It seems that I’ve done a lot more wondering than wandering of late. That appears certain to change in the near future as my traveling to Asia, the Caribbean, and South America are all but foregone conclusions, thanks to upcoming work projects. However, one thing that an idle body and mind has allowed me to do is wonder aloud about some rather frivolous topics. Those that only subject themselves to my random musings through this medium may not be aware of just how silly I can be and how the train that carries my thoughts often leaves the station off the tracks, with neither a destination, conductor, nor passengers. It just goes. Case in point, the Mr. Mary Kay piece from a few weeks back, speaks precisely to this point. Today the Trivial Train has pulled in again, so…ALL ABOARD!
Out of the clear blue sky I bring you today’s topic. Today we’ll talk about the Monarch of Man Fantasies…the Prince of Pajamas…the Baron of the Babes…the Czar of the Pleasure Pursuers. Of course, I’m talking about none other than Mr. Hugh Hefner, who , on the surface appears to have the life that all of us want (all of us Men that is). But what if it’s all a big lie? What if all that glitters is not gold?
Well, I’ve made the pilgrimage to Holmby Hills, paid a visit to the Mansion, and ventured into the legendary Grotto, so I can confirm that there are no smoke and mirrors there. It’s all as advertised. The whole complex is such an extraordinary expanse that it’s almost breathtaking. By itself, the house cuts quite an imposing figure, sitting smack dab in the middle of the grounds. The other features like the zoo full of exotic animals, the aforementioned Grotto, and spectacular game rooms (some equipped with no furniture, just a TV and “pillow-top mattress” material in lieu of carpet) can’t be done justice by the words of a mere mortal such as myself. ( I could give it a try, but I’ll spare you today, lest I never make a single solitary point in this piece). Surely I would be remiss to not mention all of the cute little bunny rabbits, conejitos for our Spanish speaking readers. Suffice it to say that it’s a grown man’s Disneyland, and I’m sure ol’ Walt came by for some inspiration when ever he was at a loss for what to add to his House of Mouse down the road. Ah…pardon me as I attempt to recover from this episode of nostalgia.
Let me put my Dan Brown hat back on and get back to the randomness of today’s supposition. What would happen if this evening’s newscast led off with “Playboy Paradox: What the Girls Next Door found in the Closet.” So dark the con of man indeed if his Royal Highness were playing for the other team. But could it stick? They’d have a field day with this. Trent Lott, Barack Obama, and Condoleeza Rice wouldn’t even be discussed until after the second or third commercial on Nightline. They’d speculate that the Dow’s big gains today would be offset by tomorrow’s near collapse of the pharmaceutical market as Phizer (ye of the little blue pill) would be in ruins as its main poster boy turned out to be a hoax. The ladies on The View would be all over the place, as usual, Barbara sharing an anecdote about the time back in ’74 when Hef refused her advances and was more interested in her date than she was, and Joy will go on about how Hef swore her to secrecy and talked to some people to get her career jumpstarted after she exposed him as a fraud, by not catching what she was throwing at him. Larry King’s show will change its theme music to Buddy Guy’s “Damn Right I’ve Got the Blues” and will seem dis-interested in living any longer, let alone interviewing his guests or going on with his show at all. He’ll keep an open bottle of Wild Turkey on his desk, and often cut off his guest with “Whatever, man…” at random intervals. The guy from Will and Grace will suddenly become hot on the talk show circuit as will the Queer Eye Guys, and Lance from N’Sync. Right wing Republicans everywhere will start to posture about how he made a mistake and that it doesn’t take away from all of the good that he’s done in his political career, realize that their Freudian slip is not only way too introspective but sending them sprawling like homey in This Christmas on the bathroom floor with the baby oil, think better of it and go back to condemning him and his wicked ways to eternal damnation.
Enough! I had merely set out to entertain, but the blasphemy of my suppositions is altogether too much for me to bear. I didn’t mean it Hef. It’s jus’ jokes. Please don’t give me the lifetime ban. I’ll play nice. My bad.
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