Saturday, December 28, 2019

Laurelhurst Park and All Saints Catholic Church Visit

Today was the day we finally made it out to Laurelhurst. This park, to simplify has a "vibe". It seems very tranquil on the surface but the energy feels chaotic. It almost feels like there's a glamour over the area.




The boundary of the Park 


A couple of videos orienting to the neighborhood are up on YouTube:




(Excuse the throat clearing, that's part of me doing my opening up/energy thing)

There's literally no reason that women should be drowning in this pond. Additionally? There's at least one more.



Why do women keep mysteriously drowning here?

The public restroom had a sinister vibe I can't explain. I didn't like this building.


More park





On to All Saints Catholic Church. The neighborhood is so old Portland that there are horse tie ups remaining on the curb next to the church.






The church is under some serious renovation, so not only was the chapel closed to the public today, the area in the parking lot where the mysterious well is supposed to be is Under Construction.




Parsonage/Annex area, the backside shown in the photo of the tree from Coe Circle.




The school next door, part of the old building complex.







 Familiar names on the cornerstone.


Looking for the well in the parking lot:

https://youtu.be/-RqYqAdFnZM

Mysterious patchouli smell outside:

https://youtu.be/GPuLDlP5CEA

And right across the street is Of course Coe Circle and Joan.

https://youtu.be/1yg9Lwq4CHg






The back side of All Saints as seen from Coe Circle and this fabulous Tree Guardian of Joan's. 💜

I have a feeling this isn't the last entry you'll be seeing about Laurelhurst.

Monday, November 4, 2019

Kitty's journey to health.

So I'm a Vegan. I also was the most resistant Vegan ever. Basically my body revolted and I started to have major medical issues related to excess weight, pre-diabetes and fibromyalgia.

I was doped up on several prescription drugs just trying to function. I was miserable.

My daily medication was:
600 mg gabapentin X 4 daily for nerve pain
120 mg Cymbalta for Nerve pain and anxiety and fibromyalgia
50 mg X 2 spironolactone because I didn't ovulate and get a period naturally because of Polycystic Ovary Syndrome
Carafate before every meal so I could eat
Constant TUMS etc
Nexium

DAILY.

My current:
Scripts - ZERO. Z E R O.
PCOS reversed, periods like clockwork.
CBD/Tumeric Blend in the morning
PLNT Tumeric/Black Pepper in the evening
Cal Mag Citrate
Vegan MultiVitamin


Here's what I used to look like a few years ago.


I'm not thin by a long shot, but I'm healthy after an 80 lb weight loss. Here's the thing - I did it because it was feel better or die. The weight loss just happened when I changed my life. I did it to live.

I used to be able to eat anything and love food, super adventurous eater. When I got in my 30s suddenly I had major stomach problems, was gaining weight when I was literally not eating, puking, my hair was falling out. It was bad. The acid was eroding my teeth. I had a root canal because the enamel on my teeth was failing. I had precancerous cells in my esophagus. I had colonoscopies, biopsies, hospitalizations.  I was dying. Then I had enough.

Here's the plan a naturopath gave. If you can afford to, everyone's body is different, seeing a plant based doctor is worth every cent.

Here's exactly how I did it:

1. Cut out diet soda and candy week one. This was the worst week.

2. Cut out sugared drinks, all of them. Yes, this meant breaking up with coffee because really, when your coffee is 1/2 vanilla creamer you aren't into coffee you're into a sugar fix in the morning. This was another bad week.

3. Started a food diary and elimination diet. I ate ONLY PLANT BASED ITEMS with zero gluten or wheat either. Just plants. This sucked, but since I detoxed from the sugar first, a few weeks in I could start to taste  natural sugars in fruits and vegetables.

4. Rebuilt my gut flora by the following:

This is where I almost gave up. But this is important!!!!! I still do this and it keeps my GERD in check:

 Important: STOP THE PPI MEDS BEFORE ADDING APPLE CIDER VINEGAR.  This won't work if you stay on the meds. I know. How the hell you supposed to get off??? I know. Trust me.

First thing in the morning - 1 TB of ACV BRAGGS BRAND ONLY - into 8 oz water (I do cold so I can get it down). Empty stomach, before everything. Follow with another 8 oz water immediately. Then meds, food etc.

First week, I stood at the sink crying trying to gag down ACV water, gagging. Now its nothing. You can do it. I promise. Just chug that shit and know its healing you.

