Manson Lecture 9: Mystery Hotel … (December 27th, 1997)


Slouching towards Gomorrah’s slash-pad …

In September of 67′, I was still a lonesome traveler with few amigos.

I had hunted skeel-mack while in the hoosegow and now my back was broken by it. I knew I needed the warmth of my iron and concrete mother, but I also saw a glimmer of wet hope in the brownish rain of California and its many miracles. I took a ride down there … with a girl who had blonde hair and a black heart … we tasted the moist west coast mornings and jingled our groin-shredders.

She used me … I used her … a one time token from a monkey-god in the mountains …

I dropped that body off and then met up with some old friends … Carla and Bigz.

Carla and Bigz were with me in those days, taking turns with the castaway freaks off of Boblimptock AVE … Bigz was a pimp and a hustler and a rustler and a poet-magician … Bigz ran hookers here and there and in San Francisco … they called him the San Francisco Treat.


Carla was a cloven woman, a tribe-breeder, a master of coinic-arts and jumbly-juice surprise. She had 20 kids she didn’t know about, she gave birth while passed out on grapefruit wine. She was a hooker and a lover and a builder of pain castles …

Carla and I would take walks where the floaters would be sitting out on the bay. Me and Carla would grab stones and sit at the pier all day … trying to skip rocks over the corpses floating in the sea. Carla would always drink some rum each time she won, and she won a LOT … so many bodies.

How did I meet Carla? – we used to hang out at the Tuddsler Lounge looking for cocaine, me and my crew … and then Sluggo said “go down to Prairie Street and look for a hooker named Carla … she’s hairy and angry and covered in boils and rashes and scars that go deep … deep to the bone. Heroin holes, mold banquet”. That’s when I first met her, my Dirt Queen.

I told Carla, “… you will be my bar room princess, I will be your buffalo king”, Bigz made fun of me … I took a beer bottle and broke it off and shoved it into his face … he’s not smiling no more.

We had to be on the run … we had to move … we needed to travel and to sleep …

It’s like you arrived yesterday but wanted to get here tomorrow.

Northwest winds …

When you trap a love-angel in the smiggis? – you leave her broken in a dirty bed, with nasty old blankets and sheets and bedbugs and a stink of some dread deed that happened years ago, but the ghosts still haunt the bathtub where the shotgun blast rung out. Then it’s just over. That’s how those days and nights felt, traveling the coast, looking for a place to “stay”.

“I love your soul colors … your color is crystal green palace flower …”, Carla said to Bigz. Bigz, who was driving the car, flicked the coals from his lit cigarette back on Carla’s nice little white dress … “YOU SUMMA BITCH! I’LL KILL YA!”, Carla screamed … but Bigz kept trucking.

When you can find the sparrow realm, you can find the misty mountains of Thai style massage paradise, where Glungis-Kings ravage the milk-maidens of those eastern regions and the old guard sells rooms to dark figures, doing surgery, late at night. And your last buck is in hock. I could sense some place opening up, where we could find respite … where we could “stay” and be welcome to stay …

You stop by the filling station and steal their loot and set fire to their pumps and an old Navaho injun looks at you, right into your eyes and says, “… he was a teacher, he never meant to hurt … he was just a poet, living in a demon world, surrounded by darkness …”, that’s what the Navaho spirit said … and you look at that old wino shaman and take your brass knuckles and wipe that smug injun look off that old man’s face … and then you pay the gas station attendant.

The sklinkus fist is the gird pistol, and you can’t stop chasing the dragon until the dragon has chased you up a tree … and your true love is hanging from the tree … and you feel a longing for those Miracle Whip days of freebie carrying on and busted up temples, smoking hot. I got done beating the injun, and my gird pistol was covered in dried blood – turning black.

You behold the truncheon ruin, when cops and guards and nurses and nuns … covered in spikes … chase your naked and quivering body down the street. And you try to hide in a culvert of your own despair, but it’s Valentine’s Day, and everyone will burn. Just eat the candy.

“Is that a hotel up there?”, I asked Bigz.

