November 5, 2008,

…the day after the great election in this United States, people were weeping, everywhere. For me, it was about the greatness of this man Barack Obama. For others it was about race. Reaching out is what we all did; for more than anyone since Kennedy, FDR, or Lincoln, he was able to touch our deeper selves. Not just our aspirations, but the limitless resources we have to give as human beings. It’s been obvious for quite awhile that many in this nation were ready to jump through hoops for him. We wanted to fill the vacuum of possibility, we genuinely wanted to work and contribute to the benefit of others, remembering the rewards. Nor should we worry; there will be fairness, this man was raised that way. Every word he had spoken came from a well of humility, greatness. He is mightily sourced, destined.

The streets were blocked to the Century City Hotel in Los Angeles, the site of the Democratic Party celebration. A phalanx of firemen barricaded the entrance to the hotel as people lined up down the street and around the block. The energy in the ballroom was something I shall never forget. I had to hold my ears against the cataclysmic emotion. People roared, demanded change, “Yes, we did.” At the moment when the electoral vote went over 300 for Obama, I had to hold on to the railing, the floor. Some of us cried and just stood there, awed as we watched the results on the giant screen, close-up after close-up of people weeping, knowing that our great country with this new commander will bring us back on track, safely altering direction, so that we as a nation can trust and be trusted again. What passion engulfed us on this historic night. I reached out for the hand of a tall black woman near me and as we looked into each others’ glistening faces we saw possibility, the possibility that was truly there for all of us. What a night.

This may sound strange, but there seems to be is a part of me that is utterly without courage. It exists as a deep dent in my personality. Like a broken wrist to an Olympic athlete, it has the power to pull me off course, to drag down the all-I-can-be desire for my own life. Maybe it’s a remnant from childhood, a withering emotional shyness that seems so wildly out of place. It’s definitely something I’ve always wanted to overcome. It may sound silly to you, but I’m still bothered by it.

I can’t give a party. The following fears overwhelm me before I can even get started. “I’m not important enough.” “Who would come?” “I shouldn’t spend the money.” “This or that will go wrong.” I get so hung up on the details that . . . you get the picture.

In addition, even going to a party is a stress maker for me. “Well, if they would invite me, it can’t be much of a party.” “Maybe if I arrive late they won‘t notice me.” “It takes too long to get dressed.” And sometimes I make sure it does. “I’ll forget people’s names.” My mother not only forgot names, she practiced forgetting them. “Where’s the wall? Maybe I’m wearing the same color.” All the insecurities and insufficiencies of early childhood seem to show up when I’m standing in a crowd. Because I was tall even as a child, my father put me in school at age four when everyone else was five. I missed one-fifth of everyone else’s learning experience. Socialization was not a highly developed family trait, you see. Stardom was easy, being comfortable in a crowd was not.

Then a small miracle occurred. I turned 75. And a little birdie inside chirped “CELEBRATE!” This time it was a command. Do it or die. Well, not really. In truth, the inner message was so forthright and clear that I went forth promptly for the next two weeks, concentrating on this party. I prepared, made lists, oh, did I make lists. Three hours was spent on who should meet whom. Invitations were crafted, colored, and worded with the utmost care. Musicians were sought out. A perfect pianist for one end of the house, a classical banjo player, as a mood lifter, for the other end, out in the garden. A classical banjo player? Not easy to find, but that’s what I wanted. The food must be catered. After all this was a real party, so it had to be presented with effortless brilliance. I’d never done this before. No wonder I was on pins and needles, gasping all the way to the final moment. What’s wrong with me, I wondered? Was I attempting the impossible, to be defeated by self-doubt, the finality of “I’ll never do this again?"

Five hours before the first guest was to arrive, I was so stressed out that I paused for a moment to open a little gift sent to me by Laren Stover from MAC Cosmetics. The distraction of those little pots of rouge, tubes of gold, and lipstick temptations successfully quieted my nerves. That evening, the event and all that had been foretold by me turned into...the party of a lifetime! Everyone agreed when I spontaneously said, “This is the best party I’ve ever been to, the best party I’ll ever go to.” Indeed it was, in every way, as many people concurred by phone the next day.

It turned out to be a true celebration for everyone and not just a gathering to praise Julie. It was a party for those who had participated in my life and given me so much from their lives. It was, happily, a celebration about the people I loved.

8/10/08, Sunday

The word was, that this is Hefner‘s last Midsummer’s Night’s Eve Party.

It had an Arabian Night’s theme, with huge tents, dragon-tailed out into the garden, looming over the spa, and over the unisex “changing rooms” which are lined with shadowy grey mirrors, in front of which girls apply make-up. I am escorted by Rick Tinnehan, the handsome, tall astronaut friend of Delores del Monte, a 1954 playmate. The three of us visit the grotto. “No hanky-panky here,” Delores says. “Then it’s not like the ‘70’s”, I say, “not as I remember it.” “Hush. Here, have your picture taken.” As she recites rules of the new decorum, a nearby couple disrobe to their swimsuits, and enter the warm water. They wade past the underground coves-of-intrigue before emerging into the dazzling light of the party outside. Men are in pajamas—no tuxes, no regular garb at this party. The girls are in frou frou ballet skirts, or nude with painted bodies, teetering in very high heels, with stockings perhaps, but not much more above or below. With enormous breasts which don’t move, taut tummies and long legs, these are the best bodies on the beach. It’s everything you’ve heard, and worthy of the pricy admission, a razzling, dazzling collection of walking, talking female sex coquettes.

“Hello, I’m Tom Sturges, Preston Sturges’s son.” I am relieved to take my eyes away from all that girl candy and talk to someone real. “I’m totally comfortable, I have no fear, I like who I am.” His assurances about himself helped to redirect my attention even further, wanting to hear more of what was behind this highly self-qualified person. “My father died when I was three. I’m one of his seven children.” “He must have loved women,” I remarked, hoping I can share in a lifetime of wisdom during this abrupt encounter. “Strong women,” he flashed back. “Strong women were at the center of every film my father made.” He professed to know more about this famous man than any of his siblings. And more about the parent-child relationship. “We must treat children with great respect.” For Tom, respect was the key word. Every encounter with children, he tells me, in what seems like the result of a lifetime challenge, is to ameliorate the conflicts between child and parent. “There must be no yelling, calm voice, and above all respect. Children deserve respect.” I agreed.

Mary O’Connor is there, Hef’s First Lady and lodestar of all activity at the mansion. She received the most hugs from Hef’s more intimate friends. She is tall, dressed in daintily flowered crepe chiffon, with natural grey curly hair, no body surgery, and the saltiest mouth at the Kingdom of Playboy. I can see why people swarmed to her. She is trusted, one of the points in his crown. I stay by her side at the front entrance of the mansion. Why not, it is soothing to have some of the enthusiasm that was lavished on her spill over onto me.

The ‘70’s crowd—yes, those in their 70’s—sit at gold-covered tables, eating Alaskan crab legs, savory shrimp, lamb chops, sugary confections. The service is perfect: invisible, and right on time. Jane Russell’s hearing aide, as usual, over amplifies the music, which drives her upstairs to the quieter sanctum of Hef’s baronial dining room.

Hef himself, sits on a low cushioned throne within a glass-beaded seraglio, surrounded by his bevy of beauties, who constantly change seats to be near him. He is generous in his attention to each of them, sweetly kissing the tip of a nose here, stroking a cheek there. Handsome black bodyguards clear the way for more ladies seeking esteem-raising shots of power from the power shot himself. In front of him, the dance floor glitters, filled with beautiful women undulating beneath coruscating laser lights, their bodies in peak form for whatever may come. The praise from their lips is lavish no matter who you are. The very atmosphere is redolent with promised pleasures.

It takes money, plenty of it, to be part of this bacchanal. The forty year old computer entrepreneur I met lives or has to live in the Cayman Islands. Men fly here in private planes, securing entrance to the party with a “friend” of Hefner’s. It isn’t cheap, though arrangements could be made. A lot of memories are being created on this night.

As my brother says, we should honor Hef for his role in kicking off the first of the major humanistic revolutions of our time. Before black, or women’s, or gay liberation, he initiated the renaissance in awareness that we humans can be genuinely fulfilled as sexual beings.

He is the King after all. It’s good to be Hugh Hefner. Oh, yeah.