“Composer Artisan” ISFP. Socially and economically libertarian for reasons having nothing to do with Ayn Rand. Current fields of study:Playboy, A Course in Miracles, building a new life in Humboldt County.
Hollywood, California, is my spiritual hometown. I actually grew up in three other communities in California, but it hardly seems to matter which three. How could my heart take root anywhere under the tyranny of American public schooling?
I don’t have to work for a living. After my father died in December 1997, my family and I won a legal settlement.
The Blog About
Nothing: Sudheer of Hyderabad, India, is a big fan of Playboy and an
even bigger fan of Seinfeld. In this blog, he composes humorous
dialogues for the show’s characters.
Hit & Run: the official
blog of my other favorite magazine, Reason: Free Minds and Free
Markets; winner
of the 2005 Weblog Award for Best Group Blog; “the best
libertarian blog” according to the October 2005 issue of
Playboy.
Scoobie Davis Online: a self-described “filmmaker, surfer, and party crasher” in southern California. He’s also a Playboy fan, a left-leaning political gadfly, and a connoisseur of Jack T. Chick religious tracts.
The Search for
Health in Decadence: poetry and philosophical writings of Will, who has
engaged me in lengthy, good-natured debate through comments on my
blog.
The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature by Steven
Pinker. With stylistic flair, a Harvard cognitive scientist
refutes myths about human nature underlying a multitude of political
beliefs—including many of those that would either favor or
oppose the sexual revolution.
God in Popular Culture by Andrew M. Greeley. A liberal Catholic
priest sees quasi-Christian messages of grace abounding in the
allegedly soulless realm of commercial pop culture. For all I know,
Greeley is not necessarily a Playboy fan. But his
interpretation of Madonna’s song “Like a Virgin” has
influenced my impression of Playboy. (In case anyone wonders, my religious heritage is Lutheran on my father’s side and secularist on my mother’s.)
At 1:10 in this video of a Playboy Mansion party, the March 2008 Playmate shows her good judgment and good taste.
I was there for that party. Click here for the embarrassing details of my encounter with Miss March.
The hot brunette in the video embed freeze frame is mistress of ceremonies and Playboy model Adrianne Curry (February 2006 and January 2008)—technically not a Playmate, though not for lack of beauty, as you can see.
Do you wonder what I look like? Wonder no more. On June 12, I made it to the third annual benefit party for the Marijuana Policy Project at the Playboy Mansion in Los Angeles. From left to right, the Playmates in this photo are Katie Lohmann (April 2001), Marketa Janska (July 2003), Amanda Paige (October 2005), and Janine Habeck (September 2006).
That time of year, the sun hadn’t gone down at eight o’clock, when the party began.
As it got dark, guests came in by the chartered busload.
These female guests were justifiably proud to be seen inside the grotto.
The Playboy Mansion loves animals! This picture shows only part of its pet cemetery.
There were speeches about the marijuana law reform movement. Then DJ Native Wayne Jobson spun tunes while sexy dancers entertained the crowd.
Miss May 1998, Deanna Brooks, is an acquaintance from my visits to the first and second Mansion benefits for MPP.
How embarrassing! I made Miss March 2008, Ida Ljungqvist, a little nervous with the creepy monotone in my voice, my stammer, and the case of Fashion Tourette’s that led me to believe I would look cool in cheap black gloves. Fortunately, she was persuaded that I meant no harm.
Last night, I attended the third annual benefit party at the Playboy Mansion for the Marijuana Policy Project. A detailed account of the experience will take a few days. The words need time to brew.
After years of brutally mistreating it, I was finally kicked out of my apartment this week. In response to the crisis of having to move just when the party was scheduled, I’ve done my best to force a redefinition of my relationship to my mother—and, by implication, perhaps to the whole society I live in.
