Search

True Gentleman Urinates on Dumpster:
Jason Torchinsky Tours the Playboy Mansion

[ by Jason Torchinsky ]

Last week, I received an invitation from Johnnie Walker to "The Journey of Taste." This Journey was to take place at none other than the Playboy Mansion. Wow. I was suitably impressed, not just with the details of the event but that the Johnnie Walker Company was insightful and sensitive enough to realize that I, Jason Torchinsky, was among the "true gentlemen" in Los Angeles. Their feat in deducing this was even more extraordinary when one considers the scene in which I received the invite: after 11 a.m., I’m barely awake, still unshowered, and standing in the living room with one hand firmly in my underpants. Yes, I thought to myself as I walked barefoot through the remains of a pizza that littered the floor, I’d be delighted to have "My Share of the Scotch" with you, fellow gentlemen!

After my euphoria at being mistaken for a "true gentleman" had worn off, I began to think about this event. What was Johnnie Walker up to? Obviously, he felt that people of my age, sex, and income just weren’t drinking as much Scotch as they could be. Well, they’re right. I have no interest in Scotch, largely for the same reason that this invite seems so insipid: Scotch reeks of dorky white guys trying to seem like wealthier dorky white guys. The Johnnie Walker Company is playing on some sort of extinct idea of young manhood–the sort that wrote letters to Playboy inquiring about the best hi-fi to buy or what kind gift one brings to a day of yachting– a type of man I haven’t even heard from since I found my dad’s book of Playboy party jokes.

Still, as posturing and dorky as the event promised to be, it was still the Playboy Mansion, which is probably worth seeing for the hell of it, and there’s going to be free food and booze, so why not? I called and made reservations for three.

The day came, though my two friends chickened out at the last minute, so I put on my tie (they said I had to wear one) and headed out alone. When I got to the UCLA parking lot where we were to take the shuttle to the Playboy Mansion, I reaffirmed my status as a "true gentleman" by taking a leak behind a dumpster. Then I scanned around the area, looking for where I was to find the bus; it wasn’t hard, as I soon noticed a large group of besportcoated and necktied 25—35 year old males, most of whom could charitably be called "dipshits."

I wandered into the group, where this very frat-type crowd was animatedly discussing the night ahead, speculating on the presence of Playmates and complaining about possibly fictitious girlfriends. I heard one group of dorks talking about how they used to hang out around the UCLA area where we were waiting, but that was "before all the gangs." Gangs? In Westwood? I’m no expert, but I think the only real danger from gangs anyone could face out there would be a long, tedious lecture on the benefits of vegetarianism. The scariest looking place around was some falafel restaurant with a B- rating.

We boarded the bus, which had darkly tinted windows, perhaps to keep us from finding out the exact location of the Playboy Mansion. I asked around a bit to see how people found out about this event; lots of them called the number, which they were informed of by friends; a few others received invites like the one I got, making me very curious as to what sort of "impressionable, vain dufus" mailing list I’m on.

We pulled into the Playboy Mansion’s parking lot, which displayed a novelty yellow-diamond traffic sign that read "Playmates at Play." Classy. We got off the bus and were led into a massive tent full of other "true gentlemen" (and a smattering of "true gentlewomen") as well as a bar and buffet table.

Before I even had a chance to start plotting where I was going to stash extra food and booze for the ride home, a genuine Playboy Playmate appeared and told us that if we wanted a tour of the Playboy Mansion grounds, follow her.

She would have had a similarly-sized group following her had she not made the announcement, by virtue of being young, nubile, and female in a crowd of randy young guys who didn’t seem used to female attention. But this Playmate had two other things going for her as well: back in the ’80s she was Kirk Cameron’s girlfriend on the show Growing Pains and wore a really goofy hat.

The tour was actually quite compelling. Did you know there’s a zoo at the Playboy Mansion? Mostly it seems to be peacocks, rabbits and spider monkeys, but it’s sure as hell a zoo. And, the highest concentration of redwoods in Southern California is on Hef’s 5.5 acres. It’s all very lush, but we were told not to try and go hiding in the woody areas; the place is crawling with cameras and gigantic goons packed into expensive suits.

