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It had been nearly 10 years since I’d met with Lenz, but the memory was
as clear as day. Back then, he wasn’t known as Lenz. He’d gone by the
moniker “Zen Master Rama.” At the time (1986), I was heavily involved in
investigating destructive cults; so when I saw the ad in the paper that
read, ”A ONE EVENING INTENSIVE WITH ZEN MASTER RAMA,” my antennae
immediately went up.
On a cool Monday evening, I joined a massive line waiting to get into the
Wilshire Ebell theater in Los Angeles. Inside the auditorium, a sign read,
“NO SMOKING. NO CHILDREN. NO LOWER OCCULT ENERGY.”
The people in the audience that night were a fairly well-heeled lot. No
fringe-clad Deadheads in this bunch. However, the most distinguishing
feature of the crowd was that a large portion of them had that peculiar
waxy-faced, glassy-eyed look that is common amongst New Agers.... .
A rather, bland, upbeat instrumental track filled the room. It had a
strange numbing quality to it. Approximately ten minutes later, the lights
went down, and a figure clad entirely in black appeared onstage. It had to
be. And indeed, it was. …
Zen Man had arrived!
A hush fell over the crowed. Zen man began to speak in a strange,
toneless voice. He told the audience that they’d be going through “lots of
different experiences” as he guided them through “the 10,000 states of
mind.”
For the next hour, the music (written and produced by Zen Man himself)
played, during which time the audience was instructed to close their eyes
and “meditate.” Meanwhile, Zen Man simply sat onstage in the lotus position,
occasionally making little swooshing motions with his hands.
After a few moments, I stole a glance around the room at the entranced
crowed; I almost laughed out loud. These witless nincompoops had paid $15 a
pop to sit here and do nothing! Somehow the sheer preposterousness of
the scene filled me with a strange and terrible sense of glee.
Moments later I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see a man clad
all in black staring down at me. “
You’ll have to step outside, sir,” he said
coldly.
I followed the man out to the lobby, where he was joined by several more
all-black clad individuals. “W
e noticed you have a tape recorder,” one of
the Zen Goose-Steppers said. “
Tape recorders are not allowed.”Giving my best Jack Nicholson sneer, I pulled out my press pass, and
informed them I was “
on assignment.” I then said that I’d like to do an
interview with Zen Man after the show. The black clad minions appeared to
grow nervous. They convened momentarily.
“
You must personally request an interview with The Master,” I was
informed.
“However, if you want to come back inside, you need to leave your
recorder with us.”
I did as I was bid (I had a backup mini-recorder stashed in my bag) and
went back inside. The crowd, still entranced, sat silently while onstage,
Zen Man was going through a series of karate-like moves. The music droned
on.
When the evening was over, I headed for the lobby. After looking around,
I finally spotted Zen Man, who actually appeared to be hiding in a far
corner of the room. I went over and introduced myself. After shaking a cold,
clammy hand, I told him that I was a reporter, and that I’d like to do an
interview. There was a long silence while Zen Man’s eyes — cold, blue and
dead — seemed to penetrate my skull. Then he asked me for my card, telling
me that one of his “
people would get back to me.” As I turned to leave, one
of the Zen Zombies handed me a promo package, featuring a heavily
air-brushed photo of Zen Man on the cover.
...
I never heard back from Zen Man, so I did a little poking around. My
research turned up his real name: Frederick Lenz, a native San Diegoan who
had graduated from the University of Connecticut and taught English there
before hopping onto the burgeoning
“guru circuit.” Lenz’ father had once
been the mayor of Connecticut.
But things didn’t get interesting until I did
a financial background check. This cat was loaded!
At the time, Lenz was
renting a $10,000 a month pad on the beach in Malibu, which he shared with
an inner core of his
“followers.” The garage was full of classic cars,
including his favorite, an black Porsche Carerra. I uncovered numerous bank
accounts, all under various “
corporate shell” identities. Lenz’ estate was
well in excess of several million dollars.
OK, so Lenz was loaded. And it was clear by now that he was the leader of
what appeared to be a cult. But the going got rough when I tried getting any
of his “
devotees” to talk to me. Finally, I turned up a few ex-Lenz
followers, and the story broke wide open. People told of being dosed with
LSD as an “
initiation” into the cult. They talked of being forced to turn
over their life’s savings. And there was more … including allegations of
rape and torture (performed by Lenz) against two female cult members.
Once the dam had broken, more people started talking. One individual
related an incident where Lenz had choked a puppy to death in a rage of
anger. Another told of him waving a loaded gun at several cult members who
were threatening to defect. Moreover, Lenz had been linked to the suicide of
one of his “students,” as well as the mental breakdowns of two others. And
something even more chilling: several cult members had mysteriously
“disappeared” — never to be found.
I filed my story, but it ran on an inside page of the paper and didn’t
garner all that much attention. A month later,
the L.A. Weekly, (where I had
been the entertainment editor) ran a full-blown expose on Lenz, complete
with all the sordid details.
Several weeks later, Frederick Lenz did a Houdini. The rented Malibu
mansion was abandoned. The phones were cut off. Bank accounts were closed.
Yep. Zen Man had vanished.
.
So now Zen Man had decided to “leave this plane.”..several nights later, while watching a “Dateline” special on Lenz’
death, I experienced an unexpected emotion. As I watched Lenz during an
interview he’d conducted a year prior to his death, I studied his
countenance. On the surface, Lenz was his usual smug, arrogant self. But it
was the face that got to me. It was the face not simply of a monumentally
unhappy man — it was a face that was literally haunted. A face of someone
who was totally empty. Soulless. And as I started at that face, despite
myself, for the first time I felt genuine pity for the man called Frederick
Lenz.
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