very friendly and even apologetic for having no answers to my left-field queries — but I am pretty sure she thought I had some extra-special Things Going On upstairs. I did not drop the magazine’s name at any point in the discussion, keeping the conversation on a strictly wicker-outdoor-furniture, geographical-social-casting, and oh-these-Girl-Scout-times-they-are-a-changin’ basis, so maybe rabid rattan fans are a Thing and she was initially afraid she had one of them on the phone. I’ll never know!
It is part of human nature, observed an 18th Century British writer, that great discoveries are made accidentally. (“Ticket to Success.” Playboy, February 1967.)
Though many people have made remarks along similar lines, my guess is that the uncredited author of Ms. Farber’s write-up is probably referring to the Reverend Charles Caleb Colton (1780-1832).
Rev. Colton more specifically said, “It is a mortifying truth, and ought to teach the wisest of us humility, that many of the most valuable discoveries have been the result of chance, rather than of contemplation, and of accident, rather than of design.” (Many Things in Few Words: Addressed to Those Who Think. Colton, Rev. C.C. London: Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green. (p. 39). via that there ol’ google books. take it for a public domain spin!)
Proof of this maxim is our valentine Playmate, Kim Farber, who was steadfastly taking tickets at Chicago’s Playboy Theater when she was pointed toward a gatefold appearance by a Playboy staffer who had gone to the theater and discovered that its prime attraction was not on the screen. Kim gratefully consented to pose for Playmate test shot. “Of course, I’d always wanted to be a Playmate, but once I got settled in my Theater Bunny routine, I never thought I’d get closer.” (Ibid.)
When she finally returns Stateside, Miss February hopes to pick up the thread of an apprenticeship in fashion coordination and design (“If I had my way, I’d drape the whole world in bright orange”), which she interrupted to become a Playboy Theater Bunny. “Before I commit myself to a career,” the dark-haired beauty explains, “I want to get some traveling out of my system.” (Ibid.)
I’ve got sadly no idea where the sweet and doe-eyed young gamine’s travels took her, in the end — Ms. Farber has either changed her name or vanished off the face of the earth, because if you have learned nothing else from my ramblings I hope you at least agree that I’m pretty all right with that there ol’ research — but I can happily tell you both the backstory of its inception and the denouement of what eventually happened to the Chicago Playboy Theatre. It’s an involved but very interesting story. Go potty now and smoke if you got ‘em, cause here we go!
The Playboy Theater in Chicago was located at 1204 N. Dearborn Street. It began its life as the Dearborn Theatre in 1913. It was remodeled two decades later in 1934 by William and Percival Pereira. William, who ascribed the sterile and stark look of his architecture to his interest in science fiction, would go on to design the distinctive pyramid-shaped Transamerica Building in San Francisco, one of the most recognizable — and, next to the Lucy Coit tower, my personal favorite — features of The City’s skyscape.
The theater was sold, expanded, and given a much-needed facelift, when it re-opened as the Surf Theater in the 1940s. The new cinema boasted a seating capacity of 650. It remained the Surf Theater until September of 1964.
This is my favorite shot of the spread.
The Chicago Playboy Theater opened its doors at the end of September, 1964. Chicago was the home of Hef’s fledgling empire, and, in its heyday, was bustling with bunnies. There were Playboy clubs, hotels, restaurants, and the Theater, all along the famous Loop.
Besides being known for the unusual films it screened, the Playboy Theater was one of the hosting venues in the early years of the Chicago International Film Festival.
The theater changed hands in 1976, a year after Hugh himself blew irretrievably once and for all out of the Windy City in the wake of the dissolution of his long relationship with Barbi Benton. It was renamed the Chelex, and famed Chicago Sun critic Gene Siskel once wrote a scathing review of a film he saw screened there, concluding that the venue itself was so distracting that it made the film even worse; he said he sat near the back and had to keep his coat, hat, and even his gloves on during the movie because it was so goddamned cold.
This is another really, really good shot in my book.
The theater then changed hands again in 1979, and was renamed the Sandburg Theater, after Chicago native son and poet Carl Sandburg (“came in like the tide on little cat feet,” you know, that guy?). A well-regarded arthouse cinema-spot, as you might guess from the lofty name, the Sandburg mainly screened repertory and indie films.
My partner Albert Berger and I re-opened the Sandburg Theatre as a repertory house showing double features of classic films on May 22, 1979. Our opening week was a festival of Alfred Hitchcock movies. Although home video was starting to appear back then, most of these films could not be seen at that time except on television. We leased the theatre from famous Chicago real estate mogul Arthur Rubloff, who had developed much of the Magnificent Mile among other properties. (Bill Horberg. March 8, 2008. Internet post retrieved February 25, 2010.)
