Comes the Resolution

Since time immemorial, or at least since Mr. Gregorian shook up the calendar, well-meaning mortals have chosen the New Years as the occasion to enumerate their failings on paper and solemnly pledge to sin no more in the coming twelve-month. These pledges have become known as New Year resolutions, and the only trouble with them is that the resoluters are seldom resolute enough. Their hearts, proverbially, are in the right places, but the flesh, no less proverbially, is weak and they begin to backslide, usually somewhere around the second or third of January.

Playboy, after intensive study and soul-searching, believes it has found the answer to this vexing, age-old problem. By simply applying New Year resolutions to others, rather than to ourselves, it is our belief that the resolutions will be rendered painless and the backsliding less humiliating (for those who do the resolving, anyway, if not for those who try to follow through). Braced and bolstered by this leaky logic, we recruited a panel of top men from various fields of endeavor and asked them to contribute one resolution each – for the rest of humanity to heed. They responded with alacrity. If your response is equally alacritous, we may, from time to time, ask other well-known citizens to contribute resolutions for, say, Ground Hog Day, Bastille Day, The Anniversary of the Birth of Millard Fillmore, etc. Meanwhile, see what you can do to make the following worthies happy in 1957.

John Crosby

I here highly resolve that our ingenious engineers should let us have some leisure. To elucidate, I'll have to take you back to the early Thirties when they'd just introduced the 40-hour, five-day work week, causing my friend Jim Main-waring, the sage of Scarsdale, to proclaim darkly: "It'll destroy the country – this New Leisure. Just like ancient Rome. The populace will spend all that spare time drinking and wenching and watching people being thrown to the lions in Madison Square Garden."

"They don't throw people to the lions in Madison Square Garden," I replied.

"They will! They will! The moral fabric of the country will disintegrate with all that spare time on its hands. They'll have sex orgies at Ebbetts Field – anything to occupy the empty hours. Mankind can withstand wars, epidemics, floods, even psychiatry. But not leisure. Leisure has wrecked every civilization that stumbled on it and it'll wreck this one." Whereupon he finished his drink and loped off to the 5:23 which bears him every evening to his home in Westchester where his wisdom is well thought of by everyone but his wife. It was a disturbing thought. Leisure, I've always felt, was very good for me but very bad for everyone else. My own moral disintegration–the drinking, the wenching, maybe even that lion bit – I could contemplate with resignation and possibly furtive anticipation. But the moral disintegration of the whole country (I mean, the rest of you guys getting in on all this) was a terrible thought. Well, 20 years have passed and the moral fabric, while possibly a little more frayed at the edges, has held out against the New Leisure pretty well and I think I know why. The last time I visited the Mainwarings in Scarsdale, Jim spent the whole weekend fixing the dishwasher. By Sunday night, he had it back in order again. His wife Sally spent ten minutes rinsing the dishes, another ten arranging them in this labor-saving device, 50 minutes watching the water and steam swirl around the window. With one thing and another, it was time to go to bed when it was all over. There's nothing like these new labor saving gadgets for keeping a body out of mischief. For instance, I watched Sally Mainwaring with her new vacuum cleaner which has one gadget for corners, another for carpets, another for drapes, another for radiators. Just screwing these things on and taking them off occupied the afternoon, preserving Sally from all sorts of unmentionable vices. (My mother just used to wheel the vacuum cleaner out of the closet, leaving all sorts of spare time on her hands to get into trouble. But not any more.) We have abolished the sweat shop. No longer do young girls spend 14 hours ruining their eyesight in cramped positions making buttonholes. Now, father spends 14 hours bent over the power mower, trying to get delicate screws back in place, while mother is in the basement doing battle with the automatic dryer. (My mother used to hang the wash on a line. Took about five minutes.) Now there's talk of the 30-hour week and again our moral fabric is in danger. But never fear. Also ahead of us is automation where the machines run the machines. It's already in the factories and eventually it'll be in the homes. You'll go to the office at 10:00 and quit at 3:00 – and from 3:00 to 7:00 you'll be in the basement adjusting the Westinghouse Electronic Homemaker so it doesn't put the records in the washing machine and the dishes on the hi-fi set. Therefore, in 1957, let's get the engineers to stop protecting us from the horrors of leisure!

