Tragic Loss

My very favorite shirt is about ready for a dignified retirement. I don't have the heart to toss it in the trash or to tear it into rags, for it has always been a comfort to me in this hostile world. I bought it for 25 cents at a thrift store in Albuquerque 12 years ago. The color is pukish, and the pattern is circa Howdy Doody, but I have never had, nor can I find, a shirt to match its softness. It is so soft, it must have been chewed by Eskimo women. Now it is threadbare, missing buttons, frayed and possessed of large holes in the sleeves. The creator of the shirt is Yaga, which sounds like something Pre-Columbian. I don't know if they're still in business. The Lovely One says she'll look into it for me. I have other shirts, but they just don't have the baby-cheek feel that my Yaga has. The Lovely One took some pictures of me, wearing my flashback of fashion. I will miss the classic and distinctive styling, that edgy hobo look I expect in exceptional menswear. Most of all, I regret having to part with something so familiar, something frayed and broken down like me. If my companion will give me a quarter, I'll head back to that thrift store in New Mexico, looking for another Yaga.

GOPHER GOOF

While I remain free on my own recognizance, no court yet requiring me to post bond, this may be a propitious time to answer my future mail from fans of George & Georgie. Few doubt that there will be a groundswell of curiosity about the origins of my trendy, funky, ultra-gopherine pair, who make their appearance through the rusty keyhole of my daily strip, pursuing their passion for gourmet dining and lofty, pre-apocalyptic commentary. Though I hear the snicker of libertines from their building in the air and their mumble of lies from their Book of Mammon, I, the Colonel of Truth, possessor of a bright and active senility, will set the record crooked. Yea, the Venerable One breaks his silence. (Too many beans).

George and Georgie are southwestern pocket gophers, who spend their prenuptials, moving at the speed of truth, improving the soil under my ancient alligator juniper, just outside my home office window. They help themselves to the birdseed dropped from feeders by my backyard flocks. The Lovely One has photographed these friends of mine, and a few of these pictures are posted here for that literal handfull of crazy web surfers, who have begun to admire the pair.

At present, my daily comic strip is free to all carbon-based organisms, though non-tax-deductible donations are not discouraged or returned. Plans are well-underway for a fashionable line of mugs, T-shirts, sock-puppets and other soon-to-be-sought-after-on-Ebay, highly-collectible items. No one need tell me that my depiction of the humorous couple suffers from a sort of artlessness. That is simply because I can not draw, and even if I could, my chronic, restless leg disorder and frenzied brainstem would still affect the lines. I apologize to the present few and to the future masses. Allow me to be a reminder of what happens when we let just anybody pick up a pen and use our language.

Happy Birthday Micah!

Today is my son, Micah's 29th birthday. I send him my love and very best feelings and hopes. He is gifted with extraordinary talents and sensitivities. May the Lord keep him in His care and lead him to his highest potential. Here are some pictures of Micah in his younger days. I love you, son.

ODES OF SOLOMON, Part 2

The Lovely One and I have worked assiduously (I can't say tirelessly) in adding 12,000 names to our family tree over the past ten months. This has required a self-abnegation that would be hard to justify to others. It has also involved an enormous commitment of time for research and for the employment of my companion's otherworldly data-entry skills. This afternoon, we will return to the Snowflake Temple to participate in the Lord's great redemptive work for the first thousand of these individuals, who passed beyond the veil long ago and are now waiting for the completion of those ordinances which will enable their further progress toward eternal life. The Savior taught, "Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God." John 3:5.

Because this is a monumental and historic day for my ancestors, it is fitting that I begin my exegesis of the Odes of Peace by quoting in this post my very favorite one, the last of the Odes, the 42nd, which has much to say about the Savior's entry into the World of Spirits after His crucifixion to inaugurate their emancipation. I will comment upon the verses in a subsequent posting. Read this slowly, aloud, and see if the Spirit of God will confirm the truth of it to you, as it has to me.

