Gangstalking Chronicle: harassment

Showing posts with label harassment. Show all posts

Friday, March 9, 2012

Amazon "Photos" Books Search

I just searched "Photos" on Amazon for books. Here are results from the first two pages:

You know, I don't want to waste the time on it, but if I have to write a post about my e-mail alert results for privacy and surveillance that are mostly from foreign countries, I'll do it on C.B.S.

Monday, June 6, 2011

Falling Down

My mind is takin' photographs

Of every little thing

Exhibit #8...

Don't be late

I was living with good ol' pops from the time I escaped from wacko radical-feminist in September of '07 until the next escape in December of '09. As I've mentioned before, things got real bad right around the time I'd started my blog and had told a friend or two over the phone about Kristen (I'm not sure why I don't just name her at this point.) and her connection to my family. Kristen had dropped hints about knowledge of my phone conversations. It's not that difficult to add up. Anyway...try and follow me:

The bathroom at the house is one of the smallest bathrooms I've ever been in. Once through the door, you're in a small walking space maybe three feet wide between a wall on the left and floor-to-ceiling cupboards on the right. Take 3 steps and on your right is a sink that's either even with or jutts out slightly further than the cupboards.  There's a space about 6 or 8 inches wide between the right side of the vanity below the sink and wall that is the left side of the cupboards. Immediately beyond the sink on that wall is the toilet. There's barely enough room for a small waste basket between the sink vanity and the toilet. On the opposite wall is the tub. I'd say there's less than 2 feet between the front edge of the toilet bowl and the tub. It's a terribly cramped space.

I believe it was in early '09 when my father started falling down. All together, during the time I was there, I'll take a somewhat wild guess and say he fell roughly 15 times. I made it a point to notify my sister most of the times it happened and often she mentioned that he had told her already. I didn't call her every time because it got to the point where she was aware of the frequency and there were never any injuries. Most of the time it was in the living room, but at least 3 of the falls occurred in the bathroom. Guess who was there to pick him up every time? Me. Except once...

I believe this was some time in mid '09. I came home from Borders one night and found him sprawled out on the floor in the office (formerly my sister's bedroom, the middle room in the back of the house.) in nothing but his briefs, which he had soiled, and his t-shirt. Hmmmm. I picked him up and lead him by the arm to the bathroom.  He undressed himself and I helped him into the tub and he seated himself on the bench he had been using which was left over from when my mother was ill. I turned on the water and used the handheld sprayer to spray off his back and his butt--all of this knowing what I described in "Bye Bye, Dude." I then handed him the sprayer to finish himself.

The next day I called The Area Agency on Aging to notify them of the event and suggest that he may be ready for Hospice care. I notified my sister of this and she indicated she would call them and schedule an in-house assessment. I knew what my family was up to, so I skipped this meeting.

I understand the psychology of his situation, that it's possible that some of those falls were a cry for attention from a dying man. But I find it undeniably odd that a 79-year old man who'd had repeated surgery on his feet could, indeed, fall that many times without suffering a single serious injury--not one broken bone, not one internal injury--especially in that bathroom, ready-made for such injuries. In fact, each fall in the bathroom was near the toilet which is of course right near the corner of the sink and the tub.  It's an elderly person's injury trap. I believe on 1 or 2 occasions he ended up with a black and blue mark, which, again, my sister was aware of. In fact, while all of this was going on, another guard at my post at the plant said something to me--once again, out of the blue--about how one can seriously injure a kidney from such falls. He also made out-of-the-blue comments about "tough love" and "respecting your elders."  (The extenuating circumstances of my situation permit me to suggest where he shove both of those. I am in no way, not in any kind of bizarro world you can conjure up, obligated to respect a guy who secretly played an active part in ongoing and repeated schemes intended to ruin and even end my life.) Furthermore, after I'd notified dad that I'd contacted the Agency on Aging, guess what happened? He never fell again during the several months I remained living at the house. Most importantly, though, I find it especially notable that out of all those falls, exactly one occurred when I wasn't present in the house and just happened to include the aggravating circumstances I mentioned.

Here's a diagram of that bathroom that's extremely close to accurate scale. If it's off at all, I'd say it leans a little toward the generous side in regard to floor space visible from this angle (My first time using Powerpoint. Not bad, huh? It must be all that time I wasted in messing with graphic design while dabbling the t-shrit biz):

So, I was left with the following 3 options: stay home and have conversations with him during which he could deliver subtle, stabbing insults, etc.; stay home and not talk to him and be accused of mental and emotional neglect; get out of the house as much as possible, be stalked by Nazis and be open to accusations of not being there in case he fell down. A common method laying the ground work for mind control is a double bind. This one was a triple. I battened down the hatches and avoided conversation with that cat with zeal. Don't like it? Too fucking bad.

