Down the Rabbit Hole Read Online Free PDF Page A

happens with transfers, many of my credits from Portland State didn’t apply towards my program at Loyola Marymount. In order to graduate on time, I’d have to load up on credits, which included long theater hours that would require working backstage on different productions during the evenings when I typically waitressed. I knew that with a packed school schedule and a full-time job, I wouldn’t have any time to study. And if I couldn’t study, I wouldn’t be able to meet the minimum grade requirements of my scholarships. So after a year at LMU, I decided to take a break from school to focus on pursuing my career. I would never be as young or as eager as I was in that moment, and I figured that I might as well take the plunge. School would always be there, so if it didn’t work out for me, I could easily go back and finish my degree. It’s not unusual to graduate from college at 30; but it’s a lot less likely to break into acting at that age. In my heart, I thought it was the best decision for me at the time.
    With school on hold, I picked up more shifts at Hooters and eventually started working part time as a Hawaiian Tropic model. The gig basically required me to show up at events in company apparel or appear in movie bit roles in swimwear and a “Miss Hawaiian Tropic” pageant sash. I thought it would be a great way to make extra money and also to meet people. In Hollywood, you never knew where opportunities would arise. I would end up being right, of course. The gig would lead to something, though maybe not what I had expected.
    Not long after, at a Hawaiian Tropic Bikini Contest in Beverly Hills, one of the event organizers pointed out an older man.
    â€œYou see that guy over there?” he asked. “That’s Hugh Hefner’s personal physician.” Naturally, it was exciting that someone associated was Playboy was at the event, but I didn’t give it too much consideration until an hour later when the man approached me.
    â€œWould you be interested in attending a party at the Playboy Mansion?” he said, barely taking the time to meet my eyes. My mouth fell to the floor. He posed the remark as a question, but it was clear he already knew there was only one answer.
    He’d apparently been at the party offering invitations to the girls he deemed Playboy -party worthy. It wasn’t abnormal for a representative from the magazine or one of Hef’s friends to invite attractive women to the parties. Many of my coworkers had become regulars at the mansion. I guess I just wasn’t expecting an invitation of my own, and especially not from his doctor of all people.
    Was he really asking me if I want to go to the Playboy Mansion? I thought. For a starstruck girl from Oregon, this felt like the chance of a lifetime.
    â€œAre you kidding?” I squealed. “Of course!”
    In Los Angeles in 2000, there was only one invitation that mattered: a Playboy party. Nowadays, invitations to the Playboy Mansion are sold to the highest bidders and to any media outlet offering any morsel of publicity. It’s no longer considered exclusive or coveted. But back then? It was the place to be. Hef threw only a handful of parties each year with a maximum capacity of about 800—and the guest list was strictly invitation only.
    When I received my glossy black invitation in the mail a few days later, I could feel my heart swell with excitement. “Hef’s Midsummer Night’s Dream Party,” it read. On the front was a beautiful pinup illustration by famed artist Olivia De Berardinis and inside was a small piece of paper with directions. It was like Cinderella finally scoring an invitation to the ball—except instead of arriving by horse-drawn carriage, we would board a shuttle at a UCLA parking garage.
    The dress code was strict: “Sleepwear Required.” My coworker Heather had also landed an invitation—a huge coup for me considering