Looks like time is running out for Manson..Time is near to pay the piper.....
Charles Manson in grave condition at California hospital: report
Charles Manson in grave condition at California hospital: report
Manson...
- Thread starter 55wildcat
- Start date
I know it's controversial in redneck states, but I kinda like his music. mechanical animals, the nobodies, heart shaped glasses, coma white is my favorite though.
RIP
RIP
I hate to think one of those girls is sick. Mmmmmmbop is a classic.
What. A. Putz.
How does someone get up in the morning, look themselves in the mirror, and go on with living being a Manson sycophant? :flush:
I'd love to know how much it cost to feed and house him since 1969.
A trial, a six months appeal process, 40 cents of electricity. How is this even a debate?
A trial, a six months appeal process, 40 cents of electricity. How is this even a debate?
I blame the Beach Boys, they are much more responsible for Manson than the Beatles.
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This has to be like a fan made video right? Still pretty sick, my favorite Zombie song.
He should have been dead 40 years ago. California taxpayers are suckers.
He said he got saved by the grace of God Almighty while in prison and had been forgiven for his transgressions so he's probably in Heaven right now sipping iced tea and singing Beach Boys tunes.
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I thought I would post this. This is from someone I knew when i lived in Oregon and she posted this morning about her family's encounter with Manson (it's long):
Earlier in the day, my parents mistakenly parked our small travel trailer near the ocean, next to a strange school bus in the summer of ’68. Other, real campgrounds were full. This is how our two vehicles ended up, feet from one another, alone together, on a secluded beach. No camping signs were posted.
We pull up. The bus doors swing open. Girls pile out, or fall out, topsy-turvy, like the old Volkswagen advertisement “how many people can you fit inside a Beetle?” There were a lot of girls. Finally, one small, real scruffy guy with “long” brown unkempt hair launched off the last step, jumping into the air and FLEW, arms wide out onto the sand. All those girls giggled. No other men made an appearance. I’d never seen anything like it. The strange entrance, one guy, lots of girls, left an imprint.
I was lingering outside “watching” Dad set up the trailer. Mom’s inside. Dad keeps bumping into me. It was probably hard to get anything done, because although I was following him, my head rotated like a satellite dish, mouth agape, staring at “those people” as I kept one step off his flank. Finally, one of the girls started walking toward us. My eyes? Saucers. I froze, and in that second Dad got to the other side of the trailer, unseen and unaware. I demonstrated the nonchalant grace of a 10 year old and started trucking, running to the screen door. “MOM! A girl from over there is coming here!!!” Standing just inside the door, Mom is pulling up the dinner table, (at night it swung down and doubled as a bed.) Mine. Still outside, I pivoted to point my finger at THE GIRL. I nearly poked her. These are awkward moments children are able to ignore, but mothers aren’t. The two laugh, exchange greetings. While I see the girl has a light green coffee mug shaped like a “Tiki” in her hand. Honestly, the mug didn’t look friendly (I found out later, Tiki’s aren’t suppose to be nice. Tiki statues guard ancient tribal burial sites.) No bother anyway, the mug’s face disappeared when I noticed the big chocolate Hersey bar inside. The girl asks Mom “can I take your daughter for a walk?” I try to get Mom’s attention without the girl seeing me. Because I don’t wanna go. What I did, I cannot say. Mom chimes in “I’m sure Anne would love to go for a walk, she’s been stuck in the car all day.”
We walk away from the water, toward the California Coastal Highway. The girl scrambles up bigger and bigger round boulders on a path squeezed in between. On top, we are cut off on a precipice. I see Dad and the trailer in the distance, but the highway looks like the Jetsen’s built it far above us.