I do this before dinner also. If I eat something with a lot of acid or cheat (I discovered I'm sensitive to gluten, not allergic but miserable) and extra glass of ACV water helps me more than any TUMS on the planet.

Brought probiotics on board - without gut health, your gut can't heal. Now that I've got a good gut system going I do 4-8 oz Kombucha every day to keep it balanced.

It seems insane to ADD acid to an acidic stomach but it isn't. You have to trust me on this. I was so miserable I literally was at the point where I'd try anything, and so I did.

5. Slowly add in back foods you eliminated to find out what your body can handle. Write down EVERYTHING you ate and when. It's annoying but you will find patterns. Mine hates dairy the worst, meat next (red meat the worst), wheat/gluten. It doesn't hate eggs but its easier to just eat Vegan and who needs eggs anyway? Basically all my favorite foods (Pizza, bread, donuts) were the worst thing I could possibly eat for my body.

I never ever thought I'd be able to live without cheese, and while I miss it, I don't miss feeling like death.

I have a million bootleg Vegan recipes.

I'm glad to help anyone that needs support! This shit is hard but its worth it!!

Friday, July 26, 2019

Boise Idaho Punk Club.

Chapter One: I Have A Name

I didn’t invent the Boise Idaho Punk Club (BIPC), but I was right in the middle of it, despite the fact that all of the founding members fucking hated it. The boys never quite knew what to do with me, and as a woman in my 40’s I can tell you that some of them still don’t know. 

What I do know is I came out of the womb a rebel. Not only was I the first female that was born in the paternal line for generations, my father had a vasectomy before he married my mother. Good thing I’m his clone, rebelliousness and impatience included. I always waited until I was good and ready to do something. I didn’t really practice walking. I pulled myself up on furniture and then cruised immediately into the coffee table and ER for stitches for the first time. I was a quiet thoughtful baby.  My parents thought I might be disabled (Mom drank the first five months she cooked me, vasectomy, remember?) until I looked at my mother one day and clearly said, “I want to go outside.” I don’t halfass anything and there’s nothing quiet about me anymore.

Since he had no idea what to do with a girl, and I wasn’t interested in traditionally girl endeavors (to the ever present bitterness of my Beauty Queen mother), despite being a chauvinist in general, my Daddy raised me not to take shit from boys. Once they figured out I’d punch them out if they yanked on my pigtails and I had way more Hot Wheels than they did it all sorted itself out. I had my own toolbox and if they were quiet they were allowed into the garage to help with my dad’s never ending car restorations. I always had skateboards and bikes, built ramps and had some small creature caught from the creek in a jar. We moved a lot due to my dad’s job and it made me ballsy and outgoing.

My best friend at the time, Jon, who turns out is autistic (they didn’t call it anything other than “odd” back then - we’ve been in touch as adults), moved away and so I was pretty lost going into High school. He and I did things like went to the library to check out books on Stonehenge and do puzzles while we listened to Weird Al. I was Mayor of Nerd City, complete with knock knees and buck teeth and glasses. After he left I hung out with a couple other dudes in the neighborhood but I lied and said Jon was my cousin as they wouldn’t stop bothering me about it.


That summer the group of guys I was casually palling around with got weird. And I absolutely was mortified when boobs grew in between 8th and 9th grade. I shot up to 5’ 7” in height too and had no idea what was going on. My braces also came off and my mom got me contacts, even though I hated them. I was into wearing giant skater stuff clothes anyway, but during this time I developed my lifelong love of cardigan sweaters due to the attention my new body was getting.

My father finally divorced my mother, and I was a casualty of that process. He had no idea what to do with a young woman and my mother never would have given me up anyway, despite the fact that she’s basically hated me my whole life. Maybe BECAUSE she wanted to punish us both because I was just like him she would never give me up. At one point he tried to help me become emancipated but she made his life hell.

She took to her bed crying for my father for about a year while I tried to piece her back together in our big grey empty house, and then the giant rotating line of younger men started in and out of her bedroom. Some of these men were more interested in me than my mother, but the one thing she absolutely did right during this time was kick them to the curb if they became too interested in her daughter.

So I start high school and it’s like being thrown to the fucking wolves. The boys hate me because I won’t flirt with them and the girls hate me because I don’t give a shit about boy bands. I was listening to Public Enemy and Motley Crue. One thing that my father passed on to me was a lifelong appreciation of all kinds of music. 

