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Thread: Was Charlie Manson sheep-dipped?

  1. #1
    Myra Bronstein Guest

    Default Was Charlie Manson sheep-dipped?

    Per Jan

    "I don't want to derail this Dallas/Chicago JFK thread, but if you want to start a separate thread elsewhere (perhaps in Black Ops or Science Mind Control) on the intriguing possibility that Charlie Manson was sheep-dipped, I'd be delighted to explore Helter Skelter and the Bug with you..."

    Please do Jan. I've recently developed a vague certainty that Manson was part of Operation Chaos, which put the nail in the coffin of the peace-love/rock & roll movement. I'd love to hear your take on it.

  2. #2


    The myth of Manson is that he is "the man who killed the Sixties".

    Essentially, the official version claims that this svengali-like ex-con took advantage of the hippy ideology of sex, drugs and rock 'n roll to "pervert" innocent young Americans. His Family would steal for Charlie, whore for Charlie, even kill for Charlie.

    The official version is like a morality tale: the path of free love, of "turning on, tuning in, and dropping out", leads not to a world of love and selfless cooperation, but rather to murder & wanton savagery. "Something wicked" lies down the hippie path. And its name, both literally and symbolically, is the Beast Manson.

    The reality is rather different. Manson's life story rewards close examination, and several writers - eg Ed Sanders, Paul Krassner, Mae Brussell, Adam Gorightly and Peter Levenda - have revealed its bizarre complexity and brutality. I hope we discuss the details later in this thread.

    However, there's one immediate & striking problem with the official version of Manson as hippie guru. His overarching vision, Helter Skelter, was of promoting a near-apocalyptic race war between whites and blacks.

    Wikipedia has a decent introduction to the vision of Helter Skelter in all its strangeness and contradictions:

    The sheep-dipping scenario is, inevitably, interwoven with the notion of an MK-Manson, or what Peter Levenda calls the "Manson Secret".

    We should bear in mind that one previous attempt to publicize links between alleged American intelligence figures, covert mind control programmes and Charles Manson resulted in a $450 million lawsuit against Rolling Stone magazine. The case was settled out of court, and the article was pulped...
    "It means this War was never political at all, the politics was all theatre, all just to keep the people distracted...."
    "Proverbs for Paranoids 4: You hide, They seek."
    "They are in Love. Fuck the War."

    Gravity's Rainbow, Thomas Pynchon

    "Ccollanan Pachacamac ricuy auccacunac yahuarniy hichascancuta."
    The last words of the last Inka, Tupac Amaru, led to the gallows by men of god & dogs of war

  3. #3


    Jan, I don't suppose you have a copy of that now pulped Rolling Stone magazine article by any chance?

    I seem to recall that Les Coleman's book on Pan Am 107, "The Trail of the Octopus" was also pulped following a lawsuit.

    Erasing unpalatable history...
    The shadow is a moral problem that challenges the whole ego-personality, for no one can become conscious of the shadow without considerable moral effort. To become conscious of it involves recognizing the dark aspects of the personality as present and real. This act is the essential condition for any kind of self-knowledge.
    Carl Jung - Aion (1951). CW 9, Part II: P.14

  4. Default

    Quote Originally Posted by David Guyatt View Post
    Jan, I don't suppose you have a copy of that now pulped Rolling Stone magazine article by any chance?

    I seem to recall that Les Coleman's book on Pan Am 107, "The Trail of the Octopus" was also pulped following a lawsuit.

