Jewell Marceau has never been to The Harbor Room in Playa del Rey, CA so she does not know the scene there. I told her that the average age of the patrons is about seventy years of age but she must have thought I was kidding or exaggerating or something. I'm not prone to hyperbole when I'm dicussing the places where I go to drink. Recently I was in there chatting with a man in his forties who told me that he identifies himself around town as "the youngest guy who goes to The Harbor Room." My gaze had travelled around the tiny, wood-panelled bar while I surveyed the assorted customers and nodded my appreciation for his chosen moniker. I always feel like a teenager when I walk in that place, but that's not why I go there. On another occasion a different patron had asked me why I frequent The Harbor Room. He had posed the question in a mild, offhand manner but I could tell that he was really interested in hearing my answer. I remember turning my head and gazing towards nothing while I said:

"I just like to go places where I can drink a lot and nobody looks at me strangely."

I had punctuated my words with an inane giggle, but the man's expression had turned serious and he had immediately responded:

"This is a good place for that."

I think he may have repeated the sentiment a second time with the same tone of flat certainty/reassurance. Or maybe it had just resounded within my head again. In any case, we had both continued our descent into a mellow, alcoholic haze in companionable silence. It takes one to know one.

Jewell would not enjoy The Harbor Room so I never brought her there with me. Last week I mentioned that one of their bartenders had asked me for ID when I'd stumbled in off the beach around midnight. It struck me as funny since I knew exactly why it had happened. Often older people lose their ability to discern the ages of younger generations. I occasionally have that problem myself. People have kids and I can't tell if their child is 12 or 18. Seriously. That's just how it goes. That night I had handed the bartender my ID while a woman at the bar said:

"Well it certainly is nice to be asked, isn't it?"

I had responded uncomfortably with a brief, idiotic giggle which is generally what my stupid self does when I don't know what to say. An elderly man to my right had observed me for a moment before commenting:

"Just enjoy it, sweetheart. The years go fast. They go real fast. Enjoy it while you can."

I could tell that he meant it. He really meant it. I had paid for my vodka and headed towards the back of the miniscule establishment. The elderly man, the woman, and her friend were the only other patrons in the place. I had listened to their conversations as I stared into my vodka and kept my back to the rest of the room. No one had cared what I was doing or perceived my posture as being unfriendly. I may have been forty years younger than any of them, but I had the soul of an old drunk and they could tell that I was not there to actively socialize.

Jewell rolled her eyes when I recreated the whole scene for her at our recent shoot in Mike Raffone's studio. She could not have more thoroughly misunderstood my story if she had been trying. Maybe she was trying. She said:

"What? Why are you telling me this? Are you trying to brag that you still get carded when you go to bars?"

I stared back at her, the levity of my mood quickly vanishing. Just a moment earlier I had felt happy and upbeat. Now here she was trying to twist my words around on me. Lately I've lost patience for people who do that. It's like they are just waiting for an opportunity to slap you down. Over nothing. Maybe I was overreacting but I turned a steely gaze on her pretty face and hissed:

"Look here, you dumb cunt, that's not what I was trying to convey to you. I was trying to tell you about the place, the patrons, how different it is from other bars, how mellow it is, how old everyone is, how.."

As it turned out Jewell probably never heard anything after the "dumb cunt" reference because she tackled me to the ground in such a fit of monstrous rage that I found myself restrained inside a straitjacket just mere moments later. How did she do that?? Of course I noticed Mike Raffone gleefully snapping photos from across the room long after I was incapacitated and could do nothing about it. Suffice it to say that he captured every gross indignity that I suffered at Jewell's hands that afternoon: the straitjacket, the leather straps, the wooden paddle, the gigantic ballgag, the probing hands..

Someday I really am going to end up in an insane asylum.

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- XXOO Tanya

Merry Christmas to all!!

- XXOO Tanya

At some point in 2004 I had driven for an hour behind a car with a bumper sticker bearing the text: "What if the hokey-pokey really is what it's all about?" The sticker tormented me. It still does. The hokey-pokey has become a recurrent theme in my life. In June, 2006 my friend Tyson and I went to Hooter's Restaurant in West Covina, CA where, inexplicably, our waitress had tried to coerce us into performing the hokey-pokey dance for the other patrons in the establishment. We declined to do so and later in the day had ended up driving to our friend Raul's office where we mentioned the whole episode. He listened to our story without comment and then asked:

"You mean the hokey-pokey dance?"

"Yeah. Do you believe that?" I said with an incredulous smile. "I don't know how to do the hokey-pokey, but nevermind that. Why would she even ask us?"

Raul shrugged without appropriate puzzlement and said:

"Hayden Frye used to make the Iowa football team dance the hokey-pokey before each game."

"He was the coach of the team?" Tyson asked.

Raul nodded his head and went on to haphazardly elaborate on the subject as he punched information into his computer regarding whatever he was doing. Evidently the University of Iowa used to have a Division 1 football team who were perennial non-contenders until Hayden Frye became the head coach. He turned the program around and achieved legendary status for his coaching prowess while also raising some eyebrows with the peculiar pyschological tactics he used to rally his team. According to Raul the whole team danced the hokey-pokey in their locker room before each game.

So that was that.Our conversation turned and I was left to ponder the hokey-pokey conundrum yet again. I tried to shake it off but I couldn't. Five months later I asked Raul to repeat what details he knew about Hayden Frye and the hokey-pokey. Raul had no patience for the subject and told me to look it up on the Internet. I did so.

As it turned out Hayden Fry spells his name without an "e" at the end of it. Additionally, he only had the Iowa football team perform the hokey pokey after a huge victory. They did not perform the dance/song before each game as Raul had mistakenly lead Tyson and me to believe. Beyond all that Fry had presided at the helm of Iowa football while he was cultivating such future coaching talents as:

Barry Alvarez - now head coach of the Wisconsin football team

Bob Stoops - now head coach of the University of Oklahoma football team

Mike Stoops- now head coach of the University of Arizona football team

Mark Stoops- now defensive coordinator of the University of Arizona football team

Curt Ferentz - now the head coach of the Iowa football team

Bob Schneider - now head coach of the Kansas State football team

I have not yet figured out the significance of the hokey-pokey. It may torment me for the rest of my life. Still, I know a thing or two about weird coaches. Coach Alexis Taylor is using some unorthodox techniques on me as she puts me through drills on the black and gold University of Iowa wrestling mats above. What would legendary Iowa wrestling coach Dan Gable think of this flagrant desecration of university property?


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- XXOO Tanya

My roommate Jewell Marceau kept a diary. I would periodically read her latest entries so I could remain apprised of her activities. It entertained me to surreptitiously delve into her inner torment and I only occasionally read her writings to other people. She got really upset when she found out that I was invading her privacy. I told her she was a dumbass for keeping a diary in an accessible place like the safe in her closet, particularly since she had used her birthdate as the combination for the safe. She may as well have issued me a written invitation to break into it. In any case, Jewell made a big show of burning her diary on the kitchen stove on the day she finally figured out I'd been perusing her journal entries for the past year. Her theatrics did not fool me. I knew she was going to start another diary and I knew I was going to find it. Jewell works all day and I stay home all day. Time was on my side.

