Ode to Cupid's

Well, folks, this is it. The Last Day of Cupid's Hot Dogs. I can't think of a more "Northridge" institution. There are a few business that have been here longer, Vons for instance opened in 1962, and Northridge Lumber opened (I think) in the 30s or 40s, but both are big commercial businesses, not really Mom & Pop shops, and anyway Northridge Lumber changed ownership a year ago and is no longer called Northridge Lumber. Our local Jack-in-the-Box has been in place at least since we moved to the 'Ridge in 1968, and so have the Baskin-Robbins ice cream store (aka "31 Flavors") and the My Hero sandwich shop, so they too might have Cupid's longevity (our Cupid's was established in 1964).

But Cupid's is Cupid's. It's like if you had an old A&W Root Beer stand still in place by your beach house. Remember the A&W stands? There weren't that many of them. I don't recall one in the Valley, but they had one in Santa Monica, and one in Laguna Beach, and holy smokes did they have some awesome, ice cold root beer in those conical waxpaper cups, and some of the best cheeseburgers you ever had. And they were just little walk-up stands, like Cupid's.

The thing about our Cupid's, when we moved to Northridge in January 1968, was that it was right across the street from our house. Not more than 100 yards away. We lived on Osborne, one house from Lindley Avenue, and Cupid's was on Lindley. It was right there. I don't remember how much a dog was in 1968, but it couldn't have been more than, what, 69 cents? Probably more like 49. And it was the same dog that you get today, maybe from a different supplier, but the same dog with that snap, and the steamed bun. "Two with everything". That's what I always ordered. Two with everything and a Coke. Probably cost a buck and a quarter. Nowadays, two with everything and a Coke will set you back about 13 bucks or so. But that's just modern times. A box of graham crackers, at Vons, is six dollars, and that's just a regular, small box of regular graham crackers. But back to Cupid's....

I can remember going there a lot, starting in the Summer of '69. Was that a legendary Summer, or what? That was the Summer when Mom drove us to Santa Monica beach almost every single day. My school friend Doug C. often went along. He was a Mormon whose Dad worked for the Hughes Corporation and knew Robert Maheu, the right-had man to Hughes himself. I didn't know much about Mormons, only that they couldn't drink coffee. Doug couldn't get a Coke when we went to Cupid's, because it had caffeine. But yeah, we'd leave early for the beach. Mom had her grey Impala then. She only drove for a couple years, in the early 1960s, when she had a Plymouth, and again in '69, because she didn't like driving. But that Summer, we'd leave for Santa Monica around 10 or 11, pick up Doug C., and go to Santa Monica beach. The pier wasn't far from where we'd put our towels, but there were hippies there in those days, and Mom said to stay away. There was always a rumor of LSD, or "acid", which made you think they were swallowing battery acid. But worse were the Hell's Angels and Synanon. "Stay away from the pier, boys, and stay away from the people in the white robes."
Those were the Synanon patients. Mom said they were harmless, but "stay away from them" anyway. We only saw them once or twice; they looked like zombies wandering the beach. I think I heard the phrase "drug addicts" around that time. 1969 was a whole lot different than the Flower Power Summer of 1967, with it's sunny Sunshine Hippies and their daisies. '69 was darker, more of a Stones vibe than a Beatles one. But it was still an awesome Summer.

I also went to Y-camp that Summer, up in the mountains at Wrightwood. I was there for a week. Doug C. went too, as did our school pals Robert and Richard R., whose Dad worked for NASA. I wrote home once or twice when I was there, to ask my parents if my issue of Hot Rod magazine had come in the mail. I had a subscription, and boy, did I love my Hot Rods! Hot Rods were a big deal in 1969. So were choppers, or "Harley Chopped Hogs" as we called them. We thought, "the longer the fork, the cooler". And it had to be chrome. For a little while, I even thought Hell's Angels were cool. But really, it was only because they rode choppers.

I built models of Hot Rods that year, including The Red Baron (with silver German helmet), and a whole bunch of others. In 1970, I built a Camaro that I painted candy-apple red. We talk about phonics: how about the sound of that phrase? Candy Apple Red. It sounds like you can taste it, and the color looks just like it tastes, or sounds. I've probably mentioned before that I entered my candy-apple red Camaro in a contest at the brand new 7/11 store located waaaay up on Plummer Street, which seemed like a mile away (which is about what it was, but a mile was a freakin' long way to a kid). I entered their contest, and man....I won second prize! They hung the winners from the ceiling, and though I didn't get up to 7/11 much (because it was a mile away), I was proud when I did see it hanging there. Then the earthquake came in February 1971. After the dust settled, I went up to the 7/11 to see about my model. It had fallen to the floor and had broken an axle, but that was all. I took it home in it's plastic dust bag, and had it in my room for many years. Mom said the 7/11 corporation was owned by Jackie Onassis, or the Kennedys. Something like that. I'd never seen a 7/11 before 1969. And it too, it still there, which makes it one of the older businesses in Northridge.

But yeah, the last day of Cupid's. I'll be there tonight before 9 pm. I'll wait in line (the lines have been long this week, I've been checking it out on my walks), and I'd love to be the very last customer ever served, but I'm not gonna try to wait it out. I imagine that others might have the same idea. If I was in my 20s, I'd probably do it, just stand off to the side and wait. I wonder how they are gonna work it, if the line is still long at 9 pm? Maybe stay open past 9, and just keep serving til everyone is gone? That's probably what they'll do. And if I was 25, or even 35, I might wait it out. Just stand off to the side, and wait for an indication that they were gonna close up. Try to be the last guy in the cut-off. Then I could say "I was the last customer ever served at Cupid's", in all the 60 years they were there. But I'm 63, so I don't think I'll do it. I'll just go on my walk as usual, maybe at around 8:30 pm, and who knows......maybe I'll be The Last in Line, and maybe I won't.

