Wrong Teaching
by Ted L Glines
Is it not strange that a startling epiphany can sometimes cause you to wonder why it took you so long to find it? Looking back, the “epiphany” may seem more like “uncanny grasp of the obvious” -- something you should have known as a youngster. But, what we learn at our father's knee, will pass on to our children through you and me.
We have an American catastrophe (other nations have it as well, but this is where I live). For all our lives, we have been taught about the race problem. Our teachers have been our parents, other relatives, clergy, school instructors, entertainers, and the media. We have been taught about the race problem for all of our years. The race problem is bad. The race problem divides us and prevents unity. The race problem is huge and all-pervasive. No realistic solutions present themselves because the problem (itself) has been obscured by what we have been taught. This is because wrong teachings, once accepted, become our perceived reality. Because of this, we have tunnel-vision when it comes to the race problem.
Now comes the almighty epiphany, and it does deserve its attending cuss-word (you were waiting, weren't you, you little devil).
Forget those wrong teachings. Toss them out like the stinking garbage they always were. The problem is NOT about race. The problem was NEVER about race. The problem is about assholes! There, I said it, I meant it, and I'm here to represent it! The problem is about assholes. Assholes come in all sizes and shapes and colors, and they come from all walks of life. We would never have had Jim Crow laws if it were not for assholes. Were it not for assholes, Martin Luther King, Jr. would never have had to march to his death. We would never have had the German death camps if it were not for assholes. Include slavery and ethnic cleansing. Include attitudes which have raped the ideal of unity for all these eons. It is assholes who preach discrimination from the pulpit and the podium, from the halls of congress to KKK hidey-holes, from East Baltimore to Pebble Beach, from Harlem to our own living-rooms, from the mountains of Pakistan to the hills of West Virginia. They teach us about the race problem while the real problem is in their own mirrors. And we have perpetrated the same hoax on our own children, like good copy-cats.
Now that you know we do NOT have a race problem, now that the blinders of wrong teachings have been lifted from your eyes, perhaps you will see the glimmer of a real solution for this REAL problem. I do! That's a beginning ...
Prejudicial Bias
by Ted L Glines
Are you racially biased? Would you believe the testimony of a black man if it conflicted with a white man's statement? Do you believe that blacks are more prone to violence than whites? Where will you find more drugs and rape and other abusive behaviors; in black neighborhoods or white? These, among others, are questions posed to prospective jurors in cases involving black defendants. Questions such as these are meant to weed out racially biased candidates for jury duty. However, experts agree that these questions have no meaning because the prospective juror is not going to publically confess to being racially biased. These same experts hint that jurors are chosen not so much in spite of their biases, but because of them.
This is a can of worms which wriggles through all of case law. It is a fact that black males, along with other minorities, comprise the large majority of incarcerated felons, with whites being only a small minority in our nation's prison populations. Can we objectively judge the merits of this statistic? Can we use this statistic to say that blacks are more prone to criminal activity than their white counterparts?
In many a city police department, in their ready-room (whatever they may call it), you may find a city street-map on the wall with certain residential areas high-lighted (in red?). These areas are the high-alert hot-spots for criminal activities; drug dealing, prostitution, muggings, violent activities. Bad things happen there on a regular basis. I have seen such high-lighted areas in the Texarkana, Texas, police department. East 15th Street. West 15th Street, “The Projects” area of Robison Road. The Nash complexes. West 7th Street. I have been in these areas of the city, and I know what they are. These are areas of deep and abject poverty in Texarkana. The residents of these areas are primarily black.
Pleasant Grove is ... Pleasant Grove. At first glance, it is a suburb on the north side of Texarkana. Nice homes. Some of them are palacial. Wide peaceful landscaped yards. The Pleasant Grove High School has the best jogging track I have ever seen. Almost everything in Pleasant Grove is the best. There are no blacks in Pleasant Grove. The folks who live here are the OWNERS of Texarkana. These folks wear velvet gloves, and they control their interests with iron fists. The police never have a problem in Pleasant Grove. Trisha is a dear adopted daughter/friend of mine whose family owns a hospital and several apartment complexes in the area, and they own a Pleasant Grove mansion. It would match anything in Pebble Beach. From this elegant platform, Trisha and her husband operated a lucrative business -- manufacturing methamphetamines and selling to the dealers on East 15th Street. Life was good.
Sheriff King is a good white man. He manages the business of the Sheriff's Department and he fixes things for his Pleasant Grove constituents. Trisha has known him for years.
I am reminded of South Lake Tahoe. If you saw a black person on those snow-covered streets, the sight came as a shock. Ideally positioned between Reno-Cannon Airport and the San Francisco Bay Area, South Lake Tahoe was known as the cocaine capitol of California. Years after I left there, I was not surprised to learn that the entire South Lake Tahoe City Council had been arrested for drug trafficking.
And then there was Tammy -- a 45-ish white grandmother -- alternately from Michigan and from prison -- who took me many times to East 15th and to West 7th where smiling black men gave her the heaven she could smoke ... because the life inside of Tammy was hell. One of the best dealers was a black man named Lee. Always friendly and accommodating.
A later sojourn saw Tammy making the long drive from Arizona to Orlando, Florida, a mule carrying payloads of cocaine. Not nearly as risky as it sounds. Good pay. She smoked it up.
Years later, after nearly losing a kidney due to cocaine-related side effects, Tammy has stopped using drugs. She is now back in Michigan with her daughter and grandchild. She calls me from time to time, always ending her talk with “I love you.” She still keeps in touch with Lee. He is no longer in the business. He never made any money at it anyway, since he gave too much of it away to friends like Tammy. Tammy always wondered about that. By giving Tammy the drugs, Lee was keeping her from buying poison from some other dealer.
Another outlying Texarkana community is Simms. It has a post office, a tiny store, and a gorgeous school, one of the prettiest and best kept schools in the area. No black kids go there, and no black people live in Simms. The KKK lives in Simms and the police never bother them. There have been rapes and beatings in Simms, and people have disappeared. Every living room and back yard reeks of marijuana and crack cocaine (purchased on East and West 15th Streets). But Simms is a quiet town. Really nice school. It has won awards.
There are more than 700 churches in this county, about evenly divided between black and white. Sundays are a gift to Jesus and most KKK members are devout. As for the rest of the week, life goes on.
And at the police station morning briefing, they once again review the red-marked areas on their map. It keeps them focussed.
Would you believe the testimony of a white man if it conflicted with a black man's statement? Do you believe that whites are more prone to violence than blacks? Where will you find more drugs and rape and other abusive behaviors; in white neighborhoods or black?
Beauty
by Ted L Glines
For one moment
dear reader
gaze upon beauty
her mystic smile
those eyes that know
without any doubt
what you are
real beauty
not masqued by
Max Factor
under layers of foundation
lipstick blush mascara
which hide genuine beauty
under clown-paint
turning faces into cartoons
where cancer laughs
across the pages of
popular glamour magazines.
Leonardo da Vinci
appreciated real beauty
(as do I)
so, just for this moment
look upon
Lisa Gherardini
and finally know
why real beauty
scorns makeup.
Crackers-n-Milk
by Ted L Glines
I remember when I was a boy, and, when I was bad, my grandma would send me upstairs to bed with only crackers-n-milk instead of supper. Not too shabby because I had tons of books (grandma was always giving me books) and I loved reading more than anything in the whole world. Grimm's Fairy Tales. Alice in Wonderland. King Arthur. Prince Valiant. Robinson Crusoe. Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer. Little Men and Little Women. The Cask of Amontillado and The Telltale Heart. And on and on and forever on.
I also dearly loved crackers-n-milk (still do).
Ha! I used to “be bad” just so I could be sent upstairs with my wonderful books and my crackers-n-milk.
My grandfather, on the other hand, had a belt. A big wide belt, and he was not shy about using it. It hurt. But, there came a day (I think I was 14) when I met him at the top of my stairs. He was coming up with that belt, and I was there, at the top, with a knife. He looked at me. I looked at him. He turned around and went back downstairs. Me and my grandfather never talked about this. Maybe we both came of age that day.
You know, I don't think my grandma was ever fooled one little bit. I think she tried to stand in between me and my grandfather, in between me and his belt ... until I could stand on my own. She never said anything about it. Neither did I.
But I still love crackers-n-milk, and reading. And sometimes I'll look up and it's almost like my grandma is there, smiling. Grandmas know things ... quietly.
Primary Concern Jan 2008
by Ted L Glines
Iowa. New Hampshire. Have you noticed these campaigns heating up? I was watching the five or six hard-men surrounding Obama during the after-speech hand-shaking and thank-you sessions. Blue-suited bodyguards. I have worked with the Secret Service (very scary people), and these observed body-guards are very much equivalent or better. Hired killers, and I got the sense that Obama has already received death-threats. Hillary's bodyguards are female, but they are efficiently there. One psychic has already predicted an assassination. This campaign is heating up fast and it has only just begun. Ten more months to go. Sort of like global warming ... do not look for a cooling trend.
