A few weeks after I arrived in L.A., my new friend Max, a cool drummer I met waiting in line under The Roxy marquee, invited me to a raging rock ‘n roll party in the Hollywood Hills. Dressed like twins, in black jeans, leather jackets, our punked out hair, we twisted up Laurel Canyon in my Ford Tempo, to a flat-topped one-story cottage perched above the Sunset Strip, holding our breaths as I parallel parked between a Bentley and a BMW. We slid Cherry Red Revlon across our lips and sashayed up to the house like we belonged, ready to guzzle shots  with Grammy winners, and hotel room destroyers. The door was open, so we let ourselves in. Our Doc Martens thumped the marble floor, a familiar MTV voice sang out behind us Welcome mates! We flipped around and there he was, his bleached Mohawk tamed by a grey Armani suit, he cheek-kissed us both, as if he knew who we were, then wrapped his famous arm around my waist and pranced us in like we were super models, guiding us into the living room where his very pregnant partner, Perri Lister, serenaded guests dressed exactly like us, as they nibbled chocolate chip cookies, sipped milk, and bounced toddlers on their laps. If I closed my eyes, and the accents had a Midwest twang, instead of silky British flair, I’d swear I was back home in Missouri at Sunday Bible study. For hours we chatted with new moms, tummy tickled two-year-olds, and watched the rebel who danced with himself, gently glide his palm across the belly of his baby’s mother, his streaming eyes flickering like stars. 

M.R. Mandell (she/her) is a poet and photographer based in Los Angeles. She lives by the beach with her muse, a Golden Retriever named Chester Blue, and her longtime partner. You can find her work in JAKE, Roi Fainéant, sage cigarettes, Anti-Heroin Chic, Stanchion Zine, Fine Print, Maudlin House, The Hooghly Review, Unbroken, Writers Resist, and others. Forthcoming: The McNeese Review.