Archives for posts with tag: Munich

THE KING OF COCKTAILS

May 22, 2014 //
0

The Beginning Of The Longest Cocktail Party

Haresh Shah

bottlecity3

Dieter (Stark) is tickled pink. He s standing behind the kitchen island, swinging the stainless steel cocktail shaker back and forth in his hands. Equally as handsome, he looks like Tom Cruise would behind the bar years later in his movie Cocktail. Surveying the scene and the mood of the night. He is feeling absolutely no pain. His face wears a glow of amazement at the mission accomplished as he looks down at all those bottles of booze lined up in front of him like miniature Chicago skyline. Most of them are half gallon bottles of just arrived Kentucky Bourbon, Scotch Whiskeys, Bombay Gin, Bacardi Rum, Absolut Vodka. There are smaller ones of the mixers containing of red and white Martinis, Crème de Menthe, Grenadine, Tonic water. Open cartons of orange juice, some Coke and 7-up bottles stand ready to be poured in whatever cocktail he would end up concocting. He must feel like a kid let loose in the liquid candy store. Innumerable possibilities, the night not long enough!

●●●

Dieter and I worked together as repro photographers for Burda Verlag in Offenburg, Germany. My early days living and working in the town of Offenburg in southern Germany were some of the loneliest. It didn’t help that I spoke no German yet and the little bit that I did, I misunderstood more than did I understand. I must give credit to the people I worked with in doing their best to communicate with me. But by and large, I was lost like a babe in the woods in that provincial south western German town that boasts of being the gateway to the picturesque Black Forest.

More than me, Dieter, who came from the town of Bad Dürkheim along the German Weinstrasse, some 87 miles (140 kilometers) north west of Offenburg, was like a fish out of water. The job was good. Burda was an excellent company to work for, but what would a young single man away from home do there after work? He hated Offenburg and called the town Apfenburg – the monkey town and often made fun of their dialect and accent. He hated the simple mindedness of the people whose lifelong ambitions he would sum up in three short sentences – auto kaufen, haus bauen und lotto gewinnen – buy a car, build a house and win lottery. I wouldn’t have known the difference and didn’t have any pre-conceived ideas about the place or the people. I was happy just to be out of London living and working on the continent. For practical purposes, both of us were outsiders and that’s what must have attracted him to me.

In the department full of camaraderie, lots of laughs and beer drinking, Dieter remained aloof and removed from such activities. Tall, his curly blonde hair cut short, easy going, soft spoken, Dieter believed in working hard, but not too hard. There was something very child like the way he spoke with his perpetually pouted lips. He could talk without really opening his mouth. Until you got used to his manner of speaking, you would think he was talking to you like one would to a toddler. In my case, it must have also been something to do with my lack of fluency in German and he wanted to make sure I understood what he said and punctuated his speech with the local gel? more often than did others.

Though he never learned to speak English, my German was getting better every day and we would somehow manage to communicate. He must have also taken liking for me, in that we would meet outside of work and he would regularly give me ride home in his flashy metallic gold Opel Record Sports Coupe to the village of Schutterwald, a six kilometer stretch. He maintained a small room in Offenburg, but come Friday afternoon or Saturday morning, depending on the shift we worked, he would be gone and spend the weekend with his girlfriend Uschi and allow his mother to pamper her only child. This left me to my own devices over the weekends – in other words an extended loneliness which I spent solo walking the streets of Offenburg or the forest, even the local cemetery – which was quite peaceful.

One of my fondest memories of our early friendship is his taking me along to Bad Dürkheim’s traditional Weinfest, known as Wurstmarkt – literally the sausage market. I got to meet with his widowed mother Annemarie and his girlfriend Uschi. His father apparently never returned from the war and was listed as missing up until they closed the books on December 31,1945, informing the family that he had died.

Around the same time as I left to come to the States, he got himself transferred to Munich. We stayed in touch on and off which had trickled down to once a year Christmas cards. Who knew that within short five years I would be knocking at his door? Not only we would end up living and working in the same city but that he worked for the repro house Weissenberger, who did lots of reproduction for Playboy and other Munich based magazines of our partners Bauer Verlag. And within the matter of months, his company moved from their original Leopoldstrasse location several block away to Augustenstrasse 10, right across the courtyard from Playboy offices in the front. Small world?

It took me a while, but when I finally located Dieter a couple of months after I had already been living in Munich, he realized how lonely I must have felt during the Christmas holidays. Suddenly he was there for me. Dieter took me along with him, his girlfriend Monika (Kunfalvi) and his Indian friend Kamal (Chanana) to everywhere they went over the weekends. Sometimes I found myself being picked up for breakfast and came home just to sleep.

My Buick arrived separately a couple of days earlier. When Dieter sets his eyes on it for the first time, he goes in his typical wry humor pout: Jetzt Du hast von zwei autos Park Platz we genommen. Now you have taken away two parking spots. In consideration of living in a big city, Dieter had gotten rid of his Opel Sports and bought himself a Volkswagen Bug. And when my stuff from Chicago arrived and he was helping me unpack, his eyes lit up like fireflies when he saw coming out of a couple of boxes half gallon bottles of the premium booze only partially consumed. All left overs from the going away party I had thrown for my Chicago friends just two days before the movers showed up.

In theory, the movers weren’t even supposed to pack them, it is illegal to transport alcohol across the ocean as a part of your household stuff. I had no time to give it all away to my Chicago friends, so I offered the four of them to take those bottles home with them. They politely declined. Considering that there was so much of it, they took pity on me. If someone asks, we don’t know about it. And let’s hope that the German customs isn’t as witless. Lo and behold, they didn’t even attempt to open the container, let alone any of the boxes inside. Seeing that I could practically open a small bar with all that liquor that was piling up on the counter, his face lights up.

‘I got an idea. Let’s throw a party. Moni, Kamal and I will invite all our good friends. You can invite some people from your work. We will have some beer and wine just in case, but I am sure they would all want to drink American cocktails – because they are “in” right now, but they are so very expensive here and you can order them only in exclusive places like Harry’s Bar. It will be a big hit.’

But the problem is, cocktails need ice. In Germany, not something you can run down to a nearby gas station or convenience store and pick up a bag or two. Dieter scratches his head and then snaps his fingers: “Jim”. His friend who once worked for the restaurant chain Mövenpick. Jim comes with a big bag of ice acquired from his bartender buddies.

Voila! It costs me ire of my landlady and the dirty looks from my ehrenwertes – honorable neighbors. Thus hastening my looking for another apartment, which landed me at Johanclanzestrasse 49. And suddenly I acquired all the friends I possibly could.

Some boxes still unopened, we set up my state of the art Fisher Quadrophonic sound system, spread out all the booze and my TWA set of cocktail glasses on the kitchen island – I pull out my Time Life book of Wines and Liquors which came with a small spiral bound booklet containing recipes for all the American cocktails – starting with basic Dry Martini to Manhattan to Whiskey Sour and Rob Roy. Dieter takes over the job of the bartender. Follows the recipes for a while, but for not too long. Now the Chicago skylined counter top looks more like a chemical lab than an in-house bar. He starts mixing them ad-lib, tastes them and then holds the mixing glass against the light to watch the kaleidoscope of colors they would create. Absolutely infatuated, he would try his concoction with different quantities of liquor the colors and the ice cubes.

The guests must have loved whatever concoction he is creating for them. The party is now in full swing and everybody is having good time. Every now and then when I am in the vicinity of Dieter, he would go guck mal Haresh, ist es nicht super? Probier mal doch! – look Haresh, isn’t that super? Here, try it! And then he would let out a hilarious laugh. And then stare at the swirling glass like an alchemist would at a test tube in awe of the clouds and colors and the taste he he has just created. I have never seen Dieter this giddy. He is having time of his life. And so am I.

The night is still young. It’s inching towards eleven and the party has just began to swing with the music and the dancing in the living room. There are people swarming every room and every corner of the apartment, experiencing various stages of happiness. Surrounded by all those people, mostly the friends of Dieter-Kamal-Monika trio and soon to be mine – suddenly I don’t feel lonely. From Playboy, I have invited Rainer and Renate (Wörtmann), and the photographer Jan Parik, who comes with his wife and some of his cool friends. Rainer is amazed at the fact that I have barely arrived in Munich and how quickly I have made so many friends?

As the night begins to wind down, there are still quite a few people scattered around the apartment while some of us are dancing in the living room. Jerry Butler is singing, Never gonna give you up. And I am dancing intimately with Hella, Dieter’s friends’ friends’ friend. We’re swaying ever so slowly in the middle of the floor and kissing, The lighting in the living room is already subdued, but Dieter decides to facilitate even more Hella and me getting into each other. He announces to the crowd: the host wants lights dimmed. Now we are left with only the light pouring in from the street and from the foyer. Dieter is thinking: What can be better for Haresh than for him to have a home town honey? Thanks Dieter! As it turns out, I never see Hella again, but in the real existential sense, that night we lived for the moment – the moment I still remember. As if in the spirit of the Munich fasching – and the carnival of Köln, both of which I would experience soon enough, during which one of the most oft played songs goes like:

Du darfst mich lieben für drei tolle tage      

Du muss mich küssen das ist deine pflicht    

Du kannst mir alles alles schöne sagen        

Nur nach dem name frag mich bitte bitte nicht        

(You may love me for three mad days

You must kiss me – it’s your obligation!