Hot topics. Bush. Cheney. Congress. Corporate special interests. Iraq war (of course). Income and taxes. Global warming and alternate fuels. Two candidates are specifically promising to prosecute Bush and Cheney to the fullest extent of the law. Major medical insurance corporations are being attacked by name for refusing paid-for life-saving services. In board rooms across America “irresponsible corporate actions” is heating things up. And this is a ground-swell calling for change - by both Republicans and Democrats - and these candidates are loud and pointed and specific (rather than vague/rhetoric as in previous election primaries).
Things like 4-year enlistment bonuses where the Pentagon tries to get the money back if the soldier becomes a casualty before his/her four years of war is completed. Things like Sigma Insurance refusing to authorize life-saving services (tearful parents of dead children telling their traumatic stories on campaign stages).
And look at all the very young faces in those campaign crowds! “Change” resonates (always) with young people. November 2008 will see the young folks coming out in force to vote (something we have not seen for decades in America).
Independents, Liberals, and young people -- are empowering the angst of what we are seeing -- a surge which may swell to become a tidal wave in November. The word “tsunami” has been used.
The Zogby poll forecasts a 90,000 turnout for Democratic candidates in the New Hampshire vote, and a slimmer (60,000) turnout for Republicans. Will this skew the results? Maybe not, since all candidates seem a bit less than conservative in the face of “change.” Coming down the back-stretch, Obama looks to be a good bet, overall. Nationally, Clinton appears to have a lead, but this may be dwindling. Both McCain and Romney are worth watching as this plays out. An interesting dynamic is this: Obama appears to have adopted Clinton's original stance, and he is doing a better job of pressing it forward in the town-hall forums.
It is “status quo” which is the issue. A status quo which was appropriate for 1970 becomes broken and corrupted by 2008. Broken. Corrupted. Misused. Abused. Rife with ear-marks and pork-barrel perks for the high and mighty, and the people are not served nor pleased. We have seen this cycle repeat many times since the first presidential election in 1789, when George Washington and his own politicos established our very first American status quo of governance.
“We're all for change, but I am the most qualified to get the job done, and the most passionate,” is what we are hearing from all of the candidates, no matter what their political party. “I'm tired of the status quo,” is heard from Democrat and Republican alike. Basic familiar message, but people are sounding angry about it ... this time around. Apathy and disillusionment acts to paralyze the voters, until anger kicks in, usually spurred by rabble-rousers. To greater and lessor degree, our crop of hopeful candidates are rabble-rousers. One wonders if this level of anger preceded the dumping of tea into Boston harbor.
The French Revolution, and our own American Revolution, taught us one simple thing. Never discount nor under-estimate the rabble. Viva la Rabble!
The Six Commandments
by Ted L Glines
I just heard a story. It is an old tale, so old that it has been told many times down though the years. There was an elder Cherokee grandfather, talking with his little grandson. “I have a war going on inside of me,” he said, “it goes on every day, all day long.”
“What kind of war?”
“It's a war between two wolves,” said the old man. “One of the wolves is made of evil and cruelty and jealousy and abuse and hurtfullness. The other wolf is made of goodness and empathy and hugs and love and helpfulness. Those two wolves are constantly at each other's throats. Fighting all day long.”
“Which one will win?” asked the young boy.
The old man looked into the eyes of his grandson, and said, “The one you feed.”
As I said, this is a very old, often told story. But it made me think about the games people play and about all the bad things in “Life According to CNN.”
“If only everyone would live by The Ten Commandments!” How many times have you heard this uttered in exasperation? Maybe you have even said it yourself. It seems very simple to me, but perhaps The Ten Commandments are too complex for some people, or maybe only their good wolf understands. Almost all of The Ten Commandments are rules to help your good wolf battle and win against your bad wolf. The trouble is that too many people are looking at the world through the eyes of their bad wolves. As someone once said, “They know not what they do.”
Harold Hester, in his book entitled “Remembering Tomorrow,” lists five rules:
1. Free your heart from hatred.
2. Free your mind from worries.
3. Live simply.
4. Give more.
5. Expect less.
I would be tempted to add one more rule:
6. Feed only your good wolf.
Water Into Wine
Water Into Wine
by Ted L Glines
No one wants to associate with a drunk.
We have seen a few patrimonial decisions arising from this aversion. Prohibition was an abortive attempt to outlaw, via a Constitutional Amendment, all sales of alcoholic beverages in America. Prohibition did not stop anyone from drinking, rather, it acted to enrich the Mafia and the Kennedys. Bowie County, Texas, is a dry county. This local prohibition has, thus far, been upheld by the voters, but the vote was very close in the most recent polling. From my own observations, there is no lack of beer and wine consumption in Bowie County, thanks in part to a legion of friendly bootleggers. But alcohol sales are banned in the neighboring wet Miller County (Arkansas) on Sundays and on Christmas. When I was studying with the Mormons, I was taught that consumers of tobacco/alcohol/drugs would not be tolerated in their church.
This cannot logically be a Christian religious issue. The Mormon prohibition seems to me to be more about a strict moral code of what is acceptable, and what is not. Regardless, Mormon and Christian beliefs are not on the same page. However the Sundays & Christmas banning does suggest Christian motivation.
Scriptural historians note that turning the water into wine was the first miracle performed by a young Jesus. It was at a wedding celebration in Cana. Jesus and several of his followers were there by invitation, as was His mother, Mary. Mary told Jesus that the wedding party had run out of wine and, in a subtle way, Jesus solved the problem. Such wedding celebrations were known to take place over several days, and we assume the volume of miraculously produced wine was large. We need to remember that this event was a Jewish wedding and cannot be considered a part of Christian history. Well, Christianity has “borrowed” this miracle. Religions are well known for doing that. Regardless, the water-into-wine miracle-event is treated by Christianity as the first miracle performed by Jesus. We may conjecture that Jesus condoned, possibly approved, the consumption of His wine. We may guess that Jesus may have advised moderation in the drinking. Conjectures and educated guesses bring us back to the Christian banning of alcohol sales on Sundays and on Christmas. Go figure.
In 1917, the United States Congress enacted the 18th Amendment to the Constitution -- National Prohibition. “Led by the Anti-Saloon League and the Women's Christian Temperance Union, the dry forces had triumphed by linking Prohibition to a variety of Progressive era social causes. Proponents of Prohibition included many women reformers who were concerned about alcohol's link to wife beating and child abuse and industrialists, such as Henry Ford, who were concerned about the impact of drinking on labor productivity. Advocates of Prohibition argued that outlawing drinking would eliminate corruption, end machine politics, and help Americanize immigrants.” Though short-lived, the 18th Amendment provided massive wealth to some, and humor to many. “Prohibition failed because it was unenforceable. By 1925, half a dozen states, including New York, passed laws banning local police from investigating violations.” Scandals erupted. “Smuggling and bootlegging were widespread. Two New York agents, Izzie Einstein and Mo Smith, relied on disguises while staging their raids--once posing as man and wife. Their efforts were halted, however, after a raid on New York City's 21 Club trapped some of the city's leading citizens.” It is counterproductive to try to legislate or enforce morality. “The noble experiment ended at 3:32 p.m., December 5, 1933, when Utah became the 36th state to ratify the 21st Amendment, repealing Prohibition.” (~http://www.digitalhistory.uh.edu/database/article_display.cfm?HHID=441)
From the pulpits of religious America to the podiums of Congress, we have heard the voice of failure railing against the damage done by drunks and against the messiness of their drunken lives. No one appreciates the drunken abuse of women and children, and no employer will long tolerate the drunk who cannot perform his job. And I think that this is what the issue is all about. The drunk has a personal problem. He spills his personal problem onto everyone he is associated with. He could choose to be sober but he does not. His “loved ones” could choose to kick him out of their lives but they do not. Alcoholics Anonymous needs him for his abusive-failure stories. The church needs to feel sorry for him so that they may uplift themselves. Social Service agencies need him because he is job security for them. The drunk is a victim and he is too bleary to realize this truth. Neither the church nor the state (nor his wife or mother or best friend) can change the sorry habits of a drunk.
This issue is not about constituted governmental attempts at control, and it is not about religious morality. This issue is individual, and it is very personal.
One does not wish to associate with a drunk.
Sponsors
Nigerian Scam
by Ted L Glines
Usually, any of my incoming mail gets thrown in the trash if it carries a business address on the envelope. Companies trying to sell me something are wasting their time. If I wanted their product, I would have already found and purchased it. But this one envelope caught my eye. “Anonymous Christian Endowments” with an address in Vancouver, Washington. Below my windowed name and address, in bold red type, it said: “Time Sensitive Document - Check Enclosed.” Really! Probably another marketing gimick, but it got me curious enough to open the envelope.
And there was a check from “Anonymous Christian Endowments”, made out to my name (me?), in the amount of Ten Thousand, Three Hundred, and no/100 Dollars. And it was signed by Albrech Anit, Disbursement Secretary. There was a letter enclosed with the check. The good news was not as good as it had first looked, but, the news was still good. The letter went like this.
“Dear Ted Glines, You have been selected to be the bearer of glad tidings to someone in dire need. You have not been selected at random. We have looked into your profile in depth. You are a member of your New Boston Chamber of Commerce and you are a Deacon at Graceway Baptist Church. You work at the local Best Western and you have no criminal history. You have been married twice and you have two grown sons, Mark and David. We have looked at Mark's Website and his passion is sailing. We know you rather well.”
I was shocked. How could these people know all this stuff about me? But the letter continued.