I start stealing liquor from my mom’s bottles. She doesn’t notice. I steal cigarettes, I steal money from her purse, I start drinking at school and self mutilating, poking holes in my body with pins, carving into my arm. We fight, she beats the shit out of me, I start sneaking out, it’s all out war. I am absolutely drowning in an endless rage of abandonment and no one notices… well no one that matters. I steal a bottle of Robitussen DM and drink it trying to kill myself on her birthday in January, but all it does it make me barf my guts out and hallucinate. Thus a new habit is born. All I do is sit in my room, listen to music, write, and want to die. 

And then Nirvana comes out, May 17, 1990 they play a club called The Zoo in Boise. I’ve snuck out of the house with my friend and his older sister because I had a bootleg tape someone gave me and I liked it. I am about one of thirty people in the audience. Chad Channing is still drumming. I had to leave early, because my mom was coming home, but I saw enough for it to blow my face off.

I went to the Record Exchange, asking about Nirvana, the cool clerk at the store recognizes me from shows (remember: they used to keep records with swearing behind the counter and you had to show your ID to buy them - FUCK YOU TIPPER GORE AND THE PMRC) and would sell me whatever I wanted knowingly. Scott turned me on to Fugazi, which led to Bad Brains, which led to the Pistols and the Clash and thus a new love was born. I also discover Beat Happening and K records and get super into indie. 

I began to attend both Raves and shows during the week when my mom wasn’t around. My best friend at the time (a wonderful gay copilot) loved to dance, had his own car and with a very bored coked-out mom at home so the party was fucking on. In the days before social media there was no way to get caught. I was on the fringes of the scene, and then RIOT GRRL happened and blew the face off of E V E R Y T H I N G.

I wrote a fan letter to Kathleen Hanna once letting her know that Bikini Kill literally saved my life, and I wasn’t exaggerating. I was sick of watching the bands, and being flirted with by the bands, I wanted to BE the fucking band but hadn’t the foggiest clue how. Bikini Kill, Bratmobile, Heavens to Betsy… none of them knew how to do it, but they fucking did it and their anger was rightous and powerful.  I’d been date raped at a party at age 14, constantly harassed and groped, and finally someone was screaming about how I felt. 

I was given my first guitar for my sixteenth birthday by one of the guys that I was casually dating (older, always older). He wove flowers into the strings of my Pink and Green GTX. I tried to give it back when we broke up, but he wanted me to have it. And that was that. I was a guitarist.



So many of the local punk bands made fun of us. It was me and two Christy’s, and Daen, my new (always) male BFF who was the only one of us that had any musical talent whatsoever. He was the first feminist I met that was male and was raised by a strong single mother. I practically lived in their basement for an entire summer. Later he gave me a place to live when my first marriage finally blew up.

Daen is an amazing left handed bassist, professional level, like a savant. And he sat me down with my GTX and said… “Okay, here’s a chord…. Here’s another…. And then this is a third…. See? You’ve got this, you’re playing punk rock dude.” And Christy - she played HARD, dude, she whaled on those skins.

I played the basslines for all of “Nevermind” on the guitar again and again under his tutelage and nailed them all. I tuned my guitar low and muddy and discovered I wasn’t interested in solos (I found them boring) but loved to zone out on long throbbing oozing beats. I had the wingspan to be a bassist, but I always ended up back playing rhythm guitar or fucking around on the drums. I have no idea how to read music. I can copy things by ear with time practice thanks to Daen.

As good as I ever got:

Kick Your Momma - FIAJ

Band Names of incarnations I was associated with/in:
A Time For Pudding
A Band Called Plebe
Freak In A Jar
Kaotik Revolution
Flaming Diaper Rash
Fleshsaw

You get the picture.

Now the issue is most of the local girls really hate me. Rumors start, I’m a slut, all these typical things. I punch out the other big “band” girl in the scene when she brags about that she fucked my boyfriend first. The douchebag that took my virginity is the drummer in her band, so we are enemies from the start.

The guy I date from 16 and up is a pretty popular drummer in town and I’m finally started to be taken seriously as his band has quite a following. I’m finally playing with musicians that have an idea what they are doing and we sound GOOD. We record on his eight track every weekend. I learn how to play drums.

Everyone is forced to take me seriously through association. The older men stop trying to get in my pants when they realize Brent and I are actually serious (I have a tiny diamond chip on my left hand at this point) and I start to make connections. The guy that sells me strings connects me with a screenprinter. I get snuck in through the back doors of the 21 and up clubs when he plays, the bouncers know me. I show up looking much older, dripping with bravado and a flask in my leather jacket and no one questions why I’m there. I might be a dork at school but who cares when I’m out watching bands until 3am at the bar?


