Because I was the young, hip guy in the Playboy art department, I'd get the young hip assignments. For instance, I'd work monthly with editor, Kate Nolan, producing whatever the magazine's take on contemporary music would be for that issue.

And, once a year for the April issue, Katie and I would create and produce the annual Playboy Year in Music package. As the name implied, it would be Playboy's take on what happened during the previous twelve months in the world of popular music. There would be a cover to the multi-paged section that would feature some primary aspect of the of the rock 'n' roll world for that year.

That was followed by a couple of pages of short hits chronicling various blunders, embarrassments and the occasional bright spot during the musical annum, titled "Hits, Hypes and Heavies". Then there were a couple of reader participation events; a musician would be inducted (His head sculpted in clay) into the Playboy Music Hall of Fame, and The Playboy All-Star Band -- a ridiculous aggregation of musicians selected by readers. And there were usually a couple of articles that spoke to the condition of the recording industry.

I wanted to do a Music package cover featuring the mellowing of punk. It would be a faux-album cover -- "The Plasmatics perform Songs of Inspiration and Faith". The image was Wendy O. Williams howling into a microphone, wearing a Nun's wimple, bare-breasted -- as she usually was in performance -- with her nipples covered by electrician's tape. But, in this instance, there would be two pieces of electrician's tape, forming a cross, covering each nipple.

Kate liked my demented idea but, of course, it was greeted with dismay by the editorial hierarchy and rejected.

It was decided that the cover image for the Year in Music 1980 would either be the Blues Brothers (The John Belushi/Dan Aykroyd vehicle was a big hit that year), or Blondie, because Playboy was attempting to lure Debbie Harry as a Playboy cover girl.

My vote, for what it was worth, went to Blondie. I suggested a photo of a two-lane blacktop in the middle of nowhere. A tour bus emblazoned with "Blondie" is broken down beside the road, the male band members are dejected, sitting on the shoulder in the background. Deborah Harry is in the foreground, at the roadside, recreating the Claudette Colbert moment in "It Happened One Night", showing a little ankle, thumb out, hitchhiking.

The band, Blondie, was making the movie "Roadie" in Austin, Texas. The film was a typical B-grade 70s road movie and featured Meat Loaf as Travis W. Redfish, a farm boy with a knack for electric engineering that he cultivates into the title of "World's Greatest Roadie". Along the way, he falls for a groupie and helps her pursue her dream of meeting Alice Cooper (played by Alice Cooper). Their quest for Alice leads them on a madcap chase across the country replete with barroom brawls, car chases, and other goofy pandemonium. Besides Meat Loaf and Alice Cooper, the film also featured appearances by Asleep at the Wheel, Hank Williams Jr., Roy Orbison, Ramblin' Jack Elliott and, of course, Blondie. It was a great musical lineup for a crappy movie.

I called the Hollywood office of Blondie's manager. I spoke with the manager's secretary/associate and explained exactly what we'd like to do. After a couple of phone-calls back and forth everything was in place, a date was arranged for the photo-shoot.

Then I got in touch with Don Peterson. Don was a big blonde bear of a Swede raised in the Andersonville neighborhood in Chicago. He was also an incredible photographer who'd spent his adult years in Hollywood shooting celebrities like Diana Ross, David Carradine, Sissy Spacek and Barbara Eden. He'd been Robert Altman's still photographer for "Mash", and for Henry Hathaway's John Wayne vehicle, "True Grit". He was also a internationally recognized "Art" photographer whose work had been published in Zoom, Paris Match and Der Spiegel.

But my real connection to Don Peterson had to do with our shared affinity. We had similar intellectual underpinnings, were both artistically anarchistic souls and enjoyed similar chemical indulgences. We were Brother Rats.

Over the next few days I worked out additional logistics. I needed a tour bus, and after talking to a few contacts in the Austin area I hooked up with Augie Meyers.

Augie was a life-long rock 'n' roll musician who lived on a ranch just outside San Antonio in a little place called Bulverde, Texas. I'd known of Augie since the 60s when, with his Vox organ, he gave Doug Sahm's band, the Sir Douglas Quintet, it's distinctive Tex-Mex/Conjunto sound on tunes like "Mendocino" and "She's About a Mover". His musical influence was heard throughout the rock world back in the day. The echoes of the Meyers' style and sound can be heard in the music of the Doors, the Kinks, the Animals and the Beatles.

