October 7, 2025 (The Visit of Oswald T.)

Hi folks, I'm running behind as usual, but I wanted to tell you about a man named Oswald T. He was a botanist with an impressive resume, one that you'd think might make him a household name, at least among people who follow science. I mean, we all know Luther Burbank, right? At least, those of us in California know his name because of the city of Burbank, and many of us (me included until some recent Googling) have assumed that Burbank was named after Luther (according to Google, it was named after his half-brother David).

Anyhow, if Luther Burbank was a famous botanist (and he was) then Oswald T. should've been famous, too. He was a university president at the U. of Massachusetts Amherst, and he also taught at Yale. He worked at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard during the time of The Philadelphia Experiment. I mean, my goodness. Reading his credentials and accomplishments, the man was a big deal; I even found a picture of him with a US President (either JFK or LBJ, I can't remember).

I bring him up because he was the grandfather of my girlfriend when I was twelve years old, and ten years later, long after she and her family moved away, good old Oswald had the gall to enter my bedroom at 9032 without knocking. I didn't even know who he was.

I want to call him an A-Hole, but I'm refraining for the moment because, when he came into my bedroom, Oswald seemed to be under a lot of stress. He had a suit on, and he had with him either a small suitcase/attache case or a black bag. Not sure what he had in it, but a stethoscope may have been one of the items. This was at a time when several grown "professional" men were harrassing me. I was 22 years old.

I'm also not calling Oswald an A-Hole (at least for now) because he was interested in my record collection, which I kept in an old wooden crate, the kind that had a paper label pasted on the side with pictures of oranges or some such. Did you ever have your albums in an orange crate? Anyhow, I'm just remembering what Oswald said, when he came into my room (and this is paraphrased): "You may think I'm not hip, in my suit, and because I was born in 1911 and I'm almost fifty years older than you, but I know about rock n' roll." He may have compared himself to his son (who was indeed a major-league A-Hole, one of the biggest of all time) and he (Oswald) said "I'm a hell of a lot hipper than my son."

But the thing was, when Oswald thumbed through my albums in the orange crate, he couldn't figure out Judas Priest.

Judas Priest, if I recall correctly, seemed to bug more than one of these men who were hassling me. They didn't like heavy metal. Some of them were religious, and they thought Judas Priest was a sacreligious name. 

"Screaming for Vengeance" had just been released on July 17, 1982 (which helps me narrow down the date of this incident). The title and the band name bothered Oswald T. He said something like, "I've got no problem with The Beatles, who actually had some talent, but what does this stuff do for you? 'Screaming for Vengeance'? What kind of title is that and why would you want to listen to it? Are you a vengeful person?"

I said no, and he said, "Well then why are you listening to this crap?"

Then he picked up Motorhead "Iron Fist", which had come out in April of that year.

"More violent crap", he proclaimed. "What's a motorhead, anyway? Wait a minute...don't tell me, I think I know. It's a person who takes amphetamines, right? See, I'm hipper than you thought. And I've taken amphetamines myself. I had to, in college, to get through my exams. And I know you like to snort that stuff, that methamphetamine. I know all about you, but I won't judge you on that, because, as I say, I've taken pills myself. But it'll end up frying your brain if you keep using it. You know that, right?"

I said nothing. Just sat there wondering Who The F this guy was, besides the grandpa of my girlfriend from ten years ago.

I don't think Oswald tortured me that night, but he may have threatened to. Lots of people tortured me in 1982. Oswald may have had zappers or other electronic gadgets in his black bag (like the dreaded bleep/bloop device that produces tones you hear inside your head). I think he explained these evil things to me, and he didn't insult my intelligence.

But the heavy metal bugged him. I think he got over it by saying something like, "You think that's heavy metal? That's nothing, just a bunch of guys who can't play guitar. You want a good guitar player? Try Segovia. That's who you should be listening to, not these guys. But if you want heavy metal, try the Philadelphia Experiment. Do you know what that was? Do you know what degaussing is?" 

He talked about plant grafting and cloning. He told me he knew astrology, and said he was a Sagittarian, and because of this he claimed he was physically powerful AND philosophical (thus a dual threat), though he conceded that because I was an Aries (lightning fast) and younger than him (22 to 71) that I could "probably take him" one-on-one.

The guy was a piece of work, and as I mentioned, he threatened me. He said he had to do something to erase my memory (or "re-set" me, as these people put it). He said I could either go along and let him do it, or he could force me. "The easy way or the hard way, your choice" He also used the phrase "Carrot and the Stick", and said that if I chose the carrot, he could arrange it so I would be rewarded in some way. So yeah, he was an A-Hole. This man in a suit who would barge into my room. 

In Northridge, in the 1960s (I think all the way through  the 70s) there was a beloved old-fashioned ice cream shop on Reseda Boulevard near Rayen named "Oswald's Ice Cream Parlor." I think Oswald said it was named after him, though he may have been kidding. Take a hike, Oswald. 

