News, Views, & Interviews

Dear Pampers: I took physics in high school, I’ve read up on it since, and I believe I have a better-than-average understanding of the subject. I understand displacement and I get basic mechanics. What I can’t possibly explain is how your diaper managed to hold in what my three-month-old daughter just produced this afternoon. Let me explain. This past week we started giving my daughter an occasional bottle of formula in an effort to try and get her used to using the bottle. She hasn’t gone poo in about five days, and yesterday she seemed to be getting uncomfortable. We knew something was coming… something big, and something bad. Ironically, it happened today. Father’s Day. We heard it first, then smelled it. We carried our daughter to the changing table as if she were both radioactive and on fire. Describing what she placed in your diaper wouldn’t be appropriate in mixed company, but let’s just say there was a lot of it. A whole lot. What I saw rocked my understanding of the field of physics. First, I can’t possibly explain how something that weighs about 13 pounds can produce that much stuff without imploding; and second, I can’t possibly explain how your Pampers Swaddlers held all of that in! Your product has broken the laws of physics; however, you have saved an outfit my daughter was wearing as well as possibly our carpet and other pieces of furniture that may have been otherwise bombed. My hat is off to you and your company for your seemingly supernatural diaper product. Regards, -Jeff Belanger

Two things happened recently that have caused me to revisit “Prophet” Reverend Peter Popoff of The People United for Christ, Incorporated. First, I’ve received a number of comments and emails regarding my first blog about Popoff’s “Miracle Spring Water” from Chernobyl that made me realize this guy is out there really hurting people, many of whom are desperate for answers. The second event that prompted another blog was that Rev. Peter Popoff himself phoned me! Well… sort of. I want to tell you a little bit more about my professional background. After college I was an editor for a newspaper in Danbury, Connecticut. When the newspaper ran out of money, so did I. So I sold out and went into marketing and public relations. I spent the next six years working in the marketing departments of both public and private companies, and I even did a stint working for an advertising agency in Connecticut. During this time I learned a lot about direct mail by organizing campaigns for clients, writing the contents of some of these sales documents, and understanding what technology was available in regard to making the letters personalized and more innovative. So when I receive direct mail of any kind today, I have an understanding of what went into the creation of the piece. So the other day my office phone rang and I picked it up. “This is your prophet Peter Popoff,” the voice on the other end said. I immediately recognized the voice. The recording of Popoff’s voice went on to tell me that I should watch one of his televised miracle crusades that was coming up. After I hung up, it occurred to me that I’d never spoken with a living human from Peter Popoff’s People United for Christ, Incorporated. The first toll-free number I called all those months ago was answered by a recording from Peter Popoff who asked me to leave my name and address (spelling everything out) on the recording. After that, the letters started coming, each one asking for a specific amount of money. I gave the amount he requested twice because I wanted to see where this would go. I quickly figured out where it was going. Each week I received one or two letters from Popoff, each with some crazy gimmick like holy bubble gum, blessed mood rings, or a supernatural fleece. You can see that one below (click on the image for a larger view). I also noticed other features of Popoff’s direct mail campaigns. In the lower right of each piece of mail I received from Popoff, was a number: 1921805. This is a control number. The day I first called for the Miracle Spring Water, I was assigned this number in their computer. When I mailed in a “donation,” it was noted on my number and I became a higher priority for the campaign. Some of the cards Popoff asked me to fill out asked if I was married, or who I’d like him to pray for and what was my relationship to that person. He also asked how much debt I was in. I filled in a few things that are public knowledge anyway. I gave him my wife’s name on the card, and I told him the total I owe on my house’s mortgage. When my donation and filled-in cards went back, I noticed future letters became more personalized — they mentioned my wife’s name as well. How? Because when my mail goes back to his headquarters, someone enters that information in the database that corresponds with my control number 1921805. The more details he has, the more personalized the letters can become — and through the miracle of automation software and direct mail, he can send out thousands of these letters per day — all “personalized.” Popoff’s letters are printed in two colors. A black “Courier” type face to make it look like it was typed on a typewriter, and then blue writing to make it seem like he personally wrote special notes that call the reader’s attention to various parts of the letter. These are probably written by Popoff himself because they’re generic (i.e. they don’t mention my name) and the lettering is different than other seemingly hand-written sections. Check out page 4 of his “fleecing” letter. Notice how he asks for $24.00 at the end? And see my control number in the lower right (click on the image for a larger view)? One person who emailed me about my first Popoff blog mentioned that they had personalized hand-written notes from the good Reverend on their letters. The hand-written parts of the letters is simply a computer font. If you look at the letters, you’ll see all of the E’s are identical, as are the I’s, T’s, etc. It’s just a type face and it’s a different style than those generic messages I mentioned above. I’ve included one of these here (click on the image for a larger view): A database feeds a printing press that churns these letters out, stuffs the envelopes, and then someone brings them to the post office. You wouldn’t need too many people to run an operation like this. No one has to answer phones or letters. They just have to run the checks to the bank, enter information from donations into the database, and run the printing press. It’s easy, and it’s obviously profitable. You almost have to admire Rev. Popoff’s approach. It’s a formula that is working for him. It’s completely impersonal, has nothing to do with teaching the Bible or anything else, and everything to do with pulling readers in to donating various amounts of money that can really add up over time. Along the way he’ll send you bubble gum, oil, water, salt, and anything else he can dream up in an effort to make you think you’re partaking in a supernatural ritual, when in reality you’re acting like a puppet and he’s just pulling your strings in an effort to get

