Note: Listen to Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings by Father John Misty while reading this blog to get you in the mood…for murder…

[cue evil laughing]

Memorial Day weekend I hopped a plane and flew to California to visit my cousin. Luckily, in her, I have a freakish spirit animal that enjoys the same type of macabre fascinations as I do.

While relaxing by the pool, chilling at the beach, or taking in an art museum is what some normal people do, I’d much rather have my vacation involve the weird. Take me to a new place and I’ll instantly ask to be pointed in the direction of the nearest graveyard. Or wine bar. And hell, if those two ever combine then I’ll be in heaven.

Our dark day in LA consisted of three things that I most heartily (and gruesomely) recommend…


American Horror Story House



First, a pit stop at the locale of the American Horror Story house – the Rosenheim mansion. It’s a weird scene; a beautiful mansion set in the middle of a random street of normal-ish houses. Sadly, the mansion seems to have fallen into a state of dilapidated disrepair. The backyard was covered in weeds, while in the front it was apparent the owners have had all they can take of gawkers, because numerous signs warning against stepping foot on property dotted the front yard as well as a flock of foreboding ravens. I kept expecting to see a face staring down at us from one of the upstairs windows before we bolted for the safety of the car.

 Find the Alfred Rosenheim Mansion at 1120 Westchester Place, Los Angeles CA


Dearly Departed Tours – Tragical History Tour

Founded by Scott Michaels, this tour is THE tour for morbid curiosity seekers everywhere. Seriously. If you’re in LA and like this kind of weird, dark Hollywood history, book this tour STAT. While numerous tours are offered (Ahem, Manson, anyone?), we booked the Dearly Departed Tragical History Tour.

The Dearly Departed Tours office on Sunset Boulevard was a museum in its own right. Celebrity death memorabilia line the walls and the floors. Jayne Mansfield’s pink suitcase, a signed Sharon Tate autopsy report, a letter from John Wayne Gacy, door pulls from Room 105 of the Landmark Hotel where Janis Joplin died.

Our senses were overstimulated, and after craning and nearly climbing on top of a desk to get a better look at the John Wayne Gacy letter we were stopped by a man. Instead of getting a lecture about keeping my slovenly body off the furniture, the man instantly launched into the story behind the letter, keeping the cousin and I in rapt attention for about fifteen minutes.

After purchasing a souvenir Hotel key chain, we climbed aboard the tour bus and the cousin and I were instantly elated to learn that the man we had been speaking with about the Gacy letter was our tour guide.

He announced to the small group, “I would kill a small child for a Yuengling right now.”

And with this quote so began our tour on Dearly Departed Tours with Brian Donnelly.

Donnelly, an amazing, energetic tour guide, can navigate the city like a pro and show us about 150 sights in two and a half hours. He had a mic and an opinion and like he said on the tour, it’s the perfect combination for someone with ADD. He knew his Hollywood history, was proud to live in LA and didn’t skimp on the gory details.


Some sights/discussions included: Rebecca Schaeffer’s apartment, Storybook Homes, Scientology Celebrity Center, Lana Turner scandal, The Viper Room, Bela Lugosi, Black Dahlia rumored murder house, Knickerbocker, Beverly Hills homes, Whisky a Go Go, Bugsy Siegel’s murder house, Château Marmont, the Menendez Brother’s family mansion, the spots where Janis Joplin and Sharon Tate ate their last meals (Barney’s Beanery and El Coyote respectively)…and a shit ton more.

I’ll stop here since it can’t even sum up the awesomeness of this tour. All I can say and all I can do is pimp it out. If you’re ever in LA, take three hours and make this a priority.

Dearly Departed Tours haunts 6603 Sunset Blvd, Hollywood, CA


Museum of Death
 PicMonkey Collagemod

When all you want to see is genuine serial killer letters from Richard Ramirez The Night Stalker and artwork by John Wayne Gacy look no further than the Museum of Death. The last stop on our frightful escapade.

Nestled in a  nondescript location on Hollywood Boulevard, the Museum of Death lures in the curious, crazed and unassuming. Sadly, photographs were not allowed and I resisted the urge to snap secretive stills. This museum is not for the faint of heart. I asked the front desk clerk about the pass-out quota and he said that they probably give smelling salts to someone about once a week.

The cousin and I have cold hearts and iron-stomachs as we braved the close confines of the small museum, only once getting slightly woozy as we took the self-guided tour.

Divided up into sections, each room is dedicated to a morbid curiosity or real-life tragedy. We feasted eyes on the Serial Killer Room, the Manson Murder room, the Black Dahlia Murder room, Heaven’s Gate recreation, Execution room, Mortician and Autopsy Instrument room (this is where our knees almost buckled), Taxidermy Room, Cult Room, Suicide Room, and more…

One section titled “Heads and Tales” involves a murderous methhead couple that’s an I-CAN’T-EVEN experience probably no one should have, but the cousin and I gawked in horror at the ghastly photos lining the wall and braced ourselves for the night terrors to come.

