The Conspiracy Theory

A couple of posts back—in “Gates-gate? Gimme a break!” [content now available as the first half of "The Hitler Analogy" above]—I mentioned a conspiracy theory that I am especially fond of. It has no basis in fact that I can discern. I gathered most of the data in my misspent, drug-addled youth, and have no desire to research any inaccuracies or inconsistencies. I don’t think I’m alone in clinging to a totally unrealistic pet theory about an historical incident, no matter how absurd it may be. I just like the way this one plays out.

There is a certain amount of morbid hoopla attached to this month being the 40th anniversary of the murder spree of the so-called “Manson Family.” I read prosecutor Vincent Bugliosi’s book Helter-Skelter in the late 1970s; halfway through I decided it was either an incisive piece of legal exposition, or the largest pile of BS I had ever encountered in my young life. [Bugliosi also authored the 1996 book Outrage: The Five Reasons O.J. Simpson Got Away With Murder, which I consider to be the definitive work on that misadventure in American jurisprudence. I have the utmost respect for Mr. Bugliosi, and believe he’s an honest man.]

I also cannot understand the warped celebrity status accorded to Charles Manson. Constant Readers know I have zero-tolerance for murder, or those who commit them. If, for whatever reason, you offed someone, you don’t want me on your jury. Manson was on his way to sniff the gas in California, and he will never breathe free air again. He was saved by a “kinder, gentler” California Supreme Court that decided the Old Testament’s Angry God’s declaration of “an eye for an eye” was politically incorrect. [People vs. Anderson, 1972] So, he and the hippie chicks got life with only nominal consideration for parole, which adds up to 40 years and counting by now.

But, I digress yet again. Let’s get to the heart of the conspiracy, which has provided me with vast amusement ever since the jury brought in a “guilty” verdict four decades ago.

In the late 1960s, hippies—long-haired, pot-smoking, tuned-in, tripped-out, turned-on young people—were the darlings of the media, and something of a phenomenon. It was the walk in the sun for the “Woodstock Nation.” There was a lot in play, from moral indignation about a seemingly endless, unviable war in Southeast Asia, to an inherent belief by rebellious youth that we could somehow change the world through “peace and love.”

Enter Richard M. Nixon, the 37th president of the United States. That pesky war in Southeast Asia belonged to him, after Democrat John Kennedy began American involvement in it, and Democrat Lyndon Johnson couldn’t find a workable “exit strategy.” Things were going to hell on the domestic front, and the prime instigators seemed to be those damn hippies.

John Edgar Hoover—the notorious homosexual transvestite and blackmailer of numerous presidents—was still in charge of the Federal Bureau of Incompetence [FBI]. He hated hippies, too.

Tricky Dick—as the president was called—was prohibited by law and Congressional fiat from sending intelligence agents out to photograph or gather information about those stoned-out “dissenters.” Likewise, he was forbidden to urge “right-thinking” Americans to turn in anyone they suspected of deviation from the party line. (If this sounds familiar, it’s only because “Blackshirts” are beating up protesters to the current leadership’s policies, and The White House is urging “right thinking” Americans to report “fishy” political deviations. But, this is America; it can’t happen here! ...as Frank Zappa said in 1967.)

So, one day Tricky Dick goes for a power walk on the beach at San Clemente with J. Edgar. They discuss the various crises of the time, and the difficulties inherent to Republican leadership; mostly the legislation of morality. They discuss the unprecedented popularity of those dope-smoking, fist-waving young know-nothings, and then it gets down to the nut-cutting.

“John, what can we do about these freaks running around disrupting everything?” Tricky Dick asks. “I can’t reopen the camps FDR used for the Japs in ’41. The Houston plan has failed. The media loves these little gits. Their popularity rating tops mine in the polls. Isn’t there anything we can do to discredit these animals?”

J. Edgar pauses for a moment to adjust his paisley bikini, then he proposes an audacious plan to Nixon. It will involve sacrifice, but the eggs being broken will justify the omelet that will sustain the nation. The nod is given and the plan proceeds.

I am disappointed that my cursory research—which I hate doing—does not bear out the next part of the cabal scenario. According to the legend, Charles “Tex” Watson was a minor clerk in Naval Intelligence. Never an overachiever, he could nonetheless keep a secret. He was approached by his superiors for a special mission, and he readily agreed.

“Tex” left Naval Intelligence, and moved to Los Angeles, where he began profiling prospective members of the hippie community. One who immediately caught his attention was an ex-convict named “Charlie”. Charlie was a career criminal, a wimpy born loser who nevertheless had an exotic attraction to others. Older than the average hippie, Charlie was spellbinding with his ex-con lines that he spun out to every abused, disaffected runaway who came within earshot.

It was a time when social compacts were sealed with the assertion “It’s cool, man. I can dig it.” Charlie had an eye for the ladies, and was already picking up a following among the runaways-turned-hookers along Hollywood Boulevard. A commune of sorts coalesced around Charlie, with Tex on the fringe, and they moved to a derelict movie ranch near Death Valley.