H. Allen Smith

I here highly resolve that, early in 1957, some brave fellow should hire a good lawyer, like Morris Ernst or Emile Zola Berman, and proceed with the crusade to obliterate forever one of modern mankind's most imbecilic superstitions – the belief that in order to eat a meal properly it is necessary for a man to tie a strip of colored rag around his neck. I'm not against neckties. I wear them on most occasions away from home. But there are times, especially in the summer, when a necktie becomes more foolish than usual and on those times I'm inclined to go naked at the neck. The crusade will begin with the aforesaid fellow's appearance at the entrance to one of Manhattan's fanciest restaurants. He'll have on slacks, a sports jacket and a sports shirt buttoned neatly at the collar. That cold, imperious man at the gate will take one look and say, "You can't come in here withouten you got on no necktie." Our boy will reply. "The hell I can't," and he'll start to shove past his oppressor. He'll be restrained, of course, and there'll be a scene. The doorman may temporize and offer him the use of a gravy-stained old cravat which, in his view, will make the crusader look respectable and worthy of eating in the joint. He will be advised to take his necktie and shove it up the dumb waiter. In the end, you may be sure, our man won't be admitted. Now our lawyer files suit for half a million dollars. The filing of the suit, the preliminary maneuvering and the eventual trial will be sensational. Ed Murrow will probably do a documentary on the case. The question will be argued up and down the land: does a rag around the neck constitute the difference between a gentleman and a bum? The restaurant owner will contend that he has a right to set the standards under which customers may enter his establishment. Our lawyer will argue that the defendant is operating under a franchise granted to him by the people and that he has no right to turn a man away from his door unless that man is breaching the peace through some overt act of disorderly conduct. If the right lawyer is chosen, the summation will probably be so eloquent that the judge will suddenly rise from the bench, rip off his black robe, fling it to the floor and exclaim, "I never did understand why I have to wear this fool thing! Verdict for the plaintiff ... with full damages!"

George Jessel

I here highly resolve that somebody should do something about a certain young man I shall call Epis, who rocked and rolled in the year 1956 A.D.T.V. Phonograph records about a skinny dog are given preference over hot dogs and all-day suckers! All this came about when he was seen on the television screens of the nation. Since then, there is more squealing heard from Young America during one song than has ever been heard from the combined stockyards of Swift and Armour in a decade. The reason for all this, I think, is because never before have young people been given the complete opportunity to let loose of their inhibitions in such abandon. Squealing was always stopped in the home, and the schoolroom, and public places. But while the television is going on, you can do anything! Think how many people get a great kick out of watching actors and actresses in silk hats, overcoats and minks perform, while audiences at home can watch them and be completely naked, if they so choose. America has found something that has stopped it from thinking. And most of us seem to be delighted. The highest officials in the government don't make a move without an advertising agency's supervision. People seated in the highest chairs of the nation have their faces made up and their speaking voices faces made up and their speaking voices approved for each public appearance. And the question is not "What is he going to say?" but "How is he going to look and how is he going to sound?" I wonder how Abe Lincoln would have fared in this day? I can hear the television admen saying: "Get that beard off – see if you can cover that mole – try to get that voice down a few tones ..." And it's all because of Epis who, the theatrical papers say, is the biggest thing in show business. Well, long may he rock and roll! I don't envy the great success he has made in just a few weeks! Like every good thinking person, I hope his success continues – for a few weeks longer!

Fred Astaire

I here highly resolve that the people of the U.S.A. should elect me dictator for a day. My first act would be to give Elvis Presley extra special credit for being such a hell of a big sensational smash hit and to scold those who try to condemn rock and roll. Some of it is good. It is a fad now and fads are always overdone. Give it time and it will pass by and remain at a less conspicuous level where it has been for some years past. I then would appoint Kim Novak and Anita Ekberg members of my Cabinet! I would shake a finger at the style merchants of men's clothes who try to belittle the double-breasted suit. I decree the double-breasted dinner jacket much smarter than the single-breasted always and also more practical. I would administer a severe reprimand to and fine anyone who dislikes Thunderbirds! I would pass a law making it impossible for anyone to be out or "busy" when I call on the telephone. I would abolish the following: Some of the small talk by contestants on television's major quiz shows, and some of the big talk and (concluded on page 77) resolution (continued from page 20) build-up in introductions by M.C.s when presenting guest stars on variety shows. These factors are very conducive to naptaking, when the viewer really wishes to stay awake and see the show. I would make it a penitentiary offense to manufacture three-tone paint job automobile bodies. I would command Jackie Gleason to perform "Reginald Van Gleason III" and say to some lady his famous line "M-m-my, but you're fat," at least twice a week indefinitely! I would order the invention of some kind of Maxim Silencer for small dogs that bark at the wrong time. I would put a clamp on the term "teenager." Self conscious "teenagers" become more so when they see that in print and actually begin to consider it a cue for a gang-up attitude, or some sort of an issue, when in reality they are probably just very nice youngsters. I would order that certain large American automobiles not be allowed to stick out so far in the back. Trusting I make myself clear. If not – so overthrow me!

