April 28, 2024

Moviewise, this has been an unusual year for me, as I haven't watched with anything near the nightly regularity of recent years, in which I averaged well over 300 films annually. That practice led to an expected dead end because I eventually ran out of unseen films, both at the Libe and on Youtube, and that lack of material, coupled with the life-changing revelations I received from October 2023 to April 2024 (and the examination that resulted) caused me to "pause" movies for a while. Last night, however, I got an urge to watch "Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me", which I bought on DVD in 2018. It's been sitting on my shelf for six years. Why have I never watched it? I don't know. Maybe it has a vibe associated with the era: early '90s. I am so attuned to my subconscious that it's more or less my waking state. I mean, it doesn't brush my teeth or make my coffee, but, my life being what it is, my subconscious wants me to be a whole person again, something I have not been for 35 years, and so it saturates me in what I call notions, sensory or emotional input from my past, often specific to certain years. And of course movie triggers (memory prompts) are hugely important for me, and especially from a David Lynch movie.

So, last night I popped "Fire Walk" into the player, on impulse, and as it began, I realized I last saw it half my life ago, when it was released in 1992. As it played, I realized I was a different person then, 100% in the dark about the monumental occurrence in my life. I was mourning the loss of Lillian (always will). There was no internet, no cell phones, and George Bush the First was still president. The world was a different place, and yet I also realized that it was really the same place then, because the internet and cell phones are just distractions. They have no effect on the birds or the rocks at Chatsworth Park, and we are living in a holding pattern for the past 35 years because 1989 has been buried and erased. Of course, the general public does not know this, so life for them continues on, in it's 24/7, excito-toxic way. Where I see stasis, the public sees something that is commonly called "progress". We could get into a lengthy dissertation on why technological life is meaningless, and it would be fact-based and not merely my opinion, but I don't want to depress you.

What we see, through "Fire Walk", is that the world was not a different place in 1992. It was the same place it is today, hiding a truth buried now for 35 years that, by its erasure, has affected the entire world. It is not for nothing that I've said, for decades, that What Happened in 1989 is the biggest secret in American History.

Nothing else is even close.

And so the movie blew me away. It is so dark, and so prescient, that if it wasn't so ugly I'd want every adult in America to see it. "Fire Walk" is the Ugly Truth as framed by Laura Palmer. That's why critics hated it, because it lacked the friendly camp of the "Twin Peaks" TV series, the folksy, endearing touches.

The movie is brutal and disgusting, not because it's a disgusting movie, but because many of the characters and the depicted and insinuated truths are disgusting and repulsive. And as I watched, it hit me that I was naive at that point in my life. Something phenomenally unconscionable was done to me - I was medically lobotomized so that I would not remember what happened to me in the Summer of 1989, and what made this different from "normal" amnesia is that I did not know that I didn't remember (normally, an amnesiac is aware they've lost their memory). I now believe that an attempt was made to help me recover my memory, beginning in 1992. It continued into '93, and resulted in my first recollection that October. But in early 1995, that effort was wiped out, too. Since then I've been operating solo, no longer naive, slogging away to try and become a whole person. And here we are today, as a country in 2024, with 24/7 electronic culture, and progress that means nothing. Everyone's "opinion" is news-directed (or did you post up your Ukraine flag on your own initiative?). So Hooray! Hooray for 24 hour news "alerts"! Hooray for inflation and war, and protests of war that mean nothing and will achieve nothing. Hooray for the burial, not only of truth, but real life. They've done a fantastic job.

"Okay, Ad. Enough with the bum trip." And I agree. I don't like it either, but I've gotta get to the truth. 

And so I slog on. I have my David Lynch movies, and there are two sides to every coin. Every dog has his day, and I'll have mine, because as hard as the bad guys work to control and dominate the physical side of life, they don't stand a chance on the spiritual front. That's my territory (remember, I'm subconscious) and I foresee a time when true love will again reign, just like it is hoped for in this movie. As much as I write and think about 1989, 1981 is the year that should really be explored because that was the year in which magic entered the world. It was a year of unbroken, optimistic hearts, inspired by the Angel of True Love. 1981 must be not only be explored but carved in stone so that its meaning will be captured for all time. This is the real Twin Peaks ethos: the desire for Truth and Love, and truth in love (arrived at through true love) not merely lust and sex, certainly not wantonness, nor lurid, aggressive behavior, not ego (or lack of self-esteem), and not any kind of "group mentality" which leads to peer pressure, drugs, prostitution.... to downfall.

Nobody interviews David Lynch, or if they do they expect him to be The Weird Lynch, and that's fine (it's the "slot" folks put him in who don't understand his nature), but with "Fire Walk" he hits you in the face because it's not weird. Oh, it has plenty of strange and dreamlike elements, but the story is straightforward: a father is raping his daughter (Laura Palmer) and she is compensating with cocaine and exhibitionism, prostitution and abandon, because she doesn't care any more, which is horrifically depicted in the penultimate scene with the character "Bobby", where Laura is coked out and uncaring, laughing insanely at the most catastrophic thing: murder. Bobby has shot dead their drug dealer, and she's laughing to avoid passing out.

That, folks, is abandon. Abandonment of one's humanity (represented by a beautiful young girl, Lynch's whole point because she represents "having everything to live for"), in which the girl, knowing she's always been a target (because of her inner and outer beauty), gives up. She gives up and laughs, while the men, bestial and disgusting, take advantage. But far worse is what awaits her at home. Her father, Ray Palmer, is a monster.

Folks think David Lynch is weird, or even "weird for weird's sake", but with "Fire Walk" he hits a Truth Home Run. Hipster movie "critics", who since the 1980s have been more concerned with cultural and political status, didn't get what he was saying with this movie, but he went all the way, and the ending leaves no doubt of his intention. I think it's one of the greatest films ever made. ////

In music news, another legend has left us: Mike Pinder of the Moody Blues. His was a low-key fame, and it's ironic because when you see a list of great keyboardists he is never on it and yet he may have done more to establish keys as the main component of progressive rock than anyone except Keith Emerson. Besides being a founding member of The Moodies (when they were still an R&B outfit), he also worked at the Birmingham factory that manufactured the Mellotron, and it was his job to test and repair them. Pinder was, really, the first "hands-on" guy of the instrument that made progressive rock famous. It was also he, who - in late 1966 - told John Lennon about the 'Tron (as he called it), and John requested the instrument for the recording of "Strawberry Fields Forever" (Paul McCartney plays it on the intro).