“We feel we may trust you to follow these simple instructions. Cash the enclosed check. Keep $300 for yourself. Send the remaining $10,000 via Western Union to Marian Harrist in Geddes, NY. Call Ms. Harrist at (315) 457-3895 and inform her that she has an incoming Western Union cash transfer. Do not, under any circumstances, tell her the name of our benevolent fund since our Christian credo mandates that our endowments must remain anonymous for all time. You can tell her that a guardian angel is looking out for her. Please keep this to yourself, but, several years ago, Ms. Harrist had breast cancer and she had a double mastectomy, but the cancer has recently resurfaced in her lungs, and she has no funds to pay for the necessary surgery. At this time, she is very despondent, and you, Mr. Glines, will be saving her life!”
It is almost impossible for me to describe my feelings at that point. This Marian Harrist had already had her female self partially destructed by having her breasts removed. And now she was under sentence of death by lung cancer because she had no money for the surgery. How awful! How unlucky can you get? But I was amazed that a Christian organization like “Anonymous Christian Endowments” existed to deal with needs like those of Ms. Harrist. And I felt very privileged to be a part of that.
When I went to cash this check at my bank, their response was interesting. The girl at the teller window called someone and a suited gentleman quickly appeared. He identified himself as the bank president. I asked him if there was a problem with the check. He said that there did not appear to be a problem, and he asked me if I would not mind receiving the cash in large bills. I had no reason to have a problem with that, so I found myself being handed ten One Thousand Dollar bills and three One Hundred Dollar bills. This was the first time I had ever seen a One Thousand Dollar bill. President Grover Cleveland on the front, looking very stuffy. I am comfortable with $20 bills, and those ten pieces of paper felt like funny-money to me. The three One Hundred Dollar bills felt better, but odd, and they were mine! I felt very happy when I walked out of the bank, like the sun was brighter than usual.
I remember that was mid-morning on a Friday, the nineteenth of October. I was upbeat and bouyant and so pleased with myself. I had three hundred dollars to spend on myself and I was going to be instrumental in saving a young lady's life and making her bubble with happiness! Life does not get better than this.
The funds transfer at Western Union was more tense. They looked at me with big questions in their eyes, and used a special pen to mark those One Thousand Dollar bills, but they finally got the job done and the transfer was sent off to dear Marian. I walked out of there wondering what kind of suspicious stuff those Western Union people dealt with? My bills came directly from the bank. Why would they be suspicious? Of course they were good.
And my $300 felt very good in my pocket. I would have fun with that.
Being my normal (too) curious self, I googled “marian harrist” and found that she was listed all over the front page as a director of a non-profit corporation which mentors prisoners. Wow! In spite of her own problems, this lady was doing good for others. That made me feel even better about my “guardian angel” role.
I called the number for Marian Harrist as soon as I got back home. But I was surprised at the way she responded. She did not seem shocked or even greatly surprised when I told her about the incoming Western Union cash transfer. She simply thanked me and hung up. Her matter-of-fact response put a damper on my feeling of being a hero, but I was assured that she would go to Western Union and receive the essential funds. And she would be able to get her surgery and survive. That was good. I went about my business and had a very good time with the $300 “agent fee.”
It was Monday, October 29th, when I got my wakeup call. A letter/notification from my bank that the $10,300 check was no good, a fraud, and I owed the bank for that amount. Needing help, I googled “Anonymous Christian Endowments” and there was nothing there as a specific benevolent organization by that name. Where had they gone? I needed their help right now. I called the number for Marian Harrist, but there was a disconnect notice.
When you cash a check at your bank, it will be honored and you will receive the cash. That check then goes through their own night audit process. And then the check is sent to their central (clearing house) bank for final processing (this may take from seven to ten business days)
Sometime after nine o'clock the next morning, there came a loud banging on my front door. It was two officers from the New Boston Police Department, saying I had until Monday at Noon to come up with the $10,300 or I was going to be arrested for bank fraud and wire fraud and be sent to prison.
This did not happen to me. But it did happen to a very dear friend of mine (Marian Harrist) in Texarkana, Texas. Even as I write this, my hugs are wrapped all around her to try and keep her from self-destructing. She is looking at the concept of going to prison, losing her cherished Downs Syndrome son, David, and she is crying about killing herself. Her tears rip me to pieces, always. I am tough, a mean killing machine, but Marian's tears reduce me to a puddle. This fictionalized version has been colorized by the stuff of fiction, but this could happen to you.
I never expected that someone close to me, like Marian, would be hit by the Nigerian scams. Even as we write this, a person named Perkins is looking at a $6,000 check, and an $11,000 check, in Ohio. He knows he has been scammed. He is not the brightest lightbulb in the box, but he is really hot! His wife and Marian share one thing in common. They both have a Nigerian contact.
So you open your mail today, and there is a check for $23,400 made out to you, with this set of confidential instructions. What are you going to do?
Killing Duriel
by Ted L Glines
Across the Canyon of the Magi
down through darkly labyrinths
to the Tomb of Tal Rasha
where Duriel lays in wait
to horribly kill you
again
but you are the hero
mighty Amazon
bound to this Quest
by all that's pure and good
you will kill Duriel or die
again
and again and again
always rising from the dead
to do it all again
--- one more time ---
at the tomb's magic-blasted gate
--- click ---
into the dark
Duriel is there
huge tree-slug/lobster monster
turns and rushes
you summon the Decoy
Duriel pauses
long enough to kill the Decoy
you are firing wildly
while your partner stands firm
firing arrow after arrow
until Duriel turns to her
and you hear her death-cry
as Duriel rushes upon you
those pincers slashing down
now it's toe-to-toe
no time to run
no where to go
arrow after arrow goes into Duriel
your Health-Globe drains out
you only have 16 Health-Potions
click - click - click
keep firing arrows
time stands still
he is killing you again
the final Health-Potion is used
arrows still slamming into Duriel
it is almost the end
--- of you ---
when Duriel explodes
and the gound shakes
the cavern rocks
huge boulders fall from above
and in the silence which follows
while your heart slows
you turn to
the inner sanctum of Tal Rasha
where Archangel Tyrael lies clained
above the burning flames
the Quest never ends ...
Fixer
by Ted L Glines
For those people living in abject poverty in Guatemala, Columbia, or Mexico, the jefe (Chief or Fixer) (pronounced “hehfay”) is an answer to hungry prayers. There are no jobs where they live. There is no Welfare. There is no food, clothing, housing, or transportation. Not for them. If they could only go to Estados Unidos (the United States), everything would be good again. Estados Unidos is the “promised land,” the land of milk and honey, the land where no one ever goes hungry. Babies do not die from malnutrition in Estados Unidos. But these starving people cannot go to Estados Unidos because it costs money. They have no money.
Death and disease in developing countries are often primarily a result of malnutrition. The so-called “big four” are: protein-energy malnutrition (PEM), with 500 million people affected and 10 million dying every year; vitamin A deficiency, causing xerophthalmia and blindness, which affect 6 million people a year and kill 750,000; endemic goiter, caused by iodine deficiency and affecting 150 million people a year; and nutritional anemia, affecting 350 million people a year.
But everyone knows the Fixer. El jefe is everywhere. The Fixer can make dreams come true. Sooner or later, starvation and dire deprivation will drive desperate people to the Fixer. For only one thousand dollars (per adult), el jefe will get them to Estados Unidos, set them up with jobs, give them fake Green Cards and false Social Security information, and see that they have a place to live. Best of all, the Fixer will lend them the one thousand dollars. It is an answer to their prayers.
El jefe employs a network of “coyotes” who arrange transportation. These hopeful immigrants are smuggled into the country in the airless trailers behind eighteen-wheelers and tucked into spaces in cargo boxes arriving in our ports. Some arrive at dirt-strip airfields out in the countrysides. These people are smuggled into the United States just like coccaine and heroin. For every single illegal alien who is stopped, countless others slip through our vastly understaffed screens. Transportation is not a problem.
Here in the United States, el jefe knows more and more business owners who are willing to provide sweatshops, hiring these starving people at below-minimum wage rates. This is good for business (if the business owner does not get caught). The illegal immigrant fears deportation. He will not talk. The Fixer receives most of such salaries, giving the immigrants only enough to pay for room and board. The “loans” can never be paid off. Here in “the land of the free,” these poor people have become slaves. Being “illegals,” they fear to complain. Being deported means returning to the starvation of their homelands.
Government agencies are not equipped to stem this ever-increasing tide of hungry people. Given the choice of starvation in Columbia, Guatemala, Mexico, or Nigeria, versus the risk of living secretly in “the land of opportunity,” they will choose the American Dream. The Fixer knows that barbed-wire border fences are not a problem. El jefe knows that our border- and port-staffs cannot check more than one percent of the traffic streaming into Estados Unidos.
The governments of Mexico, Guatemala, and Columbia, are not equipped to stop their hungry masses from leaving. If you saw your family starving to death, you would soon find the Fixer. He is the fat and jolly fellow who drives the BMW. He will help.
Soon, the Fixer will be offering “salvation” to the starving Sudanese ... for el jefe is an international solution to an ever growing problem.
What can you do to help?