It took less than a week for me to discover sheets of notebook paper taped to pages inside a book on one of her shelves. I threw a pack of popcorn kernels in the microwave and sat down on our couch to catch up on her current triumphs, trials, and tribulations. Imagine my shock at finding that she had devoted several entries exclusively to insulting me! One of them began:

"Tanya, you are a fat piece of shit and I knew that you would end up reading this. You belong in a trailer park with a bunch of mouthbreathing idiots. Did your mother use drugs when she was pregnant with you? It's amazing that you are not completely illiterate and are able to read this at all.."

I got no farther than that because Jewell came storming in the room right at that moment and we were both mad as hell. The corn kernels were still popping in the microwave as we exploded into battle..


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- XXOO Tanya

Ever hear of a guy named Bobo who played for the Raiders? Back in the 1990s? #16? Wide receiver? You sure you never heard of him?

That's what I thought.

Philip Bobo participated in the Oakland Raider's training camp one year during the nineties. Even his biggest fan, my friend Tyson, can't seem to pinpoint what year it was that Bobo was cut by the Raiders. Or if he was cut. Or if he was really on the team. Or did anything beyond spend a few days at their training camp.

By the way, I am not maligining Bobo himself. I believe he went on to play for another NFL team and it's a testament to his athletic prowess that the Raiders even invited him to their camp. The only reason I mention Bobo's name is because Tyson somehow acquired one of Bobo's old Raider jerseys even though Bobo was never a Raider. Or maybe Bobo was a Raider for a brief span of time. That part is unclear even though I've repeatedly posed that question to his biggest fan, the aforementioned Tyson.

A vein nearly exploded in Tyson's forehead when he discovered that I had worn the Bobo jersey for a pornographic photo layout. He acted like I'd desecrated the Shroud of Turin. I'd never seen him that upset before. I don't think Tyson would get that emotional if his own sister got run over by a train.

I am wearing the Bobo jersey in the pic above. It looks like I must have been calling my bookie to get my picks in on game day. You can see the entire "Raider's Fan" gallery is inside my Playhouse now!

- XXOO Tanya

I buy and sell domain names. One of my inspirations had to do with a method of smoking pot with a vaporizer: VaporizationSystems.com. A company from New Jersey made an offer on the domain which I accepted. They promptly mailed me a check which was not signed. I notified them of the error and received this response:

"i am sorry, my accounting dept must be smoking something. i will tell them to resend and sign the damn check."

That gave me my chuckle for the day.

- XXOO Tanya

Here I am in my championship boxing form (see pic above.) I recently became the top-ranked female boxer of the Denav Women's Boxing League! Don't believe me? Check the rankings page at the Denav site:


freeweb.supereva.com/dwblg/index.htm?p


I'd like to give a special thanks to my manager, Chairman Andy, for encouraging me to get up off the barstool and resume by boxing career!



- XXOO Tanya

Over the past week I had been posting stuff about my friend Tyson's submission wrestling event that took place last Friday. I had bought a number of tickets to go watch it with some friends, but then my cat Larry experienced kidney failure on Thursday. He is back home now and is recuperating, but I went through a rough, anxious stretch of days last week as I agonized over his illness and prayed that he would get better. I had purchased seven tickets to Tyson's event, but I ended up going there with just my friend Tim at the last minute because I never invited anyone else to come along. Larry had been too sick for me to bother about making any plans ahead of time. The event was well underway when Tim and I arrived. I gave my name to the woman at the "will call" booth and she told me she could not find my tickets. She shrugged her shoulders and stared insolently at me through the plexiglass screen. My emotions were already fried because of Larry's illness and I just turned and stomped away after a few minutes of trying to reason with her. I returned a short while later to vent my spleen over the situation. She just stared at me dumbly throughout my tirade. Tim alternately watched me, looked at her, and looked away. I knew he was wishing that he was someplace else.

Tim and I never went into the venue. The next day I told Tyson about how fucked up I thought the situation was. At first he just laughed. Later, after he heard similar comments from other people, he asked me to write him an e-mail describing my experience. This is what I wrote to him:

Tyson,

I became extremely upset by the cavalier attitude of the personnel in the ticket booth at your event. As you know I had paid for over $500 worth of tickets and arrived to discover that the woman in the ticket booth could not find them. She did a cursory search for them, smiled, uttered an insincere apology, smiled again, and waited for me to leave. It was readily apparent that she could care less that I had paid for tickets that were unavailable to me. Common sense dictates that I'm probably not the only person to whom she behaved so rudely. Initially I stormed off in disgust. How many other people did that? The only reason you are hearing about this is because I know you personally. The only reason I approached the ticket booth a second time is because I know you.

On my return visit to the ticket booth either my friend Tim or I revealed that I was your friend. Perhaps one of us had said it during our first visit. I don't remember and it does not really matter. My anger was due to the fact that the woman in the booth had initially treated us with such disregard and had not even bothered to try and figure out why the tickets were missing. In the end I found myself imploring her to understand that it was completely absurd for a paying customer to arrive at an event and be greeted with such utter indifference. She stared at me blankly for an extended period of time. One of the event coordinators had appeared in the booth at some point and the insipid woman had informed her that I was "Tyson's friend." This event coordinator offered to take me into the venue.

What happened to the people who did not happen to be one of your personal friends? The ones who paid for tickets and had to deal with that type of careless attitude? I had not arrived there expecting special treatment from anyone. I had paid for tickets to support your show and so I could sit and watch people wrestle. It should not have been necessary for me to become angry or mention that I had a connection to you. My attitude that night would have been completely different if the woman in the ticket booth had initially behaved in a respectful manner when she could not locate the tickets. She did not. I mention all this because I really think you should be aware of it.

People often pay for a membership to one of my websites and cannot get in for various reasons (lost password, technical snafu, etc.) I'd want to know about it if my webmaster did not deal with their situation in an effective, diplomatic manner.

Tanya

So there it is. Lately I've felt the need to express my emotions. I've had a gag in my mouth on plenty of other occasions.

- XXOO Tanya

Here I am practicing my cream application for a live wrestling event this Friday night, November 17 in Los Angeles. My friend Tyson is co-promoter of the event and he hired me and another model to wrestle in creamy lotion for the halftime show. Hopefully I can submit my busty opponent in record time. I've been training really hard.

Haha- just kidding! I'll be at the event, but I'm not doing any wrestling. All of the competitors are world champions in their given sport. UFC champion Randy Couture, jiu-jitsu blackbelts Marcelo Garcia and Jacare, plus many other world-class martial artists are all on the card.

Visit Tyson's site
www.ProSubLeague.com
to buy tickets or see purchase information for the the live webcast of the event!



- XXOO Tanya

Who are these guys? Is it possible that they are event promoters? Yeah, they do actually look the part, don't they? The one with the jolly, fat face is my friend Tyson and he would like to invite you to an incredible event he is promoting in Los Angeles on Friday, November 17.