Mike Pinder went on to use the Mellotron extensively with the Moody Blues, who changed their style when Justin Hayward John Lodge joined, and made the first progressive rock album: "Days of Future Passed". Now, some will say that "Sgt Pepper" was the first, but it wasn't because The Beatles are unclassifiable. They didn't play anything but Beatles music. Also, "Pepper" is too diverse to be considered progressive rock (I use the full word to take back the classification from "prog".) "When I'm Sixty Four", my new theme song, is a nice tune but not progressive.

But yeah, dig it: Mike Pinder and the Mellotron. No Pinder, no Moody Blues sound. No "Days of Future Past", no "In the Court of the Crimson King". Yeah, I know. Two completely different bands, the virtuosity of KC, etc. But the 'Tron is all over "Crimson King", and the album wouldn't be the same without it. And it's Mike Pinder's instrument, literally speaking. The factory he worked for had no initial marketing plan for it, except to replace studio musicians in an orchestral setting (the Mellotron sounds like a string section and can do other things), but he brought it to his bandmates' attention and the rest is history. The 'Tron was notoriously wonky (it ran on taped samples), it weighed a ton, and was often quite a hassle. King Crimson's David Cross said in 1975 that he wanted to push his Mellotron into the Thames, and Mike Pinder sometimes had to pull his apart on stage to replace the tapes. So it was a cumbersome and erratic beast, but nothing else ever sounded like it, not even the best synthesizers they came up with to replace it.

Nothing sounds like a Mellotron, and a Mellotron is synonymous with progressive rock, so you can thank Mike Pinder, that most anonymous of legends, unless you are a Moody Blues fan, then everyone knows his name.

We've talked about bands with a string of flawless albums. The Moodies are known for their "core seven", as the fans call them. I shant list them here, just Google "Moody Blues Core Seven", but the point is, each of those seven albums is a Ten. I have often posed the question, "Are They The Greatest Band Of All Time?".....needing someone else to answer because I can't do so in the negative. I can't say they were not the greatest band of all time. Seven #10 albums in a row, of music that sounds almost sacred or reverential but still rocks. For me, Justin Hayward should be ranked with the giants. He wrote "Nights in White Satin" and "Tuesday Afternoon" when he was 19.

Let's list some of the greatest progressive rock albums ever made, one per band, no particular order:

"Godbluff" - Van Der Graaf Generator

"Brain Salad Surgery" - ELP

"To Our Children's Children's Children" - The Moody Blues

"Close to the Edge" - Yes

"Utopia" - Utopia

"Per Un Amico" - PFM

"Red" - KC

"Selling England By The Pound" - Genesis

"The Snow Goose" - Camel

"Acquiring the Taste" - Gentle Giant

"Land of Grey and Pink" - Caravan

"National Health" - National Health

"Fish Rising" - Steve Hillage

"Lightbulb Sun" - Porcupine Tree

"Another Fine Tune" - Gilgamesh

"Rotter's Club" - Hatfield and the North

"Felona e Serona" - Le Orme

"Remember the Future" - Nektar

"Tubular Bells" - Mike Oldfield

"Hero and Heroine" - Strawbs

"Six Wives of Henry VIII" - Rick Wakeman

"One Size Fits All" - Frank Zappa

"A Passion Play" - Jethro Tull

"UK" - UK

"Refugee" - Refugee

Most of these bands had multiple great albums. These are just the cream of the crop. There also are bands, like Refugee, who only made one album but it was classic. Then there are artists like Frank Zappa, who I only grudgingly added to the list, because as great as "One Size" is, it isn't truly progressive rock. The same goes for Pink Floyd and Rush. Incredible? Yes, in spades. Progressive? Not really. Both bands could be placed under the progressive rock umbrella but should not be, because the music is guitar-based. You can't have guitar as the main component of your sound and be progressive. Sorry. 

Rush are hard rock. Dream Theater? Hard rock. If you do have guitar, it must be blended in below the keyboard, and it must rarely, if ever, solo. In progressive rock, it is the keyboard that solos, or the flute. Bands like DT are metal masquerading as progressive. You know progressive rock when you hear it. 

Matching Mole, anyone? I'm listening to "Little Red Record" as I type. 

I like to talk about music, but I'd rather talk about truth. I'm interested in learning about my life, which I know very little about. In my 20s and 30s, I was at the mercy of exceptionally bad people who knew more about my life than I did. Many of those people are still around. I pray for truth and justice, Lord. And I pray for good health.

Finally, on Friday night I went with Grimsley to Harley's Bowling Alley in Simi Valley to see a Rush tribute band called Natural Science. They were excellent, pretty much note-for-note Musician's Institute guys, but man were they loud. It was fun, though, and only fifteen bucks. Onward and upward...

April 22, 2024

One of my very first sports heroes was Roman Gabriel. This is way back, like in first or second grade. My Dad took me to a few Rams games, and - because legends tend to grow -  I like to say that I once saw him throw the ball the length of the field, 100 yards. I don't know if anyone can do that, but if anyone could it would've been Roman Gabriel, aka "The World's Biggest Filipino" (according to Dad). Boy, did he have an arm. And the Rams QB/Receiver team of Gabriel to Jack Snow was unbeatable. R.I.P. Roman Gabriel, NFL MVP 1969. Go Rams, always.

In addition to Roman, we must bid farewell to Dickey Betts, guitarist for The Allman Brothers, who wrote some of their most iconic tunes. One of the first albums I ever bought was "Brothers and Sisters. In 1973, "Ramblin' Man" was all over the radio. I loved that descending slide lick in the outro, it almost sounds like an air raid siren. At the time, I didn't know anything about the legendary Duane Allman, didn't know he'd died and that this was their first album without him, so the Allman guitarist I became familiar with was Dickey Betts, and I thought he was incredible - his leads were so melodic. We were talking guitar solos in the last blog: check out Dickey's playing on "Blue Sky", a favorite of mine and one of the sweetest songs ever written. Then listen to the instrumental "In Memory of Elizabeth Reed" from the album "Idlewild South". It sounds like progressive rock. Betts' most famous instrumental was "Jessica", with it's honey-toned guitar lines. One thing I always mention about guitar is that, in the heyday of lead playing, the greats all had their own signature sound and style. Dickey Betts was a prime example. Three notes into any of his solos and you know it's him.  Shecky was a huge Allman Brothers fan (his favorite band) and rarely a Disturbing the Peace rehearsal would pass where he didn't mention Duane Allman, his #1 guitarist. With Sheck, it was "Duane" this, "Duane" that. And I know Duane was incredible, but my guy in the Bros was Dickey Betts. He's in that Blue Sky now. R.I.P. and thanks for the music.  