You can say all sorts of beautiful things to me

But please, please don’t ask my name!)

In fact I soon forgot what she looked like or what her last name was, and would certainly not recognize her if I were to run into her today. But Dieter had succeeded far beyond his expectations in throwing the party so I could make some friends in what would be my home for some time to come.

Thus began what I would term to be The Longest Cocktail Party. When it finally and abruptly ended two and a half years later, one afternoon when we sat in a beer garden with his visiting mother, feeling sorry for me, she exclaimed! Poor Haresh! He no longer has a job!

‘Mach dir keine sorgen Mutti. Haresh will soon land back on his feet!’ I couldn’t have said it better.

I am still touched by Dieter’s confidence and faith in me. I linger in Munich for five more months that ended with another big bash at my place. The movers once again packed me up – the remaining bottles of good German wines and all and took the container full of my personal belongings to the local storage until I finally figured out where I would end up living. I fill up my Buick with all that I would need until such a time and drive away to Paris and on to the French port of Cherbourg and drive up the ramp of the QE II. The Queen would bring me back to New York and to the United States.

As during my first departure, and my hiatus of three years in Santa Barbara, Dieter and I would stay in touch. True to his prediction, in not too far of a future I would land back on my feet. And before long, come back to Munich a couple of times a year to work with the Playboy people and of course meet up with Dieter and Kamal and his latest squeeze Irmi (Irmengard Rüttinger), whom he would eventually marry.

The evening I still remember very fondly is the time we went to the Oktoberfest, and how happy drunk we all were. I remember having dinner with him and Irmi at their home. Not too long after that, I got a letter from Irmi that my friend Dieter, after having struggled with the abdominal cancer, chemotherapy and surgery, had passed away on September 21, 1984 – at the age of 40. It all happened quick within two short months.

© Haresh Shah 2014

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

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Next Friday, May 30, 2014

THE 75th PLAYBOY STORY

SAILING THE QUEEN

Once the initial shock and the feeling of insecurity wore off, it dawned on me, why was I in such a hurry to return to the States and begin looking for a job without giving myself a little break and regroup before I found something worth while to commit to? Why not first enjoy all that the beautiful city of Munich had to offer and then instead of rushing back on a nine hour flight, why not take my time and sail across the Atlantic?

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Categories Friendship, Germany, Memoire, Playboy, Profile

THREE CHEATING HEARTS

May 15, 2014 //
0

Falling Like Dominos

Haresh Shah

threehearts

The plan is for just the two of us to go out for dinner. Leave the business behind and talk men talk without women tugging at our arms. For me, whenever I am in Munich, it would be Susi as my forever companion. Normally Günter would have brought along his wife Hilda. Our usual double date every visit. For tonight, I am thinking of maybe us two having dinner at my early favorite neighborhood kneipe, Georgen Stuben on Prinz Regentenstrasse and afterwards maybe hit a couple of Schwabing locals like Tangente, Giesela’s and Domicil. Go down the memory lane, re-live the nostalgic days of my not so distant life in Munich.

But first, we’ve got to talk some business. Günter is one of the senior editors at the German Playboy. He has spent time in America as well, so we have got that too in common. We have spent lot of time together and have shared hundreds of silly laughs.

The first McDonald’s in Germany opened in Munich scant ten months before my arrival there in October of 1972. Just in time for Munich’s 1972 Summer Olympics. It must have taken a while for the national Life like illustrated Stern magazine to notice this American invasion, prompting them to run a cover story with the blurb screamingly calling Big Mac der Schmackloss Hackfleish – the tasteless minced meat. Günter and I couldn’t agree more, especially considering the humble German fricadel, a tasty meat ball the shape of a hamburger patty, made of the minced meat, eaten lukewarm with a hard shell brötchen – a bread roll and blob of yellow mustard on side. Lekker.
But that didn’t stop Günter and me to frequent the local MacDonald’s, conveniently located on my way home on Lindwurmstrasse. Often we would feel nostalgic about America and go grab a Big Mac or McChicken menus with some beer. Yup, you could actually have beer at McD’s in Europe. In Prague you also have a choice of white or red wine. And we would talk about the Stern story and how horrified the editors must have been along with a large amount of German population vis-à-vis the arrival of the Yankee Golden Arch. We would agree that fricadel was great, but once in a while, nothing would do but a juicy Big Mac. We would come to the conclusion that it must be Ronald McDonald’s secret sauce. We would often get carried away with our wild imagination of the Big Mac’s sex appeal, calling it a furburger instead, and acting out asking for them to be easy on onions – the silly childish stuff. I really am looking forward to spending this evening alone with Günter.

‘How if we first go to my hotel, have a couple of drinks in the lobby bar, then have dinner at Georgen Stuben and then following that hit a couple of joints in Schwabing, just like god old days?’ I suggest.

‘Sounds like a plan.’ He responds, but lacking in his voice is his usual exuberance and enthusiasm.

We drift away talking something else while I notice a certain amount of uneasiness on his face as he switches his butt back and forth in his chair.

‘The thing is, something else has come up since we made the plans!’ Looking nervous, he finally spills it out.

‘Like what?’

‘I got two press passes to tonight’s Paul McCartney concert.’

‘Wow! Paul McCartney live?’

‘I thought we would have a quick drink. Go to the concert and then get a late night bite at some place.’

‘That sounds super!’

‘It does, doesn’t it? I was very much looking forward to it.’

‘But…?’

First I see a bit of shrinkage with some wrinkles suddenly appearing on Günter’s face and then watch him take a deep breath and let go. That irons out his wrinkles and the smoothness of his face returns.’

‘The thing is, there is this woman!’

‘What woman?’

‘Her name is Ursula. Uschi.’ I wait for him to elaborate. ‘We see each other on and off.’

‘You mean…?’

‘Yup. Seitensprung!’ And we both break out laughing, remembering the fun we’ve had years earlier defining and re-defining the expression. Literally, it means a sideway leap. Simply put; straying or cheating in a relationship. Have a fleeting affair on side. Hoping no one notices it and then leap right back in the line. No harm done!

I am not happy about it, but I understand. An opportunity of a quick clandestine bums always trumps an evening out with a friend. But why tonight of all nights? The crossing in my mind of the expression bums makes me want to burst out laughing. Because it’s one of those other German words – literally it means, to bump! bounce! bang! Or normally used to run into something or someone. But it also means…

And I remembered another one of the editors during the early days: Carmen Jung using it and then telling me what it really meant in answer to my simple question.

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

‘A steady one? No. But I do have someone I have bumsverhältnis with…recently it was perfectly defined in Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis movie, Friends with Benefits. And then she goes on to elaborate, how perfectly it works for her. That they have each other, and yet they are free.

‘I wouldn’t do this to a good buddy like you. But she called me a while ago whether we could have a rendezvous tonight that her husband had to take a sudden trip to Hamburg.’

‘I still don’t say anything. The expression on my face has a question mark.

‘And?’

‘And Hilda knows I am having dinner with you. You see?’ I certainly do. What could be more convenient?

But I still don’t want to see it. I notice a certain dismay on his face and then watch him slide open his desk drawer and pull out the two strips of the tickets and hand them to me. Printed on them is Paul McCartney & Wings. Not a bad trade off.

‘I guess.’ I say. Since I am busy for the next two evenings of my stay in Munich, I won’t be able to re-schedule another dinner with Günter this trip. But the next time around? After all, how often you get all access press passes to Paul McCartney concert?

‘I am sure, you and Susi will have fun at the concert.’

I am sure that Susi would be ecstatic. But wouldn’t it be great also if Barbara were free that evening? A thought crosses my mind. But out of sheer protocol and the guilt I would otherwise feel, I call Susi from Günter’s phone, wishing that she wouldn’t be around to answer it. And she isn’t.

‘I’ll try to call her again from the hotel.’ I say.

It’s half past five when I leave Playboy offices in New Perlach, wishing Günter nice evening with his seitensprung with his squeeze, Uschi.

I catch the S-Bahn back to the hotel and immediately call Barbara. She’s already home from work and answers her phone on the first ring.

‘I would love to!’ I can hear the excitement in her voice. Takes me back to the days when we both lived in California.

‘Let me hang up. We don’t have much time. I just got home and need to change and freshen up. Where are you staying? I’ll pick you up at 7:30.’

Her little BMW pulls up in Grand Hotel Continental’s driveway. The concert is at the Olympia Halle. Normally I don’t really care for such large venues packed with thousands of people. But though our press passes have no reserved seats, they allow us an easy access to everywhere except the back stage. We spend the entire evening in the arena – which is the open area right in the front of the stage and dance the night away as if in a small and cramped smoke filled venue of Schwabing or on Ripperbahn in Hamburg where the Beatles first began. Instead, on the stage are Paul & Linda McCartney and Denny Lane and rest of the Wings belting out their Band on the Run repertoire interspersed with some Beatles classics.

© Haresh Shah

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

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Next Friday, May 23, 2014

MAKING FRIENDS

One of the fringe benefits of me working for Playboy in the job that I did, was an opportunity to meet the most interesting and creative people from around the world, many of them have become lifelong friends. More importantly, it allowed me to maintain those friendships by not fading into out of sight, out of mind state. Because I had no geographical barriers. It also allowed me to re-kindle non-Playboy relationships. Among them Dieter (Stark), whom I had originally met and worked with at Burda in Offenburg.