But I'm gonna order "two with everything". That means mustard, onions and chili. When I was nine, in 1969, I'd once in a while order three. But two is the usual, always with everything. No Coke this time, not because I don't like Coke, just because it's an extra three bucks, and well, you've gotta cut some corners these days. I hope there will be an empty table where I can sit and eat, and take in the view of the 76 Station, which has been there as long as Cupid's. Man, that's a whole 'nuther blog; the story of the 76 Station. You can ask Davey Small about that one. But yeah, I'd like to sit at one of the pink stone tables. They've been there since 1964. But they've been full of hungry customers since the long lines began last week. I'll probably have to eat standing up. I have a tendency to eat fast. This time I'll try to eat slow. I just wanna get that 1969 vibe once again, when "Honky Tonk Women" was on the radio, and I bought baseball cards at the liquor store by the train tracks, past Parthenia Street, when you could ride your bike on Saturday morning and hardly see a car, when CSUN was still SFVSC.  ////

December 27, 2023

I have two movies, albeit without reviews: "Christmas Eve"(1947) with yet another stellar cast: George Raft, Ann Harding, Randolph Scott, George Brent, Joan Blondel, the stunning but dangerous Dolores Moran, and Virginia Field. We watched that one on, you guessed it, Christmas Eve, and on Christmas night we saw "On the Avenue"(1937), an Irving Berlin musical starring Alice Faye, Dick Powell, Madeleine Carroll, and The Ritz Brothers, who - if you've never seen them - are hilarious. 

All year I've been listening to Wagner or Handel late at night, but for Christmas Eve and Christmas I switched to Bach's Mass in B minor (which was first performed, in an earlier and shorter incarnation with JSB conducting, on Christmas night in 1724). At any rate, because it's a tremendous work, it got me to thinking about the greatest pieces of music of all time. All you have to do is check the Youtube comments to see that many folks think Mass in B Minor is number one. I'd tend to agree.....if I hadn't discovered Wagner. I read a biography on him about five years ago, wanting to understand why he was so vilified, and yeah, I know about his infamous writings, but he is played extensively on KUSC (which tells you something), and in reading the book, I wanted to know how anyone said to be such a rotten person could make such incomprehensibly beautiful music. The two polarities didn't jibe, and I hadn't actually heard very much of his music at the time, just the overture to "Tannhauser", which they play regularly on KUSC, and of course the "Ride of the Valkyries", which everyone knows, either from "Apocalypse Now" or some other pop culture context. But that was all the Wagner I knew. My Dad didn't like him, preferring Mozart and Italian opera, and because I got introduced to classical music and opera by my Dad, I started out by taking his suggestions. But Mozart, while great, was too light for me.

The author of the Wagner bio wrote in depth about the emotions conveyed in his opera "Parsifal" for instance, or the chord structure that opens "Tristan und Isolde". He described it with such passion that I thought, "I'll have to give these operas a listen", and I did, and this year, I got hooked. I haven't had many pieces of music - rock, classical or otherwise - that I could listen to night after night for a solid year, but with Wagner, that's what's happened. And it actually began in 2021. I think he's tied with Bach as the all-time musical genius. And so, with that said, here's my Top Ten Pieces of Music of All Time: 1) "Parsifal" by Wagner, 2) "Mass in B Minor" by Bach, 3) "Tristan und Isolde" Wagner, 4) "Lohengrin" Wagner, 5) "St. Matthew Passion" Bach, 6) "St. John Passion" Bach, 7) 5th Symphony by Gustav Mahler 8) 2nd Symphony by Mahler 9) "Rienzi" Wagner, 10) 8th Symphony by Anton Bruckner.

Those are all long form. If I was listing shorter pieces, they might be, in no particular order, "Mysterious Barricades" by Francois Couperin, "Finlandia" by Sibelius, Piano Sonata K545 by Mozart (which is one of the first pieces of music I can remember hearing), "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" by Bach, "Partita #3 for Violin" by Bach (must be played by Hilary Hahn), "Intermezzo 118 #2" by Brahms, "Adagio for Strings" by Samuel Barber, "Meditation" from the opera "Thais" by Massenet, and "Pavane" by Faure. I'm leaving out a ton of stuff, but those are ten favorites. Rock music is incredible of course, and we all love it, but give classical music a shot. It opens you up to a universe of musical language, and the thing about music is that no one knows what it is, or where it comes from. It might be the language of God, or at least one of His or Her languages (because silence can be a language, and so too the fluttering of leaves), but with classical music you get a lot of nuance and perhaps a greater range of emotion than you do with rock, as great as rock undoubtedly is. Anyhow..... 

I am also thinking about hypnosis. Have you ever been hypnotized? I have, several and maybe umpteen times. In truth, I have no idea how many times I've been "put under", because I am certain that I've been hypnotised more than once without the hypnotist telling me in advance, and without my being aware of it once it happened (and I was never aware of it in any case until long after the fact because I was always administered a "block" to cause me to forget it). But I'm learning that there are different levels of trance, including at least one that could be called a "waking" or "class 2" trance, in which everything seems normal, you are walking around like it's an ordinary day (although such a trance never happens on an ordinary day) but you are absorbing reality only "in the moment" and it won't last because there won't be an immediate memory. Your ability to remember has been blocked, programmed out. In a Class 2 trance, there is also a numbing of the shock value of things that might entice or outrage you. Certain things are numbed or emotionally "set back", as if you are slightly "outside of yourself" and yet you can still ride your 10 speed home, three miles from an apartment building in Reseda, so to speak, without feeling any trance whatsoever. And yet, if you've seen something unusual in this state, the next day it will seem like you dreamed it, even though you will know that you didn't. That is what a Class 2 trance feels like. Think of it as "in-the-moment reality" that is designed to shock and, in my case, to humiliate, when certain very bad people were involved. 

Entrancing a person can be done in various ways, including the use of surreptitiously administered drugs (think Roofies and date rape) and/or electronics, and it can also be done by someone trained in hypnotic voice techniques, but it also helps when the victim has been pre-conditioned emotionally. In my case, I was repeatedly provoked for at least a year-long period, and my girlfriend (as I learned) was a conditioned person herself. And she wasn't very nice. I will leave it at that for the moment, and we will soon return to these subjects. In the meantime, you can look up the Esalen Institute. You might have to do some digging, because it's website won't give you any useful information.

As a side note, I should mention that I've also had some very good times under hypnosis. Amazing, even. But that involved nice people, not a-holes.

Let's do the all time TV shows: 1) Gilligan's Island 2) The Flintstones 3) Twin Peaks 4) The Twilight Zone 5) The Outer Limits (original version) 6) The X-Files 7) Laugh-In 8) Millennium 9) Danger Man (aka "Secret Agent Man") 10) The Addams Family

What? "How can you leave out 'Streets of San Francisco' or 'Seinfeld?" Yeah, and a million others. But those are just ten of my favorites. I also love "Flipper", "Combat" and "The Patty Duke Show". And every Hanna Barbera cartoon and a whole bunch from other animators. Remember "Milton the Monster"? How about "Cool McCool" or "Commander McBragg"?  