For decades, folks, I've wondered about an Event that took place in September 1989 that I have called "The Attack of the Ex-Neighbors". Briefly, one day in that month and year, as my parents and I were leaving our house (possibly to go to the Devonshire Division police station), a huge angry maniac ran across Sunburt Street, where it met Rathburn at our corner. This gigantic madman ran from Mrs. Cooper's house (south across the street from ours) and made a beeline for my Mom and Dad as we left our house. He ran straight toward my parents as we strode down our walkway, full steam ahead, and he stuck out his arms and he pushed my 69-year-old Dad to the ground.

This coward was Oswald T.'s son, Ray , all 6' 5" 270 lbs of him. He was also 15 to 20 years younger than my Dad. Ray T. was a world-class POS, and in the short time I knew him when I was 12 years old (and I never knew him because he never said hello), he tried, it seemed to me, to present himself as an Intimidating Badass. He was a CSUN Professor and he had a handlebar moustache and he wore round Marxist sunglasses with lenses so black you couldn't see through them. You couldn't see his eyes. He never said hello. On the few occasions I saw him, he always seemed in a hurry, and you could tell that He Thought He Was A Bad Ass Mofo.

But what he really was, was an A-Hole of the Highest Degree. And on this day in September 1989, he emerged out of the blue, as if he'd been lying in wait, and he sprinted across Sunburst Street and knocked my Dad to the ground on the lawn of 9032. Two other men appeared, Marty B and Eugene Carpenter, whose full name I give because he was the biggest A-Hole of them all. I hadn't seen any of these men for close to fifteen years. They and their families had all moved away. Why were they back all of a sudden, and why were they attacking my parents? I wondered about that for decades.

One of the men got on all fours behind my Mom, real quick so she couldn't react, and another (I think Eugene Carpenter) pushed my Mom to the ground over the man's back, like in the schoolyard. Marty B kicked my Dad, who was still lying on our grass. I was probably screaming my head off by this time. I remember a police car driving by, and a blonde female officer stuck her head out the window and said, "Is everybody playing nice?" No, maam. They weren't.

Our neighbor Roy, who was 87 years old, happened to drive by. He slowed down to ask what the hell was going on, and Eugene Carpenter told him, "none of your business, old man."

I've always remembered my Mom asking Ray T, "what's this all about, Ray." And he answered, "You know exactly what this is about", and he indicated me. He may even have said, "But I'm not going to say it in front of him (meaning me)."

Other stuff happened, (which I wrote about In What Happened in Northridge), but the point is that I've been baffled by this incident for the 31 years since I first remembered it (in 1994). I called it "The Attack of the Ex-Neighbors", and I had a feeling it had to do with a sex cult operating in our neighborhood (because the sociopathic sex pervert who kidnapped me, Jared Rappaport, was also a CSUN Professor (and he still is!)

But now, because I have remembered The Visit of Oswald T in 1982 (seven years earlier!) and because I have remembered so much about The Evil in 1982, I now believe I know for sure the motive for the Ex-Neighbors' Attack. They were all a bunch of fucking a-holes who were scared of being exposed.

Thanks for the memory, Oswald.  

September 28, 2025 (The Polar Bear Rug)

 Hi folks, and Happy Sunday Evening. My Rams won, and my Cincinnati Reds clinched a Wild Card spot and will be playing the Dodgers starting Tuesday, so it was a good sports day, and I hope you had a good weekend and a great week overall.

I have another Sunday Story for you, though it may be short. I'm truly working overtime at the moment, information-wise, probably more than ever before, and it will take me a while to catch up in my reporting, even from where we left off last week (drinking beer while under hypnosis at Ann's apartment).

I have to jump ahead from that incident, in our 1983 timeline, because I recalled a memory this week, since I last wrote, of the worst and most horrible thing I've ever experienced. I'm not going to describe it, but I will give you the context and provide a few details.

In blogs written during the Summer I have mentioned the Meissner House, which I've been passing semi-regularly on my walks, when I extend those walks to the White Oak corridor between Lassen and Rayen Streets and detour past the Birke House on Superior and Shoshone and two other houses in that upper sector. In mentioning the Meissner House in recent blogs, I have noted the unusual detail that it's been empty for 23 years, entirely unoccupied and not maintained except for groundskeeping, which allows it to "blend in" with the upper middle class homes in the neighborhood, until one looks more closely at the faded and peeling paint and the rotting wood on the gates and the (frankly) haunted-looking mailbox.

Walk past there and see for yourself.

The Meissner House is a haunted house, and it is a haunted house of evil.

I know this, because I have experienced the evil I speak of. The Meissners, the three family members who lived there during the time I knew the son, will go down in infamy as on par with the Manson Family, and no that is not a joke. 

Continuing my preface, I have noted two separate Meissner House Incidents in my recent blogs, both of which involved Lys, and Howard Schaller. My readers may look up the blog(s) in which those incidents are mentioned if they desire, but what I am getting at is this: the incidents I have previously alluded to, occurring at the Meissner House, are not the same as the incident I am about to report.