Let's take a quick look at some of the greatest guitar solos of all-time:

1) "Burn" (Ritchie Blackmore) 

2) "Comfortably Numb" (David Gilmour)

3) "Rock Bottom" (Michael Schenker)

4) "When the Sun Meets the Sky" (Eric Johnson)

5) "Still So Many Lives Away" (Uli Jon Roth)

6) "Wurm" (Steve Howe)

7) "Crying To The Sky" (Bill Nelson)

8) "Limelight" (Alex Lifeson)

9) "Something" (George Harrison)

10) "Beyond the Realms of Death" (Glenn Tipton)

Of course, Jimi and Jimmy Page should be on there, and high up, with the solos from "Watchtower" and "Stairway". Many fans would place those in the top five solos of all time and I wouldn't disagree. My list is just my personal favorites. Some will ask why no EVH, and that's because he did not solo in the classic sense but rather colored the songs with brief "lead breaks" throughout, an entirely different approach. Conversely, "Eruption" cannot properly be considered a solo because it is a complete composition. A classic guitar solo "takes flight" off of a crescendoed vocal line - it takes the melody of that line, reinterprets it, and sends it soaring beyond its initial crescendo to create a "climactic effect", after which the song descends back into the third verse or a bridge into that verse.

A few more great ones: "Cigarettes" (Ty Tabor), "Lady Fantasy" (Andrew Latimer), "Supernaut" (Tony Iommi), "Blue Sky" (Dickey Betts), "White Room" (Eric Clapton). If you are a fan of guitar, you no doubt have favorites of your own.

A note on Clapton: because Cream debuted at the same time as Jimi, and because Clapton went through stylistic changes over the years resulting from the breakup of Cream and massive substance abuse, he kind of gets lost in what I will call the "legacy shuffle", especially compared to his contemporary Jimi Hendrix, who unfortunately died, but one benefit for Jimi in that respect is that, like James Dean, his image in carved in stone, never to be watered down. Jimi will always be, for many, the unchallenged God of Guitar. But Clapton deserves equal merit, I think, especially when you consider that "Clapton is God" was actually a slogan at the time (for a reason) and Clapton's era as a Guitar God paralleled Jimi's, roughly 1967 to 69. And Clapton actually recorded first with John Mayall.

But the thing with Eric Clapton was.....that tone. It's so thick and choked, and buzzing like a bumblebee with a horn. We talk about "making your guitar talk", making it say something (because that's what it wants you to do), and on those Cream records EC is doing it. He called it his "Woman Tone" (ladies, don't blame the messenger), but whatever it is, it means business. At the time, no one had ever made a guitar sound like that, and no one has since. He also "shredded" his Cream solos with a minimum of notes, and yet it still sounds like he's shredding because of the double tracked solos and his phrasing. And his bends and use of wah-wah. Listen also to the choppy riffing on "Sunshine of Your Love" and "Swlabr", and of course the classic "Crossroads". The guy was a monster, way back in 1967-68, years ahead of his time. Since the late 70s, he's known as a laid-back AOR king who plays some good blues licks in concert, but holy smokes.....in my opinion he was the equal of Jimi and vice-versa. Call them co-Gods and be done with it.

And then Sir Richard came along, blew the situation out of the water, and now we are full circle for the early history of rock n' roll lead guitar playing. 

In other news, I'm working on my books, trying to get the first one ready for publication while needing to draw a book cover myself. I'm a one-man operation, and at the same time I'm also trying to process the mountain of information I received, from October 2023 through March of this year, about my life and my life's situation. In 1996, I learned that I was different, and that my life was very different, and I've been dealing with it ever since. The recent mountain of information has been incredibly helpful, allowing me to identify much of the day-to-day detail of the Summer of 1989, but the source for that information is currently in a lull. It's as if God has said, "examine what I've given you, then I will give you more." 

So that's what I'm doing. I've already got 225 pages for the new, updated version of What Happened in Northridge (which, as noted, may or may not retain that title). The first version was concerned mainly with two weeks in September 1989, and the story is so much bigger now. Really, it's the story of my life, which can be broken down into two large elements: something I call The Lorne Street School Story, and What Happened in Northridge.

I've been walking past Freda's house and thinking about clandestine car rides. I know I was in that house, I know that meeting took place. I know I went places with you and sometimes Lys, too. I know you guys took me to see Ann. In short, I know there was a program in place. I believe it began in 1992 (which, coincidentally is when a certain person took office), and I believe it continued into 1993. I've been considering a series of events, two mainly, maybe more. Sometime in 1992, the late, great (but not as great as he used to be) Dave Small made two phone calls to me, both in which he was surly and drunk. They were so unlike him. I hadn't heard from him in over a year, maybe two, and in the first call, he was making no sense. I had to ask him to call back when he wasn't inebriated. I wish I could put an exact date on both calls, especially the second one, because he called back - I am guessing it was roughly between late '92 and Winter or early Spring 1993 - and this time he was sarcastic. So unlike Dave! He was the original mild-mannered guy. But this time, he wasn't. I said, "Hello?" and he said, "Hey....it's me, Mr. Davey." I said, "Hey man...what's happening?" and he said, curtly, "Oh...nothing." Then he added "Somebody here wants to talk to you. Somebody here thinks you know everything."

I assumed he meant Kelly, since she was his girlfriend. She lived with Dave in the Burton Street house. With his statement "Somebody here thinks you know everything" I further assumed he meant in the "Jeopardy" sense. I get a lot of answers right on Jeopardy. I said, "okay, put her on", meaning put Kelly on the phone and I'd try to answer her question, whatever it was. I heard some chatter in the background. Dave said "C'mon, I've got him on the phone....are you gonna talk to him or not?" Finally, he came back. "Now she won't do it." His voice was slurred. I was losing my patience, because of his prior call, and in those days (early 1990s) Dave was not in my life. He disappeared with Kelly from about 1990 to mid-93. I said, "Does Kelly want to talk to me or not?" He tried again, then gave up. "No, I guess I called you for nothing." I said goodbye and thought it was strange. It wasn't until a few years ago that I considered another meaning to his statement, "Somebody here thinks you know everything."

Everything about 1989.

Dave was telling me that Kelly thought my memory had come back. It had not. Not yet. Not until October of 1993. But why would she think that? From what evidence? Neither she nor Dave had spoken to me in that time period. And from word of mouth? That's not possible, because at the time of those phone calls, my memory of 1989 was blank. I couldn't possibly have told anyone anything. So, why would Kelly assume my memory was back? This is a fascinating question.

