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AN INTERVIEW WITH MRS. E. JOHNSON
Excerpts from an unpublished Playboy Magazine interview
An "insider's insider," Mrs. E. Johnson, premature
widow at nineteen of that consummate Hong Kong Cavalier, Flyboy,
runs the Banzai Institute for Biomedical Engineering and Strategic
Information with an iron hand in a kid glove. When we reminded
her that she'd been described by Doctor Banzai's biographer,
Reno Nevada, as "one of those persons who languishes by
day and does not seem to come fully alive until the middle of
the night," Mrs. J. replied with a twinkle, "That's
because Mr. Nevada sleeps all day long himself and has no idea
what the hell I'm up to from dawn to dusk."
Few people do, but every Hong Kong Cavalier, every Blue Blaze Irregular, every member of Team Banzai, and every Apostle in the Banzai Group suspects that Buckaroo couldn't run the place without her. So we invited Mrs. Johnson to wing her way to Chicago on the Playboy Jet and discuss the fascinating kingdom she calls "home."
PLAYBOY:
Welcome to the Mansion, Mrs. Johnson.
MRS. JOHNSON: Thanks for having me here, Barbi.
PLAYBOY: "Home." That's a pretty powerful word.
MRS. JOHNSON: You can say that again.
PLAYBOY: "Home." That's a pretty powerful word.
MRS. JOHNSON: Can I quote Emily Dickinson? Can I say something
like that here?
PLAYBOY: Anything goes at the Mansion, probably just the same
way it does at the Banzai Institute, no? Didn't I read somewhere
where it said Buckaroo's motto is "Progress Over Protocol"?
MRS. JOHNSON: It's actually the Institute's most current action
statement. Buckaroo personally hates mottos and slogans. Don't
ever get him going on the subject.
PLAYBOY: Speaking of subjects, we intend for this interview to
be as far-reaching and as frank as you'll let it be, Mrs. Johnson,
because you and all our readers know Hef just can't get enough
inside dope on Buckaroo and his fabulous lifestyle.
MRS. JOHNSON: You'll never publish the damn thing if everything's
on the table.
PLAYBOY: Sure, we will. Hef's fearless, just like Dr. Banzai.
MRS. JOHNSON: There's a common misconception! Buckaroo Banzai
knows fear, trust me. Just the other day he remarked that "The
man who has ceased to fear has ceased to care."
PLAYBOY: Wow.
MRS. JOHNSON: "Wow" is right. But I digress. Any idea
who said "Home is a holy thing. Nothing of doubt or distrust
can enter its blessed portals."
PLAYBOY: Martha Stewart?
MRS. JOHNSON: Emily Dickinson.
PLAYBOY: The etiquette lady?
MRS. JOHNSON: Let's take this moment of mild confusion to shift
the focus off personalities and onto the Institute itself, okay?
PLAYBOY: Buckaroo's pad! All right! What's it really like in
there, behind closed doors, after midnight?
MRS. JOHNSON: Pretty quiet. Pretty
intense. Unless, of course, the band is jamming. Mostly it's
just a round-the-clock quest to reject convention, confront chaos,
and map it...and populate it with concepts, intense singularities,
and names for things that happen to us.
PLAYBOY: Ha, ha, that is so cute!
MRS. JOHNSON: At the risk of sounding high-flautin', I signed
on for life at the Institute after my husband was killed because
we both believed that its greatest mission is to serve as an
antidote to the vanishing American frontier.
PLAYBOY: Please elaborate.
MRS. JOHNSON: Well, in the early days of this Republic, a feller
could pick up and move, reinvent himself, head west, find more
chances to make good.
PLAYBOY: As the frontier expanded, so did a cowpoke's possibilities.
MRS. JOHNSON: Or a cowgirl's.
PLAYBOY: But much more slowly, of course, for women.
MRS. JOHNSON: We've come a long way, Barbi. In no small part
thanks to your boss.
PLAYBOY: Hef will be so tickled to hear you say that!
MRS. JOHNSON: But nowadays...
PLAYBOY: (getting excited): ...a feller can't very well move
from New York to Phoenix to escape his sorry history.
MRS. JOHNSON: Too many data bases. Enter the Banzai Institute,
a second-chance giver. We don't ask for a Social Security number.
A mere handshake'll do. Men, women, and kids come knocking on
our door, and no one is turned away. They stay for a day, a week,
a year, a lifetime... working for no pay except three squares...
PLAYBOY: ...from "Mrs. Johnson's Kitchen"! You know
those amazing sticky buns you guys sell on your web site....
