letters to the editor.

complaint #1:
 
dear editor,
on jun 15, 2004, on amazon.com, i attempted to purchase a toshiba laptop computer from a private seller. on his suggestion, i agreed to use an online escrow service. this escrow service is completely fraudulent. i wired $1,500 to them using western union and since then, have not heard from either the seller or the escrow company about my transactions. i have not received the computer. i would like this site shut down and the operators prosecuted. i have all paper and electronic evidence, including emails.
 
seller info:
name: paul evenson
email: paulevns38@aol.com
location: texas???????
fraudulent escrow company info:
name: escrowe internet corp.
website: www.escrowe.com
location: london, england??????
 
i wired money through western union to john scott in london england. all their logos are fake and only take you to a page on their site.
 
please tell me what can i do?
 
thanks,
nick
 
---
 
editor's reply:
hi nick.
how about not being a dumbass?

***

complaint #2:

Is this a Nigerian scam?

EVIDENCE_PROVIDED_________:
Subj: My letterDate: 24/04/2004 09:45:03 GMT Standard
TimeFrom: successteam@mweb.co.za
Reply-to: fana@mail2southafrica.com
To: xxxxxxxxxxxr@aol.com
Sent from the Internet (Details)

Dr. Fana Khaba
Tel: +27 11 507 5618
Fax: +27 11 507 5639

Good Morning,I write to use this medium as a means of reaching out to you to make a request. I am making this contact with you based on the committee's need for an individual/company who is willing to assist us with a solution to a funds transfer.In unfolding this proposal, I want to count on you, as a respected and honest person to handle this transaction with sincerity, trust and confidentiality.I have decided to seek a confidential co-operation with you in the execution of the deal described hereunder for the benefit of all parties and hope you will keep it discreet because of the nature of this transaction.Within the Department of Minerals & Energy where I work as a Director of Project and with the co-operation of two other top officials, we have in our possession as overdue payment bills totaling Twenty - Two Million, Five Hundred Thousand U. S Dollars which we want to transfer abroad with the assistance and co-operation of a foreign company/individual to receive the said funds on our behalf or a reliable foreign non-company account to receive such funds. More so, we are handicapped in these circumstances, as the South Africa Civil Service Code of Conduct does not allow us to operate offshore account hence your importance in the whole transaction.This amount represents the balance of the total contract value executed on behalf of my Department by a foreign contracting firm, which we the officials over-invoiced deliberately. Though the actual contract cost have been paid to the original contractor, leaving the balance in the tune of the said amount which we have in principles got approval to remit by Key-Tested Telegraphic Transfer (K.T.T) to any foreign bank account you will provide by filing in an application through the Justice Department here in South Africa for the transfer of rights and privileges of the former contractor to you.I have the authority of my partners involved to discuss on the modalities of sharing with you. Your share of the entire sum will be 22.2%, while 46.6% for us and 31.1% for taxation and miscellaneous expenses. The business itself has a minimal risk factor, on your part provided you treat it with utmost confidentiality. Also, your area of specialization is not a hindrance to the successful execution of this transaction. I have reposed my confidence in you and hope that you will not disappoint my colleagues and I. I wait in anticipation of your fullest co-operation. I am available on my confidential telephone/fax lines above to entertain any questions concerning the clarity of this transaction.

Thank you in anticipation of your co-operation.

Best Regards,Fana Khaba

---

editor's reply:
no, it's a south african scam.

***

complaint #3:
 
I was surfing E-bay looking for mountain bikes. I received an E-mail from somebody ( i cant remember the e-bay member details). Saying that he had bikes available similar to the ones i had been looking at. And was directed to the following website, http://www.scorpionbike.com/ It all looked very official and above board, offering references to past customers. (Which I unfortunately did not check up on). Offering a wide selection of high end mountain bikes at very good discounts on the retails prices available to customers in the U.K.After several weeks of returned E-mails (Which i still have copies of). I made my selection about make and model of bike, as i was going in with a friend we were offered a further discount for buying two bikes at the same time.Payment was made earlier this week via Western Union. Since my last E-mail confirming that my payment had been sent i have received nothing to repeated requests to give details of shipping and delivery times. So i can only assume that i wont be getting two bikes delivered by UPS in the near future.I am going to take steps to get information from Western Union as to were my money has been collected from, and see if that will shed any light on the matter. i only hope that you can put some sort of block on the website to stop other people from being duped in this way.