What interests me is that, not long after this second call took place, maybe a month or two later, Dave kicked Kelly out of his house. He wasn't just breaking up with her, but evicting her. Her brother Sean came down to intervene. They came to my house and enlisted my help. I went to see Dave and said, "You can't do this, you can't put Kelly on the street. She's a girl, it's dangerous, she has nowhere to go." He agreed to let her sleep in his garage until she found a place, but that only lasted one day. Then he was furious again. "I want her out of here!" he told me. Kelly came back to my house, and within 24 hours, she was Terry Meissner's girlfriend. I allowed her to move into the garage, provided Mrs. Meissner pay us extra rent.

At the time (and for years), I never considered Dave's drunken phone calls. However, I always found the swiftness unusual, how quickly Kelly became Terry's girlfriend.

At the time, Dave gave me a lot of gibberish about why he threw Kelly out, and remember - he put her on the street, an extreme thing to do, with no guarantee she'd have anywhere to go. I don't believe he threw her out because she wasn't doing the dishes (one of his stated excuses). I believe it was because Kelly was worried that my memory was back, or more precisely, Dave was worried because he was directly involved in 1989. And maybe Kelly was prodding him about it. I don't know, but I'll eventually find out.

I will eventually find everything out. I always do. This recent avalanche of information has been so helpful.

And I believe there was a program in place, possibly to help me regain my memory, that included things like car rides, and meetings (at least one at Freda's) and trips to see Ann, and it seems to have coincided with Dave's eviction of Kelly, and her subsequent coupling with Terry Meissner, the bad guy at the center of the whole thing. 

Happy Birthday to Ritchie Blackmore and Pete Rose

Happy Ritchie Blackmore's Birthday. I've been listening to his music this afternoon, and if anyone wonders why he's so great, go to Youtube and find the live version of Rainbow's "A Light in the Black" recorded in Hiroshima in December 1976. The sound isn't perfect, but check out his playing, and how fast, tight, and propulsive the band is. As one comment notes, "It's face melting". Then watch the California Jam version of "Mistreated". Besides playing brilliantly, what Ritchie did (imo better than anyone) was to convey feeling. He and David Coverdale (who was only 22)  wring every drop of emotion out of that song, including the quiet parts with the volume swells. Watch Coverdale's face as he sings "Mistreated" in front of the enormous Cal Jam audience. He's living the emotion of the lyrics. 

After that video, listen to the studio version of "Stargazer" from the classic "Rainbow Rising" and get blown away by the guitar solo, with it's Arabian scales. Ritchie did it all, then went on to acoustic magic with Blackmore's Night. Let's look at his body of work and make a list.

One thing about Ritchie, in his various incarnations, is that he and his bands don't (in my opinion) have what could be called "a run of classic albums". Bands like King's X, or Rush, Judas Priest, The Moody Blues, and many more had classic periods where they could do no wrong and made five, six or seven albums in a row that were all 9s or 10s. Ritchie doesn't have that. Deep Purple would make a classic, like "In Rock", but then follow it with a so-so album like "Fireball". Then they'd return with the all-time great "Machine Head" then follow that with "Who Do We Think We Are", which was not so great. Then they did "Burn" which is in my all-time Top Ten Albums. So go figure. Deep Purple were not consistent in the "run of great albums" way that other bands were, but they still made three 'ten on a ten scale" classics: "In Rock", "Machine Head" and "Burn" , in addition to a few 8s ("Stormbringer", "Slaves and Masters", "Perfect Strangers"), and "Made in Japan", which many consider the greatest hard rock live album of all time.

With Rainbow, RB got a little more consistent. The debut album is an 8, but "Rainbow Rising" is a Ten. Some fans think it's his finest hour and I won't argue. Again, listen to "A Light in the Black". Now that's progressive hard rock! "Long Live Rock and Roll" is a step down, maybe a 7.5. The thing with Ritchie is sheer output. He may not have the Classic Album Run, but in the amount of great songs he's written he's up there with anyone except Lennon/McCartney. Even his "less than great" albums have many good songs. RB was never just about the riff, though he had those in spades. His music has always been melodic and he's always had great singers. How many has he discovered and worked with? My goodness. After Ronnie James Dio left Rainbow, Ritchie returned with belter Graham Bonnett to make the near-classic "Down To Earth", which I'd give an 8.5 or a 9. Then he really hit his stride with Joe Lynn Turner, my personal favorite Rainbow singer, and made "Difficult to Cure", "Straight Between the Eyes" and "Bent Out of Shape", the closest thing he has to a Classic Run. I give those albums a 9, a 9, and an 8.5 respectively. Then he went back to Purple for almost a decade. "Perfect Strangers" is, for me, an 8 or an 8.5, but then it went a little downhill with "House of Blue Light" (a 7), and bottomed out with "The Battle Rages On" (or as Ritchie calls it, "The Cattle Grazes On"). The less said about that one, the better. But then DP brought in Joe Lynn Turner for "Slaves", another 8.

Then RB reformed Rainbow for "Stranger in Us All", which has a lot of great songs that would've been better with a stronger singer than Doogie White.

Then came Blackmore's Night, a 180 degree stylistic turn. The first album is a #10 Classic. Every song is great. The next two, "Under a Violet Moon" and "Ghost of a Rose" are 9s. So he almost has another run, with a completely different kind of music. Not many musicians have switched gears like that.

We must also look at his proficiency as a soloist. Ritchie was the first to advance the electric guitar past Clapton and Hendrix. If I may so humbly state, I am an expert on the History of the Guitar Solo, and while there were many great players in the 1960s and early 70s, no one - not even Jimi himself - ever played anything like the solo in "Highway Star". Alvin Lee was fast (and very good), but didn't have the precision nor sheer musicality of RB. Ditto Jimmy Page and Jeff Beck. As great as they were, Ritchie was way ahead of the pack with that solo. It wasn't until Edward Van Halen came along in 1978 that anyone went as far or perhaps farther. Nowadays, with the so called "shred" players, and the modern technical players, and all these 12 year old Youtube prodigies, sure - they can play a thousand notes per second in any scale you care to choose, but who cares when they have no feeling, no signature sound, and no memorable songs or melodies? That's why the next Ritchie Blackmore or Edward Van Halen has yet to come along. You have to make the guitar sing and you have to write music that makes people feel something. The new guys can't do that. 