While “The Family” lived on the Spahn ranch, they indulged in drug-driven orgies. Charlie’s drug of choice was the relatively new LSD. “Tex” preferred methamphetamines, which kept him awake and percolating for days at a time. During those wide-awake interludes, “Tex” took long walks in the desert with Charlie, who was jacked up on acid. They had long conversations about everything from The Beatles to impending race war, with Charlie always seeming to have the superior outlook and grasp of “The Big Picture” as to how these disparate subjects tied into the weirdness of the times.

Eventually, Charlie’s egomaniacal psychopathy overcame him, and he decided he would become the catalyst for a race war. To this end, he ordered several of his submissive hippie chicks to go out and “off some pigs.” [Here I catch up with Bugliosi’s postulation, and the legal case that was established by factual evidence.]

Charlie didn’t go along the night of the first murders. “Tex” led the girls up the driveway from the street to the Tate residence, and “Tex” committed the first murder, shooting 17-year-old Stephen Parent as he departed from visiting a friend, the caretaker of the estate.

The rest of what happened that night is legal and historical fact. It was vicious beyond belief, even in today’s jaded world.

The following night, the killers struck again, butchering Leno and Rosemary LaBianca in their Los Feliz home in the suburbs of LA. Charlie was there, but the tough ex-con is alleged to have split the scene when the blood started flowing. Like a Pathfinder, “Tex” seems to have led the way.

The cult was eventually found out and arrested for the crimes. [See Bugliosi’s Helter-Skelter for the stunning details.] During the trial, crazy Charlie displayed an LA Times headline proclaiming “Nixon Says Manson Is Guilty!” It seems the president—despite being a lawyer—had made some intemperate remarks to a reporter the day before. He did this for a reason.

Eventually, all the murderers were convicted, and thanks to the California Supreme Court’s ruling, they have spent the last forty years navel-gazing and masturbating in prison cells.

Once the verdicts were in, hostility towards hippies spiked to an all-time high. No longer were the youthful “peace and love” kids on the cover of Time magazine. A Special Forces doctor—Jeffrey McDonald—tried to alibi murdering his family on “hippie cult killers” shortly thereafter. Any male with long hair was instantly identified as a potential killer. The moral indignation of youth no longer held the high ground. Anyone identifying themselves as “hip” was automatically discredited as degenerate, or worse. John Edgar’s plan had come to full fruition.

The payoff for “Tex” Watson’s loyal—if covert—service was that he should receive a full pardon from President Nixon upon the latter’s leaving office. However, the Watergate thing came along, and Nixon wasn’t in a position to grant tacit amnesties to mass murderers when he left office. Tex has been turned down for parole 13 times, and the rest of “the family” is running apace.

As a factual presentation of anything remotely resembling reality, everything of what I’ve just proposed is rubbish. Nixon hated Hoover; if anything, there’s the convenient conspiracy theory Tricky Dick hastened Hoover’s death during the Watergate crisis because the head honcho of the FBI was blackmailing him as he had every president since Herbert Hoover. The best job Charles Denton “Tex” Watson ever had was as a baggage handler for Braniff Airways. Charlie Manson is a psychopathic loser who doubtless enjoys the opportunity to talk trash at every mandatory parole board hearing. I got most of this conspiracy theory from Leftist-loon author Ed Sanders, who, back in the day, could publish entire books of unsubstantiated trash.

I cling to this absurd myth because I came of age in the ‘70s, when heroin and Quaaludes replaced pot and LSD as the drugs of choice because malaise and despair were the watchwords. It seemed like the perfect answer to a lot of questions. My homeboy, Jimmy Carter, promised “change we can count on,” and we all know how that shook out. Turns out he was just a dress rehearsal for The Red Herring. If there has been a recent “bipartisan effort” in America, it’s the wholesale proffering of despair and malaise by both Republicans and Democrats. I got really hot on the home front the other day when my Significant Other accused me of being a Republican. I actually raised my voice to explain that I don’t believe in either the legislation of morality or the collectivization of society, which sums up both major political parties succinctly.

I like the way this old conspiracy theory played out and fit the tenor of the times. What with the advent of Black Panthers appointing themselves “poll bosses” with truncheons in hand, the Hitlerian urging of The White House for people to snitch on those “fishy” dissidents, and SEIU “blackshirts” beating down people at town hall meetings, I hope to write the next conspiracy-theory script before a “medical advisory board” declares me unfit and prescribes euthanasia as the only cost-effective solution to my obvious mental illness and physical disability. I seem to recall that a number of less-than-perfect human specimens had “end-of-life” conversations with Dr. Mengele’s advisory boards and eugenics councils.

But that’s just me, and I’m old and in the way. “Progressivism uber alles!”