    Erasing unpalatable history...
    An Audience with Charles Manson, a.k.a. Jesus Christ
    Moving slowly across the municipal geometry of civic buildings
    and police officers, a man comes toward us looking directly into the
    sun, his arms stretched out in supplication, like the Sierra Indian.
    From a hundred feet away his eyes are flashing, all two-dimensional
    boundaries gone. A strange place to be tripping, outside the new, all
    concrete, Los Angeles County Jail.
    "You're from ROLLING STONE," he says.
    "How did you know?"
    No answer. He leads us to the steps of the jail's main entrance,
    pivots and again locks his gaze into the sun.
    "Spirals," he whispers. "Spirals coming away...circles curling
    out of the sun." His fingers weave patterns in the air. A little sun
    "A hole in the fourth dimension," we suggest.
    His easy reply: "A hole in all dimensions."
    This is Clem, an early member of the family called Manson. Inside
    is another, Squeaky, a friendly girl with short, red hair and freckles.
    Her eyes, too, are luminous, not tripping, but permanently innocent.
    Children from the Village of the Damned.
    We went to the attorney-room window to fill out forms. Two guards
    watched from a glass booth above. A surprise: we were not searched.
    "Step inside the gate," says a disembodied voice. "Keep clear of the
    After nearly an hour he comes in. The guards greet him, casual,
    "Hi, Charlie, how are you today?"
    "Hi, man, I'm doin' fine," he says, smiling.
    He's wearing prison clothes, blue denim jacket and pants. His
    hair is very long and bushy, he pushes it out of his face nervously.
    He looks different, older and stranger than in the press photos. His
    beard has been shaved off recently, and it is growing back black and
    stubbly. He has a long face with a stubborn jaw, wizened and weathered
    like the crazy country faces you see in old TVA photographs. A cajun
    Christ. He moves, springing, light as a coyote.
    "Can't shake hands," he explains, jumping back. "Against the
    He unfolds casually in the chair. He strokes his chin, like a
    wizard trapped under a stone for a thousand years.
    All the good music was stolen. What's there is a couple of years
    old. I've written hundreds of songs since then. I've been writing a
    lot while I was in jail.
    I never really dug recording, you know, all those things pointing
    at you. You get into the studio, and it's hard to sing into microphones.
    [He clutches his pencil rigidly, like a mike.] Giant phallic
    symbols pointing at you. All my latent tendencies... [He starts
    laughing and making sucking sounds. He is actually blowing the
    pencil!] My relationship to music is completely subliminal, it just
    flows through me.
    Ego is the man, the male image. [His face tenses, his eyes dart
    and threaten. He clenches his fist, bangs it on the table. He gets
    completely behind it, acting it out, the veins standing out in his
    neck.] Ego is the phallic symbol, the helmet, the gun. The man
    behind the gun, the mind behind the man behind the gun. My philosophy
    is that ego is the thinking mind. The mind you scheme with, make war
    with. They shoved all the love in the back, hid it away. Ego is
    like, "I'm going to war with my ego stick." [He waves an imaginary
    rifle around, then sticks it in his crotch.]
    Yeah, well, paranoia is just a kind of awareness, and awareness
    is just a form of love. Paranoia is the other side of love. Once you
    give in to paranoia, it ceases to exist. That's why I say, submission
    is a gift, just give in to it, don't resist. It's like saying, "Tie
    me on the cross!" Here, want me to hold the nail? Everything is
    beautiful if you want to experience it totally.
    It's paranoia...and it's paranoia...and it's paranoia...UNH!
    [He mimics terror, total paranoia, scrunching up his body into a ball
    of vibrating fear that suddenly snaps and slumps back in ectasy.]
    It's like when I went into the courtroom. Everybody in the courtroom
    wanted to kill me. I saw the hatred in their eyes, and I knew they
    wanted to kill me, and I asked the sheriffs, "Is somebody goint to
    shoot me?" That's why I feel like I'm already dead. I know it's
    coming. It's the cops who put that feeling into their heads. They
    don't come in with that.
    They whisper, so I can hear it, "Sharon Tate's father is in
    court." And then they go over and shake him down to see if he has a
    gun, and they're just putting that idea into his head. He has a nice
    face. I saw him the first day in court. He doesn't want to kill me.
    They're putting that into his head. You know, they say things like,
    "We wouldn't want you to shoot the defendant." And every day I see
    him in court, his face gets a little harder, and one day he's gonna
    do it.
    And they put the whole thing in his head, feeding him all those
    negative vibrations. And if you keep doing that, it's got to happen.
    I know it's coming. They all got their things pointed at me, and they
    want to use them badly. But actually they can't use them, and that's
    what makes them so mad. They can't make love with them, they're all
    suffering from sex paranoia.
    They've been following me for three years, trying to find
    something, and wherever they go there's like thirty women. And that
    really makes them mad. They can't understand what all these women are
    doing with one guy.
    They're looking for something dirty in everything, and if you're
    looking for something, you'll find it. You have to put up some kind
    of face for them, and that's the only face they understand.
    The answer is to accept the cross. I've accepted it. I can go
    up on the cross in my imagination. Oh, ooooooh, aaaah! [The orgasmic
    crucifixion! He gives a long sigh of relief.]
    Have you ever seen the coyote in the desert? [His head prowls
    back and forth.] Watching, tuned in, completely aware. Christ on
    the cross, the coyote in the desert - it's the same thing, man. The
    coyote is beautiful. You learn from the coyote just like you can
    learn from a child. A baby is born into this world in a state of
    fear. Total paranoia and awareness. He sees the world with eyes not
    used yet. As he grows up, his parents lay all this stuff on him. They
    tell him, when they should be letting him tell them. Let the children
    lead you.
    The death trip is something they pick up from their parents, mama
    and papa. They don't have to die. You can live forever. It's all
    been put in your head. They program him by withholding love. They
    make him into a mechanical toy. [He sings from his album, jerking his
    arms like a spastic Tin Man.] "I am a mechanical boy/I am my mother's
    Everything happened perfectly for me in my life. I picked the
    right mother, and my father, I picked him too. He was a gas, he cut
    out early in the game. He didn't want me to get hung up. [Charlie
    laughs privately at his private joke.]
    There is only One. I'm the One. Me is first. I don't care
    about you. I'm not thinking about what other people think, I just do
    what my soul tells me. People said I was a leader. Here's the kind
    of leader I was. I made sure the animals were fed. Any sores on the
    horses? I'd heal them. Anything need fixing? I'd fix it. When it
    was cold, I was always the last one to get a blanket.
    Pretty soon I'd be sitting on the porch, and I'd think, "I'll go
    and do this or that." And one of the girls would say, "No, let me."
    You've go to give up, lie down and die for other people, then they'll
    do anything for you. When you are willing to become a servant for
    other people, they want to make you a master. In the end, the girls
    would be just dying to do something for me. I'd ask one of them to
    make a shirt for me, and she'd be thrilled because she could do something
    for me. They'll work twenty-four hours a day if you give them
    something to do.
    I can get along with girls, they give up easier. I can make love
    to them. Man has this ego thing. [Charlie stiffens up, holding on to
    his prick.] I can't make love to that. Girls break down easier. When
    you get beyond the ego thing, all you're left with is you; you make
    love with yourself. With a girl, you can make love with her until
    she's exhausted. You can make love with her until she gives up her
    mind, then you can make love with love. [Charlie starts to run his
    hands up and down his body, caressing himself like a stripper, his
    fingers tingling like a faith healer in a trance. They dance all over
    his body.] You climax with every move you make, you climax with every