Tyson is the Vice President of the Professional Submission League which features world-class martial artists in submission wrestling bouts. This event speaks for itself. The title match will feature none other than UFC fighting legend Randy Couture vs. Brazilian jiu-jitsu World Champion Jacare!


Please visit Tyson's site
www.ProSubLeague.com
for all ticket information.



- XXOO Tanya

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Sometimes strippers walk off the stage in the middle of a song because they feel that the customers are not tipping them enough. Sometimes they start yelling at the customers from the stage because they feel the customers are not tipping them enough. There is a sign in the backstage area of the club where I dance that says: "Dancers who insult customers from the stage will be sent home. You are professionals so act like it." The second sentence on that sign always strikes me as a bit of wishful thinking on the part of the management whenever I see it.

People in general engage in all types of self-defeating behavior. I'm sure that I'm no exception, but I try not to sabotage myself when I'm onstage dancing half-naked or naked. Perhaps I try to avoid manifesting my despair in public. I just write about it when no one is around.

Years ago I was dancing at the Century Theatre in Los Angeles. One night I ended up being the last dancer to go onstage before the club shut down for the night. That seemed to happen to me a lot at that particular club. My music started playing and I heard the deejay ask the customers to "please welcome the last lady of the evening." I parted the curtains and made my grand entrance.

"Here she is, gentleman! Tanya will be the last lovely lady up on the stage for you tonight." he said in his deep baritone voice as I began dancing.

I made eye contact with a man sitting towards the front of the room and smiled at him. He gazed back at me, looked me up and down, turned to his friend and jerked his head toward the door. They stood up and started to leave. Their departure seemed to trigger a mass exodus from the room. Every other man in the place appeared to be heading for the door. I kept dancing, hoping someone would stay. I went down into the splits, rolled around on the floor for a minute and came back up. By the time I resurfaced the whole room was empty. My song played on. I caught the eye of the manager who was cleaning up something behind the bar. He motioned for me to keep on dancing. That didn't make any sense, but the Century Theatre was a strange place back in those days. Everyone tried to adhere to the remarkably arbitrary and senseless rules of the owner, Howard White. My personal belief was that Howard revelled in making up weird guidelines for the dancers and management just to infuse some needless drama into the place for his own amusement. In any case, I didn't want to get the manager in trouble and I kept on dancing on the stage inside that empty room.

It had been demoralizing to see those customers evaluate me and then leave, but I did not want to capitulate to my disappointment or humiliation or annoyance or indignation or whatever it was. Stripping is a profession where you have to be tough as nails and not look like it. As I kept dancing I told myself that I'd have a better night the following evening when I returned for my next shift. That positive affirmation, (gosh, I hate that term), relaxed me and I just enjoyed the music and finished my first song. At some point midway through the second song I noticed a stack of twenties in the corner of the stage on the floor. Huh? Where had that come from? I looked over to see a row of familiar-looking men watching me with polite appreciation. Sometimes that happens. It took me a minute to make sense of it but then I realized that they were the plumbers who had been arriving at 2AM each night to repair something in the building. They could not do the work during the club's business hours so they always showed up around closing time. Their boss was a remarkably nice guy and either he brought out the best in his crew or he attracted people who were similar in nature to himself. Either way, they were a group of unusually cool guys.

They watched me dance, my song ended, I smiled at them, they applauded, and I thanked them. The memory of that night is burned into my brain. I have always regarded it as a sign not to lose my emotional connection with dancing. And as a sign not to lose hope.

Maybe they gave me the money as a sympathy tip. Or maybe they enjoyed my dancing. Or maybe both.

Dancing has given me a lot. I cannot even envision what my life would have been if I had not become a stripper because all those experiences inside a strip club are so integral to who I am as a person. The modelling and adult videos I've done just seem kind of incidental.

I was wearing sheer white stockings and a garter belt that night at the Century Theatre. That was something of a rarity because I rarely ever wear stockings when I dance. The pic above reminds me of that fateful evening because I'm wearing stockings and rolling around on a well-trafficked floor. I know it does not sound attractive, but I've rolled around on a lot of grimy floors. Floors get dirty after each of 100 dancers parade across them multiple times in the course of a given day.


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I hope that I am always the girl who keeps on dancing, that I never give up hope.



- XXOO Tanya

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In June, 2006 I dragged my friend Tyson with me out to Pomona, CA to look at some old houses. He could care less about historic homes in general, but even he was impressed by the grace of some of the amazing places we saw. We were starving by the time we hit Interstate 10 to drive home. As we were discussing what to eat I saw a Hooter's restaurant directly ahead of us on the righthand side of the freeway.

"Have you ever been to a Hooter's?" I asked.

"No, I've never been to a Hooter's." he replied.

"Let's go to Hooter's." I said as I cut across 5 lanes of traffic to get to the next exit.

Upon entering Hooter's there was no immediate indication that we had made an ill-fated decision. The hostess happened to seat us by the waitress' pantry area where Tyson could ogle the servers wearing their giant orange pantaloon shorts and shiny, flesh-colored tights. Our own waitress was a very pretty brunette with waist-length hair and a nice figure. Everything seemed fine as Tyson and I relaxed with our drinks and ordered our meal. Shortly afterwards the waitress came back and unexpectedly sat down at our table. Tyson and I abruptly stopped talking and smiled at her. She did not seem to have much to say so he and I began making tortured attempts at conversation. Somehow I ended up divulging that we had never been inside a Hooter's before.

"Oh, this is your first time?" the waitress asked. "We'll do something special for you."

I found myself vaguely hoping that the special treatment did not involve singing. Just then an old Village People song started playing at a loud volume inside the restaurant.

"Oh, no. It's time for the YMCA." the waitress said as she wrinkled her nose with genuine dismay.

Tyson and I exchanged blank looks and she hopped up from our table. Soon every server in the establishment was standing on top of a barstool performing a synchronized dance routine to the YMCA song. All their orange-clad butts gyrated above our table. Yep, our waitress was definitely the thinnest and the prettiest. Most of the patrons in the place, 95% of whom were male, stared at the waitresses with unwavering, zombie-like attention. These men were not smiling. It seemed that they were attempting to burn the images of the dancing women into their brains.

Peace reigned for a brief time after the YMCA dance ended, but then three waitresses and a manager materialized at our table. They congratulated us on our first-time visit, placed a tinfoil crown on Tyson's head, and began tying balloons into my hair. The balloons lifted 3 sections of my hair into the air and I looked like a complete idiot. I glanced across the table at Tyson who must have felt equally ridiculous in his foil crown. For some unknown reason he and I felt compelled to "be good sports" and keep our adornments attached to our heads. I have no idea why.

Our food arrived. We began eating. Someone in the room grabbed a microphone and announced that a bachelor party was present. A cheer went up as the voice promised a special treat for the bachelor who was being escorted to a makeshift stage right at that moment. All of a sudden our pretty waitress was at our table grabbing my arm and telling me that there was another surprise and I was going up on the stage. Startled, I laughed and politely resisted her as she tried to drag me from my chair. She was pulling hard and was utterly convinced that I was going to follow her. My mind had no time to make sense of it all, but I was not going up on any stage. I tried to shrug her off and jokingly pointed at Tyson who was wearing a bemused but puzzled expression underneath his foil crown.

