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. 

August 27, 2025 (More on the Reading Center Incident) (extreme)

 Okay folks. Hold onto your hats. My memory of what I called the "Reading Room Studio Incident" is now much more developed, and as such, it is one of the most disturbing things that has ever happened to me. In some ways, it is the most disturbing. If you read the last blog, you'll remember that it involved Dennis, at his studio, that it happened in 1983, and that it was possibly connected to the Chi-Chi's Restaurant Incident on Super Bowl Sunday, which involved the drug dealer Gary Patterson. Go back and re-read my recent blogs if necessary.

Now, going forward, the first thing we must do is correct the name of Dennis's studio. It was in a converted garage in back of a facility (possibly a former residential home) near Devonshire and Woodley that I remembered being called "The Reading Room." I was close. I knew it was run by a man named Paul, and in double-checking it last night, using his name as a search term, I found links to Paul K., a teacher of children with learning disabilities (he's now 84, apparently still living and teaching). His facility was called the One-to-One Reading Center, not the Reading Room, so now we've got that cleared up.

Here is a link for Paul: https://therapynext.com/Profile/PaulKlinger

I remember meeting him, and going inside what we called "The Reading Center" for short. I think he had a fridge filled with soft drinks. I remember him as a very nice man whom I met once or twice, and I stress - before we get started here - that he has nothing to do with what I am about to report, except that he was the owner of this facility, and thus there is no way he did not know what took place there. We will examine that aspect later. 

In the last blog, I reported being illegally detained and tortured by Dennis, inside his studio. I gave you a "framework" of what he did to me. To again put in context, when I wrote that blog, I thought this incident was directly connected to Gary Patterson's harrassment of me over a piece of paper he'd given me at Chi-Chi's.

But as I pondered it later on, I wondered how did Dennis get me in that position? How did he overpower or subdue me? It's not like I would've stood there and let him put on handcuffs.

While meditating on this question, a scenario "bubbled up". "Bubbling up" is my phrase for blocked memory data rising up from the subconscious. I remembered being in the studio with Dennis. In the early days, when he first acquired the place, I was often there alone, jamming away by myself. I remember trying to learn the solo to "Mr. Crowley." But this time he was there, and I was going on about something. I was pontificating - about bad guys, maybe "criminals", maybe Gary Patterson, and crimnal cocaine dealers. I may have said something about bad guys "getting what was coming to them". In the meditation, this scenario rang a strong bell. I remembered that what I was saying seemed to irritate Dennis, though not (at first) to the point of anger. Just enough to answer me back, if we were arguing. More likely, it was me "mouthing off." That's the way Dennis would've seen it. Well hey - I've never liked bad guys. And I didn't know he was taking it personally. But I don't think we had a heated argument.

In the meditation, I next remembered this: one day, when I was in the studio with Dennis, he offered me a giant line of coke. I gladly accepted because even though coke was not like speed, it was better than nothing, and this line was enormous. "Thanks, man." Then I remembered he offered me a second line a little while later. Keep in mind that my speed trip had just ended (see recent blog). I said "great, thanks". He wanted me to help him move something first, I think, and then he would give me that second line.

Here's what bubbled up in the meditation: when Dennis eventually chopped up that second line (another huge one), I snorted it. Then I started feeling woozy. "What's going on? What was that?" A bit of dialogue popped up. "You'll snort anything."

If this scenario is correct, and it rings a strong bell, Dennis subdued me by pouring out a line of crushed Valium (or another sedative drug) or Valium mixed with just enough coke so I'd snort the whole thing without question.

What's 100% certain is that he did indeed subdue me. My guess is in the aforementioned manner. The next thing I knew, I was sitting in a chair by the west wall of the studio, in handcuffs. Dennis's anger was now coming out, talking about "You think you're so smart (or a badass) (or whatever)...you've got a big fucking mouth." 

In the last blog, I gave you a gist of his manner after this. I told you he threatened to hurt me. I said his mask of sanity came off. 

But folks, that wasn't the half of it.

Here is what yesterday's meditation showed. My notes will assist this description:

August 26, 2025 (Midnight): New data in the 1983 Dennis Incident reveals it to be possibly the scariest and most crazy of anything I've experienced. I said in a previous entry (or in my regular blog) that at first I detected "no electronic devices" in this detainment. That changed in today's meditation. I very quickly had the perspective of looking at the rear wall of the Reading Center Studio. That would be the east wall, facing it from the west wall, where Dennis had me seated in a chair. I got the feeling of heat and a "light show" going off against the east wall. At first, I thought "strobe light". But I already sensed it was something extreme, and my mind flashed to x-rays. I thought Dennis had set up a machine (old & analog) that projected x-rays against the wall. Not controlled x-rays in the medical sense, but "naked" x-rays, pure x-rays. X-rays as a weapon. I had an image of a sphere. I kept thinking "basketball", but if a sphere was part of this situation, it was possibly part of the x-ray setup.

Then my mind gradually suggested (while maintaining the general picture) a switch from the term X-rays to Gamma Rays. "Gamma Rays" rang a bell, which was rung again even louder by a phrase:

"Gamma Gun".

"Gamma Gun" struck me as something I heard Dennis say. He was "off his rocker" by this point. It would be easy to say "he was possessed" but he wasn't. He just straight-up lost all control.

He wanted to show me what the Gamma Gun could do. He turned the lights off in the studio, as reported in the last meditation entry. He set everything up, and then the "light show" began. It felt like an atomic bomb going off inside my head. A person is not used to "non-Earthly rays". The meditation showed flashes of orange and/or purple light. Like having an x-ray explode in your brain. I also had the notion that Dennis demonstrated the "photon" effect, the "donuts on a rope" stream of light that I would later see in 1989 at the Wilbur Wash.

He may have told me he could shorten my legs with this (thing, weapon, machine). I can't say for sure that it was a gun. He may have said that it could shrink a person. When he stated these things, his manner and voice were maniacal. He bounded about the darkened room. "I'm a demon!" He meant "a demon in his cult". In his cult, he was king, according to him. "The cops can't touch me". He may have used a setting on this (gun?) to show me that he could burn a hole in the wall, if he wanted to.

This imagery was conceptually clear enough to place it in the conscious mind.

I was psychologically aware, in the meditation, of what I experienced and felt, in that room in 1983, while Dennis had me handcuffed and bound and was showing off this evil device.

It was like an air-heating microwave x-ray light show that exploded in your brain. It turned you inside out for a second. Dennis thought it was funny. 

It's impossible to describe, in words, what it felt like to be in that room with that weapon going off.

But it happened, and it was real, and I believe the LAPD knows about it.