The theatre was shuttered when we took it over and in very poor shape. It still had the bunny logo design carpeting from the days when it operated as The Playboy, and a marquee with disco style lighting. (Ibid.)
When the tenure of the ambitious and admirable Misters Horberg and Berger came to a close in 1982, the theater was sold, condemned, and demolished. A Walgreens (another longtime and homegrown Chicago tradition) now stands on the spot.
I do believe that is Ms. Farber to Hef’s right, viewer’s left. Yes?
Interestingly, the keynote speaker at the Walgreens opening dedication ceremony was Cary Grant, whose own movies had often been screened in the Old Dearborn and Surf Theatre days of the 1930’s-40’s.
Grant graciously agreed to be present and speak because he was a family friend of Betty Walgreen, heiress to the chain. Like Mr. Grant, Ms. Walgreen has since passed away. She was very active in Chicago-area charities well before the time of highly visible CEOs and public relations folderol, which means she had no obligation to be so involved, and did it out of the goodness of her own heart. R.I.P. to them both.
Final fun fact: Before it closed its doors in 1976, the Chicago Playboy theater’s final booking was a double feature of Mel Brooks’ The Producers and Monty Python and the Holy Grail. (“Are you suggesting coconuts migrate?”) Sounds to me like an excellent way to close the place down — if they were licensed for beer, to boot, then I need to get on time traveling, stat. That’s all for tonight, and I sure hope you’ve enjoyed this lengthy foray into the Playboy past.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
A life of posing, voguing, and nonstop nakedness
Contrary to popular belief, that is not the life of an art model. Yet people continue to ask me if I “sit around naked all the time” when I’m not modeling. Hey, I like naked time as much as the next person (OK, maybe a little more), but I do wear clothes, you know. I like clothes. A lot. What girl doesn’t like clothes?
I have this cute cartoon in my head (if only I could draw!) of this art model in a reclining pose in a horrible wicker chair; then she is all bundled up and walking home in the next panel; and the last panel has her home, naked, and in the same exact pose in the same chair in her living room. Funny, huh? Yeah, that’s not really what happens. Although, I do sometimes sit in a similar pose on my couch (force of habit), I am usually clothed.
Gesture posing is another story. Because you know that I am always voguing around my living room. (I love that voguing is in the dictionary. 1989 represent!) It’s funny that some models (I hear) do not really get the whole “gesture” posing thing, and they just stand there. Then they turn 45 degrees and just stand there. (Repeat as necessary.) Not cool! Totally boring, too. If you are only doing short poses (anywhere from 10-60 seconds), mix it up and have some fun. That is not that long to hold an interesting pose with some twists and angles. Graceful arms, pointed toes, a twist at the waist all add variety and look darn pretty. Even 1-3 minute poses are fine for adding creativity — as long as you can hold it. (Yoga helps with balance.) Yes, I do practice gesture poses at home because I don’t want to look like a moron in front of a class. We all know that there is good naked and bad naked, so no crouching, please.
Last night, my friend Dani had this funny book from the seventies with photographs of nude models in a variety of poses. I would not recommend this particular book for modeling ideas, though, because there are about 50 photos of a naked woman sweeping. Yes, sweeping. With a broom. Because that’s what women did in the ’70s, they cleaned their house with only their Amy Carter bush to keep them warm. And there were crouching photos, too, because, you know, you have to get down with that dustpan every now and then.
For those of you who are not familiar with my juvenile sense of humor, you may be surprised to learn that I am sometimes 12 years old and a boy. Get over it. I will point and scream when I see a ginormous mound of pubic hair — what I call “Amy Carter Bush” — in a photo from the original “Our Bodies, Ourselves” or in an an old art book. I have always found it terrifying, and I thank the Brazilian Bikini Wax gods every single day for keeping my lady business out of everyone else’s business. Hey, if you want to be all natural, you go for it. But you should know that nobody wants to see that at the beach or pool, so wear appropriate attire to keep it all tucked away, mkay?
Back to the modeling, now. I totally had to stifle a coughing fit the other night because I knew how horrible naked coughing looks. There I was, with just one cheek perched on a stool, one toe pointed, bright light in my eyes, and a tickle in my throat. Yes, I know that I can excuse myself and get a drink of water, but I never want to seem (too much) like a diva. Instead, I held it in and kept swallowing. Then my eyes started to water. Great, I thought. They are totally going to think I am crying. Is a crying model better than a coughing model? I think so. I could use a little sympathy during a particularly painful pose. And “Tears of a Model” would be a much better song than “Tears of a Clown.”
