Before there were Yuppies, there were Playboys. This room has all the Playboy basics: Art no one ever liked, then or now, and which long ago went for a dollar at a yard sale - and most of the purchase price was for the frame. A state-of-the-art stereo with knobs! and push buttons! and a wood case, so you could polish it once a month just like Hef surely did. A small silver lamp that burns your forehead when you stand up and hit it with your head. Art books you haven’t, and will not, read. Ugly objet d’art that makes you look like a sophisticated man of the world, but only because there aren’t yet Pier One stores to sell this garbage in bulk. And finally: the hideously expensive chair. The chair that says: Class. The chair that says: you’re a Batch with Style. The chair into which you sink at night with your Cutty on the rocks, look over your Diners Club statement, and think: My old La-Z-Boy was so much more comfy. But was your old La-Z-Boy mentioned in the Playboy advisor two issues ago? Did you see it in an Esquire photo shoot last month? It was not.