Oddballs of Comstock 2.5: Jeff Death

This was initially part of my article on Jeff Death, but as it was too long I have given it it’s own entry. These are a montage of snapshots about the fellow, but I think they show an interesting insight into this greatest of all individuals, and while many think he is scary, all I can say is that for all the outward appearance he was one of the kindest and generous of people I have ever met. While these articles focus on the more amusing aspects of his personality, they are not the totality of the man. If he considered you a friend there’s nothing he wouldn’t have done for you.

Dr. Jeff and the Women

Jeff was a man who loved sex, talked a lot about it, but got very little. An inverse ratio, typical of many such people. He apparently possessed a massive member, and could muster a great thrusting pressure from his penis. He once described to Brian and myself, a time when masturbating in bed, managed to arc the stream of sperm over his head and onto the wall behind him. Yet despite these attributes he was largely unsuccessful in attracting a potential paramour to his abode.

We often found that Jeff would freeze up at a crucial moment and not close the deal, or would make some memorable, but unbelievably obscene remark that put the girl off. While Brian and I often did this by design, Jeff reacted this way because he didn’t know what else to do.

Apart from Paula, “the stanky stalker“, there were few women that we could say went with Jeff. He had had at one time a fiancée. This was before we knew him, and it was safe to say that she was large and multiple chinned. Apparently she was one of those fat women who compensate for their culturally themed “ugliness,” by developing a personality of a raving bitch. I’m sure we all know a person like that. Loud mouthed, yelling, being pushy and mean to make their way. Seeing that being nice wasn’t going to get her anywhere, she found being mean worked even better, and took advantage of what she could. One of them was Jeff. Him being rather socially backwards and getting regular sex, gave in to everyone of her bitchy commands and put up with her bullshit insults to him, in order to please her, and to make a happy life for himself. The problem was that at the end of the day she was never going to be happy, because she was still going to be her, and that’s what she really hated the most. Jeff tried hard, but the more he gave the more she took, until he could give no more. He then regretfully and tearfully broke it off, towards which she made some nasty remarks to poor Jeff and waddled out of his life.

The next girl that I’ve known Jeff to be with was Emily. She was a Rocky Horror regular and 17 years his junior. Not yet 20, she and Jeff hooked up on the rebound when she broke it off with her boyfriend Sal. She was round, but not Jeff’s usual prey of a female with unbelievable amounts of excess tissue. She had a light purple birthmark on her right cheek, that in dim light looked vaguely with the Ghostbusters logo. I regularly pissed her off by asking if she’d like a washcloth to “get that crap off her face.”

Most people saw that this was going nowhere. She broke up with a douchebag and bounced into the arms of the first guy to grin at her. A romance of forgetting. To Jeff though, this was a significant point in his life. It had been years since he had had a girlfriend and he took it with a mature aspect of building a life. She took it as 19 year old girl, who had plenty of time to look around and find someone else.

Little occurred in the relationship. He drove her around, paid for things, didn’t have sex, and then she moved on. Jeff was crushed, heartbroken, and upset. But those Germans take out their anger in the oddest ways. She broke up with him at Rocky, a the gathering afterwards, he walked outside and put his fist through the windshield. There was a huge hole in the driver’s side, and no damage to his hand. Scared the hell out of me.

A further story of Jeff’s attempt at love, was when he hit on The Beast. She was one of Craik’s crowd of lower intelligence individuals. She was a hideous contortion of flesh and bone. A large face that sort of dribbled down the her neck, which was almost as large as her head, making it difficult to know where they joined. Her face was pockmarked with all sorts of odd growths and lesions. Needless to say I never ate while I was around her.

There was a large group of us at Denny’s. The square tables were snapped together. Brain and I were on one end, Jeff was courting the Beast on the other. Jeff sat next to her, nervous and tense. You could always tell when Jeff got nervous, because he would grab the arms of his chair tightly, as he were about to fall off. Brain and I watched in horrid fascination, muttering things like, “Don’t do it Jeff.” The situation engrossed us. Jeff glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes while engaged in conversation. He grinned in a schoolboy manner. The Beast surprisingly acted aloof and disinterested, which I was shocked at. Maybe she had never seen herself in a mirror? Coffee poured. Jeff leaned over trying to talk to her. She said a few words and turned away, a snotty expression across her face. Did she think she was too good for him?

The night wore on, and Jeff kept talking, but making little headway. The Beast was not interested. She and the Craik crowd left soon afterwards. Jeff moved down to our end. “What the fuck were you thinking Jeff.” Was our first question. “Well just seeing what I can get.” And what can you get when you’re rejected by a retard?


Jeff’s one true genius was the obscene one-liner. He could make a statement that was so vulgar, obscene and inappropriate that it stuck out in your head for days, weeks, years. A latter day Henny Youngman, he could turn and touching tender scene into one of hard laughter and evil intent with but a few syllables bouncing from his lips.

“Hand might be fucked up but there’s nothing wrong with the pussy.”

A Jeff classic and one repeated over and over again. It began during a Medicine Hour. Initially when we started them we planned to watch “The Greatest Films of All Time” and then discuss them over chilled glasses of wine. Of course, like everything we do, it degenerated into horror films (and beyond) so low budget and cheesy that the old Grindhouses would be embarrassed by them. This night we were watching the Italian classic House of Psychotic Women. The film contained three women characters and in our drunken state we began to divide them up between us. Brain got first dibs on the hot red- head, who turned out to be a nympho and really slept around. I, being in the bathroom when they were carved up, got stuck with the attractive ginger haired lady who was confined to a wheelchair, but who could actually walk and turned out to the be the psychotic killer whacking everyone. Jeff took the long haired brunette with the crippled hand. It was gnarled and twisted up and seemed to be missing a few fingers. When we jibed him about his cinemagraphic love’s condition, he merely shrugged and said, “Hand might be fucked up, but there’s nothing wrong with the pussy.

“Did I ever tell you about the time my dick swelled up and turned black?”

A statement Jeff would blurt out during a lull in the conversation, or whenever he met a new person. Jeff, age settling on him, had begun to develop a paunch. Nothing overly dramatic, but to one of the body building class, a definite flaw to be looked down on with shame and disgrace. So did Jeff resort to the old school method of “eat less and exercise?” NO! He decided to go mainstream with the situation and get himself a tummy tuck. Now the problem was, when they tuck your tummy, there’s a lot of wrenching on the skin and a large portion of the lower abdomen gets bruised, including the groin area. Jeff described the aftereffects as one of the most painfully and psychological damaging things he has ever gone through. It was similar to when you burn a hotdog, and was similar to a charred cylinder sticking out. No man wants to think about this, and to actually pull down your pants and see it attached to you… ha, talk about the mother of all mind fucks. Because deep down, no matter what you’re told or how much they reassure you, you’ll always be a little afraid that it will never work again. Can I get an amen on that brothers?

“If we ever go to prison Dan, you can be my bitch!”

One of the few Jeff statements which caused me to shudder. The specific circumstances of this coming up elude me, but Jeff would blurt this out every time we came close to skirting the edge of the law. He would look me up and down, lick his lips, and gleefully spout out this line, laughing at my discomfort. When attacked on this line he would retort, “I’m not gay, but hey… it’s prison.” It reminds me of an old documentary of prison life for 60 minutes, where a grizzled old black guy states, “Some of the best sex I had was in prison.” As you can guess, I was in no hurry to test it out.

“Here it comes… right now!”

From the time when the Medicine Hours had descended into porn. We were watching a 70’s flick, “The Adventures of Candy,” purportedly based on Candide. I could hear Voltaire spinning in this grave. The main character, Candy, meets some kind of sex guru and he takes her back to his place, where there was a particularly large orgy scene, one part of which had a guy (with a typical 70’s porn mustache) felating another man. They were supposedly all attuned to each other, and the guru lifts his hand, snaps his finger, and they all ejaculate at the same time. This included the man receiving the blow job, which spurt out right onto the other man’s mustache and dripped there. Dr. I and Jeff made a few comments about how the blow-job-giver resembled me, which it did not, and insisted on watching that ejaculation scene over and over again, to the point where Jeff could time it perfectly, and when it happened he yelled, “here it comes…right now.”

“I like knockers.”

Jeff’s big line. Repeated over and over again. In this simple sentence he expressed his love for large, gargantuan breasts, and the usually large women that they are attached to. His theory was that the biggest breasts were attached to the biggest women. Which sounds plausible. Of course most people overlook the one aspect of a large woman and react to the package as a whole. To Jeff the large package was an attractive one, so it did not matter. Jeff said his simple motto wherever he went: social gatherings, weddings, bar mitzvahs, funerals. He liked knockers and the whole world needed to know that.

“Hey baby, you want to do the mammary mash?”

Jeff’s great pick up line. The mammary mash, of course, was him grabbing some lucky ladies breasts and squeezing down on them, while giggling like an idiot. It didn’t work very often, and even fat women found this line repulsive, for some strange reason. But it remains indelible upon the mind. Come to think of it, Jeff never picked up any women period, whether he used the line or not. This didn’t stop him from using it, it just always seemed to have the opposite effect than he had intended. As the wise man said, who cares about 99 rejections, he just needed the one who said, “Yes.”

“Getting a blow job from her must be like masturbating with a cheese grater.”

