“The great enemy of the truth is very often not the
lie – deliberate, contrived and dishonest – but the
myth – persistent, persuasive and unrealistic.”

—John Fitzgerald Kennedy
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NOTE: THIS POST CONSISTS OF MY OPINIONS ONLY
AND SHOULD NOT BE CONSTRUED OTHERWISE.

He stood there at a little table in the foyer of the Vincennes University Student Study Hall building. A large man with side-swept dark blond hair, dressed in suit and tie, his stomach bulging over the front of his pants. He was giving away free phone cards, after you filled out a little paper with your name and address.

I ignored him the first day. The second day, I returned his smarmy greeting and stopped to chat a bit. He wanted me to fill out the paper and get a free phone card. I refused, but chatted amiably with him for a few minutes. As I moved to leave, he stopped me. He was having a meeting that evening, he said. I looked like just the kind of guy he needed, charismatic, outgoing, and clearly intelligent. A go-getter. Would I be interested in attending?

I should have known better, but his flattering words swelled my head. So I assented. He gave me the place and time of the meeting, but evasively refused to divulge any more details. Nevertheless, at 7 PM, I showed up to see what it was about.

There were about a dozen students attending. All of superior leadership quality, of course. The large-stomached man now had an accomplice, a short chunky man with a crew cut who was obviously a superior. The meeting began with the short chunky man introducing himself. He was from Kentucky (the next state south) and ran a successful business helping other people. That’s exactly how he phrased it. He owned two houses, drove a Cadillac, and earned several hundred thousand dollars annually. He was rich. And didn’t mind preening about it. All by just helping other people, he reiterated again and again. It all sounded a bit loopy, I thought.

Eventually, after talking about every single aspect of the business, after drawing charts and graphs on a little chalkboard about all the products people use and how much they are expected to consume in the next umpteen years, after much discussion about every detail except the company they represented, the truth emerged. These guys were Amway men, and we were their targets.

My heart sank. All this time wasted, for this. After they opened for questions, I raised my hand. “You gained all this wealth just by pushing Amway?” I asked.

It was an unfortunate question. The short chunky man shot straight up like someone had stuck his butt with a pin. His bristly hair actually stood on end as he glared at me. “I am NOT PUSHING Amway,” he snarled angrily. The transformation was astonishing. From piously talking about helping others to seething rage in less than ten seconds. And he WAS pushing Amway. But I shut up.

Somehow, before the evening was over (and I could never figure out quite how it happened), I found myself in a room with the large-stomached man and two other students. Large-stomach wanted me badly as a rep. He intoned a five-minute speech, then a dramatic closing statement. At its conclusion, the first student leaped to his feet, grasped the man’s extended hand and said “YES,” he wanted to join. Large-stomach welcomed him and smoothly turned to the second student, who also leaped to his feet with an excited “YES.”

Large-stomach then turned to me. Two down, one to go. I was the real target. I could feel it. In response to his dramatic closing, I ignored his outstretched, inviting hand and simply said, “No.” The poor man deflated visibly like a punctured balloon. The other two students looked askance. I looked defiant and soon got out of there. And so ended my first encounter with multi-level selling.

From that and one other experience I learned what to do when someone approaches and claims to have a “consulting” business and wants to talk to me about working for him. I run, not walk, out’a there as fast as I can.

I have wondered briefly at times over the years where Large-stomach and the short chunky man ended up and whether they are still pushing Amway. All to “help” others, of course. I’d guess Large-stomach is not, as he was desperately trying to get his own “network” off the ground when he accosted me. The short chunky man may well be, since he did achieve a measure of success. If the stories he was spouting were true, that is.

Amway has been around for a long time. And it has always sold quality products, usually at quite inflated prices. Still, I have no problem with that. You don’t have to buy. But I do have a problem with its method of recruiting salespeople.

From the Amway/Quixtar foundation (although the connection is deliberately clouded, and technically may not exist), Orrin Woodward spun off a new entity some years ago. It was called “Team of Destiny.” In the years of its brief but baneful existence and meteoric ascendance, it ensnared and severely damaged the lives of thousands, all single-mindedly pursuing a shifting grand illusion that never existed in fact. The pro- mised land, where milk and honey flows, always over the next hill. Weekly meetings. Tapes. Rah, rah. Work five years and you’ll never have to work again. The money will just roll in.

It was all a lie, of course. Some lost all they owned. And more. Much, much more. Including some people I know from way back.

After sweeping through the land like a raging wildfire, devouring the hopes and dreams and tireless efforts of a multitude of entry-level peons, Team of Destiny morphed again. Now it’s simply named “Team.” And it’s skulking and slithering around out there like an insidious viper, inflicting its mind-numbing poison into a lot of very impression- able but otherwise decent people. The Team version is particularly dangerous because it infuses into its presentation a generous sprinkling of “Christian” teachings.