I'm no math wiz, but I can add 2+2...+2...+2...+2: they were intentionally setting me up for allegations of neglect. You scoff? If so, considering what I told you in "Bye Bye, Dude" and most everything else in this blog for that matter, I have only one question for you: Who's being naive now?

You crept in

Underneath the radar

Livin' in a glass house

Sleepin' on a glass bed

My mind has taken photographs

Of every little thing

Honey turn around

And the shame remains

My logic and details will continue to cut the lies to fucking pieces.

Joseph C. Zoccali, Clearwater, Florida; Rick Wilson, Niles, Ohio; Christine Faranda, Cleveland, Ohio; Len Spector; Marc Greece, A&E Networks; Reverend David Plank, Palatine Bridge, NY; Carrie (Plank) Bruno, Queens, NY; Cynthia Green, Tech Recruiter; Sioux Logan, Red Stream Technologies; Mike Tricario, MTV; Sean Newman, Columbus, Ohio; Jim Reed, Columbus, Ohio; Zynga; Marty Eggert, Cleveland, Ohio; Kathy Haxton, Cleveland, Ohio, St. Joe’s Medical Center, Warren, Ohio; Coleman Professional Services, Warren, Ohio; Laura McCormick

Kathleen Kashay; Erica Agyeman; Darcy Estes; Alison Victor; Tracy Dietz; Kaitlin McGaw;

Amendment to "Bye Bye, Dude"

It occurs to me that I forgot to re-enforce one critical point in "Bye Bye, Dude.":

While I was trapped in my father's house and being stalked by Neo-Nazis, they had me isolated and the only human interaction I had was negative or otherwise manipulative, thus further necessitating minimizing contact with my father who was taking an active part and had been for some years.

Also, despite the logic of my argument, despite undeniable explicit details of my story, despite the crispity, crunchity clarity of my prose, I am concerned that I have failed to completely communicate the reality of the situation by omitting some important details supporting my argument. Indeed, since I have been denied due process as part of this vast campaign of political persecution to which I've been subject, I am compelled to air the details here--as explicitly as possible. But first, I've got a couple posts I need to bang out real quick on my other blog.

Stay tuned...

Kathleen Kashay; Erica Agyeman; Darcy Estes; Alison Victor; Tracy Dietz; Kaitlin McGaw;

Sunday, June 5, 2011

''Bye Bye, Dude."

I've been portrayed as quite the monster in this multi-faceted campaign of character defamation. I thought I'd already covered this, but comments by some folks following me around indicate that apparently it didn't get through. I'll spoon-feed it to ya:

Part of the ongoing mind-screw my family was applying to me over the years was to repeatedly insinuate that I'm condescending and think I'm better than them--all part of their group inferiority complex. Some time over the years, I had made a comment to one of them about eating with their mouth open, something that is normally frowned upon at pretty much every level of civilized society. In 2003, while I was acting as primary care-giver for my ailing mother, saving the rest of my family much, much trouble and time, a notable event occurred on Christmas eve. Both of my parents, my brother, my sister, my brother-in-law, and maybe even my nephew were at the table as usual. At some point during the meal, I looked up to see that I was the only person at the table not chomping with with my mouth open in an exaggerated fashion. In hindsight, I can say it was par for the course--in more ways than one. I looked at my mother and she sighed and slumped, seemingly on the verge of tears.

A major part of what my brother did was to use a facade to maintain my trust with the intention of exploiting it. He even exploited the fact that he knew I just wanted peaceful relationships with the family. I believe it was on the last X-mas eve I spent with them, which would have been in 2006 (the timeline is somewhat blurry) when everyone else in the family had left the room one by one. My brother entered and sat next to me. He said, "Hey, I want to show you something." He'd always been into magic and little parlor tricks, so I thought he was just going to some little trick. He put the palm of his hand on one side of my face and with his other hand, kept all the fingers straight, pressing their tips together so his hand was shaped like a beak or a cone. He then held it up next to my head and pointed it at my temple and said, "Okay, hold still." He then jabbed me firmly with the point of the beak, got up and said, "Bye, bye, dude." as he walked away. He peaked into the hallway and said, "It's done." The rest of them then entered the room, my sister with one of her signature super dramatic looks on her face. My father sat down and took a deep breath.

