here’s a creepy fact about me: i’m obsessed with the manson murders. i know a little bit too much, detail by detail, about what happened that night for someone who was born nearly fifteen years later. i read helter skelter in junior high and supplemented my reading with the early days of the internet - do you know how many geocities pages there actually were devoted to the manson family? a surprising lot. sometimes i’ll interject little factoids into conversations hoping someone will want to discuss the manson murders, like telling friends of mine who like nine inch nails, “you know, trent reznor recorded the downward spiral and the broken ep at one of the manson murder houses.” people just nod. when i went to the haight, i stopped by 636 cole because charlie lived there for a time, when he was starting up the family. there weren’t any historical placards or anything, and why should there be? the only people left on earth who are fascinated by this are vincent bugliosi, socially awkward psychopaths, criminologists, and me. even roman polanski couldn’t care less. it’s my secret shame.

it’s amazing what sticks with you from your childhood. when i was a kid, i had this book from one of those scholastic book fairs that came to your elementary school about escapes, and i feared somehow the anglin brothers had actually made it across san francisco bay and were one day going to find me, the dangerous criminals they were. going to alcatraz when i was in san francisco was a childhood curiosity of mine finally fulfilled. i’m pretty sure i’ll never be able to satisfy my manson curiosity - he’s never going to be released, i decided in my high school years that criminology wasn’t the career path for me, i’m pretty sure they don’t just let you roam into san quentin and conduct interviews but hey california is broke and i’d pay - so until then, i’ll just post creepy links on my blog and write these blurbs about how weird i actually am.

but i’m still holding onto that conversation trump card.