    step you take. The breath of love you breathe is all you need to
    believe. [Charlie pulls a thousand postures from the air. He squirms,
    stiffens, anguishes with ecstasy.] Oooooh, aaaaaaaah, uhhhhn! Your
    beard, it feels sooooo good, mmmmmmm! [His fingers, with half-inchlong
    nails, fondle his own face, his stubbly chin, impersonating the
    hands of an unseen lover, making love with himself.] Your beard feels
    sooo good, mmmmmmm, yes it does. It all comes from the father into
    the woman. [Suddenly he assumes his teaching position.] See, it's
    because I am a bastard that I can accept the truth. Hell, I am my
    father! The Father... the Son... [He withdraws in mock terror from
    some imaginary host of accusers, pushing the thought away with
    extended hands.] No, no, NO... it's not me... you've got it all
    wrong. I'm not-you couldn't think that! I don't know what you're
    talking about. Listen, I'll get a job. [He continues fighting his
    phantom, Jacob wrestling with his angel, then giggles.] See, the
    cop-out is Christianity. If you believe in Christianity, you don't
    have to believe in Christ. Get a job and you won't have to think
    about it at all.
    Being in jail protected me in a way from society. I was inside,
    so I couldn't take part, play the games that society expects you to
    play. I've been in jail twenty-two years. The most I was out was
    maybe six months. I just wasn't contaminated, I kept my innocence.
    I got so I actually loved solitary. That was supposed to be
    punishment. I loved it. There is nothing to do in prison anyway, so
    all they can get you to do is "Get up! Sit down!" So solitary was
    great. I began to hear music inside my head. I had concerts inside
    my cell. When the time came for my release, I didn't want to go.
    Yeah, man, solitary was beautiful.
    The judge is just the flip side of the preacher. He took away my
    pro per privilege because they don't want me to speak. They want to
    shut me up, because they know if I get up on the stand, I am going to
    blow the whole thing wide open. They don't want to hear it.
    Between you and me, if that judge asks for my life, I'm going to
    give it to him right there in the courtroom. But first of all he is
    going to have to deal with my music, the music in my fingers and my
    body. [Charlie demonstrates. His nails tap out an incredible riff on
    the table, the chair, the glass of the booth, like the scurrying footsteps
    of some strung-out rodent.]
    He is going to have to deal with that power. I'm probably one
    of the most dangerous men in the world if I want to be. But I never
    wanted to be anything but me. If the judge says death, I am death.
    I've always been dead. Death is life.
    Anything you see in me is in you. If you want to see a vicious
    killer, that's who you'll see, do you understand that? If you see me
    as your brother, that's what I'll be. It all depends on how much love
    you have. I am you, and when you can admit that, you will be free. I
    am just a mirror.
    Did you see what they did to that guy in the Chicago Seven trial?
    Hoffman saw in those guys what he wanted to see. That's why he found
    them guilty. The white man is fading, everybody knows that. The black
    man will take over, they can't stop it. And they won't be able to
    stop me either unless they gag me.
    They were the first people to have power. The pharaohs were
    black. The Egyptians took one man and raised him up above the rest.
    They put him on the throne and they fed all these lines of energy into
    him. [He folds his arms across his chest like Tutankhamen, holding
    his pencil between two fingers like a pharaoh's rod.] That means
    power. This represents the penis, the power. They built the pyramids
    with this energy. Love built the pyramids. Power without love is
    aggression. There has been no true love since the pharaohs. Except
    for J.C. He knew what love meant.
    Tempt me not. Do you remember the story about Jesus on the hill?
    You know, the devil takes Him to the edge of this cliff, [Charlie
    leans over the table as if precariously on the edge of the Void] and
    he says to Him, "If you're God, prove it by jumping off the edge."
    And Jesus says, "There ain't nothing to prove, man." When you doubt,
    your mind is in two parts. It's divided against itself. See, Christ
    is saying, "Past, get behind me." The Devil is in the past. The
    Devil is the past. What he is saying is, "Don't think. He who thinks
    is lost, because if you have to think about something, to doubt it,
    you're lost already."
    My philosophy is: Don't think. I don't believe in the mind that
    you think with and scheme with. I don't believe in words.
    Words are symbols. All I'm doing is jumbling the symbols in your
    brain. Everything is symbolic. Symbols are just connections in your
    brain. Even your body is a symbol.
    What do you think it means? It's the battle of Armageddon. It's
    the end of the world. It was the Beatles "Revolution 9" that turned
    me on to it. It predicts the overthrow of the Establishment. The pit
    will be opened, and that's when it will all come down. A third of all
    mankind will die. The only people who escape will be those who have
    the seal of God on their foreheads. You know the part, "They will
    seek death, but they will not find it."
    [Charlie starts drawing some lines on the back of a sheet of
    white paper, three vertical lines and one horizontal line. In the
    bottom area he writes the word SUB.] Okay. Give me the names of
    four songs on the album. [We chose "Piggies," "Helter Skelter" and
    "Blackbird," and he adds "Rocky Raccoon." Charlie writes down the
    titles at the top of each vertical section. Under "Helter Skelter" he
    draws a zigzag line, under "Blackbird" two strokes, somehow indicating
    bird sounds. Very strange.] This bottom part is the subconscious.
    At the end of each song, there is a little tag piece on it, a couple
    of notes. Or like in "Piggies," there's "oink, oink, oink." Just
    these couple of sounds. And all these sounds are repeated in
    "Revolution 9." Like in "Revolution 9" all these pieces are fitted
    together and they predict the violent overthrow of the white man.
    Like you'll hear "oink, oink," and then right after that, machine-gun
    fire. [He sprays the room with imaginary slugs.] AK-AK-AK-AK-AK-AK!
    I think it's a subconscious thing. I don't know whether they
    did or not. But it's there. It's an association in the subconscious.
    This music is bringing on the revolution, the unorganized overthrow of
    the Establishment. The Beatles know in the sense that the subconscious
    Coon. You know that's a word they use for black people. You
    know the line, "Gideon checked out/And he left it no doubt/To help
    with good Rocky's revival." Rocky's revival - re-vival. It means
    coming back to life. The black man is going to come back into power
    again. "Gideon checks out" means that it's all written out there in
    the New Testament, in the Book of Revelations.
    I don't care. I'm as at home here as anywhere. Anywhere is
    anywhere you want it to be. It's all the same to me. I'm not afraid
    of death, so what can they do to me? I don't care what they do. The
    only thing I care about is my love.
    Death is psychosomatic. The gas chamber? [Charlie laughs.] My
    God, are you kidding? It's all verses, all climaxes, all music. Death
    is permanent solitary confinement, and there is nothing I would like
    more than that.
    * * * * * * * *
    A bell rings. A deputy comes over to tell us the time is up.
    The jail is closing for the night. Charlie gives us a song he's
    composed in jail, "Man Cross Woman," written neatly on lined yellow
    paper ripped from a legal tablet.
    Charlie just stands at the entrance to the attorney room,
    smiling. Outside, in the distance, Clem and Squeaky wave and smile
    back ecstatically at their captured kind, their fingers pressed
    against the glass. The deputies watch Charlie, puzzled, as he flops
    his head from one side to the other like a clown. They cannot see
    Clem and Squeaky behind them, imitating his every movement, communicating
    in a silent animal language.
    This website is Copyright 1996-2007 by Mark Turner. Some items copyrighted by others.
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    "History records that the Money Changers have used every form of abuse, intrigue, deceit and violent means possible to maintain their control over governments by controlling money and its issuance." --James Madison