This was a reference to Mary Jo, a Rocky regular. She had a very odd deformity, which caused her face to be twisted up and jaw set at an odd angle, where the teeth grated together. The rest of her body was actually very nice and well proportioned. In fact when she first started showing up Matt hit on her when he only saw her from behind. We were seated in the theater on row behind Mary Jo and a friend. Matt leaned forward, doing his pseudo suave thing, where he grins and jerks his head around. Mary Jo was digging it, and then the movie ends, the lights come on, she stand up, turns around, and he sees her for the first time. His face turned white and he utters a smooth get away line like, “Gotta go.” Mary Jo hung out with us for awhile, and several of us: Chuck, Dr. I, myself, and Big Brian began discussing her attributes and obvious schizophrenia issues, upon which Jeff makes the classic statement above. None of us could disagree.


Oddballs of Comstock II: Jeff Death

Matt, Jeff, and DanThis entry is dedicated to one particular oddball. The one whom everyone knows and shudders at. The one whom everyone mentally pictures when the topic of strange people that I brought around comes up: Jeff Death. Mr. Scary, with biceps as big as Matt’s head, blue piercing eyes, and a leering grinning mouth, that say, “I could make your body into a really great sideboard.” Who was strong enough to punch a hole into a windshield and not hurt himself. A good old farm boy with a lecherous mind, and a tongue for filthy slogans. Many were scared of him, but trust me, Jeff’s a really great guy.

First Meeting

It was when I first started college. I still stayed in touch with people from High School, and Tony House came up to me, telling me about this “cool” show and said we had to go NOW. Now I should have known about it, as it was literally around the corner from my house, but I had lain in ignorance for several years until Mr. House came a-knocking at my door. My curiosity was pricked, I went and became an instant addict. I’ll go into my experiences in a latter entry, but suffice it to say I met many strange characters. One of them was Jeff Death.

He used to shave his head, paint it white and run around, dressed in a cowl, with a roaring chainsaw. He was Death personified, come to gut us. We’d all go out to Denny’s afterwards, get the room in the back, and talk and talk until the wee hours of the morning. Those not having a car would hitch rides home, and one night I rode with Jeff alone. Until then I had never really spoken to him before, never thought anything really. He was just a guy, you know?

My first conversation went along the same lines as did Mr. Wolf’s. I reacted a little differently, not leaving a brown trail and a yellow stain in my wake. It was dark, and we were driving down one of those under lit Buffalo side streets. The radio was on, and suddenly Jeff leaned over and snapped it off. He glanced at me, leering and licking his lips.

“Hey,” He said, “Do you know how to shrink a human head?”

I had to admit my knowledge of this anatomical feat was sorely lacking.

“Well first you have to cut the head off, not that hard really….”

He went on about removing the skull, ditching the eyes, sewing up the orifices, curing the skin, what herbs and minerals to pack the head with, and on and on. Such detailed knowledge. If you can skin a deer, you can shrink a human head.

And all the while he was going on about this, I thought, “Wow, this is a guy I have to get to know better.”

I saw in him, as well as others at Rocky, a kindred spirit.


Jeff was an avid weight lifter, and constantly worked out. For him it was a savage exercise and went nuts while doing it, so much so that he often broke the standard lifting equipment, and had his specially built by a welding shop in town. It was sturdier and cost less than most commercial equipment.

While Jeff was lacking most formal social graces, he often made up for it with vulgar ones. What added to it was that he often seemed blissfully unaware that he was committing a social faux-pas. He would burp at the drop of a hat. Big loud ones that rang out across the room. He mouth would drop open and, like a frog, his cheeks puffed out and the great noise would erupt forth. Then he would settled back content like a great baby.

When he dressed and came to town, he dressed as was sensible for a farm. During winter he would show up in a large blue snowsuit, the whole body kind, and when he entered a building he undid the top part, letting it dangle behind him, like the train on a wedding dress. It was a sight to see, him walking around a bar full of uppity know-it-all college kids, with his blue train sloshing behind him. No one said a word.

And of course there was his penchant for poetry and large women. Plump, fat, rotund; whatever your pleasure, they were his. “I don’t like to hit bone.” He often said. I figured more power to him. Fat broads need lovin’ too. No that he shied away from skinny women, but just felt that they needed an adjustment. As he stated about Sara Van Ettin. “Yep if she were mine I had have to keep her fully stuffed on both ends, mouth and pussy.” So when I say Jeff had a large porn collection, understand it was a large collection of fat women porn. His favorite star was an unbelievably huge female specimen right out of the Guinness Book of World Records, named Eartha Quakes. A bloated female with so much excess blubber that one part of her seemed to melt into another. The overall effect was a being who looked like an ancient monolithic stone representation of the Earth goddess, everything overblown and exaggerated. A twisted Pinocchio dream made manifest. Her skin was so pushed out that it was ruptured in many places, with purple bruise marks and stress lines crisscrossing haphazardly across her rolling frame. Jeff couldn’t get enough of her (unlike the rest of us), and she wasn’t alone in female porn stars. There is more fat chick porn than you would ever believe, and Jeff seemed to score every tape out there.

As those who’ve met him know, Jeff scared the hell out of people. He had an aura that they just found unsettling. I call it “pure country.” A stillness and acceptance of just letting things pass, that we “city folk”, who are always on the go, always working at things and having reasons for doing things, are completely unused to. Maybe it’s an animal nature that those who are used to waiting in the country have retained, and that we in the cities, used to getting everything instantly, have discarded. A hunting instinct. So just sitting back, saying nothing, and letting time pass was as natural to Jeff as a bullfrog catching flies. He was in no hurry.

A Trip to the Farm

After getting to know Jeff for awhile it came time to see where he lived and meet his people. A generous soul, he invited us all out to the farm on Halloween night to partake in film watching and a bonfire “out at the gravel pit.” This was the first farm party and destined to become a Dashwood tradition.

There were several of us on that trip: Dr. I, Big Brian, myself, Nurse Pam, Chuck, and Ensign Raiff, who was angry with us. We had told him that it was a costume party, and he and shown up in a Captain Condom outfit, with a skin tight super hero suit, a rubber condom hat that stretched down to the nose, several penis shaped eyeholes, and a fruity shimmering cape was half-a-back long. Naturally we had all worn regular clothes, so he looked even more ridiculous than usual.

The directions were simple, get off the I-90 at the Darien lake exit. Take a left, and then go on until you hit “the light.” A rare and joyous beacon of navigation in those barren wastes. Hang a right, then go on until we reach “the stop sign.” Another monolithic marker, like Stonehenge. It was a little ways on then, on the left. Actually the road cut a swath through the property, so when we arrived we were surrounded by Jeff Death’s prowling grounds.

On the way we speculated as to what the denizens of the farm would be like. We imagined perhaps that Jeff’s family had died years ago and he stuffed them, like Norman Bate’s mother, and we would be treated to a Texas Chainsaw Tea Party, with Jeff arraigning his deceased family around an antiquated living room, passing hor d’ourves around and pretending they were speaking…

Or perhaps he would come out in different costumes pretending to be them. “I’ll go get my Ma.” He would say, then reemerge in a dress. And in the same voice say, “Hi, I’m Jeff’s Ma. I’ll go get his Pa now.” Then come back in overalls and a cotton ball beard. “Hi, I’m Jeff’s Pa…”

Or the place would be filled with cripples and inbred deformities, slithering around and drooling. A misshapen chicken wing hand running through Brian’s mass of locks and, through a toothless mouth, saying “I like this here girlie Jeff.” While Jeff goes over to his overweight and near comatose mother, takes her shirt off and bellows, “I like knockers!” Then begins to breast feed off of her…

Yes indeed it would be a fun time up on the farm, and while his family turned out to be disappointingly normal, other events soon took some strange turns.

We arrived and disembarked, while Raiff skipped about in his Captain Condom outfit. Jeff emerged in his home made Leatherface outfit. He greeted us and glowered at Raiff. Jeff had a fancy for Nurse Pam, a girl of generous proportions, and often openly fantasized about bumping Raiff off, or arraigning an accident that he could be involved in, so that he could fill the breech in Pam’s life. Which is exactly why we brought him along.

After a pizza and a long overdue viewing of “The Love Butcher” (Which became another farm party tradition.) Jeff took us on a tour of the property.

He lived on his parent’s property and made a living helping around the farm. They grew hay mostly, but sometimes went in for cattle, “Beefers” as Jeff called them. There were several houses on the property, bleak things sticking out along a lonely road. One his parents lived in, another for his sister and her family, and Jeff’s double wide. A rotting barn was pushed back into the property, next to the phallic silo.

“Yeah,” Jeff remarked, “If I ever want to dump a body I know exactly where to put it. Drop it in the bottom of the silo, and pour a ton of grains on it. Acid would eat right through the sucker.”

We ventured into the barn and gazed upon a group of new born calves, lazily mewing about in Autumn’s darkness. Cute tender creatures they wandered up to us in complete innocence. Their thick eyes belying absolute stupidity.

“They’re still looking for their mother, so if you stick your finger out they will suck on it. It won’t hurt, cows have only a bottom set of teeth.”

We investigated and found this to be true. The sensation was unique, like having a tight wet vacuum cleaner pull on your digit. Not great, but not really unpleasant. The obvious joke about what else Jeff had been sticking out for the calves to suck on was made. Still we were all wrapped up in this new experience.

Jeff walked away. “Yep, in a year from now, I get to blow their brains out.”

Which rather killed the mood for me. I turned around to witness Jeff lurching up behind Mark, a chainsaw raised over his head, and the peculiar wild-eyed Jeff leer over his face. The catch phrase for a recent film rattled through my brain, “THE SAW IS FAIMLY!” He spotted me and dropped the saw rather sheepishly, but gave me a look that said, “Hey, would you really blame me?

