We went to the playboy mansion.

I cannot recount stories of steaming grotto liasons. I know know accounts of bacchanalian antics performed by bona-fide a-list names. I have no choice nugget of dirt or even wisdom to share vis-a-vis a recent trip the gang made to that infamous castle occupied by one of the great print enterpreneurs of the last century. The party we went to was not quite the breasts and booze fueled rager that one might have expected, but it certainly had its moments (Three “new kids” of the “on the block” variety were in attendance, one of which was in leather chaps as well as rare form). There was also a birthday tribute acoustic two-fer by courtney love. The only bunny in the building was on the arm of the host, and the single among us reasonably deemed her off limits.

So. No playboy mansion orgies this time. Sorry.

I can say this: the place is ready for such behavior. The ‘game room’ (which served as the DJ dressing room, lucky for us) is equipped with numerous hotel style bedrooms with, let’s say a minimalist approach to furnishing: Each containing one bed, four walls (mirrored), one telephone (rotary), and a generous supply of industrial grade paper towels. Just the essentials right? There was however, one room in this wing with no bed, but plenty of sitting pillows. Puzzled, i stepped into the room, wondering how uncomfortable it must be to wildly fornicate atop red shag carpet. As my foot stepped into the middle of the room, it sank. The floor was padded, a faux floor with a bed in it! What a strange and wonderful mansion.

I fear doom for the printed-periodicals-for-pleasure industry. And my visit here made me think the chilling and terrible thought that the nerdy dot com starters of the future may lack the vision and capacity for indulgence that old Hugh Hefner has blessed his neighborhood with. I say to them two things, million- and billionaires yet to become: 1) see no limits, and 2) have us over sometime to check the place out.