Does this girl look 16 to you?
My mom kicks me out at seventeen, she’s been living with my now-stepdad anyway and leaving me at home alone. I move in with Brent. The positives are he’s super anti-drug, so everything but the booze goes out the window, and that is cut down a great deal. His parents pressure us to get married, so one week after my eighteenth birthday that’s exactly what I do since my mother has disowned me.

This is how I completely fuck up my life for a number of years. 

I gave up a scholarship for Journalism at a college in Minneapolis to stay and play punk rock with my baby husband Brent. Sigh. My plan prior to meeting him was to write for Alternative Press and travel the world. That went up in flames. We are driving around town in a brown Pinto station wagon with a porthole window and a pink stripe on the side because it fits all his drums. I’m pissed we can’t find a hearse but until the engine blows its infamous around town.

A month or so after I’m living in our basement apartment, sleeping on an air mattress with approximately 4000 spiders and a bunch of records, we receive news that the club we all go to and play at, the Crazy Horse, is closing down due to the rent hike and low sales. This place is the absolute center of our lives, our social circle, and I’m the only one ballsy enough to say - “So what if we just did it?”

My barely eighteen year old ass hauls Brent into the landlord’s office and I pitch the building’s owner my ideas. I ask him to lower the rent and give him 5% of the door, point out that I’ve already talked to the current owner and he’s willing to sell me the sound system, board, and lights in 6 payments because he just wants out. The old man types up a lease for us. Brent is stunned.

We had no insurance. I don’t even know what liability insurance is let alone how to get it. We were beyond lucky no one ever got seriously hurt and sued us. There were plenty of fights. I mean, it was a punk club.

We gather our friends, crank up the sound system, our bands play all weekend as we take turns painting, remodeling, building a better stage and drum riser. We get rid of the “hippy” bands that we think suck and rent out the stage for practice space for local bands to help make ends meet. We sell out almost every weekend. Word spreads. Every promoter and manager in the universe is calling to have their bands play here because we aren’t interested in ripping them off - they got a flat 40% of the door sales, period. We are able to have a full calendar geared towards our curated tastes.

The Fire Marshall knows the building owner, increases our occupancy and looks the other way on weekends if it is a big show. The local police drive by regularly but seem pleased that all the local color is centered around our block and not erupting elsewhere as in the past. We let the kids that are too broke to pay the cover inside if they agree to help us clean up after the show. One sweet big kid volunteers to be our back door bouncer and we pay him in food and space for his band to practice. He just is thrilled to meet his favorite bands. 

I make friends with  the locksmith next door and pay for their window when some dumbass throws a rock through it. The uniform company down the road lets us dumpster dive for their thrown away uniforms. We silkscreen them in limited edition batches with show fliers on them and sell them for $5-10 to help keep the bills paid. What, you think Hot Topic invented work shirts with random names on the pocket? Nah, that was 90s DIY at its finest. We buy candy bars, sodas, waters and mark them up a bit to raise funds. It’s more of a cooperative than a nightclub.

Singer Christy from KR, our friend Luci and me in a BIPC shirt

Maximum Rocknroll calls me to do a story on the renewed all-punk Crazy Horse and what we’re doing. I’m interviewed for the piece (I did the booking and marketing, Brent ran the sound and lights) and I’m noted as “Brent and his wife.” They never print my letter to the editor eviscerating them for their sexism and reminding them I have a name.

Here's a video from the time about the last show of Freak in a Jar that we recorded in 1996. I didn't play on this set (it was just the three OG members, those of us that were in and out of the group sat it out), but I'm in the video a few times, talking about missing the pit etc. Ha ha.

Farewell Freak In a Jar - 1996

We rent the fabled apartment upstairs also and it’s blue shag carpet becomes the center of the Boise punk rock scene for almost a year. We throw after parties on the roof. We manage to feed ourselves while having a place to invite our favorite bands to play and crash. This is how I came to operate the Crazy Horse from 1995-1997.

These are the stories, how I remember them. 

Friday, May 3, 2019

Patricia "Patty" "Buddy" Louise Tunis - Research


I believe that Patricia "Patty" Louise "Buddy" Hill Tunis is the woman who has been with me since we came back from Las Vegas. I wasn't going to put her name out there, but she's literally going down the line and waking people I'm connected to at 3am now if I manage to be asleep. My husband was woken up at 3am on the dot last night. She wants to be heard. I hope I'm doing the right thing. She has living family and I always really hesitate to publicly post anything that could be painful for families, and 1980 was a bad year for this one.