Bob Dylan once said of Augie "He can bring a song, certainly any one of mine, into the real world. I've loved his playing going all the way back to the Sir Doug days when he was featured and dominant. What makes him so great is that internally speaking, he's the master of syncopation and timing."

But I was after a tour bus for our photo-shoot, and Augie had one. I arranged with Augie to rent his bus and talked with him a little bit about my similar Tex-Mex roots.

"I was born in San Antonio. Most of my relatives lived off an alley on the west side," I said.

Then I invited him to spend the week with us in Austin.

"I'll be there," he said.

As the date approached a scheduling hitch on my end popped up. The first place I called was Blondie's manager's office.

"If it's possible I like to re-schedule the photo-shoot a couple of days later. If it can't be done, let me know and I'll make adjustments on my end," said I.

"I'll convey this information. If there's a problem with re-scheduling I'll get back to you within 24-hours. If there's no problem, you won't hear back from us." said the agent's secretary.

A couple of days later I called everyone else involved in the production and told them everything would be happening two days later than originally planned.

I flew into Austin, rented a car and headed for my hotel suite rendezvous where I hooked up with my crew, Russ Millionaire (my contact with the Austin people) and and Jen, an efficient attractive woman without whom the entire project would have careened of the tracks and detonated in a spectacular display of pyrotechnics and human misery.

We went out to the parking lot. Augie Meyers had just pulled the bus up and I needed to inspect it.

The first thing Augie said to me was "That's a great t-shirt, man" I was wearing Mickey Pig-Duck, a shirt I'd picked up in a truck-stop in Illinois. It was as if the entire Disney stable had rampaged in a bacchanal of cross-specie fucking, producing a mutant race of confused genetic progeny that I could proudly display across my chest.

In Texas, in 1980, t-shirts were Lone Star de rigeur. It was auspicious that mine got notice. I was proud of myself for having such tasteless taste.

"The bus is perfect," I said.

"We need a banner that reads "Blondie" we can attach to the bus."

"No problem," said Jen. She made a phone call.

After the business of the bus had been settled I set out to locate the band and their management. Jen had done the reconnoitering. We drove five or six miles to the location. Don Peterson had just arrived from Los Angeles and met us at the site. It seemed to be on the periphery of a ranch property just off the two-lane blacktop that brought us there. There was a trailer parked to the side. A few people were milling around next to a corral. One was a young man in camouflaged military fatigues talking to Deborah Harry, who was holding a small rabbit he'd presented to her. I introduced myself "I'm here to photograph the band for Playboy". She said "My manager's in the trailer. You should talk to him."

I entered the trailer and introduced myself to Blondie's manager, a man with a dark L.A. tan and bleached surfer hair.

"Debbie Harry said I should talk to you about setting up the shoot," I said.

"YOU DON'T FUCKING TALK TO A STAR!" he bellowed. "YOU NEVER FUCKING TALK TO A STAR!" he blustered.

'WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?!" he shrieked. "YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE HERE TWO FUCKING DAYS AGO!"

"Hey," I said. I had a conflict and I cleared this date with your office..."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GET OUT OF THIS TRAILER!" he roared.

He had me a bit off balance. I exited the trailer with him right behind me caterwauling and yipping about how valuable his time was. He went over to Deborah Harry. She seemed a bit anxious.

Don Peterson said "That guy's an asshole." I nodded in concurrence.

The manager came back over to us and said "The band's out of coke. Like I need this shit. I'm not having a happy day."

I saw a chink in his armor. I said "I think I can help you out."

With his back to me and heading back to his trailer he said "Call me at my hotel later this afternoon."

I told Don to meet us back at my hotel room. I loaded back in the car with my crew and we peeled off back toward town.

Jen said she could get coke. I said "Four grams for the band and a couple for us." She made a phone call and left to pick up the goods. I ordered some beer up to the room and Augie, Don, Russ and I tossed back a couple of cold ones while waiting for Jen to return.

It didn't take her very long for her to return with the powder. We laid out lines and inhaled the drug.

"I'm gonna give the manager a call," I said. He answered the phone and I said "Hey, it's Skip from Playboy. I've got what you need." He grunted in response. Then I said " Look...we need to set up an exact date, time and location for the shoot. And you've got to sign a release."

