It's Important To Tell The Truth

Let's start at the beginning, with Pearl's broken hip. Her hip was broken in an incident occurring on January 1, 2010. She did not "fall on her neighbor's porch" (as the news was reported to me by my sister three weeks later). Something else happened (I'm being vague), and it was extreme, and it was violent, and it happened inside Pearl's house. How do I know this? Because I was there when it happened. I can testify to it in court if anyone is interested (but of course no one is because it would lead to the takedown of satanic California).

On a side note, if you are wondering why I would not already know how Pearl's hip was broken (since I was there), and why it would be news to me when my sister inaccurately reported it on January 23, it was because my memory of the incident was blocked. Read my most recent blog for details of how memory blocking works.

Suffice it to say that the circumstances in which Pearl's hip was broken were covered up. Pearl was 85 at the time, which means that a lady of that age (and her dignity) were made expendible so that some sex swingers and cocaine dealers could escape consequences for their involvement in the situation. I can name the ones most closely related to the incident, all of whom are people I know. Above them are Hollywood and the State of California (which includes CSUN and what lies beneath it).

On another side note: folks, if you think you know how evil Hollywood and the State of California are, maybe because of Harvey Weinstein, or P. Diddy or whoever...to quote Jeremy Irons, "You have no idea."

Those guys are just the Famous Monsters who got thrown under the bus, and their crimes, while despicable, are small potatoes compared to those of the bad guys who run the show.

I can tell you exactly how evil the corporate entities and individual elites who run Hollywood, Los Angeles, and the State of California are, and how they surreptitiously incorporate a drug economy into the mainstream, and how they engage in the private practice of things like white slavery (coercing certain women into false marriages). (Hey, Pastor...how ya doin?)

Yes, I can tell you a lot. Which is why they would never have me in a phony, systematic L.A. court. Not only can I tell you things (meaning everything I know, which would take weeks on the stand), but I can do it articulately, and in fine-point detail, in a way that no consigliere defense attorney could refute.

Now that we now the basics of Pearl's broken hip, let's fast forward to January 17, 2010.

I was at Pearl's house that day, though I was still working for Sue at the time. Sue is the subject of my upcoming book, entitled "Diane's House." For the record, Diane was Sue's late sister. Her house was located a half mile north of Pearl's. On a side note, Sue is a practicing Methodist in her home state of Washington. She considers herself a Sovereign Citizen and is nuttier than a fruitcake and evil. None of which is a reflection on genuine Methodists (or Christians of any denomination).

We are only scouting out evil people, a job we must do in the present age.

As previously noted, I love the Reseda United Methodist Church, which I was introduced to by Pearl. As also previously noted, I joined the choir there in November 2014. 

On Good Friday, April 3, 2015, I got a nice compliment from a lady after the evening church service. She told me (in the parking lot), "You have a good voice."

I said "thanks", and we talked, and it turned out that this lady knew vocals. She was a big fan of Elvis and The Righteous Brothers. I am a lifelong music fan myself, and may have mentioned The Beatles and Beach Boys as my vocal favorites.

My conversation with this lady is integral to the story I am telling.

We now reverse to January 17, 2010. As noted, I was at Pearl's house that day. Several ladies arrived, hoping to see her, perhaps to check on her recovery, but she was not home. She was still in the hospital.

During the time that these ladies were in Pearl's house, I got accused, by one of them, of something I did not do.

The accusation was EXTREMELY SERIOUS, and it resulted from a situation ENTIRELY and DELIBERATELY CONCOCTED by my accuser.

It was so serious, and so patently false, that I reacted by refuting her allegations to the point where I wanted to call the police on her (or ask for a lawyer).

On a side note, this woman is a horrible person and a member of the RUMC.

The other ladies who had come with her to Pearl's house (to check on Pearl) (who wasn't there) witnessed what this horrible woman did to me. They know how she set me up and created a false scenario that, in her mind, would allow her to accuse me of something I didn't do. On a side note, she is a nutjob.

The payoff to this segment of our story is that I was so upset by this woman's false accusations against me (after she deliberatlely set me up), that I almost started hyperventilating. Another RUMC lady, who was there and who I can name (and detail our conversation), told me she would bear witness for me if I needed her to do so.

To be continued...     

Magic

 San Diego Chicken + Dollar Tree = Magic💘

The Pastor

July 17, 2026: The thing is, this guy was a great pastor. We only had two during my time in choir, but he was my favorite, always smiling, exuding positive energy. His sermons were inspiring and succinct. If you had asked me, just three years ago, I would've told you he was a superb guy.