I had a vision of various people entering the studio (I mentioned Pat Fordyce yesterday). Today, I thought Dennis's younger sister may have come in and tried to get her brother to let me go.

In the meditation, my perspective switched to outside, in the parking lot. My breathing was slow. I held it steady and saw a police car with red and blue flashers. I asked, did the police come? and I got a very strong notion that Dennis had locked himself in the studio and was "threatening to burn it down" with his weapon. I got the notion of a helicopter overhead. It wasn't strong enough to give credence to the presence of a copter , but the "Dennis Barricade" was well over 75% clear. I had the notion that Pat said to someone, "He's still in there, and he's threatening to burn down the neighborhood." It's possible that a fire truck was on the scene, but the strongest image was of a police car, and someone pounding on the studio door, telling Dennis to come out, but he refused.

My breathing slowed further, and I had "subterranean" ideas that LAPD took me (and maybe Lilly) to Devonshire Division. For our protection? Medical examination? If they did this, they took us separately. As mentioned in yesterday's notes, Lilly was there, waiting in a car, but she was too scared to enter the studio. Dennis had demanded she come in, if they wanted him to let me go, but Pat or Lys came inside in her place.

A huge thing for Dennis, when he was "going off" in the studio, was that he was "untouchable". 

"I'm King!" he said over and over. ////

Those are my notes from yesterday's meditation. The term Gamma Gun gets stronger and stronger. This morning, I had a strong feeling that Paul K. spoke to Dennis at some point. We've noted that, as the owner of the Reading Center, there is no chance he would not have learned of this incident. Especially if the police were involved. The scenario of Dennis locking himself in the studio after I was let out, is growing very strong. Pat was there. The police were likely there. There is no way Paul didn't find out.

The notion I had this morning was that Paul quietly confronted Dennis. This would've likely been days later. He said something like "I can't have that thing on this property." He may have threatened Dennis with eviction.

As to where Dennis got the Gamma Gun, I can't say for sure. But I believe there were others in existence in the area of Reseda and Northridge. It's possible it's the same thing I saw at the Wilbur Wash in September 1989, when they had to call Jerry Brown and a National Guard unit to shut that situation down. You guys know that's not a joke.

And Howard Schaller also had a weapon, which I have referred to as a "sodium silver nitrate gun" that shot light instead of bullets. I believe he surrendered it at an incident at Lorne Street School in July 1989. That incident was peaceful, a reunion of sorts. Lys was there, she knows. Lys was all over the place.

But that's another story for another day. My point is that there may have been more of these Gamma Guns, and if there were, they caused one hell of a problem.

In closing, I have to say that words cannot possibly describe what I experienced in that studio. It's been covered-up for over 42 years. This account doesn't come close to the terror of that afternoon and evening.

I hope someone cares, besides me.   

August 24, 2025 (Horrific Incident at the Reading Room Studio)

Hi guys. I'm back yet again. Three blogs in one week, almost like old times...

Let me start by telling you a story from the year 1968. The likely month is January. My family had just moved to Northridge from Reseda. I was 7 years 9 months old. This was to be my first semester at Prairie Street School, after attending Lorne Street from kindergarten through the first half of third grade. I started at Prairie after the Christmas break and found my new classmates friendly. Several introduced themselves right away (possibly at the teacher's suggestion). 

But there were two boys who didn't like me, and my first day at Prairie ended on a frightening note.

These boys were older. They were at least one grade ahead of me. I don't know how they knew (or knew of) me, but they were waiting for me by the gate when school was over. They had mean, scowling faces. One had straight, light brown hair hanging over his brow.

They closed in on me and said something like, "We don't want you at our school", or "We don't want your kind at our school." I don't recall if they poked me in the chest or physically threatened me, but I was scared. A teacher saw them and told them to leave me alone.

Well, I don't know if this next part happened the same day or a few days later, but one day very close to my first encounter with these boys, they harrassed me again, this time chasing me on their bikes as I rode home from school. I was riding down Sunburst Avenue in what is now called "Sherwood Forest". I must've got there from Zelzah instead of cutting through the college, but I was new to Northridge and maybe didn't yet know my way around. Or maybe the mean boys chased me in that direction, I don't know. I remember pedaling as fast as I could to get away from them, but they were older, taller and stronger than me, and they caught up to me near the intersection of Sunburst and Osborne.

They knocked me off my bike and I went sprawling in the street, less than fifty yards from my family's new house. I was terrified of these boys and thought they were gonna beat me up. The worst part was that I didn't know why.

Fortunately, an older boy saw this happen, a teenager, sixteen or seventeen. A surfer-type, blonde hair and a tan. He seemed to know who the mean boys were because he didn't ask questions. He didn't say, "What's going on here? Who are you guys and why did you push that kid off his bike?" He just told the two boys to get on their bikes and leave, to never bother me again, and if they did, he would kick their asses. Then he told me to pick my bike up and go home. The two boys never bothered me after that, at least not while I attended Prairie Street School.

Their names were Paul and Donald. And they both live in Northridge to this day.

Now let us fast forward to 1983, and continue with the Chi-Chi's Incident on Super Bowl Sunday.  

I have more detail from that incident to reveal. It came in clear as a bell in meditation. Shortly after her confrontation with Gary Patterson at his table, I asked Lys what was going on. She said something like "I wish I could tell you but I can't", and when I pressed her, she said: "Adam, think of it this way. What if you had the opportunity to be part of something that would really make a difference in the world, would you take it?" She may have put this in first-person terms: "I was asked to join (this cause) (this group) where I'll have an opportunity to really do something important with my life."

I also have a follow-up detail from Chi-Chi's that happened after the incident, perhaps the next day. You'll recall the piece of paper I mentioned Gary writing on. That image persisted in the meditation, thus I felt it was important. I'm still not certain what that paper contained. My best guess was Gary's phone number (as noted in the previous blog) or a list of names. I am sure he gave me that paper (which could've been a restaurant napkin, a piece of torn newsprint or a pocket notebook page), and I folded it up and put it in my wallet. 

This next part is very important. I remember it clearly: David Friedman phoned the next day (or came to my house), saying, "Do you have that piece of paper Gary gave you? He wants it back." I must have looked in my wallet or shirt pocket, and I didn't have the paper, which I specifically remember was folded up. I told Friedman I didn't have it, and I thought the matter was over. But he asked me again, the same day or soon after. "Gary wants that paper. Can you try to find it? Did you give it to someone?" I think I got upset at that point and said something like, "Look, Freedy, I don't even know Gary. He sat down at my table and harrassed me. I don't have his piece of paper. I've looked for it and I can't find it. Tell him to stop bothering me." Friedman insinuated that finding the paper was a big deal. He called a third time to say: "If you do eventually find it, Gary says to tear it up and throw it away". I said I would do that, "now please F off."

