Ted Wiechert - writer/musician

Comic books were my earliest passion. Through them, and constantly asking grown-ups "what does that say?" reading was learned before starting kindergarten. I had direct access to fresh comics through my Step-Father's printing company position — so new they were still warm and the ink smeared. My Mother and Aunt later provided them through their positions at another distributor in the area, cited in Wikipedia for being a hub for them since World War 2. From there, interest was developed in ink art, spending an exorbitant amount of time alone producing detailed Samurai and ninja drawings... and yes, "Ninja Turtles," which came out when I was 11 years old. Music was always a vital part of that process, then became the next art. Once I reached High School everything seemed to be drying up. I contemplating the nothingness, sitting on the staircase one day: my Mother burst through the front door and said "we're moving to Florida," to which my simple response was "when?" "In 3 days." The new High School had 5 times the students and the building, itself, was only in its second year. Oddly, my individually-acquired friends were already connected; I was the one being added to the circle. Among them, 2 were guitarists, a piano/keyboard player, and 2 drummers. Having a hypothetical discussion on music one afternoon, specifically about forming a band, each claimed their instrument, but no one played Bass guitar, or ever wanted to for that matter. I didn't know how to play anything, but felt inspired to learn for the sake of the group; "take one for the team" as they say. "As legend has it," one of the friends in our circle lived with his Uncle who had an old, disassembled, short-scale Bass sitting around in a box, which we put together and bought some strings for: instant "Bassist." Working with the keyboardist in our group at the local Pizza Hut, I was able to purchase an amplifier. Time alone with it paid off, quickly, so we started meeting at our drummer's house, leading to countless police-interrupted sessions in my first band: school on weekdays and music on the weekends. I was later introduced to a Marine Corps recruiter who once served as a Presidential Guard for Ronald Reagan. He was a magnetic and overall an animated character, that easily harnessed my existing interest, mostly derived from old "G.I. Joe" comics ("Snake Eyes"). Just before High School graduation — I decided to remain in Florida, alone. Everything went downhill, fast, which expedited my eagerness to enter the military. After a series of discussions with the Staff Sergeant, I was carefully interviewed by the Gunnery Sergeant, signed all the necessary papers, and waited, struggling to survive. In Autumn they called, offering early entry: off to Parris Island, SC. I went. Boot camp was beyond all explanation, to say the very least. I was skin & bones upon entering, but my heart was 100%. Afterward, at Combat Training, unrelenting pain in both shins led to medical examinations revealing multiple stress fractures: my bones simply couldn't take the pounding. The Doctors insisted I was not able to move forward, so the process of discharge was initiated. "Admin Company" was the next destination, to wait indefinitely with Marines who were all on the way out for a variety of reasons. Some unfortunate souls had waited over a year, being assigned ulterior duties. I felt defeated but always ended up making people laugh, which caught the attention of the base Chaplain's Assistant. He commented that I would be mentioned to the Chaplain, but it hadn't considered it much of it since he was quite the joker himself and taken even less seriously. I knew nothing of religion and would've preferred to ignore it at the time. What I didn't know was the Chaplain was also a Naval Commander, and I was being brought in to ultimately assume the role of the Marine Assistant recommending me when his medical discharge came through. I inherited his office, right across from the Chaplain, the keys to the building, charge over the grounds, charge over others, and many other responsibilities. Looking back — this was a typology of the "Joseph" story in the book of Genesis. Acquiring the Chaplain/Commander's mail required entering Base Command, filled with brass front-to-back who became acquainted with me. As for the Chapel, high-ranking officers and enlisted personnel were in and out; attending church, scheduling weddings, receiving counseling, having to go through me virtually every time to arrange it. At the time I was an "agnostic." My dog tags were actually stamped "No Religious Preference" since boot camp, unlike any other Marine I knew of. In the military of 1992, that was not a respectable trait. You were either Catholic, Protestant, or a virtual alien. This phase in life was very distinguishing and simultaneously humbling. As my discharge was