I publish this post from a rented computer on Hollywood Boulevard. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be logistically naked at Mom’s northern California doorstep. By my choices, I will have forced her to make a choice. If I’ve permanently alienated her, I could be on the street or in jail. But no matter what happens, I believe that in my helplessness lies a kind of victory. My vote of no confidence in the North American way of enculturation, with its stupidly authoritarian schools and inappropriate medicalization of controversial attitudes, will be harder to ignore than ever.
As a symbolic gesture of hope, I’ve mailed all six of my Netflix DVDs today, with the next six items in my queue headed for my mother’s house soon. It’s a sign of the chaos of my life that I didn’t watch three of the six. More embarrassingly, I got only halfway through the DVD of the old TV series Playboy’s Penthouse (nothing to do with Penthouse magazine, which didn’t exist then).
If you’re reading this, whoever you are, I love you and hope I can honor you by learning to live as happily as possible. May God bless us both.
According to a Hindu proverb, it takes a thorn to remove a thorn. I’m finally getting over the “Why did they always tell me I’m wrong?” thing by being told by Someone Else (through A Course in Miracles) that, in a manner of speaking, I’m literally always wrong. Meanwhile, I’m also getting kicked out of my apartment just when I’m preparing to go to the Playboy Mansion for the third time. But God’s grace has provided an elegant solution in the division of labor according to comparative advantage. You do the worrying; I’ll do the partying.
After the party, I’ll need a cheap place to live while I plan necessary changes in my life. It might as well be your guest bedroom, so you should expect me there in mid-June. Because of my criminal record for ill-advised scuffles with cops just a few years ago, I warn you against “teaching me a lesson” with another arrest. California’s “three strikes” law could mean disaster after that. If you have to worry about something, worry about that. You do the worrying; I’ll do the partying.
Don’t try to make me go to rehab; I won’t go, go, go. Although I know that I can’t afford to deny the consequences of my behavior, I categorically refuse to medicalize my behavior in any way. I acknowledge no “disease” of any kind for which I need to take twelve steps or any variation thereof. Besides, I’m already doing superbly with the do-it-yourself spiritual program I’m on. You do the worrying; I’ll do the partying.
You don’t have to believe in Rousseau’s doctrine of the Noble Savage to recognize the tyranny of America’s public schools. When I remember the slavery of homework that you helped bind me to—the unnecessary anxiety, guilt, shame, boredom, and sense of impending failure all the way—I feel no compunction whatsoever farming out my worries to you. You do the worrying; I’ll do the partying.
Nobody’s guilt trip about my “growing up slowly” can discourage me. All I can say in reply is that I’ve been doing the best I know how all along. By logical necessity, this ends the argument. You do the worrying; I’ll do the partying.
Thanks to Pot TV, I can direct you to something beautiful that YouTube won’t allow me to embed here: Hugh Hefner’s statements about marijuana policy from March 30, 2006. (By the way, I also attended the same event in 2007.)
No major “Bollywood” production from India’s feature film industry will be freeze-framed in Playboy’s annual “Sex in Cinema” pictorial for some time yet. Only a few years ago have the gorgeous male and female leads in these elaborate song-and-dance melodramas been allowed to kiss on screen for the first time since the nation’s independence (60 years ago tomorrow). But I still think that the 2001 blockbuster Lagaan: Once Upon a Time in India could be a hit at one of Hugh Hefner’s movie parties.
Bollywood style is sometimes said to parallel the musical extravaganzas of American cinema of the 1930s, part of the cultural environment of Hefner’s childhood. The music itself sounds vastly different, but anyone who can learn to enjoy the Beatles’ tribute to Indian music from Sgt. Pepper’s can love the crowd-pleasing tunes of the best of Bollywood. Lagaan takes place in a remote district of British-occupied India in 1893. Indian farmers are threatened with hunger because of drought and the lagaan (Hindi for land tax) they have to pay every year: a portion of their harvest to the British government. Naturally, Indian audiences love to hate the smug, vicious colonial racism of the tax-collecting villain, Captain Russell. Audiences from every country on earth will cheerfully boo and hiss along. The farmers notice that the game the Englishmen call cricket looks like a “boys’ game” native to India. Out of desperation, they goad Russell into betting the lagaan on the outcome of a cricket match between the Indians and the Englishmen. If the Indians lose, they pay triple. If they win, they pay nothing for three years.