That's where the Chi-Chi's memory stood as of yesterday. But yesterday was a landmark, folks. And not in a good way, either. I had a horrible, awful memory come back, of an incident at Dennis's Reading Room studio. I don't know the exact day it happened, but it may closely follow the Chi-Chi's Incident on January 30 because it came out of the same consecutive set of meditations that produced the Chi-Chi's memory.

It began while I was focused on Gary Patterson's piece of paper. I was thinking about David Friedman's repeated phone calls, and I asked myself "what happened next?" Suddenly, I had a vision of Gary on my doorstep, then inside my bedroom, lit with sunshine (indicating the Sun in the west, or afternoon). There were flashes of someone with him. Friedman? Dennis? I don't know. Gary says: "Do you have that piece of paper? I need it." This was followed by an image of glinting steel handcuffs. I am 95% certain that Gary came to my house wanting the paper, and I said, "I already told Freedy I don't have it." I think Gary didn't believe me, and threatened me. As I write, I'm getting an image of Gary looking through my wallet, then finally saying (paraphrase) "Okay, I guess you are telling the truth". I don't know if he put me in handcuffs in my bedroom, or used other means to intimidate me, but this is what came up next:

I got a sudden flash from Dennis's Reading Room studio, which he'd only recently acquired. In this flash image, I saw myself alone, sitting in that studio in handcuffs, and I immediately got a chill down my spine.

I knew - right away - that it represented a horrific memory of an actual incident. I maintained my slow breathing (a meditative technique) and let it play out, and what it showed was this:

Dennis detained and tortured me and held me captive in his studio on an afternoon in early 1983. The "Polaroid" of this memory is still developing, but what was clear in the meditation was that his mask of sanity was off. He had me in handcuffs. He wouldn't let me go. I don't know the specific reason this happened, but it may have been because of a drug transaction or whatever Gary Patterson was alluding to when he came to my table at Chi-Chi's.

It's important to note that - if it was a drug transaction - it likely involved a lot of money, and I was not involved in the transaction. I didn't use cocaine, and I never sold or distributed drugs.

Dennis had counterfeit money, and was dealing cocaine at the time. What came out during the memory of this incident was his well-hidden hatred and jealousy of me. I believe he made comments about Lillian. He may have had "the usual tools" of these bad guys: a cattle prod, switchblade,  handcuffs, other things with which to bind me. Possible electrical devices, though none of those were prominent in the meditation.

What was prominent was that someone wanted Dennis to let me go, and he wouldn't do it. He told me he could (beat the shit out of me) or (break my legs). He was emotionally out of control. This incident lasted several hours. He made his jealousy of me and Lillian clear. He expressed his hatred of me. It was like he was another person from the Dennis I thought I knew, but in fact, this was the real Dennis.

He wouldn't let me go.

Someone came to the studio to try to negotiate my release. Was it Pat Fordyce? I'm not sure. Dennis's counterfeit money may have been an issue. I know all of the stolen Zilch equipment was set up inside the studio. Dennis did not try to hide it. Whatever he was angry about, he took it out on me, in a situation that I would classify as one rung below what Jared Rappaport did to me on September 2, 1989. What Dennis did was very bad, and criminal, and it got buried for 42 years. 

This is no joke, folks. But what am I to do with all this knowledge? It's a hell of a thing to find all of this stuff out at 65 years old, and to feel that my adult life has been one long attack by bad people.

We'll continue with more 1983 revelations very soon, maybe even two days from now.

I'm stunned, folks, and I don't know what to say.

Thanks for reading, back soon, tons of love.

August 22, 2025 (The Chi-Chi's Incident on Super Bowl Sunday 1983)

Hi folks, I'm back perhaps a little quicker than expected. In this part of the story (and for the rest of our 1983 Investigation) we'll be examining incidents and situations that may be unpleasant. However, we must press onward.

Returning to the Chi-Chi's Incident, the picture became clearer yesterday. When the memory first came back (earlier this Summer), I recalled Gary Patterson coming to my table, acting as if his sudden presence was a surprise or coincidence, and then sitting down and "being snide", sort of "lecturing me about my life". That was all I had and it didn't at first seem crucial. 

I should pause to explain how blocked memories return. Sometimes "the whole fish" comes out of the water at once, or most of it does. When that happens, you are stunned. You know that a major, unremebered incident has "bubbled up" to the surface. What is more common, though, it that you start with just a fragment of a memory. This has happened to me over and over, and it happened with the Chi-Chi's Incident. I had no awareness whatsoever of that incident until I started running through my movie title triggers for 1983. "The Year of Living Dangerously" (released on January 21) left a mark. I associated it with depression, a bad day or week. I saw that film, though I don't remember if it was with Lillian or my friends. But I knew it was a bummer, and I also knew that the Lancaster Speed Run took place at around that time (see previous blog).

That's when I got a flash of "sitting in a restaurant with Gary Patterson", and that's how these fragments arise. They are images from blocked memories that "bubble up" from the subconscious when triggered by temporally-associated memories from the conscious mind.

"Sitting in a restaurant with Gary Patterson" developed, as many of these initial fragments do, like a Polaroid photo, slowly but steadily. Another apt comparison is a jigsaw puzzle; the more pieces you put into place, the quicker the rest fit together. It's also obvious why this particular fragment was interesting to begin with: Gary Patterson was a notorious person, a very bad guy, a drug dealer associated with Eddie Nash. Had the fragment showed just "me sitting alone in a restaurant", I might never have developed it further. But it showed Gary sitting at my table, and I knew it had to be investigated. 

A problem, to start with, was that I couldn't recall the name of the restaurant. That left me without context. Context helps a great deal in memory recovery. If you know where something happened, and when, it helps you to remember what happened. "Sitting in a restaurant with Gary Patterson" was already associated with January 1983, because it was triggered by "The Year of Living Dangerously" (January 21), and the Lancaster Speed Trip. Because it was associated with January, I then recalled watching the Super Bowl in the still-unknown restaurant. This made me think it was a sports bar. But I somehow knew the restaurant had been at (or near) the intersection of Nordhoff and Tampa, across from the Northridge Mall, and I couldn't think of any "sports bars" that were ever located in that area. I next thought of Mexican Restaurants, and Googled "Popular Mexican Chain Restaurants From the Early 1980s". "The Red Onion" came back. I knew it wasn't that. We had a Red Onion, but it was further out on Corbin or Topanga Canyon. I ruled out Acapulco, which wasn't well-known at the time. Then I thought it might've been El Torito, but that didn't ring a strong bell.

