My family taught me you’re all evil;

“You’re all evil as can be
Who taught me? My family.
They were first to see the facts
They were first to turn their backs.
Evil as can be
Evil as can be….”

I may finish that song someday and humble my sinful family with it over their jealous, boot-
licking posture regarding me and my activism. Lately my youngest brother, Michael, has been
avoiding my phone calls, apparently, to spite me over my severing of ties with my younger sister
who let me know in 2008 that I deserved to have her 6’6″ boyfriend sucker punch me in 1972
when I was loaded down with golf gear which resulted in a catastrophic tooth loss years later.
My mother has been shunning me for over a dozon years, besides. I’ll reserve my other younger
brother’s childhood mistake for later it’s so terrible.
I did scant little at all to deserve any of this.
They ALL OWE ME a huge apology for resenting my heroic expose and have until next week to
contact me or deal with full disclosure of their other sins as well, in public, right here.
Elvis Presley had a similar relationship with his siblings and his jealous Tupelo Mississippi
peers broke his nose, twice, before he escaped with his life. It’s a common sin in all of you;
throwing banana peels in front of any hero, but especially one who exposes the government
and refuses to lick its boots.
What’s wrong with my own flesh and blood is also wrong with all of you. A bumper sticker
that reads; “YOU APATHETIC U.S. A-HOLES” would be an accurate flat mirror for you all.
If they are too jealous and prideful to contact me then all of you will know just how sick
my own family is regarding my expose. For your benefit as well as theirs.
They have been notified of how to avoid disclosure.
Stay tuned, fellow sinners.

The purpose of this is to educate all of you as well as my own family to your wicked ways
and why all of you must arrest your ways now. If I am willing to strip my own family naked
to make a point I hope everyone concerned will shed their apathy and moral laziness and,
especially, their boot-licking fear of their government which means more to you than you
mean to yourselves.
If this resort does not impress upon all of you the weight of my sincerity then you are
all beyond reason and any words.

Getting primed for the expose to come, let me start by quoting John Lennon’s song ‘Mother’;

“Mother, you had me but I never had you
I wanted you, you didn’t want me…
Father, you left me but I never left you
I needed you, you didn’t need me…”

John was a ‘Saturday Night Special’ one conceived out of mere sparks in the night, an accident,
unplanned and coincidental. When he was given the chance to choose who he wanted to be with
he chose his mother only to be dumped on his aunt, promptly.
I think John wanted to be loved so much by someone that he reached out to all of us and
wrote songs to make us love him. That that was his motivating force.
I was, certainly, more loved by my parents, yet I was the nail in my father’s bachelor shoe
being first born. He was open about it, too, but was a good father, regardless. My mother
was, also, a loving, good mother, though I doubt I was her favorite or least favorite.
There was sibling rivalry among us four kids though I believe I was loving and kind as
I could be, usually. When I shone at reading while my younger brother didn’t I wished he
could be up to my speed, sincerely. I’d punch my brothers in the shoulder a lot, but in a
normal way. They are broader shouldered than me so they should thank me.
All of my brothers and me were a little innattentive to our sister, Laura, and she never
complained or let on. She suffered in silence while the boys did their boyish things without
her being included. That WAS a little thoughtless, I suppose. Thankfully she had a few girl-
friends up the block to be friends with. I suppose that that was the main thing I’d have
redone but we were all a victim of circumstances.
One day my best friend, feeling sorry for us one day, played a song by Jimmy Rogers (?)
‘Child Of Clay’ The lyrics went;

“Into this world he was sent by parents who were ignorant,
Deprived of love and rocked by fear, a feeling that the end is near
And the father thinking work comes first aint got the time to quench a thirst…”

and so on. And, yet, it all seemed hunky dory to me and I know I was loved by my parents.
They were born in the Depression and worshipped money to a fault and were stern disiplin-
arians who used the belt but I felt all was well. It was all I knew. I’m sure they did the
best they knew how. True love may not have been part of my parents lives but they did seem
to like each other. Not unlike a lot of married couples. I think my life was rela-
tively normal.

Of course, it was not.

Now, the questions that will linger after the following disrobing of my own family life ex-
perience are; Did my brothers try to murder me with a 22 caliber rifle from over 100 yards?
Yes, just grazing my right ear when I was in my mid teens.
Did my sister let her 6’6” boyfriend into my parents house to ambush and assault me resulting
in the loss of my molar years later and the demise of their relationship months later?
Yes. : Did my father, who died in a small ski lift airplane in 1984, attempt to kill our
whole family while flying his airplane near Lake Tahoe in the late 60’s? Maybe. Or maybe he
was trying to scare us.; Did my mother have anything to do with the deaths of my father,
her subsequent boyfriend, later, and her last husband, again, years after that? Doubtful, but
curious, nonetheless.; Was my minor physical deformity at birth, a smaller left calf and foot,
the result of bad prenatal care or bad luck? Was it possibly from an attempt to stop my birth?
Am I sounding ludicrous? Perhaps, but my family has a lot of curious facts that might not all
be coincidence. Certainly they persecuted me for being the smartest, most gifted member of
our family.
