SAFE JOURNAL, CHAPTER 0522

SAFE JOURNAL, CHAPTER 0522

2:04 AM-EDST-TUESDAY-AUGUST 21, 2K12

STARTING BLOG:

Thank you so much, my wonderful and ever so beautiful, Diana, (LIGHTNING) for coming to see me again yesterday, all afternoon and into early evening, IWALU so very much. Since I am up here thanking my lovely DZA for coning over to see me for a sixth straight time in a week's time now, let me tell just a small thing that Diana is indirectly involved with, and most meteorologists probably have some way of double checking and verifying what I will now be telling, back around the last two years of the nineteen-sixties, and the weather in the area of Camden and just east of there, in New Jersey, during the lightning summer seasons of those years ending the sixties decade, '68 and '69. If not, I'll bet somebody knows somebody who knows somebody, whatever, who knows and remembers.

Before I start telling the story, I promise that very soon, the story within a story about my mother and her office romance that went very south back in 1977 and ties into my life so powerfully, will indeed continue on a shortly to follow blog, this started on blog number 0500 for those not reading these words at blogger dot com. Also, my PHA inspection was yesterday afternoon, talk about a real surprise inspection, as always, they used to occur in the early middle mornings, this was a first since I have resided here for about sixteen months time now. Neighbors since the weekend have been more plentiful, and some of them have been doing some spurious things, but as long as it is not totally annoying me or effecting my life, I could give a rats ass what anybody on this diseased little planet does. That is your business, Morians, Lessians, Inbetweenians, L4, and any others anywhere. You can blow up the dam multiverse for all I care, just so I don't have to feel any pain, YO.