  5. Default

    The following article appeared in Rolling Stone magazine in June 1970.
    An interview with Manson also appeared in the same issue.
    by David Felton and David Dalton June 1970
    "But the decadence of history is looking for a pawn
    To a nightmare of knowledge he opens up the gate
    A blinding revelation is served upon his plate
    That beneath the greatest love is a hurricane of hate"
    -PHIL OCHS, "Crucifixion"

    Three young girls dance down the hallway of the Superior Court
    Building in Los Angeles, holding hands and singing on of Charlie's
    songs. They might be on their way to a birthday party in their short,
    crisp cotton dresses, but actually they are attending a preliminary
    hearing to a murder trial.

    A middle-aged lady in Bel Air wants to "mother" Charlie, and
    two little girls send a letter to him in jail: "At first we thought
    you were guilty. But then we read in the papers about these kids who
    were stabbed to death in the same way as the Sharon Tate murders. We
    knew you hadn't done it because you were in jail at the time. We knew
    you hadn't done it anyway when we saw your face in the newspaper

    Charlie gets letters from little girls every day. They come from
    New Hampshire, Minnesota, Los Angeles. A convicted bank robber who
    met Charlie in jail writes "The Gospel According to Pawnee Fred, the
    Thief on the Other Cross," in which he asks, "Is Manson Son of Man?"
    Thirty miles northwest of the courthouse, seven miles due north
    of Leonard Nimoy's Pet Pad in Chatsworth (supplies, fish, domestics,
    exotics), a circle of rustic women at the Spahn Movie Ranch weave
    their own hair into an elaborate rainbow vest for Charlie. Most of
    them are early members of Charlie's three-year-old family. There's
    Lynne Fromme -they call her Squeaky- Sandra Good, Gypsy, Brenda,
    Sue, Cappy, Jeany.

    "We've been working on this vest for two years," says Sandra,
    "adding things, sewing on patches. It's for Charlie to wear in
    court." And Squeaky adds, "Wouldn't it be beautiful to have a
    photograph of Charlie wearing it? And all of us standing around
    close to him, hugging him like we used to?"

    Wouldn't it be beautiful to have the others standing around, too,
    the rest of the family, the others imprisoned? Tex Watson and Patti
    Krenwinkel and Linda Kasabian and, oh yeah, the snitch, Sadie Glutz.
    Her real name is Susan Atkins, but the family calls her Sadie Glutz,
    because that's what Charlie named her.

    Meanwhile, Charlie sits blissfully in his cell at the Los Angeles
    County Jail, composing songs, converting fellow inmates to his gospel
    of love and Christian submission, and occasionally entertaining a
    disturbing thought: Why haven't they gotten in touch? A simple phone
    call would do it. Surely they've received the telegrams, the letters.
    Surely they realize that he knows, he understands their glorious
    revelation; he understands the whole fucking double album.
    "Everywhere there's lots of piggies

    Living piggy lives
    You can see them out for dinner
    With their piggy wives"
    -GEORGE HARRISON, "Piggies"
    * * * * * * * *

    Ten blocks from the new county jail stands the old County Hall
    of Justice, a grotesque, brown brick fortress that for decades has
    guarded the Los Angeles Civic Center from aesthetic inroads. The
    entire sixth floor belongs to the district attorney and his staff,
    a member of which, now alone on his lunch hour, unlocks a file cabinet
    and withdraws several neatly bound, family-type photo albums. Slowly
    he turns each page, studies each snapshot, each personality:
    * Sharon Tate, considered one of Hollywood's prettier, more
    popular, promising young stars; wife of genius film sorcerer Roman
    Polanski. After her biggest film, Valley of the Dolls, she retreated
    to private life to enjoy her first pregnancy. The photographs show
    her in her eighth month.

    * Wojiciech Frykowski, Polanski's boyhood pal who came to
    Hollywood with hopes of directing films himself. His luck at this
    was dismal, and even Polanski later admitted he had little talent.
    Instead, he began directing home movies inside his head, investing
    heavily in many forms of exotic dope.

    * Abigail Folger, heiress to the Folgers Coffee millions, an
    attractive Radcliffe girl considered by neighbors to be the most
    charming of Polanski's house guests. She met Frykowski in New York
    and had become his lover.

    * Steven Parent, an eighteen-year-old from the Los Angeles suburb
    of El Monte, a friend of Polanski's caretaker, unknown to the others,
    a nobody like the rest of us. Had fortune been on his side, he would
    have so remained.

    * Leno LaBianca, owner of a grocery-store chain, and his wife
    Rosemary, an ordinary couple of the upper middle class, fond of such
    quiet pleasures as boating, water-skiing and watching late-night
    television in their pajamas. They knew nothing of Sharon Tate and
    her friends, living miles away in different neighborhoods and
    different worlds.

