Via Rod Dreher comes this GQ article on Hugh Hefner's son Marston, who is preparing for his first semester at college. The article bears reading, I suppose, as a cultural artifact; there is, after all, a frozen-in-amber quality to the atmosphere at the Playboy Mansion, one that goes beyond the decor and special features, which have passed unchanged from hip to dated to retro. Decadence is rather monotonous. The real reason to read it, however, is the revelation of just how pathetic the lifestyle turns out to be in the end: Hugh cannot recall the age of his children in a photo, and requires talking points about Marston in order to get through the interview, and sounds a mighty blast from the trumpet upon rising from his couch, wearied by the effort of having to talk about his own son:
Sounding the trumpet valedictory for the Playboy philosophy, ah reckon.
About what it's worth, too. Things of inestimable importance fell by the wayside, and so the entire thing amounts to so much noxious vapor. What a loser.