So yeah, RB set the standard in soloing over 50 years ago, and you really have to listen to a career retrospective of his work to see how great he has been in so many ways. For incredibly emotional blues, check out his slide playing on Rainbow instrumentals like "Anybody There" and "Snowman". Wow.

He turned 79 today, and only plays a handful of shows every year, all on the east coast or in Europe, but I'm holding out hope that I get to see him live one more time. Here's to Sir Richard. Happy Birthday to The Man in Black.

Our other birthday boy is Pete Rose, who turned 83 - 83! - and I mean...put him in the Hall of Fame already! I'm talking to you, Commissioner Manfred. Not only is Pete the Hit King (a record that won't be topped anytime soon), but he's also first in games played and at bats. No one has done more for baseball, or has championed  baseball like Pete Rose. No one played the game harder. Pete had the head-first slide, he played five positions (first, second and third base, and left & right field) and played them all well. Yes, he bet on baseball, and yes, he lied about it at first (and for many years) but he's long since come clean and said many mea culpas, so put him in the Hall already. He's 83; do it while he's still alive.

In addition to his personal accomplishments, Pete was part of The Big Red Machine. Many baseball experts consider the 1976 team to be one of the greatest ever assembled. Some say it's second only to the 1927 Yankees. Dig this starting lineup: Catcher: Johnny Bench, First Base: Tony Perez, Second Base: Joe Morgan, Shortstop: Dave Concepcion, Third Base: Pete Rose, Left Field: George Foster, Center Field: Caesar Geronimo, Right Field: Ken Griffey, Starting Pitchers: Don Gullet, Gary Nolan, Pat Zachary, Jack Billingham, Relief Pitchers: Rawly Eastwick, Pedro Borbon, Will McEnany. Manager: Sparky Anderson.

The Big Red Machine won back-to-back World Series in 1975 and '76 and currently has three Hall of Famers in Bench, Morgan and Perez. Pete Rose should be in there with them. Happy Birthday, Pete.

April 12, 2024

I'm excited because yesterday I received my very first licensing permission to publish outside material. The source is another book, excerpts of which I'm going to use in my upcoming book. I sent the permission request to the author's publisher a month ago, and had just about given up on hearing back from them, but yesterday I got an email saying "permission granted", with a signed form to make it official. Man, I'm stoked! Now if I can only get those lyrics approved. I may have mentioned that I have two songs I want to use, both of which fit perfectly into the story at a certain point, but I've found - so far - that getting permission for lyrics is a lot harder than for excerpts from books. For one thing, it's difficult to even find who to contact. The copyrights of songs, especially old ones, have often changed hands over the decades. Some songs have multiple publishers. I sent emails to the two biggest music publishing houses (Hal Leonard and I Don't Remember The Other One) but I never heard back. If necessary, I can "write my way around" the lyrics, but it would be so much better to have them. I even thought of a gimmick: adding a footnote to tell readers to Google the lyrics when they come to the asterisk....but that's kinda cheap. Oh well. I'm just happy to have received permission for the book excerpts.

I'm a caveman when it comes to anything outside the actual writing. All the business stuff has been trial and error. And the tech stuff, the computer stuff? I didn't even know how to use Google Docs until recently. And now I'm trying to figure out Adobe so I can create a book cover. Oy! I'm monkey-see, monkey-do when it comes to tech. I can figure things out myself, but it takes me a while because I don't have the patience and I'm not made for this gadget-oriented time period. I don't like the images available on Adobe, so I think I'm gonna draw my own book cover, with colored pencils, then take a picture of it and upload it onto Adobe and make my cover that way. It'll give the book a personal touch, even if I'm not the world's greatest graphic artist. 

I hope (hope, hope) to have my first book out by the end of Summer. With good fortune, the second one will follow in less than a year. It was actually the first of the two I wrote, and was completed last September. Since then, events have conspired to make it the second release. It needs material added to make the story what it should be, and man, is it ever a shocker. 

The story overall is beautiful, but how it came to be is shocking.

Fingers are crossed that when publishing time comes, I will know how to create the proper file to upload the first book to KDP or Lulu, or whatever "platform" I end up using. If the tech world would just use plain English, and not words like "platform", it would be a whole heck of a lot easier for us troglodytes to get the gist. I mean, "platform" is an easy one (if stupid), but while researching the matter, I came across an instructional video on how to "flatten" your document. And because the narrator was a Gen Z person, they may have assumed that everyone knows that term. I did not and had to do a separate Google. Instead of "flatten" (which makes no sense), why not just use plain English and say, "make unalterable" or "fix in place". Well anyhow....adventures in self-publishing. I don't think I'm gonna put my book on Kindle because I believe in real books made out of paper and cardboard (or whatever book covers are made of). Nothing against Kindle or Kindle readers, it's just that I'm militantly old school when it comes to books. I've got to be able to hold a book in my hand, and - most importantly - turn the pages. So there you have it. Wish me luck.

On to other matters:

When my family moved from Reseda to Northridge in January 1968, I transferred from Lorne Street to Prairie Street Elementary School, which - before they turned it into a parking garage - was located on the edge of the CSUN campus (and CSUN was SFVSC in those days). I remember sitting in an office while my Dad filled out the paperwork and talked to Principal Fisher. There seemed to be a dispute over whether I would be accepted. Before we went in, Dad told me, "just sit still and keep quiet". He meant sit upright with my hands folded like a good boy. Dad and the Principle spoke in low tones. I heard what they were saying but didn't fully understand. Mr. Fisher said something like, "We don't want any trouble here. Northridge is a conservative town." I didn't want to change schools but I had to. And 56 years later, when I consider it, I don't think they wanted me at Prairie. The principal asked for Dad's assurance that there wouldn't be a repeat of whatever had happened at Lorne.

Recently, I remembered an incident that occurred right after I started at Prairie. It might've been my first week at the school, or even my first day. I was in 3rd grade (second semester), and didn't know anyone. A few classmates introduced themselves, but at that point I was still on my own. And after school, two older boys approached me by the gate. They were taller than me and tough-looking. And they said something like, "we don't want your kind at our school". I was scared. I think a teacher ran them off, but not long after that, I was either riding or walking home, down Sunburst, just below the orange grove, when the same two boys rode up behind me, pedaling as fast as they could. I ran or pedaled away from them, as fast as I could, and my house wasn't too far away. But they caught up to me, and knocked me down in the street.

