Tanya received a beautiful new pair of red fishnet hose for Christmas and she literally breaks them in for you in this gorgeous photoset!
Tanya received a beautiful new pair of red fishnet hose for Christmas and she literally breaks them in for you in this gorgeous photoset!
I used to dance at a club where rumors abounded that the owner, a heroin addict, had injected lethal doses of heroin into numerous women while he had sex with them. All had danced at the club and nobody ever saw any of these ladies again. Were the stories true? Quite possibly, I thought. No one looked very hard for the women who disappeared. In fact, no one looked at all. No one even knew whether or not they were missing. The owner of the club, or anyone else, could easily have killed these women and gotten away with it. The disposal of their bodies would have provided the biggest challenge. My memories of the vanished women revolve around my impression that they all had very similar personalities: all of them projected a quality of disconnectedness. They seemed to have very few attachments to other people and did not relate particularly well to men or to women. All had sweet personalities, perhaps too sweet. They just seemed too eager to please. Most of them probably had heroin habits. Contrary to popular opinion heroin users often conceal their addictions very well. You can't always spot the nuances of heroin use unless you know just what to look for. Heroin takes the pain away. Young people from tortured backgrounds often gravitate to it. It just takes their pain away. These women had pain. I could just see it in their eyes, their posture, and some type of haunted fear that emanated from the obsequious words that they spoke. They wanted to please everybody and had trouble standing up for themselves. The owner of that club used to pick his playmates from among the dancers who worked there. He had lots of money and had no problem attracting many of them just on the basis of his wealth. Others tried to fend off his advances. He would sometimes become very overbearing and aggressive towards them until they either gave in or quit. A manager named Roger had worked at the club for a long time. One night Roger and I were standing behind the club staring into the night sky around 1AM. I was taking a break and Roger had come outside to smoke a cigarette. We sat in silence for about five minutes. Then Roger began speaking to me in a low voice with his back to me. "Sassi is gone. You know that, right?" he said quietly. I did not know what to say. Roger seemed to be leading up to something rather than asking a question. I felt my body stiffen and the hairs on my arms stood up. "He'll leave you alone. You don't have to worry. He likes pussy, but he likes money even more than pussy. You make a lot of money for him." I sat in silence. Roger still had his back to me. My heart was beating a little faster and I was glad he was not looking at me. "The only way he'd ever mess with you is if you approached him. Just keep your distance." Roger's words hung in the cool night air. I had not spoken a syllable. Roger finished his cigarette and tossed it onto the gravel. He strode back into the club without ever checking to see my reaction. I stared at his cigarette as it slowly burnt out on the ground. The owner of that club never did hassle me. Nobody there did. All in all four dancers disappeared during the time that I worked there. They each had a quiet desperation that lurked beneath their pretty exteriors. I could feel it because I had the same quality. They had no families. I just knew that because I had no family. I can always tell. They all lived alone. I lived alone. A common thread ran amongst all of us. It takes one to know one. Yet I did not use heroin and I suspected that all of them did. Years later I'm sitting here writing this. All of them may still be alive too. Rationally I know that they may have just left that club to go dance someplace else. Or maybe they quit dancing. Or maybe they got married. Or went back to wherever they had grown up. My rational side tells me that because no evidence ever surfaced to suggest that anything bad had happened to any of them. But somehow I don't think that any of them ever left that club. Somebody cleaned out their lockers. The respective landlords who owned their homes eventually must have disposed of their belongings and vaguely wondered what had become of these women. But no one really looked for them because no one was really sure that they were gone. Their faces still come to me at night. Around that time Nicole Simmons (see above pic) was appearing in lots of adult magazines: Penthouse, Cheri, Club, etc. I had begun harboring an interest in doing some modelling and I saw her beautiful pictorials all the time. One by one dancers were disappeating from the club and I decided to take up a career as a nude model. I can't look at Nicole without thinking of those other women, the missing dancers.
Penthouse Pet Nicole Simmons will dazzle you as she poses in her pink swimsuit at the beach. Darkness is beginning to fall in this gorgeous gallery as Nicole slowly disrobes for your pleasure..