When I was a wee lad of about ten years old, Sunday nights meant one thing… duct tape. I was sent to bed too early, of course. We all were at ten years old. But I had a solution for that… duct tape. Like all good children of the 80s, I had a boom box — shiny silver with big knobs and bright lights — too bright in fact because when I’d plug my headphones in after being sent to bed, the pulsating red lights would alert my parents that I wasn’t asleep, I was listening to the radio. “Jeffreeeey!”My mom would say (she’s the only person who ever calls me “Jeffrey”) “Turn the radio off and get to bed!” The solution to this problem? Duct tape. A small patch of duct tape over the red LED lights would mute them just enought to let me feed my jones… Dr. Demento’s radio show. “Weird Al” Yankovic, Kip Addotta, Julie Brown, Cheech & Chong, and Napolean XIV kept me snickering under my covers while Dr. Demento spun the latest parodies and farce songs along with classics by legends like Spike Jones and Tom Lehrer. Monday recess at school meant my friends and I would sing the songs we heard the night before and even make up a few of our own. As I got older, I grew taller, but not more mature. I learned to play guitar and I never lost my love of music, especially wacky music. I never lost the dream of writing a song that Dr. Demento would play on his show. During the Christmas season of 2000 I wrote a spoken-word poem called “A Redneck Christmas Carol.” My then girlfriend (and now wife) Megan performed on the song with me and an audio engineer friend produced it for me. We sent a copy of the song to our friends that Christmas and kind of forgot about it. A few years later, I added the song to the Sound Click Web site and was surprised to find others like the bit as well. So I rolled the dice and mailed a copy to Dr. Demento and forgot about… until today. While Googling “Redneck Christmas Carol” I came across a Dr. Demento playlist from 2005. And there was my song! I hit the big time December 4, 2005 and didn’t find out until April 24, 2007. During that same show, Dr. Demento also played songs by Denis Leary and Bob Rivers — not bad company! I’m such a dork, I know, but seriously — a show I used to sneak around to listen to played one of my wacky songs. I’m now inspired to send the good Doctor my follow-up Christmas hit, “Brown Christmas” that I wrote with my father-in-law, Robert Peckman. You can hear both songs here: http://www.jeffbelanger.com/santa/ See you in the funny pages!

“All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances,” so wrote Shakespeare. So true. Some people seem to be minor characters, or background noise for the rest of us. But a select few are so colorful, so bombastic, that we remember them. They command our attention. Shawn Poirier was one such character. I first met Shawn in Salem, Massachusetts back in 2004. I was working on my book, Communicating With the Dead and I was speaking with him about Ouija boards and being psychic. I felt like I got him pretty early on. Each time I’ve seen Shawn, he was dressed head-to-toe in black–and he was usually wearing a cloak. His big frame and tall stature only added to this imposing figure. But he had a smile and charm that forced you to look past any hang-ups you may have about the way he dressed. I believe that was part of his point. Shawn passed away on Sunday, March 18th in his sleep. He was 40 years old. Last night I attended his wake and funeral ritual. This was the first Witch funeral I’ve ever been to. The family specifically asked that we dress in black and wear our favorite pointy hat. I actually had a Witch’s hat in my Halloween box so I brought it along but wound up leaving it in the car. Once inside a procession of black trickled in. I saw a few people I knew, and I offered my condolences. Around 7:30, with everyone seated and silent, the ritual began in front of the casket. Four Witches stood over a table on which sat a human skull, a bowl of water, and a few other items I couldn’t make out from where I was sitting. One Witch swept the area around them then another took a ceremonial knife and cast a circle. Then we chanted. Though the ritual part of a Witch funeral was foreign to me, everything else about it was familiar. Instead of some priest, minister, or rabbi going through the standard motions over a person they didn’t know that well (which I’ve witnessed plenty of times), there were four Witches, close friends of Shawn’s who gave every line and every motion deep meaning because they truly cared about this person. At the non-Witch funerals I’ve attended, I sat patiently through the standard lines the clergy spoke until the eulogy–that’s the part that holds all the meaning because it’s usually given by someone who cared deeply for the departed. At this funeral, every part of the ceremony had meaning. Instead of just reading from standard religious texts, the Witches also read from Shawn’s Book of Shadows–his Witch’s journal. Instead of hearing someone else’s words, we heard Shawn’s. It was one of the most touching funerals I’ve ever attended. Everyone in that room meant it. They wanted to be there, and their presence had purpose. I had only known Shawn for a few years and I only saw him at a few events during that time but I can tell you that Shawn was the real deal. He believed what he preached to his very core and his conviction was impressive. The cat had style and charm–and he made an impact on me. So much so that I felt compelled to go pay my respects last night. Merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again to you, Shawn Poirier, King of the Salem Witches.