Therefore, we will call this one the Main Meissner House Event. We will state that it may have occurred over the weekend of Friday night July 8 through Sunday July 10, 1983, and we will state that it definitely included EXTREME VIOLENCE, sadism, and torture, and that is all I will say regarding the activity.

Among the participants in this activity were all three Meissner family members: the evil mother, the evil father, and the evil son, rock-bottom gutter scum every one of them. 

It is IMPERATIVE to note that there were other participants present. Those participants are every bit as evil as the Meissners.  

My testimony of this event begins with the sudden "snapshot" memory (recovered this week) of a Polar Bearskin Rug, which we will call The Polar Bear Rug,

In one of my meditations on the Meissner House, I got a millisecond flash of a bearskin rug. The image was there-and-gone, and I wondered, "What kind of bear was it?" because brown didn't seem to fit. White had a ring of truth, and I remembered a story that the evil son once told about the evil Meissner father.  

He told of his father's hunting trip to Alaska, and that he went there to shoot and kill a polar bear, and in this recounting, the son was incensed that his father had flown more than 3000 miles north to "go out of his way" to shoot a bear who "had done nothing to him and had never known or even met him".

Now, before you make the mistake of thinking the son was a compassionate guy who felt terrible that his dad had killed a polar bear, I can assure you that the son was a grade-A sociopath, as evil a person as you could meet. His dad may have been worse, but that does not make the son a good guy (quite the opposite), and the mother may have been worse than the other two put together. All three are currently vacationing in hell and should enjoy that vacation while it lasts, but anyhow, getting back to the son and the tale of his father's hunting trip, I think he told it to drop a hint, of the horrible event that happened in his family's house in July 1983, that he participated in. He told that story for the same reason that serial killers and arsonists drop hints about their crimes; because he got his jollies hinting about The Polar Bear Rug knowing I had no awareness of that event (because my memory was taken away) - even though I was one of the two primary victims.

I suffered greatly, but the other victim suffered far worse than I did.

There was an official vehicle in the driveway and a helicopter on the lawn when it ended.

That's all I will tell you about this event.

I believe that, one day, justice will be served on evil people. Thank You, Lord Jesus and Heavenly Father God.

To all my friends and loved ones, thanks for reading, tons of love, back soon.

September 21, 2025 (At Ann's Apartment)

 Howdy folks, and happy last day of Summer. Sorry for a week between blogs. I don't mean to leave you hanging, considering everything we've been talking about lately, but I'm slightly disoriented because of the sheer amount of information I've been processing. I'm living in three time zones: 1983, 2009 and the present (2025), which takes a bit of juggling - a mental balancing act.

Anyhow...man, I have so much to tell you, and - as is the case lately - I can't possibly fit it all into one blog.

Not only that, but (unfortunately) there are details I will have to omit in certain cases because I'm not comfortable revealing them. When that happens, I will do my best to give you the general idea of what I'm talking about.

Let's start with a short Sunday story.

When I was in junior high, there were these two guys everyone knew and liked, the Amati twins (last name slightly changed). John and Jim Amati were Identicals who sometimes played a gag on their teachers. I'm sure you can guess what it was. They would occasionally attend each other's classes, take each other's tests (and answer in class and all the rest of it) and the other students who were in on the joke got a kick out of it because the teachers couldn't tell the difference. I doubt the Amatis invented that trick, and they didn't do it often, but when they did, it was all in good fun.

On the night I met Lilly at the Capitol Records Swap Meet (in October 1980), her friends called her Lil. I may have, too, at first, but when we became a couple in June 1981, I began calling her Lillian, maybe because it seemed more formal and we were now in a formal relationship. Besides that, it's a beautiful, feminine name. All of the forms of her name are lovely, whether Lil, Lillian or Lilly, and I never called her Lilly until I began writing about her, and right now, it's my favorite. On a side note, we didn't use first names a lot. We called each other "Honey." She started that trend, and it became a Thing. "Hi Honey, how was your day?" "Pretty good, Honey. How about yours?"

But yeah, I probably used first names more than she did, and when I did, I mostly called her Lillian.

When I lived with my Mom, I remember her saying (at least once), "There's Lil, there's Lillian...and don't forget Lilly." I don't recall the context. Was she enumerating the forms of Lillian's name? 

Now I will segue back to the incident at Lilly's house, which I referred to in a previous blog. That incident is one of the most astounding things that has happened in my life, and because of that, the details must remain oblique. Let's just say that it's connected to a conversation that began on the night of one of the February 1983 Rush concerts. To recap, I attended at least one of those concerts (maybe two) with Lilly and Dave Small. She drove us (in Peanut) and on the way there, she told us something that I initially had a hard time believing.

The incident at her house occurred not long after the Rush concert(s), and was prompted by the things she told me and Dave, not only on the ride to the concert but in a subsequent visit to 9032 where she spoke to me in private. Her story ultimately caused me to drive to her house where the incident in question occurred. 