Patricia was born in Hilo, HI 02/25/1920 - alternate info states born in New York, 12th grade education, was a housewife in 1955 Census, member of the US Presbyterian Church in the 1970s. She was 60 when she died in the MGM fire and her burial is UNKNOWN (if any). I was unable to find any photos of her online. 

She married James Floyd Tunis (1919-2000) on 9/2/1944 in Sarasota, FL. Mr. Tunis was in the USAF. They had three children, NAME WITHHELD FOR PRIVACY (B: 6/8/48 in Van Nuys, CA, an artist in WI) NAME WITHHELD and daughter Wendy Louise Tunis who died in 1984. Women don't do well being born into the Tunis family, it seems. James Tunis remarried in 1960 after he and Patty divorced. 

Father: William Hardy "Doc" Hill -  B: 6/15/1890 (Asheville, NC), D: 6/1970 (Hilo, HI), buried in Homelani Memorial Park. Doc hill was an eye doctor as well as a Hawaiian Senator - 1928-1959 for the Territory of HI and 1959-1967 as the State of Hawaii. Very shrewd businessman.

Stepmother: Ouida Lewis Mundy Hill (7/29/1899-1/9/2000 - lived to 100!) From her obituary:

Ouida Hill, considered the grand dame of Big Island society for more than 30 years through the 1960s, died at age 100 earlier this month (January, 2000) in her Honolulu condominium. She met her husband, William Hardy "Doc" Hill, on the beach at Waikiki in the 1930s. He was a prominent Big Island businessman and longtime state senator, and preceded her in death in June 1970. Doc Hill's colorful career in the Legislature included his appearance in a kimono to protest an overtime session, saying his wife had left for Hilo in disgust over his odor. The Hills were hosts to people from all over the world, from royalty to political figures, in their Keauhou estate in Kona, recalled longtime newswoman Maxine Hughes. "The two of them made a good team both socially and politically," said retired legislator Joe Garcia. Doc Hill, famed for presenting silver dollars to his guests, owned most everything in Hilo during his career as a businessman. But his wife, whom he called his "little redhead," was considered a political and social force in her own right. Ouida Hill was born in Virginia. She was a registered nurse when she reached Hawaii in 1926 as an employee of the Mayo brothers, who founded the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn. In pre-World War II days, she was famous for conducting horse races with ranchwoman Anna Lindsey Perry-Fiske, who died in Waimea at age 94 in 1996. In an interview last year when she turned 100, Hill was quoted as saying, "I feel no different at 100 than I did at 99. I try to think young." No funeral service was held. Her ashes were returned to Hilo's Homelani Cemetery, where her husband is interred.

Half sister: Shirley Leilani Hill, B: 8/4/1927 (Hawaii), D: 7/24/94 (age 66), New Jersey. Married to Harold Arnold Steiner, Jr (B: 10/20/1923, D: 7/15/2011, burial unknown). Possible daughter: Leilani Hill (age 40, Bothell, WA) - is her niece in WA the connection??

Mother: Winifred Rachel "Winnie" Erdman Patten - B: 6/14/1895, D: 10/17/1980, buried in Golden Gate National Cemetery next to her husband. Patty died a month after her mother... this poor family... :(

Stepfather: Roy J. Patten - WWI (Canadian) Soldier. 



Patty was found in the 25th Floor stairwell. She was so close to getting out! One more floor and she was home free. I can't find any record of who she was staying with (if anyone) and what she was doing in Las Vegas on November 21, 1980.


The information (other than her stats) in the MGM Fire book about Patty. 


Patty's father and stepmother, the Hills.

Thursday, May 2, 2019

Podcast Rec: Aficionado Prodigiosus, Purveyor of Fine Strangeness: Some Other Sphere Podcast Appearance

Aficionado Prodigiosus, Purveyor of Fine Strangeness: Some Other Sphere Podcast Appearance: via GIPHY It's my pleasure to announce that the episode of the podcast Some Other Sphere wherein host Rick Palmer  interviewed me ...



One of my favorite weirdos was interviewed for a podcast about Discordianism! Not only is Matt a talented musician and fantastic human being, he's smart as a whip. A very interesting listen about the history of a made up joke religion that somehow got very real very quickly!



While you're at it, you should check out Matt's blog too :) https://www.apstrange.com/

Bally Hotel - Phyllis Thomas Died a Hero.

