Hire an out-of-work Bunny -- they gotta eat, too

Playboy Magazine and its founder Hugh Hefner have fallen on hard times, according to reports. Using the term ‘hard’ advisedly as applies to Hef, of course, considering the fact that he and John McCain’s dad were at school together. But, where there’s a will and extra-strength Viagra, who knows? He still has blondes and their assorted blonde clones under each arm, and wherever else I really don’t want to know about.

The reasons for the decline of a mag (and empire) – which was once described as a Midwest pastor’s idea of sin – are attributed to many causes, one of the most significant of which is the fact that the times (and smut) have changed in recent years. I mean, the average 14-year-old lad (and Playboy was designed to appeal to every male’s inner 14-year-old) can find more salacious naughtiness and downright disgustingness on the Internet. So, he doesn’t need to be looking for centrefolds of airbrushed models that look utterly unlike any female he is ever likely to meet, bed or wed. Personally, I think that is a very good thing. I like women to look like women, not manikins with silicone boobs and no discernible flaws.

We can combine the onslaught of technology with the economic times. Hey, everybody’s feeling the pinch. And finally, I think there is the boredom factor. I haven’t (quite honestly) perused a PB for years, possibly decades, and one of the reasons I began to refrain from scanning its pages (aside from the fact I’d gained a little maturity, not to mention real-life sexual and relationship experiences), is that it had become a thundering bore.

Why in heaven’s name would I want to subscribe to the so-called philosophy of a man who considered himself to be the epitome of sophistication, but who was really one of the most remarkably unsophisticated, even juvenile men to ever be in such a position of prominence? Sorry, Hef, but if you really were sophisticated you would be spending time with grownup women, not young females who only recently have learned to keep their nappies dry.

But, to be fair, we must put PB in the context of the time of its founding – the early to mid 1950s (that’s over half a century), which was an uptight, puritanical and indeed almost frighteningly unsophisticated time. So, to give credit where it is due, Hef brought along a ‘dirty’ magazine (and there were such things before his time) that wasn’t just boobs and bums, but also taught males about good jazz, good writers like Updike and Baldwin, fine wines, and conversation that rose above regaling the boys about your last hunting trip or how many brews you were able to consume before puking on your shoes.

He also gave us some of the absolutely best cartoons ever (second only to the New Yorker and Punch) in each issue, and printed interviews with notables that still stand the test of time.

I actually have a handful of PBs from the 1950s that I picked up at yard sales and the like. I’m hoping they’ll keep me in my dotage like when I’m as old as Hef. They must be worth something.

On another personal note, I went to high school with a girl who posed for PB. She was, I shall suggest politely, extremely handsomely endowed in the chest accoutrement area and, even though I didn’t personally know her, I had often wondered just what she would look like without her angora sweater. Then, one day, in PB, I found out. I also learned an important lesson about how once a mystery is gone the charm tends to diminish.

When all is said and done, I wish neither PB nor Hef any ill, and as long as there still seems to be a need, even if minor, for a kind of periodical icon, I hope it remains on the newsstands for those who need to be in touch with their inner 14-year-old.

Maybe I don’t. I hope I don’t. That’s because I was surprised when I read the article about PB’s hard times, that the thing even still existed. I somehow thought it had gone kaput years ago.