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.

September 21, 2025 (At Ann's Apartment)

 Howdy folks, and happy last day of Summer. Sorry for a week between blogs. I don't mean to leave you hanging, considering everything we've been talking about lately, but I'm slightly disoriented because of the sheer amount of information I've been processing. I'm living in three time zones: 1983, 2009 and the present (2025), which takes a bit of juggling - a mental balancing act.

Anyhow...man, I have so much to tell you, and - as is the case lately - I can't possibly fit it all into one blog.

Not only that, but (unfortunately) there are details I will have to omit in certain cases because I'm not comfortable revealing them. When that happens, I will do my best to give you the general idea of what I'm talking about.

Let's start with a short Sunday story.

When I was in junior high, there were these two guys everyone knew and liked, the Amati twins (last name slightly changed). John and Jim Amati were Identicals who sometimes played a gag on their teachers. I'm sure you can guess what it was. They would occasionally attend each other's classes, take each other's tests (and answer in class and all the rest of it) and the other students who were in on the joke got a kick out of it because the teachers couldn't tell the difference. I doubt the Amatis invented that trick, and they didn't do it often, but when they did, it was all in good fun.

On the night I met Lilly at the Capitol Records Swap Meet (in October 1980), her friends called her Lil. I may have, too, at first, but when we became a couple in June 1981, I began calling her Lillian, maybe because it seemed more formal and we were now in a formal relationship. Besides that, it's a beautiful, feminine name. All of the forms of her name are lovely, whether Lil, Lillian or Lilly, and I never called her Lilly until I began writing about her, and right now, it's my favorite. On a side note, we didn't use first names a lot. We called each other "Honey." She started that trend, and it became a Thing. "Hi Honey, how was your day?" "Pretty good, Honey. How about yours?"

But yeah, I probably used first names more than she did, and when I did, I mostly called her Lillian.

When I lived with my Mom, I remember her saying (at least once), "There's Lil, there's Lillian...and don't forget Lilly." I don't recall the context. Was she enumerating the forms of Lillian's name? 

Now I will segue back to the incident at Lilly's house, which I referred to in a previous blog. That incident is one of the most astounding things that has happened in my life, and because of that, the details must remain oblique. Let's just say that it's connected to a conversation that began on the night of one of the February 1983 Rush concerts. To recap, I attended at least one of those concerts (maybe two) with Lilly and Dave Small. She drove us (in Peanut) and on the way there, she told us something that I initially had a hard time believing.

The incident at her house occurred not long after the Rush concert(s), and was prompted by the things she told me and Dave, not only on the ride to the concert but in a subsequent visit to 9032 where she spoke to me in private. Her story ultimately caused me to drive to her house where the incident in question occurred. 

We'll shift gears again to the aftermath of that incident. I've mentioned Ann a lot in recent blogs. Ann got me out of many jams, including this one. In my meditations, I use strict protocols to ensure the actuality of an incident. Small but vivid details can help verify a situation, such as my memory of Ann's hat at the airport (described in a recent blog). In a meditation this week, I recieved another such "vivid and visceral" detail. Before starting a self-hypnotic meditation, it is good to state your intent. Speak quietly to your subconscious as if it were a person. Set a temporal umbrella (a timeframe) and the general idea of what you are seeking. You only state this second part if you have an established memory of an incident you are trying to build on. For instance, in this case, I wanted to know "what happened after the incident at Lillian's house in mid-to-late February 1983". I knew Ann had come to the house in the aftermath of that incident, but the memory ended at that point. So, I stated my desire to add to that continuum. "What happened next"? I enquired.

In meditation, it can take several minutes (even a half hour or more) for imagery to arise.

This time, when it did, I got that "vivid and visceral" sensation.

I saw myself in a dwelling. A house? An apartment? Ann was there, talking to me about (something) that took a certain amount of time to take effect. What? A drug? Hypnosis? I saw us making small talk.