The party drifted on. We clambered into the back of large battered pick up, and sat down for the bumpy ride into the backwoods of Jeff’s estate. Then Jeff decided to tell us that they had used the vehicle to haul manure the week before. Standing on the trip was a rough ride. Brian managed to scam the passenger seat, while the rest of us were knocked back and forth as the damn truck lurched up and down like a whack-a-mole. Raiff fell out of the truck and Jeff refused to stop for him. He ran after us, huffing and puffing, his Captain Condom cape flapping behind up, looking like the opening of that old SNL skit “Middle Aged Man.” The rest of us stood in the back and laughed. He grabbed the side of the truck and swung a flabby leg over. Out of breath after the 30 feet dash, he sputtered obscenities and raised his fist in anger, but didn’t brace himself while in his rage, and next bump he fell over again. This time he didn’t catch up with us, and had to hoof it the rest of the way to our destination. The Ol’ Gravel Pit.

A barren place filled with… well gravel. It was actually a depression, surrounded on the South and East by a long 25 foot high hill, that managed to keep the wind away. A perfect place for a bonfire. Jeff had hauled some old wooden pallets out the day the day before, along with some other sundry burnables. We were ready to rock! Beer and liquor was unloaded, and we dug in. The fire was lit, doused liberally with gasoline, and roared toward the sky. Brian plucked at his guitar for a few minutes, then, disturbed, put it down and pointed North.

“What the Hell is that Jeff?”

All eyes followed Brian’s finger. A little ways away was an abandoned school bus. Not for the first time I had Texas Chainsaw flashbacks. Oh God. He really was crazy! I’m a dead man. He’s going to drown me in wet cement and make a statue out of my body.

The real reason why it was there was rather mundane, so on the spot we came up with The Official Reason. Jeff, after watching Dirty Harry one time too many, had pulled a Scorpio and high jacked a school bus. With Clint Eastwood being the mayor of Carmel at the time, there was no one to stop Jeff’s violent rampage.

Jeff went along with it. “Yep. I killed the boys straight off.” He said in his cool killer voice. “I had no use for them.”

We all gave a toast to Jeff’s unstoppable psychopathic nature, and partied on. We drank deep and Jeff rambled on…

“Why is it when a man kills in war, he’s a hero, but when he kills in the heat of passion, it’s called murder?”

The night faded and I did too, passing out on a string of connected metal chairs, placed out in the pit from God knows where. When I woke up in the morning, my shoes were gone and so was everyone else.

A First Impression

For some reason Jeff tended to scare the shit out of most people. Maybe it was that barely checked look of rage in his eyes. The I-could-kill-you-in-fifteen-ways-and-enjoy-doing-it grin on his face. Maybe it the fact that he was perfectly content to sit and stare at nothing for hours. Maybe it was his detailed technical knowledge on exactly how to take apart a human body.

Or that he never passed up an opportunity to make an unbelievably obscene remark.

For example, we watched on the Oprah show once a pair of female Siamese twins, who were simply two heads on one body (a very rare thing). Jeff’s insight into their medical condition? “Imagine the kind of blow jobs they could give in porno films.”

Now there were many first impressions with Jeff. Mike’s has been documented. The others I’m not sure about. Matt’s comment, “His biceps are as big as my head,” sticks out. Everyone else seems to steer clear of him. Certainly no one made comments to me.

In my mind though, the best first meeting was Rob’s. I was dating Mary at the time. Rob, Mary, Andrew, and several others were renting a house on the bad side of Bailey Avenue. Jeff and I were hanging out until the late hours, and he drove me over to Mary’s place. Both of us were feeling kind of tired, but I invited Jeff in to meet everyone. However there was no one home, so we waited around for a bit. The place was easy to break into and we entered. Jeff yawned mightily. He asked if there was a place he could catch a few hours sleep before driving back to Oakfield.

“Oh sure,” I said, always magnanimous with someone else’s material goods, and flung open Rob’s room, “Help yourself.”

To understand the powerful sleep that Jeff was under, I must state that Rob’s personal hygiene, at the time, was akin to Jason’s. As in there was a considerable lack thereof. Jeff curled up on Rob’s scratchy sheets and passed out. I entered Mary’s room and waited for her to show up.

Eventually she did. She came into the room delighted and surprised to see me. We embraced and talked about what each of us had been up to. Then Rob burst in, fear playing across his leonine features.

“There’s a large bald guy sleeping in my bed!” He squawked.

If you remember Rob’s curly hair at the time, I found this reverse Goldilocks incident hilarious. I explained the situation to Rob and, as he tended to take things in their stride, didn’t get really upset. Rob did have one question though.

“Why did you say he could sleep in my bed?”

“I don’t know. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“Can I wake him up?”

“Ohhh, I wouldn’t do that,” I said, grinning internally, “He gets kind of violent when startled.”

Rob diligently, internally thinking “Not in the face,” waited on the living room couch until 4 in the morning, when Jeff finally stirred, and with a brief nod to Rob on the way out, went home.

This is only part of the story I wrote on Jeff, but it became too long. I will post more in a week on this most unique of personages. The best and worst is yet to come.

Dashwood Revelations

       It came to pass somewhere in middling days of Comstock that a powerful coalition began to form around the nucleus of Dan Mooney deep within the bowels of his basement. Unseen by the judging eyes of society at large, they lurked in the darkness, coming together under the banner of some minor occultist in the tradition of Dee, Crowley, or that “a la peanut butter sandwiches!” guy from Sesame Street. The preferences of young men who name themselves after so fey a name as Sir Francis Dashwood is questionable at best, as are the intentions of the same. This tale will take though through the secret origins of the group, its meteoric rise to power, and inevitable plummet to the depths from which it came.

        I was not present, nor even invited, the day of origin, so as I have demonstrated with numerous precedents, will attempt to spell out the story using what inaccurate, exaggerated, or completely fictitious information I have. This of course will constitute the ‘Official Story’ and serve as the historical written record for time unending. I have no doubts whatsoever that all mentioned parties will fervently wish they had gotten off their fat lazy asses and wrote this story first, but be that as it may, my distorted view hereby becomes the benchmark of truth and accuracy. Your outrage will only serve to amuse us.

        Although Dan was in the habit of making the long stroll over to Comstock when in need of companionship or to satisfy the desire to watch extremely low grade films and drink, at times inclement weather kept him closer to the home front under the tender care of his mom. When not busy breaking his leg on misplaced ice and being locked out, he enjoyed the environs of the basement and impressive collection of VHS tapes within it. The quality of these tapes, closely resembling that of those found in the basement of Collector’s Inn, likewise drew in all manner of odd disjointed folk. The primary two in the early days were Brian Young and Jeff Falker, more familiarly known as Big Brian and Jeff Death. The trio represented, in the eyes of Ben Pierce, all that was wrong with the fine thespian endeavor what was Rocky Horror. They reveled in this and used the collective love of cinematic crap and cross dressing on stage to form a society of equals, looking out for each other’s best interest in brotherly love. As every new outfit begs a name, they set about choosing theirs. My sources tell me that The Apple Dumplin’ Gang was ultimately rejected due to copyright law, and The Dashwood Society adopted as a poor alternate.

        As with any new organization impressed with their own machismo and panache, they set about recruiting new members they could ultimately feel superior to. I was brought in as an early candidate, and it was that experience that kept me far for some time thereafter. I was initially attracted to the notion as this was still the heyday of Dark Pistacio and I saw this as an opportunity to get in good with the cool kids at Rocky. While Dan and Jeff might be highly suspect in that department, Brian was inarguably a cool cat with the black beret and jazz man image. I arrived early and was let in by Dan who showed me into the basement and promptly disappeared for other corners of the house. I sat down across from Jeff, whom I had never spoken to and knew only as that freak in the gold underwear at Rocky. What transpired chills me still when I recall the night and my inner monologue throughout.

        Jeff sat across from me, leaned back in the chair, a strapping farmer in overalls, hands folded across his stomach and shit eating grin splashed across his face. Silent, he stared at me, grinning. My eyes darted back and forth to see if he was still looking (he was) and the stairs in hoped that Mooney was coming down them. Man, this guy is creepy. Where the fuck did Dan go?

“So Jeff, how long you been doing the Rocky thing?”


It wasn’t a yes or no question. He continued to stare and cold droplets of sweat began to form on my forehead.

“You, um, you live around here?”


“Really? Oh, um, what town do you, you know, live in?”


He nodded slowly, continuing to grin all the same. Where the motherfuck was fucking Mooney?

“Hey Dan, you coming or what?” Silence from above. Even Mighty Thor was silent. To add to the surreal aspect of the evening, one of the mutant cats occupying the premises sauntered by growling ominously. What the fuck was Dan doing up there anyway??

“Them folks who did Texas Chainsaw didn’t know shit about making furniture from human bones.”

“Uh. Daaaaaaaaaan!”

Whether Dan left me down there with this redneck zombie, who was assuredly sizing me up for use as a new coffee table, on purpose or not while he masturbated to the latest Dress Barn catalog I never found out, but it was time to retreat and live another day. I bade Jeff pass along to Mooney my best wishes but something suddenly came up. I bolted out before the lummox could lunge and ran full tint though the secret back entrance to the Tops parking lot.

