Up to the Glitter

Well, darlings, on the (I'm sure very) off chance that your weekend hasn't turned out to be quite as soigné as perhaps you were hoping, why don't we drop in on Mr. Hefner and see what's happening up at his place?  As it turns out, the marvelous soul queen Carla Thomas has popped by as well, doing something rather magical to "Where do I Go?" from Hair.

It's interesting to think that, at least in this swinging sixties incarnation, the whole Playboy ethos - so much in the news this past week as that venerable publication announces its unlikely new direction in editorial content - was so far from the louche and tawdry, Cosby-esque kinds of unpleasant nonsense that spring to mind these days.  By the mid-'70s (and really, cocaine and Quaaludes do have a lot to answer for, don't they?), things had fallen very far, very fast, but here in 1969, we're somewhere between Mad Men and Aquarius.  Whatever goings-on might be going on upstairs, down here in Hef's spacious, studiously neutral, bird-of-paradise-bedecked, deeply Bradyesque living room, it all seems about as risqué as a church social (if rather more stylish, and with likely a few more cocktails, thank goodness).

Here in our own living room, we are, I fear, not quite as happening, and the spiciest thing, alas, that's happened here this weekend was me assaying a new recipe for sriracha-flavored almonds (I'm under orders to eat quantities of the things, and a plain raw almond is one of the dullest foods on God's green earth, I've learned).

Has your weekend featured anything quite up to Ms. Thomas's level?