I got more specific in my Googling. I like the Google AI because you can ask it questions, and it's almost uncanny how it responds. I asked, "Was there a Mexican restaurant located near the intersection of Tampa and Nordhoff in the early 1980s?"

The answer was "Yes. Chi-Chi's Mexican Restaurants was a chain that had a Northridge, California location, across from the Northridge Fashion Center at Tampa Avenue and Nordhoff Street..."

An immediate look at Google Images confirmed Chi-Chi's facade and interior and I knew I had the right place. My certainty was further cemented when I found a Reddit thread about Chi-Chi's famous "Mudslide" drinks.

"OMG", I thought. "I remember Mudslides. Dennis loved Mudslides. He talked about them all the time, and even mixed up batches himself." Thus, I now had my location, and some context: "Sitting alone at Chi-Chi's Mexican Restaurant (across from the Mall) on Super Bowl Sunday 1983, watching the game and waiting for someone (probably Lilly) when Gary Patterson approaches my table."

This is how a blocked memory fragment develops.

As noted, my first impressions of Gary's visit were interesting but did not seem overly-consequential. I thought he'd sat down with me, asked a few snide questions about my personal life ("So, still unemployed? How's the band? Whataya do for money?"). The way I initially remembered it, I sat there thinking, "I don't know this fuckin' guy. Why is he prying into my life?" But in my memory, he was just "Arrogant Gary", David Friedman's friend, a guy I jammed with once and bought pot from two or three times. "Why did he get so personal?" was my impression of the developing memory.

This prompted further investigation, which involved more meditation on the incident.

Three days ago, I had a breakthrough. I now had a clearer picture of Gary's appearance. He'd come into the restaurant with a friend, a female friend, and when he started talking to me, and asked if he could sit down, he told his friend to "go wait at their table" or to "go get a table". In other words, he told her to leave us so he could talk to me alone. She did this, and Gary sat down.

Folks, I am going to "couch the details" here. Not completely, but somewhat. My initial memory was that Gary had been snide, had asked me personal/rude questions, and had got up and left at some point. The new, more developed memory, showed that wasn't the case. Oh, his visit was intimidating, but what actually happened was that he tried to present himself as my ally, in a "word to the wise" kind of way. Gary told me that, though I didn't know it, I was in a situation that could get me hurt. In my meditation, phrases like "stuff going on behind your back" and "stepping on people's toes" came up. I got a strong image of Gary holding a pen and writing on a small piece of paper. This image persisted and I knew it was important. "What was he writing?" I wondered. I still don't know, but I have a feeling that it may have been his phone number. "Give me a call if you hear anything about it", meaning whatever he was talking about that was "happening behind my back".

The new memory very clearly showed his female friend returning to our table (my table) and asking "how much longer is this gonna take". She was waiting for Gary to go sit with her. He snapped and told her to "just go back and fuckin' wait for me. I'll be there in a few minutes."

The memory then showed Lilly arriving, just as I initially assumed. I had a flash of her sitting down at the table, but I couldn't tell if Gary was still there.

Finally, the memory developed further. The next part was extremely clear, enough to almost place it in the conscious memory.

Lys was there also. She arrived with Lilly. I mentioned what had happened with Gary (who may have still been at my table when they arrived). I asked Lilly some questions. She indicated she had no knowledge of what I was talking about. But Lilly was nervous. She had only just turned 18. Suddenly, Lys got very upset.

She went to Gary Patterson's table, where he was now sitting with his female friend, and she read him the riot act. Lys basically tore Gary a new one. I remembered getting up from our table (where I had now been sitting with Lilly), and walking over to Gary's table to calm Lys down because I didn't want any trouble. Lys may have said something to Gary like, "I'm not afraid of you" or "No one threatens my friends!" I had to coax Lys away from Gary's table, and that is where the memory stands.

I will attempt to develop it further.

It is important to note that Dennis got his new studio at around this time, in a converted garage at the Reading Center near the intersection of Devonshire and Woodley. Dennis and Gary had an association through David Friedman, and both Dennis and Gary were heavily involved in the 1989 Event.

We will continue our 1983 Investigation shortly. Thanks for reading, back sooner than usual, tons of love as always.  

August 21, 2025 (1983 Investigation)

Before we start, I have a musical question: Do you guys like The Cranberries? Lately I can't stop listening to them. There's just something about Dolores O'Riordan, her voice and persona, that's captivating to many people including myself. I am a fan of the female singers from the 1990s: Leigh Nash, Tonya Donnelly, Natalie Merchant to name a few...but Dolores was the best of the bunch, I think. We all know the big Cranberries hits like "Linger", "Dreams" and "Zombie", great songs all. But check out their entire first two albums for some deeper, darker tracks. Both of those records capture the essence of the '90s. Long live Dolores O'Riordan.

Okay folks, we have a lot of work to do. We are currently researching 1983 (from a notion I received to do so), and in order to properly cover it, we must start by examining the final three months of 1982. I remind you that the Zilch Burglary happened on January 31 of that year, the first sign that something very shady was going on with my band members, Dennis and Dave. We've also surmised that Lilly knew about the crime in advance, not because she was complicit (she wasn't) but likely because Dave Small, in a moment of nervous tension, revealed the plan to her. Dave was a nervous guy. It's possible she found out about it in another way, but she was not part of the plot, and in fact she tried to show me what was going to happen by alerting me to the loose window in our Golden Glenn studio unit (see the last blog for details).

For the most part, however, or even entirely, 1982 seems to be without trouble for me and Lilly.

She graduated high school in May and began college at CSUN in September.

But then something terrible happened in my family in October or November. My Mom attempted suicide. I've tried to date this, using my usual triggers like movie titles, concerts attended, world events, etc. One event that rings a bell is the day I went with Jon S. to interview Aerosmith at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Grimsley went with us. I used to think this was in November, but now I am sure it was October. Anyhow, what happened was this: I came home one night, possibly right after that Aerosmith interview, to be told that my Mom had been taken away in an ambulance. She'd slit her wrists in our small back bathroom. Fortunately, she "cut the wrong way" (across rather than lengthwise) and only used a butter knife. Dad thought it was more a cry for help than an actual attempt. Still, there was a fair amount of blood. I wrote about this in my original version of "What Happened in Northridge". I helped clean it up. It was very traumatic but I was relieved Mom was gonna be okay (and she was, and she lived 26 more years).

