I lived with PTSD for 40 years, after molestation by a Catholic priest at age five. Read my story as I write it here through 2015.

This is a True Story

**See the R-Rated Version of This Story at CofA16**
Read ongoing coverage of pedophile priest crisis at CofA12
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Thursday, May 29, 2014

I feel really good. Post I just put up at CofA12 is almost right on, enough for me to have a very satisfied and complete feeling. ALSO been away from my own story long enough, so tomorrow I go back to diving in files and writing Faster.  
(Posted just now on Facebook, click my name to connect) 

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Effect on Victims, from Franciscan Board of Inquiry, affects me 20 years later

If only they’d known this in 1955.

To the flight controllers at NASA in the eighties who probably wrote about me on the men’s room walls, like they did in the Daily Texan newsroom in Austin in the seventies, and to all the women who gunned for me after what I did with their husbands, I'm sorry. 

When I found “Effect on Victims” in the Franciscans of Santa Barbara Board of Inquiry Report from 1993, it had a big effect on me. I came across it while I was lost in Appalachia in 2011 reading back over files from years of doing CofA Blog.  Rereading it contributed to the total process of me finally calming down. 

The quote below regards victims who went in front of the Board to describe the impact rapes by Franciscans had on their lives:

“It is important to keep in mind that children develop a sense and understanding of sexuality from authority figures, and that boys came to the seminary at age 13 or 14 years, when they were uniformly young and impressionable.”

For some the sexual abuse “was immediate profound trauma, indelibly imprinted in their consciousness.  For others, it was not until later in life that memories returned, sparked by an upsetting occurrence that triggered traumatic flashbacks.  Although these episodes were painful, they often provided relief through a new found understanding of the difficulties and struggles in their lives.”

Yep, that about describes it. 

For some reason reading those words empower me a bit, because it stands to reason that sex abuse has an even more profound effect when it happens at age five or so, as it did to me, so I have to stop hating myself for what it made of me.

I hope some of the people who knew me in the seventies and eighties and grew to hate me for having sex with their husbands, brothers, bosses, etcetera, will read the quote, and maybe understand. 

I went through life thinking I’d been touched by an Angel in a very private place, so to speak, and since it happened at such an early age, the effect was indeed at a DNA level.  I felt I had a purpose in life, to share that early sexual experience with everyone I encountered. 

So to all those people in Texas and all the rest, I'm sorry. 

I'm sorry.

I had impulses I could not control.  Hopefully this journalism that I am doing about pedophile priests and how their sex crimes affected their victims will reach some of my own victims and help them think less bad of me. 

Because I left a trail of victims behind. 

I was a sexual predator from age six on, it's just after age six, I didn't know how to do it, so instead got very fat, obese, size 16 at age eight.  As soon as I reached 13 or so - puberty - I slimmed down, and the sexual compulsion kicked in.  Soon I was bouncing on men’s laps just like when I was six years old.  I have 40 years of My Life as a Slut left in my head to live with as a result.  I think of it as a punishment.

( Me in 2014:  I felt like it was a punishment back in 2011 when I wrote this. Now I think of it as a hell of a story to write. )

For me it was like the gonging of a huge church tower bell had been ringing and ringing in the background all my life.

(Wow, I keep finding that reference to a gong in a bell tower in these journals.)

When I realized Father Horne had set the whole mania in motion with his diddling fingers, it stopped, the gonging of the bell stopped.

And I became a completely different person.  Today I'm more like Jane Wyatt than Jane Mansfield, if only I could have been that person for my whole life.

But I couldn't.  And since my sex life caused me to lose every job I had and end every possibility of a marriage, I have nothing to my name in old age but my story.

(Please click my PayPal button with high fives as my story is my only asset)

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This post that I copied from a 2009 journal was found in a 2011 journal, all of which I'm mining for first drafts, as I post online this serial book full of backstory that will just keep going and going and going. . . 

-Kay Ebeling


LOL in my room at work again, this time on a press conference for X-Men opening soon, and HUGH JACKMAN is so naturally funny, warm, creative, loving. He makes me laugh again and again, through my headphones. I'm more connected to Hugh Jackman than any human on earth right now. what a weird life I live. My neighbors are already arguing over the community garden, I will probly quit that. But Hugh Jackman is in my ears telling jokes, and it's just us. (Posted just now on Facebook, click my name to connect)
Kay Ebeling 2 minutes ago

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Refugee from My Own Life

(December 2011 going nuts in West Virginia)

I'm so damaged, so- so damaged.  The tearfulness comes on me like a wave.  It surrounds me, it's so familiar it feels comfortable, homey, natural. 