The girl walks along. Then we sit. She asks me a lot of questions. Where is my family headed? Why are we here? What does my Daddy do for a living? Do my parents have money? I don’t have much to say. The girl says “Here, I brought this for you,” handing me the hebbie-jeebie mug, candy still intact. For reasons I cannot explain, I didn’t grab the candy, rip the wrapper, and eat it in 10 seconds flat. I must have hesitated because the girl says “c’mon, it’s for you.” I’d like to tell you I resisted, heeded the “something is not right here” jitters and waited to eat under the watchful eye of my Mother, but alas. No. Candy= gone in 4 bites.
Thus is the power of candy in the hands of a “kind” stranger.
I talk between swallows. “My dad lost his job.” “We don’t have any money.” “We’re poor.” “We’re living off clams…..corn and…. vegetables falling off the trucks on the highway.”
The girl says I remind her of her little sister. I ask about her. The girl says her sister lives with her parents. I ask why she doesn't see her family. The girl says she can’t. I wanna know if she’d like to see her mom, dad and sister? "I can get a dime for you, you can call them." Ten year old's want to help. Although we face each other, she stares beyond me. My first experience seeing someone watch the past by looking at their eyes.
Trailing back into camp, Dad and Charlie are talking at the fire pit. Inside the trailer, I ask Mom “Is Dad gonna grow his hair long like Charlies?” She snickers because Dad’s sporting a tightly clipped “Fiar Tuck” hairdo, not by choice. I don’t want him to anyway, even if he can. I already see how interested my Dad is in Charlie. Dad loves new ideas, drawn to “interesting” people.
By nightfall, Dad’s STILL out there. Mom’s reading. I’m watching T.V. on a tiny black and white. The antenna gets one channel. Policemen are using fire hoses. Bowling with teenagers, in Chicago. Special coverage of the Democratic National Convention. Mom sees what’s going on, wants to distract me.
“Anne, why don’t you go out, check on Dad?”
You’d think I’d been playing with a non-existent Easy Bake Oven and snacking on non-existent Pop Tarts for the afternoon, the way I vacantly switch focus.
Outside, I see the bonfire. Dad, Charlie sitting across from each other. There are other people there. I dunno who they are.
Charlie is singing. Playing his guitar.
The talk turns to record companies, and promises made to Charlie about recording these songs. Dad encourages Charlie to keep trying. I scamper back to the trailer.
Asleep on the table/bed Dad tip-toes in.
He slides in the double bed at the end of the trailer. The small bunk above them locked in the “up” position. Dad whispers to Mom. His voice is high, fast, alarmed. Mom says something. I can’t remember who moves me from the table/bed near the door, to the bunk bed above theirs. Groggy, I hear them whispering again.
I wake up to the dome light inside the car. Dad carried me from my bunk to the backseat. I’m grumbling. Dad starts the car slowly. There are no sudden movements.
I sleep on the highway and enter 6th grade.
“Charlie’s on the FRONT PAGE of THE PAPER! CHARLIE’S on the Front Page!!” Mom is running down the hallway, practically slipping on her finely waxed floors. She is waving the morning Oregonian newspaper. Dad is the Business Editor, at the paper then. He barely rouses. I’m thinking “Mom’s blown a fuse”… but she get’s Dad’s attention “Charlie’s in the newspaper for all those killings in California!!” I, however, am completely immersed in 7th grade. Junior High. We learned Charlies last name that morning.
The troubling events of our travel trailer afternoon and evening, would became secreted in my family, a source of embarrassment and fear of what could have been.
Fast forward.
Last year, I’m sitting with my 93 year old Dad before he died. I finally thought to ask him “Hey, Dad, what happened back there, you know, with Charlie Manson?”
Here’s what he told me.
After you left, Charlie wanted to use our toilet.
I told him even WE don’t use our toilet. We didn't.
Charlie says “If I want something, I’ll take it.”
I said, “You’ll have to go through me first.”
Silence.
Charlie says “I only hurt people who are afraid of me.”
Earlier in the day, my parents mistakenly parked our small travel trailer near the ocean, next to a strange school bus in the summer of ’68. Other, real campgrounds were full. This is how our two vehicles ended up, feet from one another, alone together, on a secluded beach. No camping signs were posted.