I don’t claim to know all the intricate details of either organization. But I do know this: Membership involves reading the foundational motivational materials, listening to an endless stream of tapes that must be purchased, and meeting at least monthly with other Team members to discuss what you are learning and how you are applying that wisdom. And one more thing. You must proselytize with all your heart. And soul and strength.

The “Team” Bible

For all I know, the Team leadership materials have a lot of truths in them, and the concepts applied may be quite beneficial. I will even concede that as fact. Why, then, attack Team as destructive?

If you are a Team member reading this, you may be turning purple and screaming at your computer by now. Such colossal ignorance, you may be thinking. For any current Team members I have a simple question: Could you spend one evening, or even one hour with me, socializing or just hanging out having a beer, without once mentioning Team in any way? Without trying to recruit me to join? Without returning to the subject again and again, regardless of where the conversation would naturally flow? I’ll answer my own question. You could not. You would not. You know it. I know it. And something about that is very, very wrong. Disingenuous, skewed, weird, creepy, out of whack.

Are you, as part of the Team, increasingly associating only with other Team members and not so much with old friends you have known for years? Don’t you ever pause to wonder why some of your old friends no longer answer their phones when you call, and why they seem to avoid you or make excuses when you want to “get together?”

I’ll tell you why. It’s because you are a pest, a blight, mindlessly spewing a perpetual flood of formulaic gibberish. Because your relationships are now based almost exclu-sively on others’ acceptance of your message, you are no longer real. Or genuine. You think you’ve found the truth. The rest of us haven’t. And people can tell. The fakery. The plastic smile. The forced cheerfulness. And always, always, your obsessive insistence on discussing the Team leadership concepts. Trust me, it gets old, fast. You are undermining existing, long-standing relationships. And you are destroying the core of who you really are. Soon there will be nothing left but a hollow caricature of what you were or might have been.

To really become involved, you must surrender your soul to the cause. With each monthly tape, each monthly meeting, you must get pumped up for the next. You have to live it. Breathe it. Speak it. Keep yourself psyched up. Preach the message, both to gain new converts and to sustain your own faith. It’s one-dimensional. It’s cultish. It’s religious.

And it’s a shame that good people are losing their friends and their credibility by spout- ing an endless stream of “leadership” psychobabble. They are not leaders. They are brainwashed sheep, pretending to be leaders. People who feign interest in your per- sonal well-being, but who really aren’t, because they are no longer interested if you reject their overtures to join them in smoking the Team leadership “crack pipe.”

Anything that requires all your conscious efforts all the time, to the exclusion of almost all other aspects of your physical and emotional and spiritual well-being, is dangerous and ultimately destructive. Any scheme that promises “you do not have to work, the money will just roll in” is deceptive, and ignores the most basic of economic principles. And appeals to the lowest common denominator of greed and sloth. That, in a nutshell, is why I so strenuously oppose Team (of Destiny). That, and because I know its source.

If you are a Team member and absorb nothing else on this post, absorb this: In my opinion, Orrin Woodward is a false prophet, leading you to a place you do not want to go. Sooner or later you will reach that conclusion. Probably later, after you are strand- ed alone in the wilderness, your life and relationships in shambles at your feet, your $65.00 per month, or whatever amount it is, frittered away like so much dust in the wind. It will happen. In a year. Or two. Or five. I have seen it all before. I will see it again. You can choose not to let it happen to you.

Ultimately, the Team version, too, will fade away. Into oblivion, as the last one did. Once its leaders have fleeced their tens of millions of dollars from their naïve and gull- ible flocks, they will be off on something else. Preaching a repackaged message to a new flock, a fresh group of impressionable souls desperately searching to fill a gaping void in their lives. The leaders won’t hesitate. They will close Team down. Pick up and move on. Leaving in their wakes the decimated ruins of thousands upon thousands of devastated relationships and damaged lives, strewn about like so much twisted wreck- age after the storm has passed.
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Last Monday evening I watched President Bush deliver his final State of the Union Address. Well, I watched a little of it. Just enough to taste the history of what was his last such speech. Mr. Bush has aged greatly in his seven years as the most powerful man in the world. As they all do. He looks just a little worn. But he defiantly went after Congress on several issues and defended his decision to invade Iraq. While I’m greatly irritated at Mr. Bush for his prolific spending, I can’t help but like the guy. He is who he is, with few pretensions. And somehow, I think history will judge him much more kindly than the current crop of nattering liberal talking heads. In fact, I’d stake a sizable bet on it.

We were honored this week to host my brother and family, Titus and Ruth Wagler and their active little boys, Robert and Thomas. Elmer and Susie Yutzy and daughter Kayla Joy (and baby whose name I failed to note) traveled with them. They stayed at Steve and Wilma’s while here. As owners of the Midwest Truss Company in Bloomfield, IA, they came to the area to check out a few truss factories for ideas for expansion. Guess things are booming the southern Iowa.