Little old lady alone in an apartment, in a town where she has no history or reason to be, except she landed here.

Saving money to go to Chicago in pursuit of the priest.

But I've spent a good part of the last two days sobbing, loud and out loud. There’s this underlying sob under everything I do and say and think.  And of course the body pain is monstrous, as usually the two go together. 

Sometimes the sobbing, if I let go and let it be full-fledged crying, will cause a rush of pain relief, endorphins released with the tears. 

If I just get out every day and talk to someone, I'm better.  Today it was the woman in the Post Office, just that short conversation made my life ten times better than the previous several days when I didn't speak to anyone at all.  There are lots of those days. 

I almost want to be alone.  There aren't a lot of people who are interesting, when you get down to it.  Most people don't think things through, most people don't listen, most people now days don't read and instead rely on mainstream sound byte media for news so most people know very little about anything. 

I've gone from lonely wishing I had people around to not wanting people around and when they are here, I wish they’d leave. Too bad that transition happened but it happened.
(2014: So glad I got outta there, found this in that journal I'm mining for back story, more TK )

Dear R, Dec 2011

December 2011: I often think, almost mourn, how wonderful City of Angels Blog could have been if there had really been a network of support.  I think about those weeks I was in New Mexico last year and felt totally unable to move, because even though I had the names of people to call and ask for documents, I felt like I couldn't.

Because I'm not part of anything.  I'm just a blogger and by 2010, I was only getting about 37 clicks on a post, which made me no longer a mover and shaker.  When CofA Blog was getting started in 2007-2008 I would get as many as 400 clicks after putting up a story.  Then instead of growing, my audience shrank, as one by one sites went from running to not running links to my blog.  Then there was that weird period where nobody would call me back, from mid-2008 all the way to 2010 when I just quit trying.  People would talk to me one week, then not talk to me the second time I called.  I am going through my files from that period now and notice in my notes, I have lots of "never called back" and me wondering what is wrong with me that people won’t callback. It feels better to say it's because someone told them not to talk to me, but it could just be the nature of the beast.

End result was the blog deflated, got smothered ‘til all the air went out.  I couldn't hold it together on my own.  It takes money to do journalism and every time I'd start to make money with the blog, "something" would step in and make it stop. My Google ads were taken down never an explanation why.  Examiner removed me.  The PayPal clicks just stopped, as no one was finding the blog any more.  

I just feel defeated, R, and like it's not worth the battle.  I have this amazing story to write based on my life, I mean, how many people can write about smoking hash with Tim Leary or creating a scandal at NASA in Houston? 

I'm discovering the comfort of isolation
(2014: Man, I was so down there for a while.)
A lot of people write about pedophile priests, but this story includes getting high with Timothy Leary and seducing astronauts.  

Controversial Thoughts

I want to write about a pedophile priest and get inside his head.  I want to find a way to make him understandable, because he is who he is, and from somewhere in his unusual life came these compulsions. 
“There is no evidence that a man can change from pedophilic to non-pedophilic (or vice versa),” says clinical psychologist James Cantor, the editor in chief of “Sexual Abuse: A Journal of Research and Treatment,” in an email. “A person can be taught tools to help him deal with his sexual interests, and a person’s sex drive can sometimes be suppressed, such as with testosterone-blocking medications. The overall evidence, however, is that changing from pedophilic to non-pedophilic is as impossible as changing a gay man to a straight man.” He adds: “The kind and scale of differences that we see on MRIs of pedophilic men are not the kind or scale that are known to change with training, or psychotherapy or other kinds of intervention.”
Controversial thoughts
(2008) Today, age sixty, I'm outside with the doors locked, and everyone else is inside a place I can never get to. It's 2008 and I'm wondering why other people have houses and cars and I never have had either.  Well I’ve had cars, but always broken down second and third hand cars, nothing I could rely on. . . I've rented every place I've lived except my parents’ house.  I’ve spent, what, 15 years now dealing with these rapes as a child by a priest? To an outsider it seems like a person should get over it by the time they're 60 years old.  But when you consider I did not know what was wrong with me until I was 45, it is not that long of a time. -ke (still digging in journals) 

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Beautiful Faces

(More back story found in old journals)

The judge said, let’s acknowledge the victims, and all in the court turned to the viewing area. Men who had been raped by pedophile priest Clinton Hagenbach from the 1960s to 1980s were in many of the seats, and as they rose a wave of pheromones and testosterone filled the room. They each emanated an internal rage, but also they shared a remarkable characteristic.