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Categories Friendship, Memoire, Playboy, Relationships, Romance, Women

THE BUICK, THE BUREAUCRAT & THE BLONDE

November 7, 2013 //
2

Haresh Shah

And The Tearing Of My Heart

buickII_b

Soon after her arrival in Munich, in order to make my beautiful Buick legit in her new habitat, I promptly present myself at the Kraftfahrzeugzulassungsstelle, (ugh! they are four words: krafts-fahrzeug-zulassungs-stelle – no  wonder Sanskrit is a dead language in India. But as the most expats and converts tend to do, German being one of the Indo-Germanic languages, still adheres to long and drawn out compound words, as do the Czechs, while the modern Indian languages have simplified the Sanskrit grammar and would have neatly broken them down into four distinct words) at TÜV, (equivalent to the Secretary of the State’s automobile registration center in the US,) on Eichstätter Strasse 5, in Munich. I have all ten required documents as listed on Hanlzettel, translated and properly notarized and attached to the application form and the fee of DM 30.- held firmly in the grip of my hand. I place them all on the counter and stand across from the clerk processing the registration. I am pleased at myself for being so ready and am imagining my Buick emblazoning the bold black and white letters on a square-ish license plates bearing the numbers along with the three designated letters, MüC to indicate that the vehicle is registered in Munich. I am also looking forward to slapping on the back of her, the standard oval shaped decal with the letters DE for Deutschland. But not so fast Haresh! I am being naïve to think that like back home in Chicago, the clerk would stamp a few things, write up a receipt for the payment and hand it to me along with a set of Munich license plates.

Wrong!

Pages: 1 2 3 4

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Categories Automobule, Romance

IN PRAISE OF MY BUICK

October 30, 2013 //
2

Haresh Shah

You Are What You Drive

buickcrash3

“That damn Buick of yours. As much as we have paid to transport it all over the world, the company should own the damn thing.” Exclaims my boss Lee Hall. So it should. The company could have even bought two of those damn things. But what was I supposed to do?

I had applied for a job at Playboy at the same time as I did Time. I have had a perfunctory interview with the production boss John Mastro. Nothing came out of it while Time offered me the job in Chicago. Now four years later when John does offer me the job, its over the phone – the one that would take me to Germany. And wouldn’t you know? He wants me yesterday.

Its Thursday October 26th 1972. This is how the conversation goes.

‘When can you start?’

‘As soon as I could.’

‘Can you leave in a couple of weeks?’

‘That might be a bit tight. I still have a job, I need to give them notice first,’

‘You need two weeks for that. If you give them your notice tomorrow, which is October 27th. You should be free by November 10th. Can you leave on November 11th?’

‘But I also have a whole household and the lease to worry about.’

‘Let’s not worry about all that now. Once you have done the next issue, you can find a window of time and come back to Chicago for a couple of weeks and wrap things up’.

‘And I have just bought a brand new car!’ It just slips out of my mouth. I hesitate to mention the woman I was in love with.

‘We could ship your car along with your personal belongings!’

Wow! Though I don’t say it. I am tongue tied. It would be something to drive around in a big flashy American boat of a car in the cobblestoned streets of the city of Munich. Well, why not?

This is my first new car and I have madly fallen in love with it. I have dreamt of her sleek, sexy and streamlined shapely body for sometime now. It’s a bit shorter than the long phallic Oldsmobile Cutlass I owned, but somehow classier. I can still ill afford to buy a new car, but one fine morning I find, or more accurately, don’t find my metallic gold  Olds on the street twelve floors below my South Shore apartment on the 67th street and when it’s determined that it’s irretrievable gone, I have no choice but buy another car in a hurry. My job at Time is totally dependent on my ability to drive. So I decide to take a plunge. And as long as I am buying a new car, I decide to buy its top of the line model in gleaming white color and the mottled chocolate-brown vinyl top. Air conditioned and with factory installed AM/FM stereo, rear defroster – automatic transmission of course, slippery sleek beige vinyl interior, power steering, white walls and all. The only thing I miss out on is a cassette player. Eight tracks are barely out of the door and the cassettes are just about to make their tepid entry into the market, having one installed in my car  doesn’t even occur to me. Something that would soon sting me. But not even having to consider leaving behind my Buick makes me enormously happy. It also means that Playboy does things in style!

So on Saturday October 11th, I check into Frankfurt bound Lufthansa flight and arrive in Munich on Sunday the 12th. Work on the Christmas issue, make a short detour to Milan, Italy and return back to Chicago to wrap up my life of four years, bid farewell to all my friends and board another trans-Atlantic flight and return to Munich.

When my stuff and the Buick arrive in January, my friend Dieter (Stark) rolls his eyes and calls it a tank. Dieter’s swanky Opel Sports was my envy when we worked together at Burda in Offenburg, five years earlier.  Dieter now lives in Munich. Amazingly, he works in the second wing of the same building on Augustenstrasse for the graphic reproduction company that does Playboy Germany’s color separations. He rolls his eyes again, pouts, and adds, so ein lastwagen! What a  truck! And then when we would drive around, amazed at my parking skills, he would go, jests du hast zwei parkplätze weggenomen! Now you have taken away two parking spots. But as skeptical as he is, he gets used to my tank-truck, while now he himself is driving a Volkswagen Bug. A perfect city car. But when you’re in love with your chariot, you don’t think of minor details like ease of parking!

My Buick is also talk of the town in our office building where they have given me a parking spot on the lower tier, which when the upper parking ramp is lowered, leaves only about an inch or two of space between the trunk of my car and the bottom of the metal ramp. Why they didn’t consider giving me the upper tier, I don’t ask, because somewhere along the line I see it as a challenge to be able to park my car just so, to keep it from crushed under the rough bottom of the ramp and the weight of the car up above. Soon my sassy American car becomes a sight to behold in the home town of the mighty BMW.

●●●

Another person I reconnect with in Munich is Marianne (Thyssen-Miller). Someone I had only met once years earlier in Krefeld and on whom I had developed an incredible crush. She too is now living in Munich. That gorgeous summer afternoon, she has invited me to join her and some of her friends to a picnic at Perlacher Forst – a forest preserve not too far from the center of the city. Marianne has given me very specific directions on how to get to the picnic grounds. I make it out of the city and reach the general neighborhood of where they had all gathered. And then as it often happens. I must have taken one wrong turn or missed a single direction, and after more than half an hour of going around in circles, and finding myself at the same crossroads for the third time, I am now feeling frustrated and quite frazzled. There are no other cars to be seen, no people walking around, no one I could stop and ask.  I look left and I look right and I look straight and then on impulse decide to turn left.  Right in front of my big hunk of white pointed metal, a Volkswagen Bug seems to have materialized out of nowhere.  By the time I see it coming towards me, it’s too late.

I see a very old couple occupying the front seats. They look scared and totally disoriented  behind their tiny windshield. I jump out of the car and run to make sure that they are okay.  There is no visible physical harm done to them, shook up, the woman keeps saying “it wasn’t our fault, it wasn’t our fault.”  “No it wasn’t”, I try to calm her.  I tell her that the most important thing is that they are okay, that it was my fault, and that I have proper insurance to take care of whatever damage the accident may have caused.

The couple must have been in their late sixties or even early seventies.  They are driving in from Dortmund to spend some days with their daughter who lives in the Munich area, not too far from where we have collided.  The loud thud of the collision has brought out the people living in nearby houses.  The old woman calls her daughter from one of the homes.  A few minutes later, a balding young man – their son-in-law shows up in his big boxy Mercedes Benz.  He introduces himself to me as Rudolph Geisler. I am bracing myself for his outburst and anger. I am in Germany and the cars mean a lot to the people. And they are attuned to doing everything in very official way. I am preparing myself psychologically to kiss my picnic goodbye. And the hopes of breaking away from the group in the evening and ending up at some cozy romantic restaurant alone with Marianne.

But the wonder of all wonders, instead of being angry and irate, Rudolph begins to apologize to me for the accident, telling me that he has often told his father-in-law that he was too old to drive, but he just wouldn’t listen – but this would teach him.

I re-confirm to Rudolph that I have international insurance and everything should be taken care of, that maybe we should call police and make a report.

“Let me just get my in-laws home first and then we will worry about that.  Let me give you my phone number and let me have yours and then we will work it all out.” This is very highly un-German way to behave. But haven’t I been told that the Bavarians are different?

We together move the Bug out of the way. There is hardly any damage done to my car, except the driver’s side of the door has shifted back a couple of millimeters, making it hard to open it completely, in contrast, the front end of the little Volkswagen looks like a battered bellow of an  accordion. Rudolph gives me proper directions on how to get to where I was going. He throws a perfunctory glance at Buick, as if saying: nicht schlecht! – not bad, and off he is on his way with his in-laws tucked safely inside his Benz. Sure enough, the picnic grounds aren’t far from where I am. I meet up with Marianne and her friends and join the fun.

I call Rudy the next day.  I tell him I have reported the accident to my insurance agent, and he  has assured me that everything will be taken care of.  Rudy doesn’t seem in the least concerned about the details.

“Listen, we will be busy the next few days with my in-laws.  I really don’t think the old man should drive anymore, so we will just put them on a train on Friday.  Why don’t you come over to our house over the weekend and we can settle things over a nice Bavarian meal?  I am sure Uschi, my wife will enjoy meeting you.”

So I go for the dinner. Uschi has cooked delicious Schewinsbraten with Knödel and sauerkraut.  I no longer am in touch with them, but they become very much a part of my social circle for as long as I still lived in Munich.