imminent, the music bug sensed this and grew increasingly restless within. I made a call to a lead guitarist that was well-known for his skills in High School, but I didn't technically know. With few words, we stoically agreed we would start "the best band in the world." Culminating service to the Base Chaplain, I was presented with a certificate for excellence, with a big smile and underlying sadness. I knew we would miss each other. I couldn't imagine not walking in from the barracks each morning, keys-in-hand, even staying in the church by myself on the weekends. With an Honorable Discharge, I returned to the world, as the Parris Island D.I.'s so-lovingly titled it, becoming "a nasty civilian" again. Things got unnaturally tough, fast: not having steady military pay, the comradery, or active duty Marine Corps honor. The contrasting dysfunction of society was oppressive, and a daily issue. Employment was glycemic, especially in the on/off tourism-based economy of South Florida. I also lacked trade knowledge in a predominantly construction-centered region. I had nerve damage in my back, on top of these external factors, due to scoliosis. This was worsened in the course of training with a heavy pack bearing down, and, of course, my lower legs ached the more time I spent on my feet, which was not empathized due to my youth. After a couple of months (or longer), I took a late-night walk with a close friend around the neighborhood, as I rambled about circumstances in self-pity; specifically lamenting the fact I couldn't afford to buy the Bass guitar I needed, or hardly support myself for that matter. We passed by the run down, unoccupied house where I lived before enlisting. The grass was overgrown and the place appeared to be condemned. I jokingly said, "Let me check the mail," reaching in the mailbox, which didn't even have a lid left on it, discovering a rain-dampened letter inside — to me — from the Marines, with a "Back Pay" check for about $700; God is good. The instrument was purchased brand new, and I would return to music. In a short time, a group of extremely comical, yet proficient, musicians, especially for our age, was assembled. We ended up playing in a "Battle Of The Bands" after our concentrated practice sessions. Only a few groups had entered, but we won. I'll never forget the nervousness, walking up onto the stage, looking out at the people staring up in anticipation... hearing a timid voice behind me, over and over saying "Ted... Ted..." I turned around to see the guy who had always been the most flamboyant member of our group, the drummer, with that "deer in the headlights" look: "I'm scared." I replied, "I'll stand in front of you?" I responded. He quickly replied "OK!" Before the song's end, I looked back to see him twirling drumsticks with a big smile on his face like a seasoned rock star. That night will never be forgotten. From there we were galvanized, practiced constantly, improving by the session to a point of unshakable confidence. We took on the kind of cover songs usually too technical for other bands. The setlists were fused with original material, testing it on the crowd. Our lead guitarist was essentially our agent, booking us at virtually every club in the area. We became the "House Band" a few, months at a time. There's no way to quantify, or righteously detail, the spectrum of experiences — some good, some not so much, but most of all we were "educated" into the business. We recorded in studios, interviewed, and were featured on the radio. "Remotes" took place from big shows that drew crowds from miles around. Things became intense, but progressively destructive, speaking for myself. I've been out of the scene for quite a while, now. There were definitely "creative differences," but it ultimately knew it was the lifestyle. Just as everything had bottomed out after the military, I found myself in another identity crisis. I missed many of the people, and that immeasurable lightning surge of energy fighting back the world with every note. They asked multiple times for my return, and I accommodated to make a few dollars, supporting in the process — but knew I had to keep moving. After a Christmas night break up with my girlfriend, I ended up providing a new friend a ride home, spending that unusually cold night at his Grandmother's house in a spare bedroom. It felt like the longest night of my life, agonizing about the future. The next day I awakened to the distant sound of a slightly out of tune a.m. radio mixed with an elderly woman seeming to be conversing with herself. Investigating, she was actually praying out loud while preparing food in the kitchen. The contrast from the night before was like the day after a storm or a war. My mouth was dry from drinking, and I grew thirstier by the minute. Having to use the restroom, I was eventually forced to emerge from my tomb. She