"He'll do it." I said."You both can do it!" she exclaimed and grabbed Tyson's arm too.

She really wasn't kidding and she kept trying to jerk us towards the stage area. Finally I indicated my refusal in a tone of voice that left no room for doubt. She dropped our arms and glared at me with malice in her eyes. Then she turned on her heel and stormed off. Tyson and I stared at each other in disbelief. Right at that moment a man with a pen in his hand approached our table and asked me to sign his napkin. I turned my gaze on him. Did he think I was one of the waitresses? Was this some other weird Hooter's tradition where male customers asked all female patrons to sign their napkins? Who was this guy? Who did he think I was? Couldn't I just take the balloons out of my hair and eat my six microscopic clams? I looked at the man with puzzlement and lamely reiterated his question back to him.

"You want me to sign your napkin?" I asked."Yes, please." he said politely.

"Um..why?" I wondered aloud, not knowing what to say.

"You're the adult actress Tanya Danielle, aren't you?" he responded a bit uncertainly.

Several long moments of silence elapsed.

"No. No, I'm not." I said.

The man apologized and left. Tyson told me I had been kind of rude.

"Nobody knows who I am. I didn't know what to do." I said. I was really flustered.

"Yeah, you're right." he said after a short pause. "That was definitely weird.

"Tyson shook his head and removed his foil crown. He helped me untie the balloons from my hair and they floated up to the ceiling. We finally finished eating and waited for the waitress to return with our bill. She never came back. I left to search for her and found her slumped dejectedly over one of the tables at the bar with her chin on her hand. She agreed to bring the bill. When she dropped it off at our table she informed us with a trace of hostility that she had merely wanted us to do the hokey-pokey onstage earlier. Neither Tyson nor I had a response to that. I picked up the bill and happened to notice some text on it directing me to a website where I could fill out a customer satisfaction survey. We paid and left.

Cameraman Mike Raffone shot the pic above in 2004 during the filming of a custom video. A gentleman had sent me a Hooter's uniform to wear as wardrobe to accompany his script. I would have had much more perspective on my role if I had ever gone to a Hooter's restaurant before the shooting of the video..



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- XXOO Tanya

Renee dances at Larry's Rack Shack. Many of the girls there get their cars serviced at Davo's Auto Shop because it is conveniently located near Larry's. Earlier this year Renee arrived at the bar complaining that the brakes on her car were curiously unresponsive. She had almost rolled right through a red light until she practically stood up from her seat to put pressure on the brake pedal. She was afraid to even drive the car home. A few of the other dancers urged her to call Davo so he could take a look at it. She did so and Davo had her car towed to his shop free of charge. He fixed the problem with her brakes that day and even granted her the leeway to make payments towards the $500 bill over the course of the following month. Renee never paid him a dime.

Months went by and then once again Renee had car problems. She called Davo from the bar and pleaded with him to work on her vehicle. Davo reminded her of the $500 she owed him. Renee sighed dramatically and said:

"Look, I'm desperate. I'll do anything. Anything. Please fix my car!"

"Anything?" Davo asked.

"Anything." Renee affirmed.

Davo assured her he would be there with a tow truck in 15 minutes. True to his word he pulled into the back parking lot at the appointed time. Renee snuck out the back door to hand him her keys, stumbling clumsily on the gravel in her 6" black platform heels. Davo told her to get in the truck.

"I can't do anything here!" Renee said indignantly.

Davo told her he was taking her back to his garage to pay off her debt. Renee hesitated but realized she had no choice if she wanted to get her car fixed. Grudgingly she climbed into his truck, uncomfortably aware of how conspicuous she would look riding around town in her skintight red lycra dress.

Renee really needed to get her car running. She put on quite a show for Davo and the boys at the auto shop. They did not let her leave until she had settled her debt to everyone's satisfaction..


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- XXOO Tanya

Misty Knight thinks that because she has bigger tits than I do that she is more "feminine." That was her word for it. My word for her is "floozy." Misty and I both dance at Larry's Rack Shack and she is known for her nasty lap dances. I'm known for being a bitch and I don't appreciate other strippers taking away my customers by appealing to their baseness. She practically leads these guys away by their dicks. Last week I confronted her in the dressing room and called her a "cheap hooker" in front of all the other girls. Everybody laughed but then they started laughing even harder when she told all of them that the security cameras in the parking lot had recorded me giving the owner of the club a blowjob in his car! Honestly, Misty and I had been heading for a showdown for a long time. Our vicious catfight amazed even the most jaded of the strippers in the room..


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www.JackOffLand.com
to see who won this grisly battle!



- XXOO Tanya

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Kianna Dior is a beautiful woman who likes expensive things. She appreciates fine dining, luxurious resorts, and powerful automobiles. Her hair is always beautifully coiffed, her hands perfectly manicured, and she loves designer clothing. When I stand next to her I look like a trashy homeless chick. Still, I pull myself together when I have to do a shoot although that's about the only time I wear makeup and heels. The other day Kianna and I were supposed to shoot together at 9AM at Mike Raffone's studio, but my morning took an unexpected turn. My car had needed to go to the mechanic and I came in the door an hour late muttering excuses. I was wearing old sweats and my hair up in a bun. Mike asked me how long it would take me to make myself look presentable. I requested that he give me 15 minutes and I headed into his bathroom. Kianna came in and watched me applying makeup one-handed as I spoke to my mechanic on the phone. The mechanic promised to call me back as soon as he could give me an estimate.

We were about one hour into our shoot when the mechanic called with the news. "It's time to make a decision." he informed me. He explained that my car had just passed the 100,000 mile mark and had some major problems. It needed a new transmission, a new timing belt, and a bunch of other stuff. He sighed and told me that the repairs would probably total about $3500. I almost fell onto Mike's teal sofa when I heard that."Basically, it just depends on how long you want to keep the car." he said in summation. "These repairs may actually be more expensive than the value of the car itself."

I told him I'd think about everything and call him back. Kianna had heard my side of the conversation and saw how deflated I looked when I hung up.

"Just donate it to charity." she said.

I looked down disconsolately and told her that it would be really hard for me to part with my car. My 1998 VW and I have gone through a lot together. I had bought it in 2001 and could remember zooming around the highways in it even before the fabric of the seats was ripped to shreds and the rear-view mirror had fallen off. When I had glued the mirror back on it felt like new again, even though I'd never actually been inside it when it was new. The VW had never once been towed anywhere because it had never completely broken down on me. We had both survived without a single scratch even when one of the tires had blown out at 75 MPH on the freeway. I remember losing control, clinging to the steering wheel, and plowing over the side of the freeway into an embankment filled with ice plant. My friend Raul had driven out at midnight to find me and help change the tire and get the VW back onto the actual pavement. When he finally located me I was lying on top of the hood staring up at the stars. None of the traffic on the freeway could even see me because the VW and I had rolled too far downhill and out of sight. The VW and I were a team through good times and bad.