Favorite Athletes: Pete Rose, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Kurt Warner, Nadia Comaneci, Sandy Koufax, Larry Bird, Novak Djokovic, Roman Gabriel, Johnny Bench, Sidney Wicks and Curtis Rowe.

How about crystal balls? Do you guys ever use them? Do you believe in them? What do you think, are they reliable conveyors of the future? I don't know, folks, but I'm not sure I'd chance it, take a chance that they are wrong. I've been looking in my crystal ball (proverbial of course; I don't actually own one), but I've been looking in mine, and what I see doesn't bode well for a certain bunch of people. I see a long, hard road ahead for them, perhaps an endless road, and one that gets more difficult as it goes along. It doesn't end in death, or in Hell. Hell would be a vacation compared to this road. Anyway, that's what I'm seeing in my crystal ball. I'd say "I hate to say it", but I don't. 

Finally, on the one-in-a-million chance that they are reading, I want to say something to two ladies:

I love you, Lys.

I love you, Helen.

I remember when each of you were there for me. If you ever need me, I'll be there for you. (not that you would ever need me, but if you did....)

I love both of you beautiful women with all my heart, in every way, and I will hold you there always.

You are the highest of the highest of the high.  //// 

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas, folks. I'm not gonna write about any "stuff" on Christmas Eve, so don't worry. I have two more good movies: "Beautiful but Broke"(1944), starring a comedienne named Joan Davis who had a hit TV series in the mid-1950s called "I Married Joan", which was also notable for co-starring Jim Backus as her husband. We've never seen Davis before, and she takes some getting used to, but once you settle in she's quite funny and very talented and adept at physical comedy. This movie is also a musical, with one song by a girl group called The Brian Sisters who are hands-down fantastic. There are other excellent singers in the movie but these gals rule.

Our second movie is "Petticoat Larceny"(1943) and stars another Joan, in this case 12-year-old Joan Carroll, the young sensation who would co-star in "Meet Me in St. Louis" a year later. Here, she plays "Joan Mitchell", a child radio star with her own hit show, who becomes dissatisfied with the quality of her scripts and decides to write her own. Seeking advice from her butler, an amateur writer himself, she sets out to pen the story of a jewel thief by "getting to know her character" at the butler's suggestion. Since she doesn't know any jewel thieves, she becomes one herself, but in the act, she runs into another burglar. This sets the stage for non-stop hijinx of the "three men and a little lady" kind, as the hoodlum (who ain't too bright) mistakes Joan for a real safecracker. He brings her back to his gang's hideout, where they plan to use her for jobs. Meanwhile, her aunt and uncle are looking everywhere for her. So are the cops and her producer. Joan Carroll is a one-girl dynamo in this flick as she carries the whole picture, aided by a top-notch cast. No wonder she was chosen for the first scene in "Meet Me in St. Louis", opening the movie with it's unforgettable title song, climbing the staircase in wet clothing from the swimming hole in a shot that wouldn't be allowed today. Now, in that movie she was part of a family that included Judy Garland, Leon Ames, Mary Astor, and Marjorie Main as the maid, so as great as Carroll was, she lost out on screen time, and little Margaret O'Brien (one of the top child actresses of all-time) ended up stealing the movie. But wow, no one should forget Joan Carroll, who was as good as they come. She quit the biz at 20 to get married, and had turned into a beauty by then. Two Huge Thumbs Up. Man, they couldn't make 'em like this anymore if they tried.

As for "Meet Me in St. Louis", it's well-known here at the blog as being not only one of my favorite Christmas movies, but one of my favorite movies, period. I've seen it a dozen times and may watch it tonight or tomorrow if I can get myself more into the Christmas spirit.

It's not that I'm not in the spirit, I always am, every Christmas. Right now, I have KUSC playing with various Christmas music, and I've been enjoying the house lights I see on my walks, but I'm lacking the immersion in the spirit that I had for so many years when I was living with and caregiving for Pearl. That was, in many ways, the best time of my life, those twelve years, and at holiday time it was always so much fun, helping her write her Christmas cards, driving to Candy Cane Lane, taking the Kobedog on winter walks in his sweater, watching old movies on TCM and singing on Christmas eve in the church choir. I sang for six Christmases at the United Methodist Church of Reseda. In 2018 and 2019, I had the opportunity to sing solo and that was a wonderful experience. Then, just weeks after Christmas in 2019, two things happened. Pearl got sick, and then Covid happened. Though we were blessed with 20 more months, 2019 was our last Christmas in church and our last Christmas dinner together with Helen, because of the pandemic.

Since September 2021, it's been just me alone, which I've adjusted to because I have my writing and my routine, but this year has just been overwhelming, and that's why I'm not in the Christmas spirit to the same degree. It's not that I'm not feeling it, I'm just preoccupied with other things.

Well anyhow, the writing is progressing with the new book, 75,000 words just this month. Because it's a first draft, it's just "scratch writing" as I call it, the barest-bones of sentences that wouldn't even qualify as blog writing, even moreso with this book because it's gonna be gigantic and I'm writing as fast as I can. Thus the sentences are half-baked and full of typos because I'm trying to get every last bit of content down. I'm trying to remember, and capture, every important and relative thing that has happened in my life, through childhood and up to the present. The core of the book will be 1989, of course, but right now, for the past few days I've been working on 1981, and I've had fun recalling details from the early months of my relationship with Lillian. In those days, her friends called her Lil. She was sixteen years old. I was twenty-one.

Those are some very good memories.