Regardless of the "seriousness" of Mom's attempt, it hit Dad very hard. He was already a heavy drinker. Now, he was hitting the bottle even harder. Dad had retired the previous Summer after turning 62. He was home all day, and with Mom now in a court-mandated psychiatric lockdown (at Olive View Van Nuys), he just sat in his green easy chair in our living room, and he drank, and drank and drank. On a side note, I think Mom's lockdown lasted either 60 or 90 days. Well, here's what happened next. Dave Small (my friend and bass player who died in 2008) was spending a lot of time at our house that year. We'd lost our rehearsal studio (Golden Glenn) back in February and were using my bedroom to jam. Dave and I were doing speed, which we got from Howard Schaller. I'd quit my job at MGM (also the previous February) and we went to Howard's house (as explained in the last blog) about once a week to get our "crank" from him. It enabled us to practice for hours, which is what we did for most of that year. As noted, Lilly was going to school, CSUN by now, and working for Dr. Winn in the afternoons.

One night, in November 1982, Dad was sitting in his green chair. I noticed that he looked somewhat yellow. "Hey Dad...Dad?...Dad, are you okay?" There were at least half-a-dozen empty vodka bottles on the floor, at Dad's feet and surrounding the chair. He hadn't drunk them back-to-back, but over the past few days, and it struck me that he'd been sitting in his chair for the better part of 72 hours. Dad was non-responsive.

Dave was at the house. "Hey Dave...um, my Dad's not moving. He's not answering me. He needs to go to the hospital. Can you help me take him?" I didn't have a car. My 320i was repossessed the previous February (which seems to have been a particularly bad month). Dave agreed that Dad needed medical attention. We got him on his feet and somehow into Dave's car. I think Dave had his Studebaker at that time. We drove Dad to Olive View Van Nuys, the same hospital where Mom was in lockdown, and we took him to the emergency room. On a side note, I remember the orderly saying, "Man, how'd you guys ever get him in the car?" Dad was admitted to the hospital with acute alcohol poisoning. This happened approximately two weeks after Mom made her suicide attempt. I will always remember saying to Dave on the way home, "I can't believe both my parents are in the same hospital at the same time." But I was also relieved because now they could get better. 

Dad was released after a few days or a couple weeks. He would later enter a six-month rehab at the Sepulveda VA. Mom was sent home from lockdown in time for Christmas, as I remember. My movie title triggers came in handy on this one; I recalled that Mom and Dad went to see "Tootsie", and loved it as much as everyone else did. Lillian and I saw it, too. "Tootsie" ended everyone's year with laughter.

But there is one very noteworthy thing for our research. Howard Schaller stopped selling speed at the end of 1982. This happened in November or December. I remember the scene quite clearly, even though it was 43 years ago. Dave Small and I had gone over to see him on our usual weekly run. I always called first (you had to), and when we got to his house, Howard was in his driveway working on his metallic-blue chopper. He had our usual gram of "crank" and handed it to me (the price was always 80 dollars), and then he said something that, for Dave and me, was definitely unwelcome news.

"Hey Buddy...um, this is gonna be the last one. I can't sell you any more after this."

I was no doubt stunned, but what can you say except, "Why?"

"It's because I'm switching to coke. It's easier to get ahold of, and more people seem to want it." I think he added that cocaine was a bigger profit margin for him. He may have said, "But I'm guessing you guys don't want it since you're used to this stuff". And he was right. As noted, the saying among the speed users at MGM was "Coke's a joke" because it only worked for twenty minutes. A speed high lasted half a day.

For the record, and it's important to say this, I haven't used drugs for 28 years. Not even pot. However, it's also important to be honest, and these details are very important for our story and our research.

So keep it in mind that Howard Schaller announced, in November/December 1982 that he would no longer be selling speed because he was switching to cocaine. We already know that Howard was connected to the Meissners, and was present at events at their house. But that's getting ahead of the game. For now, we're at the start of 1983.

Dave Small and I made one more speed run. It turned out to be our last (until 1993) for reasons that will be apparent. Someone, I think it was David Friedman, told us about "this guy in Lancaster" who sold "crystal meth". I didn't know if that was the same as "crank", or something different, but Friedman made the arrangements and we drove out there, to the boonies in the Mojave desert, using Dave Small's Thomas Guide to guide us.

The guy had speed for sale but he was crazier than a hoot owl. It was my first experience with a grade-A Tweaker. He had a gun on his coffee table. He got his scale out to "weigh the stuff" but took forever to actually weigh it because he kept getting up to look out his window. His eyes were bugging out, hands twiching. He started talking about how "they" might be coming at any moment, and if "they" came, there was probably gonna "be a shootout". He kept glancing at his gun on the table. "If it happens," he said, "if they come and there's a shootout, its gonna be every man for himself, so I'd advise you guys to jump behind the couch or whatever you can find. But don't try to run out of the house."

I remember making eye contact with Dave, like "we've gotta get the F outta here." We somehow convinced the guy to weigh the speed, then bag it or put it in a vial so we could leave. One gram cost us $130.00, 50 bucks more than Howard Schaller's price, and the guy's stuff wasn't as good as Howard's. Both Dave and I knew, without really talking about it, that it was our last speed run ever. We both did say, "I'm never going to that guy's house again." And because we knew no other dealers, we just stopped using. This was in January 1983.

By this point, Lilly had finished her first semester at CSUN. It was Winter break. She was out of school for six weeks. School usually resumes at the end of January, right after Super Bowl Sunday.

This concludes our late-1982 preamble and brings us to the notion I received, earlier this Summer, to research 1983. Do you guys ever get notions? I do, and I trust them because of the astounding results they've produced. Now, to repeat something I've said in other blogs, for decades I thought that all the trouble for Lillian and myself began and ended in 1989. Late 1988 at the earliest. I thought What Happened in Northridge (as I call it) was a 1989 Event lasting twelve days in September of that year. That Event did of course happen, and was of Earth-shaking significance, but it did not encompass the totality of the things that befell us in the 1980s. 

Not even close.

When I discovered this fact, beginning in 2023, I wondered, "Okay, then. If not in 1989, when did all the trouble start?" My research backtracked to show extreme incidents in 1988, 1987...and just one month ago I got this notion to research 1983. I thought, "Wow. It started that early, eh?" 

That appears to be the case.

Let's start with an incident from Super Bowl Sunday on January 30, 1983. Please keep in mind all the stuff from our 1982 preamble.