Now, while all of you catch your breath, let me preface the following expose with Gandhi’s
famous quote;
“Great spirits are always persecuted by mediocre minds.”
And, lest all of you readers try to distance yourselves from the hidiousness of it all, know
that you are ALL related to me and all of you are just as wicked when it comes to how people
who are gifted are mistreated. That there is a sicknes in all of mankind that wants to find
punishment for those who are better than the mass. That’s right, better than the mass.
As the only one of all of you asking questions about that murder of John Lennon that was
never even explained with so much as a public trial for his alleged killer I AM BETTER
than ALL of you. BETTER. a Better man. Period. I may not be better at a lot of other things
but I am a better man than the rest of you where it counts; human decency and wisdom. If
anyone is in a position to trump your collective wisdom and lead you it is me. I really do
know better.
If the rest of you were even good people then the landscape that is your past wouldn’t be so
strewn with the bodies of heroes you’ve martyred in the name of just being weak, silent slobs;
Jesus, the most beautiful of all, whipped to shreds and nailed to a cross, a spear run through
his heart. Gandhi, a bullet to his head, John Lennon, four bullets to his back.
If I were not the kind who calls all of you out for your mistreament of me I’d have been
killed by now. All over your mass jealousy and fear of men and women of real virtue.
I know that, as sick as my family life may have been, they are no sicker than all of you.
First, let me say that there is much more than just the highlights I’ve already alluded to.
I just had to get that out of the way before any of my family, Joanne Bartell in Hawaii, Laura
Beery of Fresno, California, Paul Lightfoot of Santa Rosa, California and Michael Lightfoot of
Carmichael, California try to kill me before I finish this scathing report to follow.
Am I doing it to punish them for the torture and disrespect they meted out to me? Not really.
Am I doing it to reform and cure them? Mostly. In fact, I am mostly doing it to exorcise all
of mankind so you can help me come forward like you all should have done decades ago.
I will begin by saying what was right and good about all of the above characters;
My father, Philip Lightfoot, was a great man who raised a true hero. His biggest disappointment
was the slovenly nature of all of you. As a doctor he saw all of you at your self destructive
worst and remarked to me as a child; “80 % of the people out in the real world are slobs!…
As long as you kids live under my roof…”
He shot it to us straight and saw past the bullshit the rest of you tell each other about
how wonderful you all are. You’re not. My fathers efforts were not small in how he helped
us kids see life as it really was. His frustration became mine. He did a good job of trying
to be a good father in spite of his reluctance to be a father to begin with. He was a good
provider and never hit my mother, though he argued for about two years with her when I was
less than six years old. He lived in shacks with no electricity in North Dakota while attending
medical school to make it in life and never complained. He had a lot of class and spirituality
and was a lover of humanity and the arts despite his disappointment with mankind. He was
so great in so many ways. He was human and full of faults but he was a magnificent example
of nobility and royalty too. I’m proud he was my dad. He was a philosopher who tried to
find humor in life and enjoy life.
My mother was a good mother. She was kind and tender and thoughtful and always there
when I must have sounded like a mosquito in her ear always asking questions about life. I can’t
say anything about my first three years of life that I don’t remember but I had a happy
childhood and can’t fault her very much at all for those years. I suppose she also helped
raise a hero and she formed my personality more than I used to give her credit for. Indeed,
she played as large a role in shaping me as my father did. After I discovered my Lennon
murder evidence calling things changed. We had a huge difference of opinion about that, but,
mostly, she was a fine mother and I’m proud of her, too.
Laura? As the one girl, she was left out of the boys goings on and that gang and she was
adorable and modest and uncomplaining and sweet in the midst of her being overlooked by
us boys, I guess. She was quiet, uncomplaining and I wished I was more aware then at what a gift
of a sister she really was. One tragic day while being included in the boys gang activity
we were surprised by two teens with a rifle who threatened to shoot us all, even telling each
other; “Go get the bow and arrow.” We were all not even four years old and ran, zig jagging,
down the hill for our terrified lives. She got her legs caught in the spokes of a friends
bicycle in the frenzy and carried the scars for years. That kind of put an end to joining
our reindeer games. It was nobody’s fault. It was just a tragic day that put a distance be-
tween the boys and her inclusion in our adventures. It was our first exposure to the dark side
of people, too. Shame on those bastard teenagers for that. Who were their parents? The ensuing
wedge between us boys and her inclusion in our lives first showed signs of resentment when
she asked to borrow my skateboard and left it out for the neighbors to steal years later.
That wasn’t her fault, either, though. Just human nature. Right up to an episode, many
years later with her boyfriend who rampaged against me she was a great sister who I loved
a lot.
My two brothers, Paul and Mike; There’s a lot to say. We were a pack of testosteroned out
siblings engaged in rivalry, for sure. I was the oldest and boldest and smartest and firstest
and surest and I was unaware of just how cock sure of myself I must have been, then, and how
that played against me in the battleground of sibling rivalry. I, perhaps, enjoyed my suc-
cesses too much for their liking and may have poisoned what could otherwise have been a better
relationship all around. Having said that they were fun to be around and we reveled in all
things that brothers could enjoy. They were a big part of my life and childhood, for sure.
