I'm sitting in the penthouse apartment of some friends in Century City. It's kind of late in the afternoon and I'm very relaxed. Someone gave me a Dalmane (I think I've spelled it right) because I had a headache and they told me it would help it. I feel very comfortable and relaxed right now. This is the first time I can remember since I was a kid that I am glad and content to be where I am. I don't know if you have ever felt like this, but I've always felt very uncomfortable and impatient with wherever I happen to be after a certain point. I get bored and irritated and everything I think is in the future tense (maybe like the way you got up suddenly that night when we were all sitting in the Café and you looked at me and abruptly left). I've always felt jumpy, like I couldn't stay in one place for any length of time. But something's changing. Totally rad (short for "radical"), as we say around here.
This is not going to be much of a letter because we're about to go out to dinner soon because someone made reservations at Spago and we're leaving in an hour to an hour and a half, someone says. What I want to tell you mostly is that I'm thinking about you and I hope you are all right. Are you? Will you write me? I want to hear from you. Please?
Love,
Anne
Oct 29 1983
Dear Scan,
There's something luxorious and wonderful about living in L.A. I feel like this is how I want to live forever. Every day there is some new adventure, some new person to talk to, different things to look at every night. This is the first time I've felt like I've found myself or something. Even during the worst moments I feel relaxed. Sometimes I get lonely but those moments are far and few between the other ones.
My relationships here with people aren't tense or trying because no one requires a whole lot of serious emotional investment at all. They're very safe—but don't get the idea that they're superficial. They're not. I mean, sure I feel kind of anxious and depressed because of them sometimes, but otherwise the sun is always out and the pool is always clean and heated so it's never cold and I'm happy with people out here.
Part of this has to do with the people I spend time with. They are all alive and interesting and fun. A lot of them are in the record industry or work at the studios and they are all people who are old enough to realize they don't want to waste their lives in a vacuum. They seem supportive and give me advice from their own experience.
Well, have you gotten all my letters? I can't remember how many I've sent-maybe four or five? Not a single letter from you, Sean. I'm shocked. No—just kidding. I'm not shocked, not really, I guess. I understand that your mood might be such that you wouldn't feel much like writing. But see, I'd like to know just what your mood is.
Love,
Anne
Nov 10 1983
Dear Sean,
How are you? Your long silence has not unnerved me (should it?). I figure that your life is what it is and I can fully understand you not having the energy or inclination to write. But I hope you don't mind the onslaught of letters from my direction.
It's interesting to me what I want to write about to you. I could be telling you all the details of my sexual adventures and bragging about my latest conquests. But that stuff seems pretty silly. I mean, it sounds cool but in reality it's awfully unoriginal. After a while it's like, so what? Drugs and alcohol and the sex that stems from them are pretty damn common (well, a bit more out here, but still) wherever you happen to be. It's all lost a lot of glamour for me. It's fun but that's all it is. I don't know at what stage you are emotionally or how your life is going or how much karma you have and where it's at but I feel pretty good about where I am. I mean, out here it's kind of fun coasting around, meeting all these totally gorgeous guys (they're stupid but oh so cute. jealous? You shouldn't be) and hanging out with all these rich, spoiled Beverly Hills kids in clubs and going to the beach and going to sleep every day on Valium, dressing up, staying out all night dancing and drinking and whatever at someone's house on top of Mulholland. It's all fun but it's kind of getting boring. But I met this guy ...
He's head of production at some studio out here and we were introduced at one of my grandfather's infamous bashes and we became friends. He has a Ferrari 3o8-GTB and we drive out to the desert, to Palm Springs, and go to his house and talk. Sean, the man is fascinating. His name is Randy and he's thirty years old and going out with this model who's off in New York this week for a shoot and he's been all over the world—as we say: a total intellectual, very distanced and existential in the best sense of the word. I told him all about myself and about New York and Camden, about my life, and I let him read some of my stories. He liked them but was honest enough about them to tell me he didn't think they were very commercial. Anyway he told me he'd love to read some more of my stuff. He also told me that he knows three vampires who live in Woodland Hills but out here you learn to take the good with the bad.