noticed movement and began talking as if we had known each other for a lifetime, seamlessly, about the Bible through her Jamaican accent. It was difficult to understand at first, but it caused me to listen more intently. My new friend, her Grandson, having heard our conversation, burst out of his bedroom and interrupted. He redirected me to his room where we would play video games, listen to music, smoke, and drink, which she did not approve of [this, to my retrospective shame]. With every visit, from then on, she told me more about this God as I slipped away from my friend for a drink or bathroom break. She taught me how to pray, how to be thankful for life, and to look at the worst rejections as concealed opportunities. My identity in the "Matrix" was becoming sheer, but the spirit-man was being formed. Due to the battles of life at the time, my mental state worsened, even to suicidal ideation. The lady who suggested I call her "Grandma," as Grandson's friends did, intervened by requesting I drive her to the bank, the grocery store, and the Doctor, ministering to me the entire time. She insisting I take money for gas which I tried to refuse but desperately needed. As time went on, I wrote intermittent music with my guitarist brother and friend from the original high school band. Another art came into view: fitness. A much older man introduced himself in a gym where my brother & I also spent nearly every night. This upright and well-spoken person insisted, like Grandma, on sharing the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I couldn't get away from him and was the only one he seemed to focus on in that place. My Mother had accepted Christ years before and had been encouraging me to give God a chance but I always resisted. This silver-haired strongman knew a battle was raging for my soul and turned up the intensity one day, which I distinctly remember wanting to reject. Following that day, I was changed but would've denied the notion if asked. One day, after gaining steady employment, I came down with a powerful fever and called into work. I ended up at my Mother's house on her couch since staying in my apartment, alone, didn't feel right in my condition; I felt like I was going to die. She had a Doctor's appointment so I stayed with the dogs resting and quivering from the intense fever moving through my body on that cold day (the "Sunshine State" gets cold sometimes, contrary to popular belief). The sun beamed through the living room window, directly hitting the big Bible — opened on an elegant wooden stand my craftsman Uncle made. I rose and went to it. The sun warmed my bones as I read the words in the spot it had been opened to. Time seemed non-existent as I made it through the entire book of "Job." It was as if I experienced what he went through, vividly. My Mother returned but I didn't say much; I was without words on what happened and over the fever. Eventually, I opened up about it and allowed her to arrange my baptism, confirming my faith in that water before an assembly. Everyone's hands were lifted and a new peace filled the building. She still revisits how I broke out in hives on the way, knowing the kingdom of darkness did not want to release me.

"This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners; of whom I am chief."

— I Timothy 1:15

An African-American Pastor had preached a sermon titled "Clean Out The House," intensely. As everyone started to sing, he walked straight down the aisle and pulled me out. I was put into a white garment and guided into the water. In one month I read through the Bible, not understanding much of what I read — but revelation comes with diligence. Years later I ventured into Christian "fringe" topics, starting around 2012. Everybody thought the world would end according to the Mayan calendar. After that, the comet "ISON" brought with it a self-proclaimed "prophet," I followed online, telling everybody the wrath of God was upon us and the church would be "raptured": Nothing happened. This false witness solidified my course of critical, independent research. Opening the proverbial "Pandora's box," I was hit with a barrage of supernatural occurrences adding unquestionable impetus to the multi-dimensional conflict waged all around. I was inititally contacted by a popular writer and Documentary maker that observed my activity engaging in discussions on his website. This led to an invitation to produce articles. Halfway through that time of learning to conduct research, and develop a thesis, experiencing what it's like to be trolled, then picking yourself up to fight on, it was suggested I write a book; I admit that the concept was met with recoil and dread. I prayed on it, and the challenge was accepted. In this work, I focus the "alien" narrative, on the entertainment industry, the occult and arcane, Jesuit Rome, the sciences, history, and more.