Memory Lane

New Year's Eve

This time last year, I was getting weepy over Eve Babitz in a certain storied chateau where all the ghosts go to sway softly in the wee black hours. That December it rained all month, and the fog rose like sleepy ghosts out of Sunset Blvd., up the whispered password of Laurel Canyon and into the silver eucalyptus trees. The ghosts dissipate above Sunset…