Friends, this is a reprint of an article I did August 25, 2017 at Daily Kos. PolitiZoom wasn’t in the world yet, she wasn’t even a gleam in her developer’s eye. I had been blogging less than a year. The following month, September, I would be offered a job on a percentage basis at a site then called The Trump Impeachment, later to be retitled Daily Sound and Fury and slide down the tubes under incompetent management.
I received my first paycheck, a stellar $161.74 in October. I was thrilled. I called or emailed everybody I knew and said, “I’m a professional writer.” But the day I did this piece, I didn’t know what the future held. I was just telling a story.
This was published under the title: “Playboy’s Cooper Hefner: “There’s A Personal Embarrassment Trump Has Been On Our Cover.”
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Donald Trump used to work for Playboy. His most publicized gig was a cameo in a 2000 soft core porno extravanza, “Centerfold.” The Hill:
Donald Trump made a brief appearance in a Playboy softcore porn film in 2000, BuzzFeed reported.
Trump’s role in the start of the video consists of him, over a caption that reads “entrepreneur,” saying “Beauty is beauty, and let’s see what happens with New York.”
He then pops a bottle of champagne and pours it over a Playboy bunny logo on a limo with women surrounding him.
Playboy is now going under the management of Cooper Hefner, oldest son of nonagenarian Hugh Hefner. He chatted recently about business and politics, including Trump. The Hollywood Reporter:
Cooper is quick to mark distance from his dad’s notorious womanizing, but the two share many similarities, including deeply felt progressive politics. Cooper has thought of running for office but believes his affiliation with an adult entertainment company would likely render him unelectable. And both have a strong affinity for the armed forces. (Hugh served two years in the U.S. Army toward the end of World War II.) “I’m a liberal, and I have a real issue with the conservative side feeling like they own the military,” says Cooper, who joined the California State Military Reserve in January. […]
It’s what hasn’t changed, though, that Cooper sees as his opening. He observes that the country has been reverting to a reactionary cultural conservatism remarkable in its similarity to the Eisenhower years when Playboy was founded. (President Trump is widely known to have venerated Hugh, but the feeling isn’t mutual: “We don’t respect the guy,” says Cooper. “There’s a personal embarrassment because Trump is somebody who has been on our cover.”)
Donald Trump isn’t the only one who used to work for Playboy. So did I. The year was 1983. Cell phones had not been invented, and even the computer revolution was just gearing up. In late ’84 I would see a computer monitor on my desk for the first time, but in ’83 it was still typewriters, at least at Playboy Enterprises, which was known for its liberal views on many things, but not in the area of spending, I assure you.
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A friend of mine worked there as a secretary, making peanuts, and when I asked her about it she said that she was hoping that the job “would work into something.” “Betting on the come?” said I, cynically. (A phrase meaning hoping that “dues paying” will in fact pay off if one is patient.) I was cynical, but also was not quite ready to leave the entertainment business. That would happen the following year but for the moment I was “between layoffs,” as I quipped, little knowing just how right I was, and so when my friend said there was a three month maternity leave secretarial position open at Playboy, I said fine, nobody’s beating down my door, might as well have 12 weeks of planned pay rather than none, which is what I had the day that phone call came; and $18.23 in the bank.
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So I showed up bright and early the next Monday morning and reported to the secretary to the Head of Creative Affairs, as I was told to do. She greeted me warmly and we chatted. She said, “When I saw your resume I thought that it was a mistake to hire you. Now that I’ve met you, I know it.” I was a bit taken aback. “Why?” I said. “Because you’ve had much more interesting positions, not to mention better paid. This is going to be slumming for you.” I told her that I appreciated her concern and quite a bit more than that, her honesty and I assured her, “Look, this is all I have on the books for right now, and it will be fine. If it’s not fine, you’ll be the first person I talk to.”
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I will say, that my boss, the Head of Public Relations, thought that I was a bit over-qualified as well, although he told me that he was delighted to have somebody bright and with a college education on board and he would “try to make things interesting for me.” He was good to his word, taking me out to the Playboy Mansion to show me around.