© Haresh Shah 2013

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

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Next Friday, October 08, 2013

IN PRAISE OF MY BUICK PART II

My move from Chicago to Munich happened so fast that there was no time to consider the practical aspects of taking my Buick along across the Atlantic. Had I known, what I was up against, I certainly would have sold the car and bought myself a new one in Munich. Probably my favorite Audi 80. But there are also rewards for having done just that.

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Categories Automobile, Germany

FEEL GOOD SISTER

May 2, 2013 //
3

Haresh Shah

If Only I Could See Through The Depth Of Those Eyes

datsun_finger2

Not knowing what it is I want for lunch, I walk over to Briennerplatz and my feet automatically take me down the steps to Ristorante Positano. Just a few blocks away from Playboy offices in Munich.  It’s a little before two. The place looks deserted. Thinking perhaps they have already closed for the afternoon, I am about to turn around and leave when I hear some shuffling in back of the wardrobe room. A young woman emerges from the dark.

‘I’ll be just two minutes.’ She says, holding up her hand with three middle fingers raised. While I am mulling over why exactly “two minutes”, I notice her open palm. Didn’t she say two? Confused only for a flash, she turns her palm around, looks at it and slowly retracts one of the fingers.  A self-conscious smile breaks out on her face. From what I can tell, she looks Eurasian, with her narrow fish eyes, her smooth round face, and her silky smooth pitch black hair. I see something mysterious hidden behind the depth of those eyes, further intensified by the ambience of that dark corner of the restaurant. This is the image that has remained with me all these years later.

I stop to talk on my way out.

‘Where are  you from?’ I ask. California.’ She answers. This strikes me a bit odd, as if California were an independent  nation. Might as well have been because I have never been there and all that I have heard about it so far tells me that it must be a place like no other.

I tell her, I too am from the States – Chicago to be precise. The two of us making the most unlikely samples of America, still we feel a certain sense of belonging.  I end up inviting her to the house warming party I am having at my brand new apartment. She is delighted and so am I at  having accidentally landed a date with this exotic beauty.

Her name is Ann. Ann Unruh Stevens. She is a mélange of Japanese mother and American father of German descent, a Sergeant Major – an army brat. Born in Okinawa, Japan, she has grown up in Hawaii.  She is unpretentiously pretty and looks striking in her petite frame. And something about her is quite mysterious. The way she talks in whispers and the way she looks at you with kind and friendly way, somehow makes you feel special. I feel a certain spell unfurl and fall upon me through her gentle gaze. I am thrilled at the prospects of seeing her again. And I find myself already building sand castles in the air.

She is on the phone a day or two before the party. She tells me how she is excited and how very much she is looking forward to coming to my party, thanking me profusely for inviting her. It makes me happy that she lingers on the phone, just making idle chat.

‘I was wondering if I could bring “my man” to the party?’ She asks in a voice that is hesitant  and barely audible. My sand castles suddenly crumbling and all my enthusiasm deflated, I am thinking: shit, why would I want “your man” at the party? Weren’t you supposed to be my date? That is like kebab main haddi – literally, a bone in kebab. Nothing can sour more the silky smooth savor of juicy minced lamb delicacy.

What am I supposed to say? ‘Of course, by all means! What’s his name?’

‘Mark  (Stevens).  I really appreciate it. I’m sure you two would like each other.’

Like? To Ann’s chagrin, we hit it off right away. And how?

If I had to profile Jesus Christ, I would describe Mark. A tall, handsome, permanently tanned Californian with shoulder length wavy blonde locks, carefully  trimmed beard and the eyes as blue as coral, filled to the brim with and intelligent kid’s curiosity of the universe. His easy smiles and warm friendly demeanor has me absolutely disarmed.

Fast forward to four years. I am now living closer to them in California. While Ann is at work in the evening, Mark and I hang out frequently. When finished working, Ann would meet up with us, mostly at their place or mine and find us two twirling our snifters filled with Remy Martin, blowing clouds from our cigars and lost deep into whatever it is that we are talking – totally oblivious of her arrival. Probably talking women.  Soon as we hear her footsteps coming closer, we would abruptly  shut up – communicating only with our eyes, holding back our amazement with expressions on our faces like that of two cats just having swallowed the canaries.  Ann, shifting her gaze back and forth, feeling left out and alienated. I remember that one time when she must have felt so humiliated and frustrated that she focuses her gaze sharply on Mark and furiously stamps her foot on the ground: But he is my friend!!!

●●●

But let’s rewind back to Munich. Like a whole bunch of other young Americans, Mark and Ann too are doing their stint in the old world. Along with Gary and Michelle, Dieter and Monika and Kamal, they too become a part of my intimate circle.  Just hanging out, sweating out pores in the sauna, go swimming and then sitting around on the floor, some times sin ropas, drinking beer and wine, them also smoking pot, with candles flickering and the wisps of incense in the air – feeling mellow, we form a permanent bond which would eventually bring me to Santa Barbara, California, and into the living room of their funky farm house, calling ourselves  feel good brothers and a sister.

At this phase in my life, being in Santa Barbara turns out for me to be in the right place at the right time. The early months are difficult and lonely and I often feel lost. Having succeeded in luring me to the end of the continent, Mark and Ann not only felt responsible for my well being, but for a while I also became their mission. Between them two, they initiate me into the southern California life – step by step. Introducing me to new people and new places, breaking me into hearty walks and health foods. Make me enjoy the nature and the pleasure of watching sunsets. We would take off and go up the mountains to Solvang, hang around Mark’s parents’ trailer house up on Lake Cachuma, go skinny dipping in secluded natural grottos. Eating fresh fish and get to appreciate California wines. They break me into completely new laidback lifestyle, devoid of what was until then for me go-go-go  kind of existence.

The house itself is small. There is a long driveway parallel to the farm right off Hollister Avenue that leads you to the small structure. At the back of the house is a fairly large greenhouse where Ann grows vegetables and they also grow their own marijuana.  There is  only one bedroom. The problem farm toilet with septic tank in the backyard. Not to mention 1975 water shortage of California with the consciousness hammered into everyone: If It’s yellow, its mellow. If It’s brown, flush it down. Even sleeping in the living room, I am comfortable. I feel welcome and wanted and loved. The house is furnished with bits and pieces of hand me downs or the garage sale stuff. Funky but warm and cozy. There are afghans and Indian bed spreads and lamps, all with some personal touch.

My wake up call would be Ann futzing around and getting the pot belly stove going before I would flip the covers over and start my day. Mark works for the city – running machines that process the human waste and Ann works in the evening as a waitress at the Italian restaurant Roccos in Isla Vista on the campus. During the days, she runs around, doing errands, keeping me company. In her spare time Ann makes jewelry from her own designs – (http://annstevensjewelry.com/) something she loves to do.

There is a bookshelf and also a bunch of books strewn all around the shelf, containing of the volumes of Tolkien’s Hobbit series,  Carlos Castaneda’s The Teachings of Don Juan, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, the kind pegged by the book trade as “alternative lit”. The way books are left all over is just a mess to my organized mind, who has all his books and records  alphabetically shelved in neat order. Something that bothers me every time I look at the piles from my bed across the room. So one morning, while Ann is out running errands, I sit down on the floor, take all books off the shelves, line them up on the floor and re-shelve them in alphabetical order in neat rows. Suddenly the floor looks spacious and uncluttered, books accessible. Ann walks in while I am sitting on my bed and admiring my handiwork.

‘Hi, how’s your morning going?’ She greets me with her usual exuberance, and then suddenly stops in her tracks. Looks around. The uncluttered and clean floor, the organized bookshelves. I am waiting for her to crack her big smile and say something like: you’re such a doll. Thanks. Thanks very much. Rush over and give me a hug.

Instead, she looks at me a bit befuddled. Welling up on her face is restraint anger turning into a hurt look.

‘Did it feel good cleaning up? She asks and then pauses, to compose herself.

‘Its alright!’ She adds and works at softening the expressions on her face.

What I feel she most probably wants to say is: Why the fuck you do that? Rightfully so, because I have committed a cardinal sin of inadvertently violating their sense of order.

But she is not the one to dwell on such things, so after all, I do get to see a slight smile, crossing her lips.

●●●

Basically, I am well taken care of by Mark and Ann. What a bargain? Two for the price of one! But Ann still remains my (primary) friend. She is there for me always. Cheerleading me, giving out generous hugs, showering me again and again with I love you,  and often flirting with me shamelessly.  I am absolutely at home.

I still cherish the little things that she would do for me such as her leaving bunches of flowers – freshly cut from her garden – in my apartment in my absence. Leaving little endearing notes. Chauffeuring me around.

To call Mark and Ann pot heads would not do them justice. Their devotion to the weed is more spiritual than its worldly. So much so that Ann would try to seduce me with it in her sweet little ways, by sneaking in and leaving in my spice cabinet a big fat joint or two. ‘Just in case!’ She would say. And be disappointed to see it still there untouched and ignored for months.

And she was there for me to welcome Carolyn and her mother to my house when I was on other side of the world in Australia. She did it better than I would have.

Carolyn and I had not lived together before. We maintain the long distance relationship living four hundred miles (640 kilometers) apart. Her in San Francisco and me in Santa Barbara. She had already moved back east to Minnesota when she found out that she was pregnant.

