Like most Manson junkies, I try to rationalize my ghoulishness as historical interest. I explain to doubters that the Tate-LaBianca murders of August 1969 marked—as surely as Altamont—that watershed moment when the peace and love vibes of the Age of Aquarius took a sudden turn for the ugly. Or, conversely, I pass Charles off as a species of sociological curiosity. Surely the question of how a folksinging ex-con turned a tribe of free-loving, acid-gobbling hippies into a mindless crew of killer zombies is of interest to anyone trying to fathom mankind’s seemingly endless capacity to be seduced by evil. Unfortunately, neither explains the pair of gym shorts I own with Charlie’s face on them. In any event, that’ll be me you see creepy-crawling into Robert Hendrickson and Laurence Merrick’s 1972 documentary, Manson, which has been described as a “surprisingly non-exploitative” examination of (Manson) family values. Watch some stinky hippies do bad things at 7 p.m. at the Library of Congress’ Pickford Theater, 101 Independence Ave. SE. Free. (202) 707-5677. (Michael Little)