Open wide, now, Joey. That's it--niiiiiice and wide...

During 2009, during the time when I was just coming to the knowledge of what was going on and being stalked, I saw a segment on the Spike show, "Manswers" that described exactly what my brother had done that night. It's a martial arts move meant to cause an aneurysm that will burst sometime in the future, killing the subject and leaving no traceable evidence. I'm not sure if it was that night, but at some point my brother-in-law said, in yet another of the many out-of-context, cryptic taunting hints, something about "sacrificing the one for the many."

I'm not passing this on as a quest for sympathy. The point is that in the spring of 2009 when I was being stalking and made the subject of veiled death threats, my research lead me to a revelation about covert psychological abuse. This explained the loose but steady stream of veiled insults and constant adversarialism coming from them over the years, including my father with whom I was living at the time. At the time, he was the leader. The incidents above combined with this as undeniably concrete confirmation that he was part of a pre-meditated group plan to destroy my self-esteem for the purpose of undermining my life in general and ultimately drive me to suicide, or to kill me somehow.

The moment I realized this, it was a hardly conscious decision to reduce contact with him to an absolute minimum regardless of any other circumstances. I was under a secretive life-threatening siege based on core fundamental politics. Avoiding him at all costs was an instinctual reaction of self-preservation that I neither regret nor apologize for--and never will. Nor do I care how any one else cares to spin it.

Are we having fun yet?

Kathleen Kashay; Erica Agyeman; Darcy Estes; Alison Victor; Tracy Dietz; Kaitlin McGaw;

Monday, March 15, 2010

The Rotary Club / My Story, Chapter XI

I really want to to pick up where I left off in Wyoming, but things are changing on a daily basis so I really need to cover the most recent locations and events. I've been getting showered every morning at the Salvation Army on Turk Street. Sure enough, the second day there some guy got completely belligerent with me in the locker room. I filed a complaint with The Salvation Army website and he's been rather quiet since. In fact, I haven't seen him much. However, another guy named Rich showed up and has been coming every day. His hair is jet-black and he wears a white hooded jacket. I think he gets there around 7:30 and does everything very, very slowly, making it so he is there in the locker room for about 2 hours continuously, thus covering the time while I'm there.

After a few days of silence, while intently scrubbing his face with some kind of powered rotary face scrubber--the likes of which if I used I would be concerned someone might think I'm gay--for what seemed like hours on end, he finally struck up a conversation. For whatever reason he was compelled to tell me how he plans to take some martial arts classes through the same trainer who trains the local police. It's amazing how nice some people are. He really just wanted to share. He also mentioned something about white-hate. I said, "Yeah, I know man. We're the devil." I could tell by his tone that he's a little more, shall we say, extreme regarding that issue than I am. I've had so much hostility in my life that I'm dedicated to peace no matter what. I love variety and cultural diversity and it is positively nobody's business but mine who I mix my genes with. I think everyone just needs to chill. Unfortunately, I've been the made the subject of some very serious defamation at the hands of people formerly very close to me who exploited my trust, and my privacy has been violated to a point far beyond what any human being should experience, so... for those reasons I am compelled to seek justice by whatever means I need to, which is what I am doing regardless of how many idiots ask me how tall I was in 8th grade outside the library, or how many old ladies with their husbands who look like Ben Franklin approach me Peet's.

Part of the goal of what my family intentionally did, in addition to stomping on my self-esteem with a seemingly endless stream of subtle insults, was to attempt to constantly do things they knew would irritate and frustrate me in the hopes I would say something I didn't mean so they could use it against me. After years of moronic...moronic insinuations that I was gay, they succeeded. The thing that pisses me off is, I know you guys know god-damn well that I didn't mean it. It doesn't matter though, because it is not the reason for all of this anyway. My brother-in-law jumped on it as an excuse to pull the trigger on the overt stalking in addition to my brother secretly sabotaging--through the use of computer spyware--everything I did or attempted to do. The real reason this is happening is because I figured out what they were doing, including the connection to Kristen and the very serious things they framed me for. It's so obvious. I mean... the overt stalking did not start after the comment. It started after I told Leo at the bookstore that I'd figured out their plot which was much later. My run-in with Marty Eggert came wayyy before the comment. The day my mother got molested by airport security was wayyy before the comment. So, I'm not falling for the bullshit insinuation that this is happening because of something I said. The notion itself is yet another insult to my intelligence. In fact, I get the feeling that Rich and many, if not all of his buddies are likely subject to the same lie. I have identified the source group and I will pursue justice. I keep seeing big numbers, but nothing to back it up. 20-XL will do, but the fact is, it might be too late to stop the New York ball from rolling, which isn't my fault. Someone needs to speak up...openly.