Kianna started to giggle when I began telling her all this. I knew what she was thinking and I don't like it when people make fun of my trusty old car. Mike was watching the situation unfold and had become uncharacteristically quiet. He and I may not agree on much, but Mike knows the folly of abandoning a loyal friend, whether it be machine or human. He knew me well enough to realize that I would not tolerate someone mocking my devotion to my vehicle. I could tell by both his expression and his firm grip on his camera that he was waiting for carnage to ensue. I did not disappoint him."I'll get another 100,000 miles out of that VW! Watch me you stuck-up, pretentious bitch!" I screamed at Kianna as I smacked her in the face. Amazingly, she still continued to laugh and that just made me angrier..


Check out the full "Vicious Girls" gallery at my archive site
www.JackOffLand.com
now!



- XXOO Tanya

Hotel San Diego: Part 2

During a trip to San Diego in 2001 I became captivated by an old, dilapidated hotel in the downtown area. No one with me would exhibit anything other than disdain for this remarkable but decayed place. Faded red lettering on the façade of the building identified it as the Hotel San Diego. I tried fruitlessly for years to find out information about it its history. One day I called Jay of JayEdwards.com . He lives in San Diego. I asked him if he knew anything about the Hotel San Diego. At first he didn't. I described the glorious structure in detail and mentioned that it had fallen into a state of extreme disrepair.

“Oh, that old eyesore!” he exclaimed when he realized what building I was talking about. “I think it’s going to be torn down and it’s about time.”

I felt very wistful when I hung up the phone. That grand old building really deserved better. For the next five years I sporadically searched for it on the Internet and even asked 1970s porn star Jesse Adams if he had ever heard of it as a possible venue for live sex shows in past years. Someone in a San Diego bar had mentioned that it had been used by the infamous Mitchell Brothers for that purpose. Jesse, however, was positive it had never been used by the Mitchell Brothers because he had often performed in their live sex shows in San Francisco and the porn community was much smaller back then anyways. He was sure that he would have heard of a location like that if it had been regularly utilized by members of the adult industry. A year or two later Ron Jeremy told me the same thing.

More years passed and in early 2006 I was working at my friend Raul’s office and happened to do a search for historic hotels on the Net when I was supposed to be doing something else. A sponsored ad on the right side of the page caught my attention. After I clicked on it a bolt of shock went through me. I knew I was staring at the Hotel San Diego. Raul was working a few feet away from me and I jumped up and thrust my laptop into his hands.

“Check this place out.” I said without revealing any emotion.

Raul gazed at the photo and then began looking at different pages on the site. I watched his face.

“Wow, this hotel is really awesome!” he said with genuine admiration. “Where is it? Oh, it’s in San Diego. You should go see it. You’re the one that loves all those old buildings. This one is really amazing. It’s supposed to open in the fall of this year.” he commented as he continued reading the text on the site. “Thirteen US Presidents stayed here in the past hundred years. Huh, that’s interesting. I’d like to see it too.” he said as he tried to hand my computer back to me. I refused to take it.

“Doesn’t the hotel look familiar to you?” I asked. Raul had been with me when I had first seen the building. He had wandered around it with me for over an hour, shaking his head the whole time and wondering aloud why I always became fixated on “ghetto-type” dwellings.

Now, five years later, he humored me by looking at the photos longer and then shook his head to communicate that he’d never seen it before.

“You’ve been there.” I said flatly.

I let his confusion go on for a few more minutes and watched his puzzlement increase and some other sensation start to wash over him. He wasn’t telling me to go back to work because some memories were creeping up on him as he continued to look at the site.

“That’s not..,” he began then stopped. “That can’t be that one beat-down old building in San Diego that you became so obsessed with years ago.

“Yep, that’s it. I finally found it.” I responded.

Raul’s shock genuinely gratifyied me. He could not believe the splendor of the newly renovated place that was displayed in the photos. I bookmarked the site, www.USGrant.net , so I could show it to Jewell Marceau the next time we shot. She had also been in San Diego during that trip in 2001. Like Raul she had gotten sick of me rhapsodizing over the Hotel San Diego during the few days we were there. I made her look at the site the following week during a break in our filming, but she refused to believe that it was the same decrepit old building she had seen in San Diego all those years ago. She ended our discussion of it by logging off the Internet and shaking her head. Fortunately it was my turn to tie her up and I resumed our shoot with a renewed sense of vigor..


The entire "Jewell's Pleasure and Pain" gallery is inside The Bondage Room now!


- XXOO Tanya

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Last summer I rented a unit in an old apartment house, The Capulet Arms, in Long Beach. A few weeks after my arrival my elderly neighbor Jim informed me of the existence of a haunted room inside the building. Jim’s tone had become very grave when he looked at me and said that he hoped I would never encounter room 731. I remember asking him if apartment 731 in The Capulet Arms was the same place as “room 731.” The answer to the question was seemingly obvious but something had made me pose it to him anyways. Jim had not responded on that day as we sat there and stared at the sunlight shimmering on the ocean. We were drinking stingers on the balcony of his twelfth floor apartment which overlooked the Long Beach recreational harbor. The unanswered question hung in the air and neither of us spoke for a long time after I asked it.

Cars whizzed down Ocean Boulevard below us and a chill crept into the air as the sun began going down on the water. Jim and I often sat in silence for significant lengths of time, but as this afternoon turned into evening I could sense that he was troubled about something. He had appeared cheerful before he had mentioned the mysterious room 731. Afterwards he had seemed to degenerate into a morose, pensive state. I sensed that perhaps he wanted to be alone with his thoughts so I finished my drink and told him I’d probably stop by again later.

Out in the hallway I began wondering about his abrupt change in mood. Jim hardly struck me as the type to worry about such an odd, fanciful notion as a haunted room, but the subject clearly had affected him. Why? It seemed kind of silly. Jim was a retired sailor and sailors are often prone to superstition, but the notion of a haunted room in the Capulet Arms seemed kind of foolish for some reason. I decided to walk past apartment 731 so I descended 5 flights of stairs to locate the unit. Quickly I discovered that the seventh floor contained only seventeen units and they were predictably numbered from “701” to “717”. Apartment 731 did not exist. I smiled to myself and shook my head at my own naivete. Jim was a wonderful man in his eighties, but he did consume an overabundance of liquor. His conversation often contained extraordinary insights and pithy observations about life and society in general, but he did tend to ramble when he had consumed one stinger too many. His statements about “room 731” must have been the product of some disjointed thoughts and his inebriated state of mind. It amused me that I had given them any credence at all, but there I stood at the furthest end of the hallway on floor seven. I had been looking for an apartment that had never been built. I shook my head again and hoped that Jim would not have too bad of a hangover in the morning. Clearly he had been drinking quite a bit before I happened to stop by that afternoon.