---
 
editor's reply:
great! you still have copies of the emails, which you think will help you find the guys who fleeced you! now everytime you check your email, you can be reminded of what a dumbass you are. congrats!

sleep is definitely over-rated.

***
exercise mousedeer is over and done with. renewed optimism is what i'm spending time with now. i'm off from work until thursday, so i have time to read the books i picked up from the library, to attend my brother's wings presentation ceremony tomorrow (think helicopters, not icarus), to meet my friends during the day (oh joy.), and to sit in front of my keyboard and type, type, tippity-tap-type out all these ideas for stories in my head. it's good, healthy living without the atkins diet.

this also means that bigbad is going to receive the attention it deserves, and that you, my dear readers, are in for some good ol'-fashioned home-made goodness.

in other news, i've started reading fiction voluntarily. this is a huge development for me, because i've never read anything that wasn't mandatory or wasn't given to me by someone who i really trust to have good taste in modern literature. i've come to realise (thanks in part to my auld acquaintance, david hume) that the only way i can gain knowledge and skill as a writer is to read and to read prolificly. good fiction is in several ways superior to non-fiction in that the writer has to compensate for what the reader knows to be concocted events and personae by detailing these things vividly and convincingly enough to effect the reader's participation in the woven tale. i will also mention here any particularly outstanding works that i come across over the next few months. right now, michael crichton's prey comes to mind - this one's for all you closet geeks out there.
***

and yet sleep wins out in the end, every time.

the mouse and the deer.

apologies for the lack of any real activity here for the last week. i'm on exercise this week and have been awfully busy preparing for it. i'm looking forward to this friday, which is significant because it marks the end of the last major military exercise i'll be involved in till the end of my national service (september 05). i'm looking forward to my involvement in preparations for next year's national day.

meanwhile, you can read the post below to keep yourselves entertained until i get back. it's a story i gradually put together on those longish train rides back home from work everyday. yes, lishan, come back quick so we can talk about that book idea of yours.

alive.

she lay on her side with one arm stretched out under her head and the other across her waist. her legs were bent at the knees and close to her. she awoke to a gentle tapping that increased in frequency as the moments passed. it reminded her of the sound of fingers drumming on a steering wheel. the tapping continued, now all over her body, and she suddenly felt warm. she opened her eyes slowly, and could feel the sand on her eyelids pressing against the underside of her brow. it was an uncomfortable sensation. bright specks streaked across her line of sight. she could hear the quiet whispers of darkness, and instantly knew it to be night. she never felt alone unless she was afraid, and right then, she felt like the only person alive. she shut her eyes tightly, drowned out the tapping and drifted back to sleep.

everybody has a story, she used to believe. everybody is interesting, everybody hopes, everybody has flaws, everybody is, at heart, just like everybody else. everybody can be a somebody, a nobody or an anybody. As she made her way through the bustling streets of the city, watching the world pass by her, she realized that people wore masks wherever they went. these are their city-faces. this is the walk of the anonymous. their eyes twinkle like the diamonds that line the display racks. their smiles are brighter than the lights that lead them to their next purchase. everybody is in a hurry. everybody wants to be somewhere right now. they go home satisfied with their evenings, they go to sleep and then they wake up in the morning - there is a gentle disconnection of the end from the beginning during the twilight hours. there is no joy in the city life. a thriving nightlife is mankind's way of colouring the bleak cityscape in pastels. all she saw were lost souls with shopping bags.

not that she wasn't one herself. it took her twenty three minutes to give up on love. it took her two to get to the ground floor of her apartment; twenty seven later she was in the city, searching for meaning in something; in anything - anything would have done for her right then. along these concrete walls there are answers to every one of life's questions, but none of them are true - they are lies cunningly whispered to us as secrets. secrets so secret that we can't even tell ourselves. secrets that we dare not test, for they are secrets, and they are not meant to be revealed to anyone. these words caress our ears and make the hairs on our neck stand. they send shivers along our bodies that cause our muscles to spasm in delight. immediately we reach for our masks and make to dance in this neon ballroom. the city is a big, fat lie and we live it every single day.