We'll shift gears again to the aftermath of that incident. I've mentioned Ann a lot in recent blogs. Ann got me out of many jams, including this one. In my meditations, I use strict protocols to ensure the actuality of an incident. Small but vivid details can help verify a situation, such as my memory of Ann's hat at the airport (described in a recent blog). In a meditation this week, I recieved another such "vivid and visceral" detail. Before starting a self-hypnotic meditation, it is good to state your intent. Speak quietly to your subconscious as if it were a person. Set a temporal umbrella (a timeframe) and the general idea of what you are seeking. You only state this second part if you have an established memory of an incident you are trying to build on. For instance, in this case, I wanted to know "what happened after the incident at Lillian's house in mid-to-late February 1983". I knew Ann had come to the house in the aftermath of that incident, but the memory ended at that point. So, I stated my desire to add to that continuum. "What happened next"? I enquired.

In meditation, it can take several minutes (even a half hour or more) for imagery to arise.

This time, when it did, I got that "vivid and visceral" sensation.

I saw myself in a dwelling. A house? An apartment? Ann was there, talking to me about (something) that took a certain amount of time to take effect. What? A drug? Hypnosis? I saw us making small talk.

Then Ann got me a beer from her refrigerator. I opened it and began sipping. Another person entered the room (or the apartment in general). It was Brenda the nurse, who may have been Ann's roommate. I was sitting there, beginning to feel whatever "state" I was supposed to be entering into. (Slight vertigo?) Brenda may have asked "What's with him" (because hypnosis makes you docile or subdued), and Ann explained to her what was going on, probably leaving out the details of the incident at Lillian's house.

The memories in bold (above) are as clear as if they happened yesterday.

When I began this 1983 Investigation on an intuitive prompt last June, I went first to my movie list, to see if any of the titles would "trigger" any memory data. One of the movies was "Blue Thunder", about a high-tech police helecopter, that made quite a splash when it was released on Friday May 13, 1983. Lilly and I went to see it at the Pacific Parthenia Theater. Usually, we went to movies by ourselves, but on this occasion, Ann came with us. Of course, I had no awareness of anything I'd endured previously that year. All of it had been removed from my memory.

But in thinking about "Blue Thunder", I remembered that Ann brought beers into the theater. She snuck them in inside her purse, one for her, one for me. That night, I only thought, "Wow, Ann's cool".

"Thanks, Ann, for the beer."

At the time, I had no notion whatsoever of having been with Ann on several occasions in February. I just thought of her as Lillian's older sister who (I thought) I'd briefly met two or three times, mostly at Dr. Winn's office.

Now, I know better, and I'm thinking about that beer at "Blue Thunder". I wonder if Ann was testing my memory.

Thanks for reading, back soon, tons of love. 

September 14, 2025 (The Little Girl from Venus)

Hi guys. I have a little Sunday afternoon story for you about my early childhood in Reseda. It's another tangent in our 1983 Investigation, but I think it is relevant, and perhaps you will think so, too. As you may know, I lived in Reseda from birth until New Year's Day 1968, when my family moved to Northridge. I was 7 years and 8 months old at that time. As can happen when one is a kid, my mindset changed with my surroundings. I had a new neighborhood, a new school, new friends, and while I didn't immediately forget about my Reseda pals (or our Hatton Street house), I wasn't living there anymore, and so those memories faded over time. I never really thought about The Tract, as we called it (and it was also called Meadowlark Park), until I was 44 and started attending the annual Thanksgiving dinners at Pearl's house, which was on Lull Street, just around the corner from my childhood home. I also lived on Burton Street (with Dave Small) from 1995 - 97, and I house-sat at Diane's on Jamieson in 2009. Those two houses were about 1/2 mile from the Tract, so they also put me in the general vicinity. But the deepest memories came back when I started working for Pearl in 2010.

We took daily walks around the Tract, which, for the record, is made up of three streets: Keswick, Hatton and Lull, running east/west, and bordered by Hesperia and Yarmouth, north/south. Zelzah runs up the middle.  

One of the memories that returned during this time was triggered by a house on Keswick Street, just west of its intersection with Hatton Place. When I saw this house, I was struck by an intuition. I immediately named it after the man I remembered living there when I was about five or six years old. One or two readers may know this man's name, but I will call him "Z". The first time we passed this house, I said, "Look Pearl, it's Z's house" (except I used his full name). The interesting thing was, I didn't stop to consider this instant identification, nor to consider that, many years later, this man lived in another town over ten miles from Reseda. I didn't stop to consider that (as far as I was aware) there was no record of Z ever living at the Keswick house. I just said, "Look Pearl, there's Z's house". And I said it because of a memory.

Later on, I wrote a story, based on this memory, about a little girl who lived there, Z's daughter. This story is included in my book "The Summer of Green Parrots" (available on Lulu and Amazon, hint hint). Let me give you the short version:

When I was little boy, I was taken to this house on Keswick Street by my friend John, who was a year older than me. If I was 5 or 6, John was 6 or 7. He wanted to go to this house because a little girl lived there who rarely came out to play. If you remember being a child in the early 1960s, that was how kids socialised. We knocked on each others doors and said, "Can Johnny come out and play?" or Keekoe or whoever it was. In my memory, I didn't recall the name of this little girl, only that John said she hardly ever came outside. He said we should go and visit her, and ask if she could come out to play. I always remembered the porch of this house, which was shaded by shrubbery. The porch still looks the same in 2025. The porch is what triggered the memory.

