February 1, 2026 (One from the Heart and Mustangs)

Hi folks. We're going back to 1982 again. I wrote about Francis Ford Coppola's "One from the Heart" a few months ago, and I want to revisit the screening I attended with Lillian on Valentine's Day '82, because I have new information. Over the years, I've occasionally thought about that movie, not just for it's incredible art direction and the fact that it broke Zoetrope Studios, but because (despite the critics), I thought it was a very good romantic film, with a beautiful, hopeful ending, and also because in memory, I associated a melancholy feeling with seeing it that day, with Lilly, at what I long thought was a theater in North Hollywood or maybe at Laemmle Universal. For the record, my strongest memory-image from the film was of Frederick Forrest singing "You Are My Sunshine" to Terri Garr.

Last year, I found the dvd of "One from the Heart" at the library, re-watched it for the first time in over forty years and wrote a blog about it, as noted. And because I now had this latent sense of an incomplete memory about our movie date on February 14, 1982, and because the screening occurred just two weeks after the Zilch Robbery (involving my band members), and also our gig at Kennedy High School, I knew I needed to meditate on the whole scenario. I did so, and lo and behold, I learned (with some additional Googling) that Lilly and I in fact saw "One from the Heart" not in North Hollywood but at Grauman's Chinese Theater, and that - indeed - it was a premier screening, for which tickets had to be specially ordered. My meditation revealed that at least one of the film's stars was there: Terri Garr. And maybe Frederick Forrest, too, but certainly other cast and crew members, including perhaps an assistant director, and there were speeches made about the making of the film, and dedications. One speaker mentioned the significance of its release on Valentine's Day, which he related to the power of love.

And then I remembered this: there were two interlopers who tried to crash the party. Terry and Dennis. I hate to even mention them, but they are unfortunately part of this story. They may or may not have had tickets to the movie, but they caused a scene, directed at Lilly and me, and I believe they were thrown out of the theater after disrupting the proceedings. Whoever was speaking on the stage at that time remarked on the interruption, and when the movie was over, Lilly and I were offered an escort to my car (or our separate cars). I'm not sure if we drove there together or met at the theater, but I believe Lys was present and acted as an intermediary.

Anyhow, I remembered that Terry Meissner, who had an outsized sense of his importance in the world, said that Terri Garr had "smiled at him" in the theater. He talked about that for days afterward, and it not only proves that he and Dennis were at the screening, but it also showed Terry's delusional narcissism. He later had similar fantasies about Mary Steenburgen, whom Dennis met in Florida during the filming of "Cross Creek". Dennis later interacted with Malcolm McDowell, Mary's husband. Terry (who was close to Dennis at the time) was obsessed with Mary Steenburgen for a while, and talked about her as if he knew her, using a crude reference for her last name.

The important takeaway for "One from the Heart" is that it was a special screening at Grauman's Chinese, and that film crew and actors spoke beforehand (emphasizing the Valentine's Day motif), and also that, when the speeches were interrupted by a commotion in the audience (the dispute between the ushers and Dennis and Terry), the person onstage NOTED THIS INTERRUPTION. Whomever was speaking pointed out the two individuals who tried to crash the party, and it was a serious enough incident that Lillian and I were offered an escort out of the theater and to our car or cars when the movie was over. True Story!

I've been doing pinpoint memory recovery for early 1982, and have also recollected an incident at my house (9032) involving the same two individuals, and an Easter Basket that Lilly brought me on April 11 of that year. It was Easter Sunday. Long story short, these guys stole my Easter Basket, which may seem like just a stupid prank, but it was more than that, because Dennis, in particular, was on a rampage after being outed by Dave Small for the Zilch Robbery on February 1 (44 years ago to this very day). Terry was in cahoots with him at the time. 1982 (my first full calendar year as Lilly's boyfriend) was marred with many violent incidents involving Dennis, which were subsequently blocked from my memory. One was the terrifying overnight "kidnap" in his white pickup truck that I mentioned in a recent blog.  

I want to also tell you about Malia's birthday party, which occurred at her house in March '82 (and at which something extremely scary happened), but that may have to wait for another blog because I need to talk about Pearl's Broken Hip, an event that took place on January 1, 2010, close to 28 years after the Zilch Robbery, and the Kennedy High concert, and the screening of "One from the Heart". Pearl's hip was broken nearly three decades later, and yet at least one of the same players was involved.

Can you guess which one? I thought you could.

A complete run-down of that event will have to wait, but for now I want to talk about the aftermath - what occurred after Pearl was injured and was taken away in an ambulance, when the situation was being covered up.

As you guys know, it was covered up. The participants had to adhere to a Storyline. I'm sure the EMT who attended to Pearl was told to keep quiet. In my memory, "official people" appeared at the house, among others, but what stands out is the car I was put into.

I was placed inside a car that was going to leave the scene of this incident. The location of this car was in a driveway on Pearl's street. I'll refrain from giving the exact location.

