52 books—Hefner

Who thought this was a good idea for a book cover?

That was my first thought on coming upon this paperback in a Powell River used book store last summer.

(The cover folds out, btw, to reveal even more Hugh Hefner and fluffy-tailed cherubs.)

I bought it on a whim; I’d never heard of this particular volume, although I knew (if I’d thought about it) there had to be at least one or two biographies of the king of the Playboy empire.

Anyway, last week I finally pulled it down from the Shelf of Books Bought and Which I’ve Been Meaning to Read (which is actually several shelves). It was a quick read – I burned through its 250 pages lickety-split, in three days.

The first half is low on titillation and heavy on Hefner’s Early Days of Struggle, his resourcefulness  and the 1950s publishing industry. As a wannabe publisher myself,  I found this part of the book fascinating. I especially appreciated the portrait of Hefner as a publisher; he didn’t set out to put together what would become the world’s best-known girly magazine, at least at first. His prime directive was to become a publisher, period. That he ended up buying that famous nude Marilyn Monroe calendar photo (the first brick in the making of Playboy) was just the result of a series of (happy?) accidents.

The second half of Hefner is a little less interesting. The author, Frank Brady, was a Playboy magazine editor and had access to Hefner, the Playboy offices and the Chicago mansion, it seems, but is obviously constrained by some remaining loyalties as well as timing. When this book was published, in 1974, Playboy was still more or less in its infancy – reality TV, Pamela Anderson and so much more still in its future — or at least, adolescence.

In this section, Brady’s description of the mansion, and how Hefner squirreled himself away in a publisher’s equivalent of a panic room (i.e. a luxuriously appointed one) for nearly a decade, reads like something out of every introspective teenage boy’s dream – imagine a room you never had to leave, where every want and desire is fulfilled and you control an empire from your bed.

However, the stuff about Playboy’s legal battles and former Playboy employees’ sour grapes is just not all that compelling. I guess there’s only so much you can do when the story you set out to tell is nowhere near complete. Hefner was published in 1974, while the magazine was still good, Jimmy Carter wasn’t yet in the White House and Hefner had just moved to his Los Angeles mansion.

It’s never clear, either, just how much of the quotes Brady uses are from interviews he conducted with Hefner, or were overheard in other contexts. Some notes about sources would definitely go towards the book’s credibility. (Coincidentally, or not, I also recently had problems about the lack of credible sources in Teresa Carpenter‘s wretched piece of yellow journalism about murdered Vancouver Playmate Dorothy Stratten, which I touch on here.)

Also it’s never quite clear, outside of the money (which may have been substantial), why Brady wrote the book. It’s neither a hagiography or a hatchet-job. The author seems mostly fair to his subject, although he does slip into a slightly hectoring and judgmental tone now and then. His feelings about his (former) boss are obviously a complicated mix of admiration, envy, loyalty, and a desire to distance himself from the whole thing.

Hefner is by no means the last word on its subject. But, with its mid-70s insider’s perspective into an unparalleled publishing phenomenon, it’s a start.

It’s always 1990 somewhere – Jane’s Addiction at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre

Jane’s Addiction at Queen Elizabeth Theatre, Vancouver, Aug 31 2012.

Bottles of tequila, bondage girls in ball-gags, shirtless dudes with pierced nipples – it’s always 1990 somewhere, I suppose.

At least, that’s how it felt last night at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre for Jane’s Addiction. When was the last time you saw a shirtless dude (well, who wasn’t a drummer) onstage? Last night we got two of them – guitarist Dave Navarro and singer Perry Farrell. And when was the last time, outside of a Motley Crue concert perhaps, you saw the fairer sex used onstage as unashamedly as were the two ladies last night, who for one song were paraded around wearing ball-gags?

(How quintessentially ’90s is this:  according to the Jane’s Addiction Wiki entry, during the first Lollapalooza tour – Farrell practically invented Lollapalooza, if you recall – the band frequently covered Sly and the Family Stone‘s “Don’t Call Me Nigger, Whitey”  with Ice-T and Body Count.)