Randy is just one of the many interesting people out here whom I've met.
Just read this fabulous screenplay. A remake of Camus's The Stranger with Meursault as a bi break-dancing punk rocker. Randy showed it to me. I loved it. Randy thinks "basically unfilmable" and that filming an orange rolling around a parking lot for three hours would draw a bigger audience.
Well, I hope you do manage to write me, but if you don't . . . well, what can I say?
Love,
Anne
Nov 20 1983
Dear Sean,
I have to tell you more about Randy (remember? the studio exec?). He and I went up to his house on Mulholland, where we sat on his patio and watched the sunset. The moon was full and already visible as the sun was going down. Everything was so still and all there was was Randy and myself and his Ferrari, the wind, the jacuzzi, the deepening colors of the sky. We shared a joint (yes, I smoked a little of it) and I thought of how lovely and relaxing it was to be away from everything and everyone. It helps me think more clearly, feel more clearly. Especially out in Palm Springs, where I am completely surrounded by desert—it's so comforting. You figure it out. I'm sure there is a psychological explanation for it. But I feel so mellow, so peaceful, so relaxed. And I think I help Randy too. When he tells me that he feels hollow and lost, I tell him not to be and he seems to understand. I've written some more stuff and when he isn't tired he reads it and even though all he really says is that it's a little more commercial than my earlier stuff and would probably do okay in foreign markets—it's still constructive criticism, right? I think he's right most of the time.
Randy's helped me so much in the last couple of months. He's made me less defensive. He has traveled so much, experienced so much and read so much more than I have. I trust his opinions. He is really my best friend here. The person to whom I confide everything. It's a little amazing-here I am in Los Angeles and my closest friend is a thirty-year-old studio executive. Life is odd, isn't it?
Listen, do take care of yourself and if you do find some spare time, I'd love to hear from you. By the way, if you want to call me you can get me either at my grandparents' house (213-275-9008) or at the studio (just ask for Anne) or at Randy's place (986-2030; it's unlisted). So if you're in the mood.
Love,
Anne
Nov 27 1983
Dear Sean,
Hi! So I'm sitting in a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel visiting some friends of Randy's. I just got my best night's sleep since I've been in L.A. (I was taking tranquilizers for a while which really, like, screwed up my sleeping habits.) So far today I've done nothing but watch MTV and lie out by the pool. I told Randy (you remember Randy, don't you?) and some other people that I might go out with them tonight but I might not. Oh dear, what a life. Did I tell you that I've been lying about my age? Everyone out here seems so young, is so young, that I've begun to feel old so I tell everyone that I'm seventeen or eighteen (I'm twenty). Randy thinks I'm sixteen. Can U believe it? A lot of the time I have to remind myself, yes, Anne, you are a college sophomore. It's curious and a little confusing but I guess it's not so very important. Well, I
've got to go now. Drop me a letter? A note? Please?
Love,
Anne
Nov 30 1983
Dear Sean,
So here I am again writing to you. A lot of people are going out to Palm Springs this weekend. It's kind of hard to say no. I had a dream with you in it a few nights ago. (Me and my weird dreams—remember the one I told you about last term? I was so interested in that one that I wrote a paper for a psychology class two terms ago. Don't worry, though—no names were mentioned! Why didn't I tell you this at the time? Probably because I thought you'd be embarrassed.) This dream was pretty strange. You were living in L.A. and we were both a lot older and you invited me to your birthday party and I had to fly from somewhere and had a horrible time of it. Then the rest of the dream was about the party. Everyone who was there was old and it was depressing because no one had really changed and even though it was wonderful to see you and you were as endearing as ever, I felt strange and out of place and I hated everyone. Not really hated but just couldn't cope.