The aftermath was hectic, to say the least. Several people wanted to ride in this car, so many that straws were drawn (so to speak). One of the people chosen was put in the back seat with me. His name was Ed. The kicker is that Ed may have been at the Kennedy High School concert, 28 years earlier, in January/February 1982. It turned out, unknown to me before then, that Ed was a friend of mine. 

But while the riders were being selected, a young woman wanted in. Her appearance is clear in my conscious memory. She had a "sponsor", a lady who was vouching for her, who claimed the gal knew me from a "past association". I call her Katie. She was not chosen by the others to be one of the passengers in our car, but they agreed to give her five minutes to talk to me in the back seat. She said she had once met or known me, and she showed me some scars on her back or her neck. I've since remembered her from a 1982 incident at a house party on Aldea Street in Northridge. I call her "All American Katie" because I believe this terrible incident at her house happened on the Fourth of July and because, in my memory, she was sitting at a piano in her living room, wearing an American flag halter. Strangely (and astoundingly), I also associate her with a little girl I knew from my childhood in Reseda, named Katie McCormick.

Mustangs are also associated with Katie, and with other memories, and by Mustangs, I mean both the car and the mascot for Andasol Avenue Elementary School in Northridge. 

In the January 2010 "getaway" car (which was not a Mustang), I remember her showing me the scars on her back, then asking if she could give me a hug. I said okay, then she got out of the car because her alloted time was up, and the rest of us, including Ed, drove away.

If I had to guess all the people in that car, I'd say Ann, me and Ed, and maybe Lillian, Lys and Helen.

We drove around and stopped at a Denny's or other all-night restaurant.

The rest of the night is vague, and though the story doesn't end there, that's all I have time for today.

Thanks for reading, tons of love. 

January 22, 2026 (Don Simpson)

Hey guys, just a short one this time. Do you remember Don Simpson? He was one half of the megaproduction duo of Simpson and Bruckheimer, who had humongous hits like "Top Gun" in the 1980s.

Jerry Bruckheimer is still with us. He made a comeback with "Top Gun: Maverick" in 2023, a film that - my goodness gracious - opens at China Lake. Don Simpson died almost exactly 30 years ago, on January 19, 1996. He was a heavy substance abuser.

What would you guys say if I told you I met Don Simpson? Would you scoff? I have, of course, told you of meeting Presidents and all kinds of famous celebs, so maybe you wouldn't doubt Don Simpson. But what if I told you I met him at a party, and that he approached me? And that he was angry enough to accost me.

What would you say about that? And what if this party was a porno party? Where? In Northridge, of course. Everyone knows that Northridge is the porno capital of Los Angeles (if not the world).

Yes, folks, I met Don Simpson at a porno party on Hiawatha Street, at a house between Encino and Jellico. You can Google Map it, or I can show the house to you in person. I didn't go to this house by myself, nor voluntarily. John "Shecky" Mallis took me there, in concordance with Dennis and the late David Friedman. Victoria Principal was there. I only mention her name because she was not a nice lady. 

Other famous people were also present at this house. The bad guys I've named must've brought me along for some objective I am unaware of. Maybe because they were ordered to. Who the F knows with these cult people?

Don Simpson may have been aware of this objective. He may have known he was being blackmailed and exposed. And at first, he blamed me, as these people always do. They assume I am "in on" this cult stuff, but I am not and never have been. I didn't live their coke and sex lifestyle and knew nothing about it until I was put into the middle of these situations. And when Don Simpson realised this, that I wasn't behind his exposure, he apologized to me the next day, at another house in the Hiawatha Street gauntlet I was supposed to run before I would be set free. I could show you that house, too, another huge "not-very-Northridgey" fake McMansion. Fake rich people inside. Swarthy occupants. An angled driveway that Simpson drove up and parked his Porsche Targa on, to berate me then thank me one last time.

I was later told that I was "the guy who destroyed Don Simpson's career", and if true, if I was actually The Guy, and not just an unintentional final nail in his rotten Hollywood coffin, it means that this encounter on the Hiawatha/Jellico driveway must have happened no later than the mid-1990s, when he was still vital and before he died. 

My guess is the early 1990s or late 80s. Maybe after he made "Days of Thunder" in 1990.

But folks, I must tell you, Jerry Bruckheimer is a whole 'nuther story. Have you guys ever heard of Devonshire House and the movie "Odd Man Out"? You should do some research on that one, especially Devonshire House circa 1976.

Talk to you soon.

January 14, 2026 (crime report)

 Hi folks. This is gonna be another blunt crime report, so be prepared. I wish there were cheerier things to write about, but "the hits just keep on comin'" (as they say), and I am so shocked and disgusted with what I'm learning about what I'll carefully call The Pearl Situation, that it's a wonder I haven't become physically ill. If a color could depict my feelings about this, it would be the reddest Blood Red you could imagine.

I will soon be 66. Not ancient, but I have now lived half those years under the secretive yoke of scumbag drug and pornography people - CULT PEOPLE - who have taken advantage of my naivety about their world and the history my life.