All this happened very fast. I didn’t know I would be gone for six weeks and Carolyn had packed up and was heading back west, accompanying by her mother, to move in with me. I asked Mark and Ann to welcome them and to make sure that there were a dozen long stemmed red roses waiting for Carolyn in my apartment. Which Ann arranged, but she also added to that a dozen white roses for her mother and attached to them appropriate message from me. Carolyn later told me how overwhelmed and teary-eyed her mother was – not remembering the last time anyone sent her flowers, let alone a dozen long stem roses. But that’s Ann for you. And I got all the accolades:)

●●●

I don’t remember in what context, but I do remember Ann having once said to me that dynamite come in small packages.  And not too long after, this petite little femme just proves that to me.

We are riding in their blue Datsun pickup and are about to exit a strip mall with her at the wheel. She has stopped at the incline of the driveway and is moving her head sideways to make sure there are no cars coming from either direction before she enters the street. Just then a slightly bigger pickup coming from behind swerves in the front and cuts her off like a chef chopping off a fish head. And I see her face turning, fury in her yes. She rolls down the driver side of the window, and yells.

‘Hey Mister!!!’ Her hand stretched out, her elbow firmly planted on the window frame and the palm upturned.  The driver breaks and makes a mistake of looking back.  Her hand springs up in the air and this time its only one – the middle finger snaps up, she flips a violent bird at him and spews out like fire, Fuck you very much! And the driver couldn’t get away fast enough, with his wheels screeching and the breaks grounding and all.

© Haresh Shah

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

Haresh Shah

If Only I Could See Through The Depth Of Those Eyes

datsun_finger2

Not knowing what it is I want for lunch, I walk over to Briennerplatz and my feet automatically take me down the steps to Ristorante Positano. Just a few blocks away from Playboy offices in Munich.  It’s a little before two. The place looks deserted. Thinking perhaps they have already closed for the afternoon, I am about to turn around and leave when I hear some shuffling in back of the wardrobe room. A young woman emerges from the dark.

‘I’ll be just two minutes.’ She says, holding up her hand with three middle fingers raised. While I am mulling over why exactly “two minutes”, I notice her open palm. Didn’t she say two? Confused only for a flash, she turns her palm around, looks at it and slowly retracts one of the fingers.  A self-conscious smile breaks out on her face. From what I can tell, she looks Eurasian, with her narrow fish eyes, her smooth round face, and her silky smooth pitch black hair. I see something mysterious hidden behind the depth of those eyes, further intensified by the ambience of that dark corner of the restaurant. This is the image that has remained with me all these years later.

I stop to talk on my way out.

‘Where are  you from?’ I ask. California.’ She answers. This strikes me a bit odd, as if California were an independent  nation. Might as well have been because I have never been there and all that I have heard about it so far tells me that it must be a place like no other.

I tell her, I too am from the States – Chicago to be precise. The two of us making the most unlikely samples of America, still we feel a certain sense of belonging.  I end up inviting her to the house warming party I am having at my brand new apartment. She is delighted and so am I at  having accidentally landed a date with this exotic beauty.

Her name is Ann. Ann Unruh Stevens. She is a mélange of Japanese mother and American father of German descent, a Sergeant Major – an army brat. Born in Okinawa, Japan, she has grown up in Hawaii.  She is unpretentiously pretty and looks striking in her petite frame. And something about her is quite mysterious. The way she talks in whispers and the way she looks at you with kind and friendly way, somehow makes you feel special. I feel a certain spell unfurl and fall upon me through her gentle gaze. I am thrilled at the prospects of seeing her again. And I find myself already building sand castles in the air.

She is on the phone a day or two before the party. She tells me how she is excited and how very much she is looking forward to coming to my party, thanking me profusely for inviting her. It makes me happy that she lingers on the phone, just making idle chat.

‘I was wondering if I could bring “my man” to the party?’ She asks in a voice that is hesitant  and barely audible. My sand castles suddenly crumbling and all my enthusiasm deflated, I am thinking: shit, why would I want “your man” at the party? Weren’t you supposed to be my date? That is like kebab main haddi – literally, a bone in kebab. Nothing can sour more the silky smooth savor of juicy minced lamb delicacy.

What am I supposed to say? ‘Of course, by all means! What’s his name?’

‘Mark  (Stevens).  I really appreciate it. I’m sure you two would like each other.’

Like? To Ann’s chagrin, we hit it off right away. And how?

If I had to profile Jesus Christ, I would describe Mark. A tall, handsome, permanently tanned Californian with shoulder length wavy blonde locks, carefully  trimmed beard and the eyes as blue as coral, filled to the brim with and intelligent kid’s curiosity of the universe. His easy smiles and warm friendly demeanor has me absolutely disarmed.

Fast forward to four years. I am now living closer to them in California. While Ann is at work in the evening, Mark and I hang out frequently. When finished working, Ann would meet up with us, mostly at their place or mine and find us two twirling our snifters filled with Remy Martin, blowing clouds from our cigars and lost deep into whatever it is that we are talking – totally oblivious of her arrival. Probably talking women.  Soon as we hear her footsteps coming closer, we would abruptly  shut up – communicating only with our eyes, holding back our amazement with expressions on our faces like that of two cats just having swallowed the canaries.  Ann, shifting her gaze back and forth, feeling left out and alienated. I remember that one time when she must have felt so humiliated and frustrated that she focuses her gaze sharply on Mark and furiously stamps her foot on the ground: But he is my friend!!!

●●●

But let’s rewind back to Munich. Like a whole bunch of other young Americans, Mark and Ann too are doing their stint in the old world. Along with Gary and Michelle, Dieter and Monika and Kamal, they too become a part of my intimate circle.  Just hanging out, sweating out pores in the sauna, go swimming and then sitting around on the floor, some times sin ropas, drinking beer and wine, them also smoking pot, with candles flickering and the wisps of incense in the air – feeling mellow, we form a permanent bond which would eventually bring me to Santa Barbara, California, and into the living room of their funky farm house, calling ourselves  feel good brothers and a sister.

At this phase in my life, being in Santa Barbara turns out for me to be in the right place at the right time. The early months are difficult and lonely and I often feel lost. Having succeeded in luring me to the end of the continent, Mark and Ann not only felt responsible for my well being, but for a while I also became their mission. Between them two, they initiate me into the southern California life – step by step. Introducing me to new people and new places, breaking me into hearty walks and health foods. Make me enjoy the nature and the pleasure of watching sunsets. We would take off and go up the mountains to Solvang, hang around Mark’s parents’ trailer house up on Lake Cachuma, go skinny dipping in secluded natural grottos. Eating fresh fish and get to appreciate California wines. They break me into completely new laidback lifestyle, devoid of what was until then for me go-go-go  kind of existence.

The house itself is small. There is a long driveway parallel to the farm right off Hollister Avenue that leads you to the small structure. At the back of the house is a fairly large greenhouse where Ann grows vegetables and they also grow their own marijuana.  There is  only one bedroom. The problem farm toilet with septic tank in the backyard. Not to mention 1975 water shortage of California with the consciousness hammered into everyone: If It’s yellow, its mellow. If It’s brown, flush it down. Even sleeping in the living room, I am comfortable. I feel welcome and wanted and loved. The house is furnished with bits and pieces of hand me downs or the garage sale stuff. Funky but warm and cozy. There are afghans and Indian bed spreads and lamps, all with some personal touch.

My wake up call would be Ann futzing around and getting the pot belly stove going before I would flip the covers over and start my day. Mark works for the city – running machines that process the human waste and Ann works in the evening as a waitress at the Italian restaurant Roccos in Isla Vista on the campus. During the days, she runs around, doing errands, keeping me company. In her spare time Ann makes jewelry from her own designs – (http://annstevensjewelry.com/) something she loves to do.

There is a bookshelf and also a bunch of books strewn all around the shelf, containing of the volumes of Tolkien’s Hobbit series,  Carlos Castaneda’s The Teachings of Don Juan, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, the kind pegged by the book trade as “alternative lit”. The way books are left all over is just a mess to my organized mind, who has all his books and records  alphabetically shelved in neat order. Something that bothers me every time I look at the piles from my bed across the room. So one morning, while Ann is out running errands, I sit down on the floor, take all books off the shelves, line them up on the floor and re-shelve them in alphabetical order in neat rows. Suddenly the floor looks spacious and uncluttered, books accessible. Ann walks in while I am sitting on my bed and admiring my handiwork.

‘Hi, how’s your morning going?’ She greets me with her usual exuberance, and then suddenly stops in her tracks. Looks around. The uncluttered and clean floor, the organized bookshelves. I am waiting for her to crack her big smile and say something like: you’re such a doll. Thanks. Thanks very much. Rush over and give me a hug.

Instead, she looks at me a bit befuddled. Welling up on her face is restraint anger turning into a hurt look.

‘Did it feel good cleaning up? She asks and then pauses, to compose herself.

‘Its alright!’ She adds and works at softening the expressions on her face.

What I feel she most probably wants to say is: Why the fuck you do that? Rightfully so, because I have committed a cardinal sin of inadvertently violating their sense of order.

But she is not the one to dwell on such things, so after all, I do get to see a slight smile, crossing her lips.

●●●

Basically, I am well taken care of by Mark and Ann. What a bargain? Two for the price of one! But Ann still remains my (primary) friend. She is there for me always. Cheerleading me, giving out generous hugs, showering me again and again with I love you,  and often flirting with me shamelessly.  I am absolutely at home.

