Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (24 page)

One night, after our show, the band kindly invited Darla and me to a spontaneous cast party. “Why not?” we thought, game for some fun. The grand festivities consisted of a case of beer and a pick-up truck parked in the parking lot, doors open, country music blasting on the radio. Nothing was too good for us Los Angeles girls. We partied Branson style. “You gals are the most professional people we’ve ever worked with,” the guys agreed. Well, shucks. I could toast to that. This wasn’t your typical showbiz shindig, but it seemed fitting, all the same.

My parents drove all the way from Michigan to see me perform and to see Branson for the first time. I was thrilled to have them in the audience and to be able to introduce them to Buddy and Dorothy. After all, I was on a first-name basis with somebody famous, and that was too extraordinary not to share. To top it off, on our last day in Branson, Buddy and Dorothy invited my parents and me to have breakfast with them. I just about flipped. They were such kind, gracious people and a joy to be around. I felt privileged to be giving my parents this rare and exciting experience.

During our minimal time off, Darla and I were able to see a couple of the other shows in town. Amazingly, we were allowed in for FREE when we told them we were performing at the Roy Clark. There was some sort of generally accepted reciprocity agreement whereby performers of the various shows could see the other shows without charge. How fabulous! First, we saw the Osmond Show, which was very exciting, as I had been a Donnie and Marie fan as a youngster. While I was disappointed that my favorite duo weren’t actually in it, the remaining brothers had enough vocal talent and pizzazz to get by without their superstar siblings. The second show we saw featured a man the Osmonds can thank for discovering them—Andy Williams. Andy was an old pop star well known for his rendition of “Moon River,” and he now performed at his very own Moon River Theatre. As a kid, I was especially fond of his cozy Christmas specials which were as heartwarming as a hand-knit sweater and a cup of hot cocoa.

Branson was, without a doubt, like no other place I’ve ever been. Praise God if you were a white, heterosexual, patriotic American Christian. If not, you may have been more comfortable elsewhere. This was the Bible Belt and Ku Klux Klan country, and we felt the influences. I was shocked to see a sign on the side of the highway stating that the KKK had sponsored that portion of the road. Being more or less a white, heterosexual, patriotic, American Christian, I was treated like royalty.

This little town in Missouri, I learned, was a viable growing family entertainment destination. Who knew? Set in the heart of the Ozark Mountains, its beauty was unrivaled in the fall when the leaves changed to vibrant red, orange, and yellow hues. Chock full of road-kill paraphernalia, down-home cooking, and old country music stars, the city drew in busload after busload of tour groups looking for some good, clean fun in a small-town atmosphere. It was the one place in the country where roadkill was big business and you could create and star in your very own show. The whole place comforted you like a bowl of Grandma’s homemade chicken soup and buttermilk biscuits—good old Southern hospitality at its finest.

Branson could feel like a nursing home where antique country stars performed out their final days. Instead these luminaries brought vitality and a passion for their art to busloads of senior citizens who loved to meet and greet the stars of their day in person. The stars were old, but the audiences were older. With many celebrities, it was popular to have their families join them on stage for a number or two, and if they didn’t include a patriotic song in their finale, why, they were missing the standing ovation they deserved. A “God Bless You!” at the end of the performance was nearly a prerequisite for everyone as was shaking hands and signing autographs. They aimed to please, and it seemed to be working. Branson was a show factory where many of its stars performed six days a week, two to three shows a day—a heavy schedule for even the hardiest of the bunch. But they got to keep doing what they loved, and that’s what it was all about.

Buddy, too, did what he loved, for well over sixty years, and had plenty of stories to share about his adventures in the world of entertainment. Not only was he a versatile performer and artist, but he was a writer, too, and the following year his autobiography was released. He entitled it
The Other Side of Oz,
because he had actually been the first Tin Woodman cast in the film
The Wizard of Oz
. Sadly, while filming he became hospitalized from the silver aluminum dust makeup he had to wear, which made him seriously ill. After inadvertently poisoning him, the movie studio didn’t even wait for Buddy to recuperate before hiring another guy to play the part. The rest is history, and Buddy’s final words of the epilogue beautifully sum up what he learned over the years:

I wanted to tell this story for the millions of young men and women—and the grownups, too—who start out bravely every morning prepared to sell something, whatever it may be. I wanted them to know the story of someone, like themselves, who has been confronted by negative people who are secure behind polished desks, and who listen doubtfully as your pitch flops. So what do you do then? Ring up “no sale” and walk out of the office defeated? Never! Refuse to accept it! Just call it a temporary postponement of success. The difference between success and failure is often no wider that the thickness of a cigarette paper. Just as Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Cowardly Lion, and the Tin Woodman stood up to the Wizard and won—so can you! Life’s a brand-new ball game every day! Remember that of all the elements that comprise a human being, the most important, the most essential, the one that will sustain, transcend, overcome and vanquish all obstacles is—Spirit!