My health is not good. I'm living with a hernia the size of a grapefruit.

I am basically alone in the world, and my only concern is getting the truth into the open. To do this, I write. 

I'm thinking a lot about John Mallis lately. We knew him as "Shecky", but that name's too cutesy for a guy I mistakenly thought was a friend, and who I've recently learned was a hard-core drug criminal who used me for ten years and then walked away. So let's call him John instead of Shecky. The first time I met him, he was sitting in a director's chair on the small lawn adjacent to Dennis's studio in back of The Reading Center on Devonshire and Woodley. This was in late June 1983. The director's chair was probably supplied by Dennis, who had worked on movie sets. John Mallis was sitting there shirtless, tanning his already bronze skin. He had on a pair of aviator shades, and had his practice pad in his lap, and his drumsticks. John is a drummer, and a good one.

Lillian may have dropped me off at the studio that day. It was either her or Dave Small. Dave and me were in need of a drummer at the time. Dennis was on the outs after the Zilch robbery in February 1982 (though ironically we were still using his studio) and when this John guy mentioned that he played drums, and had a kit inside the studio, that was good news for us. We may have jammed that very first day.

Now I will reveal something I've regretted for over four decades. Lilly and I had planned to go to Knotts Berry Farm on July 1, 1983, for the grand opening of Camp Snoopy. She loved Snoopy; I was a Peanuts fan since childhood. Our date was set: Knotts and Camp Snoopy on July 1, opening day.

But then I met this drummer named John at Dennis's studio. Thinking back, it was like he was posed there, on that tiny scrap of lawn, in that director's chair, and I am willing to bet that he knew Dennis before he put his drums in that studio. Their whole setup was a scam that, at age 23, I failed to recognize. And when he offered to jam, I eagerly accepted. And this is what I've regretted all these years:

I told Lilly I couldn't go to Camp Snoopy, as we had planned, because I had "just met this drummer." She was understandibly disappointed, and I felt bad but stuck to my decision to jam, and ever since then, I've wanted to go back in a time machine and kick my own ass because Lilly had her heart set on going to Knotts and Camp Snoopy on opening day, and I had agreed to that, and I cancelled our plan on a whim. I still feel horrible about it.

We did end up going, a couple days later, maybe even on July 4, one of our two anniversaries. And we had fun. I have a strip of photo booth pictures that depict this. We also got our potrait drawn by a caricaturist, with me as a surfer, Lilly as a beach bunny. I have that, too.

But I made her cry by cancelling opening day, and I am going to go back in a time machine and and punch myself in the nose for doing that, especially because I did it in favor of John Mallis, a criminal drug dealer who wasted ten years of my life, and who worked behind my back with other lowlifes to set me up and destroy my relationship with Lilly.

I now believe that John Mallis knew Dennis before he "moved in" to The Reading Center (which was also a drug drop). In the early 1990s, John Mallis used a "scanning" device on me to get me into his car for ride-alongs on his drug deliveries. He had been a pot grower for many years (in his backyard) and was now trying to move into cocaine. He needed me along for some kind of cult credibility. My presense would make him a "made man". He had a bad temper, and his mask came off on these drug runs when I told him under hypnosis (or scanning) to let me out of the car. That's when I found out he wasn't my friend and never had been. Like Dennis, he was only ever a criminal drug dealer.

And he has somehow turned up, again through Dennis, in connection to Pearl and Helen.

In July 1989, Helen took me to her mom Pearl's house, to get me away from the insane, violent situation at my house: the legendary 9032 Rathburn Avenue. But the bad guys found out I was there, at Pearl's house, and they came and a confrontation ensued. The main bad guy was a close relative of mine. Another was one of his associates, whose name I won't mention because he is a very dangerous and well-connected Northridge individual. And another of the people who showed up at Pearl's house, to threaten Helen and me on that day in July 1989, was John Mallis.

Yep, all the way back in 1989. Can you believe the bad guys were involved with Pearl and Helen back then? Or that they even knew where Pearl lived? It makes me sick.

This was at a time when I was not in any band. John Mallis had kicked me out of the band I founded, and out of his Winnetka garage, where we rehearsed, in the late Summer of 1987, ostensibly for wearing nail polish and listening to black metal. On a very important side note, Dave Small and his then-girlfriend Kelly Wilson (who later married Terry Meissner) lived at John's house in 1987 and part of '88, and they moved into the legendary Burton Street house in Reseda in September/October 1988. This will become crucial in our investigation.

Returning to John Mallis: he was a chronic pot smoker, but much more than that -

When he moved to Archwood Street in Winnetka in 1987, he immediately started growing high grade marijuana in his backyard. Rows of it, like a cornfield. He grew impressive plants, high grade pot, and he did this within a mile of the West Valley LAPD station. 

His plants were pungent. You could smell them from the street. I was still rehearsing with him and Dave at the time, and was concerned about this pot smell, but John assured me there was nothing to worry about because, as he put it, he was now an acknowledged "gardener". Though he never said so, the inference was that he paid a hefty sum (ten thousand dollars, a lot in 1987 money) to become such.