I had no idea who these boys were, or what they had against me. I was just the new kid in school. They had rough, petulant faces and lank hair. Fortunately, I wasn't alone that day. A teenager who lived in the yellow ranch house on the corner of Osborne and Sunburst saw what was happening and came to my rescue. He was a "surfer type": shirtless, tan, blonde and muscular, about 17 or 18 years old. He knew the mean boys' names, and told them to leave me alone or he'd kick their asses. He shut the situation down and sent me home, and after that I don't remember. But I forgot all about that incident, and it wasn't until earlier this year that I remembered it.

And I remembered who those two boys were. Both of them still live in Northridge and would now be about 65 or 66 years old. I know a lot about one of those boys and a little bit about the other. The one, of whom I know a lot, is a bad person who's affected my life.

He comes from an evil family, with a secret history in town. 

There have been some very evil families here in Northridge. I know of two that remain (though there are probably more), and the weird thing is, you'd think they were progressive democrats because that's how they present themselves. The thing about evil is that it puts on a good face, and it's not just banal, it's dormant. It sleeps a lot and doesn't show itself unless it has to. The rest of the time, it operates below the surface, away from the actual good guys, because evil does not want a fight. It's a scaredycat. Evil's a chicken. It picks on little kids. It gangs up on people and never fights fair and square. In the case of those two boys, I saw them again in 1989. By that time they were over 30, and in a confessional moment they told me that their Dads had told them to chase me and beat me up on that day in 1968, and I believe them now because my research shows that their Dads were a-holes who had high connections in the California state government.

But yeah, evil is a chicken. It doesn't want a fair fight because it knows it will lose. It's lost every time against me.

And sorry folks, but evil is much more likely to present itself as "your friend" - a liberal, animal loving vegan. A Rachel Maddow democrat. Evil doesn't express as Donald Trump because that's too obvious. Trump's a destructive asshole but he isn't evil. Evil doesn't show it's cards.

What you have to do with evil, is get rid of it. But first, you have to make it an example.

I say this from experience, because people like this bad guy have sought me out and ganged up on me for my entire life. They've known things about me - through their families and through rumor - that they have used to take advantage. But I am their punching bag no longer.

Then, there was this:

Before I became Pearl's caregiver, I was a house sitter in Reseda for a year. I worked at the home of a woman named Diane, who had recently passed away. She was the sister of a close friend of one of my relatives. In addition to watching the house, my duties at Diane's included cleaning, organizing, taking care of the yard, and finally, painting the interior. I did that part in January 2010.

During the late Spring of 2009, and throughout the Summer and Fall, I occasionally worked alongside Diane's sister (aka, the close friend of my relative), who flew in from her home in another state. I've known this woman since I was a small child. The earliest I can remember her is from the Summer of 1966, when my family vacationed in Laguna Beach. If I were to concentrate, I could probably remember her from earlier than that, but it's not important at the moment.

At the time she gave me the house sitting job, I was broke and therefore grateful, not to mention relieved. This woman came to Reseda several times in 2009, mostly in the Summer, to hold garage sales of Diane's belongings. The woman in question had lived in this house herself in the 1960s.

In December 2009, she came down to hold her final garage sale, which was due to take place the weekend after Christmas. Because Christmas was on a Friday, that meant the sale would be the very next day, a Saturday, or maybe Sunday December 27th. Her husband flew down before she did, to evict a renter who was squatting (he had not paid his rent). The husband arrived on December 19. I know this because I wrote it in my diary. The recalcitrant renter cleared out when the husband arrived, avoiding a confrontation, and I continued my daily housework. At the time - Christmas week - I was prepping the interior of the house for painting. I taped off windows and molding, pulled picture hooks, spackled holes. And on December 21, I picked up Diane's sister from the Van Nuys Flyaway. I know this because my diary says so.

I finished painting Diane's house in mid-January, then began clearing the garage, which was packed with boxes of her things. That took three more weeks, and the house was sold in the first week of February 2010, just hours after the realtor began showing it. I took the quick sale as a point of pride that I'd done a good job to make the house presentable.

However, I'd been living month-to-month in 2009, and my immediate concern was getting another job, to avoid becoming homeless.

Lo and behold, God (and others) were watching out for me, because almost to the day I finished at Diane's, I was asked by Pearl's daughter to become her caregiver. Pearl had broken her hip and - at 85 - could not live alone any longer.

Years later, I thought of the serendipity of that confluence of events, of how I finished the job at Diane's and got the job with Pearl almost immediately. Thank You, God, I said. And Thank You, Pearl and Helen. I also thought about the fact that Pearl had to break her hip for me to get that job, but fate is fate. Or is it? 

During the eleven and a half years I worked for Pearl, I would sometimes think back on my year at Diane's, and once in a while I would recall the day when her sister's husband got mad at me. Boy, was that an Event.

Man, it was downright scary. 

Screw that. It was terrifying.

I was doing something in the house when Diane's sister asked me to come help Bill, her husband, who was working in the walk-in closet next to the dining room. He needed me to screw in a light fixture in the ceiling. I don't recall the reason he couldn't do it himself. Maybe his hands were too big. I started to screw it in, but fumbled a screw and lost it in the ceiling. I felt around, through the small fixture hole, but couldn't find it. Embarrassed, I said "Sorry Bill but I've lost the screw and can't find it. I can go to Home Depot and buy another one." I was ready to buy another fixture if necessary because it was my fault.

But Bill didn't say "okay", or "doggonnit." What he did was explode with a Capital E. He started by yelling the F-word at the top of his lungs, repeatedly. After the first or second F**k!, he threw a hammer that flew past me into the wall. For the record, he did not throw it at me, but it was close enough. I was standing on a footstool, and Bill - who is the size of a linebacker - was in the closet's doorway. I was trapped and scared out of my wits. Why was he enraged over a minor mistake on my part that could be rectified with a trip to the hardware store?

I wasn't sure, and this was only in retrospect because I didn't think about the incident that often. Diane's house was not far from Pearl's. Sometimes I'd walk past there on one of my breaks. Then I'd think about Bill's meltdown, but I never was able to make sense of it.

Until recently. And now it's a huge problem, 14 years and 4 months after it happened. 

You see, I wasn't sure when the Bill Incident occurred, and when I was working on my book - the one that needs revision - I went looking through my journals, which collectively make up the diary I've been keeping for 25 years. I was sure the incident happened around Christmas 2009, since that was the only time Bill came down during the year I worked at Diane's house. In reading my 2009 journal, that's when I discovered that Bill arrived on December 19. Further down the page, in my entry for December 27, I wrote (among other things) that I drove him to the Flyaway that morning so he could return to his home state. Bill was in Reseda for eight days. I read and re-read every journal entry for those days and could not find a single mention of The Incident.