All pictures below taken WITHOUT permission.

Ruth, Titus, Thomas and Robert

Thomas and Robert

Thomas, Johann Lapp, Robert and George the dog

Elmer and Susie Yutzy and Kayla Joy

They weren’t around long, arriving Tuesday afternoon and leaving Thursday morning. But was good to catch up with my brother, as I do not see him that often. He came and spent a few hours at the office with me on Wednesday morning.

Happy Birthday to my oldest brother Joseph, who hit the Big-60 Wednesday, Jan. 30th.

Finally, GO GIANTS. Kick the vile Patriots. We can all dream.

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“….to sleep;–To sleep! perchance to
dream:–ay, there’s the rub….”

—Shakespeare, “Hamlet”
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I am a light sleeper. Have been for decades. After retiring to bed, it usually takes me a while to drift off. I toss and turn. Doze, then start suddenly, wide awake, my relaxed brain flooding with the worries and problems of the previous day. Issues from work, some call I forgot to return, or whatever. Often I wake up around 4 or 5 AM, suppos-edly the ideal time for the most productive deep sleep. When that happens, I usually doze fitfully again until the alarm blares at 5:40.

Lack of sound sleep has afflicted me most of my adult life. As a teenager, and later an adult living in my parents’ home, I regularly burned my bedroom oil-flame lamp late into the night, reading whatever I could get my hands on. Lots of trash. Some good stuff, real literature. While such late-night reading was greatly beneficial for my self-education, the price ultimately was steep. An accumulated lack of sleep.

Sleeplessness runs in the family, I think. My father often stayed up until midnight or later, pounding away on his typewriter. He did a great deal of his writing after supper in his little office, the mantle lantern hissing above him. As the rest of us went to bed, the clacking and dinging of his typewriter reverberated faintly through the walls. (What the man could have done with a computer will never be known.) But he was always the first one up, well before sunrise, hollering into our bedrooms at the boys to get up for morning chores.

Sometime around 2001-02, Ellen and I bought a Select Comfort mattress, the kind Rush always brags about on his world renowned, growing-by-leaps-and-bounds radio program. The mattress was a king-sized model. I still use it. It’s probably the best bed I’ve ever owned, although not quite as magical as advertised (by Rush or anyone else).

I never sleep well in hotel beds, either. So when I went to the 4-day Timonium Horse World Expo in Baltimore last week, I expected the usual. I booked a room at the Holiday Inn Select in North Baltimore, located about a block from the trade show. The first night, I retired around 10. I stretched out on the king-sized mattress and pulled up the soft comforter. Amazingly, and quite unexpectedly, I fell asleep almost instantly. And slept like a baby all night, without waking up once.

I couldn’t believe it. I briefly examined the bed on Friday morning before heading out for the day. Looked like a regular, cheap motel bed. It did have some kind of pad on top of the mattress. “Oh well,” I thought, “probably a fluke. We’ll see how I sleep tonight.”

I stayed at the Holiday Inn for three nights, and slept better those three nights than I have for many, many years. I stopped at the front desk to inquire about the bed one evening. The dreadlocked, droopy clerk didn’t know and didn’t care. He eyed me suspiciously through his tiny round spectacles. I’d have to ask housekeeping, he said, stifling a yawn. Oh, yeah, housekeeping. If I could only communicate with them. The maids I saw were talking another language.

I raved about the mattress on the trade floor to my neighboring vendors. One lady told me the pad on top of the mattress was called Memory Foam, and that it was available in stores like JC Penney and Boscov’s. Now I was getting somewhere.

I always take a day off after doing a trade show. So on Monday afternoon, after hitting the gym for the first time in six days, I headed to the mall to find a Memory Foam pad. Penney’s didn’t have them. I wandered into Boscov’s next. I walked into the household goods section and approached a matronly sales lady.

“Memory Foam?” she responded pleasantly to my inquiry. “Sure we have it. Right there.” She pointed to a stack of various sizes.

Trying to look as helpless and forlorn as possible, I asked some questions as to what I should buy. Kate, the sales lady, was a quite helpful, and I soon selected a Queen sized, 2-inch thick pad and a cover spread. Kate assured me that I could try it for a few weeks and return it if it was unsatisfactory.

After paying for the items, I realized they were too big to fit in a bag. No problem, Kate claimed, as she taped some chintzy-looking plastic handles on both. I expressed doubt as to whether the handles would hold.

“Why, Mr. Wagler,” Kate scolded, “have I given you any indication that I don’t know what I’m doing?”

I chuckled and confessed that indeed she had not given me any such indication. And apologized for my lack of faith. The chintzy little handles held up well as I trundled from the mall, the boxes banging against my legs.