Then Ann got me a beer from her refrigerator. I opened it and began sipping. Another person entered the room (or the apartment in general). It was Brenda the nurse, who may have been Ann's roommate. I was sitting there, beginning to feel whatever "state" I was supposed to be entering into. (Slight vertigo?) Brenda may have asked "What's with him" (because hypnosis makes you docile or subdued), and Ann explained to her what was going on, probably leaving out the details of the incident at Lillian's house.

The memories in bold (above) are as clear as if they happened yesterday.

When I began this 1983 Investigation on an intuitive prompt last June, I went first to my movie list, to see if any of the titles would "trigger" any memory data. One of the movies was "Blue Thunder", about a high-tech police helecopter, that made quite a splash when it was released on Friday May 13, 1983. Lilly and I went to see it at the Pacific Parthenia Theater. Usually, we went to movies by ourselves, but on this occasion, Ann came with us. Of course, I had no awareness of anything I'd endured previously that year. All of it had been removed from my memory.

But in thinking about "Blue Thunder", I remembered that Ann brought beers into the theater. She snuck them in inside her purse, one for her, one for me. That night, I only thought, "Wow, Ann's cool".

"Thanks, Ann, for the beer."

At the time, I had no notion whatsoever of having been with Ann on several occasions in February. I just thought of her as Lillian's older sister who (I thought) I'd briefly met two or three times, mostly at Dr. Winn's office.

Now, I know better, and I'm thinking about that beer at "Blue Thunder". I wonder if Ann was testing my memory.

Thanks for reading, back soon, tons of love. 

September 14, 2025 (The Little Girl from Venus)

Hi guys. I have a little Sunday afternoon story for you about my early childhood in Reseda. It's another tangent in our 1983 Investigation, but I think it is relevant, and perhaps you will think so, too. As you may know, I lived in Reseda from birth until New Year's Day 1968, when my family moved to Northridge. I was 7 years and 8 months old at that time. As can happen when one is a kid, my mindset changed with my surroundings. I had a new neighborhood, a new school, new friends, and while I didn't immediately forget about my Reseda pals (or our Hatton Street house), I wasn't living there anymore, and so those memories faded over time. I never really thought about The Tract, as we called it (and it was also called Meadowlark Park), until I was 44 and started attending the annual Thanksgiving dinners at Pearl's house, which was on Lull Street, just around the corner from my childhood home. I also lived on Burton Street (with Dave Small) from 1995 - 97, and I house-sat at Diane's on Jamieson in 2009. Those two houses were about 1/2 mile from the Tract, so they also put me in the general vicinity. But the deepest memories came back when I started working for Pearl in 2010.

We took daily walks around the Tract, which, for the record, is made up of three streets: Keswick, Hatton and Lull, running east/west, and bordered by Hesperia and Yarmouth, north/south. Zelzah runs up the middle.  

One of the memories that returned during this time was triggered by a house on Keswick Street, just west of its intersection with Hatton Place. When I saw this house, I was struck by an intuition. I immediately named it after the man I remembered living there when I was about five or six years old. One or two readers may know this man's name, but I will call him "Z". The first time we passed this house, I said, "Look Pearl, it's Z's house" (except I used his full name). The interesting thing was, I didn't stop to consider this instant identification, nor to consider that, many years later, this man lived in another town over ten miles from Reseda. I didn't stop to consider that (as far as I was aware) there was no record of Z ever living at the Keswick house. I just said, "Look Pearl, there's Z's house". And I said it because of a memory.

Later on, I wrote a story, based on this memory, about a little girl who lived there, Z's daughter. This story is included in my book "The Summer of Green Parrots" (available on Lulu and Amazon, hint hint). Let me give you the short version:

When I was little boy, I was taken to this house on Keswick Street by my friend John, who was a year older than me. If I was 5 or 6, John was 6 or 7. He wanted to go to this house because a little girl lived there who rarely came out to play. If you remember being a child in the early 1960s, that was how kids socialised. We knocked on each others doors and said, "Can Johnny come out and play?" or Keekoe or whoever it was. In my memory, I didn't recall the name of this little girl, only that John said she hardly ever came outside. He said we should go and visit her, and ask if she could come out to play. I always remembered the porch of this house, which was shaded by shrubbery. The porch still looks the same in 2025. The porch is what triggered the memory.