1. I stretched out my hands and approached my Lord.
2. For the stretching of my hands is His sign.
3. My extension is the outspread tree, which was set up on the way of the Righteous One.
4. And I became of no account to those who did not take hold of me, but I shall be with those who love me.
5. All my persecutors are dead. And they sought after me who hoped in me, because I am living.
6. And I rose up and am with them; and I will speak by their mouths.
7. For they have rejected those who persecute them.
8. And I lifted up over them the yoke of my love.
9. Like the arm of the bridegroom over the bride,
10. so was my yoke over those that know me.
11. And as the bridal chamber is spread in the house of the bridegroom and bride,
12. so is my love over those that believe in me.
13. And I was not rejected, though I was reckoned to be so.
14. I did not perish, though they devised it against me.
15. Sheol saw me and was made miserable.
16. Death cast me up and many along with me.
17. I had gall and bitterness, and I went down with him to the utmost depth.
18. And the feet and the head he let go, for he was not able to endure my face.
19. And I made a congregation of living men among his dead men, and I spake with them by living lips,
20. Because my word shall not be void.
21. And those who had died ran towards me. And they cried and said, Son of God, have pity on us, and do with us according to thy kindness.
22. And bring us out from the bonds of darkness. And open to us the door by which we shall come out to thee.
23. For we see that our death has not touched thee.
24. Let us also be redeemed with thee, for thou art our Redeemer.
25. And I heard their voice and placed their faith in my heart. And my name I sealed upon their heads.
26. For they are free, and they are mine. Hallelujah.

ODES OF SOLOMON, Part 1

In 1909, J. Rendel Harris (1852-1941), a professor of Biblical languages and ancient religious literature, discovered on a shelf in his office a pile of old documents, written in Syriac. He said they had been there for at least 2 years, but was vague, when questioned, about how they came into his possession. He may not have known. His only comment concerning their provenance was that they were brought "from the neighbourhood of the Tigris." Well, that's not helpful at all. The Tigris is 1,180 miles long and is the eastern of the two great rivers that enclosed what was once called Mesopotamia. Its source is in Turkey, and it moves south through Iraq. Bagdad sits on its banks. As Harris studied these documents, which had been copied onto 400-year old paper, he recognized among them the long-lost Odes of Solomon. The Odes are a collection of 42 short lyric poems, probably written in the first century of the Christian era. The first two Odes were missing from the book Harris discovered in his office. The name is misleading; they were not penned by Solomon, the son of King David, and for that reason they have generally been classed among the Pseudepigrapha, religious writings falsely attributed to a famous person. This title does not appear in the papers found by Harris on his office shelf. The Odes were mentioned in two ancient lists of religious literature, and some were quoted in the Pistis Sophia and in a work by Lactantius. I think it would be linguistically correct to refer to the Odes as the Odes of Peace or as the Odes of Rest, rather than to use the proper name. I love the Odes. Harris called them "a memorial of the first importance for rightly understanding the beliefs and experiences of the Primitive Church." I might quibble with his description of the apostolic church as primitive, because of connotations associated with the word. Nevertheless, the term is widely used to refer to the Christian church established after the death of Christ. The Odes do give us a beautiful statement of some of the doctrines, ordinances and sensitivities of Christians living in the first century of the common era. Temple-going Latter-Day Saints will recognize truths in these poems that are hidden from the world and that have come to us through the Restoration. Harris translated and published the Odes of Solomon in 1909, and his book caused a sensation throughout the world. A copy of his book contains an introduction and commentary by Harvey Martin, which is easy for me to remember. I accept the Odes of Peace as inspired literature. Often, the Lord Jesus Christ speaks in the first person, alternating with the poet. This is reminiscent of some of the Messianic Psalms in the Bible and of those sections of the Doctrine & Covenants written by Joseph Smith in Liberty Jail. Some of the Odes resemble the Thanksgiving (Hodayot) Hymns from Qumran. Like the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Odes constitute, in my opinion, one of the great spiritual discoveries of the 20th Century. It is too bad that they are generally ignored or rejected by modern Christians of every denomination. In future posts, I will write about several of the Odes. I heartily recommend them to every believer in Jesus Christ.

PSALM OF ZION

The Lord is known in Zion.
The children know his holy love.
Count the foundations of Zion,
Her bulwarks and towers and gates.
The rivers of Eden flow through her.
Surely, the City of God is a mountain of light.
None can enter save the pure in heart,
Numbered and named and known unto God.
The wicked stand without,
And the ungodly tremble in the terror of the Lord.
Halleluel!
Glory to the Lord forevermore!
Let all thy saints praise thy name and say amen.