MRS. JOHNSON: Cinnamon buns.
PLAYBOY: Yeah, those! Hef orders them by the truckload.
MRS. JOHNSON: So did Elvis.
PLAYBOY: No shit, really?
MRS. JOHNSON: Really.
PLAYBOY: My God. I can't...that is..the coolest thing to know.
I mean, what is it you're always saying about them in that TV
ad...?
MRS. JOHNSON: "If these aren't the best cinnamon buns you've
ever tasted, then my name isn't 'Mrs. Johnson.'"
PLAYBOY: That is like my favorite, all-time commercial!
MRS. JOHNSON: Thank you, but we were talking about how folks
in need, at crossroads in their lives, come to the Institute
to learn how to rope, shoot and ride...and in return how they
promise to act honorably and always take the side of the oppressed.
Pretty much like what I imagine happened when you came to the
Mansion here.
PLAYBOY: Pretty much. But there was a lot of sex too. How about...
MRS. JOHNSON: No comment.
PLAYBOY: Fair enough. I know that subject can be a killer.
MRS. JOHNSON: Death never takes
the wise woman by surprise. She is always ready to go.
PLAYBOY: Speaking of which, I know that Buckaroo said one time,
"Live like you're gonna die tomorrow and study like you're
gonna live forever." So is it true that he reads everything
he can get his hands on...
MRS. JOHNSON: And then some.
PLAYBOY: ...and I heard one thing he read somewhere that he really
liked was this neat quote, I've got it right here somewhere...here..."My
center is giving way...my right is in retreat. Situation excellent:
I shall attack." That is so totally bold! Can we talk about
war and combat and fighting?!
MRS. JOHNSON: "A battle won is a battle which we will not
acknowledge to be lost."
PLAYBOY: Don't talk so fast! I want to write that down!
MRS. JOHNSON: Won't you have it all on tape?
PLAYBOY: Lookit me! You are absolutely right.
MRS. JOHNSON: And so are you, Barbi. Because at the Banzai Institute
another of our primary missions is to sustain and protect the
individual Cavalier, Irregular, or Apostle on the new highly-toxic,
mobile, and tribal battlefields of the future. To that end we've
developed a cutting-edge, microclimate cooling suit for the Jet
Car that we expect will significantly reduce individual water
requirements when operating our combat vehicles in the desert.
PLAYBOY: Fascinating.
MRS. JOHNSON: And Perfect Tommy's worked with Tumblin' Tumbleweed
on a remarkably simple flame-protective finish for the chemical/biological
overgarment we created to provide our Apostolic Armor & Helicopter
Units with both CB and flame protection in one package.
PLAYBOY: You guys are really into clothes!
MRS. JOHNSON: Clothes make the man. But the way to a man's heart
is through his stomach so I've been spearheading research on
an evolutionary new Combat Food Service System...or CFSS. We'll
be staging a wargame sometime next year during which I'm going
to try, with only Kaintuck's help, to feed 1,100 Blue Blaze Irregulars
two hot meals a day for fifteen days, all of it carried in a
single rehabbed C-141B during a BRD mission...
PLAYBOY: "BRD." That's Blaze Rapid Deployment.
MRS. JOHNSON: Correct. We're looking to dish up frequent, high-quality
hot meals on the integrated battlefield and significantly reduce
the number of food-service personnel put in harm's way.
PLAYBOY: How wonderful! Just as long as there's some of your
famous cinnamon buns on the menu, I'm sure nobody's gonna be
griping!
MRS. JOHNSON: Or my name isn't...
PLAYBOY: ...MRS. JOHNSON!!
EDITOR'S NOTE: AT THIS POINT PLAYBOY'S TAPE RAN OUT DUE
TO OPERATOR ERROR. MR. HEFNER FELT THAT THE INTERVIEW, AS WELL
AS IT WAS GOING, THUS PRODUCED A TRANSCRIPT OF INSUFFICIENT LENGTH
TO PUBLISH AS IS. OUR REPEATED TRIES TO REACH MRS. JOHNSON DREW
NO RESPONSE FROM THE BANZAI INSTITUTE OTHER THAN THE RECORDED
MESSAGE ON THEIR PUBLIC-RELATIONS VOICE MAIL THAT "ALL PRESS
INQUIRIES CONCERNING STAFF INTERVIEWS SHOULD BE DIRECTED TOWARD
MRS. E. JOHNSON"...WHOSE PHONE HAD BEEN DISCONNECTED WITHOUT
EXPLANATION.
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