Too L.A. (Eve Babitz)

Perhaps no one writes better about being a reckless slut than Eve Babitz, the patron saint of literary fashion girlies who lust after her sixties LA oeuvre, her ability to bed the likes of Jim Morrison and Harrison Ford and her electric prose about all of the above.

I started Too L.A.: Letters Never Sent (But Some Were), a new collection of letters she wrote to famous friends, paramours and family members, then tucked away in boxes instead of sending. Even in correspondence about the mundane everyday, she’s unabashed:

I heard a cute thing about Elizabeth Taylor. Someone said, “Why doesn’t she get a divorce and settle down?”

That blond-girl-idiot that hangs around with Lydia—what’s her name, Candy or Namby? You know, the one with the orange make-up? She accidentally struck up a conversation with me the other night at the Chez, but I gave her such a snub it suddenly dawned on her who I was. There’s about 50 people hanging around L.A. who hate me cause I’m your sister. It used to be the other way around, didn’t it? I must be getting old.

I’ve decided that your abortion is too boring and depressing so I’m going to do a story on Kuelli Anton instead.