a vagabond lay by the curb, ironically situated beneath a sign that read 'the city that never sleeps.', curled up like a baby. born as a burden to this world and a burden borne by society, he will live on morsels of hope and despair till he draws his last breath. this is the life of quiet resignation we deceive ourselves into thinking does not exist. his dirty overalls bore the symbols of a well-known company; no doubt he was a former employee of theirs. *she wanted escape from the hideous bustle of a world in which she was able to take no part; a natural impulse with the soul which feels but cannot or will not act. why is hope so elusive? there is no reward for hoping for something apart from hope itself. hope is the survivor of man. without it, we would all lay down our arms and surrender. hope that there is a god; that's something many do, she thought. hope that their god is the one with the keys to heaven; that is what the many quietly pray for.

she loved, once; loved with all her heart; loved the only way she knew how. she loved until she realised that love too, has a mask. to so many people in this world, and for the most inexplicable reasons, hope hangs precariously from the threads of love. when love unravels itself, hope too, is lost. teeth are ground to dust and arms are thrashed about as we come to terms with our own pitiful weaknesses. we swell and rise; chest forward, arms drawn behind, face turned upward, body arced like an angel - then crash back into the depths of an endless sea of tears. she had seen it before, this beautiful sight; like the wreckage of a plane that our eyes cannot resist - the chipped paint, the scattered slivers of glass, the mangled steel, the hint of death and that sickly-sweet smell of despair. when god is too busy for you, when hope is a dull throbbing sensation in your heart, when your mascara is running and everyone is thinking, oh poor girl, and then as an afterthought, thank god that's not me, it is time to pack one's bags and make to leave.

the church was different now. the simple murals and ornaments had been replaced with sprawling mosaics and gaudy decorations. the corridors smelt clean and processed, almost like an infirmary. the cracks along the floors were gone. the pews had been refurbished and now had plush seats. the main hallway was no longer grand. it was large and empty, and strangely quiet. years ago, these walls would talk to her. they would because she had the time to listen to them. she would dance in the coloured light that filtered through the solitary mosaic above the altar. she smiled to herself and gently shook her head. the church had changed so much and in so many ways that she realised she did not know where to begin looking for god there. she sat on one of the pews for a few minutes and when nothing seemed to changed, she got up and left.

she remembered the first time she ran away from home. dad was screaming again and the music could not drown his voice out. her parents had been fighting for close to an hour over her, and the moment an arm was raised, she made up her mind to leave and never come back again. she stole out the back of the house and ran down the street, making sure that she remained inconspicuous. two hours later she was sitting under saint vincent's bridge, sobbing like any teenage girl would. she was too angry to be afraid; too angry to even think, else she would not have begun to run. the squatters let her be, so long as she didn't do anything to their property. lady luck was kind to her that day, as a police squad car came by to investigate complaints of squatters trying to stow away on passing trawlers to pilfer some of the fishermen's daily catch. the squatters were taken away grumbling and cursing under their breath, thinking that her arrival had something to do with their subsequent capture. one of the officers called for a police van to handle the squatters, and then for any report of a missing teenage girl, with shoulder-length brown hair, brown eyes and the loveliest smile he had ever seen. that cheered her up right away. her parents promised they would never argue again. they did, but she never ran away again. as she got older, she learned to accept the reality of things, just like everyone else does. parents will argue; children will be rude; friends will be difficult at times; enemies will be unforgiving; life is about surviving, not living. it's every man for himself.

sometimes she just wanted a hug. sometimes she just wanted an embrace. sometimes she just wanted it from him. sometimes she just wanted one from anyone. she wanted one from him because she adored him and everything he said and did. sometimes she wanted one from him because he had the best hug of anyone she'd ever met. she only wished that people she cared about would remember the next morning what they had said the night before.

saint vincent's bridge again; some things never change. two lanes either way, but nobody ever used it to get anywhere. they build things just to prove a point. look at us, they cry, look at what we built. faster, taller, stronger. tomorrow is another day to animals, but not to us. oh no, not to us. then with a wry smile they add, tomorrow is bigger. she knew that humanity will one day die a quiet, simple death. nothing glorious; nothing moving. there will be no cameras and no audience. there will only be the darkness and the wilderness. we will just keel over and die the deaths we all deserve. it is hard to find purpose, and harder still to comprehend it. this bridge connects the suburbs to the inner city. people travel to the city to work. people work because they want to earn money. money can buy food, shelter, clothing and water. these things keep man alive. survival is an instinct. what is an instinct? it is a natural subconcious motivation. we are nothing but glorified, unnecessarily complicated animals.