Now those are words to live by, spoken by a man of triumph over adversity. As soon as Buddy’s autobiography came out I bought and mailed two copies to Buddy’s home. He signed one for me and one for my uncle who loved
The Beverly Hillbillies
and was going nuts about me working with Jed Clampett. In my book he wrote “To Kristi—with great affection from Dorothy and me and a strong belief in your future—Buddy.” For several years following the gig, I received Christmas cards from Buddy and Dorothy. One was a photocard of Buddy’s original artwork. I really cherish them and my time with the legendary and memorable Buddy Ebsen. “Weeeeellll, Doggies!”

Buddy had been good to me. The Rockettes had been good to me. Showbiz had been good to me.
I wandered down the 6th Avenue “skyscraper alley” toward my destination: 1260 6th Avenue—Radio City Music Hall, “showplace of the nation.” When I finally arrived near the famed Music Hall, the sight of the massive marquee sent a chill down my spine. It covered an entire city block. The luminous appearance of this uberglamorous New York icon, world’s largest indoor theatre, and home to the Radio City Rockettes, took my breath away. I snapped a photo from across the street, but it couldn’t capture the magnificence and magic of what this place meant to me. Seeing Radio City Music Hall felt like a reunion with a close relative I was meeting for the first time. I was an alien returning to the mother ship. 

Taking a deep breath, I headed over to the stage door on 6th Avenue and 51st Street. I loved stage doors as they always made me feel like I was going through a secret entrance privy only to the V.I.P.s. Today I felt even more privileged than usual. A security guard manned the entrance from his booth. “I'm here to teach the Rockette Experience,” I announced to him, trying to sound confident, despite being certain my heart was beating out of my chest. After checking his notes to make sure I was the real deal, he phoned the person in charge. Shortly an enthusiastic man arrived to escort me. He gave me a special badge to wear.
Whoa…I’m in!

The nice fellow walked me through the building to show me the pertinent spots. “Here’s the green room where you can hang out before the workshop starts,” he said as we approached the first open door on the right. I stepped in for a brief look around. The green room had attractive wooden furniture, leather chairs and sofas, drink dispensers, a refrigerator, and a coffee maker. I read the notices on the bulletin board, envious of all the girls who danced here.

We continued down the hall, past a couple of rooms where the Rockettes could relax with professional massages. Finally we stopped by a brightly lit dance studio with mirrors covering an entire wall. “Here is the small rehearsal hall, and over here is the large rehearsal hall where you’ll be teaching. Any questions?” I was impressed by the beautiful facilities. “I do have one question. If it’s all right, I want to take the Radio City tour before I have to teach. Can you tell me where to go?” He kindly took me to the lobby to wait inside with the tour guides for the tour to begin.

None of the tourists knew I was an undercover Rockette. We all took photos of ourselves standing on the great stage. I pictured what it would be like to dance there, to look out on the audience of six thousand people, to ride the elevators and run through the halls backstage to make my entrances.

The tour guide led us to a holding area in front of the dressing room door, which, naturally, had a star on it. “Now we are going to meet a real Rockette! Is everybody ready?” the tour guide asked, as she knocked on the door. “They’ve been walking and talking with a real Rockette for the last half hour,” I thought, keeping the secret to myself. A lovely young lady appeared, decked out in her cute red costume and perma-grin. Acting on her best behavior, she happily posed for photos and answered questions with politeness and sweetness that would have made a Disney princess proud. 