I still cherish the little things that she would do for me such as her leaving bunches of flowers – freshly cut from her garden – in my apartment in my absence. Leaving little endearing notes. Chauffeuring me around.

To call Mark and Ann pot heads would not do them justice. Their devotion to the weed is more spiritual than its worldly. So much so that Ann would try to seduce me with it in her sweet little ways, by sneaking in and leaving in my spice cabinet a big fat joint or two. ‘Just in case!’ She would say. And be disappointed to see it still there untouched and ignored for months.

And she was there for me to welcome Carolyn and her mother to my house when I was on other side of the world in Australia. She did it better than I would have.

Carolyn and I had not lived together before. We maintain the long distance relationship living four hundred miles (640 kilometers) apart. Her in San Francisco and me in Santa Barbara. She had already moved back east to Minnesota when she found out that she was pregnant.

All this happened very fast. I didn’t know I would be gone for six weeks and Carolyn had packed up and was heading back west, accompanying by her mother, to move in with me. I asked Mark and Ann to welcome them and to make sure that there were a dozen long stemmed red roses waiting for Carolyn in my apartment. Which Ann arranged, but she also added to that a dozen white roses for her mother and attached to them appropriate message from me. Carolyn later told me how overwhelmed and teary-eyed her mother was – not remembering the last time anyone sent her flowers, let alone a dozen long stem roses. But that’s Ann for you. And I got all the accolades:)

●●●

I don’t remember in what context, but I do remember Ann having once said to me that dynamite come in small packages.  And not too long after, this petite little femme just proves that to me.

We are riding in their blue Datsun pickup and are about to exit a strip mall with her at the wheel. She has stopped at the incline of the driveway and is moving her head sideways to make sure there are no cars coming from either direction before she enters the street. Just then a slightly bigger pickup coming from behind swerves in the front and cuts her off like a chef chopping off a fish head. And I see her face turning, fury in her yes. She rolls down the driver side of the window, and yells.

‘Hey Mister!!!’ Her hand stretched out, her elbow firmly planted on the window frame and the palm upturned.  The driver breaks and makes a mistake of looking back.  Her hand springs up in the air and this time its only one – the middle finger snaps up, she flips a violent bird at him and spews out like fire, Fuck you very much! And the driver couldn’t get away fast enough, with his wheels screeching and the breaks grounding and all.

© Haresh Shah

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

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Soon as the South African President F.W. de Clark repealed the last vestiges of apartheid in 1991, I took my first exploratory trip to the country. But if you are born of my generation in India, taking a trip to South Africa has to have some emotional undertones, for that’s where Gandhi’s Satyagraha movement first took roots.  Never mind that the purpose of my trip was to study the feasibility of publishing Playboy there.

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THE STORY OF MY TUXEDO

I DANCED WITH DONNA SUMMER

FOLLOWING IN THE PATH OF GANDHI

Soon as the South African President F.W. de Clark repealed the last vestiges of apartheid in 1991, I took my first exploratory trip to the country. But if you are born of my generation in India, taking a trip to South Africa has to have some emotional undertones, for that’s where Gandhi’s Satyagraha movement first took roots.  Never mind that the purpose of my trip was to study the feasibility of publishing Playboy there.

Tags , , , , , ,
Categories Friendship, Profile

PLAYBOY ON THE COFFEE TABLE

March 14, 2013 //
3

Haresh Shah

How Do An Indian Grandma And Her American Grand Daughter View Playboy?

kidandnannyd

‘And I can no longer see Playboy calendar hanging in my home.’ I could see Gina was riled up about my last ditch attempt at saving our relationship by offering to sell my house and us together buying a condo. But it was too late to make any difference. We both knew it was over. And even though her  outburst was no longer meaningful, any more than a rubber bullet, nothing that would kill me, but boy did it sting!! And the irony is: there were never any Playboy calendars hanging in my house.  What she probably meant was all those monthly issues lying all around. Especially after I left the magazine. Because for months after my departure, my assistant Mary (Nastos) still kept sending me all the international editions, eighteen in all, every month. They were piling up and at some point could be found strewn all over my house.

Or most likely, the three nude studies by my artist friend Deven (Mehta) hanging in the guest washroom by the kitchen that had triggered her ire.  In any case, not until after she said it did I ever give any thought to the placement of Playboy in my house.  I had never seen any need to tuck them away some place out of sight. Gina’s disdainful words took me back to my Time & Life years, when we had a sort of an exchange program set up with messengers from various printing companies around Chicago area that printed a part or all of one of our publications and some also printed Playboy and Penthouse. We got them in exchange for our magazines.

When the new issues of Playboy and Penthouse arrived, we would page through them and comment on that month’s Playmates and the Pets. And then rest of the guys would slough their copies into their desk drawers, I would slip mine into my briefcase and take them home to look and  read at leisure.

‘We don’t want our old ladies to get all worked up about them!’ Big Larry (Howard) would say with a knowing smile on his face. Up until Jeff (Anderson) joined us a year or so later, I was the only single guy in the department.  At the time I didn’t give it much of a thought, except that I was single and didn’t have to worry about hiding them from my wife and kids. I must have felt a bit strange though, considering that growing up in India, my image of America came from Hollywood movies. A country that was free and liberal. That for us meant mostly the social freedom such as falling in love and getting married instead of arranged unions, kissing in public, making out and having sex before marriage. And even though bikinis hadn’t made big inroads yet, we found the American women in the fashion magazines and in the movies wearing revealing single piece swimsuits titillating.

I had only known American political history of the unilateral declaration of the independence, the Boston Tea Party and the Constitution proclaiming life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I had no idea of the puritan heritage that was weaved into the every thread of the American fabric. I had not yet had a serious relationship with an American woman. One could say that Playboy changed it all for me, but actually most of my ideas and the character have been molded by  Germany and Europe, probably facilitated by Playboy. The conclusion I had come to at the time and after Gina’s outburst, that the problem with having to hide magazines and calendars had to do with only one thing: the nudity. And that majority of the people who have strong negative opinion of Playboy, had never actually read the magazine.

Something I would have understood in my early days in the West, because in India or in my home, we wouldn’t  even remove all of our clothes even to take a shower. We soaped and sprinkled ourselves by lifting layers of  clothing.  It was when living in Munich that I began to see the absurdity of it all. The Johannclanzestrasse complex where I lived, we had coed sauna. And no one sat around in it with towels wrapped around. It made sense. The whole purpose of taking sauna is to let your pores open up and sweat out the toxins. The only way to reap full benefit of subjecting yourself to the extreme heat is to let your clothes and inhibitions drop. And the Europeans certainly don’t have any qualms about that. One of my coolest images of the sauna is that of the three generations of women together walking into the steam filled room – seven or eight year old grand daughter, her young mother, perhaps in her early thirties and the grandma in her sixties. A perfect study in evolution.

And living in Munich in itself was liberating in that sense. Our offices were downtown, not far from Englischer Garten, right in the heart of the city. When the spring came and soon as the temps climbed upwards of around 25 degrees Celsius (about 77 Fahrenheit), it wouldn’t be too unusual to see young office workers on their lunch breaks to cross their arms and lift their tops over their heads and their hands reaching backwards to undo their bra straps, becoming a part of the landscape dotted with the female anatomy surrendered to the warm sunrays. Even the nudist beach on Isar river that ran through the city, wasn’t far from the center. You would walk through some shrubbery and suddenly be standing in the middle of hundreds of people clustered au naturell, drinking beer, barbecuing, lounging just like here in Chicago at the North Street Beach. So when I returned to America, I experienced a big cultural shock, more so than the one I must have felt several years earlier when I had just gotten off the boat.

I had come back with the definite opinion and the attitude about the nudity. Though I have never been married, my partner Carolyn and I lived together for thirteen years and are proud parents of now thirty four year old daughter Anjuli. In our household, the nudity itself never was an issue. Not that we ran around in the nude all the time, but we never necessarily reached for a cover during our normal day-to-day living.

The display of the magazine I worked for and loved, was never a problem in our home. But in some people it could conjure up all sorts of weird ideas, as should be apparent from the comment by my dear friend Karen (Abbott) posted about my announced blog entry of this week: “That’s nothing. I worked for Playboy and, of course, had PB mags all over my living room tables and stuff. Some of the cute male phone techs or workman thought I was a lesbian. So what do you have that matches that? Pretty funny!”

Not exactly, mainly because of our genders. Why would anyone think of me a gay man because they found in my house magazines with naked women? In fact, once they found out I worked for Playboy, it lead to some wishful conversations, nothing more. But once I found myself in an eerie situation. A refrigerator technician was in my house fixing the compressor. He must have noticed copies of Playboy in my living room. As he was diligently fixing my fridge, I stood not too far from him making small talk.

‘Do you read them magazines lying in your living room?’ I didn’t notice it quite then, but in retrospect I remember the tone of his voice changing from friendly to critical.

‘I sure do. I work for them.’

‘You do?’ Now I sensed a certain amount of disdain in his voice, sounding almost menacing. The kind that comes from someone all too self-righteous: I  have found the way, and you ain’t. You are doomed to go to hell kind. Earlier in the conversation he had mentioned that he was “born again”. That explained.

“Well, good for you!!!” He said. But his sarcasm and self-righteousness didn’t escape me. I was never as relieved to see a workman leave my house than when he did.