Jim had been very welcoming from the time I had moved into the Capulet Arms. I enjoyed our conversations about the history and people of Long Beach and had even started to develop a bit of a taste for his favorite drink, the stinger. I had never heard of a “stinger” before I met Jim. In actuality it is a pretty nauseating combination of such ingredients as crème de menthe and whiskey, but it kind of grows on you. Jim and I often reclined on his balcony and gazed at the harbor while we drank our cocktails. He would sit in his wheelchair and I would relax on a wooden rocking chair that he had crafted many years before. We would lose track of the number of stingers we threw back as we chatted. Something about life in The Capulet Arms made heavy drinking seem very natural.

The weeks drifted into each other and I really was enjoying my summer by the ocean. Sometimes the power would go out in my unit, but that was the only drawback to living there. I would be working on my laptop and all of a sudden my computer would shut off and I would be blanketed in blackness. It always happened at night. Either I would light candles and read or just go to sleep. On one particular evening a power outage occurred as I was checking my banking account online. I just sighed and shut my laptop. Evidently I would need to wait until morning to see if that particular check had cleared. I decided to call it a day and go to bed.

That night I fell asleep almost immediately which is extremely unusual for me. Hours later some soft but insistent knocking at my door interrupted my deep slumber. The power was still out so I climbed out of bed and felt my way to the door. Still disoriented I peered through one of the two peepholes and saw a gorgeous, scantily clad blonde woman looking back at me. How could she see me through her side of the peephole? There was no way that she could, but it really felt like she was staring right into my face. I opened the door.

“Jim needs you.” she said.

“What? What happened? Is he OK? Who are you?” I asked. My brain was too cloudy too make any sense of this.

“Jim needs you.” she said with more urgency. “I am Yvonne.” she added as an afterthought.

She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the hallway. I felt myself following her. My confusion and anxiety began to mount, but I did not ask any questions. I just followed her. What happened next defied any of my later rationalizations. She led me to a room on the seventh floor and pulled rather than pushed open the door. A man in a sailor uniform sat in a barren room on a cloth-covered couch. His pants were around his ankles and one of his hands cradled his large erection. Yvonne pulled me to him and then down to my knees. My memory is of beautiful Yvonne and I taking turns pleasuring the unidentified sailor. I felt like I had to do it. I also felt her fear.

None of it could have happened. I awoke in my own bed the following morning. The memories of Yvonne and the anonymous sailor were excruciatingly vivid. The whole episode had been quite an amazing, harrowing dream. Normally I don’t even remember my dreams. Of course I never mentioned it to anyone.

A few weeks later I logged on to my own website and saw that my webmaster had updated the site with a black and white gallery of a busty, blonde, steely-eyed beauty. It was Yvonne. It was not just someone who looked like her: it was Yvonne. Shock ran through me and I felt weak. Nothing made any sense. Where had these photos come from? Did Yvonne actually exist? I walked away from the computer without turning it off. I felt Yvonne's eyes watching me from the monitor. My pulse began to race and a light sweat broke out all over my body. It took quite a while for me to control my breathing. Finally I was able to approach the computer and shut it down.

Days later I mustered the courage to phone my webmaster and find out where he had acquired the photos. He was nonplussed by my queries.

“You gave them to me.” he said. “They were in that last package of content that you sent me.”

Something akin to fear coursed through my system. I had not sent him these photos. The first and only time I had ever seen Yvonne had been in my dreams.

Who is she??


Join my Playhouse to see the full "Black & White" gallery of Yvonne in my Girlfriends section now!


.- XXOO Tanya

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No one besides a dancer would have this purple lycra dress with a ruffle at the hem. I bought this skintight number in the nineties from a costume salesman named Aljo (I wrote about Aljo in the "Wet Dress" gallery of June 6, 2004.) These days I don't dance very often anymore or buy much new stripperwear. Here and there I work at a topless bar that is frequented mostly by contractors and Hell's Angels. It is a tiny wood-panelled place that was built in the 1960's and never renovated since then. There is no deejay and the dancers pick their music from a jukebox. The place is a relic and I like the old-school feel of it. Somehow it strikes me as the kind of place Bob Seger would have liked back in the day. It's sort of a "Down on Main Street" (remember his song of that name?) kind of venue. I can't explain it any better than that. Generally I just wear a bikini if I'm there and most of my old dresses just sit in platic bins so my cats can sleep on them.


Join my archive site www.JackOffLand.com now to see the full 6-page gallery and read more than you ever wanted to know about my checkered past ;)


- XXOO Tanya

Last year I rented an apartment in Long Beach for the summer. My short-term lease expired in August 2005 but I still drive by that amazing apartment building about once a month just to stare at it. An architect named Claude Beelman designed it in the Roaring Twenties and it was very luxurious by the standards of the day. The building fell on hard times when the Great Depression hit in the thirties and in later decades it became roughly the equivalent of a transient hotel. The unit I rented had never been updated. It still had a murphy bed, a safe in the wall, glass doorknobs, hexagonal floor tiles, original mirrors, a dry ice closet, and the original tiles and marble in the bathroom. The plumbing and electrical were about what you would expect from that era too.

Usually I live with my cats on the upstairs floor of a warehouse which one of my friends uses for his business. The living quarters are comfortable here, but I always consider renting that same apartment in Long Beach again. I never do. Sometimes I feel that there are spirits inside the place that I'm not ready to contend with right now. The building is named for the investors who funded its construction. I have the same last name as they did. That probably has no significance, but it surprised me nonetheless. I had fallen in love with the building and moved into it before I even knew it had a name.

After leaving there last summer I got on the Internet and started reading up on its history. As noted, Claude Beelman was the main architect. He is recognized for creating numerous other structures in the city of Los Angeles. The building that houses my former apartment is not in the actual city of Los Angeles and is a bit older than the work for which he is primarily known. I'd never heard of Beelman before last summer, but since then I have spent hours on the Net searching for information about his works of art. One of them, a former Elk's Lodge near Macarthur Park, sounded especially interesting. I was unable to find a photo of it. In recent years it has become known as the Park Plaza Hotel, but it has endured many ownership and name changes prior to its current incarnation. Its spiral downward began during the depression of the thirties and gradually another of Beelman's Roaring Twenties creations was relegated to transient hotel status. It now stands across the street from the local welfare office in one direction, and across from Macarthur Park in another. Macarthur Park is a gritty and notorious venue for illicit sales of all kinds, mostly drugs and sex. Presumably you could purchase a fake ID there too if you happened to need one.

I drove out that way early one morning to go look at the Park Plaza Hotel. My hope was that it was still a transient hotel and that I could possibly check in and get a room. It would be an opportunity to explore the place and I really wanted to see it. Unfortunately I was a few years too late and it is now closed to the public. I spent about an hour walking around the building and admiring it. In addition to its glorious architecture it had an alluring feel about it. Debauchery draws me like a magnet and there was no mistaking the sense of depravity which still lingered around the empty property. I could barely force myself to leave.