The story just keeps getting better.

I guess I should take this opportunity to re-enforce my support for Mr. Obama. I don't like him because he's black-- his "typical white people" comment rubbed me the wrong way too. I like him for the same reason I liked Bill Clinton and Al Gore. In my opinion, it is easy to characterize each of them as "well-qualified and the right man for the job." He inherited the biggest, most complex mess in history and I think he's doing just fine. It must be really tough for conservatives to acknowledge the fact that the press is being every bit as hard on him as they were on his predecessors.

Gnaw on this logic:
A big issue for conservatives is smaller, less intrusive federal government and therefore individual states having more autonomy, right? In such a scenario, what then should the president's #1 priority be? My logic indicates foreign diplomacy. Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize because it took him a mere 8 months to tie the record for the most visits to foreign countries by a first-year president. Why is it taboo to acknowledge this? Are we so collectively embarrassed by W. that we just can't spit it out? The guy's been busting his ass to fix everything W. so expertly screwed up. How much vacation time did Mr. O take over the past year? 2 weeks, I believe. Every time I see him, or Hillary Clinton for that matter, they both look dead on their feet. They're working hard to maintain peace in a world torn between determined foreign terrorists and domestic extremists who use outright thuggery to propagate their own narrow-minded ideologies and exploit post-9/11 national security rhetoric to stomp on liberty. I've heard people call Obama a centrist. That might be exactly what we need right now. All things considered, I'm not sure he could be doing much better than he is.

Kathleen Kashay; Erica Agyeman; Darcy Estes; Alison Victor; Tracy Dietz; Kaitlin McGaw

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

E.U. / My Story, Chapter X (X = ten(10), right?)

Different E.U... The E.U. I refer to here is the Experience Unlimited section of the California Employment Development Department (E.D.D.). It's basically a job and networking club for professionals who have different qualifications than those who usually pursue skilled labor or similar jobs through state employment agencies. Many of the people in E.U. San Francisco are technical professionals. Some are in communications-related fields or

accounting. My background is in television production and so far I've only met one other person in E.U. with such a background. Alison Victor (seen here) sports one hell of a video/film resume which includes a variety of production experience and various awards and nominations. She has been recognized by Oprah Winfrey and The Today Show. She put together exactly the kind of career I would like to have, but unfortunately, my immediate family's intentional, systematic, envy-driven abuse directed by my brother succeeded in destroying my self-esteem (The truth is, not knowing their full intentions, I semi-consciously allowed it in the hopes of non-hostile relations. How stupid. Familial loyalty has ruined my life.) to the point where I had no idea at the time the that was exactly the kind of thing I could have and should have been doing, despite the moderate level of success I reached in the capital of the planet. Carrie, you and your folks were so right. (Of course, I did produce a pretty cool sports commercial just for kicks. It was wayyyy too long and the audio sucked, but the concept, camera-work, and editing all pretty much rocked.)

Part of my stalkers' M.O. is that they manufacture a reason to approach me and once they do, at some point early in the initial meet-and-greet, they hit me with a short series of questions delivered in a very matter-of-fact, business-like style. The questions always seem to be meant to confirm 2 or 3 things about my personal history. It was when I experienced this with Alison that I came to a conclusion about the nature of how the radical, psychotic feminists stalking and harassing me operate. Basically, they've got an internet database, probably on one website or a small group of sites that share the same info. The database is a list of guys who have been targeted for whatever reason. I imagine the database probably lists the "infraction" perpetrated by the guy. The radical psychos check the database regularly for targets in their area and then execute the stalking/harassment protocol without directly consulting any other radical psycho regarding their personal actions. The rapid-fire questions about the subject's past delivered in the initial meeting are simply meant to confirm that the person they're talking to is indeed the person in the database, which must include at least an overview of a biography in addition to the supposed infraction. It's safe to assume that this scenario is akin to, if not exactly the basis of what has been called the "lone wolf" status of many right-wing extremists. By simply consulting the secret database and never directly discussing the individual subject with other radical pscyhos, in text or through oral speech, they're all safer from possible incrimination because of the minimal evidence.

