I’ve never been a subscriber to Playboy but I would be lying if I told you I never thumbed through it (take that as a euphemism if you will). One thing, however, I’ve always known about Playboy is that it has a history of publishing really good writing from authors who were or became well-known, well-respected in the literary world. Roald Dahl published in Playboy, Kurt Vonnegut, Arthur C. Clarke, Shel Silverstein, Paul Theroux, John Updike, Norman Mailer, Joyce Carol Oates, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Philip Roth, John Irving, John Cheever… are you convinced yet? You probably didn’t need convincing in the first place but it’s important, I think, to point out this history before I get to the heart of this article. Playboy has a long history of publishing great writers. And even in recent memory, they occasionally have a really noteworthy writer between their sheets. But as a literary powerhouse, they have been digging their own deathhole for over a decade.

I stumbled upon a recent story, published as a nonfiction tale of debauchery, called Raging Bulls by Spencer Morgan (this link goes to Playboy’s website, so use your best clicking judgment if you happen to be at work). This tale is essentially about laid-off financial sector douchebags going down to Buenos Aires for coke parties and prostitutes. The conceit of this story is actually pretty interesting when you think about it and if it was done well, it could be an awesome fiction story. But, as I said, it’s presented as truth when so much of it reads as fiction; it’s a douchebag’s wet dream. If it is indeed nonfiction, the editor must have been too busy pulling his goalie (hockey masturbation euphemism) to bother editing. There is no story arc, it is poorly written and poorly punctuated, and it sounds entirely made up as some ill-conceived advertising ploy to regain a faltering readership. The sentence they chose to feature to entice readership betrays all their intentions: “They all enjoyed a few snorts of coke, then had a threesome.” Really?

It’s really pathetic, Playboy. It’s no wonder everybody thinks you’re going bankrupt and you have to close your New York office. Salon even wrote an article about you six years ago, warning about this very thing. I know many people won’t care about this when it’s obvious the entire magazine industry is crumbling, or because it’s Playboy and it’s misogynist and objectifies women or whatever. But at one point in time, Playboy was on the forefront of publishing awesome writing, fiction and nonfiction alike. It’s just too bad they’ve declined to their current state.

Related posts:

1. To Publish in Print or Online
2. The Rebirth of the Novella
3. The Decline and Fall of Cosmo Doogood's Urban Almanac
4. Depression-era Detroit Novels
5. Stoner by John Williams

Tags: arthur c clarke, buenos aires, douchebag, douchebags, gabriel garcia marquez, hockey masturbation euphemism, john cheever, john irving, john updike, joyce carol oates, Kurt Vonnegut, literature, magazine, norman mailer, paul theroux, philip roth, playboy, publishing, raging bulls, roald dahl, salon, shel silverstein, spencer morgan