At a small dinner party this past summer, Billy Joel and Paul McCartney met for the first time.
“I feel like a jerk saying this,” Joel told his boyhood hero, “but I just want you to know that if you guys hadn’t done what you did, I wouldn’t be what I am today. In fact, the Beatles probably saved my life.”
“That’s all right,” McCartney assured him. “I said the same thing to Phil Everly, and I felt like a jerk, too.”MORE from Penthouse
The suspicion nags; There is a latent message in the Beastie Boys’ dense rap-rock. But how to discover it?
Well, hold the front of the Beastie Boys’ Licensed to Ill album jacket up to a mirror, and the refracted image reveals a hidden affront – the tail-section serial number of the crashed plane on the cover reads: EAT ME.
Is this the covert communication in question? Nah, just a smidgen of frathouse smut.MORE from Penthouse
In a city known for racial explosions, the mere mention of the Reverend Alfred Sharpton to New Yorkers is akin to lighting the fuse to a thousand sticks of dynamite. Nobody is neutral about Al Sharpton; dispassion and reason do not apply when his name pops up in conversation. To his champions he is the savior of the disenfranchised blacks who are unable to get justice from a white power establishment. His detractors call him the worst kind of opportunist, a tanner of the fires of racial distrust with his own personal agenda.MORE from Penthouse
I spotted her instantly from my vantage point atop the Lido Club’s high diving board. She stood among a line of beautiful young women just outside the fence around the club’s swimming pool.
She was impossible to miss, even in that group of typically stunning young women, the kind of beauties that flocked by the battalion to Hollywood in that golden summer of 1943. As lifeguard at the pool — part of Hollywood’s then-most famous hotel, the Ambassador — one of the job’s fringe benefits was girl watching.MORE from Penthouse