Do you guys remember a Mexican restaurant called Chi-Chi's that was out by the Northridge Mall? I don't mean Chi-Chi's Pizza, which has been in the same area for decades. This was specifically a Mexican restaurant (part of a chain) that was popular in the early 1980s. And there was one that was located almost directly across from the Mall at Nordhoff and Tampa. Okay, now forget Chi-Chi's for a minute. Because when I started researching 1983, and this memory came back, I only remembered the incident. I couldn't remember the name of the restaurant, and thought it might've been a sports bar because I clearly recalled watching the Super Bowl. I was at a table by myself. I was waiting for someone because I never go to restaurants by myself. Who was I waiting for? I thought it was probably Lillian.

I recalled sitting there, knowing the speed trip was over (the Lancaster incident was likely just days earlier). I was depressed at that prospect, and sipping a margarita and feeling it more than usual...but none of this is why the incident was memorable.

It was because all of a sudden, Gary Patterson appeared. There he was in the restaurant. Now he was approaching my table. As noted, I was sitting alone, waiting for someone, probably Lillian. I didn't know Gary. He was David Friedman's friend. Oh, I'd jammed with him once at his house out in Sunland. That was in 1982. And I'd bought pot from him once or twice. But I didn't know him, and on the few occasions I'd been in his presence, I found Gary offputting, arrogant, snide and condescending. He was a good bass player, a better musician than me. But he was also a drug dealer, and he had that edge to him. His nickname was "Skull" (he looked like one), and even though he was skinny, I found Gary Patterson a little scary. He had cold eyes. 

And now he was sitting down at my table. "Hey, Adam! How's it going man? Mind if I sit with you for a minute?" (to be continued shortly)

Due to time constraints, this story is gonna have to be a two-parter. I promise to return more quickly than usual with the second half (no more than four days from now and maybe sooner). For now, please keep in mind the timing of my Mom's suicide attempt. I am wondering why it happened when it did. We were never given a specific reason why she did what she did, or why it happened then, in the Fall of 1982.

I think there was a specific, and secret, reason.

Back soon, in the next few days. Thanks for reading. Tons of love as always.

August 13, 2025 (connecting dots)

Hi guys. Before we start, I want to take a moment to remember and honor Jim Lovell, the NASA astronaut who died a few days ago at 97. Talk about grace under pressure. Captain Lovell commanded the Apollo 13 mission that aborted on its way to the Moon. He kept his cool and, along with fellow crewmembers Fred Haise and John Swigert, brought it back to Earth against all odds in April 1970. Were you guys fans of the Space Program? I was, and for you youngsters out there, I'm talking about NASA in the 1960s and 70s. SpaceX is pretty cool, but NASA was NASA. Anyhow, when my family lived in Reseda, our Hatton Street neighbor "Cookie" Tom was an engineer at Marquardt Corporation (Google it) near Saticoy and Balboa. Marquardt (among other things) developed the directional thrusters that allowed the Gemini and Apollo modules to maneuver in space. Cookie Tom was an early influence in my life. His daughter Keekoe was my first friend when I was three years old. Cookie Tom once took Keekoe and me to see a Gemini capsule he was wiring at the Marquardt plant on Saticoy...

But getting back to Jim Lovell, I think he was the greatest astronaut of all time, along with the late Frank Borman, his partner on the 14-day Gemini 7 mission and Apollo 8, the first mission to orbit the Moon. Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were no slouches, but to me, Jim Lovell and Frank Borman were The Man.

And now, we switch gears because we are investigating the 1980s.

Folks, the story of my life is also the story of me and Lilly. This is because we've known each other for a very long time, and even before this lifetime. I realize that sounds cosmic, but it's true and I trust she knows what I'm talking about. To illustrate it, here's another story which we'll call "Why Lillian Doesn't Like Halloween". Briefly, Lilly told it to me on October 31, 1981, just a few months after we became a couple. It was our first Halloween together. I was all made up as an Alien from Outer Space, my hair in a dozen knots held up by rubber bands, green/red greasepaint on my face. I wore a white "paper" jumpsuit taken from the Metrocolor lab; a disposable, protective covering we film developers wore to avoid getting chemicals on our clothes. I was at my band's rehearsal studio that night. Lilly came over, saw me and had a start. It took her a moment to recognize me. She said later on that she didn't like Halloween. I asked why, and she told me a story. She said that when she was little, she witnessed a gruesome accident, on Halloween Day, involving a small boy. That's all the detail I will provide. Years later, around 2002, I wrote a story called "The Go-Kart", developed from my own childhood memory. I wrote another story called "Wingwalkers" that came from a recurring dream about the two of us in another life.

Both stories were contained in a notebook, along with other related tales, that I kept in a backpack. One day, in March 2008, while I was visiting my Dad at a convalescent hospital in Panorama City, the backpack containing my notebook with all the stories was stolen from my red Nissan Sentra.

I was depressed about that, but it didn't stop me. I re-wrote all the stories, including "The Go-Kart" and "Wingwalkers" from 2009 through 2011. This time I wrote them on MySpace, and I did a good job recreating the original versions.

I mention all of this to show our long history, and to delve into some subjects from more recent times.

As noted, I thought - for decades! - that What Happened in Northridge was a twelve-day event in September 1989. In recent years, however, starting in 2023, I began to practice memory recovery in a highly disciplined way. This led to new information indicating 1988 as the starting point of all the trouble. That was shocking enough, but it opened a floodgate of blocked memories that went back even further. I discovered incidents from 1987..'86...(and all the way back to the beginning).

Just nine months ago, in November 2024, I had revelations from major events in 2010 and 2011, and of course, the whole 2009 Thing at Diane's House was blowing up at that time.   

I need to ask you guys a question: have you ever heard of the Seventh Day Adventist Church at 17700 Plummer Street in Northridge? If you haven't, you will. But let's shift gears again.

In any investigation, it's instructive to start at the beginning. The very first sign of trouble in my relationship with Lilly occurred only six weeks after we became a couple. In August 1981, a schoolmate of hers named Cathy Roberts threw a party at her parents' Encino Hills home. The attendees at Cathy's party were Lys, Lilly and me, and my band members at the time, Dennis and Dave. The others were planning to stay overnight, but I had to leave to make sure I could attend an insubordination hearing the next morning at MGM, which would decide if I'd be suspended, and I was. It was the beginning of the end for me at MGM. Lilly didn't want me to leave the party. She asked if I could just stay at Cathy's house overnight. I said no, probably because "If I'm with you, I won't want to go to that meeting in the morning". I thought it best that I go home in order to not miss the meeting. Lilly was upset but accepted the situation. I said, "I'll come right back to Cathy's as soon as it's over," and I did, the next afternoon. On my way back to Cathy's house, I stopped to pick up some photographs I'd recently taken of Lilly in her purple jumpsuit. I showed them to her when I got there, but she didn't like them (or said she didn't), and I quickly understood that she was mad at me about something. Nothing like this had ever happened before. We'd been together about two months. I'd known her since October 1980 and had never seen her act this way. Lys was there. I can picture us in Cathy's kitchen or dining room. Lilly was upset, saying things like "these are horrible pictures! It doesn't even look like me!" I thought she was still mad at me for going home the night before, and leaving her alone at the party. She wasn't actually alone, though, because her friends Lys and Cathy were there.