Well anyhow, it's now eleven o' clock. I just got back from my walk, but before I finished, I stopped at the campus cul-de-sac located at the south side of Etiwanda and Halsted. It was quiet, and I was pausing, to decide whether to head over to the Midnight Mass at Our Lady of Lourdes, which was about to start at 10:30. I decided not to go, but when I turned around, I had three raccoons staring me down, spread out in the cul-de-sac about fifteen feet away. They just stood there, not moving, and looking directly at me. I thought they might be hungry and were wondering if I had anything to eat. I didn't, but I crouched down anyway, to kind of show them I was harmless. I wanted to watch them for a minute, and didn't want to scare them away. Well, they just stood there, staring me down, and then I started to get nervous. I wondered "do raccoons attack people?" I saw three coyotes last Summer, together in a pack, at Aliso Canyon. There were two adults and a young one, and I gave them a wide berth because one coyote is no problem (they trot off), but I didn't wanna chance a trio. And tonight, because they weren't budging, I got nervous about the trio of raccoons. Then, the middle one started approaching. I stood up, but he or she kept coming, cautiously, now about 8 feet away. That's when I began to leave, and they all started coming, and now I saw why they'd been standing there staring at me. I was unknowingly blocking their path to their home. They went across the street, past where I'd been standing, and went under the fence of the corner house on the north side of Halsted, which has a giant backyard. I thought, "Oh, that's where they live. Hey guys, why didn't you just say so?"

Anyhow, I'll say good night and Merry Christmas. Gotta watch the Norad Tracker. Santa could arrive at any minute......////

Miyazaki and Other Stuff

Yesterday I went to the Granada Hills Regency Theater to see Miyazaki's "The Boy and the Heron", which I won't review except to note it's obvious artistic brilliance, which is true of all of Miyazaki films. My favorite is still "Howl's Moving Castle", but this one might be his most philosophically ambitious, or maybe ambiguous would be a better word. There's also more symbolism than in any of his previous films (at least I thought so), as if he wanted to make a final grand statement, if this is to be his final film (he is 83 and his movies take 7 to 10 years to make). At any rate, go see it while it's still in the theaters. This, and every Miyazaki movie, gets Two Gigantic Thumbs Up.

I also have several other flicks: "Hot Saturday"(1932), "The Night Before the Divorce"(1942), and "Home Sweet Homicide"(1946). The latter two star the beautiful Lynn Bari, and "Divorce" pairs her opposite our fave Mary Beth Hughes as warring femmes in love with the same man. "Homicide" is the best of the bunch, with Bari as the prolific author of detective novels who is raising three precocious kids as a single mother. The kids all speak like adults. You get three great child actors: Peggy Ann Garner, Dean Stockwell and Connie Marshall, and of course they get caught up in a real life murder case that is being investigated by a detective right out of one of Mom's novels. "Hot Saturday" is a pre-Coder with non-stop innuendo and - Super Pre-Code Alert! - an underwear-pulling scene between two sisters. It stars an early actress named Nancy Carroll, who carries the movie, holding her own and then some against future stars Cary Grant and Randolph Scott (pause for Blazing Saddles honorarium). Her character proves to be a prophetic prototype of things to come, and Randolph proves that nice guys do indeed finish last, at least with this kind of gal.

In local news, Cupid's is closing for good on December 30th. If you want the best chili dog in the world, it's your last chance. I've been walking by there to examine the lot, which I already know with my eyes closed, having lived nearby for 56 years. And I cannot imagine, for the life of me, what the buyer thinks they are going to erect in Cupid's stead. I do understand the owner's desire to sell, having learned the details. The stand is owned by an older couple named Walsh, who were best friends of the founders of the original Cupid's in Winnetka (aka Canoga Park). The Walshes opened the Northridge Cupid's in 1964, and have operated it all this time, with outside employees, two in the store at a time. But I mean, you can't complain, even as a long-time Cupid's fan, because the Walshes, even if they started the franchise at a very young age, say 22 years old, would now be 82! More likely they are closer to 90, and have devoted their entire lives to the business. According to the gal from the original Winnetka Cupids (I had thought Northridge was the original) the Walshes have no one to take over the stand from them, thus their decision to finally sell. I was depressed when I first learned of it, but now I say God Bless Them for hanging on so long.

But in walking by, I can't imagine what the purchaser of that property thinks they can install on such a tiny lot, which is also in a residential zone, literally right next to a house, with minimal parking. What're you gonna put, a collegiate coffee bar? It ain't gonna be a corporate thing, that's for sure. You can't put a Starbucks there because a house is literally next door, just a few feet away. So what're you gonna put, yet another independent Mediterranean cafe? Where are folks gonna park? On the street? My point is that - hey! - why not just keep Cupid's going? Buy it and keep it going. It still has a steady stream of customers, from what I can see. There's nothing else you can put there, and if you do put something, like an unknown, untested eatery, I guarantee it will go out of business. And, thank goodness, they can't (I don't think) put one of those Mayor Garshitty cram-an-apartment-building on-the-smallest-possible lot, because, again, it's right next to a house and I don't think even the most corrupt LA developers (an oxymoron) could get away with it (though they are about to get away with putting a fucking hotel at CSUN, next to the Orange Grove).

CSUN has ruined Northridge, and that's California State money and politics. So, you're talking Gavin Newsom (one of the world's biggest a-holes) and Jerry Brown, who I used to like but don't anymore. But at least Jerry is the real deal, from a legitimately powerful family; Newsom is only a front man.

Well, anyhow. I'm the rightest-wing man in America, but not politically. Just the plain ol' rightest wing. You would be too if you were in my shoes. 

And it's not just a case of being right-wing or conservative or whatever you want to call it, because I'm very close to not voting in elections anymore. It's just that the Left, which used to be called the Democratic Party, has gone so wacko and has its head so far up its rear end that you have to go right wing to keep your sanity, and to have any slim chance of holding onto what remains of America. Read and listen to Victor Davis Hanson, a guy I used to think was an a-hole but who I now think is right on the freakin' money. Subscribe to the Imprimus newsletter from Hillsdale College. It will set you straight. I don't agree with everything they say (because I'm probably righter-wing than they are) but they are generally on the money, and they don't come across with an "academic" (i.e. groupthink) viewpoint. I've been getting Imprimus in the mail for 25 years, ever since my Dad and I lived at Dave's house on Burton Street. Dad was proud that his grandfather went to Hillsdale. Dad subscribed to the newsletter, and after I started reading it, so did I. Even Dave did, and he wasn't political at all.  

And neither am I. I'm not political. I just don't like bad guys, crooks or a-holes. I big-time don't like 'em. Especially with what I am learning about my life.

Imagine waking up one day, and realizing you didn't know jack about your own life, but other people did, and they used their knowledge to take advantage of you. 

It's a bizarre feeling, I'll tell you. 