When John and I rang the bell, a tall man answered the door. John asked if the little girl could come out and play, and the man said "No, not today". We smelled an ammonia smell wafting out on cooled air. One of us asked what it was. The man said it was an artificial environment he'd created for his little daughter.

"You see, she is from Venus", he told us. "She cannot breathe Earth's atmosphere. That is why she must stay inside."

I later learned (as the memory showed) that the little girl was ill. Hence, the ammonia smell.

The tall man had a soft European accent.

I included the story in my book because Z lived in the Tract, and his story, which I subtitled "The Little Girl from Venus" now struck me as a beautiful fable. This man had taken his daughter's illness (which must've caused him great sorrow) and for the sake of two little boys who came to his door, he turned it into a fairy tale. Instead of saying, "she can't come out and play because she's sick", he said, "she from Venus and cannot breathe your atmosphere." How wonderful of him to say that, and to make it into a fairy tale.

Recently, the tale has become clearer. I've realized that I visited that man on my own. I've had memories arise deep from the subconscious of going to his house to enquire if his daughter was okay, if she was back from the hospital. I remember that the man, who besides being tall was also balding, always had interesting things for me to snack on, like figs, or macadamia nuts, and other things I hadn't heard of like almond roca and toffee.

He was a highly educated man, very worldly, and he'd tell me stories about a great many things. He told me where he was from (a country in Europe), and he showed me where it was located, on a map of the Mediterranean region.

Later on, I met the man's wife, a beautiful woman. I remember her smiling at me.

They showed me their little girl, whom I had been asking about. She was small. Maybe two years old. 

One day (and this is very clear), they told me they were going have to move. There is a specific reason but I cannot reveal it. I was sad to hear this, and asked if I would ever see them again.

I don't know how they replied, but I believe I did see them, many years later, and the reality of that is a life-changing Fairy Tale.  

Thanks for reading, back soon, tons of love. 

September 11, 2025 (The February 1983 Rush Concerts)

 Hi everyone. In continuing our story of the Reading Center aftermath (and our ongoing 1983 investigation), I want to talk a little bit about some movie-title triggers from around that time (January 30 through early February), and also about the four L.A. area Rush concerts that I mentioned in the last blog.

If you are a regular reader, you know about my 1980s movie lists, and how the titles of those movies can trigger memories of movie dates with Lilly. I have recovered many memories through the use of this technique, even using films we didn't see, or didn't see together. The latter is the case with "The Entity" and "Videodrome", both of which were released on Friday, February 4, 1983, just five days after Super Bowl Sunday and the Chi-Chi's/Gary Patterson Incident.

My friends and I (or Lilly and I) often saw movies on (or close to) their weekend of release, and whenever I thought of "The Entity" over the years (even long before I thought about 1983), I remembered three things:

1) That I saw it with friends, not with Lillian (who did not like horror films). 2) That it was one of the scariest films ever made. 3) That the movie title triggered a feeling of depression. I think I wrote about this in a previous blog. The memory had a residue of melancholy because after the movie, we (Grimsley, me, and one of his friends), had parked near the Northridge mall and "gotten stoned". Even when I was a regular pot smoker for 19 years, I never liked smoking in the daytime. It always left me with a feeling of ennui, like my life was passing by, and in this case, after "The Entity", I remembered that the melancholia had to do with Lilly, and in retrospect, I thought it meant, "There I was, 'hanging out with my buddies, getting stoned' when I should've been with my beautiful girlfriend". 

But when the Chi-Chi's memory was recently recovered and quickly became ironclad and 100% verified, I reconsidered the "Entity" trigger.

What was I really depressed about that day? I wondered. Meditating on that question caused a notion to "bubble up":

I remembered that Lilly had been sick all week, and had not been in school. And because she went to CSUN, this meant I had not seen her. This notion opened a vein of information. "Videodrome" triggered a similar feeling (and it was also a horrible movie).