We did a lot together; trained hawks, caught snakes, made plastic models, took hikes, enjoyed
the local river, hunted birds with our pellet guns, golf, etc.. Guy stuff. Paul was a little
slower than I in school – who wasn’t – and I hated to see how my dad would terrorize him
over homework to catch up. It really bothered me. I suppose the seeds of resentment against me
were born there but that wasn’t even his fault, either. I was a tough act to follow.
As is often the way with humans puberty and hormonal changes and becoming adults managed
to change things and whatever strains there were that might have existed became amplified.
I will stick to the area regarding how all of you and even my own family are loathe to
give a hero his due. I will get a little off into the weeds but will try to stay on subject.
Let’s begin with the beginning, my birth. I was born with the umbilical chord wrapped ar-
round my neck and my lower legs were one size different. It could have happened in a tumble
my mother claims happened while getting out of her boss’s car when she tumbled head over
heels or in a car accident as my brothers said she told them. That would be the good news.
If my birth wasn’t planned and measures were made to head that off then that would be bad.
I just don’t really know.
I believe I was still in my mother’s womb when my parents took a rubber raft trip down the
Colorado or Green River rapids, some of the largest rapids in America. That would at least
explain my adventurousness.
I noticed in photos of me before age three that I was happy except in photos where my sister
was also present. I was bawling and miserable, in fact, my sister and mother beaming and happy.
Was I just rudely awakened to the fact that I had to share my parents love with someone else
or were there other reasons I was night and day before and after Laura was born? I don’t know.
I was a trouble free baby who stopped bed wetting right away and was little trouble.
I took the top drawer in a dresser that served as our communal crib(s) and moved a lot
from state to state while my dad attended medical school, settling in northern California by
age four. Dad, Mom and four kids. Cloverdale to Healdsburg very quickly.
I was completely normal until my academic prowess caught the attention of my mentors who
let me know I was special, indeed. I was lecturing the eigth graders as a second grader about
dinosaurs, even offered a speaker’s platform. Though I seemed like the only kid who didn’t know
how to read my first day of first grade I was books ahead of the class in no time having learned to
read from ‘Treasure Island’ at my father’s knee.
I was also, absolutely, the best artist in the whole school, hiding my work with my hands
to avoid the gawks of the other classmates.
Learning that I was gifted from even high school superindentants perhaps gave me a big head
but I resented that fact. I missed being normal, a lot. I was happiest out of school catching
lizards, butterfly’s and just being a kid. I had an interest per year, it seemed. Indians,
snakes, W.W.II airplanes and ships. An intense interest, one at a time, my whole childhood.
A year before The Beatles hit the music scene I was riding around on my Sting Ray with a
portable radio glued to my head everywhere I went. I recall how one day nobody knew who they
were and the next day EVERYBODY knew they were about to play on the Ed Sullivan show.
It was absolutely electrifying! Right after the murder of John Kennedy, these four guys just
giving the world a whole new brand of something great and happy and hopeful, girls screaming
that anyone could be so good as a band. Screaming that any human was that amazing let
alone four, at once, all gelling so perfectly, the voices complimenting each other so well,
the greatness of John Lennon’s voice shining through, like a brand new friend, it was as
if God, himself, was putting on a show.
That was the night America got pulled up off the asphalt its face was on from Dallas.
Life was good, again! Wow!, Wow!!!, W-O-W-!!!!
Their music was origional with a nakedness and joy and thoughtfulness that so touched me at
times that I remember having to pull my bike over the first time I heard “If I Fell” because
I was crying too much to see where I was going. Really genius stuff.
Hearing all those origional songs for the very first time, then, was the gift of a lifetime.
I feel sorry for anyone who wasn’t alive then to catch it all fresh. They were my favorite
band, absolutely. Prior to them I remember noticing songs like “Catch A Falling Star”,
“Tom Dooley”, “Gloria”. “You Really Got Me” and Peter, Paul and Mary songs from my dad’s
album collection.
Simon and Garfunkel were the torch carriers of classy writing and melody before The Beatle’s
and The Beach Boys were amazing, too.
Perhaps the cleanest, free’est, most worryless time of my life was then. All was golden.
I recall seeing in my reflection a face for all peoples. I saw a celebrity in me, even then.
I will sound like I’m bragging a lot here but I’m not. I believe in fate and purpose and
luck. I remember noticing that I was the only person I knew who thumbed through Time
magazines back to front, reading just the headlines, and even recall asking myself “What’s
THAT all about, Steve?”
When my father taught us kids how to play poker for the very first time, after five shuffles and
two cuts, with four kids and my dad, I was dealt a royal flush right off the top, my very first,
ever hand dealt to me, no add ons. Right from the first deal. My dad had a moment of dis-
belief that caught him speechless and motionless for about ten seconds, wondering, no doubt,
“What on earth is my first born son up to and where do his fates lie?” I’ll always recall
his remark to us when he finally caught his breath to say; “Kids, this is what is known as
a royal flush.” I believe it was in clubs. Still, pretty ominous cards. It might have been
spades but I think clubs. They were black. I saw a pattern and asked my dad “What should I do?”