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The Mansion, if you have never seen pictures of it, is quite amazing. The house is “Gothic Tudor” located on five acres in Holmby Hills, a very exclusive and private wooded area of Los Angeles. When you approach the gate from the narrow driveway, you stop in front of a rock and talk to it. Everybody goes through this sham routine of looking down at the rock, even though it’s quite well known that there are video cameras above in the trees, which can see the driver and the passenger perfectly. But everybody went through the motions, including my boss, who said to the rock when the rock asked his identity, “This is Dan Rottner (not his real name) and I have a passenger with me, a young woman named Ursula.” The rock bade him enter and on we went, up a winding driveway. The panorama entering that place as the gate swung wide was spectacular. I had never seen places growing up like some of the ones I saw in Los Angeles, and I had never seen a place like this, even in Los Angeles until that night. I grew up in Denver and yes they had nice houses in Cherry Creek where the rich people lived, but nothing like this. The lyrics to a song started through my mind, “I dreamed that I was in a Hollywood movie. I dreamed that I was the star of the movie. There I was, taken to a place, the hall of the mountain kings…”
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So we drove up, parked the car and went in. The foyer itself was stunning. It looked like something out of a castle, all wood panelled. The ceilings were very high, at least eighteen feet high, I’m guessing. There was a long row of French windows and doors leading out to the olympic sized pool. It was early evening so the pool and gardens were lit up and with the gentle breeze wafting the scent of gardenia, a harvest moon over the hills and the palm trees reflecting in the water, as gentle laughter and tinkling glass could be heard, it was Paradise in Southern California, I’ll tell you that much. I got a tour of the whole place, including upstairs where Hefner’s bedroom was. The door to the bedroom was open and Hefner was standing there, holding his pipe and looking somewhat surprised and not at all pleased that Dan had come upstairs with a stranger and him not knowing. I quickly looked away when his expression registered on me, but not before seeing that he had on lime green colored silk pajamas and a deep green velour robe. Beautiful bedwear; I commended him mentally for having exquisite taste. A lot of people with money have zero taste, but we won’t go there right now.
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The tour continued and we went outside to the grotto, which was something out of a science fiction movie. The grotto is more an experience than an actual location, which describes Playboy Mansion West generally. The grotto was a man made cave of gurgling water, framed with rocks, lit by blue grey green lights, and shadows played on the curved rock walls intriguingly. It was steamy as hell and I suppose would be a great place to initiate some sort of conjugal activity but I surely wouldn’t attempt to consummate it in that heat. That’s just me. We journeyed onward to the “Game Room,” which is actually several rooms in a small house. There were pinball machines, foosball machines, whatever games were available in arcades at that time were all there, I was told. And an old style Coke machine and candy machine were there more for versimilitude, I suspected, than because anybody needed or wanted them.
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We went into a small room which was very interesting. I was asked to take off my shoes, and when I stepped over the door jamb my foot sank down at least seven or eight inches. The floor of the room was padded thusly, like a big mattress, and the walls were padded as well. A little black and white TV (or perhaps it was a wall monitor?) was inset into one wall and stereo speakers were set up high. If anyone ever needed to go insane at Playboy Mansion West they would do well to do it here. I found myself fantasizing that Hefner probably came here, alone, on April 15th and such, and bounced off his own walls, but I never could get anybody to corroborate this theory of mine.
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Hef (as everyone called him and was encouraged to call him, including the serfs) had a loyal crew around him and I came to understand why. He was an okay gent. I gathered this impression of him from two instances: The first was when he wanted theater tickets for “The Golden Girls,” which was a stage version of an old Lana Turner movie, I believe. In all events, the show in Century City had been sold out for months. but Hef wanted tickets for that very night, and so Dan Rottner and I dropped everything to get him tickets. We were a Harvard MBA and a journalism school grad, respectively, and we both became boiler room workers that day, frantically dialing a phone hour after hour. We called all over town, all over the state, tried calling in favors, begging, we were willing to trade, borrow and happily would have stolen given an opportunity. We tried and we tried and finally Dan called Hef and he was quite cool about it. He didn’t berate Dan or me, question our efforts, no histrionics, he just accepted his fate that alas and alack if he wanted tickets his only option was to drive to the theater and see if a scalper out front could sell him some and that would have been a photo op in and of itself, Hef with his entourage of bunnies hunting down a scalper in front of the Schubert, in the limo. That would have been a hoot.
