Here at the Manor, we light a candle for every fallen blonde. Not just any blonde—mind you—but the ones who danced too close to the spotlight, who mistook the flashbulbs for sunlight, and burned through the velvet ropes of old Hollywood with a smile and a scandal. Let’s raise a glass to two platinum tragedies — women whose lives unraveled across soundstages, gossip columns, and courtroom steps: Lana Turner and Barbara Payton. One was the icy goddess who dined with Sinatra and woke up to blood on the bathroom tiles. The other? A wild-eyed tornado in a fur coat, chain-smoking her way through motel rooms and bad decisions. Blondes weren’t just a look in mid-century America — they were prophecy. And these two? They were Jonah in heels.      Let’s start with Lana.   Lana Turner never auditioned for stardom. It just showed up, tapped her on the shoulder while she was sipping a soda at Schwab’s Pharmacy. A talent scout spotted her and said, “Kid, you’ve got somethin...

  "Some of my best leading men have been dogs and horses."