One question: to whom might he have paid that money to?

Let us switch gears now, to talk about the Meissner House on White Oak Avenue just south of Nordhoff. The Meissner house was inhabited by that evil family, the Meissners, and after Elmer Meissner died in 2002, his wife Jean moved to Arizona. She died in November 2005. The house has not been inhabited since she moved.

Folks, we are talking a seven figure, million dollar property in the heart of "Sherwood Forest" Northridge. Who in their right minds, possessing such a property, would not sell it or rent it...I mean, who the F are you kidding?

The Meissner House has been blacked out for almost one quarter of a century.

The reason it has remained empty is that the Meissners - Jean, Elmer and their POS son Terry - were supremely evil people who would make Charles Manson blush. Jeffery Epstein was an amateur in comparison.

But the thing about the Meissners, is that their behavior was accepted or looked the other way at, right in the middle of their suburban street, which is not separated by long driveways and giant hedges and acreage like the estates of the Los Angeles Elite, who can hide in their surroundings. 

Astoundingly, the Meissners did their swinging thing just yards from their neighbors' house, and just feet from the street. 

The Meissners held swinger parties in their backyard in which people fucked each other in their pool, in front of an audience of Elmer and Jean, Terry's parents. I was there, at one party in 1988, so I know.

I was also victimised in 1982 and 1983 at the Meissner House (so was Lilly)...and I know the truly evil things about this horrific family. You can ask Sandra Mussey. She knows.

Happy New Year

Howdy folks, and Happy New Year. I hope you had a nice holiday season. I'm gonna try to write more regularly in 2026. It won't be 300 times a year like in the old days, but hopefully at least once a week, a pace I was maintaining for the last couple years until this past Fall, when I got behind in my blogging because of an information avalanche, related to the research work I do. As you know from my most recent blogs, I've been blown away by the things I've learned. It's truly stunning what the memory can cough up through the practice of self-hypnotic meditation. For instance, I've been working on restoring my overall memory of 1982, using specific dates as markers (such as Valentine's Day, my birthday, etc.), and I've remembered the night Lilly and I were having dinner at Angela's Restaurant, sometime between April and June 1982. I hope to pin down the exact date, but anyway, Lys joined us that night, to show me a portfolio she had with Lilly's high school senior portraits in it. The larger story behind those photos is too long to go into, but what the memory showed was that Cousin Tony entered the restaurant with a large companion. They sat down univited at our table and tried to intimidate me.

Who is Cousin Tony, you ask? My answer: if you know, you know, and if you don't, you don't. But I can tell you that he isn't a nice guy. That night in Angela's, I had no idea who he was when he walked in, but he seemed to know a lot about me. He was younger than me (only 18, I was 22) but he was older in a streetwise way, and more importantly, he was bigger, likely stronger, and physically fit. I think he said he was into martial arts. He was definitely muscular, wearing a tank top that emphasized his arms, and he sat down at our table and started "advising" me in a "word to the wise" kind of way, about stuff I knew nothing about. I'm still working to recall the substance of what he said. He tried to pretend like he was "my pal"; that if I listened to him I'd be okay. Gang type, pseudo-Mafioso bullshit. But the bottom line was that he was threatening me, and I remember telling him (paraphrase), "Yes, I know you could kick my ass, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna just sit here and take this crap." He changed the subject by talking about music. Cousin Tony is an accomplished pianist. But he's also a thug. Straight up. 

Other things happened on that night at Angela's Restaurant (where Lilly and I used to go for pizza) but I won't mention them now.

Anyhow, as noted, I'm remembering all kinds of outrageous criminal incidents and events, like the time Dennis forced me into his white pickup truck. I think it was a mini-truck. Yes, indeed. I don't yet know the context, the "before and after", but he abducted and illegally detained me one night in 1982, and drove me around until the sun came up. I kid you not. He put me in handcuffs, had a baseball bat and a gun in the truck's front seat. Said he was gonna kill me. I've found the place on Gledhill Street (near White Oak) where he finally parked when he was ready to give up. I think he got pulled over by the cops after contacting "a business partner of his" who lived on Texhoma off Gledhill. But his sister showed up and pleaded his case and I'm guessing the incident got covered up.

Imagine being me, as a victim of all this stuff, and not only having the crimes blocked from your memory, and not even being aware of them for over forty years, but knowing now that the perpetrators got away with everything they did.

Can you say "infuriating?" And that's not all Dennis has done. I could give you a laundry list, and I will in due time. The stuff he has pulled goes all the way up to and including my time with Pearl, when I was her caregiver. The event I'm working on now took place in 2010, at Pearl's house and also at the Latter Day Saints Church overlooking Plummer Street near Balboa, just west of the famous Greek Church.