Alison isn't my only radical feminist stalker at E.U., though. After my run-in with the Kaitlin McGaw, when I realized that I was indeed being stalked by psychotic radical feminists, I did a little internet research on feminist stalkers and came up with a couple sites that associated female stalkers with yoga. I thought, "Wowww... Kristen, psycho-lawyer chick was into yoga." During my initial orientation meeting for the club, there was a total of about 12 people in the group. The person conducting the workshop commented on what a large group it was. (After realizing the room was packed with my harassers, I skipped the rest of the week. When I came back to complete the 4 remaining workshops, there was a total of 4 people in my group. The largest group I've

noticed since had about 6 or 7 people in it.) I sat directly across from a girl named Stacy Dietz. She mentioned that she does massage therapy for couples. I looked her up on the good ol' internet and it turns out her name is actually Tracy Dietz (seen here) and her service is called Thai Yoga Massage for Couples.

Also in that initial extra-large orientation session where several folks with military background who brought obviously prepared speeches for statements we were assigned to write during the workshop about our personal skills and attributes. A big part of my stalking is my stalkers attempting to damage my self-esteem by one-upping me in any way they can. In all of their speeches, these folks mentioned all the people they supervised and the multi-million dollar values of the projects they were associated with. Of course, being modest as I am, I didn't mention the combined advertising revenue associated with the television programming for which I played a major role in the successful production of. The problem with working in TV production is that it makes you a perfectionist. Everything must be right and decisions are made and changed on a minute-to-minute basis. If you add it all up, the ad revenue gained for the programming which I played a major part producing most likely totals more than the gross sum of all the fake numbers these planted phonies spouted in their pre-written bullshit speeches at E.U. (This is just one of the many effective exercises in the excellent E.U. Workshops.) I personally produced teases and bumps, with quotes of my choice, when Clinton was impeached. I handled production of video-cover for anchor narration when Princess Diana was killed, just to name a couple. Often, these tasks are performed at the last minute and with 6 other things to do. I had nights working in breaking news when I literally did not have a chance to take a piss for 6 hours straight because I was so busy. Talk to the people I worked with in TV. I defy you to find one who would call me lazy. The only reason my career at CBS ended was because I was sleeping on some crack-head's floor (I'd be

awoken by the scchhick-scchhick sound of a Bic lighter (seen here) at 3 a.m.) during the final weeks before cancellation of the show I was working on, and Russ Sarnoff found out I was rolling in late. I didn't realize at the time that I could have gone to him and told him my story and likely gotten a favorable response.

A couple of the phonies at that orientation meeting even mentioned at the outset that they weren't supposed to be there. One of them, a guy named John, showed up yesterday, March 1, 2010, to relieve the person working the desk at noon, the time the shift change usually occurs. It turns out he wasn't on the schedule, though and I found out today that yesterday he only stayed for about an hour. Of course, when he came in as I was leaving, he alluded to his military background in the same tone he made similar comments directed at me during the orientation meeting. In regard to serving the country, I applaud you and thank you, John...or whatever the fuck your name is. In regard to the attempt to intimidate me, I couldn't be effected less.

Here are the names I have of the stalkers from that Orientation meeting:
Tracy Dietz
John Cannon
Suzanne Kirk (I imagine she's a combo conservative fundamental extremist/military/feminist--the worst of all worlds.)

There were many others there, but I was unable to identify them by name. The Asian woman sitting with John the one-hour-at-the-desk guy is the one that makes me wonder. U.S. intelligence? C.I.A.? Who knows. Either way, she didn't fit. Feminist, maybe. She looked like a scientist making observations, but who knows? It just occurred to me that the military/government-related folks harassing me are probably all using fake names. Alison Victor brought a couple buddies I saw in passing, but I haven't been able to identify them.

I will.

A point for the psychotic feminists: back in the early 00s, my brother, a sociopathic liar who's extremely angry because of myriad issues from his past, took great pride in maintaining intimate relationships with 3 different women simultaneously. I believe part of the reason he started his campaign of defamation against me is because one day I told him that I could no longer lie for him to maintain the charade when I would encounter any of the three. His "main" gf at the time is named Lisa who lived nearby. One of the other two was name Mirabelle (Did I spell that right?) who didn't live far from him either, and the other was a less than moderately attractive bartender from an adjacent town. I can't recall her name, but it was easy to tell that she probably was the best of the three in the

sack, as Joe had indicated. I don't recall the name of the restaurant, but it had a long bar inside, a good-sized patio out back with a square-shaped bar backed up to the building, and tables with umbrellas. Since this description could apply a lot of restaurants in that area, I'll say, strictly for the purposes of identification, that this bartender girl had a centrally oriented facial feature that pronounced itself more loudly than most. The only other thing I remember about the place is that it was situated at the corner of an intersection and that during one of our visits there, I introduced my nephew (who's probably more fucked up by my Scientologist brother than anyone else) to the Flaming Doctor Pepper (seen here).