I wasted no time installing the Memory Foam on my bed when I got home. The verdict after a few nights: A definite improvement, but not quite as good as whatever was on that hotel bed. I may have to try the 4-inch pad.
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Some of you may have wondered why no updates were posted on Anne Marie Zook’s brain tumor diagnosis. The tumor results were returned several weeks ago. At the time, Paul and Anne Marie requested that I refrain from mentioning anything publicly until further notice, as they needed a few weeks to gather their thoughts in relative privacy. They have now given me permission to post.

The test results, or pathology report, as it’s otherwise known, revealed that Anne Marie has a rare form of cancer that is expected to return. Upon meeting with the surgeon and the radiation oncologists, they learned that because of the tumor’s location, vital parts of the brain would need to be radiated as well. Possible side effects could include loss of all cognitive functions, cataracts, or complete blindness.

Paul and Anne Marie have decided to treat the tumor naturally, with a rigorous herbal program and a diet of raw fruits and vegetables. I respect that decision. And support it. Those of us who have not faced such a dilemma would do well to hold our tongues, if what we have to say is negative criticism.

They are doing well. Amazingly upbeat, actually. Anne Marie’s parents, who had tra-veled from their home in British Columbia for a few weeks during and after the oper-ation, will return next week to be with their daughter and provide support and assist-ance. Whatever the future holds, Paul and Anne Marie will face it together. And I will be there for my friends as they have always been there for me.
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The Super Bowl scene shook out last weekend. (Those of you who don’t like to read about football may skip this section.) The evil Patriots. And the Giants. Contrary to popular opinion, I think it will be a close, hard fought game.

I deeply respect the game of football. It resembles life. Or war. Which life seems to resemble sometimes. In the game, the offense keeps plugging away, trying to gain at least ten yards in three plays for the first down. It can keep plugging away all the way down the field until the goal is scored. Or it can go for a deep strike, eating up many ten-yard chunks in one play. It’s never too late to get into the game. Well, almost never. A team may be behind by three or four touchdowns and figure it all out and still win the game. Like war. Like life.

And now I must do a most difficult thing. Acknowledge the greatness of the Patriots. I despise the coach, the quarterback, and all the other players. But they are without a doubt the greatest team ever to play the game. Ever, in the history of the NFL. To do the impossible, as they have done this perfect season, demands respect, if not rever-ence. It will not soon happen again. Just too much parity in the league.

With one more win, Tom Brady will go down as the greatest quarterback of all time. Just a fact, when all the stats are in. Greater than Montana, Bradshaw, Favre, Elway and Marino. And Manning. The guy is a warrior. And a winner. He girds for war. He leads his troops. He gets the ball to where it needs to go. He does what it takes to win. By thirty points or three, it’s still a win. And all counts the same.

Now the Giants. I don’t particularly care for them. Or particularly despise them. Pretty ambivalent, actually. I don’t much like Tom Coughlin, the coach. I thought the Giants were nuts last year to extend his contract by one year. But somehow, he made the right moves, called the right plays and got his players believing. Right now he has the last laugh. I do like and respect Eli Manning. I like both the Manning boys. Southern gentlemen. Mannerly. Nice guys. And they can throw the football.

In the Giants-Packers game, I was interested in only one thing. Which team has a shot at beating the Patriots? It was clear after the first quarter that the Giants were the ones, so I cheered them on. They outplayed the Pack all night and the game should never have gone into overtime. Of all teams, the Giants fear the Patriots the least. They will play them hard. And tough. Until the Patriots lose, they are the unquestioned favorites. But don’t be surprised if the Giants bristle. I expect them to. And they might actually pull it off.
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My parents, along with my oldest brother Joseph and his family, moved to Mays Lick, Kentucky this week. Thanks to my sisters Rhoda and Rachel for helping them get packed for the move. And thanks to my sisters Maggie and Naomi for meeting them at their destination and helping them settle in.

Dad and Mom plan to spend a few weeks in Florida soon. I am glad they can go, as traveling to Florida for the winter was forbidden by the church “Ordnung” in the Bloom-field, Iowa community where they formerly resided. Forcibly preventing 80-plus year old people from enjoying the healthy benefits of a warmer climate during the brutal winter months makes no sense, any way you look at it.

It is an oppressive and abusive church policy, implemented decades ago for what may then have been semi-legitimate reasons, whose time has passed. (Old folks shouldn’t go to Florida so the youth aren’t tempted to go too, and be wild and dress “English” and drive cars and such. Which makes little sense from what I’ve seen; the youth who want to go do so regardless.) An outdated relic of a policy, now enforced by a simple raw lust for power and total control over the most mundane aspects of other peoples’ lives. A shameful policy that should be abolished. As it would be if honestly evaluated.

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