    * Gary Hinman, music teacher, bagpipe player and one-time friend
    of Charlie Manson's. He once, in fact, gave the Manson family his
    Toyota, although the circumstances surrounding that gift have since
    come into question.

    The snaphots are homey little numbers, color polaroids taken by
    staff photographers from the county coroner's office and the Los
    Angeles Police Department. They show all the wounds, the nakedness,
    the blood. Sometimes the exposure is a little off, but the relevant
    details are there - shots of the rooms, the bullet holes, the blood
    on the furniture and floors, the bizarre blood writing on the walls,
    words like RISE and HELTER SKELTER and PIGGIES.
    * * * * * * * *

    Los Angeles is the third largest city in America, according to
    population, but easily the largest, according to raw real estate.
    It is bordered by the Pacific Ocean to the south and southwest, by
    Ventura County to the west, by the San Gabriel Mountains and fireprone
    Angeles National Forest to the north and by scores of cruddy,
    smoggy little towns and cities to the east. Charles Manson knew his
    city well. Like many Los Angeles residents, he learned to drive long
    distances regularly without giving a second thought. During his two
    years as a free man in Southern California, he frequently "made the
    rounds," visiting friends, keeping business appointments, preaching
    to small groups, giving and taking material possessions.

    Starting at Spahn Movie Ranch in the extreme northwest corner of
    Los Angeles, drive two miles east on Santa Susana Pass Road to Topanga
    Canyon itself. It was here that Manson and his family first lived
    after arriving from Haight-Ashbury in late 1967, and it was here that
    Manson first met Gary Hinman. Hinman's house is a little further down
    the road, almost where Topanga Canyon meets the beach at Pacific Coast

    You can't see into the house now, of course, because the cops
    boarded it up last July after they found Hinman's body perforated with
    stab wounds. They say he was tortured for forty-eight hours. On a
    nearby wall they found the words POLITICAL PIGGIES and a neat little
    cat's-paw print in blood. Bobby Beausoleil, a guitarist and member of
    Manson's family, has already been sentenced to death, and Manson and
    Susan Atkins are awaiting trial in the matter.

    After driving onto Pacific Coast Highway, take a left, and after
    two miles, take another left. Now you're on Sunset Boulevard, winding
    through wealthy Pacific Palisades where, for a short time in early
    1968, the Manson family lived with Beach Boy Dennis Wilson. Wilson
    moved shortly after Manson allegedly threatened him with a bullet.
    Keep driving east on Sunset for another eight or ten miles past
    Brentwood Heights, past Mandeville Canyon, over the San Diego Freeway,
    past UCLA and Bel Air and Beverly Glen. And when you reach the center
    of Beverly Hills, turn left on Canon and head north into Benedict
    Canyon. Now here you may need a more detailed map because the streets
    get pretty tricky with all the turns and dead ends. But up in
    Benedict Canyon there's this little dirt road, Cielo Drive, which
    dead ends at the old, rambling, hillside house where producer Terry
    Melcher, Doris Day's son, used to live. Manson paid several business
    calls on him there, but the business was never completed before
    Melcher moved out early last summer.

    Neighbors hardly had had a chance to meet the new residents when
    on the bright Saturday morning of last August 9th, Mrs. Winifred
    Chapman, a maid, ran screaming from the house, across the huge grounds
    and parking lot, through the iron gate and down the road: "There's
    bodies and blood all over the place!"

    Not a bad description. Police found Steven Parent just inside
    the gate, shot five times in his white Rambler, the wheels of the car
    already turned toward the road in a mad attempt to escape. Wojiciech
    Frykowski's body lay in front of the house, shot and stabbed again and
    again. Twenty yards down the rolling lawn, underneath a fir tree,
    they found Abigail Folger dead and curled up in a bloody nightgown.
    Inside the house Jay Sebring and Sharon Tate lay stabbed to death
    near the living-room couch, connected by a single nylon cord wrapped
    around their necks and thrown over a rafter. Sebring was also shot
    and his head covered with a pillowcase. On the front door police
    found the word PIG written in blood with a towel. If the gate's
    locked, you won't be able to see the house because it's set back some
    from the road. Anyway, that's where it is.

    Now make a U and head back down to Sunset. Continue east for
    another ten miles, along the famous and more and more plastic Sunset
    Strip, past the tall, swanky office-building monuments to Hollywood
    flackery, past the decaying radio empires of the Forties, clear to
    Western Avenue, where you take a left. A mile north, Western turns
    right and becomes Los Feliz Boulevard, cutting east through the
    wealthy, residential Los Feliz District that skirts the foothills of
    Griffith Park. After about three miles, just before Los Feliz crosses
    the Golden State Freeway, drive into the winding, hillside streets to
    your right, where you'll find Waverly Drive.

    In August 1968, Manson and his family started visiting Harold
    True, a UCLA student who lived with some other guys on Waverly. They
    were all good friends, and the family just liked to go up there and
    hang around and smoke dope and sing and shoot the shit. True later
    moved to Van Nuys, where he presently lives with Phil Kaufman, a
    former member of the family who produced Manson's record.
    True's neighbors, incidentally, were Leno and Rosemary LaBianca
    who, a year later on the morning of August 10th, were found stabbed
    -or rather carved- to death inside their home. The words DEATH TO
    PIGS, HELTER SKELTER and RISE were written, again in blood, on the
    kitchen walls. And someone had etched WAR on Leno LaBianca's stomach
    with a fork.

    Anyway, those are just some of the spots Manson liked to visit on
    his frequent tours of the big city. Cut back to Los Feliz, head north
    on the Golden State Freeway for eighteen miles, cut west across the
    north end of the Valley on Devonshire Street -another ten miles- turn
    right on Topanga Canyon Boulevard, and you're practically back at the
    Spahn ranch.