The audience, which stood for the whole show, seemed quite delighted to be transported back in time, to when life held such promise that you, too, could imagine yourself shirtless onstage between two bondage queens. Or maybe that’s just me. But then life happens and you spend your time thinking about real estate.

Random thoughts during the show: recalling the first time I heard the band’s debut Nothing’s Shocking, specifically the song “Standing in the Shower… Thinking”, back in 1989 and immediately wanting to hear it again and again, the song blasting in a car full of guys driving down Davie Street; seeing the band (I think) with the Pixies at the Forum at the PNE, remembering nothing beyond that; wondering what happened to them after the Ritual de lo Habitual (1990) album; wondering about Perry Farrell’s sex life; wondering about Perry Farrell’s heroin addiction (although he was all about snowboarding and Whistler last night  - unless those terms are just euphemisms); wondering if Perry Farrell shaves his ‘pits; trying to recall some of Dave Navarro’s girlfriends (Tila Tequila is one); wondering if Dave Navarro ever wears a shirt; hoping the bottle of tequila (probably Dobel – the tequila maker is sponsoring free downloads of the latest Jane’s Addiction album IF you have a U.S. IP address) Farrell passed into the crowd would come my way, and also that some thoughtful citizen would pass along one of the many joints in our immediate vicinity (didn’t happen. We must still be in a recession).

“Jane Says” (acoustic), “Summertime Rolls” (last song, a sweet reminder and end-of-summer sayonara), “Three Days”, ”Been Caught Stealing” – the highlights were the songs we wanted to hear, of course.

After the show, my friend Will, who had brought me, said the woman he had been standing next to, who had been so enthusiastic at the start – it was her birthday – had left the show with her friends just past the halfway mark. She’d gotten a swig from that bottle of tequila, which disappeared into the crowd before I could get it. Well, she deserved it more than I did; not only was it her birthday but, according to what she’d told Will, she hadn’t been out in 10 years because she’d been staying home to take care of her terminally ill son.

Well, I hope she enjoyed what she saw.

Burning Man 2009 part IV

Burning Man 2009 last night.

Burning Man 2009 part 4 – story and photos

- by Shawn Conner

Day 5: Waiting for the Oracle

I was standing in line for the oracle when I got involved in a rather serious conversation.

Now, normally, verbal exchanges at Burning Man are pretty basic: “First time/Where you from/How’s your Burn”-kind of thing. Which is fine, as far as it goes, but sometimes you want to have a more substantial give-and-take.

Well, some people might. I didn’t, but I got one anyway.

A bunch of us were in line for a camp offering massages, foot washes,  and oracular personality readings. I forget how it came about, but I soon found myself in a debate about whether or not (drug) addiction is a disease. Lulu, a Brooklynite, was standing in line with her friend Katie, who I might have been talking with about drugs (which were very much on my mind, probably because I hadn’t been able to find any). Lulu joined in, saying she was a few years sober, that she’d been an addict and that she does indeed think drug addiction is a disease.

This went on for a bit, with me doing a fair bit of backtracking since I really didn’t have any facts to back up my argument. But then Lulu  apologized for being defensive. After entering the tent, me to my foot massage and wash, she to her oracle reading, we went our separate ways, not expecting to see each other again.

That’s the way it is at Burning Man – you can make a plan, but before you know it you’re on an art-car shaped like a pirate ship driving across the playa, not knowing where you’ll be next. Plans are what you make while Burning Man happens.

But, as part of my “Healing Friday”, I did have something like a schedule. I needed a hair-wash and a bath, and the only way of getting the latter, at least that I’d heard about, was the Human Carcass Wash. In another camp near the one offering the HCW, the Astral Headwash sounded even more promising. I needed a hair-wash almost as much as I need Diablo Cody to add me on Twitter.