The day after my visit I was depressed and did not feel like working. I went to eReader.com and picked out a selection which I could spend the day reading. Somewhat randomly I chose an autobiography of a career criminal who had gone on to author numerous books and screenplays. I downloaded Education of a Felon: A Memoir by Eddie Bunker and settled into my couch to immerse myself in his life story. Towards the beginning of the book Mr. Bunker describes arriving at a hotel next to Macarthur Park. It was the 1930s and he was in the company of a black pimp and the pimp's gorgeous blonde girlfriend. From his description of the building I knew it was the Park Plaza Hotel where I'd been just the day before. Chills ran up my spine and my eyes bugged out. How weird. I'd just been standing outside that place envisioning who the former inhabitants might have been and sensing the licentiousness of their old antics.

The author recalls receiving his frst fix of heroin inside one of the upstairs rooms and watching hookers manipulate their johns and watching the pimps manipulate their hookers. He mentions that many of the rooms were bathed in a green light that helped hide the hookers' physical flaws and somehow contributed to the lascivious, underworld mood of the place. At the time he was there the building was called the Park Wilshire Hotel.

Strangely, it turns out that I know someone who was supposed to help renovate the building in the 1990s. For months he had keys to the entire property and explored every inch of the place. He is a friend of my roommate but I did not know him back when he had been hired to work on the Park Plaza. Someday I will find a way inside there. I already know that a green light is still glowing on the upstairs floors.

The pic above was shot on the premises long before I ever knew the building existed. The situation in question degenerated into a very tawdry example of street-level need and satisfaction. Everybody on the streets of L.A. has something that somebody else wants..


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- XXOO Tanya

Yesterday I got a ticket for parking my car at an address that does not exist. The citation was on my windshield when I returned from my stroll around a Long Beach neighborhood. The parking meter at this spot had expired 5 minutes earlier and the vigilant meter maid had already nailed me. I looked at the ticket and then tucked it back underneath the windshield wiper so I could use the space for the rest of the day without having to fill the meter again. In that area they will usually only cite you one time in a day so you may as well just leave your vehicle and your ticket in the same place where you received the ticket. When I started walking away from my car I saw the meter maid watching me. Something about her expression indicated that she would probably come back and give me a ticket every hour if I left without feeding more coins into the machine. I sighed, snatched the ticket off the windshield, and then got into the driver’s seat to go park someplace else. As I drove I inspected the citation more closely to see how much the fine was and then I noticed that the address given for my parking infraction was “65 Lime Avenue.” Tingles ran up my spine and a familiar sensation began to consume me. Here we go again, I thought. My car had not been parked on Lime Avenue.

Lime Street has intrigued ever since I used to live in Long Beach. I don’t know why. Certain places just call to me so I go to them and try to figure out what I need to do there. Generally they are buildings in Long Beach, downtown Los Angeles, and Detroit. For some reason a long expanse of Lime Avenue, not just one building, has some type of magnetic pull on me. The Green Leaf Hotel at 63 Lime Avenue sits within that mysterious realm. I want to check in there but I never do. About two months ago I approached the place at night and a tall, dark man did a quick reconnaissance of the immediate vicinity and then stepped into my path when he realized no one else was watching. At first I thought he was going to try and steal the laptop which I was carrying in a case slung over my shoulder, but he didn’t. He and I exchanged greetings and he looked directly into my eyes to try and communicate his intentions. His expression conveyed his confidence that he had exactly what I wanted and all I had to do was ask. I smiled and sidestepped around him only to encounter another larger, darker man lounging in the shadows against the wall of the Green Leaf. Evidently the two of them were working together and their presence dissuaded me from entering the hotel. Drug dealers usually don’t make me nervous. They just want to sell drugs and they aren’t going to bring unwanted attention onto themselves by mugging or molesting random passersby. Still, that night something compelled me to keep on walking into the darkness. Lime Avenue often has that effect on me.

Now I had an immediate reason to go back there. The City of Long Beach could not expect me to pay a fine for parking at an expired meter on a street where there were no meters. At least I would be able to contest the citation. I set the parking ticket down somewhere in my car and started driving to see if 65 Lime Avenue even existed. It did not. I knew it wouldn’t even before I got there. In reality I had been parked at 65 Linden Avenue, two blocks away, and the meter maid had just made a mistake when writing the name of the street. It was a simple error but the prickles on the back of my neck made me feel like the hand of fate was beckoning me back to Lime Avenue yet again. I parked on that familiar block and headed over to the Green Leaf Hotel. I could not check in there today because I already had a reservation for the night at the Hotel Stillwell in downtown L.A. The following day I had a bondage shoot in the San Fernando Valley and it was easier to just stay downtown and avoid the morning commute. As I walked down the alley next to the Green Leaf I wondered when I would finally go inside the place.

The next day at my shoot the photographer put me on my stomach and shackled my wrists and ankles. I felt tense and unrested and kept thinking about Lime Avenue. Who or what was there that both called to me and repelled me? Why did I always feel like that street was going to suck me underneath it and not let me out? The photographer was barking directions at me and was annoyed that I had such a distressed expression on my face. It was not the “look” he was going for. He wanted me to play the role of a horny woman who was tied up and waiting for her lover. Finally he announced that he was going to put a blindfold over half my face. I had to bite my lip to prevent myself from asking that he give me some earplugs too.

As soon as he put the blindfold on me the world seemed to start spinning. It happened fast. The two drug dealers from the Green Leaf popped into my head. One stood behind the other and the one I’d spoken to that night was staring right into my face, right into my soul. He was both intimidating and devilishly self-assured. He knew he had something I wanted. “I have something for you. I have something for you. I have something for you.” he kept promising me. The words seemed to be coming out of his eyeballs and the sound was hideously distorted. Various syllables would get lengthened and others truncated and the volume of his speaking would increase and diminish with no predictability or rhythm. I wanted to scream and he kept sending me those words as he leered at me. His lips were not moving, but somehow the repeated phrase kept emanating from him. The words were echoing endlessly in my head and then rebounding from deep within my heart. I knew it was his voice. “I have something for you. I have something for you. I have something for you.” He stayed right in my face and refused to go away. Gradually I became aware of a woman screaming. Her cries of anguish could not drown out the man’s endless mantra. He was completely impervious and I knew with terrifying certainty that he was offering me something far more dangerous than any drug. I’d stymied him that one night by not checking into the Green Leaf and now he had come to get me. “I have something for you. I have something for you. I have something for you.” he kept insisting over the tortured wails of the woman.

All of a sudden the blindfold was ripped from my face. The photographer stood there staring at me, visibly shaken. The two men from the Green Leaf were gone. The voices were gone. Belatedly I realized that I had been the woman who was screaming. The gallery below would have had many more photos if I hadn’t somehow gotten enveloped in that inexplicable daydream..


You can see the full "Stranded" gallery inside The Bondage Room of my Playhouse now.