    The whole round trip in eighty miles or so. That may seem like
    a big distance, but actually the roads are good and it shouldn't take
    longer than two or three hours, especially if you take it on a Sunday
    afternoon or, say, late at night.
    * * * * * * * *

    Perhaps no two recent events have so revealed the cut-rate value
    of public morality and private life as the killing of Sharon Tate and
    the arrest of Charles Manson. Many were quick to criticize The Los
    Angeles Times for publishing bright and early one Sunday morning the
    grisly (and since recanted) confessions of Susan Atkins. Any doubts
    about Manson's power to cloud men's minds were buried that morning
    between Dick Tracy and one of the world's great real-estate sections.
    Sexy Sadie laid it down for all to see.

    Critics accused the Times of paying a healthy sum to promoter
    Larry Schiller, who had obtained the confession from Miss Atkins's
    attorneys in return for a cut of the profits. The Times responded
    publicly with silence, privately with denial. No money was paid, said
    the editors. Schiller had sold the story to various European Sunday
    editions, they said, and an eight-hour time difference allowed the
    Times to pick it up from one of their European correspondents. In
    other words, "If we hadn't run it here, some other paper would have."
    ROLLING STONE has since learned that the Times explanation was
    at least partly correct. No money was paid, that's true, or at least
    not that much. Because, dig, the Times people didn't buy the
    confession - they wrote it. Word for word. Not only the confession
    but the book that followed, The Killing of Sharon Tate, with "eight
    pages of photographs," published by New American Library, a Times-
    Mirror subsidiary.

    In the volume, Schiller gratefully acknowledges "the invaluable
    aid of two journalists who worked with the author in preparing this
    book and the original interviews with Susan Atkins." Those two
    journalists, it turns out, were Jerry Cohen and Dial Torgerson, both
    veteran members of the Times rewrite crew.

    What possible justification could the Times editors have had for
    running the confessions? Can an individual's right to a fair trial
    be compromised so easily by the fictitious right of the public to be
    entertained? If Miss Atkins's confession does not constitute damaging
    pretrial publicity, what does?

    Clearly Charles Manson already stands as the villain of our time,
    the symbol of animalism and evil. He is already so hated by the
    public that all attempts so far to exploit his reputation have failed
    miserably. Of the 2000 albums of his music that were pressed, less
    than 300 have sold. A skin flick based on popular assumptions about
    Manson and his family, Love in the Commune, closed after two days in
    San Francisco. Even Cohen and Torgerson's book is reportedly in
    financial trouble.

    The most blatant, if less damaging, assault on the concept of
    pretrial impartiality comes not from the Establishment or the Far
    Right, but the Far Left, the Weathermen faction of the SDS. According
    to an item from the Liberation News Service, the Weathermen have made
    Manson a revolutionary hero on the assumption that he is guilty.
    Praising him for having offed some "rich honky pigs," they offer us
    a prize example of bumper-sticker mentality: MANSON POWER - THE YEAR

    The underground press in general has assumed a paranoid-schizo
    attitude toward Manson, undoubtedly hypersensitive to the relentless
    gloating of the cops who, after a five-year search, finally found a
    long-haired devil you could love to hate. Starting in mid-January,
    the Los Angeles Free Press banner-headlined Manson stories for three
    weeks in a row: MANSON CAN GO FREE! M.D. ON MANSON'S SEX LIFE!
    a weekly column by Manson written from jail. About the same time, a
    rival underground paper, Tuesday's Child, ran Manson's picture across
    the entire front page with the headline MAN OF THE YEAR: CHARLES
    MANSON. In case you missed the point, in their next issue they
    covered the front page with a cartoon of Manson on the cross. The
    plaque nailed above his head read simply HIPPIE.

    Of course, not all the stories in the Free Press and Tuesday's
    Child were pro-Manson. Some were very lukewarm, others were simply
    anticop. The question that seemed to split the underground editorial
    minds more than any other was simply: Is Manson a hippie or isn't he?
    * * * * * * * *

    It's hard to imagine a better setting for Manson's vision of the
    Apocalypse, his black revolution, than Los Angeles, a city so large
    and cumbersome it defies common senses, defies the absurd. For
    thousands of amateur prophets it provides a virtual Easter-egg hunt of
    spooky truths. Its climate and latitude are identical to Jerusalem.
    It easily leads the country in our race toward ecological doom. It
    has no sense of the past; the San Andreas Fault separates it from the
    rest of the continent by a million years.

    If Manson's racial views seem incredibly naive, which the
    are (after preaching against the Black Panthers for two years, he
    recently asked who Huey Newton was), they are similar to views held by
    hundreds of thousands of others in that city and by that city's mayor.
    Citizens there last year returned to office Mayor Sam Yorty, whose
    administration was riddled with conflicts of interest and bribery
    convictions, rather than elect a thoughtful, soft-spoken, middle-ofthe-
    road ex-cop who happened to be black. Full-page newspaper ads,
    sponsored by a police organization, pictured the man as a wild African
    savage and asked voters, "Will Your Home Be Safe with Bradley as

    The Spahn Movie Ranch may seem a miserable place for kids to
    live, with its filthy, broken-down shacks and stagnant streams filled
    daily with shoveled horse shit. Life there may seem degenerate, a
    dozen or more people eating garbage, sleeping, balling and raising
    babies in a twenty-foot trailer. But for more than two years most of
    those kids have preferred that way of life -life with Charlie- than
    living in the homes of their parents. The press likes to put the
    Manson family in quotation marks - "family." But it's a real family,
    with real feelings of devotion, loyalty and disappointment. For
    Manson and all the others, it's the only family they've ever had.
    One is tempted to say that Manson spent twenty-two of his
    thirty-five years in prison, that he is more a product of the penal
    system than Haight-Ashbury. But it cannot be dismissed that easily.
    Charles Manson raises some very serious questions about our culture,
    whether he is part of it or not.