Sean, I'm really thinking seriously about staying here a little longer. I've sort of forgotten what New York and Camden look like and I've forgotten a lot of faces from there and I don't know if I can face going back. I probably won't stay here but I've been thinking about it. I'm dreading seeing those people who I called my friends. I'd rather stay out here and not, as you so often put it, "deal with it," y'know? Everyone out here lives such exciting and interesting lives, going back seems so anticlimactic. (God, this letter is awfully meandering—I wonder if it makes any sense to you. If you find it unintelligible, then promise me you'll be nice enough to skim over it, okay?)
Well, everything out here is interesting and stimulating. L.A. (as usual) is a lot of fun. I've been really getting into the social life. (Met Duran Duran out here! It was so exciting I could have died—right.) I've been seeing a lot of really nice English boys. (There are a lot of English boys out here—don't ask why.) They're all really young and tan and work at stores on Melrose. Randy's friends with a lot of them. One of them in particular that Randy hangs out with is Scotty, whom I met over at Randy's place one day. He's 17 and psychic and works at Flip and is energetic and possibly the best-looking person I have ever seen. We're already planning to go down to the beach and go to the Springs and to some parties.
I'm also friends with Scotty's girlfriend, Christie (who Randy doesn't like; Christie doesn't like Randy either), who is a model (she's been in five Levi jeans commercials and a ZZ Top video—she's gorgeous—you'd recognize her if you saw her). Christie spends a lot of time in L.A. and in New York (she's basically bicoastal). She's half German and very, very sweet. And then there's Carlos, who is Randy's "confidante." He's about 18 and fascinating and models swimwear for International Male. He's always drunk and trying to tell jokes. He's basically a riot. Carlos is becoming one of the people I am closest to out here. Plus he thinks I make an incredible blond and has a lot of Valium and he practices a new kind of voodoo he picked up in Bakersfield.
Anyway I'm very busy. I go to this aerobics class with Christie in the morning and I've also been going to the beach a lot, working on my tan. I really haven't been to the studio too much. I've also been dancing and trying to do stuff.
Yesterday, Randy was really bummed out for some reason and so we took his Ferrari down to the Springs and he was really talking about offing himself, you know? He said to me, "I just want to die—I want it to end," and stuff like that. Well, I showed him some new leotards I bought and cheered him up and everything's okay now, but it kind of freaked me out. Well, we came back to L.A. and went to the beach and watched the sunset and everything was okay. Randy's stopped talking about how he feels that he's disintegrating. (Yeah, disintegrating—weird, huh?) Please, please, I'm begging you—write me? Okay, Sean?
Love,
Anne
Dec 5 1983
Dear Sean,
I bet you can't guess who is writing to you once more. Yes, it's me again. D'ya mind? I just had a very full day and I need to unwind a little. I don't feel like reading or being creative. I just want to sorta pour out my thoughts.
Typical Saturday. I got up late and shared a joint with Randy and Scotty who both slept outside together—while I slept upstairs in Randy's bed. Then we watched MTV for a long time and then we went to the beach and after that we went and watched the filming of this new Adam Ant video in Malibu—the English Prices were there. It was wild. Then I had an aerobics class and then Randy and I had a couple of drinks and watched some more MTV. And then we tried to go to sleep. Some nights we play all the new records Randy gets in the mail. He gets all these promotional copies to every damn record pressed. It's wild. And we listen to those sometimes. Anything to get Randy off his suicide kick. He's back on it, Sean. It scares me. Well, time to go to aerobics again in half an hour. Write me please.
Love,
Anne
Dec 7 1983
Dear Sean,
It rained for the first time since I've been here. The temperature dropped to about sixty-five and it rained. Randy and I laid around the house and I read some scripts and watched some MTV. Met Michael Jackson at a party in Encino. It wasn't that great. I'm still worried about Randy. Randy thinks that I'm going to leave him. He keeps talking about how everyone out here is just passing through, that no one has specific reasons for being here. Randy beat up Scotty and will only let Carlos (who is now his astrologer) and me into his house. I seem to be staying here all the time now. My grandparents don't seem to notice or mind. This sounds like I'm not too thrilled. But I am. It's still fun out here. Write me. I haven't gotten one letter from you, Sean. Please write.