Jimmy Durante

I here highly resolve that everybody should give big cities their due in 1957. But to understand this let me tell you how come. I got such strong ideas about big cities. I was born in New York City more than 60 years ago. I was raised on the lower East Side. My dad owned a barbershop and he had a lotta pals. I guess I was pretty young when I realized how much it meant to have friends – not just passing acquaintances. I was in my teens when I went to work. I began playing piano in some of the little clubs in and around the Bowery and Coney Island. I used to come home late, or early I should say, in the morning. Pretty soon I knew everybody around our neighborhood. Al Smith used to come into my pop's place for a haircut. A lot of famous people did. I soon learned the value of friendship and what loyalty really means. Looking back on my years in show business it seems that most of my jobs kept me up kinda late. That's how I got used to staying up all night. Even today I don't go to sleep until the early hours. There's always something to do in a big city and I can usually find it. I even rehearse late at night in my home. You might ask what I can do in the city that you can't do in the country. That's easy. If I want to see a late show I can always go to a club or to a late restaurant for something to eat. There's always a spot open. In a big city it's easy to be with a gang of your pals at any hour. I like to be hopping around and there's a big variety in the big city. A choice of shows, clubs, food and even shopping. And since I'm talking about big cities, my favorite is New York. I got the biggest thrill of my life last spring when I returned to the Copa there. There was a standing ovation that actually brought a lump to my throat. It's my town. For years the late Lou Clayton and Eddie Jackson and I played on Broadway. It's a wonderful town and it holds many great memories for me. And what memories! The taxis honking, the people shouting, people hurrying someplace, the gang at Lindy's or Toots Shors. The snow on the streets in winter, the first days of spring and even the hot summer months. Going to the fights at the Garden, the ball games and the races, the beach on Sunday and looking at the big buildings, the subway trains – to me it's all wonderful and in 1957 I'd like to hear a little less about the greatness of the country and more about the city.

Phil Silvers

I here highly resolve that all bachelors shall remain so in 1957. Have you ever seen an unhappy bachelor? Never! He's a foot-loose, fiancee-free fellow who has nobody to share the troubles he'd have if he were married. Any member of this superior breed of man has only one problem. Women – they're the opposition sex – have a strange belief that the words happy and bachelor just don't go together. There's the inevitable question, "How come you're a bachelor?" Believe me, she doesn't want a reason. She wants an excuse. Mine was very simple: I was born that way. If women are ever in doubt about a man's marital status, the best way to find out is to watch him open his wallet. If he turns his back, he's married. Companionship is a great selling point for marriage which somehow eludes me. The idea, I understand, is to "do things together." You teach her to drive so she can relieve you need on long trips and all of a sudden you need two cars in the family. Give her a chance at the golf clubs and her first score makes you realize how much you like bowling. But the greatest example of companionship is when you run into a fellow who, after being married six months, says with a big grin: "My wife isn't talking to me!" On the other hand, being single is great. In the first place, the one thing a bachelor can do that a married man can't is just as he pleases. And his physical condition? Healthy, my boy, because there's no wedding ring to stop his circulation. Then there's the money. It's all his: and this alone is proof that a bachelor knows what he's doing. A tip to my fellow men who might be on the brink of disaster: when the little doll says she'll live on your income, she means it all right. But just be sure to get another one for yourself. Closing thought # 1: women profess to hate confirmed bachelors, yet have you noticed how they always wind up marrying one? Closing thought #2: I'm glad someone else will have to keep this resolution. I can't. I got hooked last October.