MO' POE

In this article from the Los Angeles Times, the author describes the locations of the various homes lived in by Poe and which stories he wrote in them. There is also a mention of the mysterious visitor to Poe's grave every year on his birthday, always leaving three red roses and a bottle of Martel brandy. The famous "Poe Toaster" is believed to have honored the tradition for 60 years until he stopped showing up "nevermore".

More Poe posts HERE.

RARE NEWSPAPER ARTICLE!

Discovered among some stacked-up ephemera that I hadn't looked at in a while, I came across this article from the L.A. Times' West Magazine insert from October 26, 1969. I doubt if there are too many of these lying around in Monsterologist's collections, as it's both old and regional, making it a little obscure.

The surprising thing about this article was that it was written by none other than noted author, Kingsley Amis! Among many other books and volumes of poetry, Amis wrote two non-fiction books about James Bond and one Bond novel, "Colonel Sun".

"Son of Horror Film" is Amis' sagacious reminiscence of growing up watching horror films.

ELVIRA BARES ALL!

Elvira, Mistress of the Macabre is getting no shortage of publicity these days since the publication of her "tell-all" memoir, "Yours Cruelly, Elvira". One thing is for certain, she has had a remarkable career. Nothing came easy for her as she climbed her way through the dark corridors and over the man-made walls to self-made stardom. Her "coming out" has only sparked more interest and it appears that she has garnered more support for it than negative responses (it may not have played out the same way 20 years ago, when she began her relationship with T. Wierson).

In this interview from the Los Angeles Times website, Cassandra "Elvira" Peterson reflects back on the long road to her current ever-popular persona.

Cassandra Peterson finally drags Elvira, L.A.'s spookiest icon, out of the dark

By James Reed | October 29, 2021 | LATimes.com

Cassandra Peterson swears no one will recognize her. She’s out of drag on a recent week night, free of the towering black beehive wig, garish eye makeup and that snug dress with a slit up to here. She has the regal air of a celebrity, but who is she?

“I almost got into an accident as I was looking at your billboard on Beverly trying to read the description,” a stranger says suddenly as he approaches Peterson’s table at a cafe in Larchmont Village. “And I almost hit somebody. Thanks a lot.”

“Well, I’m very happy you’re OK,” Peterson says, smiling and lowering her sunglasses. “And that you didn’t sue me for that.”

You know her as Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, the campy, vampy horror host who premiered on local television — KHJ-TV, Channel 9 — in 1981 with her own TV show, “Elvira’s Movie Macabre.” Everything about Elvira is over the top, designed as a sendup of Valley Girl stereotypes with a gothic aesthetic pitched somewhere between punk rock and “The Addams Family.”

"It’s very easy to write off Cassandra in the horrible way that people write off somebody who’s beautiful and sexy.That all fell by the wayside as soon as I saw her perform."

-Paul Reubens

At 70, Peterson is finally lifting the veil on Elvira and putting herself in the spotlight as an L.A. icon with “Yours Cruelly, Elvira: Memoirs of the Mistress of the Dark.” The irresistible tell-all digs deeper than Hollywood dirt to examine Peterson’s circuitous path to stardom and reveal how private she has been.

When the book came out last month, Peterson immediately made headlines with the news that she has been in a relationship with a woman for 19 years. Teresa “T” Wierson, whom Peterson first spotted at Gold’s Gym in Hollywood, was her friend and trainer for several years before they became romantic.

“I was a little worried about writing about my relationship with T,” Peterson says. “I knew that my fans are going to love me no matter what. I swear to God, if I became a mass murderer, I think my fans would still like me.

“But I knew that a big part of my fan base is straight guys,” she says, noting that her fears were partly founded. “On one of my social media platforms, 11,000 people dropped off after reading [about my relationship].”

Whatever following she lost, though, was bolstered by admirers fired up by her big reveal. Twitter went wild with breathless declarations about how Peterson, who was already revered in the LGBTQ community, was now a member of it.