Valkyrie
by Ted L Glines
Valkyrie is a total maniac. My kind of woman. Talk about attitude issues - Valkyrie has attitude issues. Valkyrie is built heavy - wears armor - pokes folks with a nasty spear - and loves to get right into the middle of trouble. Plus, she has a face which would make a mother cringe. For those who like to kick butt in the ghetto - Valkyrie is the best partner. She will die for you ... over and over again!
The origin of the valkyries as a whole is not reported in extant texts, but many of the well known valkyries are reported as having mortal parents. It is now believed that the original valkyries were the priestesses of Odin — gruesome old hags who officiated at sacrificial rites in which prisoners were executed (“given to Odin”). These priestesses sometimes carried out the sacrifices themselves, which involved the use of a ritual spear. By the time the Poetic Edda came to be compiled in the late 12th or early 13th century, these rituals had given rise to legends of supernatural battle-maidens who took an active part in human conflict, deciding who should live and who should die (Davidson 1964).
My own Valkyrie, however, is a magical character who may be invoked to help distract monsters in the Diablo II (Lord of Destruction) game. She does not do much damage with her spear (yet), but she gets the monsters' attention - so that they concentrate on battering her while you stand back and kill those monsters off with your bow and arrow from a safe distance. And now that I have boosted my Valkyrie to Level 2, she is actually managing to kill some monsters on her own. Life is good!
You ought to hear her. She yells every time she spears some bad guy. Her yell is intimidating! If I was a bad guy, I'd be ducking for cover!
In the mythological poems of the Poetic Edda, the valkyries are supernatural deities of unknown parentage; they are described as battle-maidens who ride in the ranks of the gods or serve the drinks in Valhalla; they are invariably given unworldly names like Skogul (“Raging”), Hlok (“Shrieking”) and Gol (“Screaming”). Definite attitude issues. Valhalla never was touted as a happy “summerland” heavenly place full of flowers and kisses.
If, in the fullness of time, I decide to reincarnate as a Warlord, my army (horde) will be 90% valkyries and 10% real warriors (the warriors will finish the bloody chaos after my valkyries have all gotten themselves killed off weakening the enemies). That is how you win a 100% war on a 10% payroll. Valkyries are cost effective (what our War Department needs is a few good wizards who will staff our fighting forces with valkyries). Ted for President. Ted for President! Let's hear it -- Ted for President! Rah rah rah - siz boom bah! Just kidding ...
Heh heh heh ...
There is a lesson here. The Norse elders who originated the valkyrie mythology were of a mind to use women as tools and throw them away (they could always get new tools). Viewing a female as an expendable “warrior” is a bit like the corporate view of employees. You put your employees on the front line where they absorb all the of the low-level damage, you pay them a barely living wage so they are forced to remain in the hot-spot, and you replace them when they wear out. Meanwhile, we managers/owners complain about our workloads and our ulcers during parties on our yachts. Get the valet to bring my car around. Terrible situation.
Ladies (and all employees), you deserve far better.
If all of the wage-enslaved employees, and especially all of the sex-enslaved women, would start acting like Valkyries ... the Warlord monsters of our Corporate Planet would have to find a new game to play.
Sample of One Bigoted Internet Game
This One is All Over the Web
Old Smilies
by Ted L Glines
I remember when we met,
Your Smilie (laugh) was on that post.
I wondered who you were
And why you cheered me up the most.
You told me all about your life,
And sent me pics of kids and Dad.
Your Smilie (grin) was often seen;
Your song of life was mostly glad.
Came the day you lost your dog,
Old age had come to claim your friend,
And Smilie (sad) was all we said,
For sorrow passes in the end.
You were so very far away,
I knew we'd never meet,
But nestled deep within my heart,
Your Smilie (wink) was oh so sweet.
Years have come and years have passed,
Your siggy dollz kept changing,
While Smilie (glad) and Smilie (sad)
Marked the moments - rearranging.
I know the time will come too soon
When you are gone - and no more cheers,
When posts and emails come no more
And I'll be left with Smilie (tears).
But somewhere east and far away
Summer lands are warm and caring,
Where Smilie (halos) will be seen
As old friends meet in happy sharing.
Cursed by the Light
by Ted L Glines
Great name for a poem -- “Cursed by the Light” -- but this is not a poem. It was something Stephen King wrote in one of his Towers books, maybe it was number II, something about “We are cursed by the Light; the Light of Civilization, which we are taught to adore.” And adore it we do, especially we who live in the Western world, where Civilization is our Tree of Life. We look down on those Third World countries (what, or where, is a Second World country?) because they are less civilized than we, less rich, less technologically advanced, and certainly less powerful. We are better than them. We patronize them, and we are rude to them, because we are civilized and they are not. We are so civilized that, when the power fails, we falter and scurry about trying to find a candle, and then light it so we may huddle in the safety of its dim light. What ever did cave-people do? They probably did something uncivilized like simple coping. We adore our civilization so much that we have become disconnected from each other. We are so individuated that we distance ourselves, even from our spouses. We do not truly adore our spouse, living for their happiness and striving to always do for them. It is Civilization and Self that we adore, and in our strong individuality, we stand alone in this crowd. They say that about 50% of our marriages fail and fall through the cracks of divorce. But I think it is worse than that, because I think that many marriages remain intact out of some sense of duty or obligation, and those are failed marriages, too. In the raw center of many marriages are two individuals who do not really like each other, and that is a shameful thing.
Our adored Civilization has brought us to a store where popular items on sale are pornography, sex toys, and various forms of dating services. “We're all looking for someone,” sang the Moody Blues, and we all thought they were talking about love. They were not. Boy meets girl. Boy chases girl. Girl runs until she wants to be caught. They make love and are enthralled in the momentary wonder of that. But the wonder wears off rather quickly as the newness reveals a tarnish here and there. Still, without ever becoming “one” with each other, they are married, and the real flaw reveals itself. Individuals are only “one” with themselves, a fact which makes the marriage vows less than meaningful. And yet another boat is launched directly onto the rocks. Luckily, there are some among us who are not so individuated, people who can actually connect with someone else. When two of them happen to come together, a really wonderful marriage may (and should) result. Alas, this appears to be a rarity.
How did we become so divided among ourselves? In Eastern cultures we find people deeply embedded within their families, to the point where the actions or speech of one person may bring shame on their whole family. We find divorces to be a rarity in Eastern cultures. Why should these relational elements be so different in the West?
The developmental history of the West was driven by migrations from the East and South as tribes moved to occupy open space, and by the empires of Greece and Rome which sought to spread their rule and their needy acquisition of resources. Within these dynamics came the drive for civilization across those vast and primitive European areas. Early European tribal pagan ways morphed into the new pagan doctrines of Rome. The Roman Empire morphed into the Holy Roman Empire even as the Roman Legions were losing their grip on the land. Change was constant across many centuries, altering the face of everything from religion to the centered Self of individuals. The West was gestating on an accelerating path toward civilization, technology, and individuation. As civilization developed and nomads planted roots in self-supporting towns and cities, the need for tribal cohesiveness evaporated and slowly became replaced with patriarchal governance and a dependence upon government for solutions, welfare, and protection. But it was a dependence which divided a population into isolated individuals who no longer bonded totally with family, or even with a spouse. And it was this change, this evolution, which has created the unique way of being which we know as “The West.”
Perhaps some psycho-analytical researchers would blame the Roman Catholic church for teaching a small thing which has divided the sexes; taught in childhood, it whispers from within mental dark closets and drives us apart, one from the other. Poor Adam, poor willing victim, tricked into biting the apple by Eve and that sneaky snake, and Man has had a caution ever since, but a dim caution. Still, it is there. And the Roman Catholic church is synonymous with the West in all of its divided individuation and its adored civilization, especially compounded in the trickle-down evolution of countless denominations sparked by serious schisms but doomed to have their major growth in obscurity, since they, like their congregational members, are individuals, standing alone and huddling around their own dim candles of self-righteousness.
Rather than being face-to-face and hand-in-hand, life relationships in the West tend more to be distanced, with a false facade of intimacy while remaining fully anonymous, relationships full of Hugz and Siggy Dolz and Smilies, a Chat Room relativity shared by people who may never meet in person. And close friends in this high tech but disconnected world tend to have “handles” instead of family names -- pseudo-names like Aratcliffe036, MerrittMom, shypsp, condorwings13, or DuaFatima. And, between each other, they will share intimate life details -- things they would never (ever) dream of revealing to their own mother.
Western individuals are always moving toward domination over the seemingly uncivilized and as yet un-conquered East. Like one song repeated over and over, says: “Blinded by the light,” we lurch through life like cyber-zombies toward some unseen goal, always seeking but never quite reaching gratification. Carrying the point of Love on a sword's bitter edge, we strive to convert the whole world to our politics of individual free enterprise, and time and time again, we are repulsed and killed, just like the armies of Alexander the Great fell before the uncivilized hordes in India's jungles. But our mistake is caused by our own adoration of civilization, superiority, and individuality. With all of our technology, we stagger clumsily forward (and are beaten back) as individuals, a fact which makes us proud (?). We lift our banners high. Bless us, Father, for we know full well what we do. Why is it not working ... ?
“We are cursed by the Light;” the Light of Civilization, which we were taught to adore. It certainly would be an inspiring title for a poem.
