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.

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.