Charles Manson Today: The Final Confessions of a Psychopath

Manson doesn’t watch much TV, although he used to like Barney Miller, Gunsmoke, and Sesame Street in Spanish. He plays his guitar and sometimes offers musical advice to fellow guitarist Corona, the serial killer. “I’m not a teacher, but I show him how to make chords and progressions.” He’d listen to an old Doors or Jefferson Airplane album if he could figure out how to get his CD player working. Sometimes he’ll have to leave his cell while sniffer dogs search for contraband; during a recent visit, the dogs found nothing but did leave behind a single turd, delighting Manson. He gets thousands of pieces of mail a year, more than any other prisoner. Sometimes he will send out autographs signed, “Hippy cult leader made me do it.” During his time behind bars, he’s committed 108 infractions. The last time, in 2011, he was caught with an “inmate-manufactured weapon” – in this case, a sharpened eyeglass stem – and thrown in solitary for a year.

In the late afternoon, he saunters over to the wall where the telephones are. His phone calls are recorded, but he can make pretty much all the calls he wants, collect only, 15 minutes at a clip, and he makes tons. I know this, because I have been on the receiving end for months now. He calls while I’m at the movies, while I’m driving, while I’m at cocktail parties, while I’m walking my dogs in the park, while I am everyplace he’ll never be again.

Here’s how he has begun some of his recent conversations: “Hello, hello. Are you ready? OK. There’s seven steps from the death chamber of holding to the death chamber of release.” “I forget – was you mad at me or was I mad at you?” “Would you come and swing upon a star? Carry moonbeams home in a jar?” “Why don’t you go ahead and say what’s best for you, and then I’ll go along with it and meet you later over on the beach.” “I’ve got something important I’d like to explain.”

Mostly, he wants to discuss the environment – “The end is on the way, baby bucks” – and what should be done about it. Once, when he was talking to me about the rightness of killing to get more air, he said, “Whoever gets killed, that’s the will of God. Without killing, we got no chance.” He paused, then went on, “You might want to keep that out of your paper and say to yourself, ‘How can that work for me?'” At the time, I didn’t think much of it. It took a while for what he was suggesting to sink in. 

Sometimes he seems lonely (“Star, Star, nobody comes to visit me but Star”). Sometimes he’ll give props to Neil Young for once saying that the Manson musical style was pretty good. “He didn’t play no games on me, didn’t try to steal a lot of my stuff like Zappa and them others. He’s a straight-up dude.” And sometimes he’ll try to con me.

“When we were talking once,” he says, “you promised me half of it.”

“Half of what?”

“Whatever you could give.”

“Well, half of nothing is nothing.”

“Well, half-and-half is still half. Like one and one is still one. See, you’ve been confused, honey. You didn’t know you was my wife? I recognize you.”

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