While certainly fine, upstanding citizens and consummate professionals with the best of intentions, the Rockettes couldn’t be expected to be that wholesome and pure
all
of the time. Could they? I’m sure even Cinderella wanted to let her hair down and let loose now and then. Constantly having to be perfect can drive a person crazy and, perhaps, even call in one’s naughty side to balance oneself out. That perfect, good-girl image required of the Rockettes was the polar opposite of how I was expected to behave in one of my earlier jobs—a member of the “Playboy’s Girls of Rock & Roll.” Oh, the freedom of being the “bad girl” and embracing my inner floozy. If dancing with the Rockettes was my superego, then dancing for Playboy was my id in wild abandon. It was the angel versus the devil in me, and the devil can be very tempting.

Act 2, Scene 1

Playboy’s Girls of Rock & Roll

I wasn’t really Playboy Bunny material, and, even if I were, I hadn't the slightest clue how to get my buck-naked body on a centerfold nor would I want to bare my birthday suit for friends and strangers alike to critique. Nevertheless, it seems I was destined to be associated with those famous, fuzzy rodents because, like a free lap dance, the opportunity to work with Playboy simply landed in my lap.

(Note: So my parents don’t have heart attacks, I’m telling them right now to skip this whole Playboy section and resume reading when the next section begins. That goes for the rest of you who have a low tolerance for talk about breasts and G-strings. I confess this book is no worse than a PG-13 movie, so those who were hoping for some X-rated material should skip it altogether. I’m still a goody two-shoes even if the shoes are stilettos.)

*******

It happened like this: A few months after my Branson stint with Buddy Ebsen, I got a call from Celebration Magnifico, as they had recently expanded their operation and opened a West Coast office. Jenny had told them I was living in California and that they should contact me. With reluctance and a bit of nausea, but needing the cashola, I rejoined the ranks of party dancers. I was grateful for the opportunity to make more money but wasn’t all that jazzed about having to ask strangers to tango again. Oh well, I’d make the best of it, and at least I’d be dancing. The downside ended up being less the job itself and more the extensive driving, as parties could be located anywhere from San Diego up to L.A. and its surrounding area. Unlike New York City where we were transported everywhere by the company, here we were expected to have a car and get ourselves to the gig. A party could easily require a two-hour drive up the coast. Still, it was $100 that I wouldn’t have had otherwise.

Celebration Magnifico actually booked us some decent trips that included transportation, like the one-night gig at the Golden Nugget in Las Vegas. My first time performing there, I was excited in spite of the fact that I still thought Vegas was sleazy. As we flew into the city, I saw the shiny black pyramid of the Luxor hotel rising up from the desert. We learned a dance to “One” from the musical
A Chorus Line
and opened for the infamous, brash, insult comic, Don Rickles, who was as entertainingly obnoxious in person as he was on stage. We returned to Vegas another time to dance at an extravagant, black-tie New Year’s Eve party thrown by Caesar’s Palace. Getting paid triple overtime was a terrific way to ring in the New Year, and it was fun to be a part of all the action. My absolute favorite trip was to Maui, Hawaii, where we stayed at the luxurious Hilton Wailea in $500-a-night rooms. The service at the hotel was impeccable: Too hot as you lounge in the sun? A pool boy would spray you with an Evian spritzer. Too sweaty as you run on the treadmill in the open air gym overlooking the ocean? A gym servant would offer ice cold, wet towels and Evian water to drink. This was the life! We ate from sumptuous breakfast buffets loaded with succulent, tropical fruits and rode bicycles into town to shop for chocolate macadamia nut candies. It was heavenly! The decadent setting more than made up for the fact that I had to dance as half of the Brooklyn Bridge.

My enthusiasm for the job had certainly waned since those initial days in New York, but the California dancers were cordial and relatively laid back. The pool of performers was much smaller than New York and, consequently, without the distinct A, B, and Z teams. Here, the Jersey girls were replaced with nipple and navel-pierced, tattooed, vegetarian Valley girls, and I even made a few friends. An aspiring actress, who trained with the famous improvisational group called the Groundlings, invited me for a night out with a couple guys she knew. One guy, Jonathan Elias, a successful movie soundtrack producer, gave us a tour of his gorgeous home/recording studio in the Hollywood Hills and handed out copies of his latest C.D.—a compilation of film scores he had written. His impressive resume included creating music for the motion picture trailers for
Alien, Altered States, Bladerunner, Gandhi, Ghostbusters
, and
Back to the Future
, scoring scenes for Nine to Five and Still of the Night, writing the title song for
9 1/2 Weeks
, and working with such artists as Duran Duran, Grace Jones, and Yes. At the time, however, I had no idea who this composer was. Call me clueless. Call me naïve, but this is the caliber of amazing person you can run into in Los Angeles.