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Diablo
by Ted L Glines
Being a veteran Knight of the Picnic Table, my forays against Deviled Eggs are legendary, but I do enjoy the death and disaster available during those harrowing hours spent playing Diablo II Expansion Set, a game which has gained international cult acclaim from Couch Knights who engage in multiple-player wars on Battle.net, and who spend endless hours fighting mindless monsters in individual play on their computers and game systems.
Born as a Playstation game in 1996, Diablo quickly brought Blizzard Entertainment the Top Game Award. I remember spending hours (forget sleeping) struggling through the 16 levels of the original Diablo.
Set in (and deep under) the little town of Tristram and its cathedral, the original Diablo plot was simplistic (kill monsters or be killed by them) as you worked down through all the scenarios until you met (and finally killed) the Doughboy on steroids who was Diablo (he had attitude issues).
Diablo is a role-playing game. You start out as a weak character. All you are given is a weak weapon and not much vitality. No armor. No shield. No helmet. And the first low-level monsters you face will kill you very quickly. Like a new baby being born into this world, you first learn to survive, and then you learn the tricks and tools which will allow you to dominate (destroy) all the monsters which are trying to destroy you. You learn to walk slow, kill anything that moves (before it kills you), and you are constantly upgrading your strength, dexterity, weapons, armor, shield, and helmet, and you pick up gold, weapons, and gear from the monsters you kill. Every element of Diablo is about upgrading, becoming more and more powerful, so that you may finally defeat the Main Monster -- Diablo. From 1996 to 1999, I developed my Rogue character so highly that she could take Diablo down with only eight arrow shots.
From its crude 1996 beginning, Blizzard Entertainment has evolved a whole new game in Diablo II. My favored Rogue character has been morphed into the Amazon. Originally, there were only three character choices. Rogue, who fought with a bow. Warrior, who fought hand-to-hand with swords, clubs, axes. And the Wizard (or Sorcerer) who fought with magic wands and spells. Now, with Diablo II, there are five basic character types, Barbarian, Sorceress, Paladin, Amazon, and Necromancer (add Druid and Assassin in the Expansion Set), each with its unique skill-set and fighting style. The Bad Guys have also evolved, as has the story line.
In Diablo II, the story line is given a strong push into the realm of religious mythology. Added to Diablo (think Lucifer or Satan), we now have two more Prime Evils, Mephisto and Baal.
Several legends grew up about Mephistopheles (Mephisto). According to certain extra-biblical texts relating to Christian mysticism, and a number of related works written during the 17th century, Mephistopheles was the first to join with Lucifer during the rebellion against God at the beginning of time. When the rebel angels were banished from Heaven, Mephistopheles was the second to fall, after Lucifer. In exchange for his loyalty, Lucifer granted him power in Hell, appointing him his second-in-command.
Baal is seen as a Christian demon. This is a potential source of confusion. Until archaeological digs at Ras Shamra and Elba uncovered texts explaining the Syrian pantheon, the demon Ba‘al Zebûb was frequently confused with various Semitic spirits and deities entitled Baal, and in some Christian writings it might refer to a high-ranking devil or to Satan himself. Such entitlement of Baal is a vast stretch, since Baals were nothing more than fertility idols among the various semitic tribes. So it goes - religions demonize anything they don't understand.
Thus, in Diablo II, we are pitted against an awesome triumvirate, the Three Prime Evils, Mephisto, Diablo, and Baal, and all of their minions, and they do have millions of minions and they are all trying to kill you.
On the bright side, Diablo II gives you a hireling, another warrior to help you kill monsters. As you both progress through the game, your hireling gains strength, experience, and killing skills. My hireling is now a Level 29 Amazon named “Kyle,” and she kills more monsters than my own character, even though she gets killed sometimes and it costs much gold to bring her back to life. And she does have the annoying habit of opening doors and dashing right into the midst of lurking monsters (employees do rash things).
Diablo II is better than life. If you get killed in Diablo II, you get to come back to life and all you have lost is the gold you were carrying. Pretty cool. Blizzard Entertainment has done an outstanding job in creating this epic battle game. Some of the artwork rivals what can be seen in Vatican City. Monsters? Well, some of them arer straight out of your worst nightmares, and several of them may even cause you to have new and better nightmares.
So drink a Picnic Table toast, my merry Knights, and someone bring out a fresh platter of Deviled Eggs. It's time to play ...
WinterCoat
by Ted L Glines
Dateline 22 July 2005 London England
At 11 AM CST it was reported on National Public Radio (NPR) that a man with Oriental features had been shot and killed by police in one of the London tube stations. A bystander reported that the Oriental man had looked extremely frightened before being shot to death by police officers. That was the total story being reported at that time. This was relayed to me by Janet Wade, a friend who shares my concern for current events.
By 1:30 PM CST the story was on CNN and it went this way: A man wearing a heavy winter-style coat was chased into the London tube station by plainclothes police officers. The man jumped onto a train and was ordered to get off the train. The man was then tackled by the police officers and he was shot from 3 to 5 times and was pronounced dead at the tube station.
By 3 PM CST NPR was reporting that the man who had been killed was "directly linked" to the police investigation of the London transit system bombings on 21 July. Well, I was happy to hear that the media was at least trying to offer a reason for the killing. Still, murder does seem to be an extreme investigative tool. Perhaps they will make better attempts at unfolding this story in some satisfactory manner.
What actually bothers me about this is that the news media would present such an obviously unresearched story to an already alarmed public. After the train bombing events of 7 July, and then the set of bombings on 21 July, the London public is understandably nervous. Observers have reported seeing a greatly increased number of bicycle commuters following these bombings. And now the public is hearing that an Oriental man wearing a heavy coat has been shot to death by police in one of those tube stations. Too many events and too little explanatory information will produce public panic. Could this be the purpose of such unresearched reportage?
On AOL, some 13 hours later than the above CNN report (2:30 AM CST): LONDON (July 22) - Undercover police shot and killed a man Friday in front of stunned subway passengers and arrested another while snipers and bomb squads fanned out in a dramatic hunt for the culprits behind London's latest terror attacks.
From the same AOL story: ''If you are dealing with someone who might be a suicide bomber, if they remain conscious, they could trigger plastic explosives or whatever device is on them, '' said Mayor Ken Livingstone." Therefore, overwhelmingly in these circumstances, it is going to be a shoot-to-kill policy.''
And at 3:15 PM on 23 July 2005, some 26 hours into this story, we have the following on AOL:
LONDON (July 23) - Police acknowledged on Saturday the man they shot dead on Friday was not connected to bomb attacks on the British capital the previous day, calling the shooting tragic and regrettable.
"We are now satisfied that he was not connected with the incidents of Thursday 21st July 2005," police said in a statement.
"For somebody to lose their life in such circumstances is a tragedy and one that the Metropolitan Police Service regrets," the police said.
Police hunting four men who tried to bomb London's transport system on Thursday -- two weeks after suicide bombers killed 52 commuters -- shot dead the man who had been under surveillance and refused orders to halt.
The killing at point-blank range with five shots to the head in front of shocked passengers on a packed underground train triggered speculation that traditionally unarmed British police had radically changed their iron-fist-in-velvet-glove approach.
"The man emerged from a block of flats in the Stockwell area that were under police surveillance as part of the investigation into the incidents on Thursday 21st July.
"He was then followed by surveillance officers to the underground station. His clothing and behavior added to their suspicions," the statement said.
It added that the circumstances that led to the man's death were being investigated.
Personally, as a writer and a human being, I have an extreme problem with this story. As a writer, I have a problem with the fact that the news media writers have apparently treated this as an acceptable part of the reality-show that they produce for the viewers every day. That man's life was terminated because of assumptions and wrong opinions held by "public servant" policemen who had guns and a need to kill (obviously). Will this just as easily happen in Los Angeles, Orlando, Detroit, Chicago, or even in New Boston, Texas? That man, whoever he was, is dead, and this could happen to you. Is that important? As a human being, I think it is far more important than the sick assumptions and radical opinions which led to his murder.
At any rate, until a more satisfactory story emerges, I would think twice about summering in London wearing a heavy winter coat and, if you happen to have Oriental features ...
Author's Notes: I guess what bothers me most about this story is that, more and more, there is nothing unusual about it. Our knee-jerk societal reality fails to shock us anymore, and events simply do not have deep ethical or moral impact on our stunned and dulled sensibilities. I am not saying that we fail to care; we do care (obviously) or those London police officers would not have experienced the knee-jerk which caused/permitted them to murder that young Brazilian man. Yes, under that heavy winter coat, he could have been carrying explosives and, yes, he did come out of a neighborhood house which was being watched. But that is part of the risk which goes with the job of law enforcement (been there, done that) and use of deadly force is only to be used when directly confronting an observable deadly threat; certainly not the case here. So much for my logic and my respect for the judicial system (which may as well not exist if we are going to behave like crazies and excecute individuals with neither trial nor investigation) . This sounds too much like "witch hunting" and other sorry events from our dark human past. On the news, we are hearing statements and questions which indicate an acceptance of a new "shoot and kill" police policy which, if adopted, will make us (society) no better than the terrorists. I hope that our dulled sensibilities are not going to be an excuse to step backward into a mentality where murder and brute force can replace the rule of law.
