As an aside I pick up Esquire once in a while in the hope that it has once again become ‘good’ rather than fatuous and relentlessly juvenile and seemingly obsessed with the belief that normal men see nothing wrong with paying $285 for a pair of shoes.
My obsessive ‘loyalty’ is misguided and each time I buy one I tell myself, OK, that’s the last time I’m doing that with an impulse that is similar to that of the unrepentant alcoholic who believes he won’t get drunk again when he takes the plug off the jug.
But, I confess the Hefner article was kind of interesting in a pathetic way.
Pathetic not so much because he’s about 250-years-old and newly married to a pneumatic 25-year-old fluff-bunny who professes to be in love with him. I bet her folks are happy and only praying that she signed a really generous prenup.
I’m don’t mean to be unkind about the geezer we all get there and if we (meaning myself) are the man we profess to be we should still get a tickle from a pneumatic 25-year-old (or 45-year-old) if only in fantasy realm. Keeps the arteries open, damn it.
But, after reading the article about Hef, only two descriptive adjectives about the man sprang to mind: boring and kind of pathetic. Pathetic not because he still gets worked up by nubile child-blondes with big boobies, but pathetic because he believes his fantasy realm is still somehow desirable.
The boring part was contained in the recounting of his days. Mine are more interesting despite the fact I don’t live in a mansion in which I am fawned upon by assorted acolytes of about the same vintage or the aforementioned pneumatic vixens who have probably (I’m going out on a limb here in my assumptions) not ever read anything longer than a menu without moving their lips.
My bias is that I rather fancy women with brains, with upper torsal bounty being of secondary importance.
But, and it’s an important ‘but’, when I first happened upon Hef’s brainchild Playboy Mag when I was in my teens, all the stuff that seems to still enrapture him did it for me. “Woo-hoo, Charlie, lookit da tits on that one!” I mean, prior to that my only source of sexual enchantment had been the lingerie ads in the Sear’s catalogue.
And Playboy was cool in other realms, too. It spotlighted the best in music; had some truly riveting interviews and also feature writers like Jean Shepherd (A Christmas Story et al) and Alex Hailey (of Roots) and many others. It also boasted the best cartoons next to the New Yorker.
And, there were always the ‘girls’. Yes, we didn’t pick up PB in the day just for the articles. And we fawned over them.
And continued to do so until we got ‘real’ girls in our lives and at that precise time the mag began to lose its charm. Furthermore those of us who had gained a little maturity began to see the musings of Hef himself as kind of pretentious and hugely obsessive-compulsive. In other words we grew up a little bit.
In reading the Esquire article it doesn’t seem that he really has. He still deludes himself that he is leading the good life and it has been all worthwhile, despite the fact the Bunny clubs are long gone and the mag hangs on by a slim thread. I personally haven’t even looked at one in probably two decades.
Oh, and when the day comes, Hef has willed he be encrypted in a sarcophagus right next to the one occupied by Marilyn Monroe, his first centerfold babe
Another adjective comes to mind, sad.