Stunning Announcement From St. Holiday

Saint Holiday, Resident of the United States (ROTUS), announced today that he will not be competing in the upcoming Beijing Olympics, citing personal family concerns and a widespread lack of interest. Stung by recent surveys, which have shown that billions of people worldwide ignore him daily, this towering figure of the current century has decided to avoid the risk of increased action and to spend his few remaining years ceasing and desisting. Wearing Class A Personal Protective Equipment and living in his normal structure-resistant surroundings, he has been seen examining the archipelago of truth on a global scale, while processing information at a pace that would frighten any other ruminant. Though he is ripe with potential and believes he can still go a full nine innings, he has made it known that even if the Philadelphia Phillies extend him an offer to join their starting rotation, he would likely turn it down. However, as they commonly say at the White House, all options are on the table. As a member of the vast minority, ROTUS expects that his announcement will feed the fires of public curiosity. "I will not be an amber bug," he said. "I seek transcendence through retirement." To the surprise of many, St. Holiday has abandoned his former relentless work ethic to concentrate on grand plans and great ideas, dodging marketeers in the process. He intends to become as unpredictable as any other successful serial failure, looking to the moment when he can finally control his own gastronomical destiny. There has been no comment thus far from Chinese Olympic authorities, nor is one anticipated.

Sunflowers

As Princess Jenna rightly observed in a photo I posted recently, I am growing a row of Mammoth Sunflowers at the end of my corn patch. According to the seed package from W. Atlee Burpee & Co., these large flowers will grow on 12 foot stalks. Jenna gave the seeds to me four years ago, when she moved from Show Low, and I have kept them in the bottom of our refrigerator, waiting for an opportunity to plant them. I know, four years is not very old, compared to the 2000 year old date palm seed, recovered by archaeologists from Masada, which they managed to sprout three years ago. That tree, which they named Methuselah, is now 4 feet high and doing quite well. Once I grew beans, which had descended from 1000 year-old seed found by archaeologists at Mesa Verde. Anyway, I'm off-track as usual. My stream-of-consciousness writing will never win a Pulitzer.

We learned this year that our sweet, little Lesser Goldfinches not only love the bugs that are attracted to our sunflowers, they also enjoy the taste of the lower leaves of the plant. We keep them in thistle seed all year round, for which they are enthusiastic to say the least. I think it is very wise of these beautiful birds to leave the new leaves alone, so that the plant can continue to grow and provide them with many future meals. As an aside, I don't like to let them hear me call them "Lesser" Goldfinches. I wouldn't want them to develop an inferiority complex. They may not be as bright yellow as their showy cousins, the American Goldfinches, but they have wonderful personalities and are quite intelligent. I'm glad they are enjoying the sunflowers.

Full of Beans

As the photos disclose, I am a "has bean." In his southwestern drawl, Mr. Armbrister used to call me his "podner," which always made me feel rather beanish. They are called string beans, though they are really wind instruments, as everyone knows. (Percussion for some, but we will avoid being too clinical here). They are flourishing in a cedar box above ground. Before I added the rich soil, I stapled a sheet of rust-resistant wire mesh at the bottom of the box, intending to frustrate my devious gophers. Now I can stand by the grow-box and imagine I hear the gophers beneath it, banging their heads on the wire mesh and muttering because they can not get to the beans. There's one I've named Captain Kirk because I think I hear it shouting, "Bean me up, Scottie. Bean me up." Out of love for George and Georgie, I pretend that they never venture to my garden. "Cause dey knows I has de hose."

If it grows in a pod, it's good for the bod,

But there are no beans for gophers

For the moron learned a lesson

And put the wire mesh in

The bean is of the genus Phaseolus. If you want a satisfying and happifying experience, try singing that last sentence as if you are in an opera. Well, it works for me. I sing to my beans, and they respond. Songs like "Let it Bean," by the Beatles. (Actually, the name of the band was originally the Beantles, but the nunation was assimilated by the dental ultima, according to basic philological principles). I have noticed that the bean plants at the end of the box, where I normally stand to sing to them, will flower first. This is consistent with the maxim oft-repeated among America's bean growers:

"The closer to the crooner,

To the grocer all the sooner."

I expect a great harvest this year.

CORNRISE!

At the request of the Lovely Hannah Bee, I will begin to post pictures of the Angelo Ercoli Memorial Garden of Eaten. This year, I have planted 15 rows of an early variety of sweet corn. We have a short growing season up here on the mountain. The special heirloom corn seed I ordered, which requires about 100 days to mature, was delivered late, so I was forced to choose a substitute to make up for the lost time. The heirloom seed, Stowell's Evergreen, will wait in the bottom drawer of our refrigerator until next year.

I love the power inherent in corn. It is inspiring to me to see how the Lord has endowed these simple seeds. I rejoice to be able to participate in a small way in the creative process, to reenact a tradition that was instituted in the very beginning by God Himself. To till, plant, tend and dress our gardens is an activity rich in similitudes, designed to teach everlasting principles. It is a process both temporal and eternal. "Behold, we will plant a garden eastward in Eden."