The truth is a little fuzzier. Peterson says she doesn’t identify as gay, lesbian, queer or even bisexual. She just happened, around age 50, to fall in love with a woman for the first time in her life. (“A hot guy walking down the street still turns my head,” she says.)

“T is a private person, and we talked for a long, long time about whether we should tell people,” Peterson says. “There was a part of us that didn’t want to, and then there was another part of me that thought, ‘Oh my God, I’m so tired of introducing you as my assistant.’ It was so embarrassing for her and weird for me.”

Wierson was by her side at Chevalier’s Books earlier this month when more than 400 fans snaked down Larchmont Boulevard to meet their patron saint of Halloween. Clutching copies of “Yours Cruelly,” with Peterson winking and dolled up as Elvira on the cover, they greeted her in T-shirts bearing Elvira’s visage cast in the rainbow of pride colors, ready to embrace her as part of the family.

“It’s so bizarre because it’s a fictional character that we love, but we also know the real person behind it,” said Eric DeLoretta, a visual artist and actor who was at the signing. “I felt happy for her and relieved for her as if it were an old friend who just came out. For someone who was already intrinsically linked to the queer community, it feels like a full-circle moment.”

Peterson’s memoir is full of heartrending stories that shaped her journey as a self-made star. She grew up with a mother she never thought truly loved her and a doting father who adored her. She writes about losing both of her sisters to addiction, watching the onset of the AIDS epidemic ravage her friends in the gay community and the bitter end of her 25-year marriage to musician Mark Pierson, who was also her longtime manager. She kept their daughter, Sadie, out of the book, though. “It’s not my place to tell her stories,” Peterson says.

In a chapter titled “You’ll Never Work in This Town Again,” she revisits in harrowing detail how she survived industry predators and accuses the late NBA star Wilt Chamberlain of sexually assaulting her in the 1970s. She was friends with him until he allegedly attacked her at his Bel-Air mansion and forced her to perform oral sex.

A story she used to reel off as gossip about sleeping with singer Tom Jones — and requiring stitches afterward — becomes unsettling when she unpacks that it was a humiliating encounter and Jones taunted her when she shut it down.

Hers is a classic L.A. story — a young woman born in a small town (Manhattan, Kan.) arrives not with dreams of being a star, but knowing she already is one. Among her detours, she had been a Las Vegas showgirl and, while living briefly in Italy, had sung in rock bands and appeared as an extra in a Fellini film.

She remembers the time Bobby — Mr. De Niro, we later learn — rescued her from an argument with her boyfriend after a Christmas party at Zsa Zsa Gabor’s house. She recalls her disbelief when Brad Pitt showed up at her door by surprise to view Briarcliff Manor, her home in the Hollywood Hills, and then ended up buying it.

Peterson pokes the Hollywood types who weren’t so taken by her charms. (“Saturday Night Live” creator Lorne Michaels wasn’t fond of her; neither was Divine, the John Waters actor and drag performer.)

In the late ‘70s, Peterson joined the Groundlings, L.A.’s influential improvisational comedy troupe, as part of a class that included Paul Reubens (before he found fame as Pee-wee Herman), Phil Hartman, Edie McClurg and the late John Paragon, who helped shape Elvira as Peterson’s confidante and writing partner.

“It’s very easy to write off Cassandra in the horrible way that people write off somebody who’s beautiful and sexy,” Reubens says, admitting he was guilty of underestimating her too initially. “That all fell by the wayside as soon as I saw her perform and saw her wit and humor and her ability to make herself the butt of a joke. I was really impressed by all that.”

They’ve been close friends ever since, bonded by the fact that they both developed larger-than-life characters who have defined their careers. “I don’t let many people call me Pee-wee, but Cassandra does and I call her Elvira.” (It’s pronounced Ca-SAHN-druh, by the way.)