In contrast, my brother Paul was a little slow in his grasp of reading and math, compared to
me, and I recall my dad knocking him out of his chair helping with his homework one night.
It made me sick and made me feel more sorry for my dad than even Paul. How can anyone learn
anything under so much fear and punishment? It wasn’t right and I hated it. I also hated it
when bullies throwing rocks at us two actually hit Paul with one rock bringing me to tears.
I always had the first everything; bike, you name it. I was the oldest and my brothers got
used to getting my hand me downs.
Paul now claims that I once borrowed his bike and left it behind and kids dented it. It
doesn’t make sense as I had my own, but it’s possible. I don’t recall.
It wasn’t too long after that that my brother’s both set out to kill me with my dad’s Ithica
.22 rifle with scope. Paul and I went hunting and I took the .410 shotgun and he the .22.
We split up and, about an hour later, while sitting down and eating a banana, I felt something
graze my right ear. I heard it, too. I looked to my right and saw a single blade of straw rock-
ing back and forth and a small puff of dirt rise. While wondering if it was a bullet I then
heard the loud report a few seconds later. I quickly processed that Paul must have just tried
to kill me and, amazingly, just as quickly, forgot about it, entirely, for over a dozon years.
Denial is not just a river in Egypt. There’s proof, all you readers, how it works. Something
you don’t want to believe or wrap your mind around one just denies.
It wasn’t until my youngest brother, Mike, tried to cheat me regarding something in my dad’s
estate after his death that I suddenly recalled, fifteen years later, what my other brother
did with that rifle when I was about 15. I might have been 16 but I would already have been
dating my first girlfriend, then. One more reason to resent me? I don’t know.
Only this week did I learn that it was Michael, not Paul, who pulled the trigger then.
That means they would have both conspired to meet up, knowing I would be hunting that day.
What did I ever do to piss Michael off?! I have no idea. Sibling rivalry gone wild? Was
my light so bright that they felt small and jealous in its wake? I think that was it.
When I confronted Paul about it in the mid eighties thinking it was him he said something
about that bike I let get dented. Doesn’t add up. He never ratted Mike out, though.
I recall telling Mike about it just a few years ago and he said; “It was me.” He said it
twice. I thought he wasn’t making sense then. Now, just this last week, knowing that I would
be airing the family laundry because Michael was avoiding my phone calls for weeks, Paul
said; “Mike said it was him.” I believe it now.
So this airing of laundry helped flush out the truth. What a crazy truth that I never would
have figured out any other way.
So, you see, people? Aren’t my brothers a little bit like all of you? Jealous of the hero?
Cain vs Able? My only real crime was getting the lions share of good genes in our family.
Yes, I was a little tyrannical and gloating and bossy at times, thanks to my dads dishing
out the same to us all but, mostly, it wasn’t about that as much as my bright light out-
shining theirs.
This theme is recurring and this is what this expose is all about; to let you all see the phe-
nominon you are all part of in stalling my story with apathy and innaction. You are re-
sentful that I have the golden egg and not you. No matter that you will all benefit.
If it can’t be you then damn any messenger who might have the balls and brains you lack.
It’s the reason Stephen King shot John Lennon; jealousy. The reason Nixon killed the Kennedy’s,
the reason Cain killed Abel. I’m here to point out your sickness as a species.
With a touch of irony and karma as stunning as my father dying in a plane crash on a mountain
decades after almost taking us all out in a plane into mountains near Lake Tahoe, Michael
received the worst belt spanking any of us kids ever received over not putting the same
rifle scope he used to shoot me on straight after my dad noticed he had taken it off to
use as a scope to watch birds with.
This was a few years after that and, well, how could my father have even known except for
subconscious instinct? Very puzzleing.
The family story of tormenting Steve for his prowess continues;
As a junior in high school Dick Nixon – that’s right – my geometry teacher, told us on the
first day of class; ‘No one has ever trisected an angle with just a compass and straight edge.”
I thought; “Well, how hard can that BE?” A few weeks later, after learning how to to the
same with a line segment, I tried the same principles on an arc, or angle, and found a
distinctive bias; large, medium and small. I, right away, decided to reverse the same bias,
only the other way. After establishing the exact point to start my butterfly, reverse image
on the opposite side I now had two equal arcs going in opposite directions, much like the
opposing plys on bias ply tires, and found two sets of large, medium and small divisions
making four instead of two marks on the arcs. Because one can bisect an arc I merely bi-
sected both sets of marks and, whala!, perfect trisection.
Mr. Nixon, when I made a trip to his house one night to show him, was stunned to see my
method worked on all angles, obtuse and acute, and told me I’d be famous if I could write
out why it works. Too much bother over something so ridiculously obvious and easy in the
first place. I had more exciting projects to do than math related jibberjabber.
In 1976 I recall Paul Harvey, the late radio announcer, telling the world about someone
solving the same thing just how I did it six years earlier and knew I must be a genius.
In fact, by then, my I.Q. scores ranged from 120 in gradeschool to 165, my last one in college.