A few weeks ago I was on The Maury Show during a segment called “Ghosts Caught on Tape.” One of the segments shown was the ghost of Puckett’s Garage in Oklahoma. Several alert viewers sent me emails claiming that I was furthering a known hoax. One email even accused me of not doing my homework… ouch! There are a couple of things I want to say in my defense, and one in my offense (the best defense is a good offense, right?). First, as with all of the evidence I’ve ever displayed on my Web site or in my lectures, I never claim that what I have is proof. Because of time constraints, there were portions of the Maury interview that didn’t make it to the air. Maury Povich asked how we know some of these videos are a hoax or someone playing a joke. My response was that we don’t know with all of these, but we often have some pretty compelling circumstances surrounding the video. Again, it’s evidence, not proof. Some people see enough evidence that a phenomena is proved to them, others can see all of the evidence in the world and they’ll never believe. No problem. That’s their choice. Back to Puckett’s garage… you can view a write-up about the video (and see it) here: http://www.ghouli.com/investigations/puckett.htm The reason for the emails was mainly because this video clip was shown on a television show last year where some researchers were able to mostly recreate the phenomena by hanging a plastic doll by a string close to a security camera. Even though the video looked very similar to the Puckett’s garage footage, the show said the results weren’t conclusive.  Basically, unless someone comes forward and says, “Hey, I faked this,” it will remain inconclusive. These videos are all a part of a much bigger discussion. Does something happen after death? And if so, can we see evidence of it here in the world of the living? So in response to those emails from people trying to keep my honest I say, “You may be right.” But I also ask that people look at all of the evidence. Consider the millions of clips, photos, and personal accounts. Can we dismiss them all? I can’t. And that’s what keeps me going.

In January of this year psychic Sylvia Browne was busted in another blunder. Now I have no idea whether Sylvia Browne has a psychic gift, used to have one, or only has one on occasion, but I do know that two of her predictions over the last 13 months are deplorable and inexcusable. Not only was she 100% wrong, but she was commenting on life and death issues in real-time. I know for a fact Sylvia Browne has gotten other predictions wrong in addition to the two I’m going to discuss here, but I don’t take issue with a psychic saying something like, “You’ll meet a tall, dark stranger and fall in love,” and the person being read for meets a short, fat friend and falls in love with that person instead. No one really gets hurt in a prediction like this (except the tall, dark stranger, of course). Let’s stick to the facts. On January 2, 2006, Sylvia Browne was on the Coast to Coast overnight radio program with George Noory–I show I’ve also had the pleasure of being an overnight guest on. January 2nd was the day that the 13 coal miners in West Virginia were still stuck underground. During the early parts of the four-hour program, George Noory interrupted the show to announce the great news that 12 of the 13 miners had been found alive. Sylvia Browne said she knew they would be okay. She said she thought one might not make it, but she knew. She also acknowledged that it’s easy for a psychic to say something like that after the fact, but nevertheless, she knew. A few hours later, during the same show, George Noory read the corrected newswire that 12 of the 13 coal miners had perished and the previous wire story was wrong. Sylvia Browne could only ponder aloud how the newswire could make such a mistake. And she didn’t miss a beat. She changed her story 100% during the same radio program and said she knew that most of them were gone. It’s crass, rude, and wrong to comment on issues like this in real-time. But what happens next is even worse. On October 6, 2002, Shawn Hornbeck went out for a bike ride in Richwood, Missouri and didn’t return. His parents were desperate to find their child and eventually they made their way to the Montel Williams show to ask Sylvia Browne for help. The date was February 26, 2003 and Sylvia told the frightened parents that she had the answer. She told the parents that her boy was dead and his body was in the woods 20 miles away near two jagged boulders. His bicycle was dumped in another state. The heartbroken parents left and tried to accept that their child was dead. In early January of this year, Shawn Hornbeck was found alive and well in St. Louis, Missouri with another boy who had gone missing just a few weeks earlier. Every psychic I’ve ever interviewed (and there have been quite a few) will say that they can’t be 100% accurate all of the time. I accept that. But if one isn’t 100% sure, one better not comment on life and death to the faces of those who are affected most by the missing person in question. What Sylvia Browne did was despicable and unacceptable. On her own Web site she offers a vague apology for getting this one wrong, but it’s so vague I actually find it even more insulting than saying nothing. We talked about this issue quite a bit on a recent X Zone Radio Show, but I wanted to go on written record saying Sylvia Browne’s behavior on these issues is inexcusable. If someone wants to spend $750 for a 20-30 minute phone reading with Sylvia Browne, that’s their business. But please oh please don’t ask about anything related to life and death issues. She clearly has no problem with guessing on those subjects.