I began to remember that Lilly missed several weeks of school at this time. How many weeks? 2, maybe 3. Her reason was that she had the flu (a really bad case). More meditations showed that I called her (or she called me) every other day or so for an update on her condition. As the days passed, I began to worry. A normal case of flu lasts, what? A week at most? I wanted her to be well. In addition, her attendance at CSUN was how we saw each other on weekdays. My memory of "The Entity" now showed that I was concerned about Lilly as we sat in Grimsley's car and smoked pot. He may have enquired about her in an insinuating way, which made me feel even worse about "hanging out and smoking pot with 'the boys' " (ala the memory trigger).

Fast forward now to a third "movie trigger": "The King of Comedy". That Scorsese flick (starring DeNiro) opened on Friday February 18. I remembered seeing it in Westwood, once again with Grimsley (long before he acquired that nickname). "King of Comedy" triggered something...but I couldn't tell what. It took a second meditation to unearth the corresponding emotion. When it "bubbled up", I was surprised.

The feeling was "happy day". When I went to see that movie, I had just gotten the news that Lilly was about to return to school after being out more than two weeks with the flu.

Of course, I had no awareness of the Chi-Chi's Incident at the time. Nor the Reading Center Incident and it's aftermath. All I knew was that Lillian had had the flu - for three weeks. I'd been very worried about her, but now she was better and was going to return to school. Maybe after President's Day, which was Monday February 21, 1983.

That narrative rang a strong bell.

But then I wondered, "What about the Rush concerts? I know I went to at least one of those."

I meditated further. The first Rush show was at the Long Beach Arena on February 14. Valentine's Day. I used that as a marker. I still wasn't sure which show I went to, or if I went to more than one, but I was sure I (or we) must've bought tickets in advance, which would've been before all the trouble started. When would the tickets have gone on sale? In 1983, they didn't promote concerts six to nine months in advance like they do now. I figured the Rush shows went on sale somewhere between mid-November and mid-December 1982. In those days, I still had some money from unemployment checks. Because of the recession, President Reagan had Federally extended the unemployment to an unprecidented 18 months. Thus, I continued to get checks until mid-1983 (more on that subject in a future blog), and it meant I had money to go to all four Rush shows if I chose to. Concert tix were only 15 to 20 bucks in those days.

But I was certain I went to at least one show, and I was guessing Lilly went with me, or had planned to go, and I figured we must've bought our tickets when they went on sale in late 1982. We hadn't gone to many major concerts in '82. The one big show would've been a dream for Lilly and me: Cheap Trick and Rainbow were gonna co-headline The Forum! I was driving an old, red Phymouth Valiant at the time. I remember taking it over the hill to a ticket broker to buy a pair of front row center seats for the two of us. But it turned out too good to be true. The concert got cancelled. Talk about getting the rug pulled out from under...

But getting back to the Rush concerts in Feb. 1983, the first one was on Valentine's Day, as noted. I thought, It makes sense that we might've bought our tickets for that show, since it was Valentine's Day and also the first one on the four-night L.A. run. I still wasn't sure, but I used it as a marker, and meditated on the concerts again, as a whole. In memory recovery, you never "lead the mind on". You never pre-suppose anything because it can paint a false picture. Therefore (or for instance in this case), since I was 100% sure I attended at least one of those Rush concerts, but unsure which one, or if Lilly attended with me, I set what I call an "umbrella" over all four dates. Then I used the protocols of self-hypnotic meditation (the most important of which is a blank mind) to allow the subconscious to reveal whatever data it might release, based on the intent of that meditation.

Here is what arose: I began to get notions of riding in Lilly's car ("Peanut", her Audi 5000). I was in the passenger seat. Dave Small was in back. The three of us were going to one of the Rush concerts. Which one was still unclear, but I maintained the Valentine's Day "marker". Lilly said something about "breaking her (curfew?)" or "getting out of her house" (escaping?). This would've been during the time she supposedly had the flu.