Beautiful angelic faces. 

I had seen the phenomenon once before among pedophile priest survivors, at an event in 2006. They asked everyone in the room who had been molested by a priest to stand up, and again, it was a sea of angelic faces, all in different stages of aging, all showing different signs of damage, but still stunning and beautiful faces.

Seeing them, I couldn't help but imagine the pedophile priest decades ago, standing in front of an elementary school classroom looking among the students for his next targets.  Of course.  It stands to reason.  The predator priest would select children with beautiful angelic faces. 

Also, thanks to seven thousand pedophile priests in the USA, a lot of us have twisted sexuality in our DNA. 

In those of us who share this unique experience of being molested by a priest at a very formative age, the weird sexuality seems to have gotten meshed into our DNA, or become part of us at an instinctive level, I've found it to be true for me and for several men and women I've met since doing City of Angels Blog. And I saw it in some of the Hagenbach victims. 

It's like someone washed us down with a sex wipe at a cellular level. 

It's not so much a problem now that I'm a little old lady especially since I hardly ever go out of the house anymore… hmm maybe that's why…I don't go out of the house anymore. 

But when I was in “the life,” the sexuality seemed to precede me even before I entered a room, even if I didn't do anything to make it happen.  I saw the same quality in so many other pedophile priest victims, I have to conclude, that hyper sexuality in your DNA is yet another way these priests damaged us. 

The hearing where I noticed this phenomenon among the Hagenbach victims was July 17 2007 in L.A. Superior Court where all the L.A. Clergy Cases got dismissed (510 settlements in one swoop).  The first jury trial, concerning Hagenbach, was supposed to start on that day, one of dozens of trials on calendar concerning dozens of priests in the coming months, so many of his victims were in attendance. 


had been a prolific perpetrator in L.A. in the sixties, seventies, and eighties, so at the time of the hearing his victims ranged in age from thirties to fifties, and some who had filed lawsuits were in the courtroom that day. 

They were ready for a trial, fighting ready, and instead they got a million dollars or so each.  And no one ever really heard anything more about the crimes.

But that day in honor of these men in the courtroom who did not get to see the trial come to fruition, the judge had them all stand up so we could acknowledge them, sort of a moment of silence thing.  

And this amazing mass of mannishness and charismatic masculinity swept over the courtroom as a dozen guys stood up, all of them good looking, striking men with handsome faces. 

Beautiful angelic faces.

-kay ebeling
I KNOW they blocked my blog somehow from getting picked up in search engines, bk every Chill Hippie one I post does get into Google search, but None of the Catholic Pedophile Priest stuff goes to google search. I started CofA25 Chill Hippie a couple years after the other blogs, after I'd kinda stopped the others bk too much weird stuff kept happening. The Catholic Church screws with the pedo-priest victims in hundreds of ways that the public never gets to see. Especially if one of us starts a blog. How does anyone believe anything those people say!!!??? 
Kay Ebeling Chill Hippie gets one tenth as many clicks as the others, yet Chill shows up in Google searches and Clergy Case blogs don't. WTF did the Church do    what's really loony is an avid Catholic will read what I just said and go, oh poor soul, and then pray for me to come back to the church. Not wake up and realize their bishops are thugs, just think they are doing something for me by praying i come back to the church. AAARRGGGHHH

(Posted just now on Facebook. Click my name to connect)
Also thanks to the bishops lying through this whole thing, Catholics who still go to church have heard the bishops lie, so think pedo-priest victims are just out to destroy their religion. So, a new friend who is Catholic reads my blog and WHAM!! Last week this one woman turned on me, So Mean in a subtle insidious way, she just changed. It's become a litmus test for me. If you can read my blog and still be my friend, you are a decent person. If you can't, you have been totally brainwashed, or something.

mothers day. My mom was boning the priest, that's how he got to me and my sister. None of these holidays work for me, mothers day is especially weird. Then my daughter disappeared from my own life this year, probably to get away from all of us. I understand. I'm back to being an old hippie with a little apartment and No Family. That's how it is for some folks.