Then, while meditating in Fall 2024 (about 20 months ago), I discovered he was involved in something I call The Ranch House Event, which took place in March or April 2011 at the Winnetka home of a female parishoner. I was present at this event, which is detailed in my upcoming (four volume) book. The Ranch House is shocking, but because it was explained to me as a group effort to fight bad guys (I am being vague here), I took this man's word for it. I didn't know who he was at the time, nor that he was a pastor, even though I'd first met him at Pearl's house 14 months earlier, in January 2010. How is this possible, you ask? How could I join the choir in November 2014, think this pastor was a superb guy, and have no awareness that I'd met him almost five years earlier under extremely sketchy circumstances, and in fact had encountered him numerous, previous times?

Because my memory was blocked. That's why.

Those of you who were around in the 1980s might remember Bill Cosby, a comedian who got famous in the '60s. Cosby was known for his clean-cut humor. He didn't "work blue". In the 80's, he promoted Jello Pudding on TV and became "America's Dad" in the #1 sitcom of the era, "The Cosby Show," which ran for eight years.

Of course, America and the world now know that Cosby was a serial rapist who got away with his despicable crimes until the early 2000s, when the accusations started rolling in. Why is this pertenent to our discussion? Because Cosby used techniques to cause women to "forget" they were raped.

Before Cosby, no one had heard of "getting Roofied" (meaning drugged), and no one knew that getting drugged in such a way would cause the victim to have no memory of what happened.

I am not using Cosby as an example of his method because this pastor did not drug me. I am using Cosby as an example of a man who was widely accepted as the textbook example of a wholesome guy. Except he wasn't. In truth, he was diabolical, not only raping women at will, but causing them (through the use of hypnotic drugs) (and possibly other means) to have no memory of what they'd been through. And in that respect, he is like the pastor who blocked my memory of numerous, significant incidents.

Cosby likely didn't use violence. Thus there were no extreme subliminal triggers that could potentially rise to the surface in the memory of his victims. And the women had likely gone to his house voluntarily. But he had sex with them, after "roofie-ing" them, which left them with no memory of the incident.

Until their memories came back, years later.

I am perhaps the world's foremost expert in recovered memory. I know the entire process: how memory is blocked, and how it eventually returns. Memory cannot be "erased", only blocked.

That's why Bill Cosby eventually went to prison, and will rot in Hell.

As for the pastor, he used hypnosis to block my memory. He called it "re-setting" me, and he used a series of finger movements, subtle commands to turn my eyes up and down, my head side to side. He had me count backwards from a number like 20, or 100. I don't know for sure. But he did it all with a genteel smugness, like he was my friend, like he was my partner in some grand experience.

I can detail everything he did, explicity, because like Cosby's victims, I have my memory back.

But the problem is, this guy's a Spook. Besides being a pastor (which I believe he is), he also - without a doubt - works for an intelligence or military entity, be it American or otherwise.

For the record, he is Canadian. I don't know if he is also an American citizen.

But I do know that he inserted himself in my life. 

He is not from Reseda. He does not know me. He has fucked my life up enormously by hypnotising me and blocking my memory (under the guise of "altruism" or "patriotism").

I will continue to investigate him. I hope I have allies, because I am sure he has victimised others who know what I am talking about. I don't care who he may work for. I'm not afraid of cults or agencies.

I only care about my loved ones.

This guy made a gigantic mistake by injecting himself into my life.  

Church and Choir

Folks, I want to talk about church and choir. I have a story to tell, but because it's so huge, I will have to relate it in segments. And as you might imagine (knowing me), it is part of the much bigger and continuous story of my life, but church takes precedence over all right now, so here goes.

I joined the choir at the Reseda United Methodist Church on Sunday, November 9, 2014. It wasn't intended on my part (I didn't ask to join), but I am grateful that it happened. My five-plus years of singing tenor with my friends is one of the absolute highlights of my life. I wish I could go back in a Time Machine to do it all again. My tenure with the choir came about because Pearl fell down onstage a week or two before the above mentioned date, and her daughter was given notice that she could not continue. Pearl was banned, prohibited or whatever you want to call it, from being onstage with her fellow singers because (as I was told by her daughter) the church couldn't be responsible for her safety. I had a fit about this (which is noted in "The Summer of Green Parrots"). Long story short, Pearl was one of the longest serving members of the RUMC congregation, since 1953. My response was, basically, "How dare they kick her out!" I offered to ensure her safety by sitting with her onstage (as her caregiver), and the choir director said, on that very first Sunday, "If you're going to sit with us, you shall sing." I protested (at first), but that's how I became a member of the choir, which turned out to be one of the greatest experiences of my life.

Fast forward to 2026. Because of what I know now, through the disciplined daily practice of meditative memory recovery, and because I am a dedicated criminal investigator, I question small or seemingly insignificant things, in this case, "Who determined that Pearl was banned from choir"?