My sudden unexpected disappearance (to become a trademark of mine up though the Air Force years) no doubt eliminated me from consideration as part of the Dashwood ruling class, and unwilling to be ruled, maintained an honorary membership status. Meanwhile, the ranks grew on their own pulling in all manner of outcast and undesirable freaks who fit in no other group. The full roster was generously posted by Dan himself in the Madison origin story that Aaron will no doubt insert a link to shortly.

Using Dan’s basement as a base of operations, with frequent field trips to Denny’s, Your Host, the Olympic, and Comstock, the fledgling Dashwood Society cooked up scheme after scheme to spread their funky brand of misrule upon the good people of the world. The first great assault that we became aware of is told best in the Greatest Party that Never Was post (assuredly linked by Aaron by now). I was admittedly one of those who thought it would be a good idea to allow Dan to throw the party of his choosing on our premises and willingly gave permission. I quickly questioned this judgment upon seeing the flyer pasted up outside Knox 20 in garish hot pink. That this attempt at wanton revelry and destruction failed miserably meant nothing and their ranks continued to swell with more and more bizarrely named cretins each day.

Insufficiently homosexual to forcibly enter the party planning scene, they turned instead toward Big Porn and the promise of wealth therein. Temporarily under the malevolent direction of the sinister Dr Harkey, they put together a production team and cast their net far to pull in any aspiring young actress both willing to be balled by Mahatma Nick, and to be seen doing so on tape. While none of us doubted the core competency was there to put the production together, there were grave doubts as to the existence of a woman so lacking in self esteem to be associated with this mutant crew. Funding was scarce as most of the group members were confined to living in parent’s basements or other such degrading habitats. Larry said it best when he remarked that the quality was likely to look as though tens of dollars were spent. We doubters were temporarily silenced when Dan gleefully announced that an actress was found and signed on board. After sufficient time went by without news, however, we came to find that the starlet to be failed to produce convincing proof of age. The schoolgirl look, where attractive on adult women, looses much of the luster when looking at the real deal. Her price of help on her earth science project also should have given her away.

It was becoming clear that Dashwood as a ‘legitimate’ business entity was likely not to be. Good ideas were scarce as was funding; venture capitalists preferring to pass on disorganized gangs of unruly youths. Rumors abounded that pimping, loan sharking, extortion, gambling, and a briefly successful chain of lemonade stands were all tried and subsequently abandoned. At Comstock, out in the sticks, news filtered in slowly and inaccurately, even from the horses mouth. During those days Dashwood existed in the periphery of our egocentric world, but this was to change once we moved closer to the epicenter of the madness of Mooney’s idea forge. Once up close at Princeton, it was clear how far the reach of Dan and his minions extended. Aaron expressed a growing terror, while I continued a limited liability association.

Fearing his power might wane due to the failed ventures, Mooney donned his thinking cap to determine the next course of action. Businesses gain money and power by providing some good or service, no matter how loathsome, people are coaxed into feeling they need. Religions, however, gained even larger profits and near unlimited power simply by setting up rules of questionable value and telling people what they want to hear, with a dash of fear thrown in for good measure. Inspired, he acted quickly. Some short time later, Dan arrived, as always without calling first, and by some stroke of fate I was in enough of a good natured mood to let him in anyway. Bursting though the door, he sat down, lit up one of my cigarettes, and pulled forth a certificate from a freshly arrived envelope. Inscribed on the parchment was undeniable certification that his check had cleared and that he was now legally the Reverend Doctor Daniel J Mooney. My heart skipped a beat.

In those wild days before the internet, Dan had sifted though enough periodicals of ill repute and found an ad for a church in California willing to sanctify the willing for a small fee, and would gladly confer upon generous souls an honorary doctorate for an additional $20. He brought with him a videotape to share with me and commemorate the event. As we all know, one can expect to see anything from a children’s classic with dubbed over voices to a documentary ending with a man fucking a llama when Dan’s at the VCR. Nothing could have prepared me for this. It began with a pair of lesbians in leather hoods speaking in German. A little S&M, OK. To my utter revulsion, however, they quickly moved on to the most disgustingly graphic acts of coprophagia I have ever witnessed. To this day I still barely am able to retain the contents of my stomach when thinking of it. I put a quick end to the viewing and bade the new holy man adieu.

Where a triumvirate officially led Dashwood, Dan created a subgroup within under the banner of the Church of Unconscious Revelations where he wielded absolute power. The name of the newly minted religion was based on the notion of attaining religious experience though the consumption of alcohol to the degree where one passed out; mind now open to supernatural intrusion. Generally most churches prefer that ministers ordained in their sect maintain direct affiliation to its tenants, Dan saw things differently and set forth creating new doctrine and dogma. The first major change was the trinity itself, booting the Holy Ghost to go haunt some more passive sect like the Buddhists or Amish, to bring in perennial bad-boy and crowd pleaser, Satan. How the other two felt about the change in line up remains unknown, but as there was no smiting or divine lightning, it was assumed that all but the disenfranchised party were satisfied with the arrangement. As far as I could tell, worship consisted of shots of vodka and prayer in the form of random shouts of ‘wakka-dakka baby!’.

Now, it was assumed by many that the Dashwood Society and the Church were one in the same, but my understanding was that they were separate entities, not mutually exclusive, but collectively exhaustive, one organization eclipsing the other. One could be a Dashwoody only, or be a Dashwoody and an Unconscious Reveler, but one had to be the former to be the latter, although inclusion in the former did not necessitate membership in the latter. I feel this is very clear. While the Dashwood society seemed willing to take almost all individuals interested in watching blood and porn in the basement, entrance to the Church required a baptism of sorts to initiate the new disciple into the fold. Such initiations quickly became the stuff of legend.

First to join was scrawny nudist and wanna be porn star, Mahatma Nick. I remember his initiation, undertaken gleefully and videotaped, of Nick running though Tops parking lot, boys flapping free in the wind, only to be so overcome with the spirit that he began jumping up and down on a parked car and attracting all sorts of unwanted attention. His enthusiasm absolutely guaranteed him membership into the Church and whatever bargain basement afterlife was promised to the easily duped congregation.

The most famous initiation was of course the milkshake. I had the good fortune to be present that day and can thus present a first hand account of the proceedings. The supplicant in question was Erik the Martyr (not tree punching Ensign Mark Raffe as some assumed), a Dashwood hanger on eager to be brought further into the fold. He begged entrance into the diabolical fold, and volunteered for whatever initiation would prove to be the magic price. Where some may have guessed Dan would have chosen a hefty tithing schedule, he instead went the route that most would have assumed was the most discouraging. The price of admission would be the consumption of a fresh load of Dan’s semen. Erik jumped at the chance to everyone’s surprise. Such was this enthusiasm that Dan wisely decided to forgo insisting it be taken directly from the source, as Erik was likely willing enough, and Mary would have taken enormous exception to having her man blown by this slavish worshiper. To everyone’s further surprise, Dan’s heart grew three sizes larger that day (as measured in Grinch standards) and declared consumption of said foul substance could be in disguise. After having seen the video, I had to assume it was not due to any disgust factor.

The day finally came when the initiation was to take place. I was the only non-Dashwood person there, and the whole CUR was present – Dan, Mahatma, and the novice. The blender was prepared with reverence, filled generously with vanilla ice cream and milk. Solemnly, Dan and Nick each took a small paper Dixie cup along with their preference in porn, and retreated to the houses 2 bathrooms. Both lusty fellows returned in fairly short time, perhaps having already become excited to the point of explosion at the thought of foolish Erik slurping down their man juice. As each entered the kitchen cup in hand, the crowd shrank back against the counter, each member regretting having chosen to stand so close to the path of entry. The jizz was dumped, first by Nick, then by Dan, and the button was pushed blending the baby batter inextricably with the former frosty goodness of the dairy treats. Erik trembled in excitement as Dan said a short but overly dramatic prayer ending with the characteristic ‘wakka-dakka’ and ‘Praise Jesus, Hail Satan!’. The glass was poured, and as the crowd took a sharp intake of breath, Erik put it to his lips and drank down the thick and evil concoction.

Disturbingly, he elected not to spit after and even declared the mixture ‘not bad’ and went so far as to volunteer to have another glass. The newest CUR member then baptized, the evening drinking commenced. I elected not to stick around too much longer as I could not help but notice that neither Dan nor Nick washed their hands following the production phase and since then had put their grubby tainted mitts on most surface areas. I resolved not to return until Mrs Mooney had conducted a thorough cleaning. It remains unknown if she ever learned of the gross misuse of her treasured appliances. Later that evening I took great delight in informing Aaron of the proceedings. He turned a shade of green and vowed to work tirelessly toward the destruction of the Dashwood behemoth and its sibling CUR.

When CUR was at the height of its influence, Dan obtained a full authentic priests garb through a venue he refused to disclose, creating much speculation. Most memorably he used it to attend a protest against the movie ‘Priest’, then playing at the Amherst in University Plaza. The movie caused a great deal of Catholic controversy at the time and inspired vitriolic protest from the devout. Dan’s presence was immediately welcomed by the crowd as Papist priests generally tended to issue statements rather than sully themselves with the rabble at public protests. Naturally his opinion was sought and the crowd hushed to hear the verbal admonishment no doubt about to be issued against the insulting film. “You know, I thought it was pretty fucking good! I think I’m going to see it again” He strode off to buy a ticket, leaving the horrified protesters crushed and dismayed.

