What self respecting bachelor would fail to find himself a bachelor pad to come home to and entertain in? Perhaps iconic to me were those depictions in
Playboy, cutaway watercolor images of a
luxe living room or a fabulous den equipped with a round bed which lowered from the ceiling.
It had better have a bar, a place to fix cocktails, and no we're not talking about a place to park the kegerator. It needs to have all kinds of hi-tech, like a
hi-fi and a clock radio. It needs a television, and although nowadays large plasma screens are all the rage, howsabout one of those all-picture-tube-no-cabinet jobs that George and Elroy Jetson watched the Space Race on back when the early sixties was all Tomorrow. And while you're at it, make it lower out of the ceiling too. Indoor reflecting pools are in, lap pools are out; nevermind that Mark Spitz was one of the great bachelors of his time. The Bachelor Pad is not the place to exert oneself. In fact, you can also forget about the Bachelor Pad ever being a fixer-upper; I don't think James Bond could pull off the Bob Villa schtick. No home repairs, then.
Which brings me to what I've been doing these
past few days while the wife and son were away. I performed some bathroom repairs of a commodal nature. I moved some large items into our small attic, to make room for other items, yet to be acquired by the Mrs. But in a true act of OnceWereBachelorship, brother-in-law Captain Mike, who is flying the LAX-HNL-LAX route this month, showed me how to hang ceiling fans, which we hung in my living room, family room, and the master bedroom. What a guy. Luckily, we didn't have any round beds to dismantle. Good thing we had ribeyes and cigars at DK Steakhouse in Waikiki the night before.
So the next time we have guests over to the suburbs for cocktails and jazz, they can cool off under the whip-fast blades of my brushed-nickel aero-fans.
