Angel is the Centerfold
"I'm talking to a girl for the first time in seven years and you call and interrupt me?!?!"
It was an idignant Bob who answered the phone at some point on Saturday night at The Playboy Mansion. We were wondering where he was. These midwestern kids turned loose at the City of Angels' most exclusive address is cause for concern, especially when the drinks are free and an early tip of $20 means you are a "Platinum Member" in the eyes of the bartenders, who suddenly forget to include the "Coke" portion of your Jack and Coke. But Bob was doing just fine and I quickly answered his revelation with a "Goodbye!" I'm not a c-blocker and I am certainly not one to try to block a man widely rumored and thrice confirmed to be hard to handle in the 'c' area.
It was difficult not to whip out the cell phone and scroll through my numbers to find someone to call. "I'M AT THE PLAYBOY MANSION, SUCKO!" I handicapped my stored digits, trying to find who would MOST be put on tilt by receiving a call from me. Of course, the people who knew I was going probably saw the Caller ID and ignored it, while also cursing me for my luck, as well as my impeccable fashion sense. What? You don't want to talk about my clothes any more? Well, what the hell are we gonna talk about then? Oh yeah.
The clientele at the party, if you removed the celebrity and bunny factor, was roughly what you'd find at any LA party/nightclub on a Saturday night. But you CAN'T remove that factor. The thing that struck me about the women in attendance, the bunnies and those obviously affiliated with the mansion, was how much more innocent they look than your average LA siliconed wannabe starlet. The term I kept coming back to was "willowy." Thin, but not too thin, and effortless. They moved through the crowd with an easy confidence, without a trace of haughty arrogance. There's a Girl Next Door vibe to all of them, a freshness that contrasts with the typical "attitude" of beautiful women in this town. Each was imminently approachable (if you didn't swallow your tongue) and unfailingly nice. They were not the type of women where your mind screams "HAWT!" They're the type that make you mutter "Wow" in a voice approaching reverence, like stumbling upon a breathtaking painting in a museum. But they were human works of art and far from objecifying them, I could only admire their beauty. From afar, of course.
I did have two extended conversations with women there, one who hugged me like an old friend and was generous with compliments and another who promised to send me gifts. Of course, the former WAS an old friend, a woman with whom I graduated college. She's married to an actor who's got some solid poker chops, if his performance on Celebrity Poker Showdown is any indication. We talked about our kids and being a poker wife and while I was forced to mention my situation, I skirted the recentness of it. The other was a rep for a new poker video game (starring Amir Vahedi!) and she's gonna send me a PSP version.
So, no, I did not get my swerve on, not that it was any surprise to me and I think that people who say "swerve" have no shot with this group anyway. I'm not capable right now. Even with the blonde with the finely sculpted nose that was totally checking me (not Bob) out.
The 3 Hottest Non-Bunny-Outfitted Women of the Night
1. Shannon Elizabeth's friend. I hope somebody got a picture of this woman. Flawless skin, an inviting tangle of chestnut brown hair and a smile that could inspire nations. Pretty nice can, too.
2. The Latina waitress in the Poker Tent. Chad and I must have stared at her for a good twenty minutes. She didn't seem to mind. If memory serves, we may even have spoken to her. Nah, probably not.
3. The Katie Holmes look-alike girl at the schwag table. This list is useless without pics.
My favorite moment of the night was when Al, who had recently told us of heckling Daniel Negreanu from his limo (you're surprised Al found his way into a limo with Dannenman and Corkins? You don't know Al), only to have Negreanu walk by shortly thereafter. Al stopped his progress and engaged the Canadian, whose face, during the relatively brief conversation, slowly morphed from friendly to concerned to ouright fear. At the first pause, he skipped away as if ghosts were nipping at his heels, turning the rest of us into bent over blobs of laughter. I'm convinced this is why Mr. Hefner never made an appearance. The Al Can't Hang Experience is not for the faint of heart. Or the elderly.
I didn't take very good notes. Some things happened that I have only the slightest memory of and they tend not to make much sense when I put them down. So I think I'll just stop here and leave you with the one quote I think summed up the whole night, courtesy of Gavin Smith, who said the following upon arriving in the hotel lobby the next morning,
Does anybody know how I got home last night?