Jonathan and his buddy took us to chichi Club Tatou, where we were supposedly on the V.I.P. list. As V.I.P.s, we had to wait in line at the “secret” back door entrance with the thirty other trendily dressed “Very Important People” and convince the big, scary bouncer—an ex-con from the L.A. County Prison, no doubt—that we were worthy. The bouncer/security guy eyeballed us up and down, assessing our grooviness. Concerned we might be turned away, my new guy friend assured the man with the requisite name dropping, “We’re friends of So-and-So. We’re cool.” Jonathan most certainly was cool, and finally Scary Security Guy bought it. Mind you, we still had to pay the $25 cover charge. If we V.I.P.s had to beg to be let into a nightclub, I felt sorry for the Very Unimportant People. Maybe you have to be a V.V.I.P. to walk in free of charge and without groveling. On the way to the dance floor we passed Rod Stewart and his model wife, Rachel Hunter, dining with their large entourage. “I bet they never stood in the V.I.P. line,” I whispered to my friend. It bothered me that you had to be somebody famous or know somebody to get into these places. You had to look the part, or forget it. Yuck. Of course, I pretended not to be impressed by Rod and company. I was just that cool.

But I digress. What I’m really getting at is through Celebration Magnifico I also met the super-hot, Italian, dream boy, Gino. With his wavy black tresses and abs of steel, he was as charming as his muscles were solid. I didn’t stand a chance with him, as he was gay, of course.
Sigh
. But, over time, we became buddies, and he offered me something else I couldn’t refuse. “I’m going to be choreographing a show for Playboy,” he announced, “and I thought you would be perfect for the job.” “Say what? The
real
Playboy? As in
the magazine
? As in
Playboy Bunnies?
” I asked incredulously. He assured me it was the real deal. The next thing I knew, I had an audition with the executive producer of Playboy’s Girls of Rock & Roll.

*******

I must admit, I was nervous walking into Playboy Enterprises for my initial interview. Would this be the last we’d see of a once-wholesome Midwestern girl? Would I suddenly want to throw all caution and clothes to the wind? The success of
Playboy
magazine made me question the validity of the phrase “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.” Apparently, men never tired of looking at mammaries, at least not at those resembling full-grown melons. Hugh Hefner—the founder of this fruitful empire—had the money to prove it. 

The multi-story glass office building looked perfectly normal from the outside. What did I expect? Giant breast-shaped domes and a phallic tower? It wasn’t until I walked through the hallways past oil paintings of scantily clad women that I sensed any sexual overtones. I suddenly felt a bit overdressed and concerned about what my interview would entail. When I met the producer of the show—former modeling agent Valerie Craigin—I was slightly comforted by the fact that she was a woman. Rumors had it that Valerie was in her mid-sixties but she looked like a well-preserved fifty. She had short coiffed brunette hair, professional attire, a deep smoker’s voice, and a nervous laugh. She took the liberty of saying “Hef” instead of “Hugh Hefner” although I don’t know how well they knew each other. Valerie seemed harmless enough and, thank God, had no intention of making me take my clothes off. We chatted a bit and that was it. I had the job! She mainly held the interview in order to get a good look at me and make sure I wasn’t a heifer, so I could be a “Hefer.” 

“We’ll be touring all over Southeast Asia, so be sure to get your shots,” Valerie advised. “I’ll be sending you an itinerary as soon as our travel plans are confirmed. We’ll start out in Indonesia and then we may go to Singapore, Malaysia, India, Japan, Australia, Germany, Puerto Rico, who knows? There are so many possibilities, it’s driving me nuts! Plan to be gone for six months.” I tried to remain calm and professional but inside I was thinking “Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod!” I was so excited: dancing for Playboy, traveling to exotic countries.
Now this was something to call home about. Or not. What would my parents think?
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Valerie continued. “Next week we’ll be doing a photo shoot with all the girls to be used for posters and promotional items to be sent overseas.”