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The second time Hef impressed me was when my boss finally had it with the photo copier which was apparently engineered to jam at precisely the most inopportune moment. Dan unplugged it and wheeled it into the men’s room; where he rolled it against a stall, told it that it was now in its proper element and could stay there until it was a rusted heap, he hoped, and stormed off to the elevator to find a more obliging copier on another floor. Hef heard about the incident and said, “That’s the most creative thing that’s happened in that building in years.” So I decided I liked the guy. If he had paid his people more, (or bought a copier that worked) I would have liked him a great deal more, but nobody’s perfect, right? And Hef had parties to throw and bunnies to feed, so how could he pay worker bees? In all fairness to Hef, the other magnanimous cheap skates in town were Dick Clark Enterprises and Walt Disney. They have the big names and those names look good on a resume and ain’t it a shame they don’t cut any ice over at Ralphs Market?
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So my big night came when I was told that I was going to “work an affair at the Mansion” which translated as helping out with a party. I wasn’t paid for this, I might add. It was considered pay enough to be invited to the mansion and get to look at all the beautiful people. What the hell, I was game. And I didn’t have a big work load, I was supposed to sit in the foyer, with a guest list, and check off people as they came in. So I went shopping for a dress and found one on the clearance rack. There was just the one and it must have been destined for me, it fit perfectly. It was peach chiffon with spaghetti straps and the skirt was several layers thick that swirled out when I walked. It looked just like a dress that Leslie Caron wore in “Daddy Longlegs.” So I was ready. I got there at the appointed hour and got some hor d’ouerves and a glass of champagne and tucked them away in a nook under the table I was working at and nibbled and sipped when nobody was coming through the door. I was prepared to do this for days if necessary.
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The “affair” was for Democrat Harold Washington, who was running for Mayor of Chicago. Washington came up through the ranks when Mayor Daley was in office. Chicago had never had a black mayor and Washington would be the first. So I was quite glad to be there. I felt that I was on the side of righteousness, doing my bit in a good cause, and the champagne was taking effect so I was infinitely pleased with myself and everyone else in the room. Status and pedigree were nothing, we were all as one. Alcohol is a wonderful social lubricant and this was good champagne.
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And then I was jerked out of my reverie. A very handsome black man in a tuxedo was standing in front of me smiling and saying, “Good evening. I’m Sidney Poitier.” I recovered myself enough to check him off and tell him how honored I was to meet him and he was quite gracious. As he and his wife were starting to mingle, my boss’s wife came out of the crowd of partiers and sat beside me, asking how it was going and I assured her everything was splendid. More revellers came, including one gentleman who asked me when I had been a bunny. I told him “never.” He didn’t believe me and kept pressing the point, telling me how lovely I was still. I finally said, “Thank you for asking,” and turned to another guest. I guess he thought that the ladies up front taking names were bunnies gone to seed that Hef had found a spot for, I really didn’t know.
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Well, then things got even more interesting. The door opened and who should step through it but Linda Ronstadt on Jerry “Governor Moonbeam” Brown’s arm no less. The once and future Governor of California, briefly stopped at the desk and I smiled at him and said that I had already checked his name off and he beamed back at me. He and Ms. Ronstadt went off into the crowd. Now there’s a piece of information that you need to have here. Dan Rottner had dated Linda Ronstadt before he married his wife, whom he met while flying first class on Avianca Brasil, where his lovely wife. Sylvia, was then employed as a flight attendant.
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So it did not surprise me in the least when Sylvia leaned over and hissed into my ear, “What do men see in her?” meaning Ronstadt. Now Ronstadt, in all fairness. cut a bit of a quirky figure that evening, and not at all a glamorous one. She was wearing an orange and yellow wide striped dirndl skirt with a matching top and she looked a bit like a striated mushroom. And the colors were loud, too, any louder and they would have been psychedelic. Adding to this vision was her hairstyle, which were two pigtails on either side of her head, bedecked with yellow and orange yarn. She had been more prepossessing on other occasions, shall we leave it at that?