I’m a regular guy — I like my beer cold and my pizza hot. And if left to my own devices, my wardrobe would consist only of ripped jeans and t-shirts with dirty/funny sayings on them. Thankfully, I’m married which saves me from myself quite often. Yesterday I was in New York City for a taping of The Maury Show. They were producing an episode on the paranormal so they asked me to come on and discuss some ghosts caught on tape. The show was a great experience. I had the opportunity to meet some friends I have known for a few years via email and phone calls. I met psychic and author Jeffrey Wands, Tom and Lisa Butler from the American Association of Electronic Voice Phenomena, plus folks from the New Jersey Ghost Organization and Western New York Paranormal. (You can see some photos on my Gallery page: http://www.jeffbelanger.com/gallery.shtml). Oh yeah… the makeup… Wednesday morning I woke up with a shiny red zit on the bridge of my nose. Kind of like a red LED light — the kind of thing that may actually be able to glow in the dark. I really haven’t had zits since I was a teenager, but there it was. On The Maury Show there is a makeup room backstage. Typically only the female guests get touched up before going on. I watched as the ladies who were going to be on the show finished up and then I coyly asked one of the makeup artists there, “Can you do something about this?” And I pointed to my nose. This woman was all business. “Sure!” She said. “Have a seat.” I sat down and she pulled out a paint brush and proceeded to make my zit disappear like some kind of Hollywood Illusionist. I looked in the mirror when she was done and simply said, “Wow!” I was the only guest in the makeup room at this point. That’s when the second stylist came over and started patting down parts of my hair that were sticking up. The first makeup artist then told me my forehead was kind of shiny and could she “Touch me up?” I said sure and she proceeded to take the shine away. So there I was, completely made-up. I’m not really a vain person, but I can honestly say that they made a real improvement. Yes, I wore makeup… and I’m not ashamed. The Maury Show I’m going to be on airs Tuesday, January 30th. In my segment, you won’t be able to spot the pulsing red zit on the bridge of my nose, nor my glistening forehead, and I owe it all to that sweet lady in Maury’s makeup room. I wish I knew her name so I could tip my hat to her publicly.

“It’s just a game…” That’s what I keep telling myself. Last night the Patriots lost to the Indianapolis Colts in a nail-biter of an AFC Championship football game. The first half, the Patriots dominated on both sides of the ball. But even when we were up by 18 points, the Patriots faithful weren’t exactly making hotel reservation in Miami yet — the Colts are just too good. In the second half, the Colts were a completely different team. They were making very few mistakes and were starting to have their way with the New England defense. The game turned into a shootout. This game was so heart-breaking because the Colts only had the lead for 60 seconds of the game. It just happened to be the last 60 seconds. I’m at peace with the loss… sort of. I keep playing the shoulda, woulda, coulda game. If only the Pats coulda stopped one more offensive drive by the Colts. If only New England woulda made one more offensive drive for a touchdown. The reality is, they didn’t. The Colts were the better team yesterday. When my team wins, I can ride the high for a week — right up until the next game. When they lose, I tell myself, “It’s just a game, get on with your life.” I know in reality this will sting just a little bit right up until the next game… which unfortunately is many months away. My hats off to the Colts. And no offense to my friends in Chicago, but I don’t think the Super Bowl is going to Chi Town. This year (I think) is finally Payton Manning’s year.