“Yours Cruelly” coincides with Peterson celebrating 40 years of her alter ego, and not much has changed. Elvira is still Elvira — a treasure chest of jokes about her sex appeal and dimwitted wordplay left over from vaudeville. Revisiting “Elvira: Mistress of the Dark,” 1988’s cult-classic film adaptation of the character, through a modern lens, you’d be tempted to wonder if the barrage of sexual innuendo undermines its heroine.

“I wrote all those jokes,” Peterson says, shrugging off the suggestion that they offended her. “I get reviews that say, ‘All she does is talk about her boobs,’ and I’m like, yeah, I know. That’s my shtick, you idiot.” (Go ahead and call Elvira cheap or trashy; she’ll agree with you.)

Her memoir had been nearly 20 years in the making, but Peterson could never find the time to write it. When the pandemic shut everything down last year, Peterson went to work, holing up at Bricks and Scones coffee shop not far from her home.

“People think I go to bed on November 1 and wake up in September,” she says of Elvira’s reputation as the Queen of Halloween. “But I work all year round because it’s a brand that I have to work on.”

Elvira is big business. Peterson acquired the rights to the character early on, capitalizing on licensing opportunities and a robust line of merchandise. A lucrative ad campaign for Coors beer beamed her into homes nationwide in the mid-’80s, as did the syndication of her L.A. TV show.

Her online store hawks T-shirts (“Two Big Pumpkins,” anyone?), coasters, men’s boxers, coffee cups, autographed photos. Limited-edition Elvira Macabre Vespas went on the market for $11,666 two weeks ago, brokered by her manager, Scott D. Marcus, a savvy former vice president of consumer products at 20th Century Fox. And Julien’s Auctions in Beverly Hills is auctioning off items from Peterson’s Elvira collection in December.

“The difference between me and people like William Shatner and my friend Mark Hamill is that they are working for a studio,” she says. “They don’t get the money when there’s a ‘Star Trek’ or ‘Star Wars’ item. I get 100% of the money.”

Peterson grew her brand by hustling with old-fashioned grit. The ’80s were a blur as she become a favorite on the late-night TV circuit, followed by more TV commercials, albums of Halloween songs, Elvira films and guest cameos on TV shows — always with tongue firmly in cheek, and cleavage front and center.

“There aren’t many people who become entities the way Cassandra has and can keep it going for so long,” says Pamela Des Barres, the author of “I’m With the Band” and a dear friend who coached Peterson as she wrote the book by herself. “She personifies Los Angeles in that the way that she created a character is very showbiz.”

Peterson never expected Elvira to endure. Hell, she didn’t even like her alter ego all that much at first.

“I thought it was stupid,” she says. “KHJ was owned by RKO [Pictures], which had a huge library of old horror films. And a horror host was a good way to give some added value to these same old movies they’d run 1,000 times.

“Nobody was excited about my show. I was excited because I got $350 a week. But yeah, no. I would’ve never dreamed of this going longer than three weeks.”

She has considered retiring Elvira multiple times over the years and briefly felt boxed in by her creation.

“When it first started taking off, and then it became the No. 1 show on KHJ, I was like, ‘Oh, this is awesome. Now maybe I can go do some real acting and get a real gig and have a really good TV show,’” Peterson says.

“But it quickly became obvious that you’d be a freaking idiot to go off and try to do something else. And I don’t think lightning strikes twice either,” she says. “Stick with what is working, and milk it for all it’s worth.”

APOCALYPSE SOON . . .

 

[FROM: LOS ANGELES FREE PRESS ca. 1960's.]

HAVE WE HEARD ENOUGH ABOUT MANSON?

We're coming up on the 51st anniversary of the Tate/La Bianca murders. Bobby Beausoleil has just been up for parole. as has Leslie Van Houten; it is unlikely that they will be set free by California Governor Gavin Newsome.

There is also a new, six-part Epix Channel docuseries about the witchy days of "Helter Skelter". The question is, do we need to see more from these human monsters?