This is not only an engaging sports movie but also a romance with remarkable sex appeal. Pay attention to the subtitles in the video clip below. Surely, the song’s Hindi lyrics describe part of the eternal game of human mating all over the world. Only a little grounding in Hinduism is needed: The occasion is the religious festival of the god Krishna’s birthday. In his reckless youth, Krishna is said to have had many pretty young cowherdesses, Gopis, as playmates. But the main goddess in his life is his consort, Radha. The rest will sound all too familiar.
2001 Playmate of the Year Brande Roderick is the leading lady in the recent Bollywood production Out of Control. But I can’t lie. Lagaan is a much better movie.
Extra-credit question: How much would you pay to see a Mel Brooks tribute to Bollywood?
Thanks to SiteMeter, I know that a woman in Belgium recently stumbled on a guest essay here by Googling insecure when my husband looks at other women (in English, without quotation marks). She might take heart from the miracle of May 14, when a troupe of fire dancers invaded a benefit party for the Marijuana Policy Project at the Playboy Mansion and upstaged the Playmates on their home turf. It can be done!
The number of millihelens a beautiful woman radiates is measurable by my dorkiness and spazziness in her presence.* I stood bravely in the front row of the audience with no regard for what could happen if they lost control of their flaming toys, thinking only of my duty as a scholar of the seductive power of the human female. Nor did I consider the dangers of looking like a desperate horn dog at an inopportune time. It was totally worth the risk to get close enough to notice the sexy bruise on one dancer’s thigh.
Comedian Joe Rogan served as our master of ceremonies. MPP executive director Rob Kampia presented an award to Bill Maher, who couldn’t be found at the party before or after that. DJ Pooh spun records, and Blues Traveler performed live. I followed a friend’s advice and got my picture taken with more Playmates than last year: this time around, with Julie McCullough, Deanna Brooks, Tiffany Taylor, Stacy Fuson, Miriam Gonzalez, Laurie Fetter, Amanda Paige, Christine Smith, Scarlett Keegan, Cassandra Lynn, and Alison Waite. Since I’m not willing to show my face on this blog, you’ll have to email me through the link on my Blogger profile page to see those photos. Off camera, I coaxed a kiss on my left cheek from Laurie Fetter and a kiss on my right from Deanna Brooks. It got even better when Brooks let me return the favor. Sincere apologies to Amanda Paige for pulling her hair while taking my left arm off of her shoulder.
Sadly, I missed my photo ops with a few of the Playmates there, including August 2004’s Pilar Lastra. But I can take pride in this candid, unauthorized, impulsive shot of her cottontailed derrière:
I wonder how she got that sawdust on her thigh. A better photographer would have patted it off before shooting.
Another blogger describes his experience at the same party—with photos—here.
On March 30 of this year, I attended a benefit party for the Marijuana Policy Project at the Mansion in Los Angeles. If I recall correctly, I got an early-bird discount and paid $500 for admission. Also, I seem to remember reading in a letter from the MPP that it will be a recurring event. Bookmark the MPP site and check it regularly for the next Mansion fundraiser. This post, dear readers, is the only notification you’ll get from me. All of you are potential competitors for a limited guest roster. I missed out on Hef’s brief appearance by choosing the wrong time to use the bathroom, and it made me very sad. I won’t make that mistake twice.
