The problem with being the perfect man for your time is that your time can end long before you do. At 91, Hef was past perfect.

But for the twenty years of his prime, he filled a lustful, thoughtful, man-shaped hole in the American tapestry. He edited more than a magazine; he edited the national image of manhood, exposing his audience to the literature, art, and ideas that intrigued him, as well as the big titties that got him hard. Without firing a shot or winning a contest, he pushed a generation of men to be more interesting versions of themselves; that he didn’t really succeed is less an indictment of his vision than the nature of the generation he sought to inspire.

I missed Hugh Hefner before he was gone. His death simply means that I get to miss him out loud.