On the Edge
by Ted L Glines
Life on the edge may be scary to some, interesting to others, and it is both for me. Law enforcement officers live their lives on the edge, always knowing they may kill or be killed during their next routine traffic stop or domestic dispute. High-wire circus performers, soldiers, race drivers, and a score of persons in other high-risk professions, are unlikely to be approved for life insurance, or such insurance may be very costly. We all make our own choices. I have chosen to live life on the edge, not for any grand moral or ethical reason, but simply because I can.
In my own defense, be assured that I am unmarried. I have no minor children, nor any siblings, aunts, uncles, nephews or cousins. My parents and grandparents are dead. In short, I have only myself to live for, and this establishes a unique life-stance where I may take risks at will. And I love a good Quest. Here is how that plays out.
It was in 1994, in Anaheim, that I met Dave and Corina. My son, Mark, the red-headed computer nut, was living with me and I was working as an auditor with the Grand Hotel. “Tron” was my nickname for Mark because he spent all of his time on his computer. It was in one the chatrooms where Mark encountered Dave, “the hacker.” The name Dave used online was “Avatar,” a name which would later take on a dark meaning. Soon, Mark was always talking about Dave, extolling this man's abilities when it came to manipulating Websites and databases. In a very real sense, Mark developed a “crush” on Dave's computer abilities. It was not long before Mark informed me that Dave and Corina were coming to Anaheim. He asked if it would be okay if the two of them stayed with us. I assented, looking forward to meeting “the hacker” and learning some tricks from him. What possible risk could there be? This was destined to be an interesting learning experience. What follows transpired between late summer 1994 and early spring 1995 and it was rock-n-roll all the way!
DAVE: When I first laid eyes on Dave and Corina, they were perched on two huge refrigerator chests at the curb out in front of the Grand Hotel. They had been dropped off there by two taxis which had transported them from where-ever. Later, I learned that they had hired the taxi service to bring them all the way from Las Vegas. It was late in the evening and, under the hotel lights, they appeared like a mound of something from outer space. Sitting there, Dave looked like a huge dark frog. I estimated him to be about 450 pounds. Dressed in a black long shirt, blue-jean shorts, and heavy-soled shower-shoes which would have fit a giant, with long black hair and a calculating smirk on his face, Dave was in stark contrast to his tiny companion.
CORINA: Seated on the second of the two insulated refrigeration chests, Corina was such a petite thing, probably weighing in at 95 pounds, about five-foot-four, with long blonde wavy hair and the sweetest little-girl-lost smile. I was to learn all about how lost she was. Following brief introductions, I conveyed them and their luggage (it took two trips) to my apartment where Mark was waiting.
With the help of Mark and Corina, we got their odd luggage into my apartment. Dave parked himself on my large sofa and supervised since he was obviously unable to carry more than his own obese weight. Just watching Dave walk from my car to the apartment made me wonder how he managed locomotion, leaning backwards to counterbalance his massive belly and shuffling forward on legs which were like tree-trunks. Since they were a couple, I put them in one of our two bedrooms. All of their belongings except for two backpacks and a pet-carrier went into the bedroom. That is when I met Misky and Warlock, their entrancing male and female black-footed ferrets. Misky, the female ferret, was long and grey with black patches and black feet, and she was much smaller than Warlock. Both of them seemed to love all the new nooks and crannies of my living room as they bounced and hopped about from place to place, investigating everything with apparent glee. Dave encouraged me to pick each of them up so they could become familiar with my scent. Speaking of scents, those ferrets had a very strong odor of their own, like a strong and exotic incense. Frankly, I loved the smell of them.
Back in the bedroom, Corina unpacked the two insulated boxes. Computers and exotic peripheral equipment. The heavily insulated boxes were for the safekeeping of their computer gear. Mark, being more knowledgeable about such things, ooed and awed over each item, especially regarding the Primera printer. “You would be amazed what you can reproduce on a Primera,” exclaimed Mark. Apparently, Dave had accumulated state-of-the-art devices. And, as I learned, he was constantly upgrading his equipment with new boards and rewiring components so that they did things that the manufacturers never intended. All of this equipment was quickly set up and connected on an old banquet table which I had stored in the bedroom. As soon as all was powered up and connected to a phone jack, Corina announced, ”We're up and running!” with a big grin. I was about to learn what that meant.
During their stay with me, I left my car-keys for them and encouraged them to use my car during my daytime sleeping hours. I knew they would be wanting to go out to eat, or shop, and long-distance walking was not an option for Dave.
In their bedroom, both the bed and the floor were to be used for laying out computer parts and for storage of new in-the-box acquisitions. Also, as days went on, crumpled-up paper receipts accumulated, mostly printouts from credit card sales, showing the credit card numbers and expiration dates. These latter (I felt) should be incriminating, but, apparently, they were not. During their stay with me, Dave and Corina managed to sleep on my couch, and sometimes Dave simply slept on the floor. When they slept, that is.
I worked nights at the Grand Hotel. By the time I arrived home in the morning, Dave and Corina would be a blanketed mound on the sofa. Mark would be asleep, too. But he would later tell me how they had stayed up all night doing “hacker” stuff. I would fix myself something to eat, get myself cleaned up, spend a bit of time playing with the ferrets and enjoying them, before going to sleep.
PURCHASING & RESELLING COMPUTERS: Deep in the middle of each night, Dave was online purchasing computers, monitors, printers, modems, and other saleable computer equipment. A visit to the bedroom one night before I left for work revealed a stack of unopened boxes of new computers, printers, and so on. And the bedroom floor was becoming cluttered with computer boards, empty computer cases, and paper trash.
I learned from Mark that, during the daytime, they would go out and sell this equipment to small computer stores in the Anaheim and Santa Ana areas. It was easy to sell these things at 50% of retail value. I remember wondering how Dave could purchase something at full retail price, or even purchase the item on sale, and still break even when he sold those items so cheaply.
One night, just before leaving for work, I went into the bedroom and picked up some of the wadded-up paper scraps on the floor. Opening each one of them, I found they were receipts for purchases or for approvals made on credit card accounts. On each one there was a credit card number and an expiration date. On some of them, there was a signature. Some of the other paperwork revealed photocopies of state driver's licenses. Even a neophyte like me could suddenly become aware. Dave was “hacking” accounts of credit cards to initiate his purchases. A conversation with Mark revealed that they were raiding trash found in dumpsters (dumpster-diving) behind hotels, convenience stores, restaurants, and they were raiding the trash receptacles close to ATM machines. Apparently, Dave found a treasure-trove in the trash of our city.
BANK ACCOUNT RIP: One night, Dave was still up and working before I left for work. I walked into the bedroom, behind him, and saw him working on-screen with a company check. He was having problems with it. The bank-coded numerics at the bottom of the check were way too large. I, being very good with desk-top publishing, showed him how to bring this set of coding figures into proportion. At this point, Dave wanted me to set up a checking account for him (under an alias, of course), with an ATM card. He said he was going to show me how to make a major rip. Okay, I wanted to learn this. The next morning, I set up a new checking account at a local bank, and within seven days, I had an ATM card. And I watched what Dave did with that. Very quickly, Dave created three company checks totaling just over $11,000, and they looked perfect. At about 4:30 PM on a Friday, Dave deposited those three checks to the bank account. I do not pretend to know how he managed it but, between Friday evening and Monday morning, he cashed out the entire balance of that account. Part of it was in Wal-Mart Traveler's Checks. Eleven thousand dollars in one weekend. This was my “hacker.”
I had to send Mark home to his mom in South Lake Tahoe. He told me that Dave was using him for “dumpster-diving” and I saw Mark as being a victim. Mark hated me for that, but I saw him on the bus and gone. It was not until many years later that Mark and I managed to reconnect.
CORINA ASKS FOR HELP: One day, somewhere around Thanksgiving, Corina engaged me in her plight. I have no idea why she somehow trusted me. But I am glad that she did because I gained an adopted daughter, and I also gained a “Quest.” Corina's request was very simple: “I want to get away from him (Dave).” And the story began to unfold.
She and Dave had originally met in the Dallas area. She was very young; smart but impressionable. Dave used his smirking high intelligence to set himself up as a major witch in her young eyes. His “witch name” was “Avatar.” He seemed so powerful. Dave made money appear out of nowhere. Corina was enthralled. Very much against her mother's wishes, Corina went away with Dave to places like Arizona, Colorado, and New Mexico. He always made the money appear, and he made her feel safe. One thing does lead to another. They had a son (it is still very difficult for me to picture this monstrous frog-creature making love to this little bitty girl). Shortly following the birth of their little boy, Dave took the child away and put him in the care of his own grandparents (right here in my own town of New Boston, Texas). Dave told his grandparents, and they believed him, that Corina was a “witch” and the little boy needed to be shielded from her harmful nature. He went so far as to claim that she wanted the child as a human sacrifice. In this Bible Belt area of Texas, they believed his threatening story.
Dave convinced Corina that she would get her little son back if she continued to do what Dave needed for her to do in support of his “hacking.” He kept promising to let her visit her son, and she kept doing what he requested in order to make that promise happen.
Finally, Corina talked to me. She told me “the whole story,” and she said that she wanted for me to help bring Dave to justice, and for me to help her get free of Dave's dark and criminal web.