We pull up. The bus doors swing open. Girls pile out, or fall out, topsy-turvy, like the old Volkswagen advertisement “how many people can you fit inside a Beetle?” There were a lot of girls. Finally, one small, real scruffy guy with “long” brown unkempt hair launched off the last step, jumping into the air and FLEW, arms wide out onto the sand. All those girls giggled. No other men made an appearance. I’d never seen anything like it. The strange entrance, one guy, lots of girls, left an imprint.
I was lingering outside “watching” Dad set up the trailer. Mom’s inside. Dad keeps bumping into me. It was probably hard to get anything done, because although I was following him, my head rotated like a satellite dish, mouth agape, staring at “those people” as I kept one step off his flank. Finally, one of the girls started walking toward us. My eyes? Saucers. I froze, and in that second Dad got to the other side of the trailer, unseen and unaware. I demonstrated the nonchalant grace of a 10 year old and started trucking, running to the screen door. “MOM! A girl from over there is coming here!!!” Standing just inside the door, Mom is pulling up the dinner table, (at night it swung down and doubled as a bed.) Mine. Still outside, I pivoted to point my finger at THE GIRL. I nearly poked her. These are awkward moments children are able to ignore, but mothers aren’t. The two laugh, exchange greetings. While I see the girl has a light green coffee mug shaped like a “Tiki” in her hand. Honestly, the mug didn’t look friendly (I found out later, Tiki’s aren’t suppose to be nice. Tiki statues guard ancient tribal burial sites.) No bother anyway, the mug’s face disappeared when I noticed the big chocolate Hersey bar inside. The girl asks Mom “can I take your daughter for a walk?” I try to get Mom’s attention without the girl seeing me. Because I don’t wanna go. What I did, I cannot say. Mom chimes in “I’m sure Anne would love to go for a walk, she’s been stuck in the car all day.”
We walk away from the water, toward the California Coastal Highway. The girl scrambles up bigger and bigger round boulders on a path squeezed in between. On top, we are cut off on a precipice. I see Dad and the trailer in the distance, but the highway looks like the Jetsen’s built it far above us.
The girl walks along. Then we sit. She asks me a lot of questions. Where is my family headed? Why are we here? What does my Daddy do for a living? Do my parents have money? I don’t have much to say. The girl says “Here, I brought this for you,” handing me the hebbie-jeebie mug, candy still intact. For reasons I cannot explain, I didn’t grab the candy, rip the wrapper, and eat it in 10 seconds flat. I must have hesitated because the girl says “c’mon, it’s for you.” I’d like to tell you I resisted, heeded the “something is not right here” jitters and waited to eat under the watchful eye of my Mother, but alas. No. Candy= gone in 4 bites.
Thus is the power of candy in the hands of a “kind” stranger.
I talk between swallows. “My dad lost his job.” “We don’t have any money.” “We’re poor.” “We’re living off clams…..corn and…. vegetables falling off the trucks on the highway.”
The girl says I remind her of her little sister. I ask about her. The girl says her sister lives with her parents. I ask why she doesn't see her family. The girl says she can’t. I wanna know if she’d like to see her mom, dad and sister? "I can get a dime for you, you can call them." Ten year old's want to help. Although we face each other, she stares beyond me. My first experience seeing someone watch the past by looking at their eyes.
Trailing back into camp, Dad and Charlie are talking at the fire pit. Inside the trailer, I ask Mom “Is Dad gonna grow his hair long like Charlies?” She snickers because Dad’s sporting a tightly clipped “Fiar Tuck” hairdo, not by choice. I don’t want him to anyway, even if he can. I already see how interested my Dad is in Charlie. Dad loves new ideas, drawn to “interesting” people.
By nightfall, Dad’s STILL out there. Mom’s reading. I’m watching T.V. on a tiny black and white. The antenna gets one channel. Policemen are using fire hoses. Bowling with teenagers, in Chicago. Special coverage of the Democratic National Convention. Mom sees what’s going on, wants to distract me.