That’s Einstein level sick, crazy, people. By the way, I beat Einstein and Newton in that
one area of math, or geometry, I suppose. And I did it in ten minutes, first try! You know
they all tried to do it and failed.
While having to toot my horn, now, in this regard, it should be mentioned that my S.A.T.
scores put me in the top 3% in language and the top 13% in math. The math part I guestimated,
frankly, as it’s not my schtick.
Again, I’m pointing out why it is that you, the public, hate admitting it when someone else has
a better answer than the masses and how it is a form of your insanity and self destruction.
I despise having to toot my own horn, really.
I’ll take this opportunity to include that, at the age of eight, I KNEW that the public’s
conformity of working a 40 hour week was, in itself, a form of mass insanity. It was my
very first independant thought that made me wonder about all of you. Are you all insane?
No wonder I was so into the native American Indian way of life in third grade, running around
my neighborhood in a loincloth and bow and arrow, etc. Modernity pales in comparison to
the way mankind lived for tens of thousands years. Money has enslaved and blinded you all.
Here I was, a doctor’s son, with a Lincoln and a boat in our driveway and I knew it was not
as good a life as the average Indian in the twelfth century. I KNEW it.
If John’s cause was peace and love then I found my calling at age eight; get away from the
modern slavery of commerce and materialism and reclaim that huge chunk of ones life you
give up to pay for it all. It’s NOT WORTH IT! I’ll discuss the details in another chapter
but, for now, just know that you’re all ADDICTED to your toilets and cell phones and pizza,
cars, planes, soft beds, etc.. You’ve forgotten what clean air and water and food were and
you’ve lost your spirituality, sanity and happiness. Life is an obstacle course of rules and
‘press one for…’ and frustration and B.S..
I absolutely won’t see the change in my lifetime but I will try to set aside federal land for
those who want to opt out of your modern, plastic madness and live with “no possessions,
no need for greed or hunger and a brotherhood of man.” Nothing manufactured, no commerce,
just self reliance and sustainability off of natures grandscape of riches.
Back to my origional thoughts and your hatred of heroes, or more accurately, your shame of
how you all have been highjacked by the ‘powers that be’:
In fact, in looking back on my sibling’s rivalry against me, I realize that it was their shame
of self as much as their jealousy of me that propelled them into acts of violence against me.
The worst thing I ever did to Mike was catch him masturbating once. That’s it. The worst
thing I ever did to my sister Laura was let her see me in the buff, once. That’s it.
Mostly, though, I was just setting the bar highter than they felt like reaching. They hated
my confidence and abilities. I wasn’t showboaty about it at all, really. It was just obvious.
I’m reminded of how Galilleo was tortured into retracting his notion that the earth revolved
around the sun and that the earth wasn’t flat. The people resented their own stupidity and had
a convenient scapegoat to hang their blame on; the one person who dared say; “The emporer
is naked.” Eons and eons of the same blame the smart guy routine. You’re all still killing Jesus;
letting the government kill the smart guy, aren’t you? Well I stopped in 1982. What about the
rest of all of you?
Did Jesus die in vain? Was anyone REALLY saved by his death? Or are you all just ashamed to
admit that you’re all still killing the smart guy in the name of descending to the lowest common
denominator? “That monkey is more evolved than us, let’s kill him.”
How else do you people account for your trail of blood from Jesus to Gandhi, to John Lennon and
several dozon other cultural heroes that pointed the way to living better? Shame and jealousy.
In an act similar to Ceasar killing all the first born sons to prevent the Messiah’s coming,
even my own mother’s sister, my aunt, who I met only maybe five times in my childhood, was out
to stop me, it seemed. When I was on the trail of a career in professional golf and doing well
enough to break par my first year she mailed me a book titled; “How To Lose At Golf” Can you
believe it!? Sibling rivalry gone mad, I guess. I was only second or third man on my high
school and college golf teams but, besides shooting a 68 my first year, Mike saw me shoot,
I believe, eight under, playing two balls per hole over nine holes, once. I had potential.
My moment of glory came in 1978 at the U.S. Amateur qualifying rounds when I found myself
one under after 31 holes and in third place only to choke when a large crowd came out of nowhere
to watch me. I bogeyed three of the last five holes to just miss a berth. Ironically, it was
on the exact same stretch and course where Jack Nicklaus choked in front of Bobby Jones
who came out to see the new sensation. Life’s weird and strange, isn’t it?
As for my list of abuses suffered after my brothers failure to squelch the ‘smart guy’ my
sister took her turn at bat in 1972 when I was put in charge of keeping order in our house
while my parents were away, vacationing in Mexico.
Laura was spraying perfume on Mike’s bed and, when I noticed the commotion, I gently pul-
led her by the arm out of his bedroom. Now was her big chance to get back at me for im-
printing her with my male physique that one time. Something most siblings go through, I think.
She called her 6’6”, maybe 6’7″, boyfriend, Frank, the tallest boy in our high school, to
come over and show me who’s boss. I was waiting with a hunting sock stuffed with a soap bar
but fled the scene when he broke down our front door. I ran next door and tried to call the
police but our neighbor refused to help call them. He ransacked the house and terrorized
my other brothers and I felt guilty about that for years, after. That I chose health over
standing down a drug induced madman.
