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.