Anyhow, all I can do is keep working, playing the hand God has dealt me, and I believe I've been doing a pretty good job of late. In my ongoing investigation, I've been hit by an avalanche of info, as you know, and just recently, the investigation has taken a whole new turn. I've discovered that Pearl's broken hip was not an accident, as I was told before I became her caregiver, and not only that, but...(are you ready?)...(and some of you already know this bit of truth)...I've found out I was there when it happened.

Did you catch that last part? Let me repeat it. I was present when Pearl's hip was broken, and it was no accident.

Finding this out, almost exactly sixteen years after the fact, is such an affront to me, and to my caregiving tenure with Pearl, and, in my opinion, to all caregivers everywhere, that my blood has been boiling since I learned of it.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking: "How, Ad, could you have been present when Pearl's hip was broken and not have known it for all this time?"

It's called memory blocking, folks, and there are several ways to do it, including hypnosis, "knockout drugs" like Rohypnol, in my case, the use of electronic "scanners", or a combination of all three.

When you don't remember what happened to you, you can't talk about it, write about it, or report it. And the bad guys know this. Dennis knows this. So does everyone who was present, with me, and Pearl, when her hip was broken on January 1, 2010.

This happened at her house, during an ayahuasca "ceremony" for a person who will not now be named (but may soon be). Do you guys know what ayahuasca is? I will tell you. It is an extremely dangerous psychedelic drug, obtained from a plant that is brewed into tea. 

I am outraged at what I am learning about Dennis and the day he took me to the Latter Day Saints Church above Plummer. This happened in March or early April 2010, right when I was about to become (or had become) Pearl's caregiver. Can you guys even believe that Dennis knew Pearl and Helen, and that he thought he had a say in whether or not I would become Pearl's caregiver? He took me to this church, with Friedman in tow, because he was part of a crew that were making porno movies, likely on behalf of David Birke, Jared Rappaport and CSUN. Speaking of Dave Birke, its amazing the things I've remembered about him, like the times, in 1991, when he forced me to attend certain movies with him, as if he had some kind of proprietary hold over me. He came to my house (9032), and he must've "scanned" me with one of the electronic devices all those guys had, then he would "tell me" I had to go to such-and-such a movie with him. I would've been under a level of hypnosis when this was happening, and also under threat of getting "zapped" by a stun gun or put in handcuffs or any of the tactics these bad guys used in those days.

David Birke did this to me for several weeks in 1991. He forced me to attend movies with him, ones that had whatever symbolic meaning to him and his stupid ass cult. I'd like to see him try it now.

I'd like to see Dennis try forcing me into his car now, like he did at Pearl's house in April 2010, so he could take me to the Latter Day Saints Church, and to the Eaglegate house just north of the church, where John Mallis posed as "Chicago John". These were porno movie locations, for some stupid cult objective. No pornographic activity was evident while I was there, so maybe it was "second unit" stuff, but these are 100% verified incidents.

It's astounding to me what I've remembered. And the 1991 David Birke "movie thing" is nothing compared to what he did to me and my Mom at the 7th Day Adventist Church in August 1988. Why he is walking around a free man is a mystery for the ages. Perhaps he is free because if the full truth were told about his (and other related) cocaine families, it would inundate and collapse Los Angeles, and the state of California.

When the truth comes out about the 7th Day Church, and what happened there in August 1988, California, as a state government, is done. Wolves and Vampires are done.

The only way the United States of America will survive is if it stands up and tells the truth.

Until then, I stand as strong as I can, unto God and myself. And I still believe in love.

Happy New Year and God Bless.

December 3, 2025 (Catching Up)

 Hey folks, yeah I'm still kickin', long time no see and all that. I haven't had time to write (almost literally) because I've been going almost 24/7 since the last time we spoke. Even in my sleep I am (almost) going 24/7. I extended my nightly walks way out east of Zelzah about a month ago, and all the way up to Chatsworth Street. I do this thing called my Ralphs walk; been doing it for over a year 'cause my local Vons is waaay too expensive. Ralphs up in Granada Hills has deals and all kinds of clearance items so I've been walking up there since about Summer 2024. It's a 4 mile round trip so I get most of my daily miles in, too.

I'm talking about the Ralphs on Chatsworth and Zelzah, across the street just south of where the UA theater used to be, where Lilly and I saw so many movies in the '80s.

Anyhow, one night about a month ago, not long after Halloween, I got a notion to cross Zelzah and walk down this dark street called Kingsbury. It opened up a can of worms that I'm still digesting.

Kingsbury east to Andasol then south on Andasol to Devonshire then east again to Louise, cross Devonshire and go one short block south to Tuba and Louise. Turn right (going west) and see what you pass on your right. This section of Tuba is narrow and old. There's an old patch of someone's farm still standing. Keep walking in this direction and you will come to a L-shaped turn where Tuba meets (but does not intersect with) Andasol.

The southeast sidewalk of this turn, from Tuba onto Andasol, is legendary.

Go south one more block and you'll be at Andasol Avenue Elementary School. 