The next best use of the outfit was in a videotaped interview Dan was the subject of. Brian was the unseen interviewer and to anyone not in the know, it appeared to begin with a serious recounting by the clergy about the state of the world today, circa 1995. As it went on, however, the interview took an odd turn as the very thoughtful and lucid priest stopped every few minutes to down a shot of vodka. As things progressed, the priests’ quiet intelligence slowly degraded to slurred obnoxious commentary punctuated with liberal profanity and occasional bouts of laughing. While I don’t know if it was intended to be a purely comedic endeavor, I still remember it as one of the funnier things I have seen. Unfortunately, after repeated requests for a copy years ago, Dan announced that it was irretrievably lost, or in Brian’s possession, which could be construed as one in the same.

I would like to say that Dashwood/ CUR went out with a bang, but in truth it was like all of us, a victim of age. Dashwood dropped in membership one by one and turned full focus on to producing the Madison’s. CUR retained only the founder as a member, and if I recall right, at the 8th annual Madison awards, Dan with great fanfare formally announced his abdication from the throne and officially reverted back to plain old Daniel J Mooney in order to better concentrate on shaping the minds of youth without being the subject of a Channel 2 expose titled, “Are Evil Cults Teaching Your Children?”. A wise move indeed.


Let me begin by saying that this entry is in no way affiliated with nosy busy-body Michael Moore’s epic drama by the same name. It is, however, likely to be in poor taste being a tribute to all those who saw fit to regurgitate their last meal upon our premises. If you feel the subject matter will offend your delicate constitution, I urge you to read on nevertheless as the mental image of your queasy retching reaction is too precious to forego. Claimers and disclaimers now delivered with due diligence, I present to you the following nasty tale.

It is often said that he who laughs last laughs best, and taking that to heart, I will present my own sordid tale to start, so that both you and I may forget by the end and enjoy that last laugh at someone else’s expense. By now, having read all of these entries in order no doubt, you are intimately familiar with the types of goings on we began to experience in the dorms of Goodyear. One of the more memorable days that year has been alluded to as the Chester Cheetah day, the rum and coke party day, the Dark Pistacio threatens Rocky Horror day, and such. In any event, while the day started with the best of noble intentions, it quickly devolved into one of the least shining moments of my college career.  That spring semester was quite a bear, and in order to relieve some of the pressures, it was decided by committee to have a blow out party in the dorm the evening after Knaus and Aaron’s big Thermo mid-term. We planned to invite everyone we knew, and in preparation utilized the fully aged services of CK to procure us a big bottle of rum from one of the liquor stores near campus.

The day itself began with an air of excitement. My mid-terms were complete and I had the day off from work or any other such care. The night previous, it was advanced, and agreed upon, that it would be a jolly good prank for me to attend the Thermo mid-term and have a crack at the test myself. Aaron recounts this beautifully and with some deal of inaccuracy in Chester Cheetah Takes Thermodynamics. Close enough for NASA work in any case. I do hold to this day, however, that the 2 shots of yak piss had well worn off by the time we descended the dark and cluttered stairway from atop Ceramic Dreams, colloquially known as the Knaus house. In any case, I digress; the day began with boyish good humor and we returned to the dorm to set up Knaus’s stereo and prepare for the party. On the way back, we stopped at McDonalds in the University Plaza and got some chow. Knaus suggested our chocolate milkshakes could be considerably enhanced by the addition of some of the rum we procured, and things just get murky from there.

The event itself was a success. We had in attendance not only the four of us, but S. O’Donnell, Burns, Mooney, Dave W, Louis, Jeff S, Schultz, and in order to ensure it wasn’t a complete sausage fest, invited my sister Laura and her friend Jen Topolski. A gala affair, lacking only in black ties and tails. To be perfectly honest, I don’t remember a whole lot about what went on that evening, except that it was a good time and the rum milkshake was going down smooth. Knaus was the first to reach the state of total inebriation and made his way down to laundry room, refunded his McDonalds in the washing machine and crawled into the dryer for a nap. It was some time before we realized he was gone, but when the search party located him, he was already on the road to recovery and picked up his rum consumption where he left off.

Although I was having a good time right where I was, Dan managed, probably with surprisingly little effort, to convince us that going to Rocky would be the perfect cap on the evening. Although I was already seeing double, I was able to adopt the guise of Pistacio. Aaron was convinced to paint his face as well that night, although I don’t believe he adopted a full on clown identity that could be conveniently resurrected for future enjoyment. A merry group of eclectic troubadours, we marched down the halls of Goodyear as a sight to frighten all children, nursing mothers, and conservative republicans alike. Trouble began by the time we reached the day room. Spying several discarded fluorescent lights jutting up from a trash bin, I decided to demonstrate my Mu-Tai prowess by shattering them both with one magnificent blow. The magnificence of the results was somewhat marred by several flying shards hitting Knaus in the face. Though his legendary temper arose, it was subdued in the same instant by the effects of the rum allowing for my survival.

Although my full range of mobility remained with me down the seven flights of stairs, it had somewhat abandoned me by the bottom. Before making the long trek over to Rocky some hundred yards distant, I developed the sensation that my bladder would not maintain its full condition for that amount of time and insisted I stop to pee on the rocky outcrop of the Goodyear escarpment. When it became apparent that I could not retain the agility to both stand and urinate at the same time, S O’Donnell, in a selfless act that no doubt haunts his dreams even to this day, held me up by my waist as I erratically sprayed about. If I missed getting any on him, it was by no means intentional, and it stands to reason that this was the very last event he ever attended. Relieved, the both of us, we rejoined the group and stumbled incompetently across Main street.

My adventure in elimination cost us precious time, as did the glacial pace at which we were able to move the herd forward, so when we reached the ticket counter, we found it closed. Needless to say, after all the drunken effort expended, I was to some degree upset, especially given that I fancied myself an integral part of the show in my Pistacio persona. The ignorant ticket wench feigned a complete lack of knowledge of my importance and even identity. No, my name was not on the list, and my golden ticket was safely tucked away in my other pants. I ranted, pleaded and finally threatened, all to no avail. Eventually, bored with my repetitive red faced diatribe, she closed the door in our faces with a smug superior look.

I was pretty gone by the time the rant occurred, and the energy expended finished me off. After this point, I only have the highly suspect recounting of the other drunken idiots who were present. Dave’s version of this story, at first telling, has me collapsing in the middle of Main Street where after I had to be carried across the rest of the way. Subsequent tellings and retellings, however, have me being schlepped across Main dozens, then hundreds, of times as I would suddenly revive and dart back across only to collapse once again on the far side. I liken the accuracy to that of the salami sandwich tale. In any case, it can be assumed that either alone, or with the patient Sisyphusian undertakings of the assemblage, I did indeed make it across alive, if not well.

Under the tender care of those few brave souls who remained; I was brought back up to the room and dumped into bed. I have no recollection of this, but the description of my vomiting experience is not for the weak of stomach and included graphic visions of excessive mucus and repeated attempts to dive directly into the vomitorium itself. I slept the sleep of the dead that night, further illustrated by the thoughtful placement of a toe tag on my person that can be viewed in one of the pics.

I awoke the next morning feeling somewhat worse for wear, but overall relatively OK. At my feeble request, Aaron was kind enough to procure me the famed special of the basement eatery – chicken sandwich with cheese with a side of spiced up waffle fries, also with cheese. He did so still wearing the remains of the previous nights face painting and apparently elicited a considerable amount of worried staring by the staff. As I hungrily wolfed this down, Aaron, O’Donnell, Knaus, Dave and Little Dave (who Dave went and picked up) went down to play basketball. Having finished my greasy repast, I felt good enough to go down and join them, having recovered remarkably. Even so, the night taught an important lesson and never since that time have I ever imbibed spirits to the point where I was forced to return them, slightly used and well mixed.

By the time we made it to Comstock, I found myself more often in the role of the responsible one. Not that I was not enjoying myself to the fullest, but I was now the one holding the barf bucket rather than using it. Granted, the housemates and most of the hangers on generally had enough good sense to know when to stop, but they tended to bring along colorful individuals who did not. During those rough and tumble dark days between the tragic end of his engagement to Carrie and his later taking up with Mary, Dan would bring by a different girl to each of our gatherings. We were never quite sure where they came from; likely ECC, Rocky Horror, or found shooting up behind a 7-11, but they did have in common a morbid insistence on puking somewhere on our premises as a first and last impression.

Sue the Boot was probably the first of these treasures. During one of our shindigs she managed to get completely knackered on whatever cheap watered down beer we had about; likely Schlitz at that point as I recall it being the foundation of the beeraymid. She was one of the few courteous enough to make it all the way to our disgusting unclean commode. Matt, ever the observant toady to her whims, followed her in but lacked the gallantry to close the door. There being a show to watch, watch we did and I have imprinted on my brain the image of her, dressed in red, clutching the porcelain god with frantic might and heaving the contents of her stomach into it. Matt made a half assed attempt to hold her hair back, but obviously failed as I recall she found vomit within it not long after. This may have been the same night she deflowered the quirksome spry lad, which would explain her condition.

Another of Dan’s momentary conquests I recall actually being somewhat more pleasant than the average. I want to say her name was Theresa, but I could be mistaken. I remember her only due to her fitting the pattern. In her case, she fell semi-comatose and babbling upon the couch and later began quietly yorking up over the side. Someone noticed and decided to grab the most convenient bucket, being a wok still filled with oil left upon the stove from one of Aaron and my French fry making experiments. That was likely the last batch. She commenced puking several times directly into the oil, where it began to fry at room temperature. When done, the same helpful soul returned the wok and its contents right to the stove where it remained until Aaron was overcome with the sheer hideousness of it and disposed of the evil soup out back. Knaus, it being his wok, vowed dire revenge on the insult to his property.