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So Sylvia was muttering, half to herself, half to me, sometimes in Spanish about Ronstadt and men. She used one phrase in Spanish that I thought I recognized part of and I asked her what it meant. She said, “Forgive me. It means ‘I wouldn’t watch dogs fuck dressed like that.’ On that note I asked her to watch the fort, telling her I needed to make a pitstop and when out of earshot I doubled up laughing. Maybe it’s one of those “you had to have been there,” moments, I don’t know. I then went and loaded up on more canapes and champagne, figuring we both needed to get toasted. (It’s amazing what I could carry in those days, wearing heels.)
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I returned to my post, armed for bear, when the star finally arrived, Harold Washington accompanied I believe by Jesse Jackson. I say I believe because there wasn’t even the pretense that Jerry Brown made of stopping by check-in, this pack of Chicago Democrats just sailed through like football players in a wedge formation and I thought, well, the Head of Security better not give me a hard time for not checking these guys off. What am I supposed to do, launch myself over the railing at these people?
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While I was having that cheerful thought, I noticed the Head of Public Relations from Playboy Chicago bustling her way through the crowd and I do mean bustling and she did the most astonishing thing. She shoved Sidney Poitier’s wife out of the way. Literally shoved the woman. Mrs. Poitier was shocked and getting angry, too. Her face reflected that and I somehow intuitively knew in an instant what had happened. Mrs. Poitier was tall, gorgeous and blond. She was easily one of the most stunning women in the room that night and that’s saying something. The woman from Chicago simply assumed that she was a bunny or a Playmate and therefore could be shoved out of the way, I guess. I don’t know. But in her frenzy to get to Harold Washington the PR person from Chicago committed the biggest PR blunder I had ever seen anywhere. It goes without saying that if the roles had been reversed and if I had done it and she saw it I would have been out on the pavement in a New York minute. Rightfully so.
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While I was debating what, if anything to do, Sylvia got up and wished me good night and I saw her walk over to Dan. I don’t know what their conversation was but he did ask me later on if I could give him a ride to his car and so I speculate that whatever car they were going to leave in together was driven by her to go home early. I have no clue. I had also decided not to say anything to anybody, least of all him, about the PR gaffe. He was having enough problems. The irony was not lost on me that if only his ex-girlfriend the rock star had shown up dressed to kill and looking like every man’s fantasy (which Ronstadt could do, I’ve seen those photos) his wife would undoubtedly have taken him home and straight to bed.
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Besides watching the Rottner’s marriage hit a speed bump, the last thing I really remember of note was watching Mrs. Poitier approach the Head of Security, a former CIA agent with blue eyes that would have caused Medusa to turn to stone, please trust me on this one. Oh, no, I thought was she going to drag him into the fracas with the pugnacious PR woman? Then Jesse Jackson or his doppelganger approached Mrs. Poitier and she seemed glad to see him, so Mr. Medusa-snake-eyes backed away in courtly fashion and that was that. Last I knew PR from Chicago didn’t get run out of town on a rail, so all’s well that ends well.
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The rest of the evening went on somewhat raucously but without further incident. Eventually Cinderella, yours truly, got into her ‘75 Honda Civic and drove past all the Bentleys and Rolls as the last of Hef’s guests lingered, probably until morning. Those were the hours he kept and that was well known. Another normal night at Playboy Mansion West. And hey, it wasn’t every day that a little girl from Denver working a temp job got to dress up like a famous dancer and go to a party in a mansion, let alone Hugh Hefner’s mansion, with all of that megawatt star power and big name Democrats and plenty of champagne. Life was good.
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And a thought that just occurred to me: I played “Six Degrees Of Separation” when it came out, like everybody else and if I was going to play it tonight, there would be only one degree of separation between me and Donald Trump. Of all people, my connection with Trump is Hugh Hefner. And that means that all of you, fellow kossacks, are only two degrees away from Donald Trump, Ursula and Hugh. Let that one sink in. Politics makes for strange bedfellows and Life is Curious. And getting curiouser and curiouser as the days go by.