I used to pass this school regularly when my Dad lived at an assisted living facility just north of Mayall on Balboa. I was staying with my Mom then, in her HUD apartment. Dad lived at this care facility from 1998 to April 2006. I had no car until November 1999, so I'd walk to visit Dad, and after crossing CSUN, the easiest route was straight down Mayall from Zelzah to Balboa. Mayall took me right past the south side of Andasol Elementary, and I passed it probably 50 times (at least), and on foot, but I was oblivious in those days.

Now, though, ever since I recalled The 2010 Pat/Friedman Tour, I've been remembering a ton of things they showed me, and one of those things was the distinctive exterior of the auditorium at Andasol Elementary. I discovered the children's garden on my own about two weeks ago and lost it right there on the sidewalk, looking through the chainlink at night. I needed a Kleenex, big time.

Anyhow, that's just a little smidge of what's been happening.

I also do Crime Walks, where I uncover (and try to contextualize) cold case crimes in this area, Granada Hills, east of Ralphs to Aldea and south down to Prairie. I also have my White Oak sector, and I'm dismayed to report that the horrendous Meissner House, empty for 23 years, has had lights on the past two times I've passed it. Only two lights, and no cars are there, so it's not a crisis just yet, but it has me worried. I don't know what's going on inside there, but they musn't ever change it, or sell it or re-develop the land. The Meissner House must stand as a Museum of Horror for all time. And it ain't funny and I'm not joking.

On the "normal" front, I saw Sparks at the Greek Theater on September 30, and Judas Priest and Alice Cooper in a co-headlining show at the Forum on October 19. Both concerts were killer, and I must state yet again how impressed I am with JP's new lineup. What band has ever pulled off replacing two absolute guitar legends? Judas Priest, that's who. Now, I'm talking in the live sense. No one can replicate the run of albums from "Sad Wings" to "Turbo" that featured Tipton/Downing, but the last Priest album with Richie Faulkner was their best since then and is a classic in it's own right, and live, this 2.0 version of JP is Next Level, with Andy Sneap as the secret weapon...

At the Tiny Apartment, I'm listening to Scott Walker and (recently) "Storm Corrosion" by Wilson and Ackerfeldt. I just re-read "The Shining" for the first time since 1977, and it's gotta be one of the greatest books ever written, in any genre. Question: What the hell was Kubrick thinking? 

By day, I'm working on my 2009 book, tentatively titled "Diane's House". Gonna be a while till it's out but I'm shooting for no later than next Summer.

I'm looking to buy old street maps of the San Fernando Valley. Google Streetview is worthless, it shows a bunch of AI-generated "fake news" locations. Bing is a little better but they don't have a ground view.

Anyhow, that's all I've got for tonight. I'll keep the blog going no matter what, but I can't promise a regular schedule. See ya at Maple Hall.

Tons and tons of love!     

October 7, 2025 (The Visit of Oswald T.)

Hi folks, I'm running behind as usual, but I wanted to tell you about a man named Oswald T. He was a botanist with an impressive resume, one that you'd think might make him a household name, at least among people who follow science. I mean, we all know Luther Burbank, right? At least, those of us in California know his name because of the city of Burbank, and many of us (me included until some recent Googling) have assumed that Burbank was named after Luther (according to Google, it was named after his half-brother David).

Anyhow, if Luther Burbank was a famous botanist (and he was) then Oswald T. should've been famous, too. He was a university president at the U. of Massachusetts Amherst, and he also taught at Yale. He worked at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard during the time of The Philadelphia Experiment. I mean, my goodness. Reading his credentials and accomplishments, the man was a big deal; I even found a picture of him with a US President (either JFK or LBJ, I can't remember).

I bring him up because he was the grandfather of my girlfriend when I was twelve years old, and ten years later, long after she and her family moved away, good old Oswald had the gall to enter my bedroom at 9032 without knocking. I didn't even know who he was.

I want to call him an A-Hole, but I'm refraining for the moment because, when he came into my bedroom, Oswald seemed to be under a lot of stress. He had a suit on, and he had with him either a small suitcase/attache case or a black bag. Not sure what he had in it, but a stethoscope may have been one of the items. This was at a time when several grown "professional" men were harrassing me. I was 22 years old.

I'm also not calling Oswald an A-Hole (at least for now) because he was interested in my record collection, which I kept in an old wooden crate, the kind that had a paper label pasted on the side with pictures of oranges or some such. Did you ever have your albums in an orange crate? Anyhow, I'm just remembering what Oswald said, when he came into my room (and this is paraphrased): "You may think I'm not hip, in my suit, and because I was born in 1911 and I'm almost fifty years older than you, but I know about rock n' roll." He may have compared himself to his son (who was indeed a major-league A-Hole, one of the biggest of all time) and he (Oswald) said "I'm a hell of a lot hipper than my son."

But the thing was, when Oswald thumbed through my albums in the orange crate, he couldn't figure out Judas Priest.

Judas Priest, if I recall correctly, seemed to bug more than one of these men who were hassling me. They didn't like heavy metal. Some of them were religious, and they thought Judas Priest was a sacreligious name. 