“Shit … that’s the Winston, we don’t want to stay there …”


“That’s where those hookers disappeared …”

“Then that’s where we’re staying …”

And Bigz pulled into the parking lot, and Carla awoke from her nap.

Hotel Winston

Crabs … the crabs live in the dead brains of miserable pimps working near 13th and Shipton … where that old man got hammer drunk and fed poison to the fish-women of Chinatown … and then after he hacked to death 65 people in a pure rage … those were the thoughts in my head as we checked in.

The guy at the desk was young and angry and his eyes were jaundiced …

“You want a room?”, he asked.

“Fuck yeah … big enough for my whole family …”

“That’s extra charge … for 3 in 2 …”

“3 in what?”

“3 people in a 2 person room …”


I stared at that skunk face, making my face look all weird … and he relented to the normal overnight fee … $6.

We saw the room … urine and vomit not yet dry, beds wet with stink and bleach … something bad had happened, was happening, would keep happening … and no one was going to clean up this scar in the universe. Some scars are re-opened forever …

My crinkle ass got stuck in the place it seems, that hotel covered in yellow bile and the cracks in the toilets and the mold eating away our our love affair? You couldn’t break my heart because I’d sold it to a shaman for 20 gold nuggets and a pound of premium weed. You can’t stop it. You get taken down a notch by life. Your love lays there, motionless in the bed, leaving her sweat upon the polyester covers … colored a desert theme, with cowboys killing injuns and mankind torn apart by mirror scorn. You can see her body, and you know she’s dead, you did it.

We dropped off our stuff, and then Bigz and I left Carla in the room to do some exploring …

But you can’t just leave her there, Carla … you have to tie her up. Her body is her mind-cathedral. The Towers of Dagon stand guard against cotton candy miracles and cigarette outings … you stare long at the red eyes of that demon and you see your cougar self, and the pus drips hardy from your old wounds. She will tear the place apart, she will kill and shrill and thrill … we had to tie her up.

“… my wine trail was a blood line to the virgin hills of northern California. My breath filled your love-zone with splendid juice …”, Carla said as we left.

I Told her: “I love you baby. We could rage down by the corner with old Griggis and the Flimsy Twins … we could cook up some scrag and clean out our veins and find the hooker paradise in Fresno. We could, if we had hands covered in demon grease and a heart welded shut by an arc welder.”

Carla had that LSD stare …

Carla was the TIGRIS PRIESTESS, she held my heart with metal tongs. I rolled in the grasses of her summer valley and we suckled on blood-grapes. Tired old spinsters made us a quilt, and we soiled it with our love grease and then set fire to their wispy old home. Crones die badly. We were free to touch our energy cubes …

“Leave the lointment cream”, muttered Carla as I locked the door behind us …

15th Floor …

Bigz and I went up to the 15th floor.

Where could we go? – if we’d had the time? – we would’a built robot armies and computers the size of buildings … we would’a got men and women and their precious monkey-oils connected in some super fricassee of painful watching, dread mourning and a heartless night.

Bigz and I chased an old couple down the hallway, and then we came to a door labeled:


And we could smell a new stink, a stranger fragrance of those torrid nights spent hunting spunk whales.

We ran into another fucker … in the hallway … shooting up heroin. I said “D’lingus! Take thy sword out of my shaft and stop your drinking and smoking …” All he could do was pick up an old 2×4 and beat me near to death. He said he was sorry. He bought me a coke. I waited several days and crushed his skull with an old chunk of rip-rap, over.

We were setting new limits … and we needed to sleep, so we went back to the bedroom to check on Carla and get into bed …

Checking OUT

The unbroken promise of two mingled as one and then fried and cooked and barred from the Gates of T’ovish where muskrat-dragons wage war on old burnt out ape-weasels. The whole thing costs $5 … and you can watch and the women will pee in your mouth when they’re done. See it?

You can’t pay in money when checking out …

The hotel is an energy dam, designed to store the mind-thoughts of cretins and marlins and old eagles driven mad by whiskey magic …

The hotel is meant for goombah-freaks and jellybean heads and tormented lovers readying themselves for the final feast …

I will burn it down …

(all of it)