There were plenty more I’m sure, but the memories are best forgotten being more mundane than the rest I have related. The one true advantage of these occurrences was that the sickened party was usually too embarrassed to ever set foot on the premises again, allowing for a personnel rotation that kept things from becoming stale.

While none of these instances were at all pleasant, the worst of them, from my point of view, was the Christmas when Matt decided to bring over Goldschlager. For those who don’t know, Goldschlager is a clear, sickeningly sweet hot cinnamon flavored liqueur of 100 proof strength and tiny golden curls floating within it. For some reason Matt felt the need on Christmas day to drown out the sorrows of spending the day with family; who could blame him. He ceremoniously pounded down one shot and became immediately drunk, even before the alcohol should have been able to enter his system properly. True to form, he became brash and belligerent, so in response, we encouraged him greatly to do another, which he did. His BAC doubled, he reeled about like a drunken monkey. His antics, having become more annoying than anything, we encouraged him to do one more in hopes that it would put him out all together.

The third shot almost achieved success, but not before it triggered a reaction to escape. At the time I was sitting in my favorite high armed chair in front of the tube, reading over my TV Topics to see what fantastic new Simpson’s or Seinfeld I could expect to tape that week. Out of no where, Matt lurched in front of me, staggering, almost ready to fall. His mouth opened. My instincts took hold and I sprang from my seat, over the arm, with no time to play hero to that which I left behind. “Noooooo!”, I roared, knowing it was too late. He spasmed, and from his mouth gushed a veritable waterfall of sickly schnapps and Mighty Taco, blasting into my TV Topics, laying prone, innocent, and unread. My rage was palpable, but I dared not accost the assailant as he showed every indication of unleashing his terrible weapon again at the slightest provocation. I had no doubt that there was a round in chamber with my name on it. I stalked off, leaving the mess for those who loved the dirty brute.

The rest of the evening dragged on in drama. I mourning the loss of my beloved guide and Matt, somehow in his daze, fearing my wrath had locked himself into the bathroom. His brother was called to come fetch him and was finally able to coax him out of the loo. It was nary the last time anyone defiled our home as such, but that is all I shall relate at the moment.

Craik Call

 This was originally included in the Craik profile, but it became too long, so I’ve given it its own entry. This is probably the most time anyone’s spent discussing D. Craik.


Time had passed and The Dashwood Society was in full swing. Our series of phone pranks was an amusing diversion. A favorite target, beside Boring Ben, was D. Craik. With his unwitting help we created a bizarre homosexual soap opera via telecommunications.

First Call:

The first call was placed by Big Brian using the persona of “Mark.” A raffish, lonely soul, looking for some male love meat. Craik answered and Mark introduced himself, claiming that Mandy Frank had given him the number.

“Oh Mandy’s a good friend of mine.” He said, having only met her twice. Mark then coyly drew Craik out; talking of men and sex, and asking if Craik knew any gay lovers.


“Yes.” Craik said, “I have two gay friend lovers. Their names are JP and Jeffery-Jeffery.” Note: this is absolutely false, as I know JP could do 100 times better than that squealing nincompoop. Jeffery-Jeffery should also not be confused with Jeff Death.

It took little prodding to get Craik to admit that, yes, he was gay, and that he would be VERY interested in an affair with “Mark.” If you’ve read the other profile, I’m sure I don’t have to point out that he wasn’t actually gay, and he was simply looking for sympathy. The call ended amicably.

Second Call:

The next call took place several weeks later when Mahatma Nick rang Craik in the persona of “Biff,” Mark’s live-in lover. Craik answered and Mahatma Nick went into his usual up-front style of prank.

“Hey this is Biff. I’m Mark’s boyfriend. You know him?”

Craik responded in the affirmative.

“I was doing the laundry and I found your number on a paper with a heart around it, in Mark’s pocket. What the fuck is up?”

Craik sputtered something about them just being friends, despite them never having met.

“Keep away from Mark, or I’ll kick your ass!”

Craik remained on the defensive. Having been caught blind-sided, he had no idea what to do.

“That’s right. I’ll kick your ass, then fuck your ass. You piece of shit!”  Nick angrily smashed the phone down.

Third Call:

We let several hours pass, to give it a proper time frame, and then placed the third call. It was “Mark” this time, very upset. Craik answered.

“This is Mark. I just got home and Biff beat me up.”

Craik uttered reassurances, while he threw heavy objects in the background, banged pots and pans together, and broke glass to simulate a rage.

“He’s a violent man. He hit me all over and he’s threatening to kill you.”

“He can’t beat me!” Craik proudly stated.

From across the room Mahatma Nick yelled, “Who the fuck are you talking to?”

“I won’t let him hurt you!” Craik yelled.

Brian loudly slapped himself on the face, yelling,”Owww,” and passed the phone to Nick.

“This is Biff!” He yelled. “Prepare to have your ass kicked.”

“If you touch him. You’ll have to deal with me and my martial arts!”

“I’ll rape ya! Get that asshole ready to be fucked! I’m coming over.”

Brian yelled,”Don’t hurt him!”

“SHUT UP!” Yelled Nick. A chair was thrown into the wall next to the phone, and we hung up with Brian screaming in the background.

Fourth Call:

We sat around for two hours drinking, laughing, and watching “Satan’s Cheerleaders,” when it was decided to place a fourth call to Craik. “Mark,” alone now, after the tirade of “Biff,” Desperately decided to reconcile with Craik.

“This is Mark. Ow ow ow ow. Are you all right?  Biff is heading over there right now.”

“Well I’m…” Craik started and was interrupted by a female grabbing the phone. This turned out to be The Beast, the girl Jeff Death had failed to hit on. 

“Mark,” She said. “Stop calling here.”

“Who’s this?” Brian asked shocked.

“This is his girlfriend. We don’t want you to call anymore. Stay away from him.” So much for Craik’s notions of homosexuality. Poor “Mark” and poor Jeff Death. Imagine being tossed over for D. Craik.

“But he’s in danger. Biff broke my arm.”

“Just stay away.” She yelled and hung up.


Under that directive we felt the prank complete: A perfect story with a surprise ending. No need to bother Craik again. As far as he knew, it was an exciting event. Which no doubt he told over and over again. Adding to it his heroic efforts to save poor “Mark” from the evil “Biff.” Perhaps he even added a fight scene, where he used his Mu-Tai martial arts to kick Biff’s ass.

Stanky Stalker – The Paula Story

     Having advanced in age over a solid decade since this appalling incident, I can see where my fresh naiveté and willingness to believe the best in people, particularly the opposite sex, probably led to the enfolding of events. All said and done, I really have only myself to blame, although this recounting will no doubt nip the mangy hands of those who may have helped to a greater degree than they did. I must also add that where it has been my policy to use full names in order to draw out vain, shadowy creatures from our past doing Google searches on themselves; in this instance I shall decline for I have no need whatsoever to be contacted by her once again, even if only though a half-witted comment on a blog entry.

            Not long after we moved into Princeton, I discovered one of the great marvels of telephony. Through the incredible advances made in automated services, it became possible for people to record and answer classified ads much more efficiently than in the bad old newspaper days, so adroitly crooned about by Rupert Holmes in his classic ‘Pina Colada’ song. For someone such as myself, hard of hearing and quiet of voice, the bar scene was always a bust and an impossible conversation environment. As I worked food service each morning and thus reeked of fries and omelets though the school day thereafter, meeting coeds in an academic setting proved difficult as well. Finally, my night gig at the comic shop exposed me to only the most socially decrepit of prospects. Even I was not that hard up! An inviting advertisement in Buffalo Beat or Artvoice brought romance or even dalliance prospects right to my door.

            My own voice recording, I thought, was cleverly worded and expressed just the right amount of masculinity with a dash of vulnerability thrown in. As I understood it, this was an aphrodisiac to the fairer sex. My endeavor met with success as without paying the premium price to listen and respond to female ads, my own received enough responses to save enough cash to actually take some of the more inviting prospects out on dates. Now, one of the best aspects of this scheme was that my friends and cohorts knew nothing of it and assumed I had somehow attained the power of a modern suave Casanova and were duly impressed. As such things play out, I was eventually found out, but it was a good gig while it lasted. In any event, my social standing increased to some degree and my Saturday nights were no longer strictly limited to ‘Adventures of Pete and Pete’ marathons with Aaron.

            Paula, our title heroine, was one such respondent to my ad and one of the first. I say this because the experience with her that I am about to relate, although appearing as a cautionary tale, in no way dissuaded me from further pursuing this line of approach to dating. It did, however, allow me to develop well honed detection skills to guard me against such enjoyable traits as ‘stalky’, ‘skanky’, and ‘bat-shit crazy’. My radar was still in the conception stages when she left me a very friendly message inviting me to cal her. Call her I did! Our first conversation was excellent, from my point of view, as she laughed at my jokes and marveled at the tall tales of the Comstock days of which we are all now familiar. In the true Buffalo synchronicity of one degree of separation, she was a regular at Rocky Horror and claimed to know Dan; a ringing endorsement if I ever heard one. The coincidence did save me from explaining Dark Pistacio as she was already familiar and tickled that I was he. Explaining ones penchant for dressing as an evil clown on weekends is always treacherous business with females as it has been found to radically decrease chances for a second date and universally prohibits even a go at first base. Her having seen me only in poorly applied clown makeup harassing show goers, and still willing to meet me one to one should have been the first warning sign.

