Eat a Peach

Mom: What are YOU going to do at the Playboy Mansion?"
Me: Stand there with my mouth open.

Yes, it's true. After nearly 39 years on the planet and dozens of brushes with greatness--appearances on Scrabble and Greed, a 35-minute set on the stage of the Sunset Strip's own World Famous Whiskey-A-Go-Go, twenty seconds worth of B-roll on the KTVU evening news and minor internet celebrity status as The Divorcing Guy--I have hit the Big Time. I'm gonna hang out with Hef and bluff some playmates. Or, to put that last part another way, check-raise some Fun Bags.

I make no apologies for my good fortune. That sorta thing has been in short supply around Chez Speaker these days. In fact, very few people, at this point in history, are MORE deserving of a trip to Mansion. Maybe Jennifer Aniston. Maybe a few Make-a-Wish Foundation teenagers. But that's it.

So, I bet you want to know what I'm wearing. Oh, the fucking pressure. It has been relieved somewhat by the flurry of e-mails between--and betwixt--a half-dozen 30-something heterosexual males worrying over their wardrobe for the festivities. It's high comedy, I can assure you.

I'm tempted to "dance with the girl that brung me," the nice--but ratty in all the right places--jeans, big clumpy black shoes and a pressed, tailored, untucked vertical-striped dress shirt in a pleasing hue. It's a good look for me, what with the slenderness and the five-and-a-half feet of legs that make up my 6'1" frame. But this is the Playboy Mansion! It's not Tuesday night at TGiF's.

I went shopping, too. Duh. This being LA, a "Must Have" is a black leather jacket. And I have one. But I bought it before I got married. It's a stylish cut, but lately it's begun to take on the odor of a rest home. So I went looking for a jacket, perhaps to top my usual look. But I didn't want black leather. I wanted something different. Maybe something in a suede (hold the fringe, thank you). I failed in the suede department and ended up with a brown leather jacket. And now, three days later, I know I'm not wearing it to the Playboy Mansion. I still like it, though.

I also bought something that just caught my eye. I was at the outlet mall and wandered into Hugo Boss. I walked out with a form-fitting, light gray, faux turtleneck, ribbed sweater, or, as I like to call it, "The Adjective Sweater." It's a slim cut, so it accentuates my thinness. Usually, I hate that, but, for some reason, I get a good vibe off this particular model. All it takes is one Playmate to have a fetish for skinny brown guys and I'm gold.

So I think that's what I'm going with. The question now is do I pair it with the nice jeans or with slacks. I have two pairs of the latter that would work nicely, both flat-front, to further amplify my vertical lines (I honestly don't know what that means, but it sounds reasonable). One pair is black, the other charcoal gray. And while the sweater looks very good with the charcoal gray (based on all the eye contact action I got on the train when I wore the ensemble on Monday morning), I'm thinking it's a bit dressy, a bit "He's trying too hard."

Boy, who knew I could turn such a macho thing as a trip to the Playboy Mansion into Ubergeigh Central?

This thing came about unexpectedly and we were all lucky enough to have already planned to be in Vegas this weekend, a weekend originally conceived as a way to get me the hell out of Dodge, one planned during the height of The Troubles. I'd like to think the kind and supportive souls who spent their good money on airplane fares to cheer up a pitiful friend have been rewarded with this little adventure. I'd also like to think that telling my story on Saturday night might convince one (or more than one) drunk and empathetic Playmate to offer up a Mercy Romp. I'd like to think a Playmate exists who knows what "empathetic" means.

I've spent enough time in and around this city to know what happens when I talk to beautiful stupid women (and yes, I'm making certain assumptions here based on the way Playmates are presented in the mass media, including, but not limited to reality shows and morning radio programs). What happens is they either laugh at inappropriate spots in the conversation, a sure sign they are either not listening to me or don't understand what I'm saying, or they stare at me with a look suggesting a coma. I have a good friend who has never, in her entire life, had an ugly female friend. While she's a college-educated, professional woman, all her friends are part of the nebulous model/actress/Coors Light Girl/Ring Card Girl sub-culture that exists in this empty city. And, without fail, they're all idiots. Beautiful, vacuous vessels who tend to smile at me like I'm an irrelevant child or an inconsequential house pet. Every attempt to set me up with one of these dingbats has met with disaster. One even said she couldn't date me because I was smarter than she was, whereupon I had to resist the urge to inform her if that's her idea of a deal breaker, she's reduced her potential pool to a miniscule percentage of the population.

Just thought I'd help the rest of ya out with the whole "insecurities" thing.

That said, I'm gonna get trashed and make lewd comments at every opportunity. I'll make sure to use multi-syllabic words so the Bunnies don't catch on. I'm also gonna give Al a dollar every time he introduces himself as Duane Allman.