I went home incredulous about the job I had just landed. Then the doubts and fears and insecurities set in.
I’m not a model. I don’t know how to do a photo shoot. I don’t have a perfect body. I wish I had better abs. I wish I were thinner. I wish I were prettier. I wish…
 

Did I condone magazines that flagrantly promoted women’s bodies as mere sex objects? No, I can’t say that I did or do, and perhaps, if I had put any serious thought into it or been more enlightened, I would have taken up a feminist stance, stomped my foot, and shouted defiantly, “How dare you even ask me to be associated with a company that is degrading women by shamefully displaying them as play toys!” 

Instead, I was eager to get a firsthand look at the debauchery behind this famous furry icon. It was more of a sordid curiosity—like wanting the forbidden fruit simply because it’s forbidden. My inner Tigress was roaring and ready to be let out of its cage. This was just too much of an adventure to pass up. After all, I wasn’t going to be doing anything
really
naughty; was I?

*******

In the days leading up to the photo shoot, I may have appeared relaxed and confident on the outside, but on the inside I was a nervous wreck because, horror of horrors, over the course of the week a boil had sprouted out on the middle of my forehead. I was casually glancing in the mirror while brushing my teeth when, all of a sudden, my eye was drawn to a raised, red spot on my face. 

“What’s that? That wasn’t there before!” I said in disbelief, touching the bump to make sure it was real. “NOOOOOOO! I have the photo shoot in three days!” I panicked for a few minutes, then quickly began pulling out my blemish-eliminating tricks. “Okay, maybe there’s still time to get rid of it,” I thought, hopefully.

I used lotions, potions, zit creams, and a steaming hot washcloth, but I think I only made it madder, because it grew. And grew. And grew. Bigger than any pimple I had ever seen. It was a dime-sized lump that birthed from my face like I was trying to grow a second head on top of the one I already had. There was nothing there to squeeze or pinch. Nothing short of surgical removal could have helped. I had no bangs (the fact that I wouldn’t even consider cutting some to cover that monster was evidence of how much I hated bangs) and no way to hide it. 

And so it was that my new “friend” and I returned to Playboy Enterprises for the important photo shoot. As if I wasn’t nervous enough already about the photo shoot and meeting the cast for the first time, I was now also horribly self-conscious about my dermatological nightmare. Valerie’s eyes bugged out when she saw me. “Oh my. Uh, you’d better get yourself over to the makeup artist right away, dear,” she insisted, laughing nervously. 

I agreed with Valerie, and I prayed the makeup artist would have some special pancake makeup to disguise that blasted boil. When I showed her the mountain on my face and, in desperation, asked her, “Can you do something to fix it?” she gave me this incredulous look like “I’m not a miracle worker, you naïve, acne-faced bimbo!”

Of course, trying to cover that sucker was about as easy as trying to make my nose look invisible. Even the best makeup artist in the world can’t hide Mt. Vesuvius. She made a valiant effort by piling on the thickest cover-up she had. It was the best we could do.

Back in the main room, I joined the rest of the all-female cast of Playboy’s Girls of Rock & Roll, which consisted of three singers, two dancers (myself and another girl), and three
Playmates
. Satin, Mallory, and Taffy were the three nude models who were willing to sing and dance in this show. They had taken their clothes off and been photographed for the most famous girlie magazine in the world. I was going to be dancing with them, talking to them, socializing with them. Word was, they made twenty-some-thousand dollars or so for posing for the magazine. I don’t know if that was true, but even that sizable chunk of change wasn’t enough to make me want to bare it all. Meeting the Playmates was like going to the Big Top of the Bizarre to see the woman with three eyes or the rubber man who could twist himself up like a pretzel. I stared at those real Playboy Bunnies like they were circus attractions. I was enthralled. 

Taffy was an ultra-petite beauty with long, wavy blond locks and a tiny, taut body. She starred in a Playboy video where she did naked rhythmic gymnastics while twirling a long, satin ribbon attached to a stick into mesmerizing circular, spiral, and figure-eight patterns around her delicate figure. She was light and airy and not extremely friendly. She didn’t need to be; she was just that hot, and boy, could she give a look to kill when she was in a sour mood.

In contrast, Mallory was an enormous, blond, athletic, Canadian kick boxer with exquisite, fake D-cups and an “I’ll kick your ass!” attitude hovering beneath the surface. I wanted her on my good side; she could most certainly beat the tar out of me if she felt like it.