For the past few days I've been thinking about silver mines and cocaine factories and family secrets and hidden marriages. I've been thinking about people with violence in their past. I've been thinking about psychic vampires - people who can supposedly read minds - and I've been thinking about a man who passed most of his adult life as American but was secretly German, who was taught phonetic English by his wife.

Karen on a mattress in the living room. ////

Laguna Beach, Summer 1966

 An important thing with memories to trust them. Even when they seem unusual. I have a saying that I came up with for some of the more extreme memories in my life: "My mind does not conjure". For instance, if I say that a famous actress was at the gate of Concord Square when I was being wheeled out on a gurney, in that case I know my mind did not conjure it up, because I have a continuing, conscious memory that involves her. I am of course referring to MSY, and our ride in her car when I was driven to Northridge Hospital, accompanied by two other people.

But then, I also have some very extreme memories, involving other well-known people, and involving a helicopter crash at the Wilbur Wash. I wrote about this in the 2008 version of my book. Those memories have retreated to "the murky waters" in between the conscious and the subconscious mind, because I haven't worked to develop them for a very long time. And yet, when they first came back in 1997, they were what I call visceral, meaning that I could "see" and "hear" and "feel" them as I would with any memory. As an example, as you are reading this, remember what you did yesterday. You get a good mental "movie" of yesterday's activities, do you not? That is what I mean by a visceral memory, and when a memory returns to you from a long time ago (in my case 34 years) and it still replays as "visceral", you can be certain that your mind is not conjuring it up, no matter how unusual it may seem.

And so, regarding the helicopter crash (or hard landing) at the Wilbur Wash, I say to myself, "Well, when the memory came back in 1997, it was 100% visceral, as if watching a movie. Now it is murky, but the mind does not conjure things up, therefore I know it is real." In other words, all it requires is to be "pulled from the murky waters" again, using the techniques of memory recovery, at which I am an expert.

Sometimes, the ability amazes even me, and I am not saying this to toot my horn, because it's a gift. I sometimes feel like I have "helpers" helping me to remember things from so far back, but then other times, I just think it's my higher self, or The Lord who is doing it. I don't really know for sure. All I know is that sometimes, it flat out blows my mind.

And that has happened recently with a memory that's been developing "on it's own" for a while, really without much concentration from me.

When I was 6, in the Summer of 1966, Dad took our family to stay at a beach house in Laguna Beach. It was a summer vacation trip. The house was owned by Dad's friend and business mentor, Phil S., who jokingly referred to himself as "the poorest man on Roxbury Drive". Phil had worked for Agfa-Gevaert. That Summer, "Uncle" Phil let Dad and our family use his beach house for two weeks, though I can't specify a month (had to be July or August). There are several things that have always stood out in my immediate "up front" memory about that trip. One was all the bees in Uncle Phil's backyard. I was terrified of bees as a child, and the beach house had a backyard full of flowers. It was Bee City, and there were hornets and yellow jackets also, and it scared me. But there were good things on that vacation as well. I remember going to a surfside restaurant called The Gaslight (for real!), which had clear glass or acrylic sidings surrounding the open air patio, near the sand, and candles on the tables, and best of all, they had incredible double-decker cheeseburgers. I remember it was always a treat to go to The Gaslight during our stay in Laguna Beach.

Another place I liked was The Scoop Deck, an ice cream parlor. The interior had fixtures like being on a sailing ship (rigging, a crow's nest), and you could get banana splits or chocolate sundaes with chopped peanuts. The Scoop Deck was another Laguna Beach favorite.

A memory that also stands out, again regarding bees, is when my Dad and my "Uncle" Earl (Dad called male family friends our "Uncles" because we didn't have any Uncles by relation) took me fishing at Laguna Cove. Uncle Earl, who would create "The Waltons" TV series four years later, came to visit us while we were staying at Uncle Phil's beach house. He said he knew a good fishing spot, and he took us to Laguna Cove. Well, when we got there and started fishing, there were bees and hornets everywhere. I said to Dad, "I'm scared, can I go sit in the car?" Or something like that. Well, it was a very hot day, and I went to Uncle Earl's car, and I sat inside with all the windows rolled up, so none of the bees could get me. And I will always remember Earl and Dad coming back to the car about 20 minutes later. "Oh, Adam! What on Earth are you doing!?" Earl said. Decades later, I reminded him of that day and the bees.

I remember, on that Summer trip, that my sister Vickie brought along some of her Beatles records, like "Help!" and maybe "Rubber Soul". "Help!" is the one I most remember. She also brought along the little red plastic, square-shaped record player that she and our sister Sophie shared. I loved The Beatles (doesn't everyone?) and I remember playing "Help!" over and over.

One night, our friends the Wormhoudts came over. My "Uncle" Bob was the general manager of Disneyland, and as I have written many times, he was responsible for our family's move to Los Angeles almost a decade before I was born. Bob got Dad his job in Hollywood, but anyhow, one night during our vacation in the Summer of 1966, he brought his family over, and the adults all wanted to go to this new restaurant: Victor Hugo's. It was of course named after the author of "Les Miserables", and was supposed to be a sensation. French cooking! That's would've been right up my Dad's alley, and no doubt would've enticed all the other grown-ups, too. Me? I remember asking, "Do they have anything besides frog legs?" because that was all I knew about French food. Frog legs and snails. I think Dad said, "We can probably get you a cheeseburger." The long story short on our dinner at Victor Hugo's, which was located near a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, was that everyone got all dressed up. I had on what I would've thought of as my Sunday Suit, which was also the dress clothes I wore to the Athletic Club on special occasions. We probably took two separate cars, and when we got there, the restaurant was absolutely packed. I don't know if the adults had made reservations, but if they didn't they should have. And we sat in the lobby and waited. And we waited. One hour went by, then two. Yes indeed, two hours. At some point, I began to cry because I was so hungry. The adults huddled, and it was decided that someone would take me back to the beach house and babysit me until the rest of them had their dinner, which they did not want to miss out on. This was Victor Hugo's, not long after it opened, and who knew when we'd all be together again, and in Laguna Beach? I don't remember who drove me back, but I think Ann Marie stayed with me. She would've been ten. The adults ultimately had to wait four hours for a table, but they said it was worth it. And I've always remembered that night at Victor Hugo's.