Love,
Anne
Dec 10 1983
Dear Sean,
So once again I've been tempted to write a letter to someone back East. At the moment I am laying in Randy's bed because it's too fucking hot to do anything else. Smoking some really good grass and watching videos. So what else is new, right? But I like days like this. I hope it stays this way forever. December is the best month for parties (or so I've heard) in L.A. The end of the year is coming nearer, with all the promise and hope of a whole other year to come. Think of how much things can change after only a year. Jesus Christ. When I think about what I was doing last December and compare it to now, it's hard to imagine that that person was me. Thank God time passes.
Randy is still going through rough times. He still feels "in limbo." He's laying right next to me now. Well, actually he's on the floor and I'm in the bed. Carlos is outside trying to get what sun is left. I deal with Randy as best I can. He's getting so thin. Randy's laughing right now. Wait . . . okay, he's all right now. Oh, Sean, I don't know if I'm going back to Camden. The thought of going back to all those stupid pseudo-intellectuals sounds terrible. I don't think I can handle it. There's really no reason for me to go back to school. I mean, I'd absolutely love to see you. But going back to New Hampshire seems like a bummer.
Is there anything you'd like me to send you? How about a big supply of Valium (which everyone seems to have). No—I won't contribute to your drug habit (ha ha). Randy seems to have everything here. Stuff I don't even know the names of. (Los Angeleans aren't very shy about their pills.)
We (Randy, Carlos, someone named Wallace the Roachclip and I) might be going to Palm Springs for Christmas. It depends on how Randy is feeling. My grandparents want me to stay with them but I don't know if I'm going to. I might. I might not.
It seems so easy to stay here in L.A. and get into the record industry or work at my grandfather's studio (I don't know yet—even if I haven't been there a whole lot in the last month). But my grandparents don't really notice my absence. They're both tranquilizer addicts. I recently found out they're both heavily into Librium. Carlos just came in—Carlos says "hi" and is asking if you are cute. What do you think I told him? You'll never know.
I'll be 21 when you get this or 18--depending on who you ask. Where will we be in ten years? I wonder what's going
to be happening then? I wonder what's happening now.
A friend of Carlos was found dead in a garbage can in Studio City. He had been shot in the head and skinned. How awful, huh? Carlos doesn't seem very sad but Carlos is a very strong person so that doesn't surprise me. Carlos just put in a new videotape. We've been watching Night of the Living Dead and Dawn of the Dead. Have you ever seen them? Randy plays them all the time. I've seen them a lot since I've been here. They're both really fun. Carlos is trying to wake Randy up to watch the movie. Carlos says L.A. is swarming with vampires. I'm taking a Valium.
Listen, Sean. I've decided that I'm not going to write to you anymore unless I get a letter from you in return. I'm not going to plead anymore. If you don't write me, I simply won't write back. So write me and take care.
Love,
Anne
Dec 26 1983
Dear Sean,
I just reread a first draft of this letter and realized that it says nothing about what's happening specifically. Sorry, I seem to be incapable of writing a newsy letter. Descriptions bore me, I guess, and the best I can do are these scribbles, which may not make much sense to you. How's 'everything with you? How was your Christmas? I hope you're enjoying yours. I'm at Christie's right now, sitting by the pool. I went shopping earlier and bought earrings, two pairs of slippers, a bag of oranges and then had lunch with someone from the studio, who juggled for me, then peed on a potted palm.
Randy OD'd a week ago (I think it was a week ago). Well, at least that's what they say he died of. They all told me that Randy OD'd, but Sean, I saw the room where they found him and there was so much blood. It was everywhere. There was blood on the ceiling, Sean. How can blood get on the ceiling if you OD? How can it get there anyway? (Scotty says only if you explode.) Well, I went to the beach with Lance (this really gorgeous punker who works at Poseur on Melrose) and Lance gave me some Seconal, which helped a lot. I feel much better now. I really do.