Was working hard on my novel when out of the corner of my eye I saw drops coming out of the sky. I knew immediately it was not oobleck (a prize if you know what this is: Nicole, my future daughter/law probly does).
Our peripheral vision is so smart. I could tell it was snow flurries, a lovely sight. Did I use it as an excuse to remove myself from novel-writing? No I did not. Instead, I found another excuse. Hunger.
Still I did not budge. I kept writing. And then - the last straw! - from my peripheral vision, I saw Mailman Bob tromping by. The mail had arrived! Perhaps there would be something other than a bill. Perhaps someone had lovingly thought about Your Little Ruthie and graced me with a personal message.
Walter, you darling, you! As is his wont, he enclosed an article from his favorite columnist Liz Spikol plus a book review of The Well-Dressed Ape (that's us!) and asked me to call him tonite to discuss.
One thing you've gotta know about me. If I like you, I will obey.
Now, the other day Scott said something to me. "I didn't know you liked crime stories," he said.
"Scott!" I shouted, "I love true crime novels. I zipped thru Helter Skelter about Charles Manson." Ted Bundy is one of my favorite serial killers (so glad he's dead tho - imagine getting into the VW with him and finding there was no door handle to get out). And of course, Hitler! I can't get enough of him.
After Scott left for work I decided to do some homework about Manson. I could barely remember the details. Today he is 74 years old. His home is Corcoran State Prison in southern California, described as "the most troubled of the 32 California prisons." The guards shoot and kill many inmates, often the wrong ones.
The assassin of RFK is locked up in Corcoran. He and Manson both - and some other human monsters - are in what's called Protective Housing Units so other inmates won't attack them. What a world.
I am imagining right now that I step out the door and all my neighbors begin yelling and brandishing clubs when they see me.
Whew! that was close, I say, slamming my door.
From Wikipedia: The Protective Housing Unit has been described as "strikingly calm" because inmates "don't want to be moved somewhere less guarded." Only one violent incident occurred in the Protective Housing Unit, in 1999 "when a guard left a door open and three inmates from the secure housing unit next door attacked Charles Manson and Juan Corona.
I spent part of the evening when I should've been working on my novel watching a fascinating video by Vincent Bugliosi, author of Helter Skelter, an account of the Manson murders. Here's the link if you're interested. Bugliosi went out to the crime scenes himself, he said, not trusting the reports from the cops. He wanted to make sure he had an airtight case against Manson and his family.
A killer like Manson - who has his followers do the dirty work for him - is a rare commodity, says Bugliosi, because you need two qualities to create a killer on that scale: an immense hatred for other people and the ability to lead and persuade others to follow your orders. Manson was very clever in breaking down a person's ego so they would blindly follow him. Note the particularly chilling footage when Manson commands his followers to cross the street on their hands and knees like babies.
This total submission of their egos, which he learned how to do, is similar to what Hitler achieved with an entire nation. Neither man was crazy. Their diagnosis? Pure unadulterated evil.