And why was she banned, after one single fall on a carpeted stage, in which she was uninjured?

Concerning the first question, I thought about who could have made the determination that Pearl was banned. I thought it had to be the church hierarchy. Not being a church person at the time, I wasn't sure who that was. Was it a bishop? Did the RUMC have an administrative board? I also considered the pastor, but the truth was that I didn't know.

Now that I know much more about the RUMC, I know it was the pastor who made the decision that Pearl would be banned from the choir, at a church she had belonged to since before he was born.

This blog series is about that pastor, and I am wondering if I need an attorney, because I know much more about him now, and the way he inserted himself into my life. He blocked my memory of many significant incidents. He is a profoundly bad guy.

As I say, I can tell a long and detailed story about him, and situations involving the RUMC, which by the way, I love, and I despise those who corrupted it. 

Does anyone care to listen?

(to be continued)

Important Message For My Friends at the Reseda UMC

Hi everyone. This message is for my friends at the Reseda UMC, though I don't know if any of them are readers. I need to get in touch with a lady (intials JF) who used to work at the church but lost her job (or was transferred) in December 2014. She had (and maybe still has) a friend (initials MJ) whom I would like to contact, as well. The second lady and her father were friends of Pearl's. 

It is very important that I speak with these ladies, especially JF, as soon as possible. If anyone knows how to contact them, and could act as an intermediary, I would be grateful. Thanks.

P.S. I love you guys and will be seeing you before too long.     Adam

June 28, 2026 (It's A Gas!)

Hi folks. Let's talk natural gas. You've heard of the Aliso Canyon storage facility, notorious for the methane leak in 2015/16 - the worst in United States history. That facility is located in Porter Ranch on top of a mountain just west of Mission Point. At ground level, it would be just a few miles from Northridge. If you are a curious person, like me, you remember that leak, and you ask, "Where did all that methane come from?" Then you Google and find out it is stored, with other natural gas products, in huge underground caverns (up to two miles below ground!) which were once filled with crude oil that was extracted by refineries in the early 20th century. When the oil was all pumped out, in came The Southern California Gas Co. They started filling the enormous (now empty) caverns with natural gas (piped in from other locations) in the 1940s.

It was at this point that So Cal homes were built and converted for natural gas (stoves and heating). Citizens took it for granted. Then in 1994, there were huge explosions during the Northridge quake, that reminded everyone of the gigantic gas caverns underground.

Let us now bring in our late friends Pat and Friedman for further exploration.

In October 2010, they took me on the infamous Pat/Friedman Tour, which included many stops at notorious criminal locations in northeastern Northridge and Granada Hills. One of the things P and F wanted to (and did) show me were three Gas Company "stations", hidden behind landscaped rises in the residential neighborhood bordered by Lassen Street to the north and Marilla to the south, and laterally along Shoshone Avenue. You can Google Street View them or visit in person. The stations are not visible from the street. They are hidden by tall hedges, and situated next to houses. You'd never know they were there, if not for the signs, which warn of "high pressure gas lines", i.e the kind that blew a hole in Balboa Boogalord on January 17, 1994 and sent flames billowing skyward.

An interesting fact about the southernmost of these three Gas Co "sector stations" is that it's just up Shoshone Street (no more than 100 yards north), of the former, long-time home of a family well-known to all of us, the scion of which is the best friend of one of my relatives.

Since we are being curious, we might ask, "What's behind the walls of these stations?" Likely Gas Company equipment, right? Perhaps meters, pressure regulators, heck...I don't know. But just stuff like that. We might also ask "does anyone monitor these stations? Are there Gas Co. employees on site?"

Folks, I walk by there a lot. I've never seen so much as a truck or an unlocked gate.

Maybe these stations are mostly automated, then. Okay fine.

But what about the storage caverns underground? Does the Gas Co have access to those?

You'd think so. Obviously, to reach the mountaintop (where the Aliso facility is located), and then to be piped into homes across Los Angeles, the gas has to pumped from two miles below the ground. How does it travel? Through pipes, of course. So, what if there's a leak or some other problem in the underground pipe system? They'd need to have a human being, a Gas Co employee (or employees), go down there and fix it. Right?

How would those employees get down to the storage caverns? For comparison, we can ask how geologists or miners get deep underground. "By elevator" would seem to be the answer.

What would you folks say if I told you that there's such an elevator behind the high hedges and walls of one of these residentially-blended Gas Co stations? You might say, "Wow, how do you know that, Ad?"

And I'd reply, "Because I've ridden on it. All the way down to the bottom, where the storage tanks are."