Saturday, May 10, 2014

DON't MOVE. My apartment is 1.5 blocks from where the new high speed rail will be stopping, so in a few years I will be able to go from here to SF or SD or LA at record speed PLUS this apt will be Very Expensive then, and I will already live here so I will probly not pay the higher rent so FOR ONCE, KAY, DON'T MOVE!!! Man, I wish I could control this part of my mania, honest, I have been starting to plan another cross country move and that would be SO STUPID!!!!! Wish I knew where this need to move away, move away, move away, came from, WOW, right after they took me to the Cardinal's Mansion in 1955 and told me to stop talking, the family MOVED AWAY to California. It got implanted in me that the way to deal with stuff is to Move Away, and I screwed up so much stuff in Lizzie's life and my own bk of it. I Have To Stay Here in Lancaster and just let some roots grow. MAN!!!

Thursday, May 8, 2014

Six years after we leave San Francisco, Lizzie and I get an apartment in East Hollywood and I reconnect with SNAP and the survivor movement. A strange sequence of events leads to me starting City of Angels Blog in January 2007. Then I interview dozens of pedophile priest rape victims around the country and discover patterns in how the Church is working to keep the truth about these crimes secret.  That is the story of Faster Than the Speed of Life, which I hope to finish writing by the end of 2015, so I can finally slow down. -ke

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Priest Rape as Child leads to bad times with men as an adult

(Mining my journals and finding back story) 

I hate it when my story comes up in conversation with someone I've recently met, because I know when they realize that recovered memory is part of my experience, I will see their eyes glaze over as if now they wonder if they can believe anything I've said about anything anymore.  

This time (Fall 2011) I was explaining to Lana that I'm not the same person I was up until age forty-six or so, how recovering the repressed memory of being molested by a priest at age five when I was forty-five caused almost everything in my personality to change.  It's convoluted. It's why I don't tell many people in person anymore.  I just write it here to tell the world. 

Recovering the memory was, for me, perfection, alignment of a dancer on a barre, as if something that had been bouncing back and forth against a lot of different walls my entire life suddenly became still.  The frenzy that drove me finally came to a stop.  A little after age forty-five I became who I really am.

Lana and I were more intimate than I usually get in conversation, so I told her my sexual acting out ended me up in really bad relationships with men, when I had them at all.  Most of the time I did one night stands followed by me kicking the guy out of my bed the next morning.  I was almost repulsed by guys after I had sex with them, it was that bad.  My story could be an endless stream of one night stands with an X rating, if I were to take it in that direction, but I don't plan to.  

I was describing to Lana how I only fell in love with really mean men, such as Elizabeth’s father. 

When Sasha Filipov and I began having sex in spring 1987, he told me he’d had a vasectomy, so I did not use birth control.  Then when I came up pregnant in the fall and I asked him how that could be, he shrugged and said, “I lied. I lied about a lot of things,” in his deep voice and Russian accent. 

“I lied about a lot of things,” he shrugged, “so get an abortion.” 

Which was not only extremely mean, but also weird, because he and I had held conversations on the topic, and he knew I believed abortion should be legal for people who wanted them, but I’d never get one. 

This man said other things that I won’t put here, then left Thanksgiving 1987 saying he’d be back in January, and never returned, in fact I never heard from him again.  By early 1988 it was real clear I was going to be doing this parent thing alone, although I did daydream that any day Sasha would walk back into my life.  All the way until Lizzie was two or three years old, I was dreaming about him coming back, if nothing else just to see his daughter and be her father. 

Instead twenty years later Lizzie on her own found her dad, Alexander Filipov.  We knew he was among the professional elite in ballet in New York City because the attorneys general in California were heavy in our lives the whole time Lizzie was growing up, trying unsuccessfully to collect child support from him. I was usually getting help one way or another from the welfare state, and California kept track, so they can get it back from me as debt. Probably still today in 2014, if I ever make any money, there will be the state of California asking me to pay back every food stamp I got when I was a single mom in the nineties with Lizzie. I’d work and report my income and it would always be so low, I’d still get a welfare check and food stamps, and it was wonderful. The welfare state actually worked in California up until, well, when Bill Clinton was President, and they decided to dismantle “welfare as we know it” in exchange for some corporate grab without replacing welfare with anything else, but I digress. 