At about 8 p.m. on Thursday, March 30, I was in a chartered shuttle bus traveling from one of the parking lots at UCLA to the residence at 10236 Charing Cross Road. We twisted and turned through the narrow, dark, tree-lined roads of the exclusive neighborhood for a few minutes. Then there was a gap between the trees through which I saw the distinctly Tudor architecture of a certain rooftop. I gasped in amazement. It was the Playboy Mansion.
We, the guests of a benefit party for the Marijuana Policy Project, stepped off the bus and were led through a doorway in an open-air wall on the Mansion grounds. On the other side was the swimming pool area, where a bar and a small stage for music and comedy had been set up. On each side of a very short staircase descending towards the pool stood a row of three or four gorgeous young women in black dresses. As each of us passed, they would say, “Welcome to the Playboy Mansion.” I studied their faces for a few seconds and, sure enough, I recognized them from their centerfolds. Playmates!
Finally seeing these icons in person was something like getting to see the dinosaurs for the first time in Jurassic Park (the friendly herbivores, mind you, not the predators). As a paleontologist catching his first glimpse of living dinosaurs, Sam Neill says, “They’re moving in herds. They do move in herds.” The moment held something of that Spielbergian sense of wonder for me.
I was fortunate enough to spend several minutes in conversation with Miss May 1998, Deanna Brooks, and later on with Miss November 2002, Serria Tawan. Brooks and I discussed the philosophical underpinnings of the sexual revolution. A self-described feminist, she objected to the frequent claim that her posing for Playboy was in any way anti-feminist. I’ve said essentially the same thing here. But we politely disagreed on whether people’s anxiety and awkwardness about sexuality are learned through social conditioning or at least partly inborn. I argue the latter.
During my chat with Tawan, a tall, leggy, cute black woman, I was reminded of the mixed blessings of being a sex symbol. A male party guest pinched her backside as he walked by. (I wouldn’t have known it had happened if she hadn’t told me.) Some men behave that way towards Playmates, she explained, because “they think we’re whores.” Playboy shows respect for women, but some guys don’t get the message. Don’t feel too sorry for Tawan, however; she can reportedly kick ass[not work-safe] when she needs to.
Tawan and I were soon joined by Libertarian (yay!) political candidate Edward Teyssier. “Your mission,” he told me, “is to find a libertarian Playmate,” since an endorsement of libertarianism by a Playmate would help the movement. If, by chance, any actual or aspiring Playboy models are reading this, I invite them to take this very short political quiz. They may be libertarian without knowing it.
Playmates at the party included Cassandra Lynn (Miss February 2006), Christine Smith (December 2005), Julie Cialini (1995 Playmate of the Year), Scarlett Keegan (September 2004), Jillian Grace (March 2005), Athena Lundberg (January 2006), Tina Jordan (March 2002), and Marketa Janska (July 2003). I think I probably saw Pilar Lastra (August 2004) and Julie McCullough (February 1986). (Several of the female guests, I might add, looked good enough to be Playmates.) Adam Carolla showed up. My fellow stoners might have recognized cultivation expert Ed Rosenthal, who wore a wizard costume with images of cannabis leaves sewn on it. Tommy Chong dropped by for a while, but, regrettably, I didn’t see him there. Worse yet, I didn’t see Hugh Hefner, even though he’s in one of the photos on the MPP page on the event. So near and yet so far! When I think of it, this makes my memory of the event somewhat bittersweet.
Party guests were not allowed inside the Mansion itself, but we had access to most of the grounds, through which the Playmates led tours. We saw the pens housing many animals, including birds, monkeys, and rabbits. We could play billiards, pinball, and video games for free in the game room. At one point, I wandered into a guest bedroom with mirrors covering two walls and the ceiling (wink). For the wild party capital of the world, though, much of the property has a surprising air of tranquility. When I wanted a break from the party, I could easily find peace and quiet in a garden path. Playboy often impresses me with this kind of balance of yin and yang.
Four hours was too short a time to spend in such a delightful place. Ask for my snapshots through the email link on my Blogger profile page, and I’ll gladly send them to you.