Also remember, psychotic radical feminists, that it is a common tactic to accuse a rival of something you are guilty of. I suspect my brother's anger toward women stems from the fact that he caught his high school sweetheart and another guy in the act while they were living in college together. Of course, he's also quite jealous of my success with the opposite sex in addition to other things. If you're doing this because of something this monumental asshole said, please...wake the fuck up. He's fooled you just like everybody else. Maybe you should be stalking him.

Now... I just read something on the internet suggesting that radical feminists stalk the guys who simply don't cave into their abuse. If that's the case, I guess I'll just have to continue on course to fix this shit the way I know I can. You see, there's this thing about investigative reporters--they love 2 things: 1.) A compelling, dramatic story with a lot of twists and turns, particularly if it involves politics, and 2.) Investigating things.

My buddies at CBS are going to LOVE this shit.

Chapter 10 Amendment

I forgot something important. Back in the early 00s when my bro was covertly maintaining relationships with 3 different women at the same time, my sister, who had the audacity to make a comment to me about "respecting women's feelings", was fully aware of what he was up to. I bailed on the charade before she did...if she ever did. There's a strong woman for ya.

Kathleen Kashay; Erica Agyeman; Darcy Estes; Alison Victor; Tracy Dietz; Kaitlin McGaw

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Wyoming / My Story, Chapter IX

Ok... so I bolted from Chicago. I think the first stop I made to sleep was in some small Nebraska town. The temperature was about 8 degrees there. Nothing else interesting to report.

I noticed something about New York while I lived there. Movies and popular media in general don't do it justice. Of course, they are accurate in regard to the general character of the city, but they're no where near to capturing the scope. When I stopped in Wyoming, I realized this is probably true of any place or region that is specifically unique in its general character. Sure enough, the barrenness of the landscape in Wyoming is just what the movies depict, but amplified about 5 times. For a second there I thought maybe I took the wrong exit and landed on Mars. I had to drive about a quarter of a mile on a bumpy, semi-paved road to get to the little general store and gas station, which you could see from the exit. Like every other time I

got out of the car while in Wyoming, the driving wind blew the door back at me before I could touch Earth. As I crossed the parking lot, whisps of dust and snow skipping across the ground, I paused and turned about 180 degrees to get a panoramic view of the desolate scene. It was a scene the movies could never get right--not without the relentless wind. It was like being in Mad Max, or Damnation Alley (Seen here.), or maybe a Tom Petty video. (I warned you in an early post I wasn't going to worry much about good writing in regard to the prose. Plus, at the moment, I'm quite sleep-deprived.) The flat-roofed building with it's sagging overhangs looked as if a pig had made it out of sticks, but somehow the shanty stood firm among the never-ending gusts. There wasn't another sign of civilization within eyeshot in any direction. I'm not sure that the place even had a name.

Inside, a woman sat high behind the counter with feet propped up on something and reading a book the title of which I didn't catch, but now wish I had. (The quality of a story is in the details.) She hardly moved. There were some horse collars hanging on the wall and I believe a saddle or two may have been mounted nearby. The store was well light by the muted-white early winter sun. The only food they had other than snacks were those plastic wrapped burgers and sandwiches in an upright glass-door cooler case near the entrance. I found a double cheese burger or something and warmed it up in the nearby brown, late-70s vintage microwave. I asked her if there was anywhere to sit and she pointed out a table at the other end of the room. The table and chair, with it's decidedly western look, stood out among the depressingly generic scene. It was one of those chairs made of thick would with a semi-circle that made up

the horizontal frame of the backrest with carved horizontal posts going through it. (Seen here) There were some brass rivets holding vinyl covered padding in place. There was a checkered table cloth. I couldn't help but being reminded of saloon scenes from any western you can think of.

As I was finishing my burger, a guy walked in with a very clean look, dark hair in a crew-cut, and a blue waist length, kind of sporty jacket. He got a snack and as the lady rang him up he made an exaggeratedly loud comment about what he got--chocolate and peanutbutter or something--and it being "my favorite." in kind of a baby-like voice. That's a main tactic of my perps--talking in an exaggeratedly loud voice, plus, he thought he was identifying something that is my favorite and therefore reminding me of my complete lack of privacy. He was actually wrong about that--I'm ok with peanutbutter and chocolate, but it's not that high on my list. I wonder how they got their wires crossed on that one.