I had to carry a water pistol with bleach in it to school for a while, in fact, my sister’s
need to punish me was so great. Eventually I was ambushed in our house at noon when my
sister let Frank into the house to cold cock me as I rounded the corner loaded with golf clubs
and my practice shag bag and shoes. I thought he broke my jaw at the time and just continued
to get into my ’68 Camaro and head to the golf course. I may have backed out and turned the
wheel to knock him away as I left and he arrived a half hour later to challenge me and my
driver as I collected my practice balls. He stayed a club length away knowing that I’d
let him have it if he tried to get any closer. Eventually he left.
Who knows what my sister was thinking, then. Frank tried to smooth things over with my dad
one day only to be thrown out in a headlock. Frank vandalized his office and that was the
end of my sister’s relationship with a disturbed man who had a history of beating his own
mother only to quickly make up right after.
Some good news came out of the whole episode, after all.
But a dozon or so years later that injured molar had to be extracted and the stupid dentist
broke my surrounding bone structure in the process. Now I have a prosthetic tooth that I
hand made to fill the unsightly gap. Every time I misplace it I’m reminded of my sister.
All these years I still used to visit her and her family with her husband never knowing that
she was glad I was injured. In 2008 she called to try and tell me that John Lennon may
have killed Stu Sutcliff of the first incarnation of the Quarry Men. I had to set her straight
and explain that the media is twisting reality and that John saved Stu’s life from the hood-
lems of the day who used to beat up The Beatle’s after their shows in Liverpool. had John not
rescued him that night he would have been killed. He died a year later of the injury.
It was during that conversation that I brought up why my tooth was lost and she told me I ;
‘…deserved it.” No apology. That was our last conversation. Good for me.
My sister was always looking to shoot my activism down, though. She was one of those hypo-
crites who hides behind her church services only to sin in her real life, at least about
siding with Lennon’s killer’s. So satanic she can’t even see it, herself.
Not unlike a lot of all of you, I dare say.
If I stood outside every church service in America with my emblazened van and magazine
and held up a sign that read;
“You satanic hypocrites!” The sign would fit. Can all of you admit that fact?
I’m always amazed at how obtuse people can be, though. How phony and weak they can be.
In spite of my academic prowess and 3.5 G.P.A. and offers from several state universities to
attend their schools after high school my parents kept quiet about that. After years of talk-
in a good game about going to Dartmouth or better they got very quiet when I left the house.
After taking a year off to work at a grocery store I put myself through one year of junior
college and went just one day to a creative writing class never to return because I was con-
vinced the teacher was a negative cynic. I never officially took my name off the roster
and nobody told me about that part of school. It would come up to bite me, years later, when
my shoe in status at San Jose State to major in golf course architecture was foiled over
the ‘academic F’ that class gave me. I was not allowed into San Jose State.
That turned ME into a cynic, suddenly. I put myself through another year of junior college
majoring in advertising, this time. The bitterness I harbored over my parents role in this
bad luck and academic neglet was not small. It took me many years to accept that I was un-
fairly disrespected and cheated, at one level. My parents were selfish with their money and
I had already proven myself unreliable when my dad found out that I had been having sex with
my high school girlfriend, the best one I ever had. He dreaded that I might end up like him;
held down from my dreams by a pregnancy. Pretty sick logic, I know.
If it weren’t for my parents hounding me away from Dorothy I’d have probably eventualy married
her and my life would have taken an entirely different course.
Semi abandoned after leaving the house at eighteen I resolved to go for a career in pro golf,
after all, and blitzed through dozons of cooking jobs between tournements. I found myself
back east, in Atlanta, Georgia in 1976 and met a troubled but beautiful girl there who
made a major dent in my life though I only knew her for a little over a month. A year
later I learned her real name, for example. Deep South problems that she brought to our
relationship that scarred me, terribly, just because I fell in love with her, rightly or wrongly.
Her unkindnesses were the result, I think, of her father’s abuses way before I met her and
I can’t blame her for being so crazy or put her in the same pool of jealousy others deserve.
It took me a long time to sort out those cobwebs, though.
Strangely, it was her fiery brand of crusaderism against the evils of her day that stuck with
me in 1982 when I knew that the government killed John Lennon and found myself sitting on
the sidelines like all of you readers. I powerful dream about her one night propelled me
into my local library near San Diego, one day, and the discovery was made. I had only dis-
covered government codes that linked Reagan and Nixon to John Lennon’s murder.
The abuses the public unleashed on me for going public, after, are biblical in scope and this
is the part of the story that involves all of you. My family, too, played their evil roles.
Before diving into this, the most exciting adventure of my life, or any life for that matter,
let me take this opportunity to show all of you how I was also, once, a little stupid and
scared like all of you.
I knew the government killed John Lennon and that the story about Chapman was a lie in
mere milliseconds. I am, after all, smarter than the average, mind controllable slob, anyway.