But Lilly kept on about the pictures, and I began to wonder what was up. Lys stepped in, and said something like, "Girl, calm down" or "You better cool it, girl". Lys could see I was getting exasperated. Again, this was totally out of character for Lilly. But she was only 16 and vulnerable. I had a feeling she was "trying to tell me something in so many words", and I later questioned her or Lys about it. Maybe I asked this on the same day. "What are you so mad at me about? I'm sorry I left the party, but I had to. I had to be at that meeting."

This is what I remember. I may not have all the details but I know this part is correct. After I left, somebody called Terry Meissner to drive up to Cathy's house. I didn't remember this until recently. I don't want to speculate on the idea behind calling him, but I am guessing that it came from either Lys or Dennis. I doubt it was Lilly herself. When we got to the bottom of why Lilly was so mad at me for leaving the party, the reason (in part or entirely) was because someone called Terry Meissner to drive up there and "replace Adam", so Lilly wouldn't be alone. I was assured by Lys or Lilly or both that "nothing happened". I believed them and the whole thing blew over. The issue lasted about a day, maybe two. It ended up as no big deal because it was the Summer of 1981, which was already on its way to becoming The Greatest Summer of All Time.

But we've been wondering a lot about Lys recently, and we've been talking about cults, and I know a lot more than I used to know about a lot of things, and this problem at Cathy Roberts' house shows the same pattern of Lys being present when something bad happens with Lilly. Something bad in our relationship. I am trying to like Lys, who I've discovered was present at many noteworthy and notorious Incidents in the 1980s. And Lys did some good things later on. But I'm wondering if she was something of a provocateur where Lillian was concerned? Lilly very much wanted me to stay at Cathy's party. When I couldn't, she was upset, and mad at me the next day. Did she know that something would happen if I left? I don't think she called Terry, I think Lys or Dennis did...to put her on the spot.

Why is this important, 44 years later? Because Terry and his parents were evil personified. We don't have enough blog space (or time) to go into all of the details right now, of what I know about that family, but one day we will. Maybe even soon, or little by little.

Let's look at Howard Schaller for a moment. We mentioned in the last blog that Howard was connected to the Meissner House, but what we really meant to say was that he was connected to the Meissners.

How can this be? Howard Schaller was my co-worker at Metrocolor; my speed dealer from 1980 through 1982. How could he know the Meissners?

Before we try to answer that question, we must revisit one of my original and most visceral memories from September 1 1989, the "Sean Young Car Ride" that took me to Northridge Hospital. The occupants in that car were Mary Sean Young (driving), Ann in the front passenger seat, and Lys in the back with me. I was out of commission after being assaulted at Concord Square, an account I've described many times.

The important point is that while we were parked at Northridge Hospital, Howard Schaller attacked our car. This happened shortly after Lilly got into the car, after she was driven to the hospital by Jean Meissner (in Jean's dark blue Mercedes sedan). Terry was in that car with them.

In the parking lot, from Mary Sean Young's car, Ann and Lys yelled for Lilly to get out of Jean Meissner's car and get into our car. It took some prompting from Ann and Lys, but Lilly did change cars. Now she was in our car, which was parked in the front Northridge Hospital parking lot bordering Roscoe Boulevard. MSY was attempting to back us out, but another car was blocking our way (possibly a police car). Suddenly, a madman was upon us. To my great surprise, it was Howard Schaller. He threw his body on the trunk of MYS's car, at the same time swinging a heavy "tow chain" at the rear windshield. I was in the back seat and scared witless, even in my debilitated state, but I remember looking back at the rear windshield, reacting from the sound of the assault, and when the recognition hit me, I said (in a meek voice)..."Howard"?

He was after Lillian that night. He was as crazed as any murderer. To everyone's astonishment, Lilly got out of the car. I followed her. Howard assaulted her in the Northridge Hospital parking lot, and for decades I wondered what their connection could've been.

Did Lilly buy speed from Howard? That didn't make any sense. it took me years to decide that the only possible connection between Lilly and Howard Schaller was Dave Small, because Dave went with me to Howard's house, on speed runs in the early 80s. Howard was also a patron of Mr. B's Flowers where Dave Small worked. Mr. B's was not far from Howard's house.

But I was a naive young man, ignorant to the ways of cults, drug dealing, et al, and it has taken me over thirty-five years to even begin to understand the connection between Howard Schaller and Lillian in the Northridge Hospital parking lot.

But now I know that it started at the Meissner House in 1983, perhaps in July of that year. And Lys was present at that incident.

And we have to ask, yet again, why would Howard Schaller be at Elmer and Jean Meissner's house in any year or time?

And the answer is that the Meissners were part of a swinger cult that engaged in high stakes partying. And Howard was the overseer of their parties.

Yesserie, bob.

The Meissners were rock bottom scum.

Now let's shift gears again, going backwards to January 31, 1982. We are vacating the Golden Glenn Studio. Lilly is helping me move my equipment when she notices a loose strip of molding on the window between our unit and the next one, which was rented by a band named Zilch. Lilly pointed it out to me, "Look, this is loose". She may have showed me that the window glass was loose, as well. I was in a hurry to move out, so I said (paraphrase), "Well, it's an old building." In other words, no suprise that it was in disrepair. But Lilly was insistent. "Why would this be loose?" In hindsight, she was trying to show me something, and to tell me something in so many words. I now believe that Lilly had foreknowledge of what Dennis and Dave were going to do. Who could've told her? Likely Dave Small, who was himself nervous about going through with it. But Lilly was 16. What could she do? She tried to show me by tipping me off to the loose wood and glass, and she insisted "in so many words" that it was more than "just because it was an old building". So she was on the spot, knowing what Dennis and Dave were going to do, which was rob Zilch's unit that night. They stole every piece of equipment that band had, left them with nothing. I've never understood why they did it. Both had jobs. Dennis worked at a movie studio, made good money. They couldn't pawn the hot equipment. So what was the Zilch rip-off for? Was it a cult thing? Did it involve an unpaid drug debt on the part of Zilch? Who the hell knows. But it's important, even to this day. My memory recovery work has opened up a floodgate of information. 

That's all for now. Thanks for reading. Tons of love, as always.