It is common knowledge among those of us familiar with gang-stalking that it is done under the guise of community-policing, which is done in conjunction with Fusion Centers, which collect information and conduct surveillance in cooperation with the private sector. Throughout my experience, I have identified various private companies that are taking part. Nearly all of them use plain white vans emblazoned with their logo. Cintas is a major player. Otis United Technologies is another. Before I left the midwest, when I was still working at the plant, I recall some Otis guys coming and going. The next time I saw an Otis pick-up truck was when I saw two of them parked directly outside the shop as I exited a hair salon in downtown San Fransisco after getting a haircut. They were not there when I walked in and I wasn't in there long at all--less than 30 minutes total. (I didn't wait at all.) When I walked out of the last-chance, middle-of-nowhere choke-and-puke in Wyoming while Mr. My-Favorite was checking out, I wasn't surprised at all to see a plain white van with one word in red letters on the passenger door: Xerox. Not that it really matters, but it wasn't the new logo you see at the link--it was the old Xerox logo. He was a perp...out in the capital of easily accessible nowhere...at just the right time. Wow. Often I wonder what they hope to accomplish by such actions. The only way it affected me at all was its being a reminder that he was part of it. Big deal.

I post this pic because it's clever and funny and somehow came up when I googled "wooden saloon chair". It has nothing to do with my story. Something might be wrong with Google.

Kathleen Kashay; Erica Agyeman; Darcy Estes; Alison Victor; Tracy Dietz; Kaitlin McGaw;

Sunday, February 7, 2010

"So...makin' some plans, huh?" / My Story, Chapter VII

CHRISTINE FARANDA, Attorney, Cleveland, Ohio
Part 2

(When I first moved to New York, I stayed with friends in Long Island City. Not Long Island. Long Island City. Long Island City is a Queens neighborhood not far from Manhatten. After that, I moved to Hell's Kitchen. I walked back and fourth to my first TV job at CBS.)

I should note here that after figuring out what my family had done to me, especially my father and my brother, I saw where Christine Faranda of Cleveland, Ohio was coming from when she said she didn't care about what might happen to her sister. The steady stream of subtle mental and emotional abuse my dad subjected me to over the years, while preaching familial obligation pretty much put me in the same frame of mind once I figured it all out. At the time, I was living with him--keeping him out of a nursing home (Those are nice places, right?)--so it was an odd situation. Once I completely figured out the unseen negative effects of the years of verbal abuse, naturally, in the name of self-preservation, I decided that it was critical to avoid him at all contact with him for the remaining months I had to live there while saving money in order to escape at least the harassment at work and get away from the intense public stalking I was subject to. I get the feeling that people think I stopped talking to him to punish him. That's not it. It was a self-preservation and healing response. I'd tell myself, "Go up and talk to him. Go up and talk to him.", but having become aware of the systematic abuse inflicted upon me by him and my siblings, I absolutely could not do it. The mental abuse and attacks on my self-esteem went on for years. So, naturally, after figuring all that out, the thought of his death became more of a pleasure than a bummer. I understand you on that point, Christine Faranda of Cleveland, Ohio, and you know it's true. You saw it.

So...shat haven't I covered about Christine Faranda of Cleveland, Ohio? She had a couple cats named Vinnie and Rufus. Vinnie was pretty much in his prime and Rufus had two paws in the garden. Fufus didn't use it much, but Vinnie loved that cardboard scratching thing (Seen here). He'd be on on top of it dragging his claws across it like it was the last time he'd ever get to do it. All things considered, I didn't mind Vinnie or Rufus for that matter. They were both good cats. Then, on one occasion when Vinnie was tearing away at that thing, Christine Faranda of Cleveland, Ohio walked over near him, bent over slightly, held out her fists and shook them tensely while saying, in probably the most psychotic of all the psychotic tones I'd heard her use, "That's it Vinnie... fuck it up! Fuck it up, Vinnie. Tear one up and move on to the next."

Early in the time I was living there, she went on an Alaska cruise. I got up and drove her to the airport. When she got out of the car, she said, as usual, in psycho voice, "Enjoy the solitude."

Remember that part about the grapefruit tree and the Hummer? After leaving that place--I think it was Cracker Barrel--she wanted to stop of to pick up some nitrus from a local record shop. (It just dawned on me... I can just let my lawyer read these posts instead of having to explain it to him.) There was a little turning tower of novelty refrigerator magnets on the counter. Most of them were kind of 50s retro with clever

little acidic jokes and messages. There were 2 guys behind the counter. There was one magnet with a woman's face who kind of looked like Rosie the Riveter with the text, "Get in there and clean up the kitchen." or something like that. (Seen here. (Not the specific magnet, but you get the idea.)) Christine Faranda of Cleveland, Ohio pointed it out and cackled like a witch from a class-b horror movie. The guys behind the counter gave me an odd look. Every instance like this was still a bit of a shock and still difficult to admit, but I was still in the process of adding things up.