By this point, I was quite well aware that Dave was a major predator. And I was quite okay with doing whatever it took to bring him down. But it was not destined to be an easy task.
ANAHEIM POLICE NOT ABLE TO HELP: I took what I had observed to a detective. I told him about the credit card receipts, about the online purchases of computer equipment and the subsequent sales to small local businesses. His response was, “There is nothing we can do unless a crime has been committed.” It did not matter that I had seen what Dave was doing, or that I had countless scraps of credit information. The fact was very simple. No crime had been charged against Dave. The detective did try to look up David Atkins on the NCIC, a central database showing criminal histories and open arrest warrants, but Dave was not listed. Without such a charge, they had no “probable cause” to search his current premesis. Case closed before it could be opened. I understood that their hands were tied by the privacy laws. But my own hands were not bound by any such limitations.
MOVE TO RENO: Suddenly, getting close to Christmas, Dave said they had to move out. He wanted to go to Reno, Nevada. Okay. I had given my word to help Corina, and no local law enforcement assistance was offered. So, we would all make the trek to Reno.
I had no problem cutting loose my “ties” in southern California. I had no ties. What I did have was a promise to Corina.
It was a long trip. Up from southern California to Sacramento. Then up the hill to South Lake Tahoe, and then down to Carson City and up into the high desert area and Reno. Within two hours, I had rented an apartment in Reno. I used the name, Carl Atkins. And I watched as Dave and Corina set up shop again, and my only real cheer was the ferrets. Even if the police were powerless to help, I knew I would find a way to help Corina.
New location. Same business. Within a few days, I had a night job at the Pioneer Hotel & Casino. I began to hear Dave talking about a “JoAnne Stepp” somewhere in Ohio. Over time, I learned that JoAnne was a divorced woman with a young son, and she knew Dave as “Devlin Chase.” A man of many names. He also claimed to have a lady friend (business associate) in Las Vegas, and several friends in Chicago.
One morning as I came in the door from work, Corina said, “Dave is gone.” They had taken a cab to Reno Cannon airport and Corina had waited there until he went to board the plane. Dave had flown out to Ohio. JoAnne. So, I was left wondering how I was going to nail this dirtbag and save Corina? By this time, this was a QUEST! It is difficult to describe, but this was quickly becoming tense and exciting.
Corina was working days at a convenience store in Reno. And I was working nights at the Pioneer Inn & Casino. Dave stayed in touch with me, calling me on the phone at work in the middle of the night. He would not tell me his location or address, simply saying he was “moving around and taking care of business.” In order to keep him calling me, I became the “dumpster-diver,” shipping packets of the credit card receipts to him at different private postal businesses.
It was a comfortable schedule for Corina and me, with her working days and me working nights at the hotel, until the afternoon when the phone awakened me with Corina's scared voice saying, “I'm in jail. Please come help me!”
CORINA ARRESTED: Dave had made a telephone call to the US Marshals' office in Reno, and he had informed them of the many warrants for (his) and her arrest. This was an attempt on his part to bury his own criminal history in her downfall. It did not work. When I got Corina's frightened phone call, it shocked me to death! Dave was free. Corina was in bondage. I was stunned by this. Here she was needing my help, but it seemed like there was nothing I could do but watch her go down the drain. And, so far, there was no way for me to tag Dave.
I visited Corina at the jail every morning, mostly to lend moral support and to let her know I was caring for the ferrets. It was at the jail, that first day, that I met the US Marshal. For starters, I was informed that “Corina” was actually Therese Smallwood, wife of John Smallwood (”Dave”). Following my visit with Therese (I found it very difficult to make the name-switch), I went with Marshal Ellis to his office in downtown Reno. We traded information. I filled Ellis in on what John had been doing during the Anaheim sojourn, and also told him about Therese's request for help. I told Ellis that I was trying to stay in contact with John (”Dave?”) until he finally told me his location. Marshal Ellis was not fond of my part in sending the credit card information to John, but there was no other way to keep an umbilical cord tied to this fugitive. Ellis told me that John had outstanding warrants in seven states, ranging across the southwest and out to the Pacific coast; warrants for bank and credit card fraud, and counterfeiting of business and travelers' cheques. Therese was implicated on conspiracy charges. She would be held in jail until she could be transported to a court arraignment to be convened in Texarkana, Arkansas. Naturally, Marshal Ellis wanted to be informed the minute that I had located John Smallwood. I was given his office, home, and cellphone numbers, with instructions to call him at any hour.
Back when I had been talking with the Anaheim detective, it would have been so simple if I had only known Dave's real name. Hindsight ...
Time dragged by, working those hotel night shifts and visiting Therese in jail. John called me about once per week at the hotel. He began slowly trying to talk me into joining him. I kept sending the packets of receipts, and waiting.
It was about 2:00 AM when John called to tell me that he knew of a place where I could go to work, and then he and I could be working together. He said he was in Nashville, Tennessee. I asked if he was sure that they had a job opening for me. “Yes,” he said, “as a night auditor.” And he told me it was at the Cumberland Inn. I told Dave that I was okay with relocating but he might have to wire me some cash to make the move. And I asked him to call me back the following night and we could finalize the plans. In the background, on his end, I heard the sound of a child talking and laughing.
I really did not want to get my hopes up, but this was the break I had been waiting for. Perhaps the child's voice was JoAnne's boy. We had a copy of the Hotel Travel Index (HTI) at the front desk. It is a huge book which lists all of the hotels along with their information. I turned to the section for Tennessee and found Nashville. Sure enough, there was a Cumberland Inn. I knew that John usually did not stir far from his “home” couch, so, maybe he was a guest in that hotel. How would he be registered? If he was traveling with JoAnne, perhaps he was still using the “Devlin Chase” alias. Too many wild cards but I had no other hand to play.
I placed a call to the Cumberland Inn. It was their night auditor who answered the phone. I told him that I was flying in, in the morning, to meet someone, and I needed to make sure that the Cumberland was the right hotel. Then, with my heart in my throat, I asked, “Do you have a Mr. Chase registered? Devlin Chase?”
The night auditor went away from the phone for a moment, and returned with “Yes we do. Would you like for me to connect you with his room?”
“No. Please don't bother him at this hour. I'll see him in the morning. Thank you so much!”
Right after hanging up the phone, I dialed the cellphone number for Marshal Ellis, got an answering service, and left this message, ”John Smallwood located. Please call Ted at the Pioneer Inn at (I gave the hotel number) before 6:00 AM, or call me at home after that. It was no more than ten minutes later that Ellis called me. I remember wondering if the guy ever slept. I relayed the conversation with John.
“I'll call our people in Nashville,” said Ellis, “and we'll take it from here.”
I spent the remainder of my shift on edge. I knew the Marshals had people in all of the major cities. But Tennesse was two-thirds of the way across America. Could they possibly interact quickly enough to carry this off? I knew that I could not expect a call back, so I would probably never know what happened. But I waited, and waited, and I have never been so nervous.
I left the hotel at a little bit after 6:00 AM and went home. I was fixing my dinner when the phone rang. I remember it was a few minutes after 7:00 AM. A professional voice introduced himself as Agent Marlow, US Secret Service. “It was a good arrest. We took Smallwood and Stepp into custody and we got all of Smallwood's computer equipment. Just thought you would like to know. We'll see you in Texarkana.” I thanked him for the call. That was it. No small talk.
Picture me, fists upraised, yelling “YES!” There are no drugs which will get you as high as I was following that brief phone call. I had fulfilled Therese's request.
I finished my dinner and went to the jail to tell Therese the news. To say she was pleased would be an understatement, but she had news of her own. She was due to be transported out to Texarkana early the following morning. I told Therese I would meet her there. She said that wasn't necessary. “Yes it is,” I said, “this story is not finished yet.”
FAST MOVE TO TEXARKANA: I went to the Pioneer Inn and told them that I had to travel to Arkansas, and they were good enough to cut a final paycheck for me. I took the check to my bank and cashed it and withdrew the balance of my account. I rented a trailer and loaded all my needful belongings. It was a fast morning, high energy, but this is what I needed to wind down from being so totally ecstatic. By early evening, I was able to sleep for a few hours. The Reno sojourn of “Carl Atkins” was a done deal. It was still dark when I hit the road, leaving Reno behind forever.
Very briefly, the trip down Nevada's Hwy 395 to I-40 in Arizona, and thence eastward on I-40 to Fort Smith, Arkansas, was ... really boring. As dawn was breaking across the desert, I thought of Therese being picked up by the Marshals to begin her own trip. I wondered which one of us would be first to arrive in this place named Texarkana.
I-40 is a whole lot of boring empty. Nothing but endless miles of straight highway through flatlands of scrubby bushes and very little to break the monotony. I curled up for naps on the car seat at rest stops, and ate from the coin machines. Mile after endless mile.
At Fort Smith, I took Hwy 71 south to Texarkana. That was not boring! That stretch of Hwy 71 is notable for lots of curves, mostly not marked and lots of them without guardrails. I made that part of my run in the middle of the night, in a driving rain, with 18-Wheelers trying to park in my trailer! It was about dawn when I pulled into Texarkana, and I knew I had survived something.
