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Playboy After Dawn
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A bike lunch at the Playboy Mansion
Mike Schulte
08/01/2007
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Illustration By Philippe Lechien
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Swiping Playboy magazines from
the corner grocery store granted instant access to the mysteries of adulthood
for an inquisitive teenager in the ’70s. The Playboy Mansion loomed in my
adolescent imagination like a gothic romper room, teeming with tri-fold beauties
whose Scotch-taped centerfolds were frequently ripped from my bedroom walls by
my horrified mother. When asked recently to cover a bike launch at the infamous
estate, I accepted without hesitation. "It starts at 10 a.m.," my editor
advised. "They’ll send a car at eight."
Does the Playboy Mansion even have a 10 a.m.? In my fantasy,
I’d be leaving the Mansion at 10 a.m.; reality is a Town Car in your driveway at
7:45.
 Across town, I’m transferred to the rolling cocaine flashback
that is the Playboy limo, already packed with groggy colleagues. Fiber-optic
bunny logos and leopard print trim establish the retro-Caligulan theme.
Tasteless jokes involving Luminol consume the en route conversation. (Click image to enlarge)
After a delay at the front gate (the famous talking rock had
evidently overslept), a pair of fresh-faced Bunnies greets us at the familiar
stone edifice. In the lovely and capable hands of Miss May 1998, my group of
haggard moto-scribes is whisked off for a tour of the grounds, beginning with
the epicenter of the Mansion’s infamy, the grotto.
I’m not exactly sure what I expected; murky scenes of
degenerate hedonism, perhaps. Even a semi-conscious Bill Maher would have been
nice. The grotto, to my dismay, is scrubbed spotless and arrayed with scented
candles and potted plants. This is not the lurid, steamy grotto of my childhood
imagination. This is the orthopedic Jacuzzi of my mother’s retirement community
spa.
As we move along through the topiary, workmen in green overalls
bag trash and fire up leaf-blowers. Visiting the Playboy Mansion in the a.m. is
like hitting Bourbon Street on Ash Wednesday. You get the distinct impression
that you’re about 12 hours too late. It’s all maintenance and disinfectant.
The Mansion’s zoo requires no map to locate. Primeval shrieks
gnaw at your ears while a blend of exotic fecal odors snakes its way up your
nostrils. We arrive at a large cage filled with agitated, leaping spider
monkeys. Miss 5/98 opens the door and cordially invites us inside to hand-feed
grapes to the bug-eyed, chattering abnormalities. It is amazing what a gorgeous
woman in fuzzy pink aerials and a cottontail can persuade reasonably intelligent
men to do.
One by one we file into the cage as the increasingly hysterical
swarm descends to pluck grapes from our hands and retreat to higher ground. The
hazards of being gravitationally disadvantaged by grape-addled spider monkeys
with epileptic sphincters swiftly become apparent. I am the first one out of the
cage.
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