August 5, 2025 (Green Parrots, Pat, Diane's House, etc.)

Howdy and how goes your Summer? Are you stretching it out, making it Endless? You can do that with Summer, you know. I had an amazing sunset walk last night, in my old stomping ground of Reseda. I go there once in a while, to maintain The Feeling, and instead of my nightly loop around CSUN, I do my miles in the neighborhood where I used to push Pearl, beginning at Cantara Street School. The school is of course directly north of the short strip of Newcastle Street that we have talked about in recent blogs. Newcastle was home to Pat and Lys and the Watsons (last name slightly changed). And, for a while, it was Lilly's "home away from home", her Reseda home as Lys's close friend.

So I like to walk that neighborhood, but another great reason, espcially in Summer, is the return of the legendary Green Parrots. (hang on a sec, I feel a Shameless Plug coming on...) Pearl and I saw them almost every night in August 2021 in the trees at Cantara St. School. She died just one month later, and I chose our magical experience for the title of our first book, "The Summer of Green Parrots" (available on Lulu and Amazon). On a side note, Pearl is named as a co-writer of that book because she lived the experience with me, not only the Summer of 2021 but through our whole caregiving relationship. So there's your Shameless Plug (in addition to being a great story, the book will make you want to become a caregiver), but in getting back to my walk last night, the Green Parrots were not only back, but they put on a show exactly as described in the book.

It was "magic, Pearl", as I often used to tell her. "Perfection" was another word I used a lot: "That's perfection, Pearl."

You can experience it, too. Just drive over to Cantara St. School, park by the electronic sign in front, start walking west toward Hesperia Street, and look for the parrots in the trees. Heck, you don't even need to look for them; you'll hear 'em before you see 'em. Continue your walk down Hesperia to Lorne, following the chain-link school fence. Newcastle is about fifty yards from the southwest corner of the school. Make sure to count cats on Newcastle. The cats expect you to count them and will be disappointed if you don't. They aren't all out in the open, some of them like to hide, so look behind bushes, under boat covers, beneath cars and on rooftops, and do all of this out of the corner of your eye. Don't make a spectacle of yourself. Our record for counting was 23 cats (!) but the average is much lower, 5 to 7. See what you can do, but go go go. Don't wait until Summer is over. 

Since the last time I wrote, I also went to Warner Center Park to see Surfin', a Beach Boys tribute band. Man, were they great. The park was jam-packed. The Beach Boys invented Endless Summer.

Unfortunately, not all is Summer Sunshine. There are darker subjects in our sphere that we must tackle. We can do this, however, and still have an awesome day because it's good to shine a light on dark things.

Among our recent topics is the subject of the Meissner House. In the last blog, I changed the name and called it the Mossner House (moss being an appropriate metaphor), but screw it. All the Mossners are dead, so let's use their real name: Meissner. Man, they were bad news. Big time evil were the members of that family.

News Flash (this just in!): The 1984 Incident at the Meissner House has been 100% confirmed. We are still working to verify the 1983 Incident, and it appears (from a Confirmed 1988 Pool Party) that Howard Schaller was connected to the Meissner House.

Yes, indeedy. Just when you thought things couldn't get any weirder.

Now, in the last blog I told you about the house where I worked as a caretaker. Right? I'm talking about 2009 and the house on Jamieson Street in Reseda. I alluded to the things that happened to me in that house. I also told you about the demise of Pat Forducci, which was incrediby bizarre and sad - a guy who worked all his life, now broke and living alone in his car in the heat of 100 degree Summer days.

A guy dying of cancer. And not one single person came to see him besides me.

All those so-called "friends" of Pat, who showed up at his memorial service (even the ones who didn't know him), yet not one of those people visited him when he was living in his car for a year.

I didn't have the means to help Pat, but I checked on him in the nearby church parking lot. We watched the 2022 Fourth of July fireworks from the roof of the CSUN parking garage. Pat could barely walk. I tried to get him to apply for Social Security. It wasn't easy because he didn't care anymore.

And now we know that he didn't care because he'd been sacrificed by his cult.

I was very likely the last person who knew Pat to see him alive. I visited him at his new apartment when he finally escaped homelessness. This was in June 2023 (he'd been homeless since May 2022). He was very happy to have his new place to live, arranged for by his social worker, in a beautiful tree-lined Santa Clarita neighborhood. I visited him there twice. At the time, I was giving him rides home from Olive View Medical Center. On my second and final visit to his apartment (which he'd moved into only three weeks earlier), we were watching TV, and he put on a documentary about the Bagwan Shree Rajneesh. Have I told you this before? Even if I have, it bears repeating. I said something like, "Oh yeah...I remember this guy. Didn't he take over a whole town somewhere, in the '80s?" Pat said, "Yeah. It was in Oregon". With that, the story of the Bagwan came back to me. Pat seemed to admire his "accomplishment" of occupying this town. Maybe "admire" is too strong a word, but he was very interested (more interested than I was) in the Bagwan's story. At the end of the documentary, he asked me a question, "Do you think you could ever join a group like that"?

I said, "What, you mean a cult?" It was the first time I had used that word in quite a while. We think of "cults" as relics from the 1970s, Jim Jones and the like. "Not me", I continued. "It's nothing but mind control". I was surprised Pat had even asked me the question, knowing that I'm not a "follower". He mused for a moment, and offered his own take, "I dunno. It might have it's benefits. Your food and shelter are covered. There's women...". I'm paraphrasing, but he was saying "it didn't seem all bad." I said, "Whattaya mean? Everything they do is dictated by one man, the Bagwan Shree Rajneesh. He's a total charlatan. I think he was even sued by the government if I recall correctly." Pat restated his opinion that such a lifestyle might have it's good points. "Not for me", I reiterated.

Pat was of course "trying to tell me something in so many words" that night.

I never saw him again. He died about five days later.

In Fall 2023 and throughout 2024, I recalled things from 2009 and my year as the caretaker of Diane's House. That's going to be the title of my next book:

"Diane's House on Jamieson Street in Reseda". Good title, eh?

One of the things I recalled was that Pat had come to that house. A mindblower, right? Why would Pat come to that house in August 2009? He didn't know Diane or Sue, and I didn't even know his whereabouts at the time, or how to contact him. But yes indeed, dear readers...one day he was there at Diane's house. And that's because he got a call to come there. From who, I don't know. He just said, "They call you, tell you where to go, and you have to show up or they blackmail you." And he came to the house on the day that his fellow cultists tried to "initiate" me. Yes indeedy.

It didn't work, but it wasn't for lack of trying on their part.

They didn't go home after the Judas Priest concert, either.

Thanks for reading, tons of love, back soon.