At age 20, my daughter Lizzie went on the internet and found her father and called him by phone at his job as a ballet coach for dancers on Broadway. She had a relationship with him for the first time in her life, talking by phone and texting. She dreamed for three years that they were finally connected.  Then just before Thanksgiving, hmm, he emailed her saying, “I've decided to put that period when I was with your mother behind me as if it never happened,” or something of that level of indignity, which caused her to receive the message that to him, she didn't even exist.   

"Lizzie was even self destructive and crying when she called awhile back," I told Lana. And here I was stranded in Appalachia in a town so remote not even Super Shuttle would come pick me up.  "It ended with me saying to her, think of it as a liberation.  This mean person is no longer in your life.  You never have to interact with him again, that's something you should be celebrating."

She seems to be doing okay now, a few days later. 


I was thinking about writing a book at the time, but of course never wrote it.  The title was going to be, “He Told Me He’d Had a Vasectomy” and the cover would have featured a very pregnant woman standing on a map of the United States, because as I was pregnant and doing temp work in L.A., I made plans to move somewhere, anywhere. 

It seemed like it would make a good comedy, well the line itself, “He told me he’d had a vasectomy,” said by a haggard, bony bloated bulging pregnant woman….

So my daughter gets to be this complicated person who budded out of an apartment building romance in West Hollywood, who upon reaching the age of five, her mother looked at her and started seeing herself when she was five, and then mom started remembering something strange and explicatory that happened to her when she was five years old back in 1953… 

And this whole journey began. 

(Found in a Journal from Fall 2011.  More to come.)

Friday, May 2, 2014

Why did you leave the ashram?

In Dallas in 1970 I ran the kitchen at a Yoga ashram. My title was House Mother. With the windows open I cooked up vegetarian meals for the 20-25 people who lived there, beginning around five in the AM packing lunches for the yogis who went off each day to their jobs.  The entire household got up at four AM to meditate each day and we taught asana and meditation classes, even held chanting sessions in what would have been the living room / dining area if the house on Lemon Avenue were still used as a family home. 

Why did you leave the ashram, people often ask.

“Well the group got kind of extreme,” I say.  “They gave up everything sensual, even sex.”

“You took vows of chastity?”

“Even more than that. They called it Bramacharya.  They give up all sensual pleasure.”

They would repeat, "You took a vow of chastity?"  And those of you who have read other posts here know why they were so incredulous. 

Around six months after I moved there, everyone at the ashram began wearing orange robes and practicing a newer more extreme kind of yoga, where you channel the energy that you would get from pleasures such as sex and use it to expand your consciousness, rev up your kundalini with sexual combustion, give your meditation an extra surge of bizazz created by your very own horniness.

“It was supposed to make your meditation more intense,” I explain.

People almost always ask me again, “Why did you leave the ashram?”

And I say, “I had to leave.  I got knocked up by the guy who delivered the brown rice.”

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Art to illustrate this story

They drove me to Chicago, to the Cardinal's Mansion. 
They drove me to Chicago, by Kay Ebeling
Archbishop Stritch stood over me
Cardinal Stritch Chicago 1949
And said,
Cardinal Stritch, Chicago 1949
"You have to stop babbling about what Father Horne did to you." 

And I did not say another word about it for 40 more years."


Pt3: That Spider Bite Could have Killed Me

Here is the rest of it, all copy and pasted from a 2012 journal:

(Below is Part 3, Part 2 is here and Part 1 is here ) 

 WV backyard 2012
For a small town in West Virginia, Berkeley Springs was really pretty cool.  And since my only access to food was the organic grocery store, I started to eat a lot healthier while I lived there, well, there was also a Seven Eleven that sold alcohol, so I did not have to take healthiness to too much of an extreme. 

Somewhere in that period when I stopped raging at the trees and started listening to them, and I realized that my own temperament was main cause of how bad I felt, somewhere in the middle of all that, I started healing. 

Now today, I don't give a damn.  Now I can tell my story objectively because I don't expect anything but greed and manipulation from the Catholic Church, and I don't expect anything but distrust and misplaced resentment from people in the pedophile priest “survivor community.”  I don't expect anyone to even believe me. 

