As the world mourns the passing of the ultimate suave and debonair swinger, Mr. Hugh Hefner, it's important to somehow make a personal connection, don't you think? If I didn't find a way into this story, what's the point of my existence? Why am I here on this earth other than to kvetch, enable various loved ones, both canine and human, and make kugel? You see my dilemma. So, do I have a way into the story of Hugh's legacy, or not? Well, duh. Anyone who grew up in a little town called Westwood knew where the Playboy Mansion was located: just around the corner from Holmby Park, a favorite childhood hang. In fact, any tour bus, anyone with a set of wheels, could drive by the gated Mansion and openly gawk.
But could just anyone go inside? If you were me, the answer is, yes. But how did I do it? How did I get my invite to the Playboy Mansion, not once, but twice? I'm so glad you asked. In 1983, back when I was a freelancer for magazines and newspapers, a publicist asked if I wanted to meet the people behind a book called "The Red Couch," and interview them at the Playboy Mansion. I mulled it over for exactly two seconds, and said, "Hell, yes," and got the L.A. Times on board. That's just how the SJG rolled back in the '80s.
So I went to the Mansion, which looked exactly like I'd expected, with the dark paneling and everything, and interviewed Kevin Clarke and Horst Wackerbarth, the photographers who schlepped the same red couch all over America, placed it in unlikely locales and turned into an unconventional coffee table book. By phone, I interviewed William Least Heat Moon, who wrote the captions. At one point, Hugh Hefner, in his signature smoking jacket and silk PJs, walked by the den and said hello. The whole experience was pretty surreal. That night, in a cute dress I'd bought for the occasion, I returned to the Playboy Mansion with hubby as my plus one, for a swanky cocktail party, where the photos from the book, and the red couch itself, were on display, along with the Bunnies and the celebrities and Hugh Hefner in the same smoking jacket and the infamous Grotto in the backyard. We walked around sipping cocktails, acting cool, pretending we belonged. I was 25 and thought I'd arrived.
Did I ever go back to the mansion and hang out with the iconic Hugh, may he rest in peace next to Marilyn Monroe?
No. But sometimes, you don't want to overstay your welcome.
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