    There is no new morality, as Time and Life would have us believe,
    but a growing awareness that the old morality has not been practiced
    for some time. The right to pursue different goals, to be free of
    social and economic oppression, the right to live in peace and equity
    with our brothers - this is Founding Fathers stuff. In the meantime,
    we must suffer the void, waiting for the old, dead, amoral culture
    to be buried. For the younger among us, the wait is extremely
    frustrating, even unbearable.

    Into this void rode Charles Manson in the fall on 1967, full of
    charm and truth and gentle goodness, like Robert Mitchum's psychopathic
    preacher in Night of the Hunter with LOVE and HATE inscribed on
    opposing hands. This smiling, dancing music man offered a refreshing
    short cut, a genuine and revolutionary new morality that redefines,
    or rather eliminates, the historic boundaries between life and death.
    Behind Manson's attitude toward death is the ancient mystical belief
    that we are all part of one body - and integral tenet of Hinduism,
    Buddhism and Christianity, as expressed by Saint Paul in 1 Corinthians:
    "For as the body is one and hath many members, and all the members of
    that body, being many, are one body; so also is Christ."
    But Manson adds a new twist; he wants us to take the idea
    literally, temporarily. He believes that he, and all human beings -
    are God and the Devil at the same time, that all human beings are part
    of each other, that human life has no individual value. If you kill a
    human being, you're just killing a part of yourself; it has no meaning.
    "Death is psychosomatic," says Manson.

    Thus, the foundation of all historic moral concepts is neatly
    discarded. Manson's is a morality of amorality. "If God is one, what
    is bad?" he asks. Manson represents a frightening new phenomenon, the
    acid-ripped street fighter, erasing the barrier between the two outlaw
    cultures -the head and the hood- described by Tom Wolfe in The Electric
    Kool-Aid Acid Test:

    The Angels were too freaking real. Outlaws? They were outlaws
    by choice, from the word go, all the way out in Edge City.
    Further! The hip world, the vast majority of acid heads,
    were still playing the eternal charade of the middle-class
    intellectuals -Behold my wings! Freedom! Flight!- but you
    don't actually expect me to jump off that cliff, do you?

    Perhaps it was inevitable for someone like Manson to come along
    - someone who would jump off that cliff.
    This website is Copyright 1996-2007 by Mark Turner. Some items copyrighted by others.
    Duplication in any and all forms is strictly prohibited.
    Last edited by Linda Minor; 10-04-2008 at 10:29 PM.
    "History records that the Money Changers have used every form of abuse, intrigue, deceit and violent means possible to maintain their control over governments by controlling money and its issuance." --James Madison

  6. #6


    You're a heroine Linda!

    The shadow is a moral problem that challenges the whole ego-personality, for no one can become conscious of the shadow without considerable moral effort. To become conscious of it involves recognizing the dark aspects of the personality as present and real. This act is the essential condition for any kind of self-knowledge.
    Carl Jung - Aion (1951). CW 9, Part II: P.14

  7. #7


    "I was having lunch with Charlie Manson in the prison cafeteria, and he looked at me and said, 'Is it hot in here, or am I crazy?'"

    -- Gilbert Gottfried

  8. #8


    Linda - interesting articles. Many thanks for posting them. They're not the notorious one though.

    In (the hard to get) The Shadow over Santa Susana Adam Gorightly writes (I have obscured the "name" for legal reasons - the number of asterisks is random - and I would ask members not to reveal the name on this forum):

    Krassner thought he'd hit a brick wall; that was, until he presented with the opportunity of visting the Manson girls - Katie, Leslie and Sadie - in jail, where he had agreed to conduct a "creative journalism" workshop. There he asked them if anyone had ever met **** ****. "Oh yeah," Sadie replied. "Tex took me to sleep with him. And he gave us dope".

    Through his lectures, written material and personal correspondence, I have pieced together John Judge's version of the Manson Family Conspiracy, extrapolated from the seeds of Mae Brussell's seminal research. Part of Judge's argument stems from a conversation Charles Manson had with Tim Leary in Folsom Prison - when the two were located in cells next to each other - and Manson asked Leary why he did not "use acid to control people?" To Judge, Charlie's question revealed a basic contradiction, because LSD - in his opinion - was a drug that would be useless as a control agent of any sort, except to create a state of confusion. For anyone who's experimented to any degree with LSD, it quickly becomes evident that - as an agent to control minds - it's a highly unpredictable compound.


    It is Judge's opinion - along with that of the late Mae Brussell - that the type of "acid" the Mansonoids were using was a military version, unlike the stuff found on the streets, and though it was called "acid" was actually different from LSD-25. Judge believes that the MK-ULTRA version of "acid" was a psilocybin derivative called EA1729 that was used at Wright Patterson Air Force Base as part of MK-ULTRA experiments. According to Judge, this is the same "acid" that a buddy of David Berkowitz's named Terry Patterson - who served with him in Korea - claimed Berkowitz was given by the "brass" while in the Army, when he was placed in a special program reportedly for "profiled" candidates, after he asked for conscientious objector status. Mae Brussell was convinced that Berkowitz was another in a long list of MK-ULTRA patsies, and more correctly referred to him as "Son of Uncle Sam".


    It has also been documented that Tex Watson tripped out on a belladonna concoction - Telache - a short time before the Tate-LaBianca murders, and was never "quite the same". Belladonna has a long history in the annals of espionage, another of the slew of chemical compounds used under the auspices of MK-ULTRA during the 50s. The derivative of belladonna that was used in these experiments was Atropine, a natural extract of the plant.

