Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (33 page)

Our producers had rented an extra apartment to use as our cast gathering room and breakfast room. “What do Americans eat? What do we feed these women?” they must have inquired, almost like trying to care for zoo animals that require diets comparable to that of their native environment. Knowing that we would most likely snub our noses at traditional Japanese breakfasts of fish, rice, miso soup, pickles, and dried seaweed, they kept the community refrigerator stocked with Kellogg’s cornflakes and milk for our breakfasts. For lunch, most days they took us to Denny’s or Kentucky Fried Chicken for more American chow. “You want to go to Kentucky?” they would ask. I didn’t question the restaurant choices back then, but now I would much prefer eating the Japanese food. It seems absurd that we would travel to an exotic location and then dine on mediocre American fare. But that is what we generally did, with the exception of dinner, which was often eaten at our performance venue. 

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Val was right about our not needing a bodyguard this trip, because we had an entourage of people traveling with us everywhere we went. Our escorts included our producer Donald (who was Japanese, so beats me why he had an American name), several business men who seemed to be his partners (Sawa-san, Hayakawa-san, Murata-san, and Isowa-san, to name a few), and then a small group of cute, young Japanese guys who did more of the grunt work and smoked like fiends. These junior gents shuttled us around and were at our beck and call. In addition, we were joined by Bernie—a big, buffed, African-American man—and his lovely American girlfriend, Janice, who resided in Florida. Janice used to be a personal flight attendant for an Arab sheik and had flown the world attending to the wealthy and royal on their private jets. They were both Buddhists and liked to work out. If Bernie and Janice were hired to fulfill any specific function for our show, I couldn’t tell you what that might have been. But they were certainly fascinating and fun to have around. Plus they spoke English. I think they may have been good friends of Donald. Perhaps he liked hanging out with them or wanted some Americans on the team to help tame the wild Bunnies. Sometimes others tagged along, but a dozen or so comprised the core circle.

Thank goodness we also traveled with a translator—a sweet, young woman named Namiko. With the exception of Janice and Bernie who spoke only English and Donald who spoke Japanese and hesitant, limited English, our posse didn’t speak much English and we, of course, spoke absolutely not a word of Japanese. So Namiko was a godsend.

Being the conscientious Americans that we were, we took it upon ourselves to bridge the cultural divide and the language barrier by teaching our new young male friends the limbo and every American swear word we could think of. In return, they taught us some extremely rude Japanese saying, laughing hysterically when we repeated it. We never did find out what it meant, which was probably for the best. Thinking it a good idea to learn some Japanese that wouldn’t make enemies, I eventually attempted to perfect a few key, friendly, respectable phrases: “Konnichiwa” (Good afternoon); “Hajimemashite” (Nice to meet you); “Domo arigatou gozaimasu!” (Thank you very much); and “Ski des” (I like you). I used that last one to flirt with and shock Japanese men, who were easily embarrassed. At first, all Japanese sounded like gibberish or nonsense scatting to me—just a bunch of indiscernible white noise. After a couple months, however, it was as if the smoke cleared and my ears opened wide and I could tune in and pick out certain words.

Just as the Japanese words were indiscernible, the people all looked the same to me at first. They were all petite with dark hair and fair skin. I couldn’t tell people apart without more distinguishing features—different hair color, skin color, eye color, sizes. The streets of Tokyo looked like a giant ant farm with black-headed ants swarming about in masses. By the end of the summer, however, I could not only easily distinguish individual Japanese people but I could also recognize who was Chinese and who was Korean.

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Our first performance location was an exquisite, small, intimate, modern dinner club with a few tables, a small bar, and a stage just big enough to house a small rock band. To our good fortune, they served us dinner each night before the show. Their gourmet food was amazing, including the most delectable Kobe beef—a fat-marbled delicacy from a specific, highly prized black breed of cattle that had supposedly been fed beer and had their backsides massaged. Not a bad life for a creature whose destiny was to end up on a plate. Although I never liked to consume much before a performance (Who needs the extra bloating when bearing your belly?), the meals were much too delicious to pass up.

Unfortunately, this venue had no back stage, so we used the ladies restroom as our dressing room. Like in Singapore, we had to walk through the audience to reach the stage. Val taped a copy of our new show lineup on the wall of our toilet-turned-dressing-room, so we’d remember the order:

1. Opening

2. Free Your Mind

3. Sweat

4. I Will Always Love You

5. Achy Breaky Heart

6. Makin’ Whoopee

7. I’m Too Sexy

8. Someday

9. Hot Legs

10. Tribute

11. Erotica

12. It’s Rainin’ Men

13. Aretha

14. Love Is the Wonderful Thing

15. Closer

My show consisted of seven of the fifteen total numbers. The entire cast performed the opening; then I had a leisurely three numbers to change costumes, after which I sang my new “Achy Breaky Heart” solo, followed by only one number to whip off my chaps and squeeze into my “I’m Too Sexy” lace teddy and fur stole. Doing my little turn on the catwalk with the Playmates was so simple and fun. I then had a whopping four numbers to change into my black rhinestone-studded disco dress, danced “It’s Rainin’ Men,” stayed in the same costume and sang backup for the “Aretha Medley,” ran offstage and quickly changed into my gold bikini and sequined blazer, and joined the rest of the cast for “Love Is a Wonderful Thing” and the closer—a reprise of our Girls of Rock & Roll theme song “Opener.” The end of the show went by particularly fast as I was on stage for most of the last four songs. 

The price I paid for getting to sing the “Achy Breaky Heart” solo was having to wear Jasmine’s hand-me-down chaps with the rearview window. Yee haw! Those pants sure were drafty. Having backup dancers and being the center of attention was more exciting than riding a bucking bronco, but I was unsure about my singing. During every show I wondered whether the real singers (Callie and Jasmine) cringed when they heard me howling.
Should I ask them how I sound? Should I ask their advice? What if I’m awful?
Too terrified the truth might break my achy break heart, I kept on doing my best and hoped it was good enough.

I knew I had to start somewhere if I wanted to improve and was grateful to Val for the opportunity. She also let me sing backup with Marina for the Aretha Franklin Medley; I was in Seventh Motown Heaven. Being mostly “oo”s and “sock it to me”s and “re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-spect”s, I felt fairly capable. Plus I was fantastic with the hair flips and hand gestures, and absolutely bubbled over with personality. So passionate was I about the performing and singing, I could have done it all night long and much preferred it to the straight dancing. If only God had given me an ounce of Aretha’s vocal talent.

My singing in the show was certainly a change but nothing compared to our new and improved feature: the addition of topless dancers. Of our two shows per night, the first was “covered” and the second “uncovered.” In other words, Tina and Tasha exposed themselves for a few numbers during the later show.

In the opening song, “The Girls of Rock & Roll,” Tasha and Tina danced topless, while the rest of us were fully clothed (scantily clothed may be more accurate). Conveniently, the fabric in their underwire push-up bras was removable, so they’d rip out the black leather and only wear the rhinestone-studded underwire. Breasts certainly should be celebrated, and why not glamorized with a bit of sparkle? Still, it was just plain weird having two token topless dancers. I could see how it worked well for Tasha’s “Erotica” solo, given Madonna’s musical theme. Tina and Tasha also danced uncovered during “Hot Legs”—Athena’s solo. Because Athena was the Playmate and soloist, it would have made much more sense for her hooters to get the hoopla. How bizarre. Honestly, did a sneak peak at those four nipples really make or break our show? But that’s how our bases were covered (or not).

After the performances, once back at our apartments, we’d walk the few short blocks to our neighborhood 7-Eleven (Yes, a 7-Eleven!).We’d stock up on an array of delicious Japanese junk food, my favorite being wasabi snacks—their version of Cheetohs with a green, spicy wasabi hot mustard coating instead of the finger-staining orange powder. Or sometimes Donald would bring us huge drums filled with an assortment of sushi.

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Our Japanese hosts treated us like royalty, taking us to every hot spot in Tokyo. The producers and gofers were so dedicated to their jobs that they ditched their families and friends to accompany us for after-hours partying and dancing nearly every night after our last show. All the clubs had exorbitant cover charges—$35 American and up—which we never paid. Take that, Club Tatou in L.A.! Who’s a VVIP now? The trendiest of the trendy nightclubs teemed with American and European models. Techno music was the rage, and the petite Japanese girls monotonously bounced to the beat, swinging their feather boas. Their dance moves were limited, perhaps, in part due to their flimsy attire—the shortest skin-tight mini-dresses I’ve ever seen. Any shorter and the getup would have been called a shirt. The youngsters acted like they were trying to make up for generations of Japanese women who’d been stifled behind stiff kimonos and culturally required politeness.

We, on the other hand, would get out on the dance floor and dance as wildly as possible, holding nothing back. Sometimes we’d coerce our Japanese hosts into joining the chaotic boogie fest. I had never felt anything so cathartic. No one expected us to be prim and proper. On the contrary; we had a Playboy rock and roll image to uphold. Having finally cooled our jets around 5:00 a.m., we’d close the discos only to find it was daylight. I expected Tokyo to be a ghost town at that wee hour of the morning. Au contraire; the streets were bustling with a mix of fresh early risers and stale, late night leftovers.

It’s not surprising that the Japanese could keep their engines running all night. Everybody smoked and drank coffee continuously. The entire country must have been on a colossal nicotine/caffeine buzz. One of their more ingenious inventions to stay wired was caffeinated licorice-flavored gum, a treat I bought in bulk in case I needed a quick boost. In the mood for a liquid pick-me-up? Look no further than the nearest street corner for a collection of cold, canned coffee drinks, some sweetened with sugar and milk, easily accessible from one of many vending machines. These ubiquitous, magnificent dispensers catered to your every need, 24/7, including an astonishing variety of drinks, food, and even underwear. Yes, fresh undies. This was a country on the go. Convenience was key.

The vending machine lingerie was a no-go for the Girls of Rock & Roll, however. For our American-sized heinies, these would’ve been like squeezing into toddler panties. What a disappointment to discover we couldn’t buy any Japanese clothes or shoes, because we were gigantic compared to their women (and men, for that matter). On the other hand, the Japanese were gaga over Western jeans. The denim trousers were in such great demand, we wished we had brought some to sell or trade.

Americans may have excelled in the blue jeans department, but the Japanese were innovative in so many other ways. Say, for instance, we had been dancing most of the night, as we were prone to do, and didn’t have time to return home but wanted to catch a few winks without paying for a full-fledged hotel. In downtown Tokyo, special, inexpensive, communal sleeping establishments could be found that catered to business men and women in this very predicament. Instead of having a private room like you would in a real hotel, you got your own private, cushioned cubby hole. It reminded me of a morgue full of coffin-like containers stacked on top of each other. You would slide into an opening at one end and commence getting some shut eye. Each cubby included a little locker for valuables. Each establishment also offered a community shower room and toilets. I had never seen anything like it. Post-party patrons could rest their weary heads for a few hours, shower, grab some vending machine underpants and a canned coffee drink, and be back to work, fairly fresh and refreshed for having painted the town red. We opted to head back to our cozy, little apartments instead.

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This tour was unlike any other, because Donald and Company took such exceptional care of us, providing not only after-hours entertainment but sightseeing excursions on our days off. The word on the street was this man had brought Michael Jackson to Japan! He clearly knew how to treat his talent. The Japanese, in general, knew how to make a good impression. I never could have afforded a trip like this. Donald was the Genie who granted our every wish, at no expense to us.
Domo arigato!

One of my wishes, while in Tokyo, was to soak up as much culture as possible. Hence, a group of us got tickets to see Kabuki Theatre—a spectacular, classical dance-drama in which the performers wore elaborate kimono costumes and striking stage makeup. Their faces were completely covered in a white, rice-powder base and were accentuated with dramatic, colorful, sometimes scary features (depending on the character the performer was playing), the end result looking much like a mask. Live music using traditional Japanese instruments underscored the drama. I was most intrigued by strange sounds of the one-string zither and the notion that an instrument could get by with only having one string. Seemed like cheating. Kabuki originally started in 1603 as an all-female production—women playing both the female and male roles—with erotic themes. The actresses were then available for post-show prostitution. Hmmmm… reminded me of the invitation we got in Bandung to “see clients” after our performance. After many incarnations, alterations, and transformations, modern-day Kabuki ditched the ribald themes and ended up with an all-male cast playing both the male and female roles. Sort of like original Shakespeare, I guess. Men in drag always make for good entertainment, as far as I’m concerned.