I lost my job at the Doubletree Inn as their fancy restaurant broiler cook – I was cooking
steak and lobster when I heard that John was killed – by telling the traveling executive
in a group meeting a week after the murder; ” …I may not share your value system but…”
subconsciously referring to the coverup evryone else was about to engage in. In fact, I went
through at least four jobs due to distraction over Lennon’s murder until I decided I needed a
little time off from society, in general. So far I’m still more decent and noble than all of
you – I’m sacrificing my job for some truth – and, yet, I’m still thinking like a small animal;
“the government never gets caught. I guess I’ll just have to live with a sicker, less beau-
tiful world, after all.” I was just like a lot of you. The ones who had the class and brains
to doubt the story about Chapman in the first place. Regarding the poor slobs who never even
questioned all that, well, someone once told me; “You can’t fix stupid.” I was not one of
those bnrainwashed fools, at least. And, yet, I was not willing to get off of my floored ass
and fight back. At least not yet.
What I DID do was store my possessions and sell my car and bought a 12 speed bike and took
off to San Diego to be a beach bum while, at the same time, hoping to get a golf sponser.
That was late 1981. I began living outdoors, my biggest bills being food and flat tires.
I bought a Sony Walkman – invented just in time – and did little else except ride around just
listening to The Beatles tapes before I became callous and stupid like most adults do. John
may be dead but his music was not about to be lost on me. How could I not find an extra
measure of courage to avenge him after listening to all that thrilling, beautiful, healing
music. I was getting up my courage one could say. But I was still a sick little animal under
the government’s boots, just like all of you. The main difference being that I jumped off of
the money go merry go round the rest of you were stuck on. It took, in fact, several months
of being flat broke, living on unemployment and doing without, that the grip of worshiping
money evaporated like a water balloon exploding in mid air. P-O-O-F-! All gone. No more grip on
me. I was now free to think higher thoughts and get in touch with my real humanity. I was
becomming sinfully happy and wild for once in my life. I was truly free. No worries, no
responsibilities. Just doing what I felt like doing. My mind was mine, now. It was great.
I was still a freeloading, small, scared animal doing nothing to avenge Lennon’s murder while
enjoying the fruits of his genius. Just selfish, irresponsible, lazy. A typical American.
Then John Balushi was killed. I remembered how Animal House made me realize, for the first
time, how oppressed I had always been. I laughed so hard when I saw that extremely subver-
sive, anti-establishment movie that riduculed the status quo and exalted the misfit rebels. A
few months later, while reading a magazine about Doug Kenny, the writer of Animal House,
who was also possibly killed that year, I suddenly stiffened up by back and realized that the
American Nightmare was still alive.
Now I really WAS pissed off with America and all the ice cream cone licking perverts around me
whose answer was to lick their wounds and just take it.
Years later I would learn that Cathelyn Evelyn Smith, Balushi’s killer, was in the same room
with John Lennon the night before he was killed. Now, months later, she is in the same room
killing John Balushi?!
Anyway, I read that article about Doug Kenny in the same, small Pacific Beach library that
would be the scene of my Lennon evidence discovery months later.
Not long after, I saw the last puzzle piece I needed; the tiny back page explanation of John
Lennon’s murderer, Chapman. A four by three inch summary of the biggest murder of our lives
buried in lower left hand section of the back pages. He plead guilty; “Because God told
me to…” What a crock of C.I.A. crap.” I thought. Two days before trial, behind closed doors.
From a 60 day psychiatric evaluation that turned into thin air for eighteen months of media
silence to this insult to our intelligence.
The government had crossed a line and I was primed for a change.
I had a boardwalk vendor make me a cardboard licence plate that read:
“U.S. GOVT. PLANNED JOHN LENNON’S DEATH”
I attached it to the back of my bicycle seat and rode around San Diego with that postage
stamp of a message for a few weeks. I was absolutely certain there was a coverup afoot.
I was suddenly an activist and I was not about to lie down any more and wait for more evil.
It came to a soul stirring climax in late July of 1982 when I was jolted awake in a sweat
over a dream I was having about that girl from Georgia. We had reconciled walking atop a
fence, our heads bowed, just holding hands. She was a firebrand of life and energy and I
knew she wouldn’t just be happy to listen to Beatles tapes and do nothing. I knew how grey
my life had become to be so complacent and beaten.
Two days later, while riding to the beach, like always, I found myself being controlled by
an invisible force steering me right, then left, now heading like a torpedo to that library.
I wrapped my lock so fast I knew something big was about to happen. A copy of Us magazine
with John and Yoko on it’s cover just happened to be the first thing I saw and I grabbed it. I
quickly read how the Nixon administration had tried to deport Lennon. I then grabbed all
the Time and Newsweek and anything else I could find dated December 15, 1980 to re read the
origional murder reports to see how Chapman went from point A to point B. While noticing
that there was no murder report and that these issues came out a week before the crime, I
also noticed very strange behavior in the headlines that plugged, like codes, into John Len-
non’s murder. It was uncanny and alarming, in fact. When I got to a large color photo of just
elected Reagan under the headline “Who’s In?””Who’s Out?” I gulped a little thinking; “What’s
this all about;” Reagan’s “In” and Lennon is “Out”? What are these, government codes all about
Lennon’s murder?” I then noticed Nixon’s book, The Real War, sitting next to him, up front
and center. I literally found that book on the shelves and opened it right to the pages that
discuss killing John Lennon type “rock stars”. I then found the same picture in Newsweek with
the same C.I.A. style codes in the headlines and I started to get sick to my stomach. I had
to get out and get some fresh air. It was as if God was raining down the motherload of evidence
just for me, all at once, for emphasis, so I couldn’t deny it. It was not all just coincidence,
the way the evidence presented itself to me. I felt like a pawn of history that God was using.