Not One Single Mention.

Now then: I am a guy who details the most trivial things in my diary. A typical entry might include the following: "Went to Vons at 4 pm for chips. Stopped at Libe on way back to return DVDs." The opposite is also true. My life is pretty boring, so when something out of the ordinary happens, you can bet I write it down. I write down my whole day, however boring or exciting it was. My entries are usually compact, because - as noted - not much happens, or differs, in my day-to-day life. But when something like the Bill Incident happens, there's no way I would fail to record it. And yet I did.

How in the world did that happen? How did I fail to write down my terror at having an enraged, linebacker-sized madman throw a hammer past me, in a confined space, while yelling the F-word repeatedly? 

I can tell you how - and why - I failed to write it down, but I won't. Not yet. I'll tell you when I resolve it.

Besides myself, there were two witnesses to Bill's meltdown. And the thing is, I have recently remembered that it did not end with the hammer throw, and it did not end with the screamed profanities.

What happened after those details is so far off the charts - and so reprehensible - that I'm keeping it to myself for the time being. But I'll tell you, I am tired of being taken advantage of, tired of being stonewalled, and I'll never be anyone's punching bag - or play toy - ever again. Judas Priest's "Fight of Your Life" is my theme song.

Fifty Years of Concerts

Before we begin, a quick notice: If you're a horror fan, go see "The First Omen". It's big league stuff that earns it's place in the franchise. In fact, it's one of the best horror movies in years. Don't miss it.

Well, today was the 50th anniversary of the California Jam, my first concert, and still the best. I've been to many great ones, but it's impossible to top Emerson Lake and Palmer, Deep Purple and Black Sabbath all on the same bill, all at the height of their powers and all touring in support of (in my opinion) their best albums, "Brain Salad Surgery", "Burn" and "Sabbath Bloody Sabbath" respectively. Throw in Black Oak Arkansas and Seals and Crofts and it was one heck of a day of music. I've written about it a million times, in fuller detail than I feel like delving into at the moment, but I will always remember (among other things) making my way back to the Greyhound station when the concert was over, only to discover I'd missed the last bus home. I was just shy of 14 and stranded.

The bus schedule was the last thing on my mind while ELP was playing. Keith's spinning piano? The quadrophonic sound? Carl's amazing drum solo in the middle of "Tocatta"? No, I wasn't thinking much about the Greyhound. When the concert ended, I had no idea where to go. I followed the crowd out of the Ontario Motor Speedway's concourse, actually hopping over the retaining wall and crossing the racetrack itself. That was pretty cool. But once outside the confines of the sprawling Speedway property, I had no sense of direction, the night was pitch black and there were no landmarks because it was not a developed area. I think I asked someone if he knew where the bus station was, and he pointed across a field: "See those lights in the distance? That's the Ontario Airport. The bus station's there." I walked across that field for what seemed like a mile. Finally I reached the lights and found the Greyhound terminal. That's when I discovered I'd missed the last bus. A clock read 11:30. I saw longhaired people sleeping on the floor, or half asleep, and I saw shirtless guys with Marine haircuts. Many of the hippies and Marines looked stoned or drunk and I was scared. They were all older than me. I was just a scrawny kid.

Luckily, I had some change, and put the needed coins into a pay phone, however much it took to call Northridge from Ontario. My Mom answered (thank goodness). I explained my predicament and asked her not to tell my Dad, who - fortunately - was asleep. On the one hand, I was worried he'd get mad at me if he found out I missed the bus, but on the other (scarier) hand, I was more afraid of the drunken Marines and stoned-out hippies. I was worried about getting beaten up and told Mom so. "I'm here all by myself, Mom."

Mom had an idea, and asked if I had enough change to call her back. I did. She told me to wait fifteen minutes, and in the interim, she had phoned our next door neighbor, Sandy S. Mom explained the situation, and Sandy volunteered to drive the 60 miles to Ontario to pick me up. God bless you, Sandy! Mom rode with him; they didn't chew me out or get upset. They just asked how the concert was, and I told them. In an aside, Sandy (a teacher at Granada Hills High) lived in the same house I would later be held captive in, in September 1989. But screw that for now 'cause it ain't rock n' roll, and Jared Rappaport ain't no Sandy S. Mom and Sandy saved my hide after the California Jam. They drove all that way to pick me up (I love you, Mom!), and my Dad remained asleep the whole time. The next morning, he asked me how the concert was and I said "fine." He never found out about the missed Greyhound.

The next morning was a Sunday. I had a paper route, and I've always remembered wrapping my Sunday papers and being 90% deaf. The California Jam was loud (I think at the time it was one of the biggest PA systems ever assembled) and I was not only mostly deaf, but what little I could hear, sounded like 78 rpm. Voices sounded like Mickey or Minnie Mouse. Everything was high-pitched. It took a couple days to get my ears back. But man oh man...it was worth it. What a show. The bands remember it fondly also. I think Jon Lord, or maybe Glenn Hughes, considered it the best show Deep Purple ever played. And of course, Ritchie had to high-tail it out of Ontario by helicopter after DP's set ended. The San Bernardino Sheriff was after him for setting the stage on fire. He was almost 29 then. Next week he'll be 79. Wow.

I estimate I've been to apprx. 800 concerts since then, including club shows.

A few legendary ones deserve mention:

Rush in Las Vegas, June 15, 1981

Van Halen at The Forum, June 20, 1981

Pink Floyd at the Rose Bowl, April 17, 1994

Judas Priest at Long Beach, June 13, 1980

Ozzy Osbourne at the Sports Arena, December 31, 1981 (Randy Rhoads died 2 1/2 months later)

Rush at The Forum, August 1, 2015 (their final show)

Van Halen at the Hollywood Bowl, October 3, 2015 (their next-to-last show)

There are many others but I'd have to give it some thought...

On August 28, 1966, I went to The Beatles second-to-last concert but (ahem)...only made it as far as the Dodger Stadium parking lot. My Dad drove my sisters. They were the ones who went. But I got to ride along.

And I saw Paul McCartney at Dodger Stadium in 2019.