There's a bar called Monty's on West Seventh Street in downtown L.A. It has no windows and you can't see the interior when you are standing on the sidewalk even though the door is always open. The signage outside advertises cocktails, sports TV, and pool. Monty's is in kind of a rough area and it was hard to guess exactly who might be in the place. It could be workers from the numerous construction sites in the vicinity or it could be Mexican gangbangers. Maybe it's an array of people strung out on heroin they purchased across the street or it's a bunch of cops who get together after work. It could also be Crips, Bloods, or grandmothers knitting. The only way to find out is by walking in there. The place was calling me. Why does that always happen? Little dingy bars with wood-panelling have a way of doing that. There was no way I could know that it had a wood-panelled interior, but yet I was certain that it did. Finally I proved myself right by going in there last Friday afternoon. About eight people were inside the wood-panelled room which happened to be bigger than I would have expected. There was a jukebox against one wall and five pool tables lined up on the concrete floor. A few of the patrons were playing pool and the rest were seated at the bar. Most of the conversation in the room was in Spanish. The bartender sized me up from a distance and maneuvered towards me in a somewhat laborious manner. At first I thought she was pregnant, but then it appeared that her gait was the result of some type of injury. I asked for a Stoli on the rocks and she asked me for my ID. My Stoli cost $4.50. I sipped it and stared at the TV while the other customers tried to figure out what I was doing there. Something about their manner indicated that they were not accustomed to seeing many strangers in the place. Or maybe they just weren't accustomed to seeing many unescorted white women in the place. A large Hispanic woman in tight clothes came near me to retrieve her bottle of beer. She looked me squarely in the face and gave me a disdainful smirk before returning to her pool game. Her apparent assessment of me reminded me of one made by a similar large Hispanic woman a number of years ago. I had been leaving a bachelor party at which I'd been dancing when a woman had arrived at the residence. She kept looking me up and down and saying, "Oh, there's the little ho you had for the party" in a loud, derisive manner. I had been wearing a skintight, hot pink dress with 5" spiked heels. Today at Monty's I was wearing a baggy T-shirt and workout pants. I returned the woman's look with a polite smile. Another customer in Monty's played some music from the sixties on the jukebox. He was moving in rhythm to the songs in between his shots at the pool table. A different customer bought me a drink. He was not a leering pervert and seemed to have no interest in speaking to me other than to acknowledge my thanks. Normally I dislike it when strangers buy me drinks because I never want to engage in the conversation they are expecting. Maybe this gentleman was highly intuitive. I wasn't really sure why he'd bought me the drink, but he left shortly thereafter. The place was pretty mellow- at least on a Friday afternoon. The patrons ranged in age from their thirties up to a few who were probably in their sixties. Most of them were Hispanic and I think all of them understood Spanish because I'd heard almost no English since I walked in. Of course I didn't really blend in but no one seemed to care enough to try and make me feel uncomfortable. Even the fat woman refrained from giving me another dose of scorn. Altogether I had three vodkas before departing. That wasn't very smart because I was scheduled to do a bikini wrestling match with Francesca Le in less than an hour. When I arrived at the gym I mentioned that I'd been to Monty's. Francesca rolled her eyes and said: "Oh, great. Now you're going to screw up even more than usual during the shoot." I ignored the fact that she was right, threw a pair of boxing gloves in her face, and challenged her to bring her bad attitude into the ring..
If you come to my place you will see a stain in the ceiling of my livingroom. It is a bloodstain that dripped through the floorboards of the apartment above when the former occupant was killed at home. Rumor has it he was with the Russian Mafia. Is there such a thing as a Russian Mafia? "Mafia" has to be one of the most overused words in the English language. Every wanna-be bad guy claims to be a part of some type of "mafia." I have no idea what precipitated the death of my neighbor upstairs nor do I know whether he was really with some clandestine group of criminals or not. In any case, the blood pooling inside my ceiling did prompt me to cover my teal green couch with a slipcover. I certainly would not want any bloodstains on that classic piece of furniture. Shannan Leigh came over and snottily commented that I must be really broke if I was recycling bedsheets to cover up my shabby home decor. Yep, that's what she said. I was determined to show Miss High-and-Mighty a thing or two after her unwelcome remark. It was not an easy fight. Check out the gallery below to see the final outcome of this emotionally-charged debacle...
