Menage a Snooze

A certain animus towards Hugh Hefner wafts around the place, which is appropriate because he smells like stinky old person. He smells like old person because he is old person, wearing that funky fragrance like it's Old Spice.

The problem with Playboy's playboy-in-chief is his lost relevance. The niche he fills is that of the delusional male baby-boomer, an admittedly large demographic but one with vanishingly small future attraction. The days of women needing media-savvy pimps and a nude portfolio to kick-start their careers are over, although a distressingly large number of babes have yet to get the news. Hello internet, hello digital photography, hello do-it-yourself pimping.

I have a small sneaking admiration for Hugh. His redeeming quality is the ability to raise the ire of the Permanently Outraged. That gormless smile and the ridiculous three-girlfriends-at-a-time lifestyle are a parody of what he used to be - a fact that escapes only those who take it seriously.

And given what I've seen of his taste in chicks, Hugh and regular guys really have nothing in common. Those dopey blonde bimbos Hef likes are so far removed from the kind of sexy captivating non-perfect women I like as to be out of sight. Hugh's a fossil, and that's his only value.



Bottoms Up, Bikini-ed Babes!





Pic of Heidi from Playboy.

Playboy Club

It's a myth that celebrities are interesting. My definition of torture would be to share laundry day with Jennifer Aniston, or Thanksgiving with Michael Moore. I'd have to bring my own doggy bag to that gig, given Mr Moore's evident appetite.

Everyday people have the best stories, because they're not imbued with ego. Tonight, for example, I was chatting to a woman with whom I have been acquainted for a while. For no apparent reason, she decided to tell me her life story, almost the least of which was that she had been a Playboy Bunny.

I'm not certain if 'Bunny' should be capitalized. On reflection, it should.

Gloria Steinem famously went undercover as a Bunny, where she discovered that cocktailing is hard work with false ears or without. My friend Lisa remembered her time there as a great way to learn the bar trade while making gigunda tips. She laughed recalling her big, black Bunny Mother who turned her modest bosom into something more, and taught her how to carry trays of drinks while tottering on five inch heels.

Which reinforces how Steinem's self-serving tale is nothing compared to real life. The celebrity culture has a way of making a point about our lives through the lives of the famous. But to my mind there is often no point to be made. Life is its own reward.