    In '75, Krassner wrote an article for Rolling Stone titled "My Trip With Squeaky" which included a paragraph about **** ****, and ****'s alleged association with Tex Watson. As a result of this article, **** sued Rolling Stone for libel to the tune of $450 million - because, as he claimed, he had never been with Naval Intelligence - which required Krassner's sources to give depositions. The neighbor who said she has seen Tex Watson at ****'s house was now in a state mental hospital.

    As detailed in a psychiatric evaluation: "Her feet are encased in the most unusual pair of slippers constructed of layers of garbage, including coffee grounds, bread crumbs, tea bags and lettuce and socks stiff with age and then plastic bags. The patient denies that this garb is out of the ordinary. In fact she indicates that she was planning to use this foot gear as a pattern for a pair of slippers.... she has related to the staff that has been entered by the spirit of (Watergate burglar) James McCord and she must die in order to free herself from this hex." Realizing that this prospective deponent would no doubt damage his already shaky case, Krassner decided against requesting her deposition. His only other source was Susan (Sadie Mae Glutz) Atkins, who was deposed at the California Institute for Women:

    Q: Charles Manson, on occasion, he asked you or ordered you to sleep with men, whoever they might be, just men in general?
    A: Many times.
    Q:And Tex Watson did the same?
    A: No, he never ordered me to sleep with anybody.
    Q: So, on the occasion when you went to visit this friend of Tex Watson's with Tex, it was not at Tex Watson's request that you slept with this fellow?
    A: No. There was a mutual attraction.
    Q: So that was Charles Manson's function, and no one else had that prerogative?
    A: Yes, I guess you could put it on that basis. I was kind of used... Not kind of, I was used as a ploy to get guys to stay at the ranch. (She is shown a photo of ****, whom she doesn't recognize.) Can I say something? I don't find him attractive at all to me **************

    Eventually, the **** case was settled out of court by Rolling Stone, and Krassner published a letter of retraction. Nowadays, Krassner writes off the whole **** incident as a "paranoid freak-out" he suffered after dipping his head too deeply in the conspiratorial morass. In contrast, Mae Brussell felt that Krassner sold out when he began to fear for his life, in much the same way that Ed Sanders went into hiding, and that is why his follow-up to The Family - titled The Motive - never saw the light of day.


    Sometime in mid-75, Mae received a threatening letter and notified an assistant US attorney, who then passed the letter to the FBI. Released under the Freedom of Information Act, the letter appeared to have been signed, but the name was blacked-out. It read:

    "Mae, you are thinking yourself in a circle of madness. Charles Manson has been 28 years in prison and all that B.S. you are running is a reflection of what the news and books have programmed your soul's brain mind to... You are looking for attention. It seems as if you are looking for your death wish in the Family." An unrelated FOIA document dated five years later referred back to the incident and states that "during October and November of '75 she received threatening letters from (blacked out) member of the Manson Family."
    Last edited by Jan Klimkowski; 10-05-2008 at 05:43 PM.
    "It means this War was never political at all, the politics was all theatre, all just to keep the people distracted...."
    "Proverbs for Paranoids 4: You hide, They seek."
    "They are in Love. Fuck the War."

    Gravity's Rainbow, Thomas Pynchon

    "Ccollanan Pachacamac ricuy auccacunac yahuarniy hichascancuta."
    The last words of the last Inka, Tupac Amaru, led to the gallows by men of god & dogs of war

  9. Default

    In '75, Krassner wrote an article for Rolling Stone titled "My Trip With Squeaky" which included a paragraph about **** ****, and ****'s alleged association with Tex Watson. As a result of this article, **** sued Rolling Stone for libel to the tune of $450 million - because, as he claimed, he had never been with Naval Intelligence - which required Krassner's sources to give depositions. The neighbor who said she has seen Tex Watson at ****'s house was now in a state mental hospital.
    From Rolling Stone, October 23, 1975:
    My Trip With Squeaky:
    Just One of Charlie's Girls
    By Paul Krassner
    Last edited by Linda Minor; 10-05-2008 at 06:26 PM.
    "History records that the Money Changers have used every form of abuse, intrigue, deceit and violent means possible to maintain their control over governments by controlling money and its issuance." --James Madison

  10. #10


    Another section from Gorightly's The Shadow over Santa Susana:

    ... the juiciest lead in Krassner's research came when Mae Brussell informed him that an agent for Naval Intelligence named **** **** had met with Tex Watson prior to the murders. "Aha!" thought Krassner: L Ron Hubbard had been associated with Naval Intelligence. The Committee to Investigate Assassinations had also linked Lee Harvey Oswald with Naval Intelligence. Even the infamous Zodiac killer had left obsolete Naval Intelligence ciphers in his notes. ****, Brussell claimed, was taking courses at the Navy Postgraduate School - the Monterey Language School - where only intelligence officers were admitted. ****, she said, had used the cover of a "hippie artist", meanwhile working as an agent provocateur to infiltrate the Manson Family.

    According to Brussell, **** was the main drug supplier to the Family, and after the murders, he "cut his hair, put his shoes back on" and went back to work at the Monterey Language School, setting aside his guise of hippie, which had served its purpose, and was no longer of use. Prior to the shedding of his hippie accoutrements, **** had done artwork for a certain "underground" magazine, which predicted that the counterculture would devolve into witchcraft and violence. This magazine - Brussell went on to assert - "was a conduit for CIA funds for medical research in mind control, intelligence money for electrode implants and for LSD experiments, according to documents I got from the Pentagon".
    Last edited by Jan Klimkowski; 10-05-2008 at 10:28 PM.
    "It means this War was never political at all, the politics was all theatre, all just to keep the people distracted...."
    "Proverbs for Paranoids 4: You hide, They seek."
    "They are in Love. Fuck the War."

    Gravity's Rainbow, Thomas Pynchon

    "Ccollanan Pachacamac ricuy auccacunac yahuarniy hichascancuta."
    The last words of the last Inka, Tupac Amaru, led to the gallows by men of god & dogs of war

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