Tanya's Viewpoint: In July, 2001 the owner of www.SuperheroineCentral.com hired me to work at his booth at the San Diego Comic Convention. He booked a room for me at the Wyndham Emerald Plaza in the downtown area so I could stay near the convention center and also so he could use the hotel room for filming some videos. We arranged a shoot with Jewell on one of those days. At some point during the shoot the website owner and his assistant were discussing how they could get an extra hotel room. Virtually every hotel in the downtown area was booked to capacity because the Comic Convention draws huge crowds from around the world each year. The assistant pointed out the window at a huge white building with faded red lettering that spelled out âHotel San Diego.â âLook at that place,â he said with a smirk. âI bet you could get a room there. What a dump. Look at those old air conditioners sticking out of the windows.â Everyone in the room laughed at the dilapidated old building and I felt sad. I had already circled the perimeter of the structure numerous times and tried to climb underneath a fence to get closer to it. My friend Raul, who was also attending the convention, had been with me. He could not understand my fascination with the place. I kept insisting that it was an amazing work of art and guessed that it had been built around the turn of the last century. He loitered nearby as I went up to every possible window and tried to peer inside. Sometimes it seems like I spend half my life with my nose pressed against dirty window panes. Raul trailed behind me reluctantly for over an hour because he thought the neighborhood was unsafe. Finally I found a hole in the chain link fence surrounding the property. A bedraggled homeless man lunged at me and began yelling incoherent threats when I started to approach it. Raul grabbed my arm and shepherded me down the sidewalk. I hate it when people steer me around but I could tell he had done it out of concern. That episode concluded my perusal of the building for the afternoon. Raul went to go hang out with some friends and I went to the lobby bar at the Wyndham and started asking people questions about the Hotel San Diego. Most of them knew nothing about it even though the few with whom I spoke actually lived in San Diego. After my third drink a man with information happened to sit next to me. He said the old hotel was slated for demolition and that for a time it had been used by the Mitchell Brothers of San Francisco fame as a venue for live sex shows. For the rest of my stay I stared at the Hotel San Diego through my hotel window. One window on an upper floor of the grand old place was always open and some old, tattered Venetian blinds would flutter through the window frame if the wind blew. The property had been completely fenced off â it did indeed look like it was slated for demolition - but someone was in there. My instincts told me that person had a specific purpose and I wondered obsessively about what they were doing there. After returning home I did countless searches on the Internet for âHotel San Diegoâ and they all yielded nothing other than endless listings of hotels in San Diego. I looked for âMitchell Brothers San Diegoâ, âhistoric hotels San Diegoâ, "haunted hotels San Diego" and a hundred other combinations of terms that might give me some information about that captivating building. Nothing of substance turned up in any of my searches. A few weeks later I was watching TV with Raul, Jewell Marceau, and a few other people. Some movie was on and all of a sudden Wesley Snipes was walking out of the Hotel San Diego. I recognized the red lettering on its once-glorious entrance. âThatâs the Hotel San Diego!â I almost shouted. Raul and Jewell exchanged glances and then both rolled their eyes. They both knew about my fixation with the place and were equally perplexed by my interest in it. Jewell in particular had grown weary of hearing about the hotel and warned me that she was going to be especially brutal during our bondage shoot the following day if I started talking about âthat dumpy placeâ again. Of course I could not stop talking about it..