When John and I rang the bell, a tall man answered the door. John asked if the little girl could come out and play, and the man said "No, not today". We smelled an ammonia smell wafting out on cooled air. One of us asked what it was. The man said it was an artificial environment he'd created for his little daughter.

"You see, she is from Venus", he told us. "She cannot breathe Earth's atmosphere. That is why she must stay inside."

I later learned (as the memory showed) that the little girl was ill. Hence, the ammonia smell.

The tall man had a soft European accent.

I included the story in my book because Z lived in the Tract, and his story, which I subtitled "The Little Girl from Venus" now struck me as a beautiful fable. This man had taken his daughter's illness (which must've caused him great sorrow) and for the sake of two little boys who came to his door, he turned it into a fairy tale. Instead of saying, "she can't come out and play because she's sick", he said, "she from Venus and cannot breathe your atmosphere." How wonderful of him to say that, and to make it into a fairy tale.

Recently, the tale has become clearer. I've realized that I visited that man on my own. I've had memories arise deep from the subconscious of going to his house to enquire if his daughter was okay, if she was back from the hospital. I remember that the man, who besides being tall was also balding, always had interesting things for me to snack on, like figs, or macadamia nuts, and other things I hadn't heard of like almond roca and toffee.

He was a highly educated man, very worldly, and he'd tell me stories about a great many things. He told me where he was from (a country in Europe), and he showed me where it was located, on a map of the Mediterranean region.

Later on, I met the man's wife, a beautiful woman. I remember her smiling at me.

They showed me their little girl, whom I had been asking about. She was small. Maybe two years old. 

One day (and this is very clear), they told me they were going have to move. There is a specific reason but I cannot reveal it. I was sad to hear this, and asked if I would ever see them again.

I don't know how they replied, but I believe I did see them, many years later, and the reality of that is a life-changing Fairy Tale.  

Thanks for reading, back soon, tons of love. 

September 11, 2025 (The February 1983 Rush Concerts)

 Hi everyone. In continuing our story of the Reading Center aftermath (and our ongoing 1983 investigation), I want to talk a little bit about some movie-title triggers from around that time (January 30 through early February), and also about the four L.A. area Rush concerts that I mentioned in the last blog.

If you are a regular reader, you know about my 1980s movie lists, and how the titles of those movies can trigger memories of movie dates with Lilly. I have recovered many memories through the use of this technique, even using films we didn't see, or didn't see together. The latter is the case with "The Entity" and "Videodrome", both of which were released on Friday, February 4, 1983, just five days after Super Bowl Sunday and the Chi-Chi's/Gary Patterson Incident.

My friends and I (or Lilly and I) often saw movies on (or close to) their weekend of release, and whenever I thought of "The Entity" over the years (even long before I thought about 1983), I remembered three things:

1) That I saw it with friends, not with Lillian (who did not like horror films). 2) That it was one of the scariest films ever made. 3) That the movie title triggered a feeling of depression. I think I wrote about this in a previous blog. The memory had a residue of melancholy because after the movie, we (Grimsley, me, and one of his friends), had parked near the Northridge mall and "gotten stoned". Even when I was a regular pot smoker for 19 years, I never liked smoking in the daytime. It always left me with a feeling of ennui, like my life was passing by, and in this case, after "The Entity", I remembered that the melancholia had to do with Lilly, and in retrospect, I thought it meant, "There I was, 'hanging out with my buddies, getting stoned' when I should've been with my beautiful girlfriend". 

But when the Chi-Chi's memory was recently recovered and quickly became ironclad and 100% verified, I reconsidered the "Entity" trigger.

What was I really depressed about that day? I wondered. Meditating on that question caused a notion to "bubble up":

I remembered that Lilly had been sick all week, and had not been in school. And because she went to CSUN, this meant I had not seen her. This notion opened a vein of information. "Videodrome" triggered a similar feeling (and it was also a horrible movie).

I began to remember that Lilly missed several weeks of school at this time. How many weeks? 2, maybe 3. Her reason was that she had the flu (a really bad case). More meditations showed that I called her (or she called me) every other day or so for an update on her condition. As the days passed, I began to worry. A normal case of flu lasts, what? A week at most? I wanted her to be well. In addition, her attendance at CSUN was how we saw each other on weekdays. My memory of "The Entity" now showed that I was concerned about Lilly as we sat in Grimsley's car and smoked pot. He may have enquired about her in an insinuating way, which made me feel even worse about "hanging out and smoking pot with 'the boys' " (ala the memory trigger).

Fast forward now to a third "movie trigger": "The King of Comedy". That Scorsese flick (starring DeNiro) opened on Friday February 18. I remembered seeing it in Westwood, once again with Grimsley (long before he acquired that nickname). "King of Comedy" triggered something...but I couldn't tell what. It took a second meditation to unearth the corresponding emotion. When it "bubbled up", I was surprised.

