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"Whatever Happened to Lynda Wiesmeier?"

by ToddCheese


Hollywood. It's a veritable treasure trove of whatever-happened-to actors and where-are-they-now stories. Those of us who've been on the fringe show business for a couple decades know it's true. If you're lucky you even know the answer to a couple, having personally witnessed their not-quite rise to fame and their inevitable humiliating fall from the public radar. If you're really fortunate, you got to participate in it firsthand.

Take Lynda Wiesmeier, for instance. Yeah, I know. "WHO?" you ask. You probably don't remember her, though if you were a horny teenager 20 years ago I'm sure you saw her. ALL of her. But for someone like me, whose career in the early 80s ran the gauntlet of makeup for crappy low-budget sex comedies, Lynda Weismeier is the stuff of legend. She had a naked bit role in Private School, best known for Phoebe Cates... you know, the chick in Gremlins. Lynda also had larger roles in Joysticks, Real Genius and Teen Wolf. Oh yeah, we're talking real accomplished thespian here.

The high point of her career was when she did a Playboy Playmate of the Month spread in July of '82, and later starred in the first of their long-running series of Wet and Wild videos. And then... well, that's it. Check the Internet Movie Database, at the end of the decade she just disappeared.

Heh heh... Wanna know WHY??

It was in September '89, just a couple months after the Wet and Wild shoot. Some producer had scraped together enough money to shoot a sequel to Private School and had decided that Lynda was to play the sexy school administrator. For her this would be a big step up from a student extra in the original film, and her first true leading role.

Of course the part required nudity in quite a few scenes, but unlike acting, that's what Lynda was best at. Granted, six years after the first movie her large breasts were starting to sag a bit. But, one, Playboy obviously still thought she was good enough, which meant so did plenty of male viewers. And two, it was a low-budget teen sex comedy, so nobody really gave a damn if there were slightly saggy tits, so long as there were tits.

Still that didn't stop Lynda from letting her "stardom" go to her head. "I'm the STAR!" she'd announce grandly to anyone around set who cared to listen. And most of the guys did care to, since the pretense of listening gave them the opportunity to stare into the cleavage of the ridiculously low-cut tops she always wore. Lynda had no shame, and loved to show off her body. But to Sue and I, she was an attention-grabbing bitch with an overinflated ego. Even though we had very specific jobs on the set, she was still always asking us to "fetch" things for her, like we were her pet dogs. Never mind that we had P.A.'s on hand for that kind of thing, talking to them was beneath Lynda. We, on the other hand, were high enough on the production chain to speak to, but still low enough for her to walk all over.

The night she ran into us at dinner and started flirting with my husband and "accidentally" let a nipple peek out of her slinky gown... well, that was the proverbial straw. We'd fought before about my long hours on set, and the strain the industry was putting on our marriage had me looking for a exit. I decided to go out in a blaze of glory, and to take Lynda with me.

So the next week when she came in for her pre-shoot hair and makeup session, I had a plan. "Say, Lynda," I suggested as she sat down impatiently in the chair, "You want to work on your lines while I do this?"

"What, you think I NEED to?" she sneered. "For your information, Karen--" (That's me.) "--I'm going farther in this town than you EVER will."

I refused to stoop to her level. "Isn't your big kidnapping scene today?"

"Hmm, true," admitted Lynda. "And I really ought to STAY perfect. I wouldn't want to blow it and have to get a peon job like yours."

It took all my self-control to keep from stabbing her with Peter's scissors, but I managed it. "You want to do it in costume too?"

See, in this particular scene the Evil Corporate Bad Guys who were planning to take over the school had kidnapped the sexy school administrator (Lynda) and had her tied to a chair. And of course she'd already been stripped of all her clothing. Had to give the public their T&A. That was the sole reason they'd buy a ticket.

"What are you talking about?" Lynda asked petulantly. "I don't WEAR a costume in this scene."

"That's what I meant (you stupid bitch)." I only said the first part, I kept the rest to myself. "Shouldn't your practice be as close as possible to the actual shoot?" This wasn't such an unusual suggestion, as Lynda had her own private dressing room ("Because I'm the STAR!") so I knew she'd take the bait.

"Why not?" she said with amusement. "It'll let you see what a really hot body looks like. Your husband too, if he decides to drop by, hmmm?"

So she shed her clothes, slowly, like a striptease, as if she didn't know of any other way to do it. She set each piece gently on the counter, then sashayed back over to the chair and took a seat. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the door crack open, and Sue, the other makeup artist, slipped me the rope.

That caught Lynda by surprise, when I began looping it around her naked body, and the back of the chair. "Wh-- What the hell are you DOING, Karen?" she demanded.

"Now it's even more like the real shoot," I explained. "It'll help you get into character. After all, this is your Oscar moment." (Yeah, can you imagine, an Oscar for a skin flick like this.)

I set the script in her lap, but she snarked at me about already KNOWing her lines, so I took it away. I think she first started to suspect something was up when I bound her wrists to the armrests. Her face took on a distinctly nervous expression, but she didn't say anything. Probably didn't want to give me any ideas. That was okay, I had plenty. I turned the chair away from the door and Sue slipped in too, she wanted to watch. (Lynda had pulled the same crap on her.) We made sure the door was securely locked, then I tilted her head back into the basin to wet her hair.

Lynda recited her lines, and I followed along in the script, reading the other parts.

"It doesn't matter what you do to me!" she gushed, addressing the imaginary villains who surrounded her. "You'll never turn our beloved school into a chemical warfare factory!"