Tanya's viewpoint: Several months ago I checked into a hotel in Los Angeles to minimize my commute into the San Fernando Valley for work. I had numerous shoots scheduled over a 4-day period and did not want to deal with hours of driving on each of those days. I selected the historic Mayfair Hotel which sits in a gritty section near downtown. Downtown L.A. is equidistant from the San Fernando Valley and the city in which I live. My friend Raul came to meet me for dinner on the first night I was there. He did not bother to hide his disgust for the surroundings. The squalor really bugged him. I was enjoying our walk amidst the debauchery and kept stopping to ogle at many of the decrepit, historic properties that are still standing in the vicinity. After a while Raul briefly attempted to exhibit some enthusiasm while we strolled around town. He seemed to be reluctant to leave me on my own and I had already told him I had no intention of departing. At some point he nodded his head at a boarded-up old brick building looming in front of us on 7th Street and commented that it looked like an interesting place. I glanced over at it. Wow. There really was something about the structure that was compelling. An old sign affixed to its facade read "Holland Hotel." Clearly the place had not been open for business in many years. We kept on walking and saw lots of thought-provoking stuff. A few days later I remembered to do a search for "Holland Hotel" on the Yahoo search engine. It did not surprise me that the crumbling place may have some dubious significance in Los Angeles history. As it turns out it has a speculative connection to aspiring starlet Elizabeth Short. You may have heard of Elizabeth Short AKA the "Black Dahlia." Her brutal murder rocked Los Angeles in 1947 and has captured the prurient interest of countless individuals over these subsequent decades. Lots of people love a good mystery. Elizabeth's killing remains officially unsolved although there are many who believe a degenerate individual named Arnold Smith was responsible for her death. These folks buy into the theory that Arnold lured or forced Elizabeth into his bathtub, tortured her for several days until she died, severed her body at its midsection and then drained all her blood into the aforementioned tub. A housewife walking with her infant in a stroller encountered the remains of Elizabeth discarded behind some bushes in the housewife's pleasant, middle-class neighborhood. The bisected corpse was bloodless and washed clean. One of the policemen investigating the murder felt very strongly that Arnold Smith was the perpetrator of this horrendous crime. Unfortunately, or perhaps not, Arnold died the night before this cop was scheduled to interview him. Supposedly Arnold had checked into the Holland Hotel on the evening prior to this imminent meeting and then burned to death, possibly because he fell asleep with a lit cigarette in his bed. Many answers may have burned along with him. Perhaps all the conjecture about both Arnold and Elizabeth's grim bond is indeed accurate. There is just something about the rotting structure of the Holland Hotel, Arnold's second-to-last resting place, that makes you ready to believe that spirits inside its abandoned walls are keepers of those secrets. Francesca doesn't want to believe anything. She is far more pragmatic than I and always tries to forcibly shut my mouth when I speak of random, mystery-laden subjects. I do happen to have a habit of chatting away about irrelevant stuff when I'm shooting. During our last shoot I had commented that Francesca looked a bit like the photos taken of pretty,raven-haired Elizabeth Short before her sickening death. She really does. The pale, pearl-colored pantyhose Francesca was wearing underneath her red skirt contributed to the resemblance, at least in my mind. Francesca didn't want to hear anything about my morbid ruminations and she reacted violently when I would not let the subject rest..
Tanya models her sexy aqua blue fishnet stockings for you in a gorgeous Malibu home. See her pose in her high heels and stockings and slowly disrobe for your pleasure.
Tanya's viewpoint: Summer Cummings recommended me for a job and I did not show up. Or call. For a few weeks I wondered just how mad she was. Finally I screwed up my courage and rang her up on the phone. The worst she could do was hang up on me. Instead, to my amazement, she was really nice when we spoke. What a relief! She understood that I was just a complete idiot and mentioned that she had never really expected much out of me anyways. After all, I'd been a moron for as long as she'd known me. She reassured me that she had accepted my limitations years ago. In fact, she went on, she had once read research on bovine behavior indicating that cattle were so stupid that they never deviated from a very limited range of actions. Summer went on to tell me that she realized that I, like the cattle, had an organic deficiency that prevented me from altering my habits and becoming a successful model and a productive citizen. It was merely my destiny to live the existence of a lower life form. Yeah, Summer was going overboard wth the insults and calling me a dumb cow, but I was just so happy to be her friend again. She even accepted my invitation to come over for a drink. On the appointed day we were hanging out at my place laughing and talking just like old times when out of nowhere she grabbed a handful of my hair!! I almost jumped out of my tan, sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose! Turned out that all that bonhomie on the phone had been just a ruse to get herself within grappling distance of me..
