Thursday, December 28, 2006


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.

Join my archive site
www.JackOffLand.com to see the full "Straitjacket" gallery now!





- XXOO Tanya

Monday, December 25, 2006



Merry Christmas to all!!

- XXOO Tanya

Tuesday, December 19, 2006


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?


You can see the full "Forced Workout" gallery inside The Bondage Room now!

www.tanyadanielle.com/join.html


- XXOO Tanya

Sunday, December 10, 2006


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..


Join my archive site
www.JackOffLand.com to see this nasty apartment brawl now!





- XXOO Tanya

Wednesday, December 06, 2006


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