We arrived home from Las Vegas early on the morning of April 23rd. As I mentioned in my earlier entry, paranormally my life was very calm upon returning and I was sleeping like a baby. That lasted until about Friday.

Friday I started to not feel well again, and I also started to be woken up again at the 3am hour. I knew that I had someone that came back from the hotel with me. After Sunday, when things came to a head with lack-of-sleep and starting to feel really, really bad I called in my girl Jax for the assist.

What she figured out is I had not one but two women that came back from me.  We both felt that one of them was Sara Galico, that she was very much just along for the ride and curious since Dave got her attention. I since believe she has moved on from our household and isn't interested in us anymore.

The other woman I am still working with.

Initially I thought that this was Phyllis Thomas, 20, who died near the registration desk on the Casino Floor. I researched her in the MGM Fire book when I came home, and what I found out about Ms. Thomas is that she died a hero:



Ms. Thomas - you have my utmost respect for your kindness and bravery that you chose to show another human being in your young 20 years during the scariest moment imaginable.

I lit a candle for her and asked for her healing. After I worked with Phyllis specifically, I expected things to chill out in my life again, as I thought she had to be who we had captured on that EVP asking for help, as she'd told me she liked to be called Lys or Lyssa as I was reading about her.

(If you missed that EVP, here it is again: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N_z2TMtWv0c )

The activity continued however after I did a ritual for Ms. Thomas. Jax continued to get to be talked to by whoever it is that's around as well. We both came up with the same female name AND nickname of a different woman, independently of each other.

I'm 90% confident I know who she is. I have not been able to come up with a photo of her, but her family was of prominence, and I was able to find lot of information and two of her living children. Which is why I'm not publicly going to state her name.

At least not until I can help her accomplish whatever it is that she's needing to do if it has to do with them. For whatever reason, I'm having a really hard time deducing how I can help her. There's something I am missing or not understanding. In an effort to try to figure this out, I've started the voice recorder as I've gone to bed at night as Dave says I very actively talk to the other side as I sleep. I figure between my yammering and encouraging her to leave EVPs we might get some traction.

The issue is that every night the battery gets drained far too quickly. This recorder has a 8-12 hour battery. And I am not sleeping 8-10 hours (try 3-4 at this point). So basically it's just me hissing various wake up times "It's 3:23 and they just woke me up again..." "3:03 am...." Or trying to do that and seeing it's dead.

I'm not giving up.

Work activity is ramping up again. Coworker caught his hand in the belts and gears of a POWERED OFF oven today. I can't keep up with the continual negativity in this building for too much longer and not be affected.

Friday, April 26, 2019

The Bally Hotel - Part Five: The Halls and Stairwells from 12am until 2am


Around midnight I headed back to the lobby of the Casino to walk the long hallway where the old restaurants were and the Ballrooms are. All of the hallways have an odd feeling, but this one particular hallway feels particularly heavy.




No matter how many photos I took I could not get these doors or the emergency phone bank closest to them to take a clear photo. Heavy energy here. The volunteer firefighter/EMT who's funeral photos I bought on ebay because it bothered me they were on there died in this area trying to save others. RIP William Gerbosi.







I recognized this booth from one of the vintage photos. Pretty wild its still there.



Another strange blurry shot down the same hall.






Headed back towards the casino floor



Elevator on the left is the one Dave was stuck in. It wouldn't come for me. 



I did an EVP session facing the elevator bank at around 1:30 am. I didn't feel alone.




I got up from the elevators and moved over to this seating area in the lobby, I felt like I still had someone with me. I continued my EVP session here and got up to take a photo back down the hall towards our room as I felt company.

These long vents in the hallway is part of what made the hotel such a death trap. The way the design was made cut corners (it has since been retrofitted correctly, one of the safest places to stay now!) and the toxic smoke pumped into rooms and hallways through these.

We carefully reviewed all the rest of the audio from my midnight to 2am sessions. The AC units were running near the staircases and the wooshing was way too loud to hear anything they might have been saying. The only EVP we got was the one upon first entering the room.

It is my sincere hope that our efforts to remember everyone who died in the terrible MGM Fire are not offensive or painful for any of the victims' family or friends (living or otherwise), or any of the other spirits of the old MGM Hotel. We truly feel connected to the grounds and plan on staying there again and again in the future.

I'll never forget the terror these people went through fighting for their lives. Some of them sadly still seem to be stuck fighting.


Light Anomaly near 24th Floor Stairwell, 2am EVP session



Photo of MGM fire victim location in locked stairwell