Karl Klockars

There’s a short list of people I’d like to meet. Not like, go ahead and have beers and dinner and long conversations with them – just meet ‘em, shake their hand. Maybe get a picture. I just want the satisfaction of knowing that I’ve been in the presence of certain specific individuals, most of which have made a specific impact on the world.

Who are these people? Arnold Schwarzenegger, for one. Pam Anderson, because she’s the closest living thing we have to a Marilyn Monroe. I’d like to meet Howard Stern, and I’d like to meet Walter Kronkite or Dan Rather. Maybe even Bill Kurtis. He does great things with cattle. And someone who was on my list for a long time, I believe has been stricken from said list thanks to E! television, the bastards.

Sorry, Hef. You’re too old.

I always had Mr. Hefner near the top of the list. One of Chicago’s finest ex-pats, a pioneer in the sexual revolution, the man that did more for publishing and freedom and 1st Amendment rights than almost anyone else. The man who built an empire, who created hotels and nightclubs and cable networks, who did more for naked women than Eve did.

And now America can watch you on a near-nightly basis, thanks to the Girls Next Door being on what seems like 10 times a week on E! Entertainment Television. (It’s very hard to not feel stupid while typing “E!”) You and your bevy of Barbies who traipse around the country with their doddering old sugar daddy and have fun while you sit around and eat prunes.

It’s hard to watch you shuffle around these virile, plastic breasted dolls. We’ve grown up with the image of the dark-haired, suave Hef with the cad’s grin and the pipe, the life in pajamas and all the bunnies you could…well, eat. We knew the Hef of Chicago, the one that lived in the mansion on North State Street in the Gold Coast and lived the high life on the Mag Mile nightly.

You were the guy that held all the keys to get into the coolest places. You were the guy every guy wanted to be. You had all the girls, and the ones you didn’t have – at least you’d seen ‘em naked. You had everything a happening hip guy could want. You were frozen in time in the minds of millions of guys across the nation. You were the apex.

And then, after a while, came your Girls Next Door, to ruin that image. Thanks, Holly, Bridget, Kendra. What was the motivation for you? Was it a visibility thing? Maybe it was the fact that someone calls you “Puffin” as a pet name and you just thought America would find it cute.

Sorry, Hef. We’re all very glad that you’ve got your stable of ladies, even though you’re a million years old. Wait – no we’re not. I’m not glad at all. I’m sad that I have to adjust my mindset of the Awesomeness of Hef to fit the picture of this doddering old man who seems to enjoy his mashed potatoes more than mashin’ taters, if you take my meaning.

And I’m sure you do.

One of these things is not like the other.

Either that, or you’re a much healthier person, mentally, than I am. It’s been my experience that people of an older status tend to see everything as being far better when they were younger. I don’t know if this is because time lends perspective, if they’re fawning for their youth in general, or if they simply hate the present – age and all.

I myself already see it happening in my own head – for some reason, I have managed to decide that all music was better when I was in high school, including singles from Spacehog, Nada Surf, and Geggy Tah. Obviously, music has both been exemplary, and sucked, all throughout popular culture. Maybe I just don’t like Brooke Hogan.

Don’t look at my daughter, brother.

My advanced age of nearly 28 years has also lent the wisdom that says that everything is always broken, nothing ever gets fixed, and the world has pretty much sucked for a lot of people for a long time. I don’t know if this worldview will dim as time goes on, but I do pity my wife in about 40 years, having to put up with an old crank like me when I’m already a cantankerous bastard.

So, Hef, I turn it to you: Do you really like these girls? Oh, sure, I’m sure you like having their tight skin around, their buoyant figures – natural or purchased – and their still-young glee and exuberance, their casual attitude toward sexual congress, and their general lust for life.

But do you like being a walking nostalgia museum to them? Do you enjoy knowing that when they were born, you were already edging out of your true bachelor days? Is it refreshing to know while they were still being breastfed, you had already bought and sold the Playboy Building? Do they even know what Palmolive is, let alone know the name of the building that it reverted back to?

Maybe it’s nice to think that a guy like you can truly enjoy these kids 55 years younger than you. I don’t know how much you can enjoy talking about “bling” and having to explain every pre-80′s reference to them. Hell, I can’t stand dealing with 23-year-olds now, let alone trying to imagine it past retirement age. Yikes.

Is it good, Hef? Does it keep you young? Keep on keepin’ on, if it does. Good for you. I have nothing against your girls – I’m sure they’re all very nice, kind, beautiful souls underneath all the spray-tan and foundation. I wish them all very well – I’m sure they’ll never be in want of a job, as long as the hair and the skin stays well off.

Or is it just a trap, Hef? Are you caged by your own image, the need to present this look to the world, even when the rest of it is laughing at it through a TV screen? Do you ever want to hang out with a woman – emphasis on woman – that can talk about the Carter administration? That knows who Lawrence Welk was? Who remembers jazz?

Good for you, Hef. I can barely stand them for 22 minutes. Every day? All the time? And three of them? Every other guy on the planet may think it’s awesome. I’m pretty sure you and I know different. Even if you won’t admit it, even to yourself.