Then I said "I'm really tired of all the shit. We've got work to do here." I knew immediately, even before he responded, that I should have chosen my words more wisely.

"JUST WHO DO YOU THINK YOU'RE TALKING TO?!" he sputtered. "YOU CAN'T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!" And he slammed down the phone.

I turned to the crew and said "Shouldn't have snorted a line before I called him. I might as well just pack up and leave."

Jen said "Let me talk to him."

She called him back and did a bit of cajoling.

She said "Skip's just frustrated. He cleared the date with your office and he thought everything was in place. If we can't photograph Blondie he'll be on a plane back to Chicago and the Blues Brothers, and not Blondie, will be the band representing the year in music in Playboy magazine. Let's try to work this thing out so we're all happy. Why don't we start by coming over and delivering what your band needs."


I ran into a fellow I knew in the lobby of the hotel where Blondie and their manager were staying. Bob Rudnick had introduced me to him on one of my forays into NYC. His girlfriend was a singer and I'd attended a show she had a Carnegie Hall. We'd become fairly good friends during my few days in New York, and it was an happy coincidence me running into him in Austin. Turned out he was on his way to talk to Blondie's manager about booking Blondie on a group tour he was arranging. I told him that I hadn't hit it off very well with the manager and maybe it wasn't such a good idea that he show up in my company.

"Fuck it'" he said. "Let's go see the dude."

We knocked on the door and the tanned, bleached blond opened the door. He was wearing a white martial arts outfit tied off with a black belt. I wondered if he was trained or just posing. In my mind I settled on "posing'. I thought about throwing a punch in order to test my theory. Then I though better of it. In retrospect, probably a good idea.

I said "Look who I ran into in the lobby, " I said. "He'll tell you I'm not an asshole." ("Unless I'm provoked," I thought.)

"No," the manager said. "You are an asshole."

I broke out the cocaine. We all did a couple of lines.

"Let's go drop this shit off to the band." said the manager. "They've been go-carting all day. They're edgy. They need a pick-me-up." He didn't offer to pay for the coke. I'd have to hide it in my expense account.

We went to the band's room. They were all sitting side-by-side on a couch watching t.v.

I introduced myself "Bob Rudnick says hello."

Deborah Harry turned to Chris Stein and asked "Is that "Rockin'" Rudnick?"

"Righteous" Rudnick," I corrected.

I turned to the manager and said "You guys need to sign a release form." I pulled the document out of my pocket.

"Later," the manager said. "I want to talk tour business right now. We're filming a concert scene tomorrow. Why don't you meet us there. I'll sign it then."


The next day I was on set. It was an indoor location, an auditorium. The place was packed with an audience extras. On stage Blondie was assembled, waiting for direction. I was in the back standing next to Blondie's manager, behind the cameras and out of the hot lights.

Someone said "Hey Skip." I turned and saw Lisa Gottlieb . Lisa was the ex-girlfriend of John Petrie, a Chicago comrade of mine. She'd moved to Hollywood a couple of years earlier. Another coincidence, that I would run into her here in Austin. She was doing some sort of ancillary work on the film. I introduced the manager to Lisa. He started jabbering in a loud voice until someone yelled "Quiet on the set!" in his direction. A bit embarrassed, he clammed up.

One more time he put me off about signing the release. "Don't worry" he lied. "I'll sign it at the shoot."

That evening Augie, Russ, Jen, Don and I went out for a little musical fun in Austin. Don was in his usual casual attire, white bib-overalls and wearing a headband with a transparent red visor. The other guys and Jen were all cowboyed up in ten-gallon hats and boots. I came out wearing a soft cap and an earring.

"This is how we do it up North," I said.

"It's the Bruce Springsteen look," Augie observed.


The following day, Augie Meyers, Don Peterson, Russ, Jen and I piled into the tour bus to scout locations. Jen had a couple of ideas about places to shoot. As usual, she was on the money. We found a place about ten miles out of town on a lonely two-lane blacktop. The road came in straight then arced off into the Texas hill country. Augie pulled the bus off to the shoulder in position for the photograph. Don and I walked back up the road and shot a few poloroids to see how the shot would frame out. We agreed that it would work. In fact, it looked pretty good.

Then I said to Augie "Why don't you roll up a twenty and we'll get a shot of you snorting the white line own the middle of the road." Don hauled out his Nikon and got the shot. It was a good day.