she stood by the edge, peering into the swirling darkness below. it was comforting, the way the reflected light jumped and stretched along the surface of the water. it was a fascinating mixture of iodine, mercury, and the gentle, wafting scent of alcohol. a car passed by her. she pulled her fringe over her ears and looked to the distant lights. the breeze blew gently upon her back, urging her towards the edge. she was thinking of everything at once. overwhelmed everywhere she turned in her mind, she felt as though she had been backed into a corner by happenstance. she was near to choking on emotion, and the tears began to flow steadily. she wanted to end it all tonight.

she stirred and awoke. like a damp rag, she lay on the bank, unable to move. there was no pain, save for the aching of her chest. she was alive, that much was certain. in the river she felt an arm around her. she remembered kicking wildly, trying to get away from something. she closed her eyes and saw a face; a young lady's face. she remembered falling together with someone, in an embrace of sorts. they were holding onto one another as they fell into the unknown.

falling is not how she imagined it to be. her life did not flash before her eyes. it was not in slow motion. there was not orchestral music playing in the background. for a few seconds she looked into the girl's eyes, almost as if to ask why? and then she shut them tightly. the gentle fluttering of their clothes in the wind was the only sound she heard before they hit the water. there she was again, aged five, curling up into a cannonball and throwing herself into the deep end of the swimming pool. she was once alive, and now she was taking off her shoes at death's door.

everybody knows what's right. the man on the street can tell you what is right. any man, in a reasonable state of mind, can tell you what is right. there's a difference between knowing and doing. knowing doesn't make you a gift to god. why do people take their own lives? there is no comfort in death. there is no solace in suicide. there is no place in purgatory for her. life goes on, like a machine that rumbles and churns and chews one's soul into a soft, fibrous pulp. even in death we are alive in others' memories. they will paint a pretty picture of us, but pretty pictures never last. whistler's mother could attest to that. death is not tabula rasa.

and suddenly the pictures became clearer. as she stood on the bridge, she noticed that further down the bridge, the car that had passed her moments before was now parked to one side, with the driver's door wide open. she took off her heels, tossed them aside and ran to where the silver ford focus had been abandoned. just as she arrived, she saw a figure in the corner of her eye, hunched over and sobbing. the figure stood over the edge of the bridge and straightened out just as she approached it. she called out to it just as it shifted its weight and began to fall over the edge. it was the young lady! on instinct she stretched and caught the girl's forearm, but it was too late. they both fell over, and silently plunged into the river.

she surfaced, retching and gasping for breath. she was semi-conscious, and surrounded by darkness and smudged lights. she swam along the bridge, staggered onto the embankment and collapsed.

she turned her head over, coughed out water onto the ground and then rolled over onto her back. something was gnawing on her insides, and her stomach felt like it was about to burst. she was shivering violently. the tapping came back again, and immediately, she was afraid. another bout of rain would be the end of her. strange. the gentle tapping was confined to the palm of her outstretched arm. she turned her head upward and caught a pair of eyes. the same ones she had envisioned moments earlier.

she heard a police siren over the bridge. they've come to save me again. the girl was sobbing, and whispering, never again, never again, to herself. for once, she saw someone taking off their mask, if just for a moment, to take in another deep breath of life; life that, she came to realise, is justified not only in love - but in action.

*it does not matter if the greatest thing for you to do be not in itself great. the best preparation for greatness comes in doing faithfully the little things that lie nearest. the nearest is the greatest in most human lives.



--------

lines marked with * adapted from:
david starr jordan, the philosophy of despair [1902]

what's blue and not funny?

an actual conversation between my brother and myself, after he walked into my room at half-past-eleven and seated himself on my bed:

brother : (laughs) okay, listen to this one. what's blue and fluffy?
me : (without turning away from the screen) blue fluff.
brother : oh-
me : this is the third time i've heard this joke... from you.
brother : well it's still funny.

and that (should all else fail), my dear readers, is what sets us apart.

it's getting hot out there.

but don't take off all your clothes just yet. not until i say so, at least.

work in the afternoon and train rides home these days are getting to be a heated affair, what with the sun pouring in through the windows and the air con seemingly out of order. a thought struck me the other day on the ride home : if alexander pope had been through this, the title of that jim carrey/kate winslet movie would most definitely be infernal sunshine of the hotness kind.