            I met her on a warm summer day down by the river (which became the official story of where we actually met instead of the phone ad), I having borrowed my fathers car to do so. She was at the appointed meeting place beneath the whale atop Old Man River. Her appearance, although not completely matching the very favorable verbal description I had been given, was not a direct medusa comparison as I envisioned. In any case, I approached and identified myself. Her reaction was to immediately give me a big hug as if overwhelmed at seeing me again for the first time. I was flattered by the reaction. We spent some time walking and talking and I agreed to drive her home as she claimed to have taken the bus there. We didn’t stay long at her place, which was quite slovenly, the mess blamed on the absent and apparently bitchiest of room mates. Paula was already expressing intense desire to move away from there at the first opportunity.

            Contrary to all first date convention, she then took me to her parents to meet them. Her father was a doctor and they had a palatial place in East Amherst, which was surprising considering the squalor she abided in. They seemed amused at my presence, which I took at the time to be due to my complexion; several shades by far the lightest in the room. In retrospect I find it more likely it was knowledge of their darling daughter. When we parted, she expressed how much she would truly miss my presence and I was again flattered beyond all expectation. Where we had met that afternoon, we already made plans to get together that very evening as she wanted her friends to meet me, and I found it good opportunity to have her meet mine.

            We decided to have a small soirée at my set of bricks on Princeton.  Organizing an impromptu party was not my forte and I recall having only Dan, Jeff Death and perhaps a few others drop by. Aaron made a brief cameo with Matt, but decided to depart once he saw who was over. This was slightly after the milkshake event and Aaron in response had pledged Dan’s destruction as the root of all evil. It may also have been that he found out Dan’s generous provisioning him with glasses of cool water did not originate with sink fare, but toilet. In any event, he was soon gone.

            I have since found that women at social events prefer to mingle rather than mash, or as Paula put it, ‘suck face’, but she was the obvious exception. My self image though the course of the day rose steadily from loner with a phone to radiant Adonis of desire. That someone, who after only 2 or 3 conversations and a daytime date, could become so powerfully infatuated with me inflated my heretofore shriveled ego to unprecedented bounds. I knew deep in my basal ganglia that I was getting lucky that night. My animal instinct proved right on the money, but that is all I will say regarding that.

            As a resting conqueror and finally hormonally drained, I did begin to question the nature of what was happening. I had nothing yet to complain of, (who would?) but a slight nag tickled me at the base of my spine. No matter; no rings were purchased or true commitment made, so why not enjoy the ride? At her insistence, she accompanied me that next weekend to a barbecue at my parents where she was introduced to my extended family. Although polite and respectful, her presence did not garner the approval of the assembled mass and once again, I assumed this to be a product of the older generations’ phobia regarding cross cultural mingling. Partially true, perhaps, but I allowed the perception to blind me from more relevant observations of her possessive manner, especially so young into the idea of relationship. A young fool I was, assigning my own blindness to the sighted above me.

            For the two weeks following the barbecue we had only phone contact. She had abandoned the never seen queen of all bitches, and moved into an apartment in Niagara Falls with a lesbian couple who quickly became heirs apparent to the former roommates’ crown. Extended nightly conversations regarding this began to wear me down, and in the mirror I saw less of the mighty king and more of a horse’s ass. Nevertheless, I obediently continued to take her calls. A weekend date got cancelled due to problems with my father’s car; always a risk in dating across distance and neither party having the financial power to acquire wheels. Prior to the following weekend, I decided that watching the new Pete and Pete with Aaron would actually be preferable to her company, even with the expressed guarantee of action (such was the quality). I let her know the car was unavailable and kept the conversation short. Her planning thus began.

            I managed to dodge her calls for a few days by screening though the machine. Aaron, however, was loath to lie and handed me the phone in grim silence one day even after I specifically asked him to promote my absence in case she called. I resolved to begin a half-assed ‘let’s be friends’ conversation when she stole my thunder by announcing plans to move to Las Vegas and begin life anew. I was ecstatic and probably showed it though my enthusiastic encouragement. It was clear this was not at all the reaction she had hoped for, but had planned for it nonetheless. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could say goodbye to each other by me staying with you for the week before I go?” Terrified at the prospect, excuses rolled off my tongue. A rigidly enforced agreement with Aaron regarding guests was touted as my best reason. He always stood in as an excellent scapegoat in his absence. She whined disappointment, but I would not budge, such was my staunch commitment to the rigidity of house rules. She ended the conversation by saying if worse came to worse; she could just hide under the bed when he was home. I gave a half hearted laugh and found excuse to get off the phone. I slept soundly having dodged that bullet.

            I found that dodging a single bullet is no guarantee of survival if the shooter has a full clip and is willing to compensate for the first miss. It was a Friday morning, and I decided to take the day off, as I knew Aaron would be gone all day and I wanted to take advantage of the place to myself. I was lying in bed smelling the morning air come in though the window and listening to the birds sing to the dawn. The singing sounded suspiciously like my name, and after a few repeats, I stuck my head out the window. There on the front lawn of the apartment stood Paula, surrounded by all her shit. She saw me, so there was no hope of avoidance, and besides, she had all the supplies necessary to set up camp right there and wait me out. She was in tears and I fell to the bait and went down. The lesbian couple, in a reported jealous rage, had ejected her from the premises for no good reason. She had then walked, with her full complement of gear, all the way from Niagara Falls to my apartment though the course of the night. I helped her take her things up. It took 2 trips.

            The official story remained the same; that she was departing, somehow, to Vegas in about a week, and entered the same plea to stay in the mean time. I stood my ground, in theory anyway, and said she needed to find other accommodations. She began a half hearted calling around, but instead of finding alternate arrangements, organized a gala party to be held that very night in her honor. The attendees were the usual gang, Knaus, JP, Dan, and the dregs of Rocky, plus her friends. Aaron and Matt again appeared briefly and once again departed, not to be seen again until the saga was complete. Bastard! I took the few opportunities possible to discretely question her friends regarding their availability to host her. Two of them seemed willing and I then relaxed, confident they would depart with her that very evening. To facilitate the process, I gave her money to go to Denny’s with her friends and the Rocky folk after the party. I used the time alone to ensure her things were arranged in the living room for easy pick up and retired to bed. A pounding on my door some hours later showed her to have been dropped off alone.

            The next 2 days were a dimly recalled nightmare. Although I was a insistent taskmaster on having her call around to friends and family, by some coincidence in the outliers of probability, all of them were either in the process of moving or remodeling that very week and could not accommodate her. This included the 2 friends I questioned, both of whom apparently forgot the state of chaos at home when they talked to me. My frustration was compounded by her incessant need to be very close, each and every moment of the day.  Calling for help or advice was impossible, as she was always within touching distance. The worst condition was that of her breath. She was a heavy smoker, and enjoyed spicy and garlicky foods, all of which had a compounded effect that manifested in an overpowering case of halitosis. I subtly suggested she brush her teeth at one point, to which she expressed regret that her toothbrush was never rescued in her quick departure. In a food run to Tops I gallantly and in full self interest, purchased her a new one, but it went unwrapped on the bathroom counter. It seemed that her attempts to kiss me increased proportionally to how rank her foul hole of a mouth had become and I could take it no longer.

            On the third day, I somehow managed to convince her that she stunk enough (and she did) to warrant a shower. When in there, I took the golden opportunity to call my mother for advice and confessed the whole story. She knew it at once; as such knowledge is passed often between women and not often shared with men. My father was dispatched immediately to come pick me up, with a cover story that my grandmother needed my assistance without delay. When Paula emerged from the shower, sweeter smelling of skin but still the stank of grim death about her face, I explained that I had to depart for just a little while, and that my grandmother, old and mistrustful of strangers, insisted I come alone. She managed to plant one more upon me before I quickly exited to the awaiting car. I can smell it still.

            At the counter at my parents’ house I was given education as to the wiles of desperate women. I was stunned, having no conception, even 10 minutes prior, that I was being played for the world’s biggest rube. As if told by the Ghost of Christmas Future, it was laid out how she would gain permanent residence, likely drive Aaron out all together, and ‘somehow’ manage to become impregnated despite our best attempts to avoid it. I think Scrooge’s vision of his own headstone was less personally disturbing. What could I do to change my ways and avoid this horrendous fate? Simple. Raise the ante and call.

            My mother called over to Princeton, and Paula, feeling entitled as a full resident and not guest, picked right up. My mother explained that my grandmother was going though a hard time that required me to stay with her for several days. She expressed a deeply sympathetic understanding to Paula’s situation, and rather than leave her alone with a highly irritable Aaron, said my father was on his way to pick her up and that she could stay with them, in a room of her very own, for as long as she needed. True to the word, my father was on his way before the phone was hung up. My mother offered the prediction that he would return alone, and was justified in the correctness of it. By the time he arrived there, not even 10 minutes later, Paula was already being picked up by someone else.

            Hyper alert, I returned to the apartment that evening, and breathed a sigh of relief to find it unoccupied save for a recently returned Aaron. Needless to say, I was right pissed at being played for such a patsy. Performing a detailed search of the premises, I found each and every item she planted, including clothes in my drawers, makeup in our bathroom, and odds and ends tucked here and about. Her conveniently left behind booty was placed in a bag in the hallway, for I’d be damned if she would step foot inside again.