My friend Elias got involved in an unfortunate situation. Due to his circumstances he found himself riding in a bus with Helen Golay and Olga Rutterschmidt to a hearing in federal court. Their names may not immediately ring any bells, but you might have heard mention of the women in early 2006 when they were arrested for murdering two homeless men so they could collect substantial life insurance settlements. The kicker in the case was the suspicion of the arresting authorities that these two old broads had actually killed their victims themselves by running them over with vehicles in dark alleys. Neither of the women is under seventy years of age and it appears that neither one is afraid of getting her hands dirty. Of course there is further evidence that this pair may have exterminated more than just the two hapless individuals for whose deaths they are being prosecuted. All the passengers in the bus that day were inmates at the Metropolitan Detention Facility in downtown Los Angeles. They were being transported to the Federal Courthouse to attend their respective hearings. Olga, the blondish 73-year-old, created a commotion throughout the journey. For the short duration of the ride she complained incessantly and melodramatically about the cramped conditions of the vehicle and declared that she was claustrophobic and just could not take it anymore. Several other inmates present suggested that she did not deserve to ride anywhere in comfort. Various men, (Helen and Olga were the only women in the bus), were calling out such things as: "Hey, you the ones that killed those men..", "Why do you think you deserve something special? You killed those men..", "Settle down, lady, it ain't going to get any better for you..", etc. Olga vehemently began insisting to the other inmates that she had been set up and that her friend was responsible for all the murders. She passionately protested her innocence and blamed everything on Helen as Helen sat a small distance away in steely-eyed silence. The dialogue became so animated that the federal agent driving the bus called out repeatedly for silence in the specific rows where the conversationalists were seated. Elias was stuck immediately to the right of Olga and hoped her diatribe would subside every time the driver demanded "Quiet in Row 6!" Elias further described how Helen never once reacted as Olga continually pinned all the blame on her. I rolled my eyes to indicate my skepticism that Olga could possibly be innocent. Elias shrugged and then remarked in a serious tone that something about Helen's imperturbable silence and fierce demeanor made him feel like she legitimately could have been the mastermind. "She was cold. Cold. You would have had to have seen her to understand." he kept insisting. Elias is often a good judge of such things. Incidentally, he did not know the names of the two women. He referred to their crime and described scary Helen as the one with the big red bouffant hairdo. "You know, the one with the big red bouff," he told me as he framed his hands around his head to indicate the dimensions of her massive hairstyle. Well, I couldn't actually picture her in my mind at that moment, but I did a search on the Internet for their mugshots several days after he told me all this. The big red bouff belonged to Helen. I mentioned the old ladies and my thoughts on their existence to Jewell Marceau the next time we met at her house for a workout. She looked at me with disapproval and reminded me that people in the United States were innocent until proven guilty. I ignored that and asked her how many people she thought they might have killed. After all, there is little likelihood that this conniving pair had waited until they were in their seventies to start murdering. I expressed my conviction that they must have begun their swath of carnage much, much earlier in their lives and that the body count would be very significant if the truth ever came out. Jewell listened to all this in silence and then asked me in carefully measured tones: "Don't you think it would be unfair if people accused us of stuff? We haven't done anything but imagine if we were put on trial for skipping out on our tab at a sleazy bar in the desert and hitting the bartender with our vehicle as we fled the scene? We could be tried in the court of public opinion long before we ever saw the inside of an actual courtroom. Would that be right?" Oh, fuck. Why was she bringing this up? It appeared that my best option was to try and strangle her with her jumprope. Jewell fought back much harder than expected..
