Nicci’s been trying to get me to The Museum Of Death in Hollywood for months now. Every Wednesday something else comes up and we say, “Oh well, next week!” I kind of wish now that I’d taken it as I sign that I was not supposed to go there. Originally I heard about the exhibit from somebody who described it simply as, “a place filled with old bodies and weird medical shit.” So, like a dumbass, I went along believing it was some sort of scientific place with interesting biological characteristics. Oh man, was I ever wrong. I would imagine, after I get through this description, many of you will agree that the Museum Of Death is not for the faint of heart.
We walked inside and were greeted rather cordially by the woman who I believe is the museum’s curator, and she welcomed us and took our money ($15 per person). During her preamble, she asked if either of us had a problem with disturbing images. I, desiring to maintain my dignity and manhood, quickly answered “No,” because Nicci had already done so. She then said to turn around and take a look at the picture behind us as an example of a “disturbing image.” The photograph captured the carnage following a motorcycle accident. I think the human body was in several pieces and there was viscera and brains strewn about the road. I was instantly nauseated. Now having second thoughts, I entered the exhibit.
There was a time in my life when “Faces Of Death” amused me, and I could study my mother’s EMT training books while laughing at the glossary of horrifying injuries, depicting images of burns, guts, brains, impaled patients, and more. Sometime during my high school years, my body chemistry changed and I suddenly became extremely sickened by it all. So upon entering the museum and seeing things like a photo of someone having their flesh removed, or gunshot wounds to the head (I don’t even own the Big Black record Headache because of the insert), I immediately began counting down the minutes until I could leave.
Of course, there’s actually some really fascinating stuff in the museum for those of us who cannot fathom sitting through a video of a man being cut in two by a train, then being kept alive while the train holds all of his vital organs in place. There’s a room filled with relics from funeral parlors, including advertisements directed at funeral directors and embalmers. There’s a room dedicated to the Heaven’s Gate cult and their creepy mass suicide, complete with video. There’s a room dedicated to Charles Manson and his family, which includes a piece of collector scum treasure: Bobby Beausoleil’s soundtrack for Lucifer Rising. There were also a few pieces of art which I believe were original products of Manson’s. The adjacent room featured photographs of the Black Dahlia murder.
Some other weird odditites included a room filled with stuffed animals (literally, of course) including a bizarre nook of albino creatures. There were also some shrunken heads, which I found to be quite cool. The best room I thought was the one dedicated to serial killers, and included much original artwork and letters sent to some “pen pals” from prison. I spent most of my time here, reading about the murderers, reading their letters, and looking at some of their paintings and drawings. I did this while Nicci watched the video of the guy and the train. She emerged from the room looking absolutely horror-stricken.
I learned from the curator lady that most of the artifacts in the museum were either donated by various folks through the years, or purchased on eBay. She also spoke about her own experiences writing to serial killers in prison, a practice she abandoned after some personal reflection made her question what motivated her to keep in contact with “jerks” and “psychopaths”. It was a bit refreshing to hear her speak about them in such harsh terms, because I’ve always wondered how people can be fascinated or enamored by killers, and I worried that maybe the person(s) responsible for the Museum Of Death were incapable of looking objectively at mass murderers and serial killers.
Before Nicci and I departed, the lady introduced us to Chang and Eng, the conjoined turtles that share a body but have two distinct heads and front…uh…paws? flippers? what the hell are they called? Anyway, it was an adorable, sad little creature that Nicci took to immediately. I think she wants to buy one.
Somehow I found my appetite later last night, and put away six slices of Hard Times pizza. They’ve been impressing me lately with their meatball pies and their plain, extra-cheese pies. I think I’m ready to move them up the list of best pizza joints in Los Angeles. Too bad it’s expensive.
LOST was amazing, as usual. The dialog was horrendous. The story arc made up for it. Top Chef was frustrating, too. Except for when the love of my life, Gail Simmons, returned from wherever-the-fuck she was. I bet she reads this website. I know she does. She probably called Bravo! and said, “There’s this blogger who loves my awesome tits and he’s so depressed that he can’t see them every Wednesday night, so I’m going to return for the finale, k bye.” Unfortunately, she was dressed such last night that her tits were barely visible, probably because she reads this website. Padma looked hot, but whatever, she’s no Gail Simmons, Canadian minx and food connoisseur. I love you Gail. Call me. Eh, I’d settle for you Facebook-ing me.
