‘Secret society’ says riches, power could be yours
The 10-page recruitment letter recently sent to Charles Snook made clear that he was wanted by a mysterious and elite organization called the League.
“We know a great deal about you,” the letter said. “You’d be surprised at how much we know.”
The League hadn’t reached out before, it said, because Snook wasn’t ready to learn all that the League could teach him about attaining wealth and power. That’s changed.
“You’re no longer judgmental or negative,” the letter said. “You’re no longer feeling sorry for yourself.” He’s also no longer alive. Snook died in a Pennsylvania nursing home almost a year ago at the age of 98.
“I wouldn’t say my father was a mover and shaker,” Snook’s son, Greg, told me. “He made a modest living with a photography studio. He took people’s high school photographs.”
In other words, he was perhaps not the first candidate you’d think of for a secret society touting itself as “the most exclusive, privileged and powerful organization that has ever existed.” The letter was unsigned, but the sender said he or she was “one of the most famous people in the world.”
“I don’t mean to brag,” the sender bragged, “but I have all the wealth, power, sex and authority that I will ever need.”
Before we go any farther, two questions.
A snail-mail pitch? That’s so 20th century.
And who believes this sort of thing?
“Lots of people,” answered Stephen Greenspan, a psychologist and author of “Annals of Gullibility: Why We Get Duped and How to Avoid It.”
He said that even when it should be obvious something appears too good to be true, people often suppress common sense in favor of believing their good fortune
will be the exception. “Gullibility is part of human nature,” Greenspan said. “It’s part of human nature to be trusting.”
I’m not saying the League is a total scam. It’s entirely possible that some people gain valuable tips and insights from the thing.
In any case, this wasn’t my first brush with these guys. Several years ago, I wrote about a near-identical letter making the rounds from what was then called the Society.
A fresh look seems warranted since they’re once again courting the unwary with promises of free information that, the letter promises, “is not a joke, a gimmick, a hoax, a come-on or a con job,” — which should immediately raise suspicion that it’s all those things.
The fact that a dead man has been “on our radar for quite some time” also makes one question the veracity of the League’s outreach efforts.
“That happens sometimes,” acknowledged Mark Hamilton, who I reached on his cellphone at a coffee shop near his home in Henderson, Nev. “It’s inevitable.”
Hamilton, 57, runs Integrated Management Associates, which does business as NeoThink and Neo-Tech Publishing, which send out the League and Society letters.
He’s the son of Frank R. Wallace, a.k.a. Wallace Ward, a chemist and professional poker player who, Hamilton said, read Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugged” and concocted his own libertarian/objectivist philosophy, dubbed Neo-Tech.
Wallace was convicted of income tax evasion in 1997. He died in 2006 at age 73.
Hamilton said his endeavors, called NeoThink, represent ways his father’s philosophy can be applied to the real world. For example, time management.
“Deadlines really enhance one’s productivity,” Hamilton explained. “They make you more efficient and focused.” That insight led to development of what he calls the “miniday system” and the “division of essence.”
There’s undoubtedly more to NeoThink than that. To be honest, I haven’t read any of Hamilton’s books, which are the bread and butter of Integrated Management Associates.
It works like this: People receive the 10-page recruitment letter. Those sufficiently intrigued (or flattered) by the overture return an enclosed membership certificate, which results in their receiving a 56-page pamphlet that includes hints of the NeoThink information available in Hamilton’s books.
To go any deeper requires a significant financial investment.
The first book in the NeoThink series — all 1,200 pages of it — sells for $135.50, Hamilton said. Most of the remaining nine volumes in the set sell for $99.95 apiece, except for one 3,000page tome that goes for $300.
Hamilton bristled when I suggested that, whatever the value of his books, his sales pitch might be a tad misleading. He countered with what could be called the Lucky Charms defense.
“I’ve seen cereal commercials with a leprechaun running around chasing a rabbit,” Hamilton said. “It’s obviously fantasy. Everyone knows there are no leprechauns chasing rabbits.
“If I show you a bowl of cereal and say it tastes good, people won’t buy it. You need the leprechaun.”
The League letter is the leprechaun. The books are the vitaminfortified combination of frosted oats and colored marshmallow bits.
Hamilton also wanted me to know that “there is a very dangerous philosophy permeating the country that business, and making a profit, is somehow wrong and very bad.”
“All the values we have, they could not exist if someone, somewhere wasn’t making money,” he said. “The only way values exist is from someone making a profit.”
I seem to recall reading something along those lines in “Atlas Shrugged” or “The Fountainhead.” Admittedly, I once viewed selfishness and self-interest as virtues. Then I stopped being a teenager.
If nothing else, Hamilton said the League and NeoThink “are not some made-up thing,” and that selecting people worthy of League membership is “a very, very involved thing.”
“By the time someone receives our letter, we’ve spent a lot of time and money determining what kind of person this is,” he said. “We’re looking for people who are looking for something — searchers. It’s a very involved process.” Snook’s son had this to say: “When they’re sending a letter like this to a dead man, you get the sense that everything in there is probably nonsense.”