But the memory that blows my mind, regarding our topic of dormant memories that resurface years later, is of another excursion I was part of, during our two weeks at Laguna Beach. One night, our friend John W.  came back over. He was a teenager, and was there to see my sister Vickie. I was just a tag-along that night, perhaps Vickie was babysitting me, and the parents had once again gone out to dinner. Vickie was 15 years old that Summer. John, whose Dad, besides being the general manager of Disneyland had also worked for Agfa Gevaert like Uncle Phil, would have been 16. But there were others (at least one other) besides just Vickie and John. It wasn't just the two of them. Sue S. might have been there, too. She was Vickie's long time friend since junior high. The teenagers wanted to get something to eat themselves, and I, as the babysitting charge, was brought along. They first wanted to go to some exotic Oriental restaurant, with beaded entryways, but I think it was jam-packed, and the waiting list was an hour long. So somebody said, "Let's go to Tortilla Flats", and that name was what triggered this memory. The name "Tortilla Flats" has always been in my conscious memory, because I've remembered "being with the teenagers" that night. "Teenager" was a "thing" to a little kid in the 1960s, because that was the heyday of "Teenagers", when they were like a social entity unto themselves. Also, it must be noted that, as goofy as 1960s teenagers could be, they were still more "adult" in manner than the "teens" (not teenagers) of later decades, basically of any era since the 1980s.

We went to Tortilla Flats, as a second choice after the Oriental restaurant was too crowded, and later I would learn that it was named after a book by John Steinbeck. But at the time, I was just hoping to eat. And here is where my deeper memory has recently kicked in. I remember that John W., at some point that evening, had made a phone call. And at Tortilla Flats, he got up from our table, or from our place in line, because a guy had just walked in the door, a guy he had called to meet him there. This guy was tall and blonde, with a sort of bushy hairdo. And what was happening, was that he had "pot" or "grass" for sale, and John wanted to buy some from him. My sister Vickie, or maybe Sue, didn't trust him and said "he might be a narc". John assured her that the blonde guy was not a narc, "I know him, he's cool, and I'm just gonna buy a joint from him." I think someone said he was 20, therefore you couldn't trust him because he was older. Vickie warned John, but he laughed it off. "I told you, don't worry. I know him, I've bought from him before." But Vickie and Sue wanted nothing to do with the transaction. I remember there was some dispute about the amount of seeds in the product. Someone said: "I thought it was supposed to be sinsemilla". And then the big blonde guy wanted to stay and eat with us (I think we were waiting in line) but one of the girls (probably Vickie) said, "I'm leaving if he stays because I don't wanna get busted, he s a narc." And I think John asked the guy to leave: "No hard feelings, I'll call ya later, the girls don't understand." And the big blonde guy left, and we had our dinner. I think I had a combination plate.

That memory of our dinner at Tortilla Flats is a legitimate memory that has "developed on it's own" over about the last two to five years, but I never concentrated on it until recently, to muse on the name "Tortilla Flats". The name of that restaurant has always stuck with me, I've always remembered that we went there, and lately I have concentrated on it, and the additional memory of John's call to the Blonde Guy, and their "pot deal" has surfaced, and Vickie's concern that the guy was a "narc".

And what is mindblowing, besides just remembering the details of a restaurant dinner from 57 years ago, is the fact that the Blonde Guy went on to become a very important person. And that is what I mean when I say "my mind does not conjure", even with an ancient memory from when I was six years old, and even though I couldn't possibly have known who the "pot dealer" was at the time, because he was only 20 years old. 

Well anyhow, just a few tidbits from the Summer of '66. That is all I know for the moment.  ////

Sunday December 17, 2023

Last night's movie was "Meet the Missus"(1937), a wacky and very funny comedy about a housewife who is hooked on entering merchandising contests (sending in boxtops, answering questionnaires, etc.) Her husband protests, to no avail, and she is finally named "Mrs. Midwest" by the Happy Noodle Company, in what they are calling the "Mrs. America" pageant, the winner being the most "talented" housewife in the country. As in all of our most recent films, the innuendo is subtle but plain to see, for anyone looking. Of course, her husband leads the charge of fellow men in the same boat (whose wives wear the pants in the family), and in this case, the man's protest leads to him being named "Mrs. America" in a farcical send-up of traditional marriage roles. The always-lovely Anne Shirley co-stars as the couple's 17-year-old daughter. In 1941, she went on to star in the all-time classic "The Devil and Daniel Webster", which is available on Criterion and is highly recommended.

I am remembering more about the period between July 19th and August 5th, 1989, as reported in the last blog. In recent days, I am very much interested in what I call the "Rebecca Shaeffer afternoon" at Terry's, which I am currently placing on July 19th, the day Bardo was arrested. 

What do you guys think about the march of time as it pertains to human actions? For example, what happens when someone gets away with a crime? And not just any old crime but one of extreme violence. We can already guess what happens to the victim, but what happens to the person who commits the violent act and gets away with it, and is never caught? Let's take our example a step further and say that this person's crime is never even acknowledged by anyone except a select few in a tight inner circle, because our guy is working within some larger organisation with the money and clout to pay people off, people like legislators, judges, etc. People in political positions who can "make certain crimes go away". And let's say that this person (our example) is not what is referred to as a "professional", like a hit man for the Mob who's killed many people and sloughs it off like it's his day job, but let's say instead that this person was a new guy, a wannabe who wanted "in" on the action of, say, a drug ring, or a sex ring, because he wanted to make some quick money, and he wanted in on what promised to be "easy" sex (he'd have "access" to a girl or girls), and he maybe even wanted in on some free drugs, and most of all, he wanted in on the power that his position would give him. Now let's further suppose that our guy was basically a regular shmoe, before he got involved with this ring. But now that he was "in", he was required to "do things" to get all that stuff that he wanted. Let's say he had to collect money, or even threaten people who didn't pay. Or even beat people up. 

How would that change him? Would he develop a dark side, or would that dark side have already been present, lying under the surface, latent? Remember, he was previously a Regular Schmoe, not a professional thug, or even a natural-born thug, but became one because he got involved with the wrong people.

But let's then say that this guy found himself in way over his head, as the bagman for a drug courier, a job in which he suddenly had to rough people up. And because he wasn't used to it, but was "partnered" with a more seasoned thug who was used to it, the lifestyle freaked our guy out to whatever extent, and he started drinking heavily, and even drugging, to maintain his hold on his sanity.

Remember that he only joined this gang, who were familiar to him, and led by a "seemingly respectable family", because he wanted to make some easy money and screw some slutty chicks.

