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...

She was smart, she was sexy, but she was never famous. Nobody went to see movies because she appeared in them, and even on TV, she was never the draw. I grew up in the 1980s without cable. There were three networks, two PBS channels, and two one-horse local channels that showed oddities, or obscure old movies like "My Friend Flicka," but also old cartoons, and my own personal favorite, episodes of "The Little Rascals." I watched a lot of reruns and it felt like Nita Talbot was everywhere. In fact, she was the only reason I could ever sit through "Hogan's Heroes." "Now I have to tie you up and knock you in the head." "Oh Hogan, you CARE!" I always gravitated to the bad girls on TV. I don't mean murderesses or awful people, I mean rude or silky, funny bitches. I read and loved all the "Little House on the Prairie" books, but the TV show was lame as hell (the only time it was interesting was when that spiteful little twat...