Lisalla is clean. Not a touch of impurity. Straight as an arrow. A teetotaler with a figure, that figure, which would make any slovenly dope drop the drink and turn his will over to the Lord up on high. Lisalla is proof, like Gisele before her, that the Girls from Brazil are creations of divinity, not from a lab manned by Gregory Peck and his wretched Nazi ilk. Lisalla Montenegro is an angel intended to be gawked at, nothing more. Unless you’re a professional athlete. Those fking athletes get the Brazilians. Tom Brady with that chiseled California grin and those oft-grotesque haircuts, he bagged Gisele for good.
C.J. Wilson, one of the few bright spots of a Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim team that was paid too much to be so ho-hum this season, the man with the Head & Shoulders hair and the straight-edge ethos, he stole Lisalla from the rest of us (they are to marry this winter).
And you know what? Good. Better C.J. than anyone else. Lisalla’s now straight-edge because of him. She doesn’t drug or drink — not like she did before, save for the occasional glass of wine at dinner.
“When you drink, your voice changes,” she says. “Your body language changes, your hair gets messy.” Why screw it all up for the sake of champagne at the fashion show or dances on table tops at the clubs we others can’t get into?
Lisalla rides Honda CBR500s and Ducati Monsters because of C.J. She reads up on American history because of C.J. (and he is studying up on his Portuguese). She made a photographer out of C.J. They dream up ideas for photo shoots.