Pat Forducci, who died three years ago today, seemed to have "special connections". I don't know if they involved DoD or an Alphabet Soup agency, but there were times when he had access to inaccessable places. One day, in 1988, with the help of other people (including Lys, who also had high-level connections), Pat took me behind the wall of the station on Marilla Street. I believe there was an escalator there, inside an enclosure, that went one or two levels underground and connected to the deep-range elevator. Now, I don't know if it was a single elevator, or if we had to switch (like you do in some skyscrapers). But we got all the way down to the bottom, which looked like "Journey to the Center of the Earth," with jagged rock walls. The difference was that there were catwalks and railings, and a pit emitting flames. I remember Pat telling me to walk to the railing to check it out. Was it some sort of pilot light?

I have no idea.

There were also high, steel control panels down there, with lights. Everything was built into solid rock.

Why were we down there? I don't know the entire reason. Part of it may have been just to show me the cavern. On a side note, before we rode back up, Pat asked me: "Guess how far down we are?" I was thinking in "stories", like a building. I may have said, "I dunno...ten stories?" Pat said, "No, much deeper than that." I said, "20 stories?" He said, "Think in feet, not stories." I said, "Man...I don't know. 500 feet?"

He said, "You aren't close. Try ten thousand feet. Two miles."

When this memory first came back (last Summer), I had a hard time believing that figure. Until I did some Googling on the Aliso facility. And Pat was right. We were two miles below ground.

Someone else was down there. A bad guy we all know. We encountered him on one of the catwalks. He was holding a lady hostage. That's actually why we went down there, I think; to free this lady from the bad guy in question.

I recall getting in the elevator to go back up to the surface, with Pat and Lys (and maybe others, perhaps even Friedman).

When we got back to the top, to the Gas Co station on Marilla Street at Shoshone Avenue, we took the escalator back up to the hidden enclosure, where a law enforcement officer (Sheriff's Dept? State police?) was waiting for the bad guy. 

This happened in the summer of 1988. On the Pat/Friedman Tour in October 2010, as we drove past these sites, Pat insinuated there had been, over the years, some sort of (literal?) power struggle between LADWP and Southern California Gas Co, and that's why some streets have brighter streetlights than others, in that neighborhood. Actually, there was much more to his explanation, and it involved the high pressure gas lines, but that's all I will say for tonight.

Thanks for reading.

June 14, 2026 (King's X)

Sigh. Yeah, folks, I not only missed all four Rush concerts, but I missed King's X, too, at The Whisky last night. Unlike the unaffordable (for me) Rush shows, KX was eminently doable except for one issue: the Metro Red Line Subway. King's X has played The Whisky on all of their recent tours (last fifteen years?), and for those shows, there has usually been one (maybe two) opening acts, with the boys going on at apprx 9pm (9:30 at the latest) and finishing their aweome set by 10:30 to 11pm. All of which gave me time, in years past, to catch the Sunset Boogalord bus back to Highland, hightail it on foot up to Hollywood Boog, and catch a late Red Line train to NoHo, where my car was parked (sorry, but I won't pay 10 to 20 bucks to park in a sketchy lot on Sunset Strip).

Have you ever ridden the Red Line (or any line in the LA Metro system)? Beyond the safety issues (it's mostly okay), the main problem is reliability. Sometimes, a station (or the entire line) is shut down, without warning, as I found out weeks ago after parking at the Red Line NoHo station to ride to Universal City for a birthday lunch with my sister at Bubba Gump.

Sorry, station closed.

I had to take a long-delayed shuttle bus instead.

The point is, a late night ride on the Metro subway system is a roll of the dice. If you get there on time, you'll (probably) catch one of the last trains. But there's also a chance that the late trains (on any given night) will be cancelled. And for this King's X show, there were three opening bands (instead of one...or two). KX would not go on until 10pm, and be done by 11:30. I checked the Metro schedule, and the last (guaranteed) Red Line train left Hollywood & Highland at 12:26am on Saturday night. After that, roll the dice. That gave me less than an hour to leave the show, catch the Sunset bus (what if it's late?), fast-walk the half mile from Sunset up to Hollywood Boog, and pray that I not only made it on time for the last train of the night, but that it hadn't been cancelled.

You know what? No can do. Wouldn't be prudent.

So I am now at the point where, if going to a concert involves anything more than the slightest amount of stress, I won't go. Sorry, but I've seen a lot of shows, for over 50 years, and I'm not gonna pay huge prices or worry about getting home. I already go to almost every show by myself (which sucks), and have done since 1997.

So yeah...it's a bummer, but my concert-going days are mostly over, unless there is no hassle involved.

I like Disneyland better. Yeah, it costs a lot. But you can stay all day (for 16 hours if you want), and you know its safe, with no sketchy transits back home.

God bless rock concerts, but I was born to go to Disneyland.

My life's biggest influences (besides Reseda and my parents): The Beatles, Disneyland, Gilligan's Island.