Back in the god dam nineteen sixties, a lot of things went down all over this planet, much of it had nothing to do with me directly, all of it had something to do with all of us either indirectly or directly, but that for now, is neither hair nor there, DAG up in WL. I believed myself around age twenty-five or so, as did and do man y folks in all generations, to pretty much havethe bulk of needed information, making my 1983 song lyrics quite honest and appropriate on my song entitled and copyrighted, called, “657 BLUES”. It began wit the lyrics that went, “I thought I knew most everything, until you showed me the songs we'd sing” and so on and so forth. I did too. With or without the songs, or anyone attached to or in any way pertaining to them, trhe true fact is that like the rest of youthful and totally yet un-lived folks, I HAD NO CLUE. I say all this as a needed base to build a flundation for just a few small needed things that I feel compelled to quickly gloss over and discuss on a surface level today while awaiting my dinner to finish cooking. There was a very wild and strange lovely teen queen by the name of Roseann Delaney, living on the Haddonfield/Westmont border, with only the gods know who, in a strange large expensive home behind a lot of woods and beyond that, a Little League Baseball Park. I would go out after the old television show ended, called, “THE FBI”, starring Ephraim Zimbalist Junior, or however the “Z” name is correctly spelled, and the sun was starting to sink away and out of view. I would let the cat out, in those days, cats for the most part went out to do their potty work and few cats were indoor kitty litter type. Roseann would always come walking along in 1969, about one minute earlier each evening, leaning down to give my cat a little pat, and smiling at me. She was an extremely beautiful and strikingly tall lovely teen queen with long brown hair and lovely brown eyes. Back in April or May, right before my friend Brad Messenger was given an eviction notice, or his mother was, as was my mother, about three days following the final encounter with Roseann, by the Property Manager; a woman named Misses Kinsel, who all of the young crowd despised for being such a mean nasty moody old prude; and this connects into major powerful stuff, peeps. It was after Roseann tried to bite my throat out one night, that I had been given a very short time to get out of there, by this Kinsel lady. Now later in life, through a lot of legwork, I was able to learn that the house where Roseann lived in was indeed a relative of Kinsel. But the plot freaking thickens far deeper and greater. Another relative, of my family, Uncle Snoots, or Heinz Gottwald, was nice enough to help out his wife's cousin, my mother, and got us a 90 day eviction time, as opposed to 30 days, as he carried a lot of clout in New York City, being the Senior Vice President of the world's then 2^nd top Banking Institution, Chemical National Bank. Now back before all of this shit in early and middle July, a year before the following summer where I was staying at the child molester's home on Cornwall Avenue in Ventnor, NJUSAESMWG in late June and the first half of July of 1970, Mister Thomas J. Reale, Roseann tried to attack me right outside Brad's apartment, and was hiding in a clump of large bushes just a few yards in front of the front door steps to his four-unit typical garden type apartment unit system. I lived just a bit in one direction away towards Crystal Lake Avenue right on Pyle Avenue, and he was in the middle area, and Roseann Delaney's great mansion house that laid just beyond the apartment complex system, was in the other direction on West end Boulevard that became Park Avenue after it hit the swimming pool and tennis court township recreational area intersection, where a mile further down, was my doctor, frank Addiego who went onto save my life in 1983 by prescribing the magical drug that literally saved for life after this mysterious transdimensional medical condition that cannot be further discussed on any blog. For the few wondering if all the things are connected up however, and their imaginations are firing away, you would not be incorrect. It connects up big time, and I cannot reveal the details without getting into a lot of huge ass trouble. Still, at only fourteen, the incident in April or May with the near disaster with Roseann, I was of the opinion that she was indeed a real honest vampire. Later in adult life around the time I was at the recording studio, I laughed it all off and told myself that she was a deluded whack job who probably watched too much of the TV show then aired every afternoon, called, “Dark Shadows” with Barnabas Collins, the famous vampire, Jonathan Frid played the role on this very cool daytime soap show. I thought that the bushes contained Brad's mom's boyfriend, Stuart, from the Stuart Industries of Haddonfield, playing a joke on me, after-all, it happened right after Brad went upstairs to bring us down a couple of glasses of ice tea, not sweetened up by his mother that particular night, for those who know that little cute funny deal, it has been blogged. As the eighties came and went, I saw that the entire world was not what it ever appeared to be, neither as a youth or an adult, and all I mean to say here, is that perception is indeed all based on every individual person and their so-called sensory system, that can be quite easily effected, by things such as sleep deprivation, hypnotic trance, alcohol, medications and illegal drugs, and on and on I could go, from mental illness and psychological delusions, etcetera. The experience of August 15^th, in 1986 was the real key however to many things. Some of the truths were all told and sent for copyright registration in 1994 on my book, “The Permission Barrier”. Still, this was written as fictional, not that it was, but it was not a precise accounting of play by play events, then again, in some cases, except for a name or township change, the old Dragnet song comes straight to mind, along with that super great middle sixties television show. Kinsel, her weird third cousin, and many other unexplainable things from being evicted for no really good reason, swearing, give me a break, I know times changed, but really, and no real reason was ever given for my friend Brad and his mother being evicted, she screamed at him too much, wow, was she too good of a disciplinarian, hell, let's call frikkin' Dyphis? I know it is misspelled, the machine does not know, nor do I, so sue me and take my bed if you want folks, WHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!! Don't Drake it, Hollywood Jonathan Notfrid Schau Murderer!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WOW, if I am just crazy and these blogs are all just total nonsensical crap, then why OVER AND OVER AND OVER, does Hollywood keep playing these endless games with me, and YYYYYYYYY does the recording business keep messing with my life and endlessly teasing me as well? All I ask if a few loyal folks following all this, to rationally think about all this, and maybe even give the benefit of the dam doubt for just once, YO. John Schau killed Dave and Mary Roth, and all for a lousy 90 grand life insurance policy, and got scott fucking free away with it, because uncovering it, would mean uncovering my daughter, my whole reality, my entire huge life and every other dam secret about powerful families and people that is just no way gonna' be allowed to ever happen, I realize that, what you think I'm totally mother fucking short bussed? In the eighties, I began rethinking twice, first in the normal adult way, putting boyhood crap behind me as any normal man does as he approaches his adulthood. But then, try explaining 1983 and 1986, and then in comes the fucking nineties, the prosecutor Ron Wirtz at Camden county in New Jersey; and on and on I could go forever. Forget the firebugs like the Chinese Girl up in the future, or the great Washcloth Tawfers, how about the studio nearly burning down, Miss Lee? Still, the endless questions beat on like Cher Bono and her great drums. Tell Callio not to shoot me, you great Native American. Do I really fascinate all of you so much that you all have no lives of your own all these years and decades? Jesus Christ all
Nothing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Then we have Sherri Lee Pote, the tile tap technology of 1969, inventors like Zvonko and Doctor Carey, and the gods only know how many others, Herby Letts, Timothy Barber, crissake man, gimme'; a fucking ass break folks. You who laugh, won't be laughing after you hear your last heart beat, but remember this, my friend, I won't be able to do one dam thing then to help you, and as my wonderful daughter said to me through the back door, “Maybe I should listen more carefully to the Ernie song as other Irish folks have been doing”. Well, one good piece of advice exchanged for another one, WOW!!!!!!! Thank UMC!

Well, it is fucking three in the morning, and I need to relax and dip up my dinner and watch my L&O show, see you all later on, keep the faith, in morianity hopefully, but if nothing else, in something, YO. BYE-BYE, YO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ENDING BLOG, WHAA.