I say, "yes", and so does author Lorraine Ali, who reviews the series and provides her own retrospective of those shocking events that made the psychedelic era even more hallucinatory.

The infamous Spahn Ranch in the Santa Susanna Mountains.

Commentary: Do we need another story about Charles Manson? Why Angelenos can't look away
By Lorraine Ali | July 27, 2020 | Los Angeles Times

The new Epix docuseries “Helter Skelter: An American Myth” is a six-part production chronicling the ominous ascent of the Manson Family, from its flower-power beginnings to its heinous killing spree in the summer of 1969.

The compelling series, which premiered July 26, is full of illuminating archival footage of Manson, his followers and the environs that shaped their anomalous ascent. Each hourlong episode features new interviews with former cult members, those who knew them or their victims, and those involved in solving their horrific crimes.

But do we really need another production about this racist madman and his druggie sycophants turned assassins? They’ve been immortalized in countless narratives about this especially creepy chapter in the history of American crime, from last year’s “Mindhunter” and “Once Upon a Time ... in Hollywood” all the way back to the granddaddy of Manson narratives, prosecutor Vincent Bugliosi’s 1974 book “Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders.”

The answer is yes: More than half a century later, the Manson Family's tale still resembles a fever dream. Storytellers can’t help but re-explore the story of Charlie, a diminutive ex-con, pimp and aspiring musician who amassed a following of mostly young women, plied them with LSD, sex and antiestablishment jargon, then convinced them to kill in the name of a race war. They lived on a commune. They mingled with, and murdered, celebrities. It all happened behind the deceptive cloak of peace and love. No wonder we can’t stop watching.

Yet there’s something else that attracts me to new stories about Patricia, Tex and the cult, something that's oddly personal, if not provincial. Weird as it sounds, I have a sense of shared history with these horrible people simply because I grew up in their shadow.

I’m a native Angeleno, raised in the 1970s under a brown inversion layer not dissimilar to one that crowned the San Fernando Valley when the family had its reign of terror. Proximity alone has meant that my life has continually intersected with their legacy and the countercultural confusion they left behind. The notion of killers disguised as peaceniks may explain why I gravitated toward punk rock rather than pining for their generation’s songs about harmony and brotherhood. Like many of my peers, my associations with hippie culture were as much about local madman Manson as faraway Woodstock.

Nostalgia and familiarity are not what I should be feeling watching "Helter Skelter," directed by Lesley Chilcott ("An Inconvenient Truth"), or Quentin Tarantino's Oscar-winning feature, but it’s hard not to when they’re both so deeply immersed in my own SoCal mythology.

For example, the Epix docuseries' mention of “Charlie’s girls” dumpster-diving for food in back of markets across the Valley brought back memories of places where my mom used to grocery shop. When the series shows footage of Manson’s followers riding horses and smoking weed in the Santa Susana Pass, the rock formations behind them are so recognizable I can close my eyes and trace their outline perfectly with my finger. I grew up playing in those hills around Chatsworth Park, hiking the caves and boulders where they’d partied. My daily school bus ride took me past the old Spahn Ranch site. And later in high school, when we could drive up ourselves, we’d search for the fabled row of palm trees where Family members supposedly carved their names.

I associate images of the LaBiancas' Los Feliz home, where the couple were tortured and murdered in 1969, with my first apartment. It was a block from the scene, on a street where I’d frequently walk my dogs out of duty and, if I’m honest, morbid curiosity. And as a music fan, I frequented the clubs where Manson once tried (and failed) to become a rock star. He watched Buffalo Springfield at the Troubadour. I watched Social Distortion. We may have been generations apart, but by the time I was established enough to interview real rock stars, one of my first big breaks was talking to NIN’s Trent Reznor inside the Cielo Drive home where Sharon Tate, Jay Sebring, Abigail Folger, Wojciech Frykowski and Steven Parent were murdered.