Here's where things got really strange. Because of this, I'm going to couch the details.

Lilly told me and Dave that she did not have the flu, that it was just a concocted story. She said that because it was Valentine's Day, or because it was the night of the concert (or both), that she "made them" let her out of the house. Keep in mind that all of this is only two weeks after the Chi-Chi's Incident, the Reading Center Incident, the aftermath of those incidents, and everything I've reported about my own experience during that time (early February 1983). 

Lilly then proceeded to tell me and Dave an exceedingly unusual story about her own experience during that time. In the meditation, my reaction to her story came back somewhat clearly. I said, "It's not that I don't believe you, it's that I'm having trouble with the (science-fiction) aspect because I don't know much about...(redacted).

Dave said, "I believe you, Lillian."

Lilly said to me: "I need you to believe me, too."

I repeated my answer. "I do believe you. It's just that that other part's a stretch. But I'll take your word for it."

Lilly swore me and Dave to secrecy. I remember Dave's exact words: "You can count on me, Lillian".

He seemed to have no doubt of what she was saying.

I would soon learn (not long after the concert) that she was telling the truth about everything she said.

I still don't know the exact date of the Rush concert, nor exactly when Lilly returned to school.

Two incidents happened after the concert that are staggering to remember.

One of them happened in my bedroom at 9032.

The other happened at Lilly's house a few days later (date unsure). That's all I can tell you right now, but our narrative will continue in a couple of days.

Thanks for reading, tons of love, back soon.

September 9, 2025 (At the Airport with Ann)

Howdy, folks. Every time I write to you lately I have more new information to divulge, even before I've had time digest it. And though I am profoundly grateful to God that I'm getting my memories back (thus recovering the history of my life), those memories never should have been taken from me in the first place. Taking away a person's memory is like murdering them while keeping them alive, and it's a heck of a thing to realize that other people have known more about me and more about my life than I myself have known. It's one hell of a thing to come to grips with.

Anyhow, let's pick up where we left off in the last blog, with me standing on the darkened outskirts of an airport tarmac with Ann, two paramedics and a policeman. Sounds like a movie script but it's not. It's real life circa February 1983. Re-read recent blogs if necessary.

 At the airport, Ann took me aside, out of earshot of the paramedics. I remember being very scared and saying, "I haven't done anything wrong. Why are they taking me away? Are they taking me to jail? I haven't done anything wrong."

Ann gave me what I will call a "pep talk", saying she didn't like the situation any more than I did, but there wasn't much she could do except to be present; to "bear witness" as her authority permitted (and on a side note, Ann may have been "unofficially" affiliated with the Navy, and specifically ONR, the Office of Naval Research. If so, she was recruited for her scholastic abilities, possibly right out of high school).

I was terrified about being in this unknown situation, to be taken somewhere without any say-so. Ann commiserated with me but said there were people above her. She couldn't get me out of it. She said she would try to make sure I was back home as soon as possible. Within 24 hours? I'm not sure. She promised she would use the authority she had to monitor the situation and demand my quick return. I asked her "will my parents know where I am?"

I was frightened.

I remember very distinctly that Ann wore a hat, possibly a ball cap. My meditation showed a "red hat". I later wondered if it was sports-related and if it was a USC hat. I distinctly remembered Ann saying to me, "Adam, look at my hat. I want you to remember this hat, remember the color, because they're going to take away your memory of tonight, but if you remember my hat it will be a marker." She also said she would be present when I was returned from this ordeal. "Remember my hat and the memory won't be broken".

The memory picks up, after that, at a facility I'm not comfortable revealing. I'll say that it's (almost) a household name for those with an interest in aerospace, but it isn't Edwards Air Force Base, a facility I've mentioned in other incidents. I have a flitting image of getting on a helicopter to be taken to this facility, but the mode of transportation is not crucial. 