- XXOO Tanya





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Large Dog Larry: Part 2

I like to observe people who interest me. My friend Tyson calls it "stalking", but generally he is willing to accompany me on my sightseeing expeditions. A few weekends ago we pulled into the parking lot of The Siren in Hermosa Beach so we could spy on one of my favorite subjects, Large Dog Larry. Large Dog Larry has lived in that beach area for decades. His skintight jeans, diamond rings, and long, feathered hair harken back to the cocaine-fueled era of the 1980s. In my mind the theme from Scarface is playing whenever the Large Dog strides into a room. Of course I've never seen him anywhere other than The Siren and a lot of stuff happens in my mind that has no connection with reality. Still, other people seem to take a shine to the Large Dog too. The Siren is right on the beach and one time, during a ninety-degree summer afternoon, a little kid inside the place pointed to Larry and said with wonder:

"Mom, that man is wearing cowboy boots."

My friend Raul, who was with me that day, almost choked on his sandwich when he heard the comment and I slid my gaze downward to see Larry's snazzy snakeskin boots protruding from beneath his tight jeans. The boots even had little spurs on the back and metal decorations on the pointed toes. The boy's mother glanced at Larry but did not respond to her son's observation. Larry was leaning against a piano/table at the far side of the room with a big-boobed blonde who was wearing a T-shirt with text across her breasts that read: "They really are hypnotic, aren't they?"

That kid was certainly not the first young man to take notice of Larry. Tyson's friend Vaughn grew up next door to Larry and idolized him for years. Vaughn claims that Larry's pimp-style diamond rings were all gifts from past girlfriends. All the women were wealthy and all were married. Supposedly one rich husband walked into his own house in ritzy Palos Verdes, CA only to discover Larry pumping his wife in the ass with his giant rod. That housewife was the source of one of the rings.

Larry also dated young models because, according to local gossip, he was a Penthouse photograher in the 1980s. Vaughn remembers lots of hot babes coming over to Larry's house at all hours of the day and night. He'd also see Larry out on the boardwalk with a girl on each arm. Sometimes they would have coordinating outfits, like the time one was a cowgirl and the other was an Indian.

Stories about Larry abound in Hermosa Beach. Perhaps my fascination with him arises from the fact that he's almost a caricature of a person. He could be a cartoon. He belongs on a billboard with Angelyne. It's really amusing to see how people react to him. In any case, Tyson and I were at The Siren to hang out by the ocean and observe Larry. On our way in Tyson yelled to the lot attendant:

"Where's Large Dog Larry? We're here to see Large Dog Larry!"

I couldn't believe it. It's impossible to spy on someone if that person gets wind of the fact that you are spying on them. The glare I fixed on Tyson made him realize his mistake. It was too late. The lot attendant smiled a big smile and came up to us:

"Larry's not here yet. He's probably out drinking a champale somewhere, but he'll be in later."

Champale? Champail? Champagle? Shampale? My mind got stuck on the word. That always happens when I don't know how to spell something. The part of the sentence in which it was used replays itself over and over and over in my brain, kind of like when an old record player hits a scratch on a vinyl record. I managed to shake my mind out of the groove and then Tyson and I left before Larry could arrive and find out from the parking lot guy that two people were asking about him. We decided to go back a different time and we both wondered aloud what "champale" was. A pail of champagne? Sparkling Wine? Boone's Farm with bubbles?

Of course I told Jewell Marceau the whole story the next day when we met at the gym for our boxercise class. Jewell has met the Large Dog before...


How did Jewell respond? What lethal insult from her mouth turned our lame boxercise workout into a bare-knuckled slugfest?! Join my Playhouse now to read her rude comment and see this huge catfight gallery in its entirety!


- XXOO Tanya






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About ten years ago a group of guys tried to carjack me and my friend Mike in Venice, CA. They did not try hard enough. In retrospect it amazes me that they thought he would stop the vehicle. Mike was driving and a group of black men with blue bandannas pulled up halfway over their faces (Jesse James-style) came into the road from both sides of the street and tried to surround his truck as he and I drove near the intersection of Santa Clara and Electric Avenues early one morning around 2AM. One of the dudes on my side was pointing a gun at us. Presumably others in the group had guns too but I fixated on that one man and his gun. I can still picture him right now. Somehow I knew he had a lazy smile on his face underneath his bandanna, but I'm not quite sure why I thought that. The impression still persists.

"Go. Go. Are you going?! Don't stop!" I beseeched Mike from the passenger seat when I'd spotted the gun and then noticed that we weren't moving any faster. For an instant I thought that Mike had not registered what was happening.

"I'm trying! This truck just won't go that fast." he replied as he put even more weight on the gas pedal.

He tried to gun the engine but that old truck really wouldn't move very fast. We still escaped without any problems even in that low-speed vehicle. Afterward it seemed that it had all happened really slowly, but it probably had not. The guys had just seemed to drift into the road. In reality they must have attempted to surround us very quickly because nothing else would make sense. Still, I can recall thinking that those stupid fuckers were crazy if they thought Mike was not going to try and get away. Wouldn't anybody try to run them over rather than just stop and exit the vehicle in hostile territory? I know I'd rather be enclosed in a few tons of steel instead of running down the streets of Venice on foot in the middle of the night.

A similar incident occurred just the other week. I was leaving the Hotel Cecil in downtown Los Angeles. My stay at the hotel had been freaky and I was eager to drive home. I had parked in a lot across the street and an older white man was walking slowly towards me as I threw my bags in the back and climbed into the driver's seat. It appeared that he was staring at me and I smiled a vague smile in his direction because we were the only people in the immediate vicinity and I felt compelled to acknowledge him. His demeanor struck me as kind of simpering and harmless. He made some type of gesture at me which I could not understand. Then he moved very quickly over to the passenger door of my car and tried the handle. Before that he had been walking with a pronounced limp and had seemed unwell. Lots of people in that area seem unwell. It was surprising how quickly he recovered his agility when he rushed at the car and took hold of the door handle. I shook my head at him and put the vehicle in motion. He had to let go or risk being pulled under the car as I accelerated. He opted to avoid getting run over. Why on Earth had he thought that I would not try to get away from him?

Instinct rules everyone even if sometimes they suppress it. I knew I could escape that time and I did. There have been other times in my life when the odds were stacked against me and I knew I could not depart so easily. There were yet other times when I just defeated myself. Sometimes people believe they are trapped even if they are not. I know I have degenerated to that level. A case in point occurred in Covina, CA a few weeks ago. I was at a bondage shoot and had started feeling unaccountably feverish, lightheaded, and clammy. Usually that overall state is a precursor to a full-blown panic attack. My wrists were already bound to iron railings and my emotions were starting to roil. The house next door was haunting me. Somebody had been hurt there and the legacy of their pain lingered in the air. Those damaged spirits occupied the dwelling even though the house stood vacant. Overgrown weeds surrounded it. I could not overcome my reaction to this former home of someone who had been grievously wronged. The pathos infected my soul. I was in the backyard of a neighboring property for the shoot and I had been tied up in a position where I was facing this house. When I look at the pic above I see the distress in my face. I was not in danger, but the vestige of someone else's terror had overtaken my senses. I began struggling frantically to escape the ropes, but they only seemed to get tighter...


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- XXOO Tanya