But now, let's really put him out on a limb. Let's say he was out one night with his more experienced, more ruthless "collection" partner, and they were collecting from a drug customer, and things got ugly and the customer got stabbed, or choked out, and perhaps had to go to the hospital or even died.

But then lets say that our Shmoe, who became a "collection" enforcer, got lucky and the crime got covered up. The man or men above him had the power or connections to make the knifing "go away". Let's say that the victim was never heard from again, and after all, he was only a drug customer to begin with, and a dishonest one at that, who didn't pay his bills. So he was considered "scum" and his killing was covered up, and swept under the rug, and our Schmoe now had "nothing to worry about".

Now, lets say that five years went by. Would he feel he was in the clear? How about when 10 years went by? Or 15? or 20?

How about when 35 years went by? Surely he would feel in the clear by that time. But would he still think about the murder? Or would he, after such a long time, have pushed it out of his mind?

How do you suppose that works? That is our "thought exercise" for this evening: "What happens, psychologically, to the person who gets away with a violent crime?" I think it is something to consider, especially because we know that the World at Large "moves on". Does that help the person to compartmentalize his past? To shove the memory into a now-dusty mental closet, never to be opened again? Does the passage of a vast amount of time allow him, or help him, to "make believe" in his own mind that the violent event never happened? 

I am interested in these questions, of what happens to a perpetrator of violence, one who is never called to account, because I am a victim of extreme violence, and I don't have the luxury of being able to "pretend" that the assaults on me never happened.

Of course, I had amnesia of the violence (and the surrounding "event context") for four years before I remembered any of it, but what I find interesting now, is the reaction by certain people around me when I announced, beginning in October 1993, that I could remember some of the things that had happened to me.

The reason the reactions were, and are, interesting, is because they were (and are) not what you would expect from friends and family members. For instance, let's say (god forbid) that I had a sister who said "My goodness! I've had a memory come back! I was raped four years ago!", my reaction would be, "Oh my God! Who did it? Where? When, what was the date?" And then I'd ask a whole bunch of other questions. In other words, I would basically believe what she was telling me, or at least take it at face value, until she could sort it out and remember it in detail. And then I'd try to help her bring the perpetrator to justice, if she wanted my help.

But that's not what happened in my case.

When I started telling friends and family members: "Oh my God! I'm remembering that Lillian and Terry tried to kill me!", their response was to call me "delusional". That was the default word at the time. One person called me "crazy". And because the response of these family members and friends seemed entirely lacking in concern, and even in curiosity (no one said, "what do you mean? Where and when did all this happen?), I began to think that they each had their reasons for trying to "dismiss" (i.e. gaslight) me.

Of course, by now, 30 years later, we know exactly what their reasons were.

But what's also interesting is how the reaction has changed. "You're delusional!" has become "I don't wanna talk about it." I have two people in particular who use variations of that reaction. One says, "Let's not talk about that," anytime 1989 is brought up (which I generally don't do in person because I try not to put people on the spot, even if they are a-holes), and the other person invariably says, "I don't wanna talk about that!" This person is the one who once led the charge in trying to slander me as "delusional". But I just kept on working and compiling more evidence, until "delusional" morphed into "I don't wanna talk about it!"

And that's partly what I mean when I mention compartmentalization. Does "not wanting to talk about it" make the issue "go away" for the person who does not want to talk about it?

Well anyhow, this is all I have for tonight. I am working on the "Rebecca Shaeffer afternoon" because that is when the changes in Lilly's persona became extreme. What happened, in short, was that when she graduated CSUN (in May 1989), her Dad gave her a trip to France as a graduation present. She and I had an argument before she left, and my last words to her were "have a nice f-king vacation". When she got back from France, I hoped to repair things. She sent me what I call an Ultimatum Letter, in which she insisted I stop drinking, which I did. She said other things in the letter, too, which will appear in full in my book (the letter was reproduced in full in the 2008 version). But she did agree to a trial reconciliation, and we went to a movie the next day. "Batman" was the film, we saw it on June 24, 1989. Dave Small and Kelly were "coincidentally" sitting behind us (which we now know was 100% prearranged). But Lilly and I had a nice time at "Batman". Then she came back over the next weekend, and we went to three movies over the four-day Fourth of July holiday. We saw "Pink Cadillac", "Ghostbusters 2", and then "Great Balls of Fire", and things seemed back on track, at least to me. I was then ten days sober, Lilly seemed like her old self and was excited about her new job. She came back the next weekend and we saw "Do the Right Thing" and then "Lethal Weapon 2". After the latter film (which we saw on July 9th) we went to the McDonalds on Parthenia and Tampa, and she told me "I can't come over next weekend because I have to go on a business trip for my new job. But I'll be back two weekends from now, so don't worry." She wanted to assure me that our relationship was back on track.

Well, what happened was that ten days later, on July 19, I rode Pat's green 10 speed bike down to Terry's (Pat used to leave his bike at our house). When I got there, Lillian's car was parked outside the building. I buzzed the buzzer, Terry let me in, I saw Lilly sitting there and I said, "I thought you went to New York on a business trip?"

Well, that was the day when the whole Swinger/Porno thing was revealed, or started to be revealed. It later came out "in full" after we saw "Lock Up" on August 5th.

But July 19th was when it started. And the way in which that memory was triggered, was when I recalled watching the news about Rebecca Shaffer. And I thought to myself, "Man, that was a horrible day", because not only was the news horrific, but so was what happened in Terry's apartment. The memory of Rebecca Shaeffer reminded me that Lillian had been flippant and even sarcastic about her death, saying "Who cares?! I'm sick of hearing about this chick! People get murdered every day!"

And that brought back the memory-in-full, in which I was shocked, not only to find Lilly at Terry's apartment (after she'd assured me our relationship was back on track), and that I'd caught her in a lie about her "business trip", but most of all by the complete change in her demeanor. I'd never known her to be sarcastic and callous, especially about the murder of a young woman.

Of course, that afternoon at Terry's got a whole lot worse, as she and Terry let the Swinger cat out of the bag.......

And so what I am working on at the moment, in this monumental puzzle, is "what changed, during the period from July 9 to July 19th, 1989 - a ten day span - to cause such a radical change in her demeanor?"