“Anne, why don’t you go out, check on Dad?”
You’d think I’d been playing with a non-existent Easy Bake Oven and snacking on non-existent Pop Tarts for the afternoon, the way I vacantly switch focus.
Outside, I see the bonfire. Dad, Charlie sitting across from each other. There are other people there. I dunno who they are.
Charlie is singing. Playing his guitar.
The talk turns to record companies, and promises made to Charlie about recording these songs. Dad encourages Charlie to keep trying. I scamper back to the trailer.
Asleep on the table/bed Dad tip-toes in.
He slides in the double bed at the end of the trailer. The small bunk above them locked in the “up” position. Dad whispers to Mom. His voice is high, fast, alarmed. Mom says something. I can’t remember who moves me from the table/bed near the door, to the bunk bed above theirs. Groggy, I hear them whispering again.
I wake up to the dome light inside the car. Dad carried me from my bunk to the backseat. I’m grumbling. Dad starts the car slowly. There are no sudden movements.
I sleep on the highway and enter 6th grade.
“Charlie’s on the FRONT PAGE of THE PAPER! CHARLIE’S on the Front Page!!” Mom is running down the hallway, practically slipping on her finely waxed floors. She is waving the morning Oregonian newspaper. Dad is the Business Editor, at the paper then. He barely rouses. I’m thinking “Mom’s blown a fuse”… but she get’s Dad’s attention “Charlie’s in the newspaper for all those killings in California!!” I, however, am completely immersed in 7th grade. Junior High. We learned Charlies last name that morning.
The troubling events of our travel trailer afternoon and evening, would became secreted in my family, a source of embarrassment and fear of what could have been.
Fast forward.
Last year, I’m sitting with my 93 year old Dad before he died. I finally thought to ask him “Hey, Dad, what happened back there, you know, with Charlie Manson?”
Here’s what he told me.
After you left, Charlie wanted to use our toilet.
I told him even WE don’t use our toilet. We didn't.
Charlie says “If I want something, I’ll take it.”
I said, “You’ll have to go through me first.”
Silence.
Charlie says “I only hurt people who are afraid of me.”
So she vividly remembers all of this from her childhood but doesn't happen to think to ask her dad what caused them to flee from Charles Manson in the middle of the night until 40-something years later?
Give me ten minutes later this afternoon and I'll type out something totally false too.
Just passing it along. I will say she anchored the news in a major city for 30 years and is an award winning crime/investigative reporter. She's best known for her interview with Diane Downs before she was prosecuted.
Oh I know you're just sharing the story. And I'm sure parts of it are probably true, but the way it's told and organized feels manufactured.
It's a good story though. I just can't believe any human being, especially one who is naturally inquisitive enough to be an investigative reporter, didn't ask her dad about the time they met Charles Manson for over 40 years.
I am by no means an expert on Charles Manson but a quick google search suggests that none the killings he was wanted for took place until ‘69, after the supposed summer of 68 story. Again, I could be wrong
And still somehow wasn't curious at all about what might have happened the night they met "Charlie" to cause them to run away in the middle of the night, especially when she remembers having uneasy feelings about them from the second they got out of their van.
The more I think about that story, the more I laugh at how awful and lazy and revisionist it is.
Sorry this story is so long but bare with me as it is indeed eerily relevant...
It was the Spring of '76. I was 12 years old and my family took a trip to NYC to visit my aunt Betty who lived in Yonkers.
It was a very boring week for me. My aunt didn't have any kids so there were no cousins to play with. I spent most of my time hanging out on the street just watching traffic and people watching as well. Lemme tell ya...there were some crazy people wondering those streets back in '76.