In recent months Jewell Marceau had begun telling people that I was a "weak link." She had even gone so far as to dress me down me in public by declaring at a party that someone needed to show me how to keep my mouth shut. Other people present were visibly taken aback by the malice blazing in her eyes and the venom in her words. Of course they didn't have any idea what she was talking about so obviously I do know how to keep my mouth shut. The reality then and now is that Jewell and I have a few dark secrets that we share. None of the details are particularly heinous but we could both potentially face prosecution if someone were to find out about everything. We both would suffer if the truth came out and we both know that. That's why Jewell's suspicion of me gets me so angry. I'm neither stupid nor self-destructive enough to spill the proverbial beans. Last week I drove all the way out to her place and demanded that she quit making disparaging comments about me. Her expression remained unyielding during my diatribe as I began to list the reasons why we had to rely on each other. I ended my spiel by pointing out that she and I each had a lot to lose if either of us ever broke our silence. At last I saw a bit of resignation in her face. "You're right," she sighed, "we really do have to trust each other." Her eyes flicked around the room and then landed at a space on the floor. Suddenly she began to look almost childlike and it seemed like she was about to cry. I wasn't sure what to do so I stared uncomfortably at the floor also. Finally, in a voice choked with emotion, Jewell said softly: "Sometimes I just feel like you don't trust me at all anymore. We don't hang out like we used to and now I only see you if we happen to run into each other. It's like you're avoiding me and I always wonder why. I suppose I've been running my mouth a lot because I was hoping that you would finally come and confront me." Wow. My mind started to switch gears. Maybe she was right. Maybe I had become aloof. Perhaps subconsciously I had been avoiding her. Maybe my behavior had given her reason to doubt me. Jewell seemed to sense the nature of my thoughts. "I just need some reassurance from you." she said as she peered up from underneath her long, dark lashes. I remained pensive and silent. "Look," she suggested gently, almost pleadingly, "why don't we do an exercise in trust? Remember when you used to let me tie you up and take pictures? Let's do it again so we can recapture some of the mutual faith we had in each other. It will be fun. You can tie me up too after I release you from the ropes." She seemed to be afraid to look at me directly so I used a few moments to try and arrange my face in an expression that did not convey my jumbled emotions. The feelings of anger that had propelled me to drive out to the desert to face her were beginning to subside. A sense of guilt was now replacing my animosity. After a bit of consideration I took a deep breath and nodded my agreement to her idea. A sense of hopeful anticipation gripped me as I realized that our positive intentions would help erase a lot of the suspicions and insecurities that had arisen between us in these past few months. Everything felt like old times when Jewell told me to lie on my back and began tying my wrists to the metal frame of her futon. We were giggling and playing around like the old friends we were until Jewell roughly slapped a jagged piece of red duct tape over my mouth and then hissed: "Now I can finally teach you how to keep your mouth shut.."
Tanya's viewpoint: Jewell Marceau and I were hanging out at a roadside bar in the desert hoping some cute truckers would stop by. No such luck. We sat there expectantly until the crotchety old barkeep decided to shut the place down for the night. We were disappointed, but not ready to give up yet. We asked the barkeep, an elderly woman with an astonishing resemblance to Phyllis Diller, where else we could go to meet some guys. With an evil cackle she recommended that we go hang out by the truck scales on Interstate 5. "Maybe you'll even make $20!" she added. It surprised me how fast Jewell ripped the woman's cheap wig off her head and dumped a beer on the tangled mop. The woman was screaming profanities at the top of her lungs as she chased us out the door. It was too late when she remembered that we hadn't paid our tab. I was already inside my car gunning the engine in a threatening manner when she began bellowing about the money. Maybe my perception was cloudy, but I think that my sideview mirror may have clipped her in the boob as I tore out of the dirt parking lot. We drove a few miles and then pulled over to the side of the road. It was unclear to either of us whether our transgressions had been serious or not. The whole episode had been kind of odd. We decided to cut short our night on the town. After readjusting the side mirror and driving to Jewell's house we started playing darts in the livingroom. Jewell put on some country music because those cowboy songs always seem apropos when you're at a low ebb in your life. The sappy music was cranking at full volume when I noticed Jewell taking the very last swig out of the Jack Daniels bottle. That was the last drop of liquor in the house! She laughed out loud when she saw the outrage on my face. I told her I was going to teach her the lesson of her life. The details of the resulting battle are a little bit murky in my mind, but I could swear a song called "Whiskey River Rage" was playing in the background. Most days I like to pretend that none of it ever even happened...