The feeling was "happy day". When I went to see that movie, I had just gotten the news that Lilly was about to return to school after being out more than two weeks with the flu.

Of course, I had no awareness of the Chi-Chi's Incident at the time. Nor the Reading Center Incident and it's aftermath. All I knew was that Lillian had had the flu - for three weeks. I'd been very worried about her, but now she was better and was going to return to school. Maybe after President's Day, which was Monday February 21, 1983.

That narrative rang a strong bell.

But then I wondered, "What about the Rush concerts? I know I went to at least one of those."

I meditated further. The first Rush show was at the Long Beach Arena on February 14. Valentine's Day. I used that as a marker. I still wasn't sure which show I went to, or if I went to more than one, but I was sure I (or we) must've bought tickets in advance, which would've been before all the trouble started. When would the tickets have gone on sale? In 1983, they didn't promote concerts six to nine months in advance like they do now. I figured the Rush shows went on sale somewhere between mid-November and mid-December 1982. In those days, I still had some money from unemployment checks. Because of the recession, President Reagan had Federally extended the unemployment to an unprecidented 18 months. Thus, I continued to get checks until mid-1983 (more on that subject in a future blog), and it meant I had money to go to all four Rush shows if I chose to. Concert tix were only 15 to 20 bucks in those days.

But I was certain I went to at least one show, and I was guessing Lilly went with me, or had planned to go, and I figured we must've bought our tickets when they went on sale in late 1982. We hadn't gone to many major concerts in '82. The one big show would've been a dream for Lilly and me: Cheap Trick and Rainbow were gonna co-headline The Forum! I was driving an old, red Phymouth Valiant at the time. I remember taking it over the hill to a ticket broker to buy a pair of front row center seats for the two of us. But it turned out too good to be true. The concert got cancelled. Talk about getting the rug pulled out from under...

But getting back to the Rush concerts in Feb. 1983, the first one was on Valentine's Day, as noted. I thought, It makes sense that we might've bought our tickets for that show, since it was Valentine's Day and also the first one on the four-night L.A. run. I still wasn't sure, but I used it as a marker, and meditated on the concerts again, as a whole. In memory recovery, you never "lead the mind on". You never pre-suppose anything because it can paint a false picture. Therefore (or for instance in this case), since I was 100% sure I attended at least one of those Rush concerts, but unsure which one, or if Lilly attended with me, I set what I call an "umbrella" over all four dates. Then I used the protocols of self-hypnotic meditation (the most important of which is a blank mind) to allow the subconscious to reveal whatever data it might release, based on the intent of that meditation.

Here is what arose: I began to get notions of riding in Lilly's car ("Peanut", her Audi 5000). I was in the passenger seat. Dave Small was in back. The three of us were going to one of the Rush concerts. Which one was still unclear, but I maintained the Valentine's Day "marker". Lilly said something about "breaking her (curfew?)" or "getting out of her house" (escaping?). This would've been during the time she supposedly had the flu.

Here's where things got really strange. Because of this, I'm going to couch the details.

Lilly told me and Dave that she did not have the flu, that it was just a concocted story. She said that because it was Valentine's Day, or because it was the night of the concert (or both), that she "made them" let her out of the house. Keep in mind that all of this is only two weeks after the Chi-Chi's Incident, the Reading Center Incident, the aftermath of those incidents, and everything I've reported about my own experience during that time (early February 1983). 

Lilly then proceeded to tell me and Dave an exceedingly unusual story about her own experience during that time. In the meditation, my reaction to her story came back somewhat clearly. I said, "It's not that I don't believe you, it's that I'm having trouble with the (science-fiction) aspect because I don't know much about...(redacted).

Dave said, "I believe you, Lillian."

Lilly said to me: "I need you to believe me, too."

I repeated my answer. "I do believe you. It's just that that other part's a stretch. But I'll take your word for it."

Lilly swore me and Dave to secrecy. I remember Dave's exact words: "You can count on me, Lillian".

He seemed to have no doubt of what she was saying.

I would soon learn (not long after the concert) that she was telling the truth about everything she said.

I still don't know the exact date of the Rush concert, nor exactly when Lilly returned to school.

Two incidents happened after the concert that are staggering to remember.

One of them happened in my bedroom at 9032.

The other happened at Lilly's house a few days later (date unsure). That's all I can tell you right now, but our narrative will continue in a couple of days.

Thanks for reading, tons of love, back soon.

September 9, 2025 (At the Airport with Ann)

Howdy, folks. Every time I write to you lately I have more new information to divulge, even before I've had time digest it. And though I am profoundly grateful to God that I'm getting my memories back (thus recovering the history of my life), those memories never should have been taken from me in the first place. Taking away a person's memory is like murdering them while keeping them alive, and it's a heck of a thing to realize that other people have known more about me and more about my life than I myself have known. It's one hell of a thing to come to grips with.

Anyhow, let's pick up where we left off in the last blog, with me standing on the darkened outskirts of an airport tarmac with Ann, two paramedics and a policeman. Sounds like a movie script but it's not. It's real life circa February 1983. Re-read recent blogs if necessary.