I don't give a damn, I'm telling my story. 

After I survived the spider bite, I started getting diarrhea and these weird rashes.  One time I found the building manager in my room leaning over my computer.

Mailboxes for the building were in the lobby right outside the manager’s door, in unlocked containers.  One month my paycheck disappeared from my mailbox and reappeared three weeks later.  Lucky for me I'm a money manager and was still able to pay the rent.  The landlord appeared surprised when I paid it. 

Another time I opened my door and a West Virginia state trooper was standing there asking if it was true that I had threatened to burn down the building. 

Soon after I moved in, an electrician had a job that had to be done, which placed him in a position along the wall near the roof with a perfect beeline view into my living room where I was writing at my computer with the screen facing him. 

But then the weirdest part of all

That guy who was supposed to pick me up in West Virginia and take me to Chicago but instead disappeared and his calls went to voicemail for more than a month leaving me stranded there.  It's an interesting story how he entered my life and the role he played in this whole scheme, which will be detailed in an upcoming Chapter of Faster Than the Speed of Life.   

In 2011, I was left on my own in a small town in Appalachia with no one to call or talk to.  I’d attempt conversations with my neighbors, but face it, people from L.A. aren't even welcome when they move to Portland, Oregon, so you can imagine how we're received in small town Appalachia. 

So there I was


Oh God, I wish I had never stumbled onto my own crime experience and never filled my head with this garbage.  Now I don't know what to do with it all.  The pedophile priest justice “movement leaders” have siphoned me out, in keeping with their work to rescue the church first and foremost, the wellbeing of pedophile priest victims being just their public image, not their real agenda. 

I read now about a national demonstration going on tomorrow to protest the beatification of John Paul the Second and I'm thinking, who gives a flying fugazi if he’s named a saint.  None of that is real, it's only the diehard Catholics who even care if he’s named a saint or not. 

(Update 2014: Why don't their protests demand the bishops be indicted? What happened to the International Criminal Court filing in The Hague?)

There they are in the news all the time, the diehard Catholics who run our “survivor movement” now heading to cities across the country to agitate churchgoers as they're coming out of Mass, claiming to represent the hundred thousand pedophile priest victims to whom they never speak. 

I'm so cut off from everyone.  And my head’s filled with this garbage, and no good has resulted in my life from any of this.  I'm just walking around my head filled with garbage.  
That's it for Spider Bite, more Faster Than the Speed of Life, here plus the R-Rated version at CofA 16, coming soon.  

POST SCRIPT 2014: I know now they used SNAP to learn everything they could about pedophile priest victims, as well as control us, and manage the message. 
Please click my PayPal button with Hive Fives as my story is my only asset.
CUT paragraphs, more to come on all this: 

Let me take a moment to describe Arianna (not her real name), my friend who was supposed to put me up for a few months and instead dropped me off at the antique rooming house in West Virginia.  She was shorter than I am and I'm not five foot two.  She was wider than I am as well, but somehow on her it looked better.  She had a quality that was both regal and country funky. 

In the years since the L.A. settlement she’d spent lots of cash on herself so her skin was perfect and she had nice new dental implants.  The way her hair dragged down long way past her waist gave her a pixie quality, especially if she was a little drunk and happy walking alongside a guy, as if her feet weren't quite touching the ground.


To put it simply.  The Catholic Church, once they realized what a potential threat City of Angels Blog could be around mid-2008, went into full tilt boogie putting people in my life, tapping my phone, messing with my head, messing with my daughter’s life, and when I still would not stop blogging, getting me stranded in a small town in Appalachia for a year.  Still I found my way up to Chicago in summer 2012, where they were Not going to let me get anything done either.  So I came home.

My Favorite, A Note that shows up often in my journals:

If you want people to think you are crazy, tell them you're under attack by agents from the Vatican. In my case, it was true. 

Other Ways they F--- with You

When I was at SNAP conference, I left my laptop in my hotel room there in Chicago 2008 while I went down to outbreak sessions etc. A few days later my Google ads were blocked bk of "illegal activity" done from my computer, about which I could never learn from Google.  Someone apparently broke into my hotel room and did something using my laptop and it brought to a stop a revenue stream that I was developing.  While I was at the SNAP conference. They bring people there to spy on and fuck with you.