When we got back to the hotel I called Blondie's manager and told him we'd found a location.

He said "We can only give you fifteen minutes."

Incredulous I said "Fifteen minutes? That isn't even enough time to set up. A shot like this for a major publication can't be produced in fifteen minutes!"

"That's what you got. Fifteen minutes," he said. "And stop at Taco Bell on the way and bring Debbie a salad."

"Taco Bell? You've got the best TexMex food in the country here and you want me to bring her a Taco Bell salad?" I asked.

"Just bring her a fuckin' salad," he said, and hung up.


The next day I piled us into my rent-a-car. Augie and Jen had left earlier in the bus. We were running late and I still had to stop at Taco Bell and pick up a salad for Deborah Harry. I knew, if I was late, the manager would haul the band away and I'd come up empty. In fact, I was pretty sure he was counting on it.

After procuring the iceberg lettuce fast-food salad I said "Hang on, kids!" I said "We're gonna fly!"

We fish-tailed out of the Taco Bell parking lot like a bat out of hell. Burning rubber, scattering gravel, churning up dust-clouds and ignoring stop signs I jammed the accelerator to the floorboard. Gaining velocity I barreled through a railroad crossing, came out of it aloft and slammed into the roadbed throwing back sparks and jarring teeth. The throttle was wide open, the engine whined in pain. We were hurtling down the highway like a bullet, scorching the roadway, careening around curves with careless regard. We were movin' and smokin'. We were breaking the laws of man and testing the laws of Nature.

Just as our window of opportunity was closing the bus came into view. We screeched and slid to a stop and piled out of the car.

"You got the salad?" said the manger, clearly disappointed that we had arrived on schedule.

I held the styrofoam box aloft.

"Well fuckin' give it to her," he snorted.

I walked over to Deborah Harry and gave her the salad. She turned up her nose and whined "I wanted tacos."

I looked back over to her manager. He shrugged his shoulders and smirked.

"Ok. Let's get this done," I said.

The bus was in position, the Blondie banner was draped across the back. I explained to the band what I wanted to do. The guys would be on the shoulder dejected, Debbie in the foreground at the roadside hitchhiking.

"I don't want to do that," said Deborah Harry. She objected to being in front, more prominent than the rest of the group.

I said "Yes" I understood her concern but we wanted capture the feeling of Claudette Colbert hitchhiking in "It Happened One Night". In fact, that was the whole point, the pivot that the shot hung on. Time was wasting and her manager was looking at his watch. After a couple of minutes Debbie acquiesced and moved into position. We had five minutes left. Don started clicking off shots.

The manager said "That's it. We're out of here."

"What about signing the release," I asked.

"Have your girl call my girl," he said, blindsiding me with the Hollywood cliche.

So that was it. I thanked everyone for all their work, grabbed the film from Don and got a flight back to Chicago.


When I returned to Playboy I had a meeting with Executive Art Director Tom Staebler and detailed what had happened in Texas. We knew that we couldn't use the photograph without a signed release, so we decided on a end run.

In the 70s there had been a very popular book titled "Rock Dreams" by Belgian artist Guy Peellaer that was a series of illustrations -- a hybrid of photographs and art -- that toyed with the mythology of rock stars. Like Jim Morrison in a gay bar or the Rolling Stones as Nazi Transvestites feasting on nymphs.

So I hired an illustrator that would mimic the "Rock Dreams" style and, using our photographs as a foundation, to make art that created the Deborah Harry/Claudette Colbert image I was after. And, because it was art and not a photograph, no release was necessary.


I was late in getting payment to my crew for their services in Austin because I was nervous about how I was going to explain the outlay for the drugs.

I went to Tom Staebler, my immediate superior, and explained the situation. He said "When I first started here I was worried about turning in an excessive expense account, so I kept it conservative. I was called in by my boss and he said 'If you don't pad your expenses you're going to ruin it for all of us'."

So I figured some corner within all the hotel bills, car and bus rentals and airline tickets to hide a few hundred dollars. It was immediately approved and everyone got paid their due, and I learned how to properly lard an expense account.

As a kind of addendum to this whole business, a couple of months later one of the photo editors cornered me and told me that I was the reason that Deborah Harry refused to be a Playboy cover girl.