I also now have a burgeoning memory of what I experienced at this place, but at the moment, I'm not comfortable revealing those details, either, except to say my memory of the Reading Center Incident was taken away, and that sodium pentothal and polygraph exams were employed. Maybe I will give a more detailed description at a future date (even soon) but not today.

When it was over, I was brought back to the Valley (the location and by what means unknown), and when I got to wherever this was, Ann was waiting for me. She had on the same hat that she wore on the night of the Reading Center Incident, and she said, "See? I told you I'd be here." She said something similar to the paramedics and/or authority figures who had brought me. They seemed irked by Ann's undaunted manner, and the fact that they couldn't overrule her, even though her own authority was "off the books", provable but unacknowledged.

They were bugged that she was there to pick me up, just as she said she would be when we were standing on the airport tarmac, 24 or 48 hours earlier, when she told me to remember her red hat.

I think the return trip happened in the morning or afternoon, and I have images of riding around with Ann "for a while", just me and her in her green hatchback (Toyota, Nissan, VW), and I think we stopped at her Dad's house, Lilly's house. 

That last memory has developed, just yesterday, into something so extreme - so unusual - but already 100% verified as real, that once again I can't write about it yet. Not until the dust settles. This extreme memory does not involve Ann, but just me, at Lilly's house. To say it has astounded me is the understatement of the century.

I'm assuming that the timeframe of all the things I've recently written about, from the Super Bowl Sunday Incident at Chi-Chi's Restaurant (involving Gary Patterson), to the "Gary wants his piece of paper back" Incident the following day, to the Reading Center Incident not long after that, to my memory of being with Ann at an airport, then taken to " a facility" and returned, with Ann waiting as described in this blog...I'm assuming all of that happened between Sunday January 30 and Friday February 4, 1983.

I am currently studying the dates February 14 - 18, when Rush played four concerts in the L.A. area, two at Long Beach and two at The Forum. At least one of those concerts is crucial to our storyline.

Thanks for reading, tons of love, back soon.    

September 5, 2025 (The Aftermath of the Reading Center Incident)

Hi folks. Sorry about the delay since the last blog. Since then, my memory of the Reading Center Incident and its aftermath have developed to the point where the whole thing is blowing my mind (for want of a less psychedelic cliche). For real, though, this one has knocked me for a loop, because of the information and personnel involved, and because it goes all the way back to early 1983. Lilly and I hadn't even been together two years when it happened.

I think what I want to do, as far as writing about it, is to present the entire thing in sections because there is no way I can get all of what I've recently learned into one or two blogs. I also know that I'll be tempted to sidetrack, or insert related items as they occur to me, even if they aren't directly related to the Reading Center Incident.

For instance, this is the kind of tangential item I'm talking about:

A few days ago, I was thinking about Randy Rhoads due to some correlated data from the Reading Center Incident. I remembered playing "Mr. Crowley" over and over when I first began using the studio in early '83. I was in there by myself trying to learn the solo to that song. But that memory data got me to thinking: "Y'know, I was fortunate to see Ozzy twice with Randy Rhoads." Once was at the Sports Arena on New Years Eve 1981, a legendary and unforgettable evening. But I couldn't remember the month or year of the first Ozzy/Randy concert, and assumed it must've been in 1980. Bands don't usually tour more than once a year, or play the same city twice, but when I Googled it, I saw that Ozzy did indeed play Long Beach on Saturday June 27, 1981.

I thought, OMG, because that placed the concert only one week after the Van Halen show Lilly and I attended at The Forum on June 20 (beyond legendary), which itself was only 4 and 5 days after our back-to-back Rush and Van Halen shows in Las Vegas. I remembered every one of those concerts in vivid detail, except for Ozzy at Long Beach. That one I remembered going to, but the memory lacked detail, and I thought it was the previous year. 

Why is that? Why did I not remember the first Ozzy show with Randy Rhoads in the middle of all the others during this incredibly wonderful time in June 1981? Lilly, did you go to that first Ozzy/Randy show with me? Something tells me you did. I remember Randy walking around the floor in gym shorts before the concert.

