I went without shaving until about 5 this afternoon, thanks to various school projects that took me up to (and past) the starting time of my classes. It’s been a while since I’ve gone past 2 p.m. and forever since I’ve gone past 11 on a weekday, even with my no-morning class schedule. The experience made me feel very rugged. When the wind brushed the bristles on my face, I thought: This is the way to live. I could wrestle a grizzly bear and tame a cougar and roll the earth and spit fire. Grrrrrowll.
So, I say, bring on the grizzly bears. And my Norelco electric.
To Lyssa for signing the guestbook and sayin’ hey. Hey right back at ya. We’re going to start a guestbook-related tradition now. Sign my guestbook, and you get not only a mention in the Weblog but also get youself googled. Let’s catch up right now:
I got fed for free tonight, and you can’t beat that. Chicken and ribs in the party room at the Firehouse Grill in Evanston, along with salad, mashed potatoes and some terrific desserts. Medill’s New Media Department generously paid for the whole thing and invited all of the grad students to take part.
Now at this dinner, the food decision was difficult. Thought-provoking, if you will. Chicken or ribs? Beef was (part of) what’s (available) for dinner, but it took a tough man to make that tender chicken.
I went with the chicken because it was a large gathering of people, many of whom I had never met before. Chicken is a normal, public food, but ribs are an intimate food. Ribs should only be eaten among friends. Your friends have seen you messy before. They’ll keep on loving you, even as the barbeque sauce drips off your nose.
From an Associated Press story: “We are repositioning,” said Major Brian Hilferty at Bagram air base on the outskirts of Kabul, where the 400 withdrawn troops were taken by helicopter. “The major fighting of the battle is over.” But he added: “If I were an al Qaeda guy, I would not go out for a pizza. Operation Anaconda is not over.”
But consider the situation. The al Qaeda fighters are in the mountains of Afghanistan. They’re not quite sure where their leaders are. They’re getting bombed and shot at night and day by the world’s best military. They’re hiding in caves without much food or supplies. And, as if the situation weren’t bad enough already, it’s wintertime.
Honestly, if I’m an al Qaeda guy, that pizza’s sounding pretty good right about now.
Sir, before you think I was eavesdropping, please know that young men with cell phones are prone to projecting. And, sir, you’ve got a healthy set of chords. I was sorry to hear you probably won’t get into Northwestern like your friend Michael. At least you still have your job, whatever it is.
Sure, those mothers complained their children weren’t given anything to do at the party you were paid to organize, but you’ll hear no complaints from me. They were 8th graders! Just like you said, they should be able to entertain themselves. And it was good you told those 13-year-olds to stop pole dancing before they got you fired. You’re absolutely right: the mothers would have liked that even less.
You, sir, are one top-notch employee. Don’t let those mothers tell you otherwise.
Previously: the Playboy lobby and photo vault.
Next stop on the Playboy tour: photo studio. They shoot mostly products in the Chicago studio, and model shoots tend to happen in New York and Los Angeles. Why this is I don’t know. Possible factors:
- Nine months of cold temperatures.
- Wind that never stops blowing.
- Ugliness of the general population. (Nobody looks good on the 6th straight day of subzero windchills.)To answer the looming question, no, there were no models around. The Chicago office is not the Mansion. The last model to shoot in Chicago was Miss January 2002, according to our prof, and that shoot actually occured in October or November.
The Playboy studio was a large room with lots of lightning equipment and a stereo full of bad music. Outside the room was a kitchen area, possibly where the staff can eat their Wheaties or have a mid-shoot snack of milk and graham crackers. Also just outside the studio were clothes racks, from which various leopard skin things were hung that day, and various tables. On one table were various unmentionables, tossed in a pile. This mess was odd considering the last model was there four to five months earlier.
Maybe it’s the job of the next model to pick after past model. If so, I sure don’t want to be a Playboy model; as my mother and the floor of my room can attest, I struggle pick up after myself. (I’m getting better every day, really.) But to pick up after myself and a Playmate? That would be just too much.
The tour ended at this point, and our Magazine Editing class retired to a conference room to chat with young magazine staffers about starting a career in magazines. I sat below a newsstand-style installation holding the 100 or so most recent Playboy covers. (More specifically, I sat below the Go-Go’s Belinda Carlisle. That’s one way to promote your comeback album, I guess.) After our discussion with the staffers, class ended. We passed Christie Hefner’s office on the way out and waved goodbye.