Oh, my darling Lulu, my chrome plated flapper, my dark goddess, my scorpio rising, my kisses for you are eternally fixed in silver and nitrate. I was even still in love with you at the end of your life, when you died, as you put it, "surrounded in my bed with books, jam, cheese, and cigarettes." I am not worthy to kiss the cuffs of your rolled stockings, and I like it that way just fine.

I met you in a book of silent film stars when I was merely 14 - an age when you were already worldly, fearless, and decidedly un-virginal. I loved your patent leather hair and your fearless profile and knew that if only we weren't 70 years apart in age we could have had a marvelous time in the Jazz Age, drinking absinthe and avoiding the clap by only loving other girls. I loved that you went to Europe because Hollywood was full of fools, and I love that you juggled lovers and did what you damn well pleased until the 1940's, where you were a part time clerk in a department store (and part time something else, though rumors are shady). And then the world discovered the magnificent brain behind that bob and you became one of the premiere writers about film. Oh, Lulu, Countess
Geschwitz doesn't even know what it's like to ache for you! I could teach her a thing or two about pining away over hopeless infatuation.