And right now, I believe it had something to do with Terry's birthday, which was July 11. I will leave it at that for the moment. ////   

Thursday December 14, 2023

Before we begin, I want to apologize to Lillian for the names I have called her in recent writings, the reason being that I have recovered yet another memory, of a specific conversation we had in her car, sometime between (apprx.) July 19 and August 5, 1989. I use those two dates because of two very specific occurrences, the first being yet again in Terry's apartment at Concord Square, on a day shortly after the death of the actress Rebecca Shaeffer. We were watching the news, which was saturation coverage of Shaeffer's murder, and the arrest of the goon who killed her. We also watched the movie "Cop" that afternoon, starring James Woods, which Terry had rented from a nearby video store. I have chosen Wednesday July 19th, 1989 as the potential date for this incident. The second one took place on or around Saturday August 5, 1989, when Lilly and I went to see "Lock Up", a truly godawful and ultra violent, sickening prison movie starring Sylvester Stallone. I can't be sure of the theater but I'm working on it.

However, it was on one of these two occasions - either after the "Rebecca Shaeffer" afternoon at Terry's, or after attending the horrible "Lock Up" (which was probably my choice, sorry Lillian), that we had an argument about the state of our relationship, and that argument turned into a conversation in her car, while we were parked in front of 9032. The conversation, which slowly evolved out of the argument (which had been sarcastic and mean spirited) was soul-bearing for Lilly, and revelatory for me, yet also shocking. If she is reading this, she will know what I mean. She will know the conversation I am referring to.

The important thing is, is that it took everything she had, every bit of courage she possessed, to tell me the things that she told me. It also required her to reveal vulnerability, and to allow herself to cry, which, considering the extremely hard shell she had created around herself, was not easy for her to do.

But the other thing is: I've never remembered that conversation until last night. And then I was able to develop it in more detail today. 

Lillian will know what I mean. And that is why I am apologizing for calling her names, which I take back.

I'm sorry, Lillian. I just didn't remember that incident, or that conversation. But now I do. 

Everything else I've written, about what happened during that time period still stands, one thousand percent. And so does what I've written about everyone else.

With Lilly, it's been a very complicated situation, I will leave it at that. I hope we get the chance, at the very least, to say "hello" to each other one day. //// 

I have two movies: "The Cowboy and the Blonde" starring George Montgomery and Mary Beth Hughes, with our pal Fuzzy Knight in support. We love all three. Mary Beth is doing her Cute Indignant Thing in this movie, which is meant to express the sexual dominance/persecution of the pampered Hollywood hottie-of-the-moment (the star who sleeps her way to the top). George Montgomery, so great as always, plays a nationally known Rodeo Cowboy who's made the cover of Life magazine, and has hitched his wagon to the movies. He's been picked up by the studio that holds Mary Beth's contract, and is being used as a pawn to "calm her down" (you get the idea). The producers think he's a rube who can't act, but he's a handsome hunk, thus perfect for Miss Hughes, and when he finds out he's being played, he's ready to take his horse and ride home to the country (the real America). And actually (as usual in this type of film) the cowboy can take or leave the entitled, tantrum throwing, sexually manipulative woman, especially a diva like Mary Beth's character. She uses every trick in her Hollywood Power Play book to try and get him under her (skirt, thumb, take your pick), and what you realize, while watching, is that the MeToo# movement, with all due respect, is just The Sanitized, Public Consumption Version of What Really Goes On Behind the Scenes in the Hollywood Movie Studios, and the "Music" Business, because many of the women in those businesses are complicit in the "program", by which I mean the Casting Couch philosophy. In this movie, Mary Beth Hughes is acting, but not acting. That's how good an actress she was, especially in these kinds of roles. But at least they knew how to do innuendo in those days, without making you feel like you needed to take a shower when the movie was over. And, all cynicism aside, it is a very sweet movie, because they knew how to make pictures in those days.

My other movie was called "The Meanest Gal in Town", another innuendo-filled flick, pre-Code, about a hottie with a slinky figure (hey, I'm just calling it like they intentionally show it) who needs a job during the Depression. She hopes to make it as a "dancer" but ends up as a manicurist. A young Zasu Pitts co-stars, doing her patented-but-always-funny Nerdy Girl thing. The lead actress is a lady named Pert Kelton, whom I'd never heard of but who is very talented. She originated the role of Alice Kramden on "The Jackie Gleason Show", before the character was played (and made famous) by Audrey Meadows on "The Honeymooners". I didn't pay attention to this one enough to review the plot, but it was very good and thus is recommended.

I don't mean to pick on the MeToo# movement, but I've seen The Real Deal, I've seen what truly goes on behind the scenes in Los Angeles, and it's a whole hell of a lot more, and infinitely worse, than Harvey Weinstein chasing some gal around his office and raping her. Or Warren Beatty, or whomever. What MeToo# feels like, to me (and I am not discounting the stories of the ladies in that movement), but it feels to me like a media-controlled, damage-control, male-controlled, version of what really goes on. It's like, "Guys, the truth is leaking out! Better throw 'em a few crumbs. Give 'em Harvey". And the other, politically incorrect truth is that a lot of gals are just fine with the casting couch way of doing things, or - even moreso - the "live action" in-front-of-an-audience way of doing things, in someone's Hollywood Hills (or Northridge) living room, which is what I mean when I say that MeToo# is (or was) small potatoes. 

It's like people who watch "The News" and think it's The News. Or even that there can be a thing called The News. 

Me, I am thinking tonight about two conversations from 34 years ago, one I had with Pat F., after the showing of "Nightmare on Elm Street 5" on August 11 1989, and one I had with Lillian in her car, just a week or two earlier, in front of my house, when she let her guard down. Both Pat and Lillian told me real things, the kind of things you might tell a person you trusted on the last day of Planet Earth. 

I'll take Real Things, statements and testimonies from the heart, over the continuation of a system any day. Especially a system of deceit.

I will always take heart over commerce, over sex, over groupthink, because heart is everlasting.

I have learned a lot about myself in the last 34 years, and what I am, or what I've become, out of necessity, is a Protector. First and foremost I protect myself, because of the array of adversaries I've discovered have "glommed on" to my life. But I like to think I would protect anyone else who would stand by my side, and tell the truth about what has transpired in our lives, because I would like to have just one ally. One would be all I need, because I really don't like bad guys.

I have also just finished Geddy Lee's book and highly recommend it.