 At the airport, Ann took me aside, out of earshot of the paramedics. I remember being very scared and saying, "I haven't done anything wrong. Why are they taking me away? Are they taking me to jail? I haven't done anything wrong."

Ann gave me what I will call a "pep talk", saying she didn't like the situation any more than I did, but there wasn't much she could do except to be present; to "bear witness" as her authority permitted (and on a side note, Ann may have been "unofficially" affiliated with the Navy, and specifically ONR, the Office of Naval Research. If so, she was recruited for her scholastic abilities, possibly right out of high school).

I was terrified about being in this unknown situation, to be taken somewhere without any say-so. Ann commiserated with me but said there were people above her. She couldn't get me out of it. She said she would try to make sure I was back home as soon as possible. Within 24 hours? I'm not sure. She promised she would use the authority she had to monitor the situation and demand my quick return. I asked her "will my parents know where I am?"

I was frightened.

I remember very distinctly that Ann wore a hat, possibly a ball cap. My meditation showed a "red hat". I later wondered if it was sports-related and if it was a USC hat. I distinctly remembered Ann saying to me, "Adam, look at my hat. I want you to remember this hat, remember the color, because they're going to take away your memory of tonight, but if you remember my hat it will be a marker." She also said she would be present when I was returned from this ordeal. "Remember my hat and the memory won't be broken".

The memory picks up, after that, at a facility I'm not comfortable revealing. I'll say that it's (almost) a household name for those with an interest in aerospace, but it isn't Edwards Air Force Base, a facility I've mentioned in other incidents. I have a flitting image of getting on a helicopter to be taken to this facility, but the mode of transportation is not crucial. 

I also now have a burgeoning memory of what I experienced at this place, but at the moment, I'm not comfortable revealing those details, either, except to say my memory of the Reading Center Incident was taken away, and that sodium pentothal and polygraph exams were employed. Maybe I will give a more detailed description at a future date (even soon) but not today.

When it was over, I was brought back to the Valley (the location and by what means unknown), and when I got to wherever this was, Ann was waiting for me. She had on the same hat that she wore on the night of the Reading Center Incident, and she said, "See? I told you I'd be here." She said something similar to the paramedics and/or authority figures who had brought me. They seemed irked by Ann's undaunted manner, and the fact that they couldn't overrule her, even though her own authority was "off the books", provable but unacknowledged.

They were bugged that she was there to pick me up, just as she said she would be when we were standing on the airport tarmac, 24 or 48 hours earlier, when she told me to remember her red hat.

I think the return trip happened in the morning or afternoon, and I have images of riding around with Ann "for a while", just me and her in her green hatchback (Toyota, Nissan, VW), and I think we stopped at her Dad's house, Lilly's house. 

That last memory has developed, just yesterday, into something so extreme - so unusual - but already 100% verified as real, that once again I can't write about it yet. Not until the dust settles. This extreme memory does not involve Ann, but just me, at Lilly's house. To say it has astounded me is the understatement of the century.

I'm assuming that the timeframe of all the things I've recently written about, from the Super Bowl Sunday Incident at Chi-Chi's Restaurant (involving Gary Patterson), to the "Gary wants his piece of paper back" Incident the following day, to the Reading Center Incident not long after that, to my memory of being with Ann at an airport, then taken to " a facility" and returned, with Ann waiting as described in this blog...I'm assuming all of that happened between Sunday January 30 and Friday February 4, 1983.

I am currently studying the dates February 14 - 18, when Rush played four concerts in the L.A. area, two at Long Beach and two at The Forum. At least one of those concerts is crucial to our storyline.

Thanks for reading, tons of love, back soon.    

September 5, 2025 (The Aftermath of the Reading Center Incident)

Hi folks. Sorry about the delay since the last blog. Since then, my memory of the Reading Center Incident and its aftermath have developed to the point where the whole thing is blowing my mind (for want of a less psychedelic cliche). For real, though, this one has knocked me for a loop, because of the information and personnel involved, and because it goes all the way back to early 1983. Lilly and I hadn't even been together two years when it happened.

I think what I want to do, as far as writing about it, is to present the entire thing in sections because there is no way I can get all of what I've recently learned into one or two blogs. I also know that I'll be tempted to sidetrack, or insert related items as they occur to me, even if they aren't directly related to the Reading Center Incident.

For instance, this is the kind of tangential item I'm talking about:

A few days ago, I was thinking about Randy Rhoads due to some correlated data from the Reading Center Incident. I remembered playing "Mr. Crowley" over and over when I first began using the studio in early '83. I was in there by myself trying to learn the solo to that song. But that memory data got me to thinking: "Y'know, I was fortunate to see Ozzy twice with Randy Rhoads." Once was at the Sports Arena on New Years Eve 1981, a legendary and unforgettable evening. But I couldn't remember the month or year of the first Ozzy/Randy concert, and assumed it must've been in 1980. Bands don't usually tour more than once a year, or play the same city twice, but when I Googled it, I saw that Ozzy did indeed play Long Beach on Saturday June 27, 1981.

