"I don't keep them from doing what they want, and I don't think they
have any right to bother me,” pouts Dorothy Stratten—referring to possible reaction from fern-libs who think driving a truck is liberating, while Stratten chose to free herself by peeling for Playboy shutters to the tune of $25,000. The voluptuous blonde Miss August, born in Vancouver, then became the first Canuck in the magazine’s 26-year history to be chosen Playmate of the Year, with its $150,000 fringe benefits. Married less than a year to a 29-yearold, Stratten isn’t worried about 12 months of separation as she flogs Playboy around the world: “I can afford the expense of flying him to see me.” Family reaction to her exposure varied: “My mother didn’t know if I would go on to do porno movies or whatever,” while
husband Paul isn’t jealous of the multitude of males who can ogle Dorothy’s charms—all of them. “Many men in the world will have my pictures to look at,” she said. “He’s got my heart.”
Devo visionary Mark Mothersbaugh
clambers into a rubber anti-radiation suit, making ready to assault North Americans with his Thoreauvian appeal for “simplicity, simplicity ” through electronic music. Mothersbaugh claims that past experiences with “volleys of rotten tomatoes and beer bottles” from unappreciative audiences have made protective gear a must, adding that “these tours are like playing 10 football games a week.” Devo members are keyboardist Mothersbaugh, bassist Jerry Casale, their younger brothers, Bob 1 and Bob 2, and drummer Alan Myers—
“just an average American gene pool”— and the group, which has just released its third album, Freedom of Choice, revolves and devolves socially difficult topics in songs such as Mongoloid. “We were tired of people making fun of mongoloids—it’s just another one of those little mirrors,” Mothersbaugh explains. Devo’s philosophical depths are often misunderstood—the band was dismissed by Rolling Stone as “a band with one joke that isn’t funny.” Retorts Mothersbaugh: “We’re simply re-
porting on our culture as we see it—if it’s a bad joke, it’s not our fault.”
ífllfhen I was 15, I was five feet, WW eight inches, and so thin they called me ‘Giraffe,’ ” recalls Launa Noble. “Boy-friends would either stand me up or disappear in the middle of a
date.” Four years later, and with a few inches added here and especially there, she sees no disappearing acts, and British theatrical producers have dubbed the nubile Noble “the sex symbol of the ’80s.” Discovered working as a hospital nurse, she is starring in London in a cleaned-up stage version of a film with the tempting title Come Play With Me—she plays a flapper who heads to a dubious nursing home in the Hebrides where, in typical Carry On fashion, she gets little rest but plenty of recreation. Noble’s “10” status helped carry her through a less-than-impressive opening night. Making her dramatic and dancing debuts, she flubbed a few shuffles and, in fact, admits she “mucked it up.” Undaunted, Noble says she has few regrets about the transition from starched-white Nightingale to slightly
blue thespian: “You have to be a very hard person to be a nurse, and basically I’m very soft.”
Art and the hamburger have proven a winning combination since artist Claes Oldenburg made gargantuan patties out of canvas and foam rubber in the ’60s. Now Steve Centner, a young entrepreneur, has elevated the fastfood gobble to a daintily munched entrée at Markleangelo’s, a new Toronto eatery where burgers priced by the ounce are dished up with Dom Perignon and caviar side orders on Rosenthal china. Hamburger-helper artist Robert Markte adorned the walls with art and, in grandiose imitation of someone, painted a ceiling. With $200,000 worth of artistic endeavor on the premises, opening-night guests such as Patrick2 Watson, Peter Gzowski, Barbara Frum and Helen Hutchinson could hardly keep their eyes on their buns. Also on hand to check out the competition was McDonald’s of Canada President George Cohon—who said he wasn’t hungry.
iilhave that all-American look and a Ilegitímate operatic soprano voice,” says Kathleen McKearney, 27, explaining her Cinderella success story. After appearing in 40 stage productions and making cameo appearances as nurses or waitresses on As the World Turns and The Edge of Night, opera-trained McKearney will make her Broadway debut next month—as Guenevere opposite Richard Burton in Camelot. The production, a revival of the original made with Burton and Julie Andrews 20 years ago, will repeat history by premiering in To-
ronto before heading to New York. McKearney says she has no fears about her performances being compared to Andrews’. “I look younger than she looked when she did the part,” she says. “Burton could be my father. He wanted a young Guenevere, so it would be believable that she’d leave him for Lancelot.”
British hearts were black as Sheffield coal last week as 1,000 spectators and 20 million BBC viewers watched Cliff Thorburn, the Canadian professional snooker champion, steal the world title away from home boy Alex (Hurricane) Higgins. It was the first time a nonBriton has won the competition since it began in 1922. Thorburn has an incredible 18 perfect games to his credit and is on his way to becoming a living legend
among snooker fiends—and a wealthy legend into the bargain. On top of the $30,000 prize money, Thorburn’s deadly accuracy pockets him up to $1,000 a night in Britain—part of the reason he will take up permanent residence there this fall. After losing the gruelling twoday contest, a smarting Higgins said: “I threw it away.” Thorburn’s modest reply: “I beat him flat out in front of all his hands. I did it in front of everybody. I’m the champ.”
After less than a year at the helm of the Newfoundland Liberals, former federal cabinet minister Don Jamieson announced last week that he plans to step down as party leader. He said the decision “is based in part on personal consideration” including responsibilities to his family—his wife, Barbara,
and four children. Jamieson, 59, says a younger man is needed for the long haul, “not someone on the shady side of 60.” Meanwhile, wagging tongues have it that he will be honored with an ambassadorial post, but Jamieson, with admirable diplomatic tact, says: “I have not thought about it—but I haven’t ruled out the possibility.”
Idlers at a swank Toronto café last week may have been taken aback when a man sat down to eat holding a guitar in his lap. But if any of the gawkers had heard the concert earlier that night by flamenco guitarist Carlos Montoya, they would have understood. Even between sets, Montoya, 76, cradled his instrument while talking about his craft. “You need the fingers and you need lots of soul,” he explained. “The
technique can be learned, but you can’t learn the feeling. And it certainly helps to be a gypsy.” Madrid-born Montoya was beginning a two-week tour which includes five performances with the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra, coinciding with the release of a new album and the 40th anniversary of his marriage to U.S.-born wife, Sally. Despite age and the obscure if enthusiastic following for his art, the mystical Montoya predicts with confidence instilled by his gypsy heritage that “good flamenco will last forever.”
ffllike to laugh, to cry, to get hysIterical over a photograph,” says singer/art collector Graham Nash, who certainly has reason to get giddy over his collection of 1,500 prints—161 of them now on tour in the U.S.—worth $750,000. Nash says he enjoys the “emotional bath” provided by the work he owns of photo-artists such as Diane Arbus and Henri Cartier-Bresson. When he’s not taking his own “elaborate snapshots” or collecting, the former Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young member records on his own—he has just released his third solo album, Earth and Sky, and is obsessed with fighting nuclear energy with his music. Nash says he was introduced to anti-radiation rationale by Jacques Cousteau. “He talked to me about genetic damage and the possibility of ‘nuclear police’ searching homes for stolen plutonium,” says Nash, adding that the frogman-guru “scared the hell” out of him.
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