My first book came out in August of 2004. I remember the giddy excitement of holding the finished product for the first time and the pride I felt when I saw The World’s Most Haunted Places on the bookshelves in the bookstores. I’m not sure exactly what it feels like to be an author because every day on this job feels like something new. Though I’ve published five other books since, and I have seven and eight on the way in the next year, I still discover new thrills and challenges within the job — I’m still learning what it’s like to be an author. Some days are really tough. I struggle to get work done. I fall behind, I get frustrated at what I need to accomplish in such a short time period, and I wish I was doing something else. Other days are pure magic. I learn something, gain insight into a tiny facet of a subject, and feel like I’m growing and getting better at what I do. In short, being a writer feels a lot like other jobs I’ve had. There are good days and there are bad days. I have bosses, some people compliment me on what I do (which always feels nice), and some people tell me they don’t like it (which always hurts, no matter how many times you tell yourself that everyone is entitled to their opinion). One of the main differences with this job compared to others I’ve had is that when someone didn’t agree with the way I did my old job, my boss would pull me aside for a quick and private one-on-one. In this job, people publish their disapproval in magazines and on Web sites like Amazon.com for all the world to see. I recently experienced a good day on the job. A new thrill. In the mail, I received some author copies of my first book published in Estonian. Estonia is a northern European country just south across the Gulf from Finland. Check out the cover: I flipped through the book. I don’t have a clue as to what it says and I can only hope that the translation is a good one, but holding that book, I really felt like an author for a few minutes. A similar feeling to when The World’s Most Haunted Places first came out. My publisher told me that some of my other books have also been sold to foreign publishers, and I’ll also be getting copies of those books. I can’t wait. Thanks, Estonia!

I’m under a lot of stress right now. My wife and I have a child on the way, we’re trying to get our house ready for it, I have a book deadline I’m working on night and day (at least I’m finally catching up there), and I’m trying to manage a complete technical redo of Ghostvillage.com for some exciting developments in 2007. My work days typically start at 7:30 in the morning and unless I have an appointment or some other event I simply need to be at, I’ll work until about 9:00 at night. I’m not writing all this for sympathy or anything like that. Everything I’m working on right now I love doing, it just happens to be piling up at the moment. But this isn’t about my “have-to” list. This is about self-inflicted stress. I’m talking, of course, about Patriots football. I don’t consider myself your typical American guy. I love to read and write, cook, I love art museums, classical music, and lots of other eclectic interests. But man, when Sunday comes I transform into Joe-Twelve-Pack and plant my ass in front of the HDTV, I raise the volume of my surround sound stereo, and I yell for my team. There’s no rationale for it, but I feel like if I’m not watching and pulling for my team, they won’t do as well. I admit I’m very biased, but I consider the Patriots the thinking-man’s football team. They play a delicate game of chess combined with a rigid discipline to the fundamentals (most of the time) that I admire and even yell for. But last night my stomach was in a knot for about three and a half hours. Last night the Patriots played in a playoff game against the San Diego Chargers. By just about every measure, the Chargers outplayed the Patriots. They were faster, bigger, and stronger. And they mostly dominated play… but they made some critical mistakes and the Patriots did what they often do in big games — they capitalized. In the fourth quarter the tide turned just enough that a win actually looked possible. I spent the second half of the quarter kneeling in front of the TV — not in some form of pagan worship — but because I was tense and knew that jumping up and down after every play was going to get someone (probably me) hurt. As the seconds ticked away after the Patriots tied the game and put themselves in game-winning field goal position, suddenly all the doubt I had the entire game was erased. When the San Diego kicker missed his final (and very long) field goal attempt, I remembered why I love this team — they find a way. They don’t usually blow their opponents apart, they pick them apart and strike at just the right moments. It doesn’t matter that you’re bigger, faster, and have a better record. When it counts, the Patriots and their football savant coach know what they’re doing. I have no expectations of next week’s game against the Colts. The Patriots have taught themselves and all of their true fans to take it one game at a time. I’m sure they’ll keep me at the edge of my seat because they usually do. For an hour after last night’s game I felt the stress slowly leaving my body. Kind of like the feeling after almost getting in a car accident. You realize you dodged a bullet. I kept saying to my wife, “Why do I put myself through this?” I mean, if the Patriots lost last night, I still would have had a lot of work to do today. Whether they won or lost should have no impact on my life at all. But it does. There’s a spring in my step today as I toil away at the projects that were waiting for me regardless, and there’s anxious anticipation of the next game — like a good party you know is coming up this weekend. Nope, I don’t need any added stress in my life. But the drama, technical acumen, and excitment the Patriots bring me each week is worth every knot in my stomach. Go Pats! (Now back to my regularly schedule intellectual pursuits…)