Rodolfo: I came here to study official loan in california ashamed See, part of liking “American Horror Story”— and in ways I do like it—requires you to accept there’s no order to it. It’s a patchwork Frankenstein abortion made by writers who’ve watched enough horror to name-drop it convincingly (“See? That kid’s supposed to be the Antichrist. Of course we’ve seen “The Omen”). The tone is all over the chart, from camp to sleaze to gory provocation. It can’t decide if it wants to be a mature work of horror or just an edgier “Glee,” and so we instead end with a sort of grotesque hysteria.