What the Human Carcass Wash is, basically, is a human car wash, i.e. an assembly line. To earn your wash, you have to help wash others. There are four stations, which are basically tubs with four people each. At the first tub, four people spritz you down with spray bottles of water and soap; at the next, four people use their (bare) hands to wipe off the soapy water; at the next, four people spritz you with just water, and finally four more people wipe off the last of the H2O. And yes, most if not all participants get naked. When it comes to the genitals, the washers ask the washee about their boundaries. Most of the people I helped wash said they’d take care of their own privates, but at least one guy was pretty gung ho about giving the scrubbers carte blanche. (No, it wasn’t me.)

I arrived for the two o’clock start time, and was one of the first to volunteer—I’d left my name for the hair-wash, and didn’t want to miss the appointment.

I must say, I don’t think the Human Carcass Wash is something I would want to make a regular practice of. Not only did I have to touch some human flesh I didn’t want to touch, but I also didn’t feel very clean afterwards. However, the Astral Headwash was, like the totally awesome foot massage/wash earlier in the day, exactly what I needed.

The Last Day

One thing led to another Saturday morning, and I found myself at the Temple.

The rest of the previous evening I’d spent wandering the camp, chilling in the jazz tent and, closer to our camp, the ritzy and glam Ashram Galactica, a sumptuous tent set up, from what I heard, by an L.A. crew. But really, I was just waiting for the Man to do his Burning at that point.

But when I awoke Saturday morning that was still hours away. At the suggestion of a holistic healer I met while riding around on my bike, I headed back onto the playa. “For a lot of people, the burning of the Temple is more intense than the burning of the Man,” she told me.

I’d been to the Temple once already, a couple of days before. I don’t remember if all the writing, posters, collages and notes had been there that first time. But visiting it this second time I was struck by the outpouring of emotion that was all around. It seemed every square inch of wood – and there was a lot of it – had been covered by people in pain, people who regretted things they’d done or the way they’d treated someone, people who didn’t understand why their lover had grown cold or why someone had to be taken from them. The palpable feeling of pain, of grief, was overwhelming.

For me, it was summed up by this collage:

Suddenly I heard, “Hey, Holy Fuck.” (I was wearing a T-shirt with those words on it.)

It was Lulu – or Meredith, she corrected me: “Lulu” was her playa nickname. Before long we were adding the names of our own loved ones to the thousands already scrawled and written around us. I hadn’t wanted to, but I ended up describing my mixed feelings about Burning Man, and how I had come expecting to party and instead found myself facing some uncomfortable truths about who I was, what I wanted, and all that kind of squirmy stuff I used to pay a therapist to dredge up. It was a conversation I hadn’t wanted to have, but, like the foot-massage and hair-wash, was one that I needed.

Meredith’s bike at Burning Man 2009.

Meredith had to go then, she had volunteered for a shift at centre camp’s coffee bar; she suggested I come by later, but when I did I couldn’t find her. But that’s Black Rock City for you.

That night I watched the Man burn. After, I went back to camp, slept a solid five hours, woke up at dawn, and drove the hell out of Black Rock City.

Related posts:

Burning Man 2009 – Breakdown in Black Rock Pt I

Burning Man 2009 – Breakdown in Black Rock Pt II

Burning Man 2009 – Breakdown in Black Rock Pt III

Burning Man index

Sex and music, a guide

Let’s get it on – a guide to hump music

- by Michael Kissinger

For centuries, humankind has wrestled with the daunting task of selecting music to hump to.

Not only can the right music take your mind off things, put you in the mood and add a little rhythm to the give’n, it can transform the average plumber into a master craftsmen.

Although music is merely a tool, it’s a tool that should be operated with care. Too often, one’s choice of hump music is hampered by poor judgment, brazen recklessness or, worse, indifference…

(Want to know which songs made Michael Kissinger‘s hump music playlist? Read his full hump music guide)