Over 30 years ago, I planted corn on borrowed land in Provo, Utah. The soil tended to clump together there because of the presence of clay. I still remember my delight at the sight of those first corn plants pushing up through the hard soil. There was power in those leaves! I remember one, though, that was bent under a clump of clay, working against the weight of it. I thought I'd do a kind deed and lift the adversity from off the plant, thereby freeing it to grow faster. That was a mistake. I learned a lesson as I observed its progress. The plant that I, in my innocent ignorance, "assisted" by giving it ease at a critical period of growth, was stunted and barren. I believe our personal struggle against the weight of adversity develops a spiritual strength and fruitfulness in us that can not come in any other way.

Here is a view of my backyard corn patch, which is now about one month along.

Dig It

Mikayla brought her rock collection to show me. She has a good eye for beautiful specimens of common stones. She loves geology. I thought it might be fun for her if we conducted an archaeological dig in the backyard. So we built a simple soil sifter from spare lumber and wire mesh, like the ones I made for fossil sieving in days of yore. We chose an empty plot of ground beyond the corn, dug a shovel's worth, dumped it in the sifter and shook out the dirt until only rocks and other things were left. To our surprise and gratitude, we enjoyed immediate success. There were Native American artifacts on the screen! Pieces of corrugated pottery and chipped agate, proof positive that Indians once stood in my backyard. We continued and found more artifacts, together with an old penny and a button. Mikayla said, "Grandpa, this is addictive, because you never know what the next shovel full will have in it." And we never know what the next hour or day will uncover in our lives. We keep digging.

Hens Again

Three new layers of responsibility were added to my life yesterday. (Puns are always intended here). Our friends, Kelly and Eileen Rogers, who raise chickens in Clay Springs, AZ, brought us a gift of three hens. We have missed the amusement of backyard poultry since Henny Penny was repossessed, but that's a tale for another time. We opened the cage in which they were transported and gave them the freedom of our large, fenced yard. They didn't know what to do with their newfound independence, congregating most of the day near the gate. Our initial attempts to herd them to the Chicken Catchatorium, where they'll have plenty of egg-room, and acquaint them with their new home were unsuccessful. They are so fast and elusive! My hens of days-gone-by would run to me and stand on my feet, making it easy for me to pick them up. These have been suddenly thrust into unfamiliar territory and are, in a word, perplexed. By the grace of good friends and other mysterious powers, they have been spared the cruelty of the butcher's blade and placed on permanent vacation at St. Holiday's Chicken Resort. Their henherd is a vegetarian, so they are in Fat City. If I can protect them from the large hawks, they will have a free-ranging, bug-rich life of chicken felicity.

Big Eyes and her family came to visit from the valley yesterday on the Day of Chicken Deliverance. She and Dave and Mikayla and the Lovely One and I were given quite a run-around last sunset, as we tried to chase down the hens and put them in the Catchatorium for the night. There was lots of leaping and lunging and grabbing and missing. We caught them one by one after much exertion and heavy-breathing. It was almost the death of the Ancient One. After all the running around, the hens will probably lay scrambled eggs today.

They don't have names yet. Each is a different variety, but they huddle together as friends.

The Lovely One is in charge of chicken appellation and photography. My job is to feed them, to water them, to protect them and otherwise look to their health and welfare, and to come running at their every peck and caw. I am their servant.

Araucana

Barred Rock Hen

Pearl-White Leghorn

The Golden Plates of Mycerinus

There is a footnote on page 15 of The Book of the Dead, as translated by E. A. Wallis Budge (copyright 1960 by University Books, Inc.), which has stirred a variety of emotions in me over the years, since Hugh Nibley first brought it to my attention. I do not know if the passage is credible; I have not found anything to corroborate it; I have not read anything that disputes it. Here is the account:

"The Arabic writer Idrisi, who wrote about A.H. 623 (A.D. 1226), states that a few years ago the "Red Pyramid," i.e., that of Mycerinus, was opened on the north side. After passing through various passages, a room was reached wherein was found a long blue vessel, quite empty. The opening into this pyramid was effected by people in search of treasure; they worked at it with axes for six months, and they in great numbers. They found in this basin, after they had broken the covering of it, the decayed remains of a man, but no treasure, excepting some golden tablets inscribed with characters of a language which nobody could understand. Each man's share of these tablets amounted to 100 dinars."

