Returning to our story of the CSUN Media Building Incident, which occurred at around 9pm on Saturday, August 30, 2014, we left off with my confusion at the sudden arrival of three specific people at that location, and David Friedman's apathetic admission that he'd lured me - not only to go on this walk, but into what seemed to be a trap at the building. See the last blog for details. After noticing the two men and one woman standing at evenly-spaced distances from me (apprx 30 to 40 feet per person), the next thing I remember is standing directly in front of the Media Building's front door, the same one I entered, every Thursday for nine years while school was in session, to attend the CSUN Cinematheque. The theater is just beyond that glass front door.
On this occasion, I was standing there with Friedman and his daughter. I have a vivid recollection of saying "I feel dizzy", and his daughter saying, "Dad, I don't like this. I want to leave."
My dizziness was the result of being triangulated (i.e "scanned") by the bad guys who surrounded me. See previous blogs for details about the electronic devices used in hypnotic "scanning" (and keep in mind that not all hypnotic states are deep and zombie-like. In a light hypnotic state, you are fully alert, though malleable). Friedman, a sociopath if there ever was one, had lured me into a trap - with his 12 year old daughter present - in which I was surrounded in the midst of what I thought was an ordinary CSUN walk. Two of the three people who surrounded me were a brother and sister (very close friends of Friedman's).
The third person who surrounded me (from behind, see last blog) was John "Shecky" Mallis, the drummer from my band Disturbing the Peace. I knew Shecky from 1983 until 1996, when he supposedly moved back to his hometown of Chicago. But here he was in Northridge, at CSUN, in 2014. What was going on?
I knew since the 1980s that Shecky was a drug dealer who grew pot in large quantities. He had the balls to raise an entire backyard of high-grade, strongly scented marijuana plants that could be smelled from the street. When our band was using his garage to rehearse, I asked him about this because being in that proximity made me nervous. He told me there was nothing to worry about, that he'd paid a "fee" (which I believe was 10k?) to become what he called "a gardener".
At the door of the Media Building, I again stated feeling dizzy. This was likely due to vertigo, a by-product of the scanning. I watched the male of the brother/sister team produce a key, with which he attempted to unlock the glass front door. As this happened, Friedman's daughter repeated her unease. "Dad, he says he's dizzy. I don't want to be here. I'm going back to the car."
The female of the brother/sister team apparently didn't want to stick around either. She said something about "why did I agree to do this?" (or "I only agreed to do this because...") and then offered to walk Friedman's daughter back to their car, which would also give her an excuse to leave. Friedman sloughed her off with a disgruntled "go, then!", and the two females departed.
At the door, the woman's brother was fumbling with his key, trying to put it in the lock. Even in my dizzy state, it occurred to me that this guy should have no reason to have a key to a CSUN building. Yet he did, or seemed to. I still don't recall if his key worked, or if he had to call someone inside the building to let us in, but either way, we were soon inside.
I didn't see the Key Man after that. He must've high-tailed it. John "Shecky" Mallis was no longer present, either, having left the scene after I was triangulated when the incident began. That left Friedman and me in the lobby of the building, where the Armer Theater is located. Friedman was ultra-nervous. "Wait here," he told me. I was now relatively docile from being scanned, therefore I followed his instructions. Still, I wasn't a pushover. "Why are we here?" I asked him.
"Because someone wants to see you," he replied.
Friedman walked away, entered the Armer Theater, then emerged a minute later with two brothers in tow. Both are close friends not only with Friedman, but also with a relative of mine. The older of the two brothers is a screenwriter who, at the time, had just signed a contract with director Paul Verhoeven. The writer and his younger brother were attending a mini-celebration in his honor; They and a few other people were having a small party in the theater. I think they were screening a film.
The brothers saw me and vice-versa. I acknowledged them and again asked, "What's going on?" adding, "Friedman says someone wants to see me. Is it you guys?" The writer said, "No, it's not us." I said, "Well, who is it, then?" He said, "Here, follow me. You'll find out who it is in a minute."
Friedman decided that the situation was getting too hot for him. "I'm gonna go. My daughter is waiting at my car." With that, he was gone. I followed the two brothers around the corner from the lobby and into a short hallway that had classrooms and offices on either side. The three of us entered an office.
"I'll ask again," I said. "Who are we waiting for?" I'd been on a walk with Friedman. I had no idea we were coming here. The writer said, "Yeah...um...sorry about all of this. It wasn't my idea."
"So who are we waiting for? I'll wait about two more minutes and then I'm leaving."
"I'd advise you to wait," he replied.
"What is it, a surprise?"
"No, but someone wants to talk to you. Wait here and I'll see if he's coming."
