Originally published at: https://boingboing.net/2017/09/27/hugh-hefner-1926-2017.html
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Well, I can say this. His life’s work seemed great when I was 13. RIP.
As a buddy of mine said on seeing this news just a few moments ago: “thanks for the mammaries”
I wonder what we could each do, privately, to remember him?
If only there was something completely obvious. BRB, I’m going to go think about it.
Don’t forget to run the sink or shower, I hear you can read the articles all the way through that way and not get interrupted mid… sentence.
I only read this for the obituaries
Actually read the articles?
Definitely a mixed record, but his support for sexual and reproductive freedom and the First Amendment (both free expression and the Establishment Clause), his provision of a slick (hehe) magazine platform for thoughtful interviews and science fiction authors, and the joy he provided to tens of millions of adolescent boys (myself included) were enough to outweigh his objectification of women, his promotion of unrealistic airbrushed/Shooped beauty standards, and his reportedly creepy personal behaviour in his filthy (literally and figuratively) mansion.
Hef’s been planning this eventuality for some time. He bought the crypt next to Marilyn Monroe’s for $75k back in 1992.
I’m worried his pallbearers will hurt themselves carrying his casket while arching their backs.
Huh… I don’t feel any kind of way about this.
Mourning Wood, early tomorrow.
The coroner assures us he’s a stiff.
Funny thing about the airbrushing. I had access to a full set of scans of decades of playmates. The non-centerfold images were perfect scans of pristine medium format film. The centerfolds were a hazy mess of retouching. (Of course this doesn’t apply to the modern digital era.)
The point is- it was easy to see where it was done, and it was mostly not done at all.
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Within sight of Bettie Page’s, the cost of which he paid.
I wonder what Jessica R. would have to say to that article. The guy certainly left some traces in pop- as well as high culture.
I watched a documentary about him and remember a shot of him walking around his empty editorial office after hours, clad in his monogrammed dressing gown, monogrammed pajamas, and monogrammed slippers, with his monogrammed pipe clenched in his lantern jaw, holding up layouts for his steely-eyed approval; looking every inch the Randian Übermensch.
There was a later shot at the Playboy Mansion, with scantily clad young women partying with besuited , sweaty dweebs. It looked like a vision of hell.