If this account is accurate, can you imagine what treasures of truth may have been etched onto those plates of gold! Mycerinus is the Greek name of the Old Kingdom Pharaoh Menkaure, the builder of the smaller of the three great pyramids on the Gizeh plateau. It is believed that he ruled for 18 years, beginning in 2490 BC. I think that is about 200 years too early, but that's for another article. Nonetheless, Menkaure would have been alive during the days of Noah. I don't think it is beyond reason to believe that copies of the uncorrupted scriptures, preserved by the patriarch Noah, were carried down into Egypt by Menkaure's Hamitic ancestors. He may have possessed them. However, I don't know what was written on the plates. I have wondered what kind of literature would be considered so valuable as to be inscribed on plates of gold and laid up in the Pharaoh's tomb. I wish leaden plates had been used instead. Perhaps then, the temptation to exploit them for their metallic value would not have been so irresistable. I read history and wrestle with 'what might have beens.'

Lucy Hutchinson Van Sciver

Two weeks ago, the Lovely One and I were researching the family of Isaac Van Sciver, born in New Jersey in 1793. On 28 Sep 1816, he married Lucy Hutchinson in Gloucester County, New Jersey. Lucy was born in 1796 in New Jersey to "parents of foreign birth." Thus far, we have discovered four children for Isaac and Lucy, namely, Jeremiah, Emily, Elizabeth and Isaac, Jr. I have a feeling there are more.

I did a routine Google search for Lucy Hutchinson, hoping that some other family historian had posted biographical information about her. Lo and behold, there was a message posted about four years ago by Marge Rice of Joliet, Illinois, stating that she had an old photograph of Lucy in her possession and wanted to reunite it with her family. I thought, "four years ago; someone else probably contacted Marge Rice for the photo by now. And maybe Marge's email address has changed." I decided to send her an email anyway, because one never knows for sure until one tries. Well, Marge Rice wrote me back right away with the good news that she still had the photo and would be happy to send it to me for a nominal price, enought to cover her costs! The Lovely One and I were delighted to be sure, and we sent a check to Marge right away.

Today, the picture arrived in the mail. It was taken around 1860 at the Benjamin Lochman Photographic Gallery in Allentown, Pennsylvania. Marge purchased it from an antique dealer in Georgetown, Texas about 6 years ago. Marge Rice is a remarkable lady, who makes a hobby of reuniting old photos with their families. According to an article about her, which she sent with the photo, she has sent over 1,332 photos to 969 people since 2000. The gratitude expressed by the families, who receive these wonderful images, fills her with happiness. Now I have custody of this unique treasure.

We still have searching to do on this family. Lucy died sometime before 1880, because her husband Isaac is described as a widower on the 1880 census of Camden, New Jersey. But now, thanks to the kindness and thoughtfulness of Marge Rice, I can connect an image with the name of Lucy Hutchinson Van Sciver.

Our Northern Orioles

I am pleased to report another wildly successful breeding season for our beautiful Northern Orioles. They returned this year to our sanctuary in the White Mountains of Arizona right on schedule in time for the full moon on April 20th. As always, the males arrived first, followed a few days later by the females. Knowing when to expect them, we always hang our nectar feeders for them to find when they arrive. It's a long flight from Southern Mexico and Central America, where they spend the fall and winter. It is heartening to note that there are more of them in our backyard every year. They know we love them and will provide a consistent, dependable supply of nectar. They are now coming to our feeders at the rate of about five per minute. The first newborns were seen last week, learning to drink from our feeders. Two weeks from now, the older males will depart for their homes southward. The females, younger males and juveniles, needing to garner extra strength will remain near our feeders until mid-August. Our Northern Orioles are the Bullock's variety. They are a delight to watch, and their songs enrapture me. I'm posting some pictures here
(Photography by the Lovely One).

A Mother's Lament

Recently, I took temporary custody of an old Bible, belonging to a family not related to mine. The Bible is in poor condition. It is stuffed with documents of a unique, genealogical nature. Today, the Lovely One and I took digital photographs of the family history pages of the Bible and scanned all the important documents inside it in an effort to preserve their content. Out of curiosity, we also researched the family, opening a computer file and tracing the generations disclosed in the records. We discovered much and enjoyed ourselves immensely. Among the papers are two poems, written by a grieving Sarah Alice McCartney in remembrance of her son, Herman Newton McCartney, who died on 2 Jan 1893, aged 1 year, 11 months, and 20 days. The mother, born 7 Nov 1859 in Ohio, was the wife of Edwin Camden McCartney, born 7 April 1855 in Illinois. What her poetry lacks in literary quality is compensated by tender emotion and spiritual truth. I have transcribed the longer of the poems below:

Is There No Christmas Greeting?