            The next day she called and was surprised to get me, having bought the story in full that my mother served up. I kept it simple, told her she could not come back, and that whatever existed between us was broken and no more. She sure didn’t take that well! She insisted on coming over despite my promise to not answer the door. She was over in moments, as to my dismay I found she was staying at an aunt’s right around the corner on NFB, a 5 minute walk away. Finding her belongings in the hall, I could hear her curse through the door. She knocked loudly several times, but I would not even extend the courtesy of a well shouted ‘go the fuck away’.

            The next month was hell. I stood firm in my anger and resentment at being the wronged party, but the moral high ground is no shelter from a well conducted psychological onslaught. The phone never stopped ringing even when Aaron agreed to participate by putting his legendary rudeness to the cause each time she was lucky enough to have him answer. She also believed in the random pop over, banging on the door over and over again. On one occasion, I was sitting at my desk and silhouetted against the shade. She spotted me, told me as much, and shouted at me though the window. I kept perfectly still, hoping she would somehow draw the conclusion that I had acquired a mannequin and installed it in that very place. Most frightening, Aaron once opened the door to some guys who were looking for me. I kept a low profile that month, always varying the times I came and went, the routes I took to work and back, and the places I would frequent. In the end, salvation came from Death.

            To my everlasting delight, I found that the inscrutable Mr. Jeff Death had always had quite a thing for Paula and was even jealous at my good fortune for landing such a prize. Dan provided me the best possible present by conveying Paula’s available and desperate status to Jeff, who immediately jumped at the chance to be her knight gallant. Just as her relatives on NFB were tiring of her presence, Jeff came in with an offer that she grudgingly accepted instead of make a last frantic run at my door. He took her out to his desolate farm in Batavia where she abided for some weeks until she could stand it no more. Glorious jubilation filled me the day Dan reported that Jeff had given her half his paycheck and put her in a trucker’s cab, which was bound for Nevada. The next day she tried to collect call me from the road, but I declined to accept the charges. I never saw her again, though the horror remains with me always.

Oddballs of Comstock

  Much had been said and hinted at of odd and strange characters, invited by me, to darken the dingy halls of Comstock. But I think that one cannot fully understand the absurdities and vulgarities of such creatures, until they are examined up close. Here is a profile of two of the more colorful ones. There are others, to be sure, but these stand out most in my mind.


D. Craik, AKA Mu-Tai Man: 

 This odd person was dredged from the bottom of Rocky Horror. He latched onto us and was kept around for pure comedic value; till his behavior became so unbelievably tiresome that he was tossed back, like the fat bottom feeder that he was.

To quickly sum up his character, he was a sympathy leech. His entire social life was devoted to making people feel sorry for him, so they would give him attention and tolerate his presence. This would work for a short time, until people realized just how full of shit he was and ditch him. It was a little different for the Dashwood Society, because we knew all of this up front and kept him around anyway. His basic social function was the equivalent of a rodeo clown.

Physically he was round. Round head atop a round torso. Roundish arms ending in thick sausage fingers. Thick, squat, stout legs to heft up his lumbering frame, with the prerequisite coke bottle glasses sticking over his round nose.

Understand that he was obviously host to a multitude of mental problems and was rather slow. He claimed to have some retardation, but this turned out to be false. (Confirmed by test results we found in his apartment) He was functional enough to speak properly and maintain his own residence, so I, again, doubt the claim. He did manage to convince a group that he had this affliction and traveled around with a bunch of other slightly retarded people (The Tard Herd, as Brian dubbed them), just so he would have some friends. One amusing incident occurred with them, when Jeff Death hit on the female member of the herd (whom we dubbed The Beast), and was rejected by her. Now you know there’s something wrong if retarded females are turning you down.

Among the various categories of nonsense emitted from him: we discovered that he went to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, even though he didn’t drink, just so people would listen to him. He claimed to be involved in a sexual incident, with an attractive female, on stage at the Rochester Rocky Horror show, which subsequently got him kicked out. No one from the Rochester cast had ever heard of him. He claimed to have a King Cobra in his apartment that he constantly had to wrestle to keep in its cage. A search of said domicile revealed no such animal. He claimed to have a girlfriend, who was apparently invisible. He also claimed to be a master of martial arts, the Mu-Tai. A demonstration, of which he gave at Comstock, showed this not to be true. The only claim that I did believe was that his father was ashamed of him, and they didn’t speak. The reason he gave was the aforementioned Rocky Horror incident, which proved to be bogus, so the real cause is anyone’s guess.

He also had an attraction to my then beau, Sue the Boot, and would pester her with sad stories about his life, to show her what a tragic and tortured soul he was, so she would give him a pity fuck. For a brief time, the Rocky Cast went to the Your Host in Kenmore, for their after-parties. We would sit at the booths (each supplied with a mini juke-box, if you remember). Sue and I would sit on one side, and Chuck (God rest his soul), who had some girth, would attempt to take up the entire other side to exclude Craik. Undaunted, Craik would sit behind us, trying to talk to Sue, who hated him. Often we played songs on the juke box to drown him out, but he would then sing along with them. Once we unfortunately played the Phil Collins song, “No Son of Mine.” To which Craik rattled off the yarn about how his father, now a preacher, had disowned him, and loudly started crooning, “I’m no son. No son of hiiiiisssss.” This prompted my dripping-with-sympathy response, “CRAIK SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

The Mu-Tai incident at Comstock happened during a Frank party. Sue the Boot was long gone and I was with Carrie, my future fiancée. Craik was getting drunk, his first time ever we learned, and spinning yards of bullshit, including being a Master of the Mu-Tai, which he drunkenly offered to demonstrate. He told me to hold a stick, and said that he would kick it out of my hand. He then started hopping about on the front lawn, in the dark, hands around his waist, yanking his belt back and forth. The sight of which indelibly printed itself in my mind. “Had to check my belt,” He said.

I held the stick out and he kicked, which missed by a foot, but I tossed it in the air and yelled, “My God, the power!” Knowing he had missed, he insisted that I hold it again, so he could really “show me something.” This lead me to speculate as to how crazy this guy was, as he really did believe all of the lies he had been spewing. I called him on it and let him kick the stick: one, two, three, four, five, SIX times with no success, surprise surprise. On the seventh he kicked it and I let it fly, falling down in mock astonishment. He ran over, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked.

“Well Craik,” I answered, “You certainly showed me something.”

Craik was soon cut loose. There was only so much moaning and whining one can take. When that is the staple of your personality, even the most kind-hearted of souls will quickly become burned out. He did however perform one last service to us.

Now this might seem a little cruel, but understand that he was largely oblivious to the ridicule around him, and he had more fun with us than he ever had in his life. With us he got to go to real parties, get drunk for the first time, and even lose his virginity (We paid for the hour, but it didn’t take that long).

Big Chief Strait-Jacket (real name unknown):


 Very few people remember this man, but this is who they are thinking of when they mention loonies I invited to Comstock. Indeed he was the looniest of them all. He was only invited over once, and yes, he did drool on himself.

Big Chief Strait-Jacket was a counter creature we picked up at Denny’s on Elmwood. This was before the smoking ban, and the counter by the cash register often had a collection of strange people, ourselves included, who sat around, smoking, drinking coffee, and chatting. What we called the “counter culture.”

He was a large man of Native American descent, with long scraggly black hair, which whipped about when in a delirium rage. His never changing garb consisted of a dirt encrusted green jacket, faded blue jeans, and a pair of Kangaroo sneakers, the kind with the zipper pocket on the side. Out of production by at least eight years by then. 

We never learned his true name and dubbed him Big Chief Strait-Jacket since he obviously needed one. His hobbies included jerking his head back and forth, staring at people, and dipping his index finger into a glass of water, then pressing it to his forehead repeatedly. He also liked to zone out and drool. Thick drips of saliva would run over his bottom lip and splash directly into his coffee. We were amazed at his accuracy.

Despite the picture I’m painting, there were times when the meds kicked in and he could speak lucidly. It’s just that this didn’t occur very often.

Endearing as he was, Big Chief Strait-Jacket was never really “one of the gang.” There was only one time when I attempted to include him anywhere besides Denny’s and that was at the Wolverine’s party.

I was under orders from Dave to invite as many people as I could. I interpreted this to mean everyone. So I did, including Big Chief. “It’ll be a big party. You’ll have lots of fun,” I said. I wrote down directions and he lucidly and happily agreed to go, despite the hefty $4 cover charge. Cigar stores traditionally have a wooden Indian; I figured Comstock could use a drooling one.

I was late for the party and missed the Big Chief’s arrival. Apparently Mike, the gatekeeper, took one look at him, told him there was no party and slammed the door. Despite the loud music in the basement, the Chief believed him, or, used to this treatment, left anyway. This happened to several people whom I invited, and I was accosted by Mike and Aaron on the subject when I arrived.

“These weird people keep showing up saying they know you.” Mike stated.

“Where are they?” I said, curious to know which ones he meant.

“We didn’t let them in.”

“Why not? You said you wanted a big party. How can you be successful if you don’t let people in?”

The response was garbled and I don’t remember it well, but it sounded like a “beautiful people only” argument. Being who we were that didn’t sound like a reasonable response. As this was supposed to be the first of a series of parties, turning people away right from the start didn’t seem like good business sense. Ah well.

Big Chief Strait-Jacket soon disappeared into the hallucinatory realm where he dwelled. But his stereotype held, everyone I brought around was inevitably described as crazy and drooling on themselves.

All I can say is, “He’s a really good guy.”