September 26, 2003  
Volume 97, Issue 17  

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EDITORIAL & OPINIONS

Feed the brain, eyes and other body parts

Apparently I am a terrible person, I am a sad person, I am a desperate person and I am a perverted person because I read Playboy.

We should completely forget the fact Playboy has interviewed some of the most brilliant and controversial figures in the magazine's 50-year history. From Malcolm X to American Nazi Party founder George Lincoln Rockwell; from Joseph Heller (author of Catch 22,) to nuclear physicist Edward Teller and from anti-feminist Camille Paglia to Helen Gurley Brown, founder and former Editor-in-Chief of Cosmopolitan magazine.

The intelligent discourse from the interviews influenced many readers and brought forth issues many publications at the time refused to cover, but I guess that still makes me as evil as a puppy-devouring fascist.

We should also forget the pages of the magazine have also seen its fair share of contributing writers, but I'm sure they were all terrible authors to have written for a smut magazine like Playboy.

Besides, we all know Alex Haley, author of Roots and The Autobiography of Malcolm X is probably not a very good writer, considering he conducted several interviews for the magazine.

And what about Mordecai Richler, Canadian writer, essayist, journalist and contributor for Playboy. That's horrible, I guess all those great books he wrote are no good because he wrote for a porno magazine.

Despite all the great interviews and the talented writers who have been published, the magazine still possesses this reputation as a magazine that is known for the Playmates and not its columns, articles and interviews.

The even sadder aspect of the whole thing is most people will not want to pick up a Playboy because it has this reputation of being smut and many fear being insulted for even being seen with a smutty magazine.

Whatever happened to the sexual liberation that dominated the sixties and allowed men and women to read an issue of Playboy without worrying about getting snickered at. Now I can't walk into the corner store without getting a strange look of pity towards my supposed desperation from the cashier.

It seems people are becoming more and more sexually repressive; sex has once again become some sort of Victorian taboo. I'm not talking about people not having enough sex in public places, what I mean is people who are just not comfortable talking, hearing or even reading about sex.

Because I've run out of space, the whole thing can best be explained by the cheesy cliche: "Don't judge a book by its cover." So please read before you judge the mag and me.

 

 

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