"Screaming for Vengeance" had just been released on July 17, 1982 (which helps me narrow down the date of this incident). The title and the band name bothered Oswald T. He said something like, "I've got no problem with The Beatles, who actually had some talent, but what does this stuff do for you? 'Screaming for Vengeance'? What kind of title is that and why would you want to listen to it? Are you a vengeful person?"

I said no, and he said, "Well then why are you listening to this crap?"

Then he picked up Motorhead "Iron Fist", which had come out in April of that year.

"More violent crap", he proclaimed. "What's a motorhead, anyway? Wait a minute...don't tell me, I think I know. It's a person who takes amphetamines, right? See, I'm hipper than you thought. And I've taken amphetamines myself. I had to, in college, to get through my exams. And I know you like to snort that stuff, that methamphetamine. I know all about you, but I won't judge you on that, because, as I say, I've taken pills myself. But it'll end up frying your brain if you keep using it. You know that, right?"

I said nothing. Just sat there wondering Who The F this guy was, besides the grandpa of my girlfriend from ten years ago.

I don't think Oswald tortured me that night, but he may have threatened to. Lots of people tortured me in 1982. Oswald may have had zappers or other electronic gadgets in his black bag (like the dreaded bleep/bloop device that produces tones you hear inside your head). I think he explained these evil things to me, and he didn't insult my intelligence.

But the heavy metal bugged him. I think he got over it by saying something like, "You think that's heavy metal? That's nothing, just a bunch of guys who can't play guitar. You want a good guitar player? Try Segovia. That's who you should be listening to, not these guys. But if you want heavy metal, try the Philadelphia Experiment. Do you know what that was? Do you know what degaussing is?" 

He talked about plant grafting and cloning. He told me he knew astrology, and said he was a Sagittarian, and because of this he claimed he was physically powerful AND philosophical (thus a dual threat), though he conceded that because I was an Aries (lightning fast) and younger than him (22 to 71) that I could "probably take him" one-on-one.

The guy was a piece of work, and as I mentioned, he threatened me. He said he had to do something to erase my memory (or "re-set" me, as these people put it). He said I could either go along and let him do it, or he could force me. "The easy way or the hard way, your choice" He also used the phrase "Carrot and the Stick", and said that if I chose the carrot, he could arrange it so I would be rewarded in some way. So yeah, he was an A-Hole. This man in a suit who would barge into my room. 

In Northridge, in the 1960s (I think all the way through  the 70s) there was a beloved old-fashioned ice cream shop on Reseda Boulevard near Rayen named "Oswald's Ice Cream Parlor." I think Oswald said it was named after him, though he may have been kidding. Take a hike, Oswald. 

For decades, folks, I've wondered about an Event that took place in September 1989 that I have called "The Attack of the Ex-Neighbors". Briefly, one day in that month and year, as my parents and I were leaving our house (possibly to go to the Devonshire Division police station), a huge angry maniac ran across Sunburt Street, where it met Rathburn at our corner. This gigantic madman ran from Mrs. Cooper's house (south across the street from ours) and made a beeline for my Mom and Dad as we left our house. He ran straight toward my parents as we strode down our walkway, full steam ahead, and he stuck out his arms and he pushed my 69-year-old Dad to the ground.

This coward was Oswald T.'s son, Ray , all 6' 5" 270 lbs of him. He was also 15 to 20 years younger than my Dad. Ray T. was a world-class POS, and in the short time I knew him when I was 12 years old (and I never knew him because he never said hello), he tried, it seemed to me, to present himself as an Intimidating Badass. He was a CSUN Professor and he had a handlebar moustache and he wore round Marxist sunglasses with lenses so black you couldn't see through them. You couldn't see his eyes. He never said hello. On the few occasions I saw him, he always seemed in a hurry, and you could tell that He Thought He Was A Bad Ass Mofo.

But what he really was, was an A-Hole of the Highest Degree. And on this day in September 1989, he emerged out of the blue, as if he'd been lying in wait, and he sprinted across Sunburst Street and knocked my Dad to the ground on the lawn of 9032. Two other men appeared, Marty B and Eugene Carpenter, whose full name I give because he was the biggest A-Hole of them all. I hadn't seen any of these men for close to fifteen years. They and their families had all moved away. Why were they back all of a sudden, and why were they attacking my parents? I wondered about that for decades.

One of the men got on all fours behind my Mom, real quick so she couldn't react, and another (I think Eugene Carpenter) pushed my Mom to the ground over the man's back, like in the schoolyard. Marty B kicked my Dad, who was still lying on our grass. I was probably screaming my head off by this time. I remember a police car driving by, and a blonde female officer stuck her head out the window and said, "Is everybody playing nice?" No, maam. They weren't.

Our neighbor Roy, who was 87 years old, happened to drive by. He slowed down to ask what the hell was going on, and Eugene Carpenter told him, "none of your business, old man."