Leaving, we lingered in the gift shop, where Charles Manson’s vinyl recordings were being sold, and as we walked outside into the bright sunlight, pondered just how chillingly intimate we had just gotten with the gruesome side of death.

The Museum of Death rests-in-peace at 6031 Hollywood Boulevard, CA


Summer has officially started in the Valley of the Sun. 108 degrees has rolled in with pretty much everyone resembling this on a daily basis.



car door


But the heat isn’t a bother. In fact, I love summer.  While my writing slows on Sundays as I’m usually out by the pool with a margarita, it doesn’t mean I’m any less productive.

It’s a positive correlation – the more summer, the more books I read.

And so here is the lineup to be conquered:




It’s a random mix of books to be read – not exactly light and “beachy” material but I’m eager to start running a train on this reading list.

Wherever you are, I hope you’re enjoying the summer with a book in hand.

And if you’re wondering where I’m lurking, I’ll just be the creeper out by the pool reading about Charles Manson and waiting for the NSA to swarm.

Summer: It’s gonna be one hell of a read.


Might as well just toss them all together for some kind of book orgy, AMIRITE?

Might as well just toss them all together for some kind of book orgy, AMIRITE?

Read by Kathy Fish

Posted: June 1, 2014 in Uncategorized
Tags: ,

This. This.

Kathy Fish’s “Read”, originally published at Lascaux Review, then on her blog, and now (with her kind permission) on my blog, is one of the most inspirational things I’ve ever…well, read. It’s smart and it’s lovely (kind of like everything Kathy writes). It makes me want to fist-pump my way through this list and be a better person/writer and share it with as many people as I can.

So, okay. Here you go.



By Kathy Fish

Read Flannery O’Connor. Read Joy Williams. Read William Maxwell. Read about the universe. Read about neuroanatomy. Read “On the Origin of Species.” Read “Nine Stories.” Read Tolstoy. Read Carson McCullers. Read Edward P. Jones. Read Willa Cather. Read Yasunari Kawabata. Study atlases and maps. Read E.B. White. Read fairy tales. Remember that “fresh new voices” can come from people over forty. Find those writers and read them. Read Shakespeare. Read Amy Hempel and Lydia Davis. Compare. At least once a week, read a book published by a small press. Read, read, read poetry. Learn the names of all the insects that inhabit your backyard. Or make up names for them. Read Freud. Read graphic novels. Read prose poetry and flash fiction. Study the dictionary. Read a book about a place you never heard of from a writer whose name you can’t pronounce. Read naked.

Find and read a newspaper from the day you were born. Or any old newspaper. Learn another language, then read a novel or poetry in that language. Read “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish” out loud with no children present. Read philosophy. Buy a thick notebook and write “Sentences I Love” on the cover. Fill it up and buy another one. Read collections of short stories. Read both print and online journals. Read the history of the town you grew up in. Read Jane Austen and Edith Wharton and the Bronte sisters. Read Katherine Mansfield and Shirley Jackson and Kõbõ Abe. Read Grace Paley. Read Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Read long into the night until the characters walk around in your dreams. Read “The Dead” at least one winter afternoon a year. And if your mother or your aunt or your grandmother want to tell you their stories, drop everything you’re doing and listen.




Kathy Fish is a fine, fine writer and you should read some of her stuff. Not like she needs the plug from me or anything, but still. Go to here:

I get my love of rock and roll, my good spelling skills, and my dirty, feral pig of a mouth from my father.

But I gotta say I get my morbid mind, my warped sense of humor, my love of graveyards and aliens and anything creepy from the one who spilled me forth from her quivering loins. The Mother. My mother.

I probably owe some part of my deformed writer’s brain and cynicism to her.  Without that I’d probably be unnaturally trusting and crashing in some balding dude’s basement and wearing overalls and working on a loading dock.

In fact, my mother is an interesting creature; one who many admire for her ability to jet set the country and live life her way. Over the years, through emails, phone conversations and texts I’ve kept notes on her choicest quotes (Hey, I’m a writer – it isn’t right until I’m pilfering your words).

So, in honor of Mother’s Day and beautiful and kooky words, the below are random quotes spliced over our photos straight from my mother’s mouth. She should get her due, because hell, she’s got some great zingers.

I love you, mom.

Thanks for making me weird.



Guys, I swear to christ these are real quotes.

IMG_20140510_141538IMG_20130521_20535944nurse IMG_20140510_141546 dfdfd DSC0147944

And I love you, Mother.

And I love you, Mother.

A few things I’m liking this month that don’t end with me gracefully face down in a pile of cake.



Recently a short piece of flash fiction I’ve read and really enjoyed is, “Semi-Homemade” by Mitch McGuire at The Molotov Cocktail.  I like to pretend it’s Martha Stewart’s – or even better – Rachael Ray’s internal monologue.

“I wish cocktail time came at the beginning of the show, it would probably be easier to get through the rest of the taping without screaming.”

Read it here.



Let’s talk about “Sharp Objects”. Preferably that meat cleaver under your pillow, but most definitely a novel by Gillian Flynn.



