2009 was an eventful year. I traveled to foreign and exotic lands, was a newlywed, appeared on TV, worked with talented comics, saw the Pixies live, witnessed a gang shooting, learned to make a chocolate souflee, checked the oil in my car, spent time with friends and family and by the grace of God and MTV enjoyed the marvel that is “Jersey Shore”. But the oddest, most memorable and conflicting adventure of 2009 was enjoying a 4 course gourmet meal at the Sharon Tate murder house. That’s right. The very house where a pregnant Sharon Tate and friends were brutally murdered by the Manson clan.
Hello Crazy Pants
The lunch occurred last June and I’ve been thinking about it and feeling dirty on the inside ever since. There are a few snapshots of my life I repeat in my head over and over. Like this one time I went to kiss my stepdad on the cheek and it caught him off guard and he turned his head and we accidentally mouth kissed. I think about that one. But this, this is different. I feel dirty. Dirtay. I mean filthy – like I’d just sold 1,000 gypsy babies to a pedophile or like I had just hooked up with “The Situation” and liked it.
It was weird and I’m still conflicted. I hesitated blogging about it because the house is owned by a Hollywood Producer type who ironically created one of the most wholesome, successful and blissfully banal stitcoms of all time. His name will not be mentioned here, but a simple Wikipedia search will reveal the Dark Rider’s identity. The purpose of the lunch was to discuss some business with the Dark Rider and he was kind enough to invite us up for a fancy lunch. The original house was torn down and the Dark Rider built a magnificent – I mean punch you in the babymaker and make you want to puke on yourself – house. The kind of house that makes you proud to be American.
I’m talking waterfalls in the backyard, multiple pools, rooms with frivolous themes like “The Elvis Room” and “This Room’s Only to Pet Kittens In”. Things that a lowly Hungarian immigrant like me just can’t understand. In my house growing up, if you had something nice you laminated it. Every couch, every piece of kitchen furniture was covered in plastic because you don’t ruin nice stuff. My husband had to stop me from putting seat covers on my Jetta’s car seats, although I really should have because now they’re covered in filth.
Our couch looked similar to this – minus Ghostface Killah and the pregnant girl:
Oh and did I mention The Dark Rider’s butler? Holy BELVEDERE yes! His butler served us food while he announced the dishes, “Ond zis is zea bazz viz a light lemon sauze.” Normally I don’t like people describing my food because it slows down the whole process of put plate down and make food disappear into my gullet. But it was nice to have my meal romanced like that.
It was decadent. We were sitting on the terrace overlooking Los Angeles sipping iced tea and laughing. But I felt conflicted. How is this ok? It felt wrong to dine on crab legs and fennel while the ghosts of murdered people watched and silently judged me. I felt so guilty enjoying a meal on the very site where one of the most horrific murders of our time occured. But then it occured to me - why should I feel bad? The Dark Rider’s the asshole who bought the place and employed a butler to serve me. Let him feel bad.
I wanted to hate this man and interrogate him – “What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you live here? Were you raised by feral dogs?” I didn’t ask that way, but in some form or other, he explained himself. Dark Rider isn’t an asshole and he isn’t a douscher like Trent Reznor who thinks Manson is cool. What he is is a bargain shopper. Turns out murder land is discounted land. See, the value of land goes down when say, a pregnant woman and her friends are brutally murdered there. Who knew, right? If you ever want a serious real estate bargain, buy land where a gruesome murder took place, they practically give it away! The only hitch is having everyone think of you as the asshole who bought the Manson House and tolerating bus loads of morbid tourists who swarm your front gate. If you can stomach that, you’ve got yourself a sweet deal.
After the meal and uncomfortable conversation, it was time to leave. I just so happened to have the Beatles “Helter Skelter” in my car and yes, I listened to it on the drive down the hill. It was too ironic to pass up and it diffused some of the weirdness of the experience for me. But still, I felt ookie about it all.
After the lunch, I became obsessed with Sharon Tate and Polanski and the murders. It reminded me of being in 8th grade, carrying around the opus “Helter Skelter”, thinking I was being a badass and earning some street cred. Nothing pisses the English teacher off more during “free reading” time than to see a punk ass kid pull out this gem.
And now in retrospect, I think maybe that’s the allure of living in the Tate Murder House. It’s street cred. It means pulling out the “guess where I live” card at a dinner party of Hollywood types and having them think it’s pretty rad. Well, maybe not rad, but interesting and morbid. And maybe it helps this guy get laid by women who have deep daddy issues. I have to admit, I wouldn’t say I was excited to see the house, but it was worth it to be able to say “I’ve been there and done that”. For the record, I think those murders were NOT cool in any way, but the dark sider in me appreciates the opportunity to see and experience something truly awful. Isn’t that after all, what keeps me in the world of stand up comedy?
next week we have a meet at the fuhrerbunker with the ghosts of adolph and his lovely bride. you up for some fun?