The time when I had gone home to Bombay to visit my family soon after I had started working for Playboy and had “smuggled” in several copies of the magazine, my parent’s bedroom seemed to have turned into a curious little gathering containing of male family and friends.  Everyone practically waiting their turns to be able to page through one of the issues. It would of course begin with me showing them my name listed in the masthead, which certainly was a pride factor for everyone. But how could my name by itself compete with those beautiful and bare breasted  fräulines? Once the mob thinned out, my Dad sat down and gave one or two issues serious look and then exited leaving us four brothers alone. My brothers obviously asked me questions. We joked about some figures and the poses. Soon they each took a copy or two with them to show to their friends, leaving on the living room table only one issue. Which neither I, nor anyone else felt necessary to remove from there.

Must have been a couple of hours later, when everyone had dispersed or taking their afternoon naps, I found my mother sitting on the floor by the table and slowly turning the pages of that lone issue. She couldn’t read English, let alone German, so she was obviously checking out the women. At the time I was thirty-four, so my mother was barely fifty, still in good shape and quite good looking, despite her having had nine of us. When younger, she was actually a very pretty woman.  As she scanned those near perfect female bodies, I couldn’t help but wonder whether she were comparing her younger self with any of them. Wasn’t beyond the scope for a wife of the Rasa Manjari reading husband.  Hearing me come and sit down, she didn’t flinch or shut the magazine close or slough it away. She took her time before slapping it shut.

‘So this is what you do?’

‘Yup!’ And I could see her smile slightly.  Not looking at me, but just staring at the empty space in front of her.

On my next trip, I had brought along some Playboy calendars, that went like freshly roasted hot  corn-on-the-cobs.  And since then, my brother Suresh would remind me several times not to forget to bring along some calendars, because he had the Saheb – the income tax officer hooked on them and brought them along with a bottle of Royal Salute. I am sure his auditing went ever so smoothly!!

Fast forward several years to Chicago. Anjuli must have been two or three years old. She was just getting to be able to stand up if she found something within the reach of her hands to hold onto and prop herself up on her feet. Once I walked into the living room and found her standing behind the cast iron bar and methodically unloading one liquor bottle at a time from the shelf putting it down to the floor. Then at another time she propped herself up by my expensive turn table placed on a low table and yanked at the tone arm, destroying the diamond stylus – mightily upsetting her daddy. The next time,  I found her standing at the edge of the coffee table, one of her hands resting on the table, and another on an open page of Playboy. Hearing my footsteps, she must have thought it was her mother coming, I see her poking her fingers at an open page,

Mama, Boobooj… Mama, Boobooj.  She was pointing at the ample pair of  breasts on a close-up of one of the women.

© Haresh Shah

Illustration: Jordan Rutherford

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

Next Friday, March 22, 2013

LIVIN’ LA VIDA LOCA

When I look back and think of the whirlwind life I lived crossing from one country to another and hopping across oceans to different continents, it all seems a little surreal and things and the people I used to pack in within short few days. Here is the story of eleven days in the life of Haresh Shah. The days that were normal for me, but somehow they weren’t.                                                                                                                                                               

 

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I DANCED WITH DONNA SUMMER

February 28, 2013 //
7

Haresh Shah

A Fond Farewell From A Friend      
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On the afternoon of May 17, 2012 my friend Donna (Drapeau) and I were having our periodic lunch at our favorite via Carducci, and along with the catching up we normally did, for some reason, we found ourselves talking about how we often hesitate calling our older friends for the fear that he or she may no longer be around.  Ominous? Because soon as I returned home and turned on my computer, the front page news item in that day’s New York Times was the death of Donna Summer.

If not for her untimely passing,  I probably would not have thought of writing about her. It would have seemed superfluous name dropping. I had known her but for a very short period of time, when both of us lived in Munich and during the time she was briefly dating an acquaintance of mine – the Swiss psychiatrist Dieter Weeren.   Just like most everyone else at the time, I met Donna in my own apartment in Munich. She became one of the group for a short while, going out for dinners and dancing and just hanging out with us at my apartment.

It had to be the summer of 1974 –  Donna was doing Munich night club circuit and had to her credit one LP, Lady of the Night, which never made it outside of Europe and was mainly known in the Netherlands. When she gave me a copy of  it, I had said to her jokingly: I should ask you to sign it, then I could say, I knew you when!  To that she gave me a wistful look  In the same vein I asked her whether she would ever consider posing for Playboy, to which she answered, also in jest, with this bod of mine? Gesturing and running her eyes down the entire frame of her skinny self. The album remained un-autographed. I still have it. Wishing that I she had autographed it.  But never mind, what matters to me the most is: it was held and touched by her. And most importantly listened by me and our Munich friends over and over again. In spite of her phenomenal success that followed, the two songs that have remained with me are from that album. The title track of course,  and the sad  slow ballad,  full of emptiness, which also appears in two versions on the flip side of her now landmark, love to love you baby album.

By then, she had been living in Munich for some time. Originally brought there by the German production of Hair, now making ends meet by performing at small clubs, which Munich had aplenty. I remember chauffeuring her around to and from a couple of those venues. Reminiscing of those days, my friend Michelle (Davis-Scharrnbeck) recalls:  I can only remember meeting her  once or twice with Britt (Walker) and the memories are also a bit fuzzy. Before I knew who she was, and met through you, I had seen her while she was working at a small boutique in Schwabing near the Kunst Akadamie. I have more of a lasting memory of her from those brief encounters. She seemed so fragile, lovable and “schutzbedürftig”, (needing of protection).

Bidding her time and waiting for her big break. Munich for her turned out to be being at the right place at the right time. In early to mid-seventies, Munich was where it was happening. During those years, it wouldn’t have been unusual to run into one of the Stones, especially Mick Jaeger and Keith Richards or Led Zeppelin and Elton John  at one of the two “in” discotheques: Why Not? and  P1. The places I too frequented, if not that often.  They all came to record at the Musicland Studios owned by the record producer Giorgio Moroder, whose partner Pete Bellotte had produced Lady of the Night.

But the place and the night I most remember was the night when after dinner we all had ended up at another popular disco, Yellow Submarine, sunk deep into the Holiday Inn on Leopoldstrasse, where I got to dance with Donna. I am not a good dancer by any dint of imagination, but when a couple of drinks and the music moves me, I can’t just sit still. I would be one of the first ones to jump up and strut  out to the dance floor. How well I dance, I don’t know. More like you could see my head bopping up and down or sideways like the head of a kathakali doll on a coiled spring, with the flashing psychedelic lights breaking up the bodies on the floor into sparkling slivers.  I was absolutely no match for this soul lady so gracefully swaying in front of me, with her every move so naturally elegant and effortless. While awkwardly trying to imitate her it was awesome just to stand there and watch her groove to John McCrae’s Rock Your Baby, Barry White’s Can’t Get Enough Of Your Love Baby or to the ear-splitting screaming of the pint-sized fireball, Susie Quatro’s The Wild One.

And when the sweat began to shine and drip down from everybody’s faces, the disc jockey switched to the obligatory slower, gentler tempo. Disappearing blazing strobes giving way to the subdued slowly twirling mirror-ball up above, spinning to the favorites of those days.  Probably Daliah Lavi’s Wäre ich ein buch,  the German version of Gordon Lightfoot’s If you could read my mind love, Roy Etzel’s instrumental Tränen lügen nicht, (tears don’t lie) or the ultimate snuggle song, Je t’aime performed by Jane Birkin and Serge Gainsbourg, with Serge whispering sweet nothings and Jane responding with her orgasmic grunts, moans and the heavy breathing with such an urgency – the song that inspired Donna to come up with the idea for Love to love you baby. Who would have thought that in less than two years, Donna’s own sixteen minutes and fifty seconds extended orgasm would usurp and take many times over the very song she was dancing to?  

Up close and with our arms wrapped around each other, as we danced, Donna’s tall and lanky frame towered over me. A whole head shorter than her, my face resting on her chest, listening to her heartbeat and taking in her perfume is the image of Donna that has remained with me after all these decades.

About a year later, some of us are invited to Donna’s concert at a small Munich auditorium to see “our Donna” perform at a venue bigger than the small cramped local dives. As we waited eagerly  for the curtains to rise, and when the lights  dimmed and the pin-drop silence fell, and the whole auditorium went pitch black,  without even a sliver of light coming through – all we could hear is the curtains slowly sliding open and the click of them stopping in their tracks. Still nothing happens. Must have been just a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity while we wait with breathless anticipation. And then we hear something that sounds like a sob, a moan and a swish of sweet pain pierces the air, followed by a long drawn out Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, as if emerging from a deep and narrow cave, sobs and moans and grunts echoing and escaping in the atmosphere. And it continues:

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I,

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Love To Love You Baby….

Reverberating over and over again and again through the stillness of the invisible auditorium. And then the halo of soft light outlines the figure that lies on the stage and soon we see it begin to stir and love to love you baby continues to echo and it rushes towards us like tidal waves. We see the figure turning slightly and seductively, uncoiling like a sleeping beauty waking up after a hundred years, rising languidly like a flicker of a dormant flame leaping up from a heap of ashes. And then suddenly she is up and standing with the music gaining tempo, microphone in her hands and we all gasp! At that very moment the a sublime transformation has taken place. The star is born in the front of our very bewildered eyes.