The home was demolished soon after, in 1994, but every time it’s pictured in photos or re-created for a scripted production, the horror of those murders is mixed with my own memories of sitting in the living room beneath those thick wood ceiling beams, walking around the kidney-shaped swimming pool and peering out the Dutch door at sweeping views of the city.

Mug shot of Susan Atkins.

And no matter what, Topanga Canyon still feels haunted to me. It’s where the family moved in with Beach Boy Dennis Wilson, killed associate Gary Hinman and where Charlie played a dismal set at the Topanga Corral. One aspect that helps separate the Epix series from my own experience is a soundtrack replete with Manson’s awful recordings. It’s clear now why he had to amass a following some other way than through his music.

Harder to explain than the Manson Family’s invisible imprint on L.A. is why the San Fernando Valley was the perfect incubator for such a deadly aberration. A suburb of Los Angeles where middle-class families had the chance to thrive, the Valley was close enough to access the celebrity of Hollywood, as Manson did, but also far enough away to forget about the privileged lives of L.A.'s beautiful people. The Valley was rough around the edges — Topanga Canyon Boulevard was lined with horse pastures, the 118 Freeway was rolling hills — so there was plenty of undeveloped space for a broke band of misfits to create their own warped ecosystem.

The Valley was a basin of contradictions — wholesome drive-in theaters and a thriving porn industry (see “Boogie Nights”), Topanga’s psychedelic scene, showbiz rich and famous and normal folk like Leno and Rosemary LaBianca. Manson and his family moved between all those worlds, which seems absurd today. But in a city that prides itself on bucking the status quo and starting new trends, who was going to take notice of one more long-haired weirdo waxing poetic?

The connection I have to these felons and their awful legacy is troublesome, but they are part of local history — part of the messed-up place where I was raised, where nothing was ever as safe or sedate as everyone kept insisting it was. And that's a story that never gets old.

FORGOTTEN DINOSAURS WHO RULED THE EARTH!

Before the days of websites and YouTube, we had newspapers to read about the latest monster movies. There we would find reviews of films and view the advertisements used to entice movie-goers to the various local theatrical venues. I would be the first one in the family to grab the Calendar section out of the massive Sunday Los Angeles Times. This is where a lot of the full-page movie posters were published and the occasional lengthier article on a horror star or monster movies in general.

Over the course of a few years, I amassed a pretty good collection of clippings and have been sharing them here from time to time. Today I post clippings of two of the most famous dinosaur movies after Raquel Welch's ONE MILLION YEARS, B.C. from my 50 year-old monster scrapbook!

MY MONSTER SCRAPBOOK: THE MEPHISTO WALTZ

The movie posters and ads proclaimed: "When was the last time you were afraid? Really afraid?" Well, when I sat down in the theater to watch THE MEPHISTO WALTZ, I was expecting to be at least thrilled. I should have been warned when I saw that it was a Quinn Martin Production. Mr. Martin was the mastermind behind a number of oddly formulaic TV shows in the 70s. Did I neglect to say that they were more often times than not, a little hokey, too? Some, like THE INVADERS, were engaging, at least, and that's what I could have said about THE MEPHISTO WALTZ.

Trimmed with all the trappings of the hip occultism of the day, it nevertheless paled in comparison with its Polanski-directed predecessor, ROSEMARY'S BABY. What was left could have been shown as a TV Movie of the Week.

A great cast including Alan Alda, Jacqueline Bisset, Barbara Parkins, Bradford Dillman, and Curt Jurgens couldn't save this from the fringes of the marginal. But, as an impressionable 16-year old, it had enough going for it that I reviewed it in my ongoing homemade monster magazine, called (of course) MONSTERS MAGAZINE. The ads were also alluring enough to include in my scrapbook binder of ghoulish goodies. Here, for the first time in over 40 years, those very same pages have been unearthed and presented here at MONSTER MAGAZINE WORLD!

NOTE: The first review is by long-time movie critic Charles Champlin, is from the Los Angeles Times. The other is from The Freep, a.k.a. The Los Angeles Free Press.