During my glorious teenage years back in the Awesome ’80s, the annual AutoRama car show was a must-attend event for every red-blooded young male in the valley. No, not because of the cars, although they were neat enough — seeing ZZ Top’s Eliminator hot rod in the flesh, er, steel was a real treat, for example — but because the show afforded the opportunity to bask in the presence of honest-to-glory Playboy<\/i> Playmates. Yes, for only the price of admission plus a small additional autograph fee, any pimple-faced, scrubby-mustached, mullet-wearing doofus could have the honor of standing in a line that sometimes stretched back for a couple of hours<\/i>, all to experience less than 30 seconds of facetime with a paragon of feminine pulchritude you couldn’t actually go out with in a million years. Oh, and you got a signed picture, too. And occasionally a Playmate who would pose for a photo with you, although the shot never seemed to turn out because your friend with the camera had shaky hands. But hey, you could at least point at the blurry, vaguely humanoid shape and tell people who it was, and remember the prickle of flopsweat blossoming under your arms as she slipped her arm across the top of your shoulders.<\/p>\n
Yes, those were the days.<\/p>\n