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That was a LOT of fun to read. Given the kind day (hell – week!) it’s been it’s a nice way to head into the weekend.
That was an amazing night. Poitier was a gentle soul. He beamed. His wife was quite beautiful. I didn’t run in those circles, generally speaking.
I once stood next to Tip O Neil over urinals at the Hyannis Airport when he was speaker. I thought to myself, as I struggled to relax, that if the president & vp go down, he’s next. No secret service. I’d trade the entire GOP for the old Boston brawler. Not as glamorous Ursula, since neither of us brought champagne.
There’s a name I haven’t heard in many many years.
Thanks, Ursula. That was a great story and a wonderful distraction from all the crap going on!
(((((((Hugs))))))))) K
The Playboy mansion is one of those places where “if these walls could talk.” I love the start of Playboy, where Hefner took the famous Marilyn Monroe calendar and put it on the cover. And then the clubs came after that, the whole empire. Hefner drew a lot of criticism, but he was a committed liberal, I’ll give him that.
I saw a meme recently with a picture of Hef and two Bunnies. It said that in the 1950’s Playboy published a sci-fi story of a future when most people were homosexual, homosexuality was mandated, and roving gangs beat up heterosexuals. Lots of letters came in complaining. Hef’s response was along the lines of, If it’s wrong to beat up heterosexuals in a homosexual world, isn’t it wrong to beat up homosexuals in a heterosexual world?
I’ve reflected a fair amount as the day has gone on about this wonderful man and actor. As a young man I was quite taken with him due to his portrayal of Tibbs in In The Heat of The Night. In large part I loved the scene where he slapped Endicott back – Endicott looked SO much like my piece of shit grandfather, and it was all too easy to picture that racist retired federal railroad cop (he’ been a police Captain down in Jonesboro Arkansas before being whisked out of town by fellow Klan members in the middle of the night) who, stripped of that badge wouldn’t have had the nerve to stand up to a strong and proud black man. And who would like the character Endicott cry over how times were a changing.
Of course, since the bulk of the movie was filmed near where I grew up (I think the only shot of Sparta, MS was the opening where they showed the sign – at night). Sparta Illinois was only thirty or so miles away and was in our conference so I was there many times back in the day. Southern Illinois wasn’t entirely friendly territory either for that matter but I’ve been down those streets and past those businesses. The bridge scene was filmed over in Chester, another nearby town. And that sleazy diner wasn’t in Sparta but well north of it along one of the routes often used to get to St. Louis back in the day. Trust me, it was even more of a dive than it was in the movie.
That movie and Gardens of Stone which was partially filmed at Ft. Myer were the only times I’ve seen movie production in action. (I was married at that chapel you see in Gardens of Stone) As a kid I didn’t fully appreciate what I was watching the day mom snuck me up to Sparta to watch some of the filming and I was sworn to secrecy to avoid huge family fights. But the point is I eagerly waited for that movie to come out and it was overwhelming. As was To Sir With Love. The man dominated the screen as few actors have been able to do.
I do hope in the near future we’ll see some of his movies show up on TV.
Hello
Well hello there! We miss you around here and I know I’m not the only one who hopes to see more of you on PZ.
Surprised I was able to comment. Here is hoping the technical issues are over for me.
My God, she’s here! Cmae returns! AGHHHHHHH!!! (thud)
Snicker???
Ursula has been on the roller coaster ride of hell getting this site not only free of the mess that was once the ok DSF, but getting finding hosting and tech support that actually delivers on what was promised when paid for. Fingers crossed, but hopefully the worst is over, and this year the site will be able to function (and grow) the way we all figured (well, hoped at least) it would a year ago. If you have time to go back and read some of the articles she’s posted recently you can get a feel for what’s taken place. Maybe. In switching over to a new site host a couple of key articles only appear to around half the users! Alas, I’ve not been one of the lucky ones who got to read the “biggie” that really tore the DSF guys a new one. Anyway, if indeed the technical issues are largely behind us (and so far it seems that’s the case) I think you’ll find it’s worth spending time here again and sharing your wisdom and wit. I do hope you’ve been doing ok all this time.