I read the next line of cheesy dialogue. "That's what you think, missy! This school is ours now, and we can do whatever we want with it... just like we can to YOU!"

"Well I graduated from this school six years ago," emoted Lynda, "so I know a little something about school spirit! Our diverse but loyal student body will put aside their differences and find a way to stop you!"

As we worked together, I began to have second thoughts about this whole thing. Maybe Lynda wasn't such a bad person. She was just trying to make it in this town, same as the rest of us.

"Um, hel-LO?" Her voice, annoyed, interrupted my thoughts. "Your line! God, why do I always get stuck working with the most incompetent bimbos?"

Okay. That clinched it. I reached for the special bottle I'd prepared just for her.

I dumped a large dollop onto her head and began running it back through her wet hair, deep-massaging her scalp, working up a rich lather.

"Ughh! This stuff STINKS!" she announced, breaking character. "What IS it?"

"A special blend of herbs and botanicals. I put it together just for you."

She sounded out the big word. "Bo-tan-i-cals? What'll they do to my hair?"

"Well... Here, see for yourself!" I said, and I scooped up a glob and let it fall splat into her naked lap.

"Ewww! Karen, what the hell is this stuff? It looks like..." Standing at her side, I watched as her expression in profile changed from disgust to absolute horror. "It looks like... MY HAIR!!"

And it was. My special mixture's secret ingredients were Nair and a few other hair removing chemicals, designed to kill the follicles at the roots, and guaranteed to work fast.

She tried to get up at that point, but the bonds held her tightly to the chair. She couldn't even budge. Pleading and crying, she jerked her head around trying to get it away from me, but it was already too late. I forced her back under the spray, and the soggy clumps of mane slid easily off her scalp, collecting in the sink.

Then I carefully dried her head, and spun her around once more. She stared in absolute shock at the bald head in the mirror, unable to believe it was really hers. "Wh--... What have you DONE to me?!" She was sobbing uncontrollably now, her face streaked with tears. "M-my hair... My beautiful hair... It's RUINED!!"

I tilted her around toward Sue who stood clapping. "Great job, Karen," she praised, "Except... I think you missed a couple of spots!"

"Really? Where?" I asked, genuinely confused. I scanned her pale crown but it was completely smooth, all washed away. And Lynda herself had already shaved "down there".

Sue stepped to the counter and picked up the electric clippers, switched them on. "Here," she said, placing the buzzing blades just above our star's right eye, and with one quick swipe she mowed off Lynda's eyebrow. "And here." She handed me the clippers and I did the same for the other eye.

Immobilized and absolutely helpless, Lynda could do nothing but SCREAM at her new reflection. Through her sobs she gasped, "Oh my GOD... I look like a fucking ALIEN!"

On a roll, I uncapped a black magic marker from the drawer and wrote "BITCH" in capital letters across her forehead.

"P-please," she sobbed, "Please l-let me go!"

"You heard her, Sue," I said. "Guess I'd better do what the STAR wants!"

So we unwound the rope that held Lynda to the chair. She tried to escape but was already worn out from struggling against the ropes. Sue and I grabbed her by the arms and lifted her out of the chair and carried her toward the door. It was time for the STAR to shine!

"Wh-... Where are you taking me?"

"You like showing off skin, bitch?" I taunted. "Well now you're gonna show it all!"

Lynda began screaming profanities at us as we opened the door and pushed her out. She slammed tits-first into Peter, her hairstylist. Heh, she wouldn't be needing HIM anymore!

"Lynda, what's wrong?" came the director's voice.

I quickly locked the door and pulled it closed behind us. Inside the dressing room, Sue and I pressed our ears up against the frame to hear what was happening.

It didn't take long for us to hear a burst of laughter from all the cast and crew members Lynda had dumped on over the months -- er, make that weeks -- of filming. We cracked the door just wide enough to see poor Lynda running across the set... totally nude, totally hairless, breasts flopping wildly as she held her hands over her barren head.

I will never forget the reactions from all the people on set, and I'm certain Lynda won't either:

"Holy SHIT! She's as bald as an Oscar!"

"And that's as close as she'll ever get!"

"Hey, look! Captain Picard got a tit-job!"

"God, they're bigger than her head!"

It was true, without her long blonde mane, Lynda's smooth skull looked freakishly small, and her ears large and misproportioned. She looked nothing like the gorgeous porn-star-slash-"actress" who'd strode proudly into the dressing room a few minutes earlier.

Sobbing, she fled the laughter and taunts, escaping out the side exit. A few seconds later the whole set was startled by an ear-splitting SCREECH as she ran smack into a trio of paparazzi waiting in ambush, cameras at the ready. Gee, I wonder how they knew to be there at that moment?

Lynda never came back to the studio. Devastated by the humiliation, she couldn't bring herself to show her face anymore. She spent the last of her film and Playboy money suing the tabloids to keep the pictures of her from becoming public. She refused to finish the film, which still sits half-made in some studio vault somewhere, faded into obscurity just like Lynda herself.

Me, I got the standard you'll-never-work-in-this-town-again spiel. Sue stayed in the biz a couple of years longer but eventually left, and together we started our own salon catering to a less snotty clientele.

So that's the story of what happened to Lynda Wiesmeier, and a moral for all the stuck-up movie stars out there: You can be a snob. You can insult the screenwriter, the director, even your co-stars. But never, EVER piss off your stylists.


THE END


(This story is Copyright May 2005 by ToddCheese.)