However, I only met one person on that trip...my aunt's neighbor, David. But I got to know him pretty well during that week. He worked at the post office and he must have worked the midnight shift or something because he always stayed out really late. Anyway, he also had a dog. I never saw him walk the dog and I never heard it barking. But he spoke of his dog often. David said that his dog was Mean but that he loved his dog very much...that it was a very "special" dog because it was really smart. He even said the dog could talk! But even at 12 years old...I knew better. I knew he was just pulling my leg.
One afternoon my dad met David on the corner and had a long conversation with him. I couldn't tell what they were saying but I do know that David was doing most of the talking.
Later that night, my mom woke me up...and then told me to pack my suitcase. I was confused. We weren't supposed to leave for 2 more days and it was the middle of the night. Anyway, we rushed away in the middle of the night. Our aunt went with us for some strange reason.
Fast forward to about a year and a half later...late summer of '77...August IIRC. I was awakened yet again by my mother...this time to her screaming at my dad to "TURN ON THE NEWS! ITS DAVID! BETTY'S NEIGHBOR, DAVID FROM YONKERS!!! HE KILLED ALL OF THOSE PEOPLE!!!
Many years later...with my dad on his death bed at age 102...I finally thought to ask dad what he and David had talked about that day on the corner in Yonkers so many years before. He said the conversation went like this:
Dad: Wassup, man?
David: I have a really smart dog.
Dad: Is that so?
David: Yep.
Dad: What makes him so smart?
David: My dog told me that you and your family should GTFO of Yonkers before you get shot by a deranged postal worker packing a .44 pistol.
Dad: Yep. That's a smart dog alright. See you later, man.
And then I remembered that the conversation seemed much longer than that. So I asked him about that.
Dad: Oh, we talked about the Yankees and the upcoming bicentennial celebration and some other stuff also. But as soon as that crazy mofo mentioned that damn talking dog I bolted.
Can't help but think what might have been...
It was the Spring of '76. I was 12 years old and my family took a trip to NYC to visit my aunt Betty who lived in Yonkers.
It was a very boring week for me. My aunt didn't have any kids so there were no cousins to play with. I spent most of my time hanging out on the street just watching traffic and people watching as well. Lemme tell ya...there were some crazy people wondering those streets back in '76.
However, I only met one person on that trip...my aunt's neighbor, David. But I got to know him pretty well during that week. He worked at the post office and he must have worked the midnight shift or something because he always stayed out really late. Anyway, he also had a dog. I never saw him walk the dog and I never heard it barking. But he spoke of his dog often. David said that his dog was Mean but that he loved his dog very much...that it was a very "special" dog because it was really smart. He even said the dog could talk! But even at 12 years old...I knew better. I knew he was just pulling my leg.
One afternoon my dad met David on the corner and had a long conversation with him. I couldn't tell what they were saying but I do know that David was doing most of the talking.
Later that night, my mom woke me up...and then told me to pack my suitcase. I was confused. We weren't supposed to leave for 2 more days and it was the middle of the night. Anyway, we rushed away in the middle of the night. Our aunt went with us for some strange reason.
Fast forward to about a year and a half later...late summer of '77...August IIRC. I was awakened yet again by my mother...this time to her screaming at my dad to "TURN ON THE NEWS! ITS DAVID! BETTY'S NEIGHBOR, DAVID FROM YONKERS!!! HE KILLED ALL OF THOSE PEOPLE!!!
Many years later...with my dad on his death bed at age 102...I finally thought to ask dad what he and David had talked about that day on the corner in Yonkers so many years before. He said the conversation went like this:
Dad: Wassup, man?
David: I have a really smart dog.
Dad: Is that so?
David: Yep.
Dad: What makes him so smart?
David: My dog told me that you and your family should GTFO of Yonkers before you get shot by a deranged postal worker packing a .44 pistol.
Dad: Yep. That's a smart dog alright. See you later, man.
And then I remembered that the conversation seemed much longer than that. So I asked him about that.
Dad: Oh, we talked about the Yankees and the upcoming bicentennial celebration and some other stuff also. But as soon as that crazy mofo mentioned that damn talking dog I bolted.
Can't help but think what might have been...
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