A few months ago I was at a shoot and the photographer and I started joking about people with birth names such as âJohn Johnsonâ, âTom Thomasâ, etc. Iâve previously made reference to parents who make these unfathomable name choices in a different blog. Someone later read a version of it on MySpace and commented that an athlete named Pete Peters was a goaltender for the Philadelphia Flyers. I told the photographer this and she and I kept laughing about the subject. One of us suggested that âThe Inbred Banjo Playersâ would be great name for a country group. The guys in the band would be named Pat Patrick, Danny Ray Daniels, and John Johnston on drums. For some reason it just seemed funny on that afternoon as we were shooting outside in the blazing hot sun. I was posing in a cowboy hat and boots so thatâs probably why the subject of The Inbred Banjo Players even came up at all. And it probably just seemed so humorous because we were swilling vodka at high noon while we were shooting. The photographerâs assistant, David, was not participating in our drinking or our foolish conversation. David always remained sober and professional at any type of debauched shoot. I had known him for years and had seen him on countless porn sets. He habitually maintained a courteous rapport with both models and photographers, but he had always struck me as somewhat pensive and morose. I suspected that someday I would see him let down his guard, but it had not yet happened. On this day he watched the photographer and me with quiet detachment as we cracked endless jokes about The Inbred Banjo Players and she and I kept adding more guys to the band: Harry Harris, Walter Walters, Bob Roberts, Clay Clay, and on and on. We finished shooting that day and wound up ordering a pizza and finishing off the vodka by sundown. By the time I got home Iâd forgotten all about The Inbred Banjo Players. The next morning I was leafing through the new issue of Sports Illustrated as my coffee was brewing. A photo of Kris Kristofferson caught my attention. His piercing blue eyes stared off the page at me, one moreso than the other. Kris Kristofferson. I was so hung over that his entire countenance seemed to be mocking me. Why was I so drawn to this article? Why couldnât I turn the page? My addled mind could barely function without a shot of coffee and the liquid was still percolating. Kris Kristofferson. I rubbed my bloodshot eyes. Kris Kristofferson. What was wrong with me? I willed my mind to move onto a different subject. Kris Kristofersson. Omigosh! It finally hit me. My bloated mind really was moving that slowly. Kris would be a shoo-in for The Inbred Banjo Players. Iâve known of him for so many years that Iâd just stopped noticing his name. Or I thought it was a nickname or a stage name or something. Was it? Could it be his real name? Here he was in Sports Illustrated - of all places - posing in a music hall with a guitar and a pair of boxing gloves around his neck. I began reading the article. âKrisâ was indeed his nickname. Yep, it was short for âKristofferâ. Kristoffer Kristofferson. Evidently Kris had been mentioned as a promising young Pomona College athlete in the March 31, 1958 issue of Sports Illustrated. Now author Ben Reiter was visiting him to discuss Krisâ memories of having been included in that issue all those years ago. The article is both brief and awesome. Reiterâs most poignant sentence describes Kristoffersen as: â..the only three-sport college athlete and Rhodes scholar to work as a janitor in a Nashville studio.â Who knew? I vowed never to poke fun at anyone with a purposely redundant name ever again. Of course neither Kris nor anyone else cares what Iâm doing anyways, but that decision was to become surprisingly pertinent to my health and well-being in the very near future.
Tanya's viewpoint: Who would cheat at Twister? Really, who would do that? What kind of egomaniacal dipshit would have any sort of need to triumph at that stupid game? I ask these questions because I don't entirely know the answers and it's an exercise in self-reflection to ponder the issue at all. Yep, I'm the one who cheated. I don't know what came over me, but I switched positions behind Jewell Marceau's back when she went to spin the wheel. The contorted position I was in was impossible to hold so I switched my foot from a green dot to a red one. It was embarrassing when she caught me, but I had no intention of admitting to my transgression. It was actually mind-boggling that she even remembered what color dot my foot should have been on. She was as petty in her singleminded determination to win as I was! It takes one to know one. The game of Twister was quickly forgotten as we stripped each other naked, clawed breasts, pulled hair, and punched each other as if we were fighting over the deed to the Trump Towers..