Anyway, that's the kind of tangential info that will find it's way into these blogs about the Reading Center Incident, because we're examining my history, and of course, that history includes Lillian.

Getting back to the Reading Center, I actually drove up there last night. I can't remember the last time I was there, although it may have been in 1995 (30 years ago!) when I was buying pot from Shecky. Here comes another tangent: After the Northridge earthquake, when my memory began coming back, Shecky gradually removed himself from my life, slyly and deliberately, and when I went to the studio that night in '95, he had "buffers" guarding the door. I remember having to say to a guy standing in the small parking area, "Look, I've known John since 1983. My name is Adam." The guy said, "Wait a minute and I'll see if he wants to talk to you." In 2008, I found Shecky on MySpace to tell him Dave Small had died. He did not respond. In the past two years, since 2023, I've recovered some blocked memories involving Shecky, and in retrospect, I don't think he was the world's best guy (sorry, Sheck). I also don't believe that his "sudden appearance" at Dennis's studio in late June 1983 (the first time I met him) was a mere coincidence. I have good reason for saying these things (as The World's Greatest Detective, I do my homework), but we're all out of tangents for the moment. Let's just say that Shecky was a shady guy, a less-than-honest person, and we'll get back to him in another blog.

But yeah, until last night, the last time I was at the studio was in 1995, when I drove up there to buy pot from Shecky (and boy, am I glad I don't smoke that stuff anymore and haven't for 28 years). 

Because my memory of the Reading Center Incident has astounded me, I had to return to see the place in person. When I got there last night I parked in front, on Woodley, then walked through the alley to the studio, which looked smaller than I remembered it. Isn't that always the case, though, when you return to a place years later? I stood there in the darkness (I deliberately went at night) and I got goosebumps, because I remembered "that's where the paramedic truck was parked."

I don't know if I mentioned this in the last blog, which described the Incident itself, but in the aftermath, I remembered refusing medical attention, and telling a paramedic, "I'm okay. I just want to go home." Recent meditations have broadened that memory. I now know that I was asked to "at least let them check your blood pressure." Anything said was to urge me into the ambulance (the square "box" type), and I remember hearing words like "retinas" (scorched retinas?) and a paramedic (possibly a woman) saying, "You may not want medical attention but you need it."

I remember having an IV in my arm, and being told they were giving me a sedative. I remember the feeling of leaving the studio's rear parking area, going down the alley and seeing several police cars lined up there and on Woodley Avenue. A paramedic commented on the scene. And, as mentioned in the last blog, there was possibly a helicopter overhead. 

In the past few days, I've had two meditations that revealed a vivid and astounding memory. I was taken by these paramedics to what I believe was an airport, I'm guessing Van Nuys or Burbank. The imagery showed a wide expanse of tarmac, but in a darkened area away from the commercial strip.

This next part is crucial. One of the paramedics was nervous and wanted to be done with the whole thing; with me, and his role in the aftermath. He figured he'd done his part, having dropped me off. Now he just wanted to get the heck out of there. But another person present (either a second paramedic or a police officer) informed him he had to wait because a person was going to arrive to (vouch for me?) (oversee my transfer from paramedics to another authority?) To bear witness?

I don't know exactly how to put it.

But it's 100% certain that the paramedics now had to wait until this person arrived. They (or at least one of them) wasn't happy about this development, and said so. Someone else, maybe the policeman, said (paraphrase): "We're all in the same boat here." He may have said something about Feds.

Finally, the person we were waiting for arrived.

It was Ann.

She had some kind of authority in this situation. Don't ask me what it was, but she had it, and she must've retained that authority years later in 1989.

You can imagine my astonishment when this memory came back, of standing on an airport tarmac with Ann, in February 1983, on the night of the Reading Center Incident.

I may have told you about the phenomenon of recovering a long-blocked memory. It feels recent, because you've never been aware of it before. And if it is vivid and visceral (as this memory was), it can seem like it happened last week instead of over 42 years ago. 

Thanks for reading. Tons of love. Back soon.