Monday, February 22, 2010
Shots – Hegre art. Sofia & Jana “Santa Girls”
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Brooke Skye and her friend fucking with a strap on dildo
Brooke Skye has this thing with lesbians she just cannot resist, not to fuck a girl if she come to her place! so she always has this little things in her drawer – big dildo strap on – surprise for her friends! and all those girls know about it and go at brooke’s place often! this time the victim was this blonde beauty that has been fucked several times by Brooke!
Monday, February 15, 2010
Sexy pirates – yarrrrr…
Oh found these lovelies, awesome pictures. This is the pirates I wanna see onscreen instead of Johnny Depp (nothing wrong with him really but…).
The average man will bristle if you say his father was dishonest, but he will brag a little if he discovers that his great-grandfather was a pirate.
Japanese murder exposes world of hired marriage wreckers
He was charming and single, she was bored and stuck in a sterile marriage, and their encounter in the aisles of a local supermarket seemed like a chance for them to change their lives for the better.
But the affair ended in betrayal, recrimination and death after a sequence of events as lurid as the plot of a pulp novel.
Prosecutors in Tokyo called yesterday for a 17-year sentence for Takeshi Kuwabara for murdering his lover, Rie Isohata, last year.
But the most extraordinary thing about the case was not the killing — by strangulation, after a bitter argument last April — but the circumstances in which the couple met.
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[A "love hotel": Rie Isohata was photographed entering one with Takashi Kuwabara to provide grounds for divorce]
Although Kuwabara inadvertently fell in love with Mrs Isohata, he had been paid to track her down and seduce her as a professional wakaresaseya — or “splitter upper” — hired by her husband to provide him with grounds for a divorce.
The case is raising questions about the ethics and legality of “splitter uppers” — shady, but seemingly widespread operatives to whom a surprising number of Japanese turn.
As Mrs Isohata’s father said during the trial: “I can never forgive a business that toys with the emotions of human beings.”
Wakaresaseya perform a variety of functions, but all of them arise from the Japanese dislike of direct confrontation. Rather than pleading with him face to face, a woman whose husband is having an affair may hire a splitter-upper to seduce his mistress away from him. Parents may engage their services to prise off the unsuitable lover of a son or daughter. Dozens of wakaresaseya companies advertise on the internet, under names such as Lady’s Secret Service and Office Shadow. They employ models, actors and personable people of different backgrounds first to trail and then to seduce their quarry. The classic wakaresaseya operation was the one commissioned by Mrs Isohata’s husband.
Kuwabara approached the 32-year-old mother in a supermarket in Tochigi Prefecture, north of Tokyo, in the guise of a chatty stranger, and asked her if she could recommend a place that sold good cheesecake.
Before long they were lovers. He used the false identity “Hajime” and made no mention of his own wife and children. By arrangement, a colleague photographed them covertly as they entered a “love hotel” where rooms are rented by the hour — and Mrs Isohata’s husband used this as evidence to divorce her in November 2007. By this time, however, she and Kuwabara were in love.
But when the truth came out in April 2009 the couple had a furious row and she announced that she was leaving him. It ended with her being strangled with a piece of household string. Kuwabara surrendered to the police that same night. “At the beginning, I thought of it as just a job,” he told the court. “But I came to really love her. I told lie after lie out of fear that she would hate me. I was driven into a corner. I still love her.”
Mrs Isohata’s father told reporters: “For the rest of my life, I will never forgive the defendant, or my daughter’s ex-husband who hired him, or the wakaresaseya business itself.
“This has devastated not just my daughter’s life, but those of my grandchildren and me.”
Parting shots
Wakaresaseya (pronounced Wack-Array-Sass-Sayer) are private detectives who bring to an end relationships of all kinds
As well as breaking up couples, entrapping someone into an affair can be useful to an employer who wants to secure the “resignation” of an employee or a businessman seeking “favourable terms”
Five years ago there were about a dozen companies, but there are now many more on the internet. The industry relies upon the power of shame and is unregulated
Cost is a question of time and complexity. An initial consultation might be Y10,000 (£71), but the average case takes three months and costs can easily mount
The wakaresaseya say that men are the easiest targets. “They never seem to smell a rat when, despite the fact they’re middle-aged, a beautiful young woman falls for them,” one said.
bron: www.timesonline.co.uk [10-2-2010]
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Didi's crooked heart, belief in false starts - the fear made the cat say it
I will tell you a story, one that life loves to make.
It’s not long, nor interesting, nor incredibly taxing. Just a lolling, rolling of tongue wagging to fool your heart into believing that you’re protected.
The world is full of trickery and thieves, stealing sense and honesty.
I will tell you a story, it’s not grand or fierce – just a little story with such a big break.
Knowing the foolery, hoping for change, relenting the logic to sustain the heart that sizes everything, the pain all put away in a self-made cage.
Why tell me the story, I feel it everyday.
Why beg for an ending, when the thief refuses to change.
