My friend and I, we have one thing in common. We both like skulls, skeletons and anything with bones that rattle about. She’s a nurse. I have no excuse.
So a couple of years ago she asked if I wanted to go to the Museum of Death here in Los Angeles on Hollywood Boulevard – the sketchy part of the Boulevard, of course.
What was in store for us, though, would be much more than what we expected. Except for our giggles, “icks,” and “oh my Gods,” I barely remember any of it because we got out of there so fast.
But now I’m two years older so I thought I’d give the Museum another try. A solo visit this time. And that’s what I did.