I've always remembered my Mom asking Ray T, "what's this all about, Ray." And he answered, "You know exactly what this is about", and he indicated me. He may even have said, "But I'm not going to say it in front of him (meaning me)."

Other stuff happened, (which I wrote about In What Happened in Northridge), but the point is that I've been baffled by this incident for the 31 years since I first remembered it (in 1994). I called it "The Attack of the Ex-Neighbors", and I had a feeling it had to do with a sex cult operating in our neighborhood (because the sociopathic sex pervert who kidnapped me, Jared Rappaport, was also a CSUN Professor (and he still is!)

But now, because I have remembered The Visit of Oswald T in 1982 (seven years earlier!) and because I have remembered so much about The Evil in 1982, I now believe I know for sure the motive for the Ex-Neighbors' Attack. They were all a bunch of fucking a-holes who were scared of being exposed.

Thanks for the memory, Oswald.  

September 28, 2025 (The Polar Bear Rug)

 Hi folks, and Happy Sunday Evening. My Rams won, and my Cincinnati Reds clinched a Wild Card spot and will be playing the Dodgers starting Tuesday, so it was a good sports day, and I hope you had a good weekend and a great week overall.

I have another Sunday Story for you, though it may be short. I'm truly working overtime at the moment, information-wise, probably more than ever before, and it will take me a while to catch up in my reporting, even from where we left off last week (drinking beer while under hypnosis at Ann's apartment).

I have to jump ahead from that incident, in our 1983 timeline, because I recalled a memory this week, since I last wrote, of the worst and most horrible thing I've ever experienced. I'm not going to describe it, but I will give you the context and provide a few details.

In blogs written during the Summer I have mentioned the Meissner House, which I've been passing semi-regularly on my walks, when I extend those walks to the White Oak corridor between Lassen and Rayen Streets and detour past the Birke House on Superior and Shoshone and two other houses in that upper sector. In mentioning the Meissner House in recent blogs, I have noted the unusual detail that it's been empty for 23 years, entirely unoccupied and not maintained except for groundskeeping, which allows it to "blend in" with the upper middle class homes in the neighborhood, until one looks more closely at the faded and peeling paint and the rotting wood on the gates and the (frankly) haunted-looking mailbox.

Walk past there and see for yourself.

The Meissner House is a haunted house, and it is a haunted house of evil.

I know this, because I have experienced the evil I speak of. The Meissners, the three family members who lived there during the time I knew the son, will go down in infamy as on par with the Manson Family, and no that is not a joke. 

Continuing my preface, I have noted two separate Meissner House Incidents in my recent blogs, both of which involved Lys, and Howard Schaller. My readers may look up the blog(s) in which those incidents are mentioned if they desire, but what I am getting at is this: the incidents I have previously alluded to, occurring at the Meissner House, are not the same as the incident I am about to report.

Therefore, we will call this one the Main Meissner House Event. We will state that it may have occurred over the weekend of Friday night July 8 through Sunday July 10, 1983, and we will state that it definitely included EXTREME VIOLENCE, sadism, and torture, and that is all I will say regarding the activity.

Among the participants in this activity were all three Meissner family members: the evil mother, the evil father, and the evil son, rock-bottom gutter scum every one of them. 

It is IMPERATIVE to note that there were other participants present. Those participants are every bit as evil as the Meissners.  

My testimony of this event begins with the sudden "snapshot" memory (recovered this week) of a Polar Bearskin Rug, which we will call The Polar Bear Rug,

In one of my meditations on the Meissner House, I got a millisecond flash of a bearskin rug. The image was there-and-gone, and I wondered, "What kind of bear was it?" because brown didn't seem to fit. White had a ring of truth, and I remembered a story that the evil son once told about the evil Meissner father.  

He told of his father's hunting trip to Alaska, and that he went there to shoot and kill a polar bear, and in this recounting, the son was incensed that his father had flown more than 3000 miles north to "go out of his way" to shoot a bear who "had done nothing to him and had never known or even met him".

Now, before you make the mistake of thinking the son was a compassionate guy who felt terrible that his dad had killed a polar bear, I can assure you that the son was a grade-A sociopath, as evil a person as you could meet. His dad may have been worse, but that does not make the son a good guy (quite the opposite), and the mother may have been worse than the other two put together. All three are currently vacationing in hell and should enjoy that vacation while it lasts, but anyhow, getting back to the son and the tale of his father's hunting trip, I think he told it to drop a hint, of the horrible event that happened in his family's house in July 1983, that he participated in. He told that story for the same reason that serial killers and arsonists drop hints about their crimes; because he got his jollies hinting about The Polar Bear Rug knowing I had no awareness of that event (because my memory was taken away) - even though I was one of the two primary victims.

I suffered greatly, but the other victim suffered far worse than I did.

There was an official vehicle in the driveway and a helicopter on the lawn when it ended.

That's all I will tell you about this event.

I believe that, one day, justice will be served on evil people. Thank You, Lord Jesus and Heavenly Father God.

To all my friends and loved ones, thanks for reading, tons of love, back soon.