WHAT a freaking honor. Me. Nobody, Steve Lightfoot. I knew exactly what had just happened.
I needed to get some fresh air.
My first inclination was to think; “My poor fellow man.” I visited the main library in down-
town San Diego and found the motherload of what I knew were government codes, after all.
Head spinning patterns of the messasges that all plugged into Lennon’s murder and not just
the obvious intent of the articles. I told my girlfriend at the time, Cheryl, “I’ve got em.”
I also told her, a few weeks later; “I’ve got to get out of San Diego and back to where people
know me. I’m not safe here.” It was just a matter of fact and that brief relationship was
the first sacrifice I would make post discovery.
I recall a moment of decision while riding my bike and I knew I had to go forward and as-
sume the mantle of messenger, once and for all. That was my exit from being a slob.
I remember, right after my discovery, looking for any excuse to weasel out of going forward.
I had no wife, no family, no growing career, no excuse, whatsoever. If not me, then who?
If you want to call my decision heroic than I’d rather say you’re all slobs, instead. If
you insist on making my actions heroic then let me suggest that being born with the common
decency to care about the importance of getting to the bottom of John Lennon’s murder is the
only reason I could be a hero; being born with the traits required to care to begin with.
As far as the stopping work, taking time off to gather my thoughts, looking into the apparent
coverup and questioning the story we were told, to the point of quitting work I’d say EVERY
BODY should have quit work and stopped paying taxes the minute Chapman’s 60 day psy-
chiatric evaluation lapsed into 61 days. Period. I’m less a hero, the rest of you more a com-
plete idiot and slob. You were all, as John Balushi would say,; “LAME’OS!”
Everything after coming forward and persevering and staying out of trouble and the sacrifices
I made were all heroic, but the only human on earth who hadn’t lost his mind and spine
merely seemed to be me. The rest of you were, indeed, all insane and you still are.
I recall phoning Jan Wenner of Rolling Stone magazine using the name Frank to let him know.
An operator in New York gave me his personal line. That was the start of my truth telling
journey. I recall telling my first citizen in these words; “Nixon, Reagan, John Lennon
triangle.” He absolutely gasped. I remember even the songs the jukebox’s played all had
a synchronicity; “Taking it To The Streets”, “Fire Lake”. I remember the tag line; “Everybody’s
Business.” being perfect for the cause. It all seemed so magical and big then.
My 12 speed, suddenly stolen while I slept, I hitch hiked to Santa Rosa in less than a day.
I loafed around my mothers apartment, at first, for a few months to collect myself. I was
still months away from discovering Chapman’s letter and Stephen King’s matching face.
Initially, my brother Mike said; “It looks like you’ve got something, there, Steve.”
My mother admitted; “The government probably DID kill John Lennon, but….”
She was O.K. with what I was doing until I came home with an armfull of the old Time and News-
week magazine issues that actually contained my hard evidence. She protested; “WHERE did
you GET those?”, obviously disappointed in my actually having hard evidence to point to.
A few weeks later she, apparently, threw about half of them away behind my back.
It was then that I knew that all of you were evil. Even my own mother. Evil. All of you.
Here I come to save the day and everybody resents being saved. Pure, human evil on display.
When I then discovered the killer’s face printed months before the murder and who it allegedy
was, Stephen King, my brother, Paul said; “Have you read the article, Steve? Read it.”
At that point I thought that Stephen King was a phony name and really had no idea he was
even a horror writer. When I read that this man really WAS a Stephen King and that he was the
writer of “Salem’s Lot” and “Carrie” I had to hand it to Richard Nixon for being so clever
he picked a plot that no one would be able to believe even if they all got caught. The
Lex Luther of our time.
That was my big wake up call that I had my work really cut out for me. The truth sounded
absolutely incomprehensible and crazy. I guess getting away with the Kennedy’s murders had
taught him something about the art of evil that most of all of you could never grasp without
my extraordinary detective abilities and talents to point them out for you.
“Yes, children, Tricky Dicky made you all sicky. So sick you can’t even see it.”
He went right over all your simple minded notions and headed you off at the pass before you
knew what hit you. You were cast under his evil spell, his cloud of incomprehensibility.
While the Reagan cabinet was eating jelly beans to ward off depressed looking faces all of
you were being molested with the real killer who was in your childrens bedroom’s shelf.
America was under a satanic brew and the pink and shock hair styles soon displayed the nations
ill mental health and spiritual poisoning. Pat Benetar’s “Gonna Harden My Heart” playing in
the nations backround. Sick, satanic, subhuman times.

(I’ll have to interupt this due to fatigue, but will resume tomorrow.)

To be continued…..