I thought, OMG, because that placed the concert only one week after the Van Halen show Lilly and I attended at The Forum on June 20 (beyond legendary), which itself was only 4 and 5 days after our back-to-back Rush and Van Halen shows in Las Vegas. I remembered every one of those concerts in vivid detail, except for Ozzy at Long Beach. That one I remembered going to, but the memory lacked detail, and I thought it was the previous year. 

Why is that? Why did I not remember the first Ozzy show with Randy Rhoads in the middle of all the others during this incredibly wonderful time in June 1981? Lilly, did you go to that first Ozzy/Randy show with me? Something tells me you did. I remember Randy walking around the floor in gym shorts before the concert.

Anyway, that's the kind of tangential info that will find it's way into these blogs about the Reading Center Incident, because we're examining my history, and of course, that history includes Lillian.

Getting back to the Reading Center, I actually drove up there last night. I can't remember the last time I was there, although it may have been in 1995 (30 years ago!) when I was buying pot from Shecky. Here comes another tangent: After the Northridge earthquake, when my memory began coming back, Shecky gradually removed himself from my life, slyly and deliberately, and when I went to the studio that night in '95, he had "buffers" guarding the door. I remember having to say to a guy standing in the small parking area, "Look, I've known John since 1983. My name is Adam." The guy said, "Wait a minute and I'll see if he wants to talk to you." In 2008, I found Shecky on MySpace to tell him Dave Small had died. He did not respond. In the past two years, since 2023, I've recovered some blocked memories involving Shecky, and in retrospect, I don't think he was the world's best guy (sorry, Sheck). I also don't believe that his "sudden appearance" at Dennis's studio in late June 1983 (the first time I met him) was a mere coincidence. I have good reason for saying these things (as The World's Greatest Detective, I do my homework), but we're all out of tangents for the moment. Let's just say that Shecky was a shady guy, a less-than-honest person, and we'll get back to him in another blog.

But yeah, until last night, the last time I was at the studio was in 1995, when I drove up there to buy pot from Shecky (and boy, am I glad I don't smoke that stuff anymore and haven't for 28 years). 

Because my memory of the Reading Center Incident has astounded me, I had to return to see the place in person. When I got there last night I parked in front, on Woodley, then walked through the alley to the studio, which looked smaller than I remembered it. Isn't that always the case, though, when you return to a place years later? I stood there in the darkness (I deliberately went at night) and I got goosebumps, because I remembered "that's where the paramedic truck was parked."

I don't know if I mentioned this in the last blog, which described the Incident itself, but in the aftermath, I remembered refusing medical attention, and telling a paramedic, "I'm okay. I just want to go home." Recent meditations have broadened that memory. I now know that I was asked to "at least let them check your blood pressure." Anything said was to urge me into the ambulance (the square "box" type), and I remember hearing words like "retinas" (scorched retinas?) and a paramedic (possibly a woman) saying, "You may not want medical attention but you need it."

I remember having an IV in my arm, and being told they were giving me a sedative. I remember the feeling of leaving the studio's rear parking area, going down the alley and seeing several police cars lined up there and on Woodley Avenue. A paramedic commented on the scene. And, as mentioned in the last blog, there was possibly a helicopter overhead. 

In the past few days, I've had two meditations that revealed a vivid and astounding memory. I was taken by these paramedics to what I believe was an airport, I'm guessing Van Nuys or Burbank. The imagery showed a wide expanse of tarmac, but in a darkened area away from the commercial strip.

This next part is crucial. One of the paramedics was nervous and wanted to be done with the whole thing; with me, and his role in the aftermath. He figured he'd done his part, having dropped me off. Now he just wanted to get the heck out of there. But another person present (either a second paramedic or a police officer) informed him he had to wait because a person was going to arrive to (vouch for me?) (oversee my transfer from paramedics to another authority?) To bear witness?

I don't know exactly how to put it.

But it's 100% certain that the paramedics now had to wait until this person arrived. They (or at least one of them) wasn't happy about this development, and said so. Someone else, maybe the policeman, said (paraphrase): "We're all in the same boat here." He may have said something about Feds.

Finally, the person we were waiting for arrived.

It was Ann.

She had some kind of authority in this situation. Don't ask me what it was, but she had it, and she must've retained that authority years later in 1989.

You can imagine my astonishment when this memory came back, of standing on an airport tarmac with Ann, in February 1983, on the night of the Reading Center Incident.

I may have told you about the phenomenon of recovering a long-blocked memory. It feels recent, because you've never been aware of it before. And if it is vivid and visceral (as this memory was), it can seem like it happened last week instead of over 42 years ago. 

Thanks for reading. Tons of love. Back soon. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gamma Gun".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hope someone cares, besides me.   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wouldn't let me go.

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading, back soon, tons of love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is how a blocked memory fragment develops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will attempt to develop it further.

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

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

August 21, 2025 (1983 Investigation)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not even close.

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

That appears to be the case.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 13, 2025 (connecting dots)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yesserie, bob.

The Meissners were rock bottom scum.

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

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