Hugh Hefner is a pig/Hire me, Mr. Hefner

While I understand my current occupation in food service (as so deftly pointed out by Pete McCommons here) will end in two weeks, it is so difficult for me to break away from the title of "student" and into the limbo levitating hell that is "unemployed" or "between jobs."

Yet unlike the field of law, where a prospect is considered by his LSAT score and high marks, or in fishery management, where internships and bravado are deemed desirable, the vast and schizophrenic playing field of journalism looks for clips. And in an article I am currently writing, I held my tongue as not to offend that man in his jammies, Hugh Hefner.

I won't get too in depth to the background of my article, but I compare a nudist to Hugh Hefner, physically and in behaviour (oh so British) and mannerism. However, I pepper the comparison with the fact that this man is not a self-designated elitist like Mr. Hefner. (As you may recall, the Hef decided after writing the manifesto that is the Playboy Philosophy to live the life--sure he could have fallen on his face with it, but he elevated himself to actually become his magazine and the smartest and most visible marketing tool I have ever seen.)

Mr. Hefner (now I show respect) will almost assuredly never see this article. I may not even use the comparison. But it made me wince; the idea of having to look into the eyes of an elderly man who had bedded countless beauties, broke through an addiction to speed and created one of the most lasting pieces of journalism and social commentaries of the 20th century. It made me wonder if I could even muster the words, "yo, Hef...no offense."

I'm sure I won't have to. Tuesday toast to not knowing if I ever will.