Here my memories are a bit fuzzy. I am sure we got to see her backstage, but then she was probably whisked away by her producers. I may have even seen her  once or twice during the next couple of months, before I drove away in my Buick from Munich to meet the QE II in Cherbourg, France and sail away to New York. Driving cross-country, when I arrived in Chicago a month later and when one evening went browsing at the Ross Records on State and Rush, I stood face-to-face with Donna. Not her flesh and blood self, but bigger than the life size cutout of her staring down at me.  Piled at her feet was a huge stack of LPs, with an image of Donna, wearing a sleeveless semi-transparent dress, her face turned slightly upward, her lips painted deep maroon and her eyes closed. It was November 15, 1975.

Then she was nowhere to be found.  Until a year and a half  later. During one of my sojourns in Mexico City I read in the local newspaper that Donna Summer was going to perform for several nights at the roof top bar Stellaris of the  Hotel Fiesta Palace (now Fiesta Americana). I somehow was able to penetrate through her entourage  and get through to her. It was a hurried conversation, but she invited me to her show that night, which I  attended with Lina Quesada, a casual acquaintance. We got to talk after the show –  sitting in her dressing room and watching her remove her makeup and get ready for whatever after-show activities the local promoters had planned. We reminisced of our Munich days and exchanged contact details, and promised to see each other when we both got back home. She had now moved to Los Angeles and I was living in Santa Barbara, a scant hundred miles (160 km) north along the coast. I am not sure if we ever talked again, even with her private number, it became almost impossible to cut through her publicist and whoever asking annoying questions.  On that night of  May 27, 1977, I wrote in my journal: Went to see Donna. She has changed – obviously, but was about the same as far as our friendship was concerned, except that it isn’t that easy to reach her.

Beyond that, I would read about  her now and then. At times I would almost be tempted to get in touch with her, but just the thought of having to deal with the multiple barbed fences that surrounded her, I never tried to reach her again. Probably, the way I thought must have been – how big and how unreachable she had become. I could see her, but couldn’t touch. Must be why they are called stars. And yet, it was always a good feeling to know that her heart on which I had rested my head and heard it beating, was still beating somewhere in the world. I felt an incredible void on that afternoon of May 17, 2012 and do right now as I write this, to think that heart is no longer beating.

© Haresh Shah 2013

Illustration: Jordan Rutherford

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

Next Friday, May 8, 2013

DECISIONS, DECISIONS

When I first started this blog, I already had about a dozen entries fully written, if not edited. So far they have all followed some sort of logical sequence. Now I have about six of them mostly completed, I am not sure which one of them should go next. Well, it will be as much of a surprise to me as it would be to you. Stay tuned for my first SURPRISE entry.

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HERR DOKTOR SHAH

December 27, 2012 //
1

Haresh Shah

That’s Just What I Needed To Be

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Between my hasty arrival in Munich and the hastier departure next day to Düsseldorf, there wasn‘t much time to think of or look for a permanent place for me to live in Munich, which is where I would be based. The most practical thing for me to do would have been to move into Gerrit Huig’s apartment  from which he had already moved out and established himself in Milan. I was his replacement in Germany with editorial based in Munich and production in Essen near Düsseldorf. Eventually I would have preferred  a pièd à terre in both cities, but having taken over Gerrit’s apartment gave me a temporary reprise and perhaps a permanent one if  I so wished.  But soon it became apparent to me that it wasn’t a right place for me for more reasons than one. Just within the first few weeks I was awoken by the loud and harsh ringing of the phone early in the morning. On the line was Frau Westerholz – my landlady – hysterically screaming at me. She had just received the telephone bill in the amount of a couple of hundred deautsch marks, listing frequent calls to Chicago and also to Milan and Paris.

At the time, if you rented a place anywhere in Europe, you made sure that it came with a telephone already installed.  It wasn’t easy to transfer it to your name and/or easily ordered and installed in a day or two like in the US.  When renting a place, you just agreed to reimburse your landlord the phone charges. Took me first to shake myself awake and then assuming a milder tone, I calmed down Frau Westerholz.  Telling her that soon as she handed me the bill, I would immediately transfer the funds to her account. But even otherwise, the apartment wasn’t something I aspired to. The neighbors were unfriendly, if not outright nasty. Parking was a big problem.

Hearing of my frustrations, Rainer’s wife Renate kindly offered to help find a new apartment. In Chicago I had lived in a brand new lake front apartment on the south side. A spacious one bedroom place with the glass walls and wonderful panoramic view of the South Shore Country Club and the Lake Shore Drive. It came with a swimming pool, the penthouse party room and  underground garage.

‘There are many new buildings, I am sure we can find something as good for  you.’ Renate assured. She made up a classified ad for me, something to the effect that  a young American professional  just having moved to Munich was looking for a specious two bedroom apartment.  She placed the ad in Süddeautsche Zeitung, and the phone on my desk began to ring incessantly and insistently.

I must have spoken to at least half a dozen potential landlords. The rent most of them quoted was not a problem, in fact they were lower than DM 1000.- I was paying for Gerrit’s apartment.  But in the end, none of them wanted to rent me their places. The composite conversation went something like this.

‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty two.’

Married? How many kids?’

‘Not married. No kids.’

‘Hum!’

‘You are single?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do you need such a large apartment?’

‘I don’t know. I just like the feeling of space.’

‘And you said you work for Playboy magazine?’

‘Yes. Is that a problem?’

‘No. I don’t know. I need to check with my husband/wife. I will call you back later.’

Enter Tim Nater – our American editorial assistant, with whom I shared the office and who would go on to become a foreign correspondent for Newsweek.  Seeing me sitting there looking frazzled, I see him raising his eyebrows, his look pointed and zoomed through his thick tortoise-shell framed glasses.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘These fucking Germans!’

‘Why? What happened?’

‘Why is it their business that I’m married with children or not? Shouldn’t it to be whether or not I have good credit and that I will pay my rent on time?’

‘It’s. You’ll find out soon enough!’

‘Well, then why they ask me those stupid questions about why a single man would want to rent a hundred square meter two bedroom apartment? As if I were planning to run a bordello or run a betting ring from there.’

‘Worst yet, heaven forbid! You may throw all those wild parties – the orgies. Horror! And disturb the peace of the law-abiding German citizens.’  Said Tim and laughed. ‘Tell me exactly what happened?’

So I tell him.

‘Okay, I got it. Look, this is Germany and its unusual for a single man even wanting or having a one bedroom apartment.  Majority of them live in studios — einzimmer wohnung. Plus it doesn’t help that you’re  a foreigner and speak German with a funny accent. It probably doesn’t  bode  well that you work for the “porno” magazine Playboy! But don’t worry, we’ll find something good for you.’

‘Thanks Tim. Fuck it! I’m going to go out and get something to eat and have a stein of Paulaner.’

‘Go ahead. I’ll answer your calls.’

●●●

‘I think you may have found just the right place. Perhaps even better.’ Tim informs me soon as I have returned.

‘Tell me!’

‘A lady called. Frau von Liebe. She owns a brand new apartment – two bedrooms, balcony all around, spacious 100 + square meters. And they have Olympic size swimming pool and full sauna. The rent is DM 900.-. Hope it’s within your budget?’ At the exchange rate of DM 3.50 to a dollar, it is a steal.

‘Sounds really good. Let’s call her back.’

‘No. Let’s wait until she calls back. I told her that Herr Doktor Shah ist bei mittags essen. Rufen sie mal bitte an  in etwa eine stunde — and then he winks at me — you don’t want to seem too eager!’

‘Okay. But What’s that Herr Doktor shit?’

‘That would put to rest the question of why a single man needs two bedroom place. You know how it is?  In this country, titles mean a lot!’

So we wait. When the phone rings, Tim picks it up. Guten tag. Leitung von Herr Doktor Shah!

I hear a muffled female voice escaping from the receiver.

‚Ja, er ist schon wieder da. Eine kleine moment bitte.‘

‚Herr Doktor Shah?‘

‚Am aparat. Guten tag frau von Liebe!‘

And we talk. I answer her questions and give her pertinent information about myself and me working for an American company in partnership with one of the top German publishing groups, Bauer Verlag —  the publishers of Quick and Neue Revue. I skip mentioning Playboy, just in case. Tim must have done a good PR job of building me up, for she doesn’t ask me any offensive questions about my single status. We agree to meet the next morning.

It’s a gorgeous late winter early spring day in Munich. I pull up in front of Johannclanzestrasse 49, in my shining like a newly minted penny, white Buick Skylark. Since the building is on my left hand side, I just cross the street sideways and park the car right near the front door, facing wrong way.

Frau von Liebe, a mild-mannered  elderly lady with short curly blonde hair emerges from behind the glass door. Before greeting me with Herr Doktor Shah, her giving my Buick up and down  doesn’t  escape me. I could just hear her saying to herself, alles klar!!

Its a spacious glass covered corner unit with a wrap around balcony in which the bedroom, kitchen, living room and the second bedrooms all open. With the floors heated, no radiators to block placing of the furniture. The place is doused in abundance of natural light. It is a couple of neighborhoods removed from the city center, nearer to the outer Mittlererring – but has everything I would  have wished for, including underground garage parking space . I could just imagine the fun I would have living there.

© Haresh Shah 2012

Illustration:Jordan Rutherford

 Next Friday, January 4, 2013

TIMES THEY ARE A CHANGIN…

Silly as silly can be is how I think of all the legal battles and censorship and restrictions on books, movies and all other art forms. How can Playboy be an exception?  I share with you some outlandish, bizarre but funny episodes from around the world.

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