Why not start a new story, renewed with the thought that it takes more than just hoping to cast your eye over a pledge that is wrought.
No one stealing of the heart from the one who wont give. No one forcing a happy ending from the one who wont see.
Believe the new story, walk from the timid thief, who basks in the glory – mocking what he sees. Strength in the story is what should have always been; deep, deep within. Now it crumbles in preparation for the honesty within.
So I will bide. And the new stroy begins.
And the pen rises.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Hello world!
Welcome to lacquerhead, home of Jazlyn and an intense love for all things nail and polishy. Disclaimer: This is not a serious blog. We come here to have fun and hear me yell about nail polish, funny things life throws at me and really heinous Disney productions. CLEAR? CLEAR. NOW BREAK!
What better way to kick off the blog than with GLITTER? Glitter is my friend, not food. (LET’S START A GAME. Anyone who identifies all of the hideous disney quotes in my posts gets one point. At the end of the month, whoever has the most points will be entered into a drawing and at the end of the year, I’LL GIVE SOMETHING AWAY. OHHHHHH SNAP.)
Please excuse the morphing watermarks. Some of these are with my old watermark, some with my new.
This beautiful, beautiful polish is called Emerald Sparkle, by China Glaze. This is three coats. It’s fine in two, but to really FEEEEEL the sparkle, you’ve gotta spring for three. Gorgeous. Smooth application, this one is a polish after my own heart.
Next up, the beautiful, the wonderful, the GLORRRRIOUS:
Let’s all pause to oooooooooooh, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. (Does that count as a disney quote? WHO KNOWS. POINTS FOR EVERYONE. FOUR FOR YOU, ALICE COCO. YOU GO ALICE COCO.)
OPI Absolutely Alice. She’s sexy! Look at that sparkle! That GLAAAAM! This was probably three coats. Formula was standard for a glitter – by standard, I mean it got absolutely EVERYWHERE during clean up, but what do you do. I’ll put up with it for THIS loveliness. Came off very easily with the tinfoil method. (I’m thinking of doing a tinfoil method tutorial. God knows it took me long enough to realize it WORKED. I was a nonbeliever too! I was reluctant to look like a space murderer around my home! But really, it is worth it.)
Oh swwwwwweet jesus. WE’RE BREAKIN’ FREE NOW. (Okay, that one was reaching a little bit.)
WnW Black Creme (1.5 coats!!), 3 coats of Pure Ice Strapless on rings. This is the best blue glitter polish in the entire world. You can try to tell me different. You can try to remind me that when you remove it, you find blue glitter in your pants and on your dogs for days after. BUT I WON’T LISTEN. IT IS AMAZING. IT SPARKLES IN THE DARK!! (Side note: WnW Black Creme? Best 99¢ ever spent. It applies better than my RBLs. WHAT!) Application is standard, no gloopyness ala SH Rockstar Pink, goes where you want, cleans up fairly easily. I am in love. See my eyes? They are hearts.
I love when you layer polishes and their names together actually sound like a polish. Grunge Breakup. It’s like an emo high school band waiting to happen.
Look at the pretty opalescent glitterrrrrrrrr.
RBL Grunge (2 coats) topped with Hard Candy Break Up (1 coat) & ChG Matte Magic middle finger. MAN, I just went all-out balls crazy that day or something. It came out so prettttttyy though! Excuse the horrendous cuticles/cleanup that I know were in these pictures, despite not having looked at them in a while. It was finals week. Enough said.
Zoya ROOOOOXXXYYYYYYYY. Roxy is my love. I wear her a LOT. Three coats. What I have to say about Roxy though is… she’s kind of a brat. She’s start by applying SO, SO NICELY! But by the third coat, somehow, she’s turned gloopy and hateful and god, you just want to go to bed but WHY WON’T THIS POLISH JUST APPLY, GODDAMMIT!
… But it’s pretty?
Claire’s Chunky Purple. This one was kinda gloopy, I remember. Not TOTALLY gloopy, just vaguely gloopy, like I should think about adding some thinner in a few months gloopy. Three coats.
I remember looking at this mani throughout the day trying to figure out if I liked it or not. It wasn’t until I went to take it off that I realized that I did, IN FACT, like it.
Now, I told this story on MUA, but I’m gonna tell it again because every time I mention/see this polish, it makes me think of it. I wore this polish to my ASL class last Thursday – it was my first class, I honestly had no idea what to expect.
WELL. What I got was an INCREDIBLY flamboyantly gay deaf man as my teacher. This guy was gay with a capital Gay. He was wearing a New Moon t-shirt. He batted his eyelashes when he signed “pretty”. He’s pretty much my new favorite person in the whole world.
So, we start the lesson. The first sign we go over? Hurt.
You laughed. Don’t lie to me.
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