Lana knows I’m a ruined Bel Air princess. We climb up behind the Hollywood sign and smoke her mother’s cigarettes, waiting for Charlie Manson to save us.
Hot, flat days of fire and the Santa Anas tearing at ragged palm trees. Sat on the roof under a moon too big to bear, we pretend to read each other’s palms. We’ll both die young, we’re too beautiful to grow old.
She’s Charles Bukowski in a negligee but Bukowski is punishing you; Lana still hopes you’ll find her on that revolving bed overlooking Topanga Canyon. She’s been crying for days and her eyeliner has run onto the pink satin, but she’s got fresh lipstick on, a Hollywood smile ready for the lights.
He hit me and it felt like a kiss. The Crystals, 60s New York calling.
Know how I know? James Robert Baker told me, in an orgy of over-saturated pop culture that deified the broken L.A. Lana sings about.