Before the sun set, I had gotten a room in a downtown boarding house, and had procured a job as night auditor for the Holiday Inn Express at the junction of Hwy 71 and I-30. Also, I had off-loaded the rental trailer and had turned it in to a local dealer on Stateline Blvd. I knew that Therese was due to be housed in the fourth-floor jail of the Bi-State Justice Building downtown, but she had not yet arrived.
Therese arrived the following day, with her own adventure story. The Marshals, at that time, had two airplanes. She had been taken to Reno Cannon airport to board her plane. It flew, for some odd reason, to Miami. While they were flying across the Gulf, and then looping out over the Atlantic to come back into Miami, there were problems and she thought they were going to land in the ocean. But the plane limped into the airport, and Therese made the trip from Miami to Texarkana in a car with a Marshal, and she said he was very nice. That's my Therese.
PAPER GAME WITH COURTS: This is the finest hour for a writer, the moment when you know you have won the game. There are five people involved in a court case. The judge, the prosecuting attorney, the defense attorney, the defendant, and the media. I did a “paper tiger” memo spread. The first memo was a “Friend of the Court” letter to the presiding judge. It went into detail about how John had enthralled Therese with his “Avatar” witch power, and how he had led her away from her mother in Dallas, and how he had fathered a child with her, and how he had stolen the child and used the child to enslave Therese to do his evil business, and how Therese was a victim rather than a defendant. The second memo copied this first one to both the prosecuting attorney and the defense attorney, with an admonition that Therese needed to be freed from the threat which was John Smallwood. All three memos carried a bottom note that they were copied to the editors of the Texarkana Gazette and the Dallas Morning News. End product was that the judge, the prosecuting attorney, the defense attorney, and the media, were all looking over each other's shoulders, and there was only one way that Therese's case could end. She was given probation and she went back to Dallas to make a very good life for herself. In the intervening years since 1995, Therese has made friends with John's grandparents and she has slowly brought her son back into her life.
And there are happy endings out here where life is lived on the edge.
And, right here on Authors Den, I have just received a message from JoAnne Stepp. She and her children are alive and well, and she is quite happy to be free of John Smallwood. All's well that ends well!
Thief
by Ted L Glines
Rich man gets and never gives
inspired by only how he lives
caught in the trap of ulcered money
he knows that faith is simply funny
meant to have his titles and fame
always proud of his pedigreed name
needing his power to stay the same.
Poor man struggles for every dime
openly craving for money and time
over-enslaved to pay his way
relying on Heaven to bring him away
meant to play his consumer game
always burning in debt's hot flame
needing more than he'll ever claim.
Beggar man waits for your gifting grace
eager to please - knows his place
gestures to you to give him a start
got nothing but hope in his heavy heart
animated by fortune's tiniest deal
relying on faith to bring him a meal
meant to share the leavings and blame
always drifting and hiding in shame
needing to walk but always lame.
Thief - lost in the land of milk and honey
he knows that faith is simply funny
intellect being his only grace
eager to fleece in making his place
frantic to win the endless chase.
Author's Notes: So, which one are you? Which one is best? If you had the chance to choose, which role would you rather play? The acrostic in this one is obvious. I only hope that the verse says something about the choices we make, and roles we play in our world-society of (currently) about 6.4 billion people. Blessed be.
Money
by Ted L Glines
He said to me, "My time is money"
I said to myself, "Ain't that funny!"
He's so poor - I have to mention
he don't have time to pay attention,
mortgage - cars - insurance bills,
strapped for cash - it gives me chills,
he'll take his status to the grave
tied to the ground just like a slave.
I ain't got those fancy frills
and I ain't got them fancy bills,
I can tell the boss to shove it
'cause I am free - you gotta love it,
you'll never catch me bowing down
to the dollar bill which rules this town,
while I am free and life is sunny,
I thank the Gods - my time ain't money.
Author's Notes: If this sounds like a hippy song - I suppose it is - from my life in Monterey in the 50s and 60s, that's where and how I grew up among the sensical messages of Timothy Leary and Joan Baez. I knew many of the residents of Pebble Beach and Carmel Valley, monied people, owners of major corporations, financiers. They had everything money could buy, but they were always under constant and tremendous relentless pressure to protect their empires and market share, with never any time to relax and unwind and smell the flowers. It seems like such an awful waste for some to devote their whole lives to enslavement under the Wall Street God of Profit - to the exclusion of everything which is good and uplifting and lovely. Wealthy or poor, we are born, we grow up, we live, we grow old, and we die, and I have chosen to spend this one lifetime having fun and smelling the flowers. I think I am truly the wealthy one.
Shalt Not Kill
by Ted L Glines
"Thou shalt not kill," in many languages, rings from the pulpits of West and East alike. Holy books of all religions carry this same message. And we do thump our holy books a lot, even when we are killing. Maybe especially when we are killing, for much of the "smiting" seems to have been done in religious zeal.
In a recent case, a zealot in New York shot and killed a doctor because the physician practiced abortions. In the mind of this zealot, the doctor was a killer and "Thou shalt not kill" was the reason why he shot and killed the doctor. If this seems like an oxymoron to you, then we are in agreement.
States and nations have different laws, some prescribing capital punishment, and some disallowing it ("Thou shalt not kill" is recognized by the latter category). No matter what the form used (electrocution, gas, lethal injection, hanging, etc.), execution is murder committed by the state. It is an "Eye for an eye" concept of archaic justice which flies in the face of "Thou shalt not kill." Perhaps it was necessary in Old Testament times, for the tribes of Israel and Judah had not the means to build nor staff prisons. In our modern days, highly civilized, industrialized, and with our high technology, we have no such excuse.
One never saw "Thou shalt not kill" painted on an atomic bomb, nor on any grenade, rocket, or on military bullets. These items are specifically designed to kill. We raise our children with indoctrination which makes them want to be in the military (it’s a pride thing). After they join, the military specifically trains them to be killers, and "Thou shalt not kill" moves to the back of their minds to forever lurk, causing depressions and nightmares, for they are caught in an oxymoronic reality (a living nightmare for them). We will give them our full support. We love them but we do not like what they do.
When one looks at the currency of any nation, one will always find a slogan of some sort. It is never "Thou shalt not kill." When one looks at those nation’s treasuries and banking systems, it becomes apparent that killing is a sound investment, as borne out by the tax-dollar portions doled out to fund military investments and development of new weapons. And one finds that all of these economies are tied to petro-dollars (gauged in USD), and a truthful slogan would read "Thou Shalt Kill." However, the growth of civilization has not been notable for observing deep truths; truth has not much clout in a market economy.
One has only to look at the World Census, CNN, and the Old Testament, to clearly see that human expertise reigns supreme in two areas: Smiting, and Begetting. Thanks to the Begetting part, we are now about 6.4 billion strong (so many "smiting" targets, so little time). And whenever God watches CNN (we cringe at the thought), seeing the destruction of our infestation, He sees a need to call in the Great Exterminator. And He wonders why He ever thought that Adam and Eve were any better than the beasts of the field. The beasts do not kill out of hatefulness.
"Thou shalt not kill," on the face of it, seems to be a very brief and concise statement or commandment, and seemingly very easy to define as meaning "Thou shalt not kill." Nothing more and nothing less, it does not get easier than that, or so it seems to me. And my only question is ... when are we going to learn to read and understand this simple thing?
Pills
by Ted L Glines
In your medicine cabinet -- look at all those pills,
you gotta pill for everything -- some for all your ills.
This pill grows your hair -- this one grows it less,
and this here pill with stripes -- is anybody's guess.
You got pills to wake you up -- pills to make you sleep,
and pills to make you happy -- should you chance to weep,
pills to hype your hormones -- blood sugar too,
steroids to make you run until you're turnin blue.
Open up this capsule -- looks like crystal meth,
you got pills to cure all things -- except for love and death.
And here's a pill for fatness -- you know that it won't work,
the only thing it clearly proves -- your doctor is a jerk.
A pill to lose your water -- and one to keep off strokes,
while pharmaceutical salesmen are laughin tellin jokes.
TV ads will scare you -- "Eeek!" a dread disease,
but here's a pill that you can take to put you at your ease.
My friend took pills for all her ills -- died at thirty-five,
without her worries and those pills -- might be still alive.
Another friend -- a teacher -- young and active man,
was killed by his own doctors -- cancer/chemo plan.
Side effects might kill you -- "ask your doctor today,"
your side effects are good for him -- prescribes it anyway.
Hark -- the cries of sickness -- ring across this land,
the brotherhood of doctors -- puttin pills in your hand.
Wellness does not get a play -- never gets a pitch,
illness is their blessing -- makin doctors rich.
Here I am at sixty-six -- happy -- drinkin wines,
smokin ciggies -- don't take pills -- full of vital signs.
Have not seen a doctor -- forty years or more,
bills for pills to cure my ills would only make me poor.
Author's Notes: Don't stop taking your medication; you might need it to stay alive. "Pills vs. No Pills" is an old controversy with no resolution thus far. Most of the maladies we know today were unknown one hundred years ago, as were almost all of the medications and chemical additives which are common today. One might make the case that the side effects of the chemicals we now ingest have created the wide mosaic of maladies which beset us today. I am one of the lucky ones who has never had any major health issues, nor any doctor's appointments or prescriptions, and I believe I will keep it that way.