Some of the bands and artists I've seen, in no particular order: Camel, Captain Beefheart, The Tubes, Todd Rundgren, Golden Earring, ELO, Seventh Wave, The Runaways, King Crimson, Alice Cooper, King's X, Eric Johnson, UFO, Thin Lizzy, Sparks, Roxy Music, Rick Wakeman, Rainbow, Blackmore's Night, Scorpions, Uli Jon Roth, Kraftwerk, Celtic Frost, Opeth, Porcupine Tree, Steven Wilson, Alcest, The Moody Blues, Yngwie Malmsteen, Triptykon, Be Bop Deluxe, The Bay City Rollers, Steve Howe (solo), Cheap Trick, Motorhead, Motley Crue, Iron Maiden, ARW (Anderson, Rabin and Wakeman), Bryan Ferry, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Gram Rabbit, Hilary Hahn, David Gilmour, UK, Mike Oldfield, PFM, Spirit, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Peter Frampton, KISS, Blue Oyster Cult, The Who (Daltrey and Townshend version), The Rolling Stones, AC/DC, Patti Smith, Dick Dale, The Ramones, Rick Derringer, Robin Trower, Ted Nugent, Tommy Bolin...(I'd have to go through a comprehensive list of rock bands to name them all, including opening acts).

The bands and artists I've seen the most times: Rush (32), Hilary Hahn (23), Van Halen (18). After that, probably Eric Johnson and King's X. I've lost count.

Interestingly, I've seen Ritchie in his various incarnations (Deep Purple, Rainbow and Blackmore's Night) about 14 times, but only twice since 1987 and not at all since 2005. He doesn't come to the west coast anymore. Thank goodness I saw him as many times as I did.

Bands I've never seen (but wish I did): Gentle Giant, Caravan, Van Der Graaf Generator, Frank Zappa, David Bowie, Egg, National Health, Steve Hillage, Uriah Heep, Wishbone Ash, Mott the Hoople...

My goodness. Well, here's to rock n' roll. Check back in 50 years for an updated concert list.  :)   

April 1, 2024

 I walked by Freda's house this evening. I tell myself not to use hippie phrases, superlatives like "I blew my mind" because I want to articulate my feelings with a finer point, but right now that will have to suffice, if only because I'm tired, having walked 3.5 miles (and did you see the SpaceX launch at 7:30? Man, it was awesome!)

I walked by Freda's, and I stood there for a moment, looking at her house from the sidewalk. As I mentioned in the last blog, she passed away in 2018, so she doesn't live there now, but I got goosebumps remembering when she did. And I was in her living room one day, with her and several amazing people. That meeting is now a certainty. Lys may have been there. Ann, too. Remember the quote I mentioned from the last blog, in which one of the guests said (paraphrase), "I never followed astrology, but this lady knows her stuff"? I think it was either Ann or Lys who said that. One or both of them were definitely there, as in 100% for certain. And we had some kind of ceremony, like a prayer circle, with incense. It was a hot day. Freda passed out soft drinks and iced tea.

Some of this I told you in the last blog, but the memory was new when I wrote about it. Now, I've been meditating on it for a few days, and when I walked to Freda's tonight, and I saw the cul-de-sac to the west of her house, I got hit with another recollection: some of the ladies parked in that cul-de-sac. Maybe Lys.

When I first wrote about this meeting , I said that you and I were there, and "maybe" some other people, but "maybe" is now "definitely". I'd say, besides me and you, there were five to six other people, including Freda and one of her boarders. Freda rented rooms to CSUN students, and she mentored a lot of young people, also. 

I'm just gonna throw this out there, and I may be entirely wrong, but I'm getting the notion that Helen was there. Was Helen there? Why am I getting that notion?

Well, anyhow, I am indeed "blowing my mind" now, because the meeting at Freda's house, and the ceremony and the parked cars - the whole deal - confirms that the Clandestine Car Rides were real.

And the phone calls that set them up.

That's so astounding to me (in a good way) that it gives me hope for the future. I would love to know what you think about the fact that I'm remembering this stuff. I'm almost ready to confirm our "movie and lunch date" too. We went to a Thai place in the NoHo/Burbank area. You had discovered it and wanted me to try it because we used to go to Thai Gourmet. I wanted to keep the fortune from my fortune cookie, but you said no (and no to my movie ticket stub) because it could jog my memory and then you (or both of us) could get in trouble. I could swear we saw "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" or "Tom and Jerry: The Movie". I see myself wearing a red-checked shirt with a pocket where I put the fortune and the ticket stub. We talked during lunch, and I wanted you to know I was staying in shape. I told you I was playing basketball, even running a little bit. You liked my red-checked shirt. You mentioned the passage of time, and that you'd soon be 29 "and after that, 30". You were shocked to be leaving your twenties.

Man....I have got to find out where that restaurant was. I think you said it was a recent discovery, hidden in a strip mall or something. Maybe in a small shopping center. The only movie theater I know in that area is the Laemmle NoHo. Maybe the restaurant was near the theater, or maybe both were near Universal City. Anyhow, the "movie and lunch date" is 99% confirmed.

Hypnotism was used to make me not remember the meeting at Freda's house, the "movie and lunch date" or any of the Clandestine Car Rides. That's okay; I'm sure they had their reasons, meaning ONI or whomever was running the show. But I wonder if I'm blowing anyone else's mind by remembering stuff that was blocked from my memory over thirty years ago. Am I? I'm sure blowing my mind, and the Freda Meeting takes the cake (well, almost, because there are other, more personal memories from the Car Rides that I won't publicize).

I remember Lys had a box of Tic Tacs...

I hope I can nail down dates for these things, because I see them as a continuous or ongoing experience, part of a "program", as I've recently mentioned.

Well, anyhow. I haven't watched any movies for a while, but I need to watch "Millennium" and "The Package". Those are from 1989, of course, but on a nicer note, I should also watch "Snow White" and "Tom and Jerry".  Recently, I've been watching Vietnam documentaries: the one with Walter Cronkite, and a Canadian one called "Vietnam" The 10,000 Day War". I have a lot of respect now for General William Westmoreland, who was vilified in the press over the years. I also watched "The World at War", the legendary BBC series about World War Two, narrated by Sir Laurence Olivier. That documentary should be required viewing in every school and every home in every country. More than any other program I've ever seen, it shows what war is, and what it does.

Every day, I get up, have my coffee and oatmeal, then I start writing. I like to listen to Klaus Schulze. He helps me think. "Cyborg" is my secret weapon. 

Every night, I listen to a Wagner opera. Not the whole thing, because his operas are 3 to 4 hours long. Just an hour to 90 minutes. They help me to relax and fall asleep. My favorite is "Parsifal". I could listen to it for a hundred nights in a row.

I've got to find a hospital in Burbank. It might be St. Joseph's. It also might not be. I'd know it by it's parking lot. I wish Pat Fordyce was here. He could show me. But maybe I can find it by myself. 

I need to, it's important.