street walking

I’m sitting here watching an episode of Columbo… not just any episode, but one directed by Patrick McGoohan… that Tivo recorded for me while I was at work. I’ve got my dog curled up at my feet, a fire in the fireplace and a bowl of guacamole at my side. As far as I know, I am presently free of any life-threatening illness. As I’m sitting here, thinking about all this stuff, I realize that I’m pretty damned lucky and I have a lot to be thankful for. As much as I bitch and complain, both here and in ‘real’ life, I really am thankful.

Now, let me tell you a story about the nude dancer I met last night.

I talked with a nude dancer last night. She was wearing clothes at the time, and I was walking my dog to the mailbox, killing two birds with one stone. Paying bills and emptying dog bowels. As it happens, the mailbox I decided to go to was the one in front of the all-nude place off of Michigan Avenue. As I was making my way away from the mailbox, after dropping my letters in, a woman came out of the club. We had walked half a block in the direction of her car and my house when she started talking to me.

She was nice. We talked about my dog, Freeda. The woman tried to pet Freeda but she (the dog) went ape-shit and started lunging from side to side and sniffing at her (the stripper’s) legs. I just kept walking, dragging the dog along with me. I think I made some kind of excuse about Freeda’s behavior. I wanted to say, “She must be able to smell the pole on you,” but I opted instead for, “She’s just a puppy.”

Oh, I should add that this woman was ugly and had an enormous ass. Not enormous by Michigan standards (which are quite ambitious), but enormous by what I thought stripper standards would be.

We only walked together for a block. It wasn’t the highlight of my life or anything, but I thought that I should mention it.

As it was about 6:00, she must have been working the day shift. My guess is that the ugly girls with big asses work the day shift.

man positioned to take over for hef
I had a chance last night, after coming home from the bar (where we saw bands play), to flip through the new issue of “Playboy,” the one Chip sent me from Chicago. Chip, as you may know is, among other things, the “Playboy Advisor.” He’s the guy you send your questions to about topics ranging from excessive testicle smell to the price of golf clubs.

I just went to his Playboy Advisor site to make sure that I wasn’t exaggerating as to the range of questions he fields. I wasn’t. Following are the first three letters I came across when searching through them randomly.

1. Back in the early Seventies, I thought the greatest piece of stereo equipment ever made was an egg-shaped fiberglass chair with speakers mounted inside its padded interior. It was like being inside a pair of headphones. Does anybody still make these hi-fi wombs?

2. It used to be that the bottom of a man’s tie would touch the top of his belt buckle. I’m noticing more guys wearing ties that cover half their flies. What’s happening?

3. I’ve been seeing my girlfriend for six months. Until three weeks ago, she was a virgin. I had had sexual intercourse three times previously (with one person). Now for my problem/question. My girlfriend’s vagina is very small and tight…

You couldn’t make that shit up.

Back to the new issue of “Playboy,” I haven’t read any of it, but I made the time to jog through it looking for the nude photos of Clint Eastwood’s daughter. “It’s good,” it occurs to me in the process, “to have friends that are waist-deep in the skin trade.”

I really need to expand my network in that area. (If you write for “Hustler” or “Swank” send me an e-mail.)

Well, as I flipped through this copy of “Playboy” I was struck by how little it had changed since I’d last seen one, a dozen or so years ago. The women looked the same. Their hair was even the same, in spite of the passage of time.

I’ve read that “Penthouse,” when they retooled their format, introduced penetration and pissing. (I read that in the New York Times.) Like everything from soda pop to potato chips to reality TV, they apparently decided to go EXTREME! Well, “Playboy,” I suppose it’s comforting to know, doesn’t seem to have headed down that same path. “Penthouse,” the last I heard (also in the New York Times) was headed toward bankruptcy. The gamble didn’t pay off like they’d hoped.

Chip used to publish a zine called “Chip’s Closet Cleaner.” He doesn’t do it anymore. Last night as I sat there looking through this free copy of “Playboy,” I had a revelation. The more I flipped through it, the more I saw Chip in it. He’s not only got the Playboy Advisor column, but he’s also got a few other articles… My revelation is this; “Playboy” has become Chip’s zine. He’s taken it over and, by doing so, has achieved every young male zinester’s dream. He’s got a zine with a color cover, paid subscribers and naked women.

There’s your hero, underground press.

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