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Clarkson article
http://story.news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story2&u=/pagesix/20030209/en_pagesix/i_fell_for_spector_s_tragic_gal&e=4
I FELL FOR SPECTOR'S TRAGIC GAL
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By A.J. BENZA
There are three distinct types of people who breathe the insincere air of
Hollywood after dark. They are the good, the bad and the lonely.
I met Lana Clarkson in February 1998, a few nights after I warily split New
York City to begin a television career in Los Angeles.
It was at a loud rock-and-roll bar, Backstage, in Beverly Hills. We were
pulled together by her pal, the pillar of party promoting, called Pumpkin
Pie.
"You two need to know each other," Pie boomed above the live jam. "You're
exactly the same, but Lana's a little taller."
Lana was a 6-foot blonde whose beauty and brains combined Marilyn, Mae and
Maude. So sue me for falling for her.
I had no car yet, but I was living in a tiny Hollywood apartment that once
belonged to Monroe. When I mentioned this to Lana, she insisted she drive me
home to see it. Once inside, all she wanted to do was lie in my bed and open
her eyes.
"I can't believe I'm looking at the same ceiling Marilyn once saw," she
giggled.
And I was saying to myself, "I can't believe I'm looking at this gorgeous
woman lying next to me on my bed." It was an epiphany for both of us.
In the months to follow, Lana would become my nightlife ambassador. She
smiled and crowds separated. She flirted and ropes fell. If there was ever a
problem, she'd take the doorman aside.
"Just tell him Big L' is here." Seconds later we were pulled inside.
Inside, the drinks were secondary to Lana's vibrancy, spirit and bouncing
beauty.
But Lana did not put too much importance on her "position" in Hollywood. She
was delighted to be making a living in this fickle town and always loved
having someone near her to witness it all.
Lana and I eventually moved on to other people and other crowds. But in a
town that sees people change jobs, homes and cars every five years, I always
punched Lana's number into my cell phone. And, remarkably, she was always
there. Whenever I saw her she was hustling another one of her talents -
stand-up comedy, music, stage acting.
When the dough got a little tight, she even took up helping out at a travel
agency on Sunset Boulevard. That was our last meeting, sitting on the curb,
with chopsticks and take-out from Chin Chin's.
A withering bank account is what took Lana to hostess inside the VIP room at
the House of Blues in West Hollywood. And if you think it's easy for a
40-year-old actress to take up a moonlighting job in the same town that made
her famous, then you don't know anything about women in Hollywood.
Three weeks into her gig, she met Phil Spector, and the rest is history -
with a foyer running with her blood and the arrest of rock's greatest
producer, an admitted bipolar, schizophrenic gun-toting madman.
It's easy to think of the wrong reasons why Lana took that ride in Spector's
Mercedes. But the night isn't always about sex, drugs and rock and roll.
Sometimes it's merely about loneliness.
Hollywood is a town where the company you keep is so intriguing, it's common
to continue a conversation back at the star's house. Spector's offer
could've been anything from "Would you like to hear some original John
Lennon recordings?" to "I'm looking for an assistant with a salary of
$100,000 a year."
Those are both things Lana would've smiled over, winked at and ran for her
coat at closing. After all, she had no boyfriend and must have been as wound
up as every other hostess getting off work.
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