Yes, yes, it’s eight years old and as always I’m probably behind the times but screw Gone Girl. This book was darkly clever and very, very twisted. Not to mention the main character was a woman I really enjoyed. Flawed, not annoying and strong. I’d sit down and have a drink with her any day.  Those of you who like fucked-up books check it out. It’s a must-read and a nail biter.





When using shower drain hair to write threatening messages on shower walls just won’t cut it…



I think it spells out "DIE"...?

I think it spells out “DIE”…?


…there’s AquaNotes. A writer’s wet dream. Get it, GET IT?

Seriously though. There’s no more streaking through the house (much to my husband’s deep regret) to scrabble for a pen and paper when an idea or a quote hits the ol’ cerebellum. Simply scrawl on the waterproof paper notepad to get your writerly ideas, grocery list, or murder manifesto out. I’ve used this so many times for story ideas that it’s nearly time for a refill.

Every writer needs one of these things. If not for ideas, at the very least to draw dick pics.



Not my best work, but hey, even Picasso had his moments.




Just a quick blog to say…

I finished my book.

Four drafts, darlings killed, and a polish, and it is done.

Revisions shall come but until then I wanted to share and I wanted to gloat and I wanted to drink wine tonight, so there.

Cheers and hell yes.



Can't you feel the rapture?

Can’t you feel the rapture?

I’ve given up on a few things in my life. Hell, who hasn’t. Quitters live longer, is what I always say. I tend not to dwell on my uh, inadequacies, but lately I’ve been thinking about what I’ve dropped hobby/habit-wise versus what I’ve kept…and what I’ve succeeded at majorly makes up for not kegeling religiously.

Trying to Become Musically Inclined

Music, an addiction I gotta have. On a desert island I would be tormented without sweet, sweet tunes. I want to ingrain it into my veins and BE a song. I’m fascinated by the process and the people who can pick and warble and flail around the stage and get paid for it.

So every once in a while I get the inane notion that maybe, just maybe, a latent gift will rear its beautiful head when I pick up the right instrument. To this date I’ve had many loves…








Oh, goddamn it, Jules.


Trying to Hippie Up

One day I felt mighty and powerful and full of world-changery goodness after reading an article linking breast cancer to antiperspirant in deodorant and I thought, “Hey, why not switch it up?” and tra la la’d off to Sprouts to spend too much on a natural stick of aluminum-free pit stick.


jesus christ, no, tom

jesus christ, no, tom


Unfortunately, my sweat glands had other ideas in mind.

The relationship lasted about six months right around the time I was wrinkling my nose and wondering what smelled like dead goat rotting under the hellish sun. Man, I tried to San-Francisco-tough it-out. Lived in denial until finally I decided that hey, maybe I should go back to basics. Back to something stronger.


I now bathe in scotch

I now bathe in scotch


The lesson here is that deodorant with potentially deadly chemicals WORKS. Tom’s, If I could have used you, I would have. You made my underarms silky smooth.  But I couldn’t hold out and instead bought a deodorant stick full of delicious, delicious aluminum and lo and behold I now smell like fuzzy navel.


Trying to Snowboard (AKA: any physical sport)

Now this is more self preservation than “giving up” but if you want to get all nitpicky, OK fine. I snowboarded once back when I was 19. First time off the ski lift I twisted my knee and had to be carried down the mountain on some sort of EMT snowmobile. You do not know humiliation until you’re passed by five-year-olds conquering the black diamond runs and doing triple axels and other shit like that when you’re lying mortified in the back of snowmobile weeping that you never should have left your dorm room.


But there is one thing I haven’t given up on…

The only hobby I’ve ever really loved, wanted to work at, and work at hard, is writing.

I’m not the best and I’m never done practicing, but as of this moment at three o’clock in the afternoon when Pluto still isn’t considered a planet, and Miley Cyrus gets another tattoo, I am a writer. I have a 90,000 word novel in a second draft. My day profession is now a full-fledged copywriter. This is not to brag, it is because I am proud.  Working for a goal and then having it finally happen is a monstrous beast to grasp. It’s like whooaaa and blergh and herpdederp all at a WTF-once.

That other shit I gave up on is meaningless…but what I kept at isn’t. It’s learning how to laugh when you suck at something and frantically fist pumping when you find something you want to stick with.

Whether or not I actually publish a book, or anyone ever reads what I write (unless you’re a family member, then you’re just obligated so get ready), this is something I’m okay with. I finished my book. I wrote it because I loved it. And when I die, I will be proud to say, gnarled fingers clenched in victory, that I have had at least one passion in my life I have never given up on, unlike Magic Crystal Pepsi and bikini briefs.

You be proud too. Of whatever you have done that means something.

Maybe you had a baby, married the man of your dreams,  got that job at that library, managed to cut back to a pack a day, keep that sobriety chip or avoided calling Suzy in accounting a cocksucker, whatever you have successfully tried for and  accomplished, big or small, you should be happy and be proud and dance on graves.


I meant dance on tables. But graves…yeah, I’m sure someone somewhere would pay you to do that while they watch. And if that’s not a proud moment I don’t know what is.

his name is Ron and he is a gem.

His name is Ron and he is a gem.