While I was living there, various aspects of my life just happened to start going bad. First, the radio got stolen out of my car. Then, because of a couple speeding tickets I got before I moved in with Christine Faranda of Cleveland, Ohio--when I was making the 90-minute drive to see her a couple times a week--I got a notice of suspension of my driver's license. We discussed it and throughout the discussion she maintained a facade of concern. As people naturally do when discussing a document, I looked at the document occasionally as I held it. Christine Faranda of Cleveland, Ohio must not have known that while I was looking at the notice I could see her with my peripheral vision. During one of those instances, in the midst of a conversation in which she was so concerned for me, I saw a wide, toothy smile flash across her face for an instant--less than one second--before returning to her usual sad look. She thought I didn't see it. She did the same thing when the head gasket blew on my car.

What else?....Oh, yeah... we were coming home from somewhere and she turned left in front of oncoming traffic and intentionally applied the brakes, I presume both to merely show the oncoming traffic that she could, and to cause me a little anxiety. It dawns on me now that I accredited certain incidents in chapter VI with being "major" points, or the "first" this or the "first" that. The fact is the whole thing was something that had to be added up, the characteristic which makes it largely invisible. All the little instances indicating Christine Faranda of Cleveland, Ohio's pyschosis were just as bad as any others. The first major sign, though, was indeed the repeated bragging about the knives' sharpness.

Again, we were in the car and she need something out of the console between the seats. I had my arm on top of it. She grabbed it and tossed it off violently.

Why did I take all this? My car had broken down. My license almost got suspended. Every time something new went wrong for me, she would increase the mental torture.

On her birthday we went to an Italian restaurant that she hadn't been too even though it was 2 blocks away from her apartment. (I'm an expert at sniffing out not so well-known restaurants with rockin' food.) I believe it was called Venezia and I got the Bolegnese with shredded pork. (Seen here.) It was so good, it tasted like something my grandmother would have made. My car had just broken down, and for some reason I had to get my license updated to include her address. She complimented me for pulling it together for her birthday. Awwwe... isn't that nice? I told her I'd gotten the address changed on my license and she asked to see it. I handed it to her across the table and as she looked at it the psycho look slowly spread across her face, crescendoing until peaking as she handed it back to me.

(This is going to be a really, really good film.)

Oh, yeah...the spiders on the balcony. Have you ever known a woman to like spiders, or not despise them for that matter? I guess I come from an extreme experience because my mother was an arachnophobe, but still, Christine Faranda of Cleveland, Ohio is the only person I've ever known who not only wasn't viscerally effected by spiders in a negative way, but actually seemed to like them. Her balcony was barely deep and wide enough to hold about 3 or 4 of those basic plastic outside chairs. She had two of them out there with a bench made out of half of a log. There was a railing spanning the front of the balcony of that top-floor apartment. During a serious breakdown one morning, she mentioned that she didn't know how she keeps herself from taking a dive off of that balcony. Anyway... there were spiders--good size spiders--taking up house-keeping on and around the balcony. The railing was covered with their webs. She would sit there, just a couple feet from them, like it was nothing. We talked once about why she doesn't kill them or take other steps to keep it clean and she seemed confused, sad, even.

As I said, Christine Faranda of Cleveland, Ohio's libido was out of control. She's a lawyer. She made it clear once that she has no reservations about performing a sexual favor to get what she wants and specifically mentioned judges in that regard. I didn't confirm until much later how she was eavesdropping on my calls. It turns out there is computer software anyone can buy to both track and eavesdrop on anyone else's cel phone.

While there, when I finally had everything added up and decided I needed to escape this psychotic man-hater, I called my uncle and asked him about jobs back in my hometown and told him I might need him to come pick me up. I'd suspected that there may have been audio and even video surveillance in the apartment, so when I made that call, I went out in the hallway outside her apartment.

That night when she got home from work, she packed a bowl, plopped down on her bed, to a big hit and said, in her usual psycho tone, "So...makin' some plans, huh?"

Christine Faranda, Part 3

Kathleen Kashay; Erica Agyeman; Darcy Estes; Alison Victor; Tracy Dietz; Kaitlin McGaw

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