Another Christmas Eve is here

With all its joys and gladness

The most holy day of all the year,

When little hearts are filled with joy,

And eyes o'erflow with brightness.

But the year has brought us sorrow

With tears that fell like rain,

And have we no smile or greeting

For Christmas come again?

Ah! When we think of the little stocking

That hung with brother's across the chair,

And the joy and gladness of our little boys,

When they saw Santa had found and filled them there.

Now laid away with the little shoes

And tresses of curly hair,

And the dainty, little dresses,

That "our darling" used to wear.

Tonight, no one sits in the little armchair.

It stands in a corner dim.

But tonight, my eyes are oft gaping there

and yearning by thinking of him.

And I see through the dusk of a year ago

The image of my darling one's face

As he rocked so merily to and fro

With a by by baby, that cheared the place.

The brown, sparkling eyes, so full of glee,

I almost fancy now I see.

And I seem to hear his sweet voice say

"Mama be glad, and don't cry.

For your baby is blest with Jesus tonight

And singing sweet music with angels on high,

Escaped from the cares of the weary world

To where trouble and sorrow are never told.

Not alone, Mama dear, but with Jesus I dwell

In a beautiful mansion of gold,

Safe with the lambs of the upper fold."

"Only gone before to a happy home,

Where never a heart is sad and lone.

Safe with the joys supernal,

Safe with the blest to bow,

Safe with the love Eternal,

Safe with the master now.

Only at best a little while all you too

Shall be called to come,

And one "little darling" for Mama will wait

And meet you here at the golden gate."

Ah! When I think of my darling there,

My baby, that will never grow old,

And I know he is waiting and watching for me

In that city with streets of gold,

I look up and see a father's face

Behind the clouds that break

And read there in the truth revealed

How wounded hearts by him are healed,

Who maketh no mistake.

So may I take the grief he's give,

And in my heart may his goodness live.

Oh! Who in this world could wake or rest

Without the knowledge that God knows best.

Thy will be done; I will not fear

But try to still each rising murmur

And check the falling tear,

And hush that sigh "it might have been."

And to God's sweet will, respond Amen.

Though on this blessed Christmas Eve,

There's many a tear will fall

For the memories of Christmas

Are remembered by all.

And though there's many a vacant chair

In our homes tonight,

That one year ago was filled

By those we loved, with hearts so glad and light,

But Jesus doeth all things well.

This thought hath reconciled,

That he, whose love excelleth ours,

Hath taken home his child.

So may we with the angels pay

Honor and greeting to Christ's birthday

And if we on this Saviour will trust,

Be humble, repent, and in his forgiveness believe"

He our sorrows will banish , our souls will receive,

And when this short life of probation is oer

We'll join "our dear ones" to part never more.

Written Christmas Eve 1893: by Alice McCartney

(In memory of my baby boy)

Gratings, fellow earthlings!

They can't silence me, though they try. I am writing this from an undisclosed location, a bullet-proof location. Recently, I received the following assassination threat in my email:

"This is Puzzo Region, head of the FARC NETWORK. I wish to let you know that I have been paid by a client to assassinate you at convenience, and I have signed a contract for this yesterday. I have never met you before, but they gave me the full description of your identity and contact, which my boys have used to trace you. The reason why they want you Dead is not disclosed to me, as I was not allowed to know. My GUYS are now contantly watching you. They are following you home, to your office, everywhere you go, and they are waiting for my instruction to terminate you, and they will strike at convenience. THIS IS MY MESSAGE-LISTEN VERY WELL !!! The Police cannot do much to help you out in this right now because you are being watched. Any such attempt is very risky because you will push us to terminate your life without option. Your calls are not safe. I have no business with you but at least I have cleared the way as a pro, but you may have one chance to live again if you can contact me not later that 48 hours after this message."

Needless to say, the Lovely One was duly alarmed, and she immediately made the contents of this threat known to the Arizona Attorney General. In the fashion of most modern public servants, he has ignored the matter. Now I am forced to employ methods of self-protection taught to me by my grandfather, Don Ercoli. You may have read recent news reports about the difficulties faced by the FARC Network. Because of the sensitive nature of the ongoing operation, I can not give further details. Stay tuned for future developments.