Somewhere in the long list of false utterances is this one---mostly said by men: “I only buy Playboy magazine for the articles.” This one is somewhat like saying “I only go to McDonald’s for the salads.”

In the early 50’s my dad became a first subscriber to an all-new weekly magazine called Sports Illustrated. It was a spanking new publication all about baseball, football and boxing. Each week the magazine was laden---front to back---with photos of sweaty men, sweaty fans and sweaty racehorses.

But in 1964 the magazine came out with a special edition: The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. At first, it contained the usual pages of sports---with one or two photos of women in swimwear sandwiched in between. But in time, the sandwich got bigger---eventually becoming an entire issue focused solely on swimsuits---even though there were never issues solely dedicated to football helmets, baseball caps and tennis shorts.

And even though female sports were rarely featured in the magazine the rest of the year---the Swimsuit Issue focused exclusively on women in swimsuits. For images of scantily clothed men, you had to look to Tarzan, Aquaman and Hercules.

When the Swimsuit Issue arrived each year, my mom used to say disgustedly: “What does this have to with sports?” Initially the old man would sputter some sort of lame defense like, “Swimming is a legitimate sport.” Mom would then point out that female Olympic swimmers did not compete in string bikinis.

As the years went by, Dad wisely changed his approach. “You’re right---this has nothing to do with sports. It’s ridiculous---and offensive!” But when Mom suggested he should cancel his subscription in protest, he had a ready answer. “Just because I don’t like crullers, doesn’t mean I should turn down all the other fine choices at House of Donuts.“ Even as a kid I was dazzled by such logic.

In teen and college years, my fellow male classmates and I would actually circle the calendar awaiting the arrival of the vaunted issue. Then, like a tribe of slobbering Troglodytes (wherein the word ‘ogle’ can be easily constructed), we would study and talk about the annual magazine as if discussing the finer points of Macbeth.

Fast forward several years later. I had inherited my dad’s charter subscription to Sports Illustrated. “I read it for the articles,” I told my wife. It was a rationale she did not buy---especially when that one outlier issue arrived each year.

Over time the annual issue got fatter, the swimsuits tinier. It is still Sports Illustrated’s most popular issue of the year by far---even as the publishers fend off unending criticism of it.

A few years ago, my wife and I took a vacation trip to Cabo San Lucas---an unbelievably gorgeous spot in Baja, Mexico---staying at a magnificent resort hotel right on the beach. It was our first time in Mexico, so we were given plenty of traditional advise before heading there:
Do not drink the water.
Do not eat food from street vendors.
Bring lots of sunscreen.

I promptly ignored all the advice---and had a second degree sunburn our first day. I also
began to feel a certain “funkiness” in my tummy region. I ignored it.

But then something remarkable happened. I noticed a van with a camera crew pull up
to our hotel. They were on hand to shoot video and still photos for---yes---the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. I told my wife the good news. Oddly, she seemed unimpressed.

The next day, even though by now sporting a fourth-degree sunburn, I told my wife I was headed to the beach. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to stay indoors today?” She suggested. I told her that the majesty of the sea and the sand were beckoning. She shook her head.

I hustled my way down to the “beckoning” sea and sand…and waited. But not for long. Within minutes I could see the camera crew---and a willowy supermodel in a cover-up ambling my way. There---thanks to divine providence and my own best hunch---I had placed myself directly in prime viewing range of a big-time photo shoot.

The cameras and tripods began to be positioned. The model was being prepped by makeup artists fussing around her. The swimsuit was about to be unveiled. I pretended not to notice.

And then…it happened.

Montezuma paid me a sudden visit in all his most furious revenge. I began to experience
the painful, bending, cramping urgency of the full-blown experience crudely known as “the runs.”
And run I did. Carefully.

My limited command of Spanish included the word ‘banos.’ I furtively began to look for one---shuffling my way across the hot sand like Lawrence of Arabia with dysentery.

The Sports Illustrated photo shoot went on without me---I had been called away on urgent business.
If the idea of a vacation is to spend the majority of your time in a sitting position---then I had quite a vacation---and more movements than Beethoven.

For her part, my dear wife said she was very sympathetic.

Yet she seemed to smile quite a lot.

pat@patcashman.com
Pat was a longtime cast member and writer on KING 5’s Almost Live---which continues to air in popular re-runs Saturdays following Saturday Night Live. He is a keynote speaker---and a fundraiser auctioneer---plus he co-hosts a weekly on-line talk show: Peculiarpodcast.com