I stood there with the writer's younger brother, mumbling variations of "what the hell...?"
About five minutes after he left, the writer returned, followed by a tall man with dark hair, dressed in casual business mode. He wore glasses. You might say he looked like a college professor.
And in fact, he was.
Folks, to my utter stupefaction, I was looking at my kidnapper, the guy who abducted and tortured me in his house on September 2, 1989. I won't mention his name this time around. Instead, we are calling him The Greaseball. As we know, he is Dean of the CSUN Cinema Department. And, he is also a friend of the sceenwriter, who - on a side note - was inside his house while I was being held there (in Sept. 1989) - and therefore knew I was his captive. He was in cahoots with The Greaseball. This screenwriter is a profoundly bad guy. He got very nervous when he saw my reaction to The Greaseball in the office. "Is it okay if I go back to the theater?"
"I'd rather you wait in the hall, in case I need you. You, too," said The Greaseball to the brother. "I'm just gonna talk to Adam for a minute, but..." - and he shrugged, as if to say "you never know."
Here is what I remember. After the two brothers left the room, I was incredulous. "Sit down," said The Greaseball. I did so, in a chair at the front of a desk, which he now sat behind. I was livid. In my normal state, I would've gotten up and left. I was scared of this guy, from a retrospective standpoint, but I was also unafraid. It's hard to describe what a light hypnosis feels like. You feel very "in the moment". You deal with what's right in front you and you take the situation "literally", as if you can't back out of it (which you would if you weren't hypnotised).
He tried some "light-hearted humor", something like "so, we meet again" or "Happy Labor Day. What is it now, about 25 years later?" In fact, it was. Monday September 1st (two days after this) would be Labor Day 2014. The day after that would be the 25th "anniversary" of when he abducted me.
I remember saying something like "why aren't you in prison?" or "You should be in prison".
"Now, now, Adam. Let's not start off on the wrong foot. I'm being cordial with you; you can be cordial to me." This is all paraphrased, but close. I couldn't believe I was sitting across a desk from this s.o.b. "What do you f-ing want, and why should I talk to you?" He tried one more attempt at humor. "What? Are you still mad? Here, wait a sec...I've got a baseball bat around here somewhere. Let me find it, you can hit me with it if you want."
I grimaced. "Tell me what you want or I'm leaving."
Now, he turned serious. "I, um, may be in some trouble because of you. I have a potential problem here at the University." He explained that my blogs, which were then on MySpace and which he was aware of, could be found in a Google search. "Okay. I know that," I told him. I didn't say, but suspected he knew, that a majority of those blogs were about The 1989 Event, and a lot of them were specifically about him and what he did to me. "My students can find those blogs, just by Googling my name", he said.
I wanted to say, "serves you right!" Perhaps I did.
"Some of them have read what you wrote. It got back to the University President, and I'm facing a suspension. I could lose my tenure because of you." I felt like saying, "You're lucky you aren't in prison!" I know I said, "You kidnapped and tortured me." In other words: tough shit. "It's not my problem if the University fires you." He insinuated that it was my problem. "Don't threaten me," I said.
"Okay, okay, Adam. Let's be cordial again. Can we do that?"
"What is it that you want? Why was I brought here tonight?"
"Because of those blogs. After I was told about them, I tried finding them on MySpace. But I couldn't, and I..."
"The blogs are gone now," I interrupted. "MySpace changed their site. It's music-oriented now. They don't have blogs anymore. They took all the old ones down." In fact, this had happened very recently. I initially converted to Blogger (this website) for that reason.
"Well," he said, growing angry, "Someone must've archived them, because several of my students have found them. Tell me where they are! What's the url? I have to know what you wrote about me!"
"I have no idea how your students found them," I said.
"Did you save them? In a zip file or anything like that?" I told him the truth. You tend to be literal under hypnosis.
"In fact, I did. I have every blog I ever wrote on a thumb drive."
"Ahh...now we're getting somewhere. Can I see that thumb drive?"
"Are you kidding me?"
"No. Look, Adam, I need you to bring me that thumb drive so I can see what you wrote."
"No effing way."
"Cordial, remember? I'll tell you what - we can make a deal. I've got connections in Hollywood. You bring me the thumb drive, let me keep it for a few days. I'll read all the blogs then return it to you, and we can write a script together. Make some money out of this whole thing."
That is paraphrased, but he actually made such a proposal.
"Go eff yourself!" I told him. "I wouldn't give you that thumb drive in a million years!"
His face flashed from disappointment (he actually thought he'd convinced me) to determination:
"Okay, Adam. I'll tell you what. I'll give you three days to think about it. After that, I'm done being cordial. Three days, got it? School will be in session. The semester starts Tuesday. You can bring me the thumb drive right here in my office."
"No chance. I don't need three days. I'm telling you right now I'm not giving you that thumb drive."
"Three days", he repeated. "I'm advising you to bring it to me."
"I'm leaving," I said, and got up to show myself out.
He followed me into the hallway, where the screenwriter and his brother were still waiting. They asked to talk to me, so I walked with them back to the lobby, where three other men were now milling. From their looks, they ranged in age from mid-50s (like me), to a decade older (like The Greaseball). All were casually dressed. One wore a Porkpie hat. They apparently had been part of the screenwriter's contract celebration in the theater. As I waited for him to tell me whatever he wanted to tell me, The Greaseball asked for a picture to be taken of him with his BoHo friends. The four of them stood side by side. The picture was taken by the screenwriter's brother.
Folks, I found this photo online. It may still be available. If you know The Greaseball's name, use it as a search term along with "Armer Theater" and "CSUN Cinema Department". Try different combinations, and if that doesn't work, get creative. And remember the one guy's Porkpie hat. I was standing there when that picture was taken.
The screenwriter never did tell me whatever he claimed to want to tell me. Along with being a profoundly bad guy (which is a whole 'nuther story), he is a distracted sort. You could say he has smog for brains. I was so pissed off at this point (hypnosis or no hypnosis) that I just wanted out of there. I don't know if I attempted to leave by the main front doors (where we entered when this incident began), but I know for certain that I did exit by a door at the south end of the hall where The Greaseball's office was located.
He followed me, angry again after the photo was taken of him and his collegiate buddies.
"You'd better bring me that thumb drive!" he called as I neared the door. I don't know if I answered or kept walking. His friend with the hat was in the hallway now, and wondered what was going on. He said something like "why are you hassling that dude?"
The next paraphrase is how he got his nickname. The Hat Guy said something like, "I don't want to know what' going on with you, Jerry, but I'm thinking I should keep my distance. Aren't you getting too old for this shit? Look at you, man - you're melting. What are they gonna do, keep recharging your batteries till you turn into a puddle of grease?"
That is why I call him The Greaseball. For the record, he is not Italian.
I left the Media Building by the middle set of glass doors at the building's south end. I was beyond upset by this point. Jerry the Greaseball continued to threaten me about the thumb drive until the doors closed, upon which I found myself facing a guy we'll call "D". In years past, I'd have named him, but I am warier now, or maybe just exhausted, having gotten no results or acknowledgement from 33 years of talking about this stuff. So, let's call him "D". That's his first initial. I've known him since 1971, when he lived across the street and we went to the same Junior High. Until February 1982, I thought he was my friend. Then he orchestrated the Zilch burglary, which set the stage for all that followed. Read previous blogs about that crime, if interested.
This guy has been a drug dealer since at least 1983. Now, here he was, at the rear of the CSUN Media Building, waiting for me when I came out. The fact that he was there, for this incident, shows his connection to Jerry the Greaseball. Jerry is not someone that any normal person would have anything to do with.
But "D" was there, right when I left the building, and he, too, berated me. I don't recall exactly why, but I'm sure it had something to do with the following things:
1989. "D"'s association with Jerry, and with the screenwriter (and drugs and pornography).
These are some evil people, folks. "You have no idea". Thank you, Jeremy Irons.
Evil. Not just "bad guys" (though they are that at a basic level).
John "Shecky" Mallis was back, standing to the left side of the exit. He must've waited outside while the incident occurred in the building. Sheck saw how agitated "D" was, and how I was not taking any of his shit, and he tried to de-escalate the situation. "C'mon, D...chill out." Except he used "D's" full name.
I walked past both of them now, down the cement path leading south to the Drama Building.
"Where's Friedman?" I said to myself and to no one. "He brought me here, didn't he?"
I then saw a figure on the lawn about twenty yards down. "Where's Friedman?!" I repeated.
"Hey, Adam. It's me, Pat."
I approached and saw that it was indeed Pat Forducci, who had not been present until now. I don't know exactly why he was there. Maybe to monitor the other guys. "C'mon, I'll walk you home", he said. He mentioned something about vertigo, and that "D" was an a-hole. He said I probably wouldn't remember anything about this night, and he was correct. I didn't remember it until Fall 2025 - 11 years later.
Pat was caught up in the same cult, and its secrets, that entrapped and compromised David Friedman, which led "Freedy" to use me as a chess piece. Some friend, eh?
Pat was severely compromised, also. Caught up in a bad and secret lifestyle. Both Friedman and Pat died before their time.
This incident was followed by another serious criminal event two days later.
See the next blog for details.