The most important fact I learned was this: Hugh Hefner’s Donkey Kong high score is 1,689,000. I learned this at the last stop on our tour, the mansion’s little Game Cottage. It was in this small building packed with pool tables, video games, and Playboy-themed pinball machines that I realized something about the Playboy mansion. It’s a 13-year-old boy’s dream come true: naked women, video games, and people to clean up after you. The game room was the ultimate basement rec room, complete with heavy brown furniture, a giant novelty $5 bill with Hef’s picture in it, and those strange statues of Charlie Chaplain and W. C. Fields with oversized heads that, up until this point, I had only seen as displays in luggage stores.

The tour was now over, and, on cue, two heavies appeared by the door to make sure none of us "true gentlemen" would try to swipe an ashtray or puke on the pool table. Our Playmate led us back to the "Journey of Taste" and we were shuffled into a gigantic tent, filled with rows of tables, known as the "tasting tent."

Each place setting at the table had six glasses of Scotch, a questionaire and a little "tasting notes" card. At the front of the room was a large video screen and a podium. A woman named Barbara got up and welcomed us, then forcefully reminded us to fill out the questionaire.

The questionaire wanted to know things like which booze brands "I would never willingly drink." (Why is that "willingly" in there? Is that a threat?) And "What was the main message you took away from tonight’s presentation regarding Johnny Walker?" (I answered, "Be true to yourself," and "Avoid contact with mucous membranes. For external use only.") A guy near me wondered aloud if this was all a "big marketing thing." Man, you just can’t get anything past some people!

A kilted man named Ian Lowe took the podium. He was one of Johhnie Walker’s brand ambassadors, and had a "billion liter" production record, which the crowd eagerly applauded. The crowd also sycophantically applauded the first mention of "Johnnie Walker" and the fact that Johnnie Walker made the world’s best-selling whiskey. Ian then told us that "drinking was compulsory" and made some lame joke about being tipsy which the crowd ate up, eager to prove to their surrounding people just how much they appreciated that dry Scottish wit.

He then started to play a video about the history of Scotch making and the Johnnie Walker company. The video was fairly straightfoward, with lots of pretty scenery of Scotland, but the reverence with which the audience was viewing it all was a bit disturbing. If the same thing was on PBS or the Learning Channel one night I’d find it difficult to believe anyone would have paused for more than the time it takes to fumble for the remote.

After the video, the guided tasting began in full force: He spoke about each of the whiskies in front of us, showed how to "nose" it, how to check its "legs" (viscosity–tilt it in the glass, and see how long it takes to slide back). I saw scores of people doing this with fierce intensity but I have no clue what was supposed to be seen. One man called me "tough guy" when he didn’t think I was drinking my Scotch fast enough. I liked this guy because he put away all his whiskey before most of the crowd was even finished checking the rich amber color of the first Scotch.

"My fingers smell like a pencil," he told the bored-looking woman next to him. Later he announced that the whole room smelled "like a fish."

One somewhat ironic turn of the tasting came when our kilted leader warned the crowd to drink scotch without snobbery. It seems like snobbery is almost unavoidable whenever you describe any alcohol as "heather" but he backed up his wish by telling the crowd that any way to drink Scotch is right–because "we want your money."

By now the crowd was getting rowdy. After several attempts to recapture their waning interest with a scintillating discussion of blended whiskies, class was dismissed and everyone left for free food.

I went to the bathroom, which looked like it was hewn out of the living rock and, sure enough, had an entire closet full of fluffy bathrobes for the mansion’s preferred guests. I was delighted to find a forgotten questionaire, as mine had already been collected. The person had some good responses: the only thing she disliked about the event was "the musty smell in the tasting tent." And, when asked to rate specific parts on a scale of 1 to 5, everything got a 5 except "the food" and "the people attending."

Finally, the evening ended, and all us "true gentlemen" were herded back into vans with startling efficiency. The tents were dismantled with remarkable speed, too, leaving no trace that such an incredible "Journey of Taste" had occurred. But you could tell it happened by looking at the gentlemen boarding the vans. They had a new gleam in their eyes. A new power. A new confidence. At least some of them. Most on my bus were just drunk, wondering where the Mansion’s "blowjob closets" were. Those were the harmless ones. As for the rest, well . . . women of Los Angeles, take cover. If anyone offers to buy you a Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch served at room temperature in the proper kind of glass for nosing, mace him and run away.