Needing a few extra bucks, I put the word out to my friends that I was in the market for some cash and if any gigs came their way to pass them on to me. My friend Beth hooked me up with a bartending job for the weekend.

“It’s just Saturday and Sunday,” she said. “Five hundred cash plus tips.”

I was in. I called the coordinator of the event, and she told me it’s at a country club in Simi Valley. The club itself reminded me of the sprawling exclusive clubs in the East Coast suburbs — you know, the ones that don’t allow Jews. I knew I was in the right place when, pulling my car into the lot at 9 a.m., I saw an enormous pink Playboy Bunny banner across the club entrance. As my eyes adjusted to the surroundings — beautiful mountains, lush man-made greenery, giant fake breasts — it occurred to me that I may be forced to don an ass-baring mini and giggle while I bounce up and down shouting “Nice stroke!” to some guy in argyle socks.

Why the hell didn’t I bring my one-hitter?

Those of us who were hired to bartend mingled with the “Girls of Golf,” hundreds of hopeful young women ages 18-22 who won various beauty contests across the country for an opportunity to schmooze, attend parties at “The Mansion” and possibly get discovered by Hef. All on their dime. They were dressed in micro-mini powder-blue, hooker-like “golf outfits.”

After being given my booze, cups, napkins and other bar accouterments I was whisked away to the seventh hole in a golf cart by a guy named Barry, a Boston cop who works as head of security for Playboy when he’s not on the beat. Barry told me to watch out for rattlesnakes and asked if I knew how to cook a lasagna.

I set up my tiki bar on the small hill of soft green sod where, for the next hour, I was alone in beautiful silence. Nestled in the bosom of the mountains with the sun shining, I took a cue from the Bunnies and took off my miniskirt and tank top, laid down on the Bunny Bean Bag (for sleepy Bunny wannabes) and soaked up some rays in my boy shorts and sports bra.

I must have dozed off because I awoke to the “Wooo!” sounds of the Girls of Golf assigned to the seventh hole: Mandy with a “y,” Rosie, Lorin and Mandi with an “i.” None of them had a dimple on their thighs and all of them played pop music on their pink Razr phones. 

I poured shots of something that looked like the neon green stuff that leaks out of the bottom of my car. The four girls entertained the golfing gentlemen as they, um, teed off.

Mandi with an “i” bounced around with the energy of, well, a big bunny.

“Where do you girls come from?” asked one of the golfers.

“We all flew in from different countries,” said Mandy with a “y.”


“Oh. What are they called .?.?. um .?.?. wait .?.?. states!

Oy vey.

And so it went. One of the actual Playmates got so wasted she pulled aside her G-string to squat and pee right next to my tiki bar. Then, a golf cart pulled up, and out walked a strapping Latino with the arms of a Valkin Warrior. Someone said that it was Jose Canseco. I got on my cell and called my friend Joe, who told me all about Jose’s controversial steroid abuse, his book that outed his teammates, and his batting average. The man hit 462 home runs. I began pouring him shots and didn’t stop for a good 25 minutes.

Throughout the day, gossip leaked in through the Golf Girl grapevine .?.?. a Bunny was carted off for smoking rock on one of the greens. Bad Bunny! There was also a rumor that Canseco, after leaving my watering hole, tipped over his golf cart, causing his wife to sprain her wrist. Oops. Was that my fault?

As the sun began to set, the Girls of Golf tired of bouncing around and shouting “Wooo!”

I asked Mandy with a “y” what she wanted to get out of this experience.

“I want to do Victoria’s Secrets,” she said.

“Honey,” I replied, “I think she only has one.”

Then a man the size of a refrigerator who was said to play for the Giants (appropriately) decided it would be funny to tackle my tiki bar. He knocked the whole thing down around me like a bad spaghetti-Western set. When I asked him if he was going to clean up the mess, he looked at me like I was from another planet.

I am — it’s called Earth.

Exhausted, I began to close up shop for the day when I overheard a man wearing jewelry that would make Zsa Zsa Gabor jealous ask Mandi with an “i” a question. “I don’t know anything about anything!” she said, hopping into the sunset.

LA Weekly