Playboy Last night I went through boxes and boxes of Playboy magazine dating as far back as 1965. They were given to me by someone who no longer wanted them, and I've had them in storage gathering dust for about five years now. It’s interesting to see how much different the world was back then, from the technology to the music, from the advertising to the language. An entire generation captured in ink, with their own unique culture, style, and behaviour. It’s easy to look back at those times and laugh until you realize that in fifty years there will be people laughing at us. And while I was looking through all those magazines, it reminded me of something when I was young.

My friend and I walked to the local convenience store to get some candy, or so our excuse went, because really we were just going in hopes that we could catch a glimpse of one of the dirty magazines on the top shelf. Sometimes a copy would be left down at the bottom and it was easy enough to hide it within something else, that way you could look at the whole thing without anybody catching on. That day, some tall saint had left at least six different magazines of varying morality down within our reach. We stayed in the magazine section, burning the details of the female body into our innocent minds, until one of the employees asked us to leave.

When we arrived back at my house, my mother had made a big batch of pudding that was cooling on the kitchen counter. Without thinking and without knowing where my mother was, I asked, loudly, “Mom! Can I have some Playboy?”

Thankfully my mother was out of the house at the time and didn’t hear my Freudian slip, but if you would have told me then that one day I would have more Playboy magazines than I could ever possibly want